WATCHERS
Dean R. Koontz
 
This book is dedicated to
Lennart Sane
who is not only the best at what he does but who is also a nice guy.
And to
Elisabeth Sane
who is as charming as her husband.
 
 
 
PART ONE
Shattering the Past
The past is but the beginning of a beginning,
and all that is and has been
is but the twilight of the dawn.
H. G. Wells
The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: 
if there is any reaction, both are transformed.
C. G. Jung
 
ONE
1
On his thirty-sixth birthday, May 18, Travis Cornell rose at five oclock in the 
morning. He dressed in sturdy hiking boots, jeans, and a long-sleeved, 
blue-plaid cotton shirt. He drove his pickup south from his home in Santa 
Barbara all the way to rural Santiago Canyon on the eastern edge of Orange 
County, south of Los Angeles. He took only a package of Oreo cookies, a large 
canteen full of orange-flavored Kool-Aid, and a fully loaded Smith & Wesson .38 
Chiefs Special.
During the two-and-a-half-hour trip, he never switched on the radio. He never 
hummed, whistled, or sang to himself as men alone frequently do. For part of the 
drive, the Pacific lay on his right. The morning sea was broodingly dark toward 
the horizon, as hard and cold as slate, but nearer shore it was brightly 
spangled with early light the colors of pennies and rose petals. Travis did not 
once glance appreciatively at the sun-sequined water.
He was a lean, sinewy man with deep-set eyes the same dark brown as his hair. 
His face was narrow, with a patrician nose, high cheekbones, and a slightly 
pointed chin. It was an ascetic face that would have suited a monk in some holy 
order that still believed in self-flagellation, in the purification of the soul 
through suffering. God knows, hed had his share of suffering. But it could be a 
pleasant face, too, warm and open. His smile had once charmed women, though not 
recently. He had not smiled in a long time.
The Oreos, the canteen, and the revolver were in a small green nylon backpack 
with black nylon straps, which lay on the seat beside him. Occasionally, he 
glanced at the pack, and it seemed as if he could see straight through the 
fabric to the loaded Chiefs Special.
From Santiago Canyon Road in Orange County, he turned onto a much narrower 
route, then onto a tire-eating dirt lane. At a few minutes past eight-thirty, he 
parked the red pickup in a lay-by, under the immense bristly boughs of a 
big-cone spruce.
He slipped the harness of the small backpack over his shoulders and set Out into 
the foothills of the Santa Ana Mountains. From his boyhood, he knew every slope, 
vale, narrow defile, and ridge. His father had owned a Stone cabin in upper Holy 
Jim Canyon, perhaps the most remote of all the inhabited canyons, and Travis had 
spent weeks exploring the wild land for miles around.
He loved these untamed canyons, When he was a boy, black bears had
roamed the woods; they were gone now. Mule deer could still be found, though not 
in the great numbers he had seen two decades ago. At least the beautiful folds 
and thrusts of land, the profuse and varied brush, and the trees were still as 
they had been: for long stretches he walked beneath a canopy of California live 
oaks and sycamores.
Now and then he passed a lone cabin or a cluster of them. A few canyon dwellers 
were half-hearted survivalists who believed the end of civilization was 
approaching, but who did not have the heart to move to a place even more 
forbidding. Most were ordinary people who were fed up with the hurlyburly of 
modern life and thrived in spite of having no plumbing or electricity.
Though the canyons seemed remote, they would soon be overwhelmed by encroaching 
suburbs. Within a hundred-mile radius, nearly ten million people lived in the 
interconnecting communities of Orange and Los Angeles counties, and growth was 
not abating.
But now crystalline, revelatory light fell on the untamed land with almost as 
much substance as rain, and all was clean and wild.
On the treeless spine of a ridge, where the low grass that had grown during the 
short rainy season had already turned dry and brown, Travis sat upon a broad 
table of rock and took off his backpack.
A five-foot rattlesnake was sunning on another flat rock fifty feet away. It 
raised its mean wedge-shaped head and studied him.
As a boy, he had killed scores of rattlers in these hills. He withdrew the gun 
from the backpack and rose from the rock. He took a couple of steps toward the 
snake.
The rattler rose farther off the ground and stared intensely.
Travis took another step, another, and assumed a shooters stance, with both 
hands on the gun.
The rattler began to coil. Soon it would realize that it could not strike at 
such a distance, and would attempt to retreat.
Although Travis was certain his shot was clear and easy, he was surprised to 
discover that he could not squeeze the trigger. He had come to these foothills 
not merely to attempt to recall a time when he had been glad to be alive, but 
also to kill snakes if he saw any. Lately, alternately depressed and angered by 
the loneliness and sheer pointlessness of his life, he had been wound as tight 
as a crossbow spring. He needed to release that tension through violent action, 
and the killing of a few snakesno loss to anyoneseemed the perfect 
prescription for his distress. However, as he stared at this rattler, he 
realized that its existence was less pointless than his own: it filled an 
ecological niche, and it probably took more pleasure in life than he had in a 
long time. He began to shake, and the gun kept straying from the target, and he 
could not find the will to fire. He was not a worthy executioner, so he lowered 
the gun and returned to the rock where he had left his backpack.
The snake was evidently in a peaceable mood, for its head lowered sinuously to 
the stone once more, and it lay still.
After a while, Travis tore open the package of Oreos, which had been his 
favorite treat when he was young. He had not eaten one in fifteen years.
They were almost as good as he remembered them. He drank Kool-Aid from the 
canteen, but it wasnt as satisfying as the cookies. To his adult palate, the 
stuff was far too sweet.
The innocence, enthusiasms, joys, and voracities of youth can be recalled but 
perhaps never fully regained, he thought.
Leaving the rattlesnake in communion with the sun, shouldering his backpack once 
more, he went down the southern slope of the ridge into the shadows of the trees 
at the head of the canyon, where the air was freshened by the fragrant spring 
growth of the evergreens. On the west-sloping floor of the canyon, in deep 
gloom, he turned west and followed a deer trail.
A few minutes later, passing between a pair of large California sycamores that 
bent together to form an archway, he came to a place where sunlight poured into 
a break in the forest. At the far side of the clearing, the deer trail led into 
another section of woods in which spruces, laurels and sycamores grew closer 
together than elsewhere. Ahead, the land dropped steeply as the canyon sought 
bottom. When he stood at the edge of the sunfall with the toes of his boots in 
shadow, looking down that sloped path, he could see only fifteen yards before a 
surprisingly seamless darkness fell across the trail.
As Travis was about to step out of the sun and continue, a dog burst from the 
dry brush on his right and ran straight to him, panting and chuffing. It was a 
golden retriever, pure of breed by the look of it. A male. He figured it was 
little more than a year old, for though it had attained the better part of its 
full growth, it retained some of the sprightliness of a puppy. Its thick coat 
was damp, dirty, tangled, snarled, full of burrs and broken bits of weeds and 
leaves. It stopped in front of him, sat, cocked its head, and looked up at him 
with an undeniably friendly expression.
Filthy as it was, the animal was nonetheless appealing. Travis stooped, patted 
its head, and scratched behind its ears.
He half-expected an owner, gasping and perhaps angry at this runaway, to follow 
the retriever out of the brush. Nobody came. When he thought to check for a 
collar and license, he found none.
Surely youre not a wild dogare you boy?
The retriever chuffed.
No, too friendly for a wild one. Not lost, are you?
It nuzzled his hand.
He noticed that, in addition to its dirty and tangled coat, it had dried blood 
on its right ear. Fresher blood was visible on its front paws, as if it had been 
running so long and so hard over rugged terrain that the pads of its feet had 
begun to crack.
Looks like youve had a difficult journey, boy.
The dog whined softly, as if agreeing with what Travis had said.
He continued to stroke its back and scratch its ears, but after a minute or two 
he realized he was seeking something from the dog that it could not Provide: 
meaning, purpose, relief from despair.
On your way now. He gave the retriever a light slap on its side, rose, and 
stretched
The dog remained in front of him.
He stepped past it, heading for the narrow path that descended into darkness.
The dog bolted around him and blocked the deer trail.
Move along, boy.
The retriever bared its teeth and growled low in its throat.
Travis frowned. Move along. Thats a good dog.
When he tried to step past it, the retriever snarled. It snapped at his legs.
Travis danced back two steps. Hey, whats gotten into you?
The dog stopped growling and just panted.
He advanced again, but the dog lunged at him more ferociously than before, still 
not barking but growling even deeper and snapping repeatedly at his legs, 
driving him backward across the clearing. He took eight or ten clumsy steps on a 
slippery carpet of dead spruce and pine needles, stumbled over his own feet, and 
fell on his butt.
The moment Travis was down, the dog turned away from him. It padded across the 
clearing to the brink of the sloping path and peered into the gloom below. Its 
floppy ears had pricked up as much as a retrievers ears can.
Damn dog, Travis said.
It ignored him.
What the hells the matter with you, mutt?
Standing in the forests shadow, it continued to stare down the deer trail, into 
the blackness at the bottom of the wooded canyon slope. Its tail was down, 
almost tucked between its legs.
Travis gathered half a dozen small stones from the ground around him, got up, 
and threw one of the missiles at the retriever. Struck on the backside hard 
enough to be stung, the dog did not yelp but whipped around in surprise.
Now Ive done it, Travis thought. Hell go for my throat.
But the dog only looked at him accusinglyand continued to block the entrance to 
the deer trail.
Something in the tattered beasts demeanorin the wide-set dark eyes or in the 
tilt of its big squarish headmade Travis feel guilty for having stoned it. The 
sorry damn dog looked disappointed in him, and he was ashamed.
Hey, listen, he said, you started it, you know.
The dog just stared at him.
Travis dropped the other stones.
The dog glanced at the relinquished missiles, then raised its eyes once more, 
and Travis swore he saw approval in that canine face.
Travis could have turned back. Or he could have found another way down the 
canyon. But he was seized by an irrational determination to forge ahead, to go 
where he wanted to go, by God. This day of all days, he was not going to be 
deterred or even delayed by something as trivial as an obstructive dog.
He got up, shrugged his shoulders to resettle the backpack, took a deep breath 
of the piny air, and walked boldly across the clearing.
The retriever began to growl again, softly but menacingly. Its lips skinned back 
from its teeth.
Step by step, Traviss courage faded, and when he was within a few feet of the 
dog, he opted for a different approach. He stopped and shook his head and gently 
berated the animal: Bad dog. Youre being a very bad dog. You know that? Whats 
gotten into you? Hmmmm? You dont look as if you were born bad. You look like a 
good dog.
As he continued to sweet-talk the retriever, it ceased growling. Its bushy tail 
wagged once, twice, tentatively.
Thats a good boy, he said slyly, coaxingly. Thats better. You and I can be 
friends, huh?
The dog issued a conciliatory whine, that familiar and appealing sound all dogs 
make to express their natural desire to be loved.
Now, were getting somewhere, Travis said, taking another step toward the 
retriever with the intention of stooping and petting it.
Immediately, the dog leaped at him, snarling, and drove him back across the 
clearing. It got its teeth in one leg of his jeans, shook its head furiously. He 
kicked at it, missed. As Travis staggered out of balance from the misplaced 
kick, the dog snatched the other leg of his pants and ran a circle around him, 
pulling him with it. He hopped desperately to keep up with his adversary but 
toppled and slammed to the ground again.
Shit! he said, feeling immeasurably foolish.
Whining again, having reverted to a friendly mood, the dog licked one of his 
hands.
Youre schizophrenic, Travis said.
The dog returned to the other end of the clearing. It stood with its back to 
him, staring down the deer trail that descended through the cool shadows of the 
trees. Abruptly, it lowered its head, hunched its shoulders. The muscles in its 
back and haunches visibly tensed as if it were preparing to move fast.
Whatre you looking at? Travis was suddenly aware that the dog was not 
fascinated by the trail itself but, perhaps, by something on the trail. 
Mountain lion? he wondered aloud as he got to his feet. In his youth, mountain 
lionsspecifically, cougarshad prowled these woods, and he supposed some still 
hung on.
The retriever grumbled, not at Travis this time but at whatever had drawn its 
attention. The sound was low,, barely audible, and to Travis it seemed as if the 
dog was both angry and afraid.
Coyotes? Plenty of them roamed the foothills. A pack of hungry coyotes might 
alarm even a sturdy animal like this golden retriever.
With a startled yelp, the dog executed a leaping-scrambling turn away from the 
shadowed deer trail. It dashed toward him, past him, to the other arm of the 
woods, and he thought it was going to disappear into the forest. But at the 
archway formed by two sycamores, through which Travis had come Only minutes ago, 
the dog stopped and looked back expectantly. With an air of frustration and 
anxiety, it hurried in his direction again, swiftly circled him, grabbed at his 
pants leg, and wriggled backward, trying to drag him with it.
"Wait, wait, okay, he said. Okay.
The retriever let go. It issued one woof, more a forceful exhalation than a 
bark.
Obviouslyand astonishinglythe dog had purposefully prevented him from 
proceeding along the gloomy stretch of the deer trail because something was down 
there. Something dangerous. Now the dog wanted him to flee because that 
dangerous creature was drawing nearer.
Something was coming. But what?
Travis was not worried, just curious. Whatever was approaching might frighten a 
dog, but nothing in these woods, not even a coyote or a cougar, would attack a 
grown man.
Whining impatiently, the retriever tried to grab one leg of Traviss jeans 
again.
Its behavior was extraordinary. If it was frightened, why didnt it run off, 
forget him? He was not its master; it owed him nothing, neither affection nor 
protection. Stray dogs do not possess a sense of duty to strangers, do not have 
a moral perspective, a conscience. What did this animal think it was, anywaya 
freelance Lassie?
All right, all right, Travis said, shaking the retriever loose and 
accompanying it to the sycamore arch.
The dog dashed ahead, along the ascending trail, which led up toward the canyon 
rim, through thinning trees and brighter light.
Travis paused at the sycamores. Frowning, he looked across the sun-drenched 
clearing at the night-dark hole in the forest where the descending portion of 
the trail began. What was coming?
The shrill cries of the cicadas cut off simultaneously, as if a phonograph 
needle was lifted from a recording. The woods were preternaturally silent.
Then Travis heard something rushing up the lightless trail. A scrabbling noise. 
A clatter as of dislodged stones. A faint rustle of dry brush. The thing sounded 
closer than it probably was, for sound was amplified as it echoed up through the 
narrow tunnel of trees. Nevertheless, the creature was coming fast. Very fast.
For the first time, Travis sensed that he was in grave peril. He knew that 
nothing in the woods was big or bold enough to attack him, but his intellect was 
overruled by instinct. His heart hammered.
Above him, on the higher path, the retriever had become aware of his hesitation. 
It barked agitatedly.
Decades ago, he might have thought an enraged black bear was racing up the deer 
trail, driven mad by disease or pain. But the cabin dwellers and weekend 
hikersoutriders of civilizationhad pushed the few remaining bears much farther 
back into the Santa Anas.
From the sound of it, the unknown beast was within seconds of reaching the 
clearing between the lower and higher trails.
The length of Traviss spine, shivers tracked like melting bits of sleet 
trickling down a windowpane.
He wanted to see what the thing was, but at the same time he had gone cold with 
dread, a purely instinctive fear.
Farther up the canyon, the golden retriever barked urgently.
Travis turned and ran.
He was in excellent shape, not a pound overweight. With the panting retriever 
leading, Travis tucked his arms close to his sides and sprinted up the deer 
trail, ducking under the few low-hanging branches. The studded soles of his 
hiking boots gave good traction; he slipped on loose stones and on slithery 
layers of dry pine needles, but he did not fall. As he ran through a false fire 
of flickering sunlight and shadow, another fire began to burn in his lungs.
Travis Cornells life had been full of danger and tragedy, but hed never 
flinched from anything. In the worst of times, he calmly confronted loss, pain, 
and fear. But now something peculiar happened. He lost control. For the first 
time in his life, he panicked. Fear pried into him, touching a deep and 
primitive level where nothing had ever reached him before. As he ran, he broke 
out in gooseflesh and cold sweat, and he did not know why the unknown pursuer 
should fill him with such absolute terror.
He did not look back. Initially, he did not want to turn his eyes away from the 
twisting trail because he was afraid he would crash into a low branch. But as he 
ran, his panic swelled, and by the time he had gone a couple of hundred yards, 
the reason he did not look back was because he was afraid of what he might see.
He knew that his response was irrational. The prickly sensation along the back 
of his neck and the iciness in his gut were symptoms of a purely superstitious 
terror. But the civilized and educated Travis Cornell had turned over the reins 
to the frightened child-savage that lives in every human beingthe genetic ghost 
of what we once wereand he could not easily regain control even though he was 
aware of the absurdity of his behavior. Brute instinct ruled, and instinct told 
him that he must run, run, stop thinking and just run.
Near the head of the canyon, the trail turned left and carved a winding course 
up the steep north wall toward the ridge. Travis rounded a bend, saw a log lying 
across the path, jumped but caught one foot on the rotting wood. He fell 
forward, flat on his chest. Stunned, he could not get his breath, could not 
move.
He expected something to pounce on him and tear out his throat.
The retriever dashed back down the trail and leaped over Travis, landing 
sure-footedly on the path behind him. It barked fiercely at whatever was chasing 
them, much more threateningly than when it had challenged Travis in the 
clearing.
Travis rolled over and sat up, gasping. He saw nothing on the trail below. Then 
he realized the retriever was not concerned about anything in that direction but 
was standing sideways on the trail, facing the underbrush in the forest to the 
east of them. Spraying saliva, it barked stridently, so hard and loud that each 
explosive sound hurt Traviss ears. The tone of savage fury in its voice was 
daunting. The dog was warning the unseen enemy to stay back.
Easy boy, Travis said softly. Easy.
The retriever stopped barking but did not glance at Travis. It stared intently 
into the brush, peeling its pebbly black lips off its teeth and growling deep in 
its throat.
Still breathing hard, Travis got to his feet and looked east into the woods. 
Evergreens, sycamores, a few larches. Shadows like swatches of dark cloth were 
fastened here and there by golden pins and needles of light. Brush. Briars. 
Climbing vines. A few well-worn toothlike formations of rock. He saw nothing out 
of the ordinary.
When he reached down and put a hand upon the retrievers head, the dog stopped 
growling, as if it understood his intention. Travis drew a breath, held it, and 
listened for movement in the brush.
The cicadas remained silent. No birds sang in the trees. The woods were as still 
as if the vast, elaborate clockwork mechanism of the universe had ceased 
ticking.
He was sure that he was not the cause of the abrupt silence. His passage through 
the canyon had not previously disturbed either birds or cicadas.
Something was out there. An intruder of which the ordinary forest creatures 
clearly did not approve.
He took a deep breath and held it again, straining to hear the slightest 
movement in the woods. This time he detected the rustle of brush, a snapping 
twig, the soft crunch of dry leavesand the unnervingly peculiar, heavy, ragged 
breathing of something big. It sounded about forty feet away, but he could not 
pinpoint its location.
At his side, the retriever had gone rigid. Its floppy ears were slightly 
pricked, straining forward.
The unknown adversarys raspy breathing was so creepywhether because of the 
echo effect of the forest and canyon, or because it was just creepy to begin 
withthat Travis quickly took off his backpack, unsnapped the flap, and withdrew 
the loaded .38.
The dog stared at the gun. Travis had the weird feeling that the animal knew 
what the revolver wasand approved of the weapon.
Wondering if the thing in the woods was a man, Travis called out: Whos there? 
Come on out where I can see you.
The hoarse breathing in the brush was now underlaid with a thick menacing gnarl. 
The eerie guttural resonance electrified Travis. His heart beat even harder, and 
he went as rigid as the retriever beside him. For interminable ticking seconds, 
he could not understand why the noise itself had sent such a powerful current of 
fear through him. Then he realized that what frightened him was the noises 
ambiguity: the beasts growl was definitely that of an animal . . . yet there 
was also an indescribable quality that bespoke intelligence, a tone and 
modulation almost like the sound that an enraged man might make. The more he 
listened, the more Travis decided it was neither strictly an animal nor human 
sound. But if neither . . . then what the hell was it?
He saw the high brush stirring. Straight ahead. Something was coming toward him.
Stop, he said sharply. No closer.
It kept coming.
Now just thirty feet away.
Moving slower than it had been. A bit wary perhaps. But closing in nevertheless.
The golden retriever began to growl threateningly, again warning off the 
creature that stalked them. But tremors were visible in its flanks, and its head 
shook. Though it was challenging the thing in the brush, it was profoundly 
frightened of a confrontation.
The dogs fear unnerved Travis. Retrievers were renowned for boldness and 
courage. They were bred to be the companions of hunters, and were frequently 
used in dangerous rescue operations. What peril or foe could provoke such dread 
in a strong, proud dog like this?
The thing in the brush continued toward them, hardly more than twenty feet away 
now.
Though he had as yet seen nothing extraordinary, he was filled with 
superstitious terror, a perception of indefinable but uncanny presences. He kept 
telling himself he had chanced upon a cougar, just a cougar, that was probably 
more frightened than he was. But the icy prickling that began at the base of his 
spine and extended up across his scalp now intensified. His hand was so slick 
with sweat that he was afraid the gun would slip out of his grasp.
Fifteen feet.
Travis pointed the .38 in the air and squeezed off a single warning shot. The 
blast crashed through the forest and echoed down the long canyon.
The retriever did not even flinch, but the thing in the brush immediately turned 
away from them and ran north, upslope, toward the canyon rim. Travis could not 
see it, but he could clearly mark its swift progress by the waist-high weeds and 
bushes that shook and parted under its assault.
For a second or two, he was relieved because he thought he had frightened it 
off. Then he saw it was not actually running away. It was heading 
north-northwest on a curve that would bring it to the deer trail above them. 
Travis sensed that the creature was trying to cut them off and force them to go 
out of the canyon by the lower route, where it would have more and better 
opportunities to attack. He did not understand how he knew such a thing, just 
that he did know it.
His primordial survival instinct drove him into action without the need to think 
about each move he made; he automatically did what was required. He had not felt 
that animal surety since he had seen military action almost a decade ago.
Trying to keep his eye on the telltale tremble of the brush to his right, 
abandoning his backpack and keeping only the gun, Travis raced up the steep 
trail, and the retriever ran behind him. Fast as he was, however, he was not 
fast enough to overtake the unknown enemy. When he realized that it was going to 
reach the path well above him, he fired another warning shot, which did not 
startle or deflect the adversary this time. He fired twice into the brush 
itself, toward the indications of movement, not caring if it was a man out
there, and that worked. He did not believe he hit the stalker, but he scared it 
at last, and it turned away.
He kept running. He was eager to reach the canyon rim, where the trees were thin 
along the ridge top, where the brush was sparse, and where a brighter fall of 
sunlight did not permit concealing shadows.
When he arrived at the crest a couple of minutes later, he was badly winded. The 
muscles of his calves and thighs were hot with pain. His heart thumped so hard 
in his chest that he would not have been surprised to hear the echo of it 
bouncing off another ridge and coming back to him across the canyon.
This was where he had paused to eat some Oreos. The rattlesnake, which earlier 
had been sunning on a large flat rock, was gone.
The golden retriever had followed Travis. It stood beside him, panting, peering 
down the slope they had just ascended.
Slightly dizzy, wanting to sit and rest but aware that he was still in danger of 
an unknown variety, Travis looked down the deer trail, too, and scanned what 
underbrush he could see. If the stalker remained in pursuit of them, it was 
being more circumspect, climbing the slopes without disturbing the weeds and 
bushes.
The retriever whined and tugged once at Traviss pants leg. It scurried across 
the top of the narrow ridge to a declivity by which they could make their way 
down into the next canyon. Clearly, the dog believed they were not out of danger 
and ought to keep moving.
Travis shared that conviction. His atavistic fearand the reliance on instinct 
that it invokedsent him hurrying after the dog, over the far side of the ridge, 
into another tree-filled canyon.
 
 
 
2
Vincent Nasco had been waiting in the dark garage for hours. He did not look as 
if he would be good at waiting. He was bigover two hundred pounds, six-three, 
muscularand he always seemed to be so full of energy that he might burst at any 
moment. His broad face was placid, usually as expressionless as the face of a 
cow. But his green eyes flashed with vitality, with an edgy nervous 
watchfulnessand with a strange hunger that was like something you expected to 
see in the eyes of a wild animal, some jungle cat, but never in the eyes of a 
man. Like a cat, in spite of his tremendous energy, he was patient. He could 
crouch for hours, motionless and silent, waiting for prey.
At nine-forty Tuesday morning, much later than Nasco expected, the dead-bolt 
lock on the door between the garage and the house was disengaged with a single 
hard clack. The door opened, and Dr. Davis Weatherby flicked on the garage 
lights, then reached for the button that would raise the big sectional door.
Stop right there, Nasco said, rising and stepping from in front of the 
doctors pearl-gray Cadillac.
Weatherby blinked at him, surprised. Who the hell
Nasco raised a silencer-equipped Walther P-38 and shot the doctor once in the 
face.
Ssssnap.
Cut off in midsentence, Weatherby fell backward into the cheery yellow and white 
laundry room. Going down, he struck his head on the clothes dryer and knocked a 
wheeled metal laundry cart into the wall.
Vince Nasco was not worried about the noise because Weatherby was unmarried and 
lived alone. He stooped over the corpse, which had wedged the door open, and 
tenderly put one hand on the doctors face.
The bullet had hit Weatberby in the forehead, less than an inch above the bridge 
of his nose. There was little blood because death had been instantaneous, and 
the slug had not been quite powerful enough to smash through the back of the 
mans skull. Weatherbys brown eyes were open wide. He looked startled.
With his fingers, Vince stroked Weatherbys warm cheek, the side of his neck. He 
closed the sightless left eye, then the right, although he knew that postmortem 
muscle reactions would pop them open again in a couple of minutes. With a 
profound gratefulness evident in his tremulous voice, Vince said, Thank you. 
Thank you, Doctor. He kissed both of the dead mans closed eyes. Thank you.
Shivering pleasantly, Vince plucked the car keys off the floor where the dead 
man had dropped them, went into the garage, and opened the Cadillacs trunk, 
being careful not to touch any surface on which he might leave a clear 
fingerprint. The trunk was empty. Good. He carried Weatherbys corpse out of the 
laundry room, put it in the trunk, closed and locked the lid.
Vince had been told that the doctors body must not be discovered until 
tomorrow. He did not know why the timing was important, but he prided himself on 
doing flawless work. Therefore, he returned to the laundry room, put the metal 
cart where it belonged, and looked around for signs of violence. Satisfied, he 
closed the door on the yellow and white room, and locked it with Weatherbys 
keys.
He turned out the garage lights, crossed the darkened space, and let himself out 
the side door, where he had entered during the night by quietly loiding the 
flimsy lock with a credit card. Using the doctors keys, he relocked the door 
and walked away from the house.
Davis Weatherby lived in Corona Del Mar, within sight of the Pacific Ocean. 
Vince had left his two-year-old Ford van three blocks from the doctors house. 
The walk back to the van was very pleasant, invigorating. This was a fine 
neighborhood boasting a variety of architectural styles; expensive Spanish casas 
sat beside beautifully detailed Cape Cod homes with a harmony that had to be 
seen to be believed. The landscaping was lush and well tended. Palms and ficus 
and olive trees shaded the sidewalks. Red, coral, yellow, and Orange 
bougainviflaeas blazed with thousands of flowers. The bottlebrush
trees were in bloom. The branches of jacarandas dripped lacy purple blossoms. 
The air was scented with star jasmine.
Vincent Nasco felt wonderful. So strong, so powerful, so alive.
 
 
3
Sometimes the dog led, and sometimes Travis took the lead. They went a long way 
before Travis realized that he had been completely jolted out of the despair and 
desperate loneliness that had brought him to the foothills of the Santa Ana 
Mountains in the first place.
The big tattered dog stayed with him all the way to his pickup, which was parked 
along the dirt lane under the overhanging boughs of an enormous spruce. Stopping 
at the truck, the retriever looked back the way they had come.
Behind them, black birds swooped through the cloudless sky, as if engaged in 
reconnaissance for some mountain sorcerer. A dark wall of trees loomed like the 
ramparts of a sinister castle.
Though the woods were gloomy, the dirt road onto which Travis had stepped was 
fully exposed to the sun, baked to a pale brown, mantled in fine, soft dust that 
plumed around his boots with each step he took. He was surprised that such a 
bright day could have been abruptly filled with an overpowering, palpable sense 
of evil.
Studying the forest out of which they had fled, the dog barked for the first 
time in half an hour.
Still coming, isnt it? Travis said.
The dog glanced at him and mewled unhappily.
Yeah, he said, I feel it too. Crazy . . . yet I feel it, too. But what the 
hells out there, boy? Huh? What the hell is it?
The dog shuddered violently.
Traviss own fear was amplified every time he saw the dogs terror manifested.
He put down the tailgate of the truck and said, Come on. Ill give you a lift 
out of this place.
The dog sprang into the cargo hold.
Travis slammed the gate shut and went around the side of the truck. As he pulled 
open the drivers door, he thought he glimpsed movement in nearby brush. Not 
back toward the forest but at the far side of the dirt road. Over there, a 
narrow field was choked with waist-high brown grass as crisp as hay, a few 
bristly clumps of mesquite, and some sprawling oleander bushes with roots deep 
enough to keep them green. When he stared directly at the field, he saw none of 
the movement he thought he had caught from the corner of his eye, but he 
suspected that he had not imagined it.
With a renewed sense of urgency, he climbed into the truck and put the revolver 
on the seat beside him. He drove away from there as fast as the
washboard lane permitted, and with constant consideration for the four-legged 
passenger in the cargo bed.
Twenty minutes later, when he stopped along Santiago Canyon Road, back in the 
world of blacktop and civilization, he still felt weak and shaky. But the fear 
that lingered was different from that hed felt in the forest. His heart was no 
longer drumming. The cold sweat had dried on his hands and brow. The odd 
prickling of nape and scalp was goneand the memory of it seemed unreal. Now he 
was afraid not of some unknown creature but of his own strange behavior. Safely 
out of the woods, he could not quite recall the degree of terror that had 
gripped him; therefore, his actions seemed irrational.
He pulled on the handbrake and switched off the engine. It was eleven oclock, 
and the flurry of morning traffic had gone; only an occasional car passed on the 
rural two-lane blacktop. He sat for a minute, trying to convince himself that he 
had acted on instincts that were good, right, and reliable.
He had always taken pride in his unshakable equanimity and hardheaded 
pragmatismin that if in nothing else. He could stay cool in the middle of a 
bonfire. He could make hard decisions under pressure and accept the 
consequences.
Excepthe found it increasingly difficult to believe something strange had 
actually been stalking him out there. He wondered if he had misinterpreted the 
dogs behavior and had imagined the movement in the brush merely to give himself 
an excuse to turn his mind away from self-pity.
He got out of the truck and stepped back to the side of it, where he came 
face-to-face with the retriever, which stood in the cargo bed. It shoved its 
burly head toward him and licked his neck, his chin. Though it had snapped and 
barked earlier, it was an affectionate dog, and for the first time its 
bedraggled condition struck him as having a comical aspect. He tried to hold the 
dog back. But it strained forward, nearly clambering over the side of the cargo 
hold in its eagerness to lick his face. He laughed and ruffled its tangled coat.
The retrievers friskiness and the frenzied wagging of its tail had an 
unexpected effect on Travis. For a long time his mind had been a dark place, 
filled with thoughts of death, culminating in todays journey. But this animals 
unadulterated joy in being alive was like a spotlight that pierced Traviss 
inner gloom and reminded him that life had a brighter side from which he had 
long ago turned away.
What was that all about back there? he wondered aloud.
The dog stopped licking him, stopped wagging its matted tail. It regarded him 
solemnly, and he was suddenly transfixed by the animals gentle, warm brown 
eyes. Something in them was unusual, compelling. Travis was half-mesmerized, and 
the dog seemed equally captivated. As a mild spring breeze rose from the south, 
Travis searched the dogs eyes for a clue to their special Power and appeal, but 
he saw nothing extraordinary about them. Except. . . well, they seemed somehow 
more expressive than a dogs eyes usually were, more intelligent and aware. 
Given the short attention span of any dog, the retrievers unwavering stare was 
damned unusual. As the seconds ticked past and as neither Travis nor the dog 
broke the encounter, he felt
increasingly peculiar. A shiver rippled through him, occasioned not by fear but 
by a sense that something uncanny was happening, that he was teetering on the 
threshold of an awesome revelation.
Then the dog shook its head and licked Traviss hand, and the spell was broken.
Whered you come from, boy?
The dog cocked its head to the left.
Whos your owner?
The dog cocked its head to the right.
What should I do with you?
As if in answer, the dog jumped over the trucks tailgate, ran past Travis to 
the drivers door, and climbed into the pickups cab.
When Travis peered inside, the retriever was in the passengers seat, looking 
straight ahead through the windshield. It turned to him and issued a soft woof, 
as if impatient with his dawdling.
He got in behind the wheel, tucked the revolver under his seat. Dont believe I 
can take care of you. Too much responsibility, fella. Doesnt fit in with my 
plans. Sorry about that.
The dog regarded him beseechingly.
You look hungry, boy.
It woofed once, softly.
Okay, maybe I can help you that much. I think theres a Hersheys bar in the 
glove compartment . . . and theres a McDonalds not far from here, where 
theyve probably got a couple hamburgers with your name on them. But after that 
. . . well, Ill either have to let you loose again or take you to the pound.
Even as Travis was speaking, the dog raised one foreleg and hit the 
glove-compartment release button with a paw. The lid fell open.
What the hell
The dog leaned forward, put its snout into the open box, and withdrew the candy 
in its teeth, holding the bar so lightly that the wrapping was not punctured.
Travis blinked in surprise.
The retriever held forth the Hersheys bar, as if requesting that Travis unwrap 
the treat.
Startled, he took the candy and peeled off the paper.
The retriever watched, licking its lips.
Breaking the bar into pieces, Travis paid out the chocolate in morsels. The dog 
took them gratefully and ate almost daintily.
Travis watched in confusion, not certain if what had happened was truly 
extraordinary or had a reasonable explanation. Had the dog actually understood 
him when he had said there was candy in the glove box? Or had it detected the 
scent of chocolate? Surely the latter.
To the dog, he said, But how did you know to press the button to pop the lid 
open?
It stared, licked its chops, and accepted another bit of candy.
He said, Okay, okay, so maybe thats a trick youve been taught. Though its 
not the sort of thing anyone would ordinarily train a dog to do, is it? Roll 
over, play dead, sing for your supper, even walk on your hind feet a little ways 
. . . yeah, thosere things that dogs are trained to do . . . but theyre not 
trained to open locks and latches.
The retriever gazed longingly at the last morsel of chocolate, but Travis 
withheld the goody for a moment.
The timing, for Gods sake, had been uncanny. Two seconds after Travis had 
referred to the chocolate, the dog had gone for it.
Did you understand what I said? Travis asked, feeling foolish for suspecting a 
dog of possessing language skills. Nevertheless, he repeated the question: Did 
you? Did you understand?
Reluctantly, the retriever raised its gaze from the last of the candy. Their 
eyes met. Again Travis sensed that something uncanny was happening; he shivered 
not unpleasantly, as before.
He hesitated, cleared his throat. Uh . . . would it be all right with you if I 
had the last piece of chocolate?
The dog turned its eyes to the two small squares of the Hersheys bar still in 
Traviss hand. It chuffed once, as if with regret, then looked through the 
windshield..
Ill be damned, Travis said.
The dog yawned.
Being careful not to move his hand, not holding the chocolate out, not calling 
attention to the chocolate in any manner except with words, he addressed the big 
tattered dog again: Well, maybe you need it more than I do, boy. If you want 
it, the last bits yours.
The retriever looked at him.
Still not moving his hand, keeping it close to his own body in a way that 
implied he was withholding the chocolate, he said, If you want it, take it. 
Otherwise, Ill just throw it away.
The retriever shifted on the seat, leaned close to him, and gently snatched the 
chocolate off his palm.
Ill be double-damned, he said.
The dog rose onto all fours, standing on the seat, which brought its head almost 
to the ceiling. It looked through the back window of the cab and growled softly.
Travis glanced at the rearview mirror, then at the side-mounted mirror, but he 
saw nothing unusual behind them. Just the two-lane blacktop, the narrow berm, 
the weed-covered hillside sloping down on their right side. You think we should 
get moving? Is that it?
The dog looked at him, peered out the rear window, then turned and sat with its 
hind legs tucked to one side, facing forward again.
Travis started the engine, put the truck in gear, pulled onto Santiago Canyon 
Road, and headed north. Glancing at his companion, he said, Are you really more 
than you appear to be . . . or am I just cracking up? And if you are more than 
you appear to be . . . what the devil are you?
At the rural eastern end of Chapman Avenue, he turned west toward the McDonalds 
of which hed spoken.
He said, Cant turn you loose now or take you to a pound. And a minute later, 
he said, If I didnt keep you, Id die of curiosity, wondering about you.
They drove about two miles and swung into the McDonalds parking lot.
Travis said, So I guess youre my dog now.
The retriever said nothing.
 
Two
1
Nora Devon was afraid of the television repairman. Although he appeared to be 
about thirty (her age), he had the offensive cockiness of a know-it-all 
teenager. When she answered the doorbell, he boldly looked her up and down as he 
identified himselfArt Streck, Wadlows TVand when he met her eyes again, he 
winked. He was tall and lean and well-scrubbed, dressed in white uniform slacks 
and shirt. He was clean-shaven. His darkish-blond hair was cut short and neatly 
combed. He looked like any mothers son, not a rapist or psycho, yet Nora was 
instantly afraid of him, maybe because his boldness and cockiness seemed at odds 
with his appearance.
You need service? he asked when she hesitated in the doorway.
Although his question appeared innocent, the inflection he put on the word 
service seemed creepy and sexually suggestive to Nora. She did not think she 
was overreacting. But she had called Wadlow TV, after all, and she could not 
turn Streck away without explanation. An explanation would probably lead to an 
argument, and she was not a confrontational person, so she let him inside.
As she escorted him along the wide, cool hallway to the living-room arch, she 
had the uneasy feeling that his good grooming and big smile were elements of a 
carefully calculated disguise. He had a keen animal watchfulness, a coiled 
tension, that further disquieted her with every step they took away from the 
front door.
Following her much too closely, virtually looming over her from behind, Art 
Streck said, Youve got a nice house here, Mrs. Devon. Very nice. I really like 
it.
Thank you, she said stiffly, not bothering to correct his misapprehension of 
her marital status.
A man could be happy here. Yeah, a man could be very happy.
The house was of that style of architecture sometimes called Old Santa Barbara 
Spanish: two stories, cream-colored stucco with a red-tile roof, verandas, 
balconies, all softly rounded lines instead of squared-off corners. Lush red 
bougainvillea climbed the north face of the structure, dripping bright blossoms. 
The place was beautiful.
Nora hated it.
She had lived there since she was only two years old, which now added up to 
twenty-eight years, and during all but one of them, she had been under
the iron thumb of her Aunt Violet. Hers had not been a happy childhood or, to 
date, a happy life. Violet Devon had died a year ago. But, in truth, Nora was 
still oppressed by her aunt, for the memory of that hateful old woman was 
formidable, stifling.
In the living room, putting his repair kit beside the Magnavox, Streck paused to 
look around. He was clearly surprised by the decor.
The flowered wallpaper was dark, funereal. The Persian carpet was singularly 
unattractive. The color schemegray, maroon, royal bluewas unenlivened by a few 
touches of faded yellow. Heavy English furniture from the mid-nineteenth 
century, trimmed with deeply carved molding, stood on clawed feet: massive 
armchairs, footstools, cabinets suitable for Dr. Caligari, credenzas that looked 
as if they each weighed half a ton. Small tables were draped with weighty 
brocade. Some lamps were pewter with pale-gray shades, and others had maroon 
ceramic bases, but none threw much light. The drapes looked as heavy as lead; 
age-yellowed sheers hung between the side panels, permitting only a 
mustard-colored drizzle of sunlight to enter the room. None of it complemented 
the Spanish architecture; Violet had willfully imposed her ponderous bad taste 
upon the graceful house.
You decorate? Art Streck asked.
No. My aunt, Nora said. She stood by the marble fireplace, almost as far from 
him as she could get without leaving the room. This was her place. I . . . 
inherited it.
If I was you, he said, Id heave all this stuff out of here. Could be a 
bright, cheery room. Pardon my saying so, but this isnt you. This might be all 
right for someones maiden aunt . . . She was a maiden aunt, huh? Yeah, thought 
so. Might be all right for a dried-up maiden aunt, but definitely not for a 
pretty lady like yourself.
Nora wanted to criticize his impertinence, wanted to tell him to shut up and fix 
the television, but she had no experience at standing up for herself. Aunt 
Violet had preferred her meek, obedient.
Streck was smiling at her. The right corner of his mouth curled in a most 
unpleasant way. It was almost a sneer.
She forced herself to say, I like it well enough.
Not really?
Yes.
He shrugged. Whats the matter with the set?
The picture wont stop rolling. And theres static, snow.
He pulled the television away from the wall, switched it on, and studied the 
tumbling, static-slashed images. He plugged in a small portable lamp and hooked 
it to the back of the set.
The grandfather clock in the hall marked the quarter-hour with a single chime 
that reverberated hollowly through the house.
You watch a lot of TV? he asked as he unscrewed the dust shield from the set.
Not much, Nora said.
I like those nighttime soaps. Dallas, Dynasty, that stuff.
I never watch them.
Yeah? Oh, now, come on, I bet you do. He laughed slyly. Everybody watches 
em, even if they dont want to admit it. Just isnt anything more interesting 
than stories full of backstabbing, scheming, thieving, lying . . . and adultery. 
You know what Im saying? People sit and watch it and cluck their tongues and 
say, Oh, how awful, but they really get off on it. Thats human nature.
I . . . Ive got things to do in the kitchen, she said nervously. Call me 
when youve fixed the set. She left the room and went down the hall through the 
swinging door into the kitchen.
She was trembling. She despised herself for her weakness, for the ease with 
which she surrendered to fear, but she could not help being what she was. A 
mouse.
Aunt Violet had often said, Girl, there are two kinds of people in the 
worldcats and mice. Cats go where they want, do what they want, take what they 
want. Cats are aggressive and self-sufficient by nature. Mice, on the other 
hand, dont have an ounce of aggression in them. Theyre naturally vulnerable, 
gentle, and timid, and theyre happiest when they keep their heads down and 
accept what life gives them. Youre a mouse, dear. Its not bad to be a mouse. 
You can be perfectly happy. A mouse might not have as colorful a life as a cat, 
but if it stays safely in its burrow and keeps to itself, itll live longer than 
the cat, and itll have a lot less turmoil in its life.
Right now, a cat lurked in the living room, fixing the TV set, and Nora was in 
the kitchen, gripped by mouselike fear. She was not actually in the middle of 
cooking anything, as she had told Streck. For a moment she stood by the sink, 
one cold hand clasped in the otherher hands always seemed to be coldwondering 
what to do until he finished his work and left. She decided to bake a cake. A 
yellow cake with chocolate icing. That task would keep her occupied and help 
turn her mind away from the memory of Strecks suggestive winking.
She got bowls, utensils, an electric mixer, plus the cake mix and other 
ingredients out of the cupboards, and she set to work. Soon her frayed nerves 
were soothed by the mundane domestic activity.
Just as she finished pouring the batter into the two baking pans, Streck stepped 
into the kitchen and said, You like to cook?
Surprised, she nearly dropped the empty metal mixing bowl and the battersmeared 
spatula. Somehow, she managed to hold on to them andwith only a little clatter 
to betray her tensionput them into the sink to be washed. Yes. I like to 
cook.
Isnt that nice? I admire a woman who enjoys doing womans work. Do You sew, 
crochet, do embroidery, anything like that?
Needlepoint, she said.
Thats even nicer.
Is the TV fixed?
Almost.
Nora was ready to put the cake in the oven, but she did not want to carry
the pans while Streck was watching her because she was afraid she would shake 
too much. Then hed realize that she was intimidated by him, and he would 
probably get bolder. So she left the full pans on the counter and tore open the 
box of icing mix instead.
Streck came farther into the big kitchen, moving casually, very relaxed, looking 
around with an amiable smile, but coming straight toward her. Think I could 
have a glass of water?
Nora almost sighed with relief, eager to believe that a drink of cold water was 
all that had brought him here. Oh, yes, of course, she said. She took a glass 
from the cupboard, ran the cold water.
When she turned to hand it to him, he was standing close behind her, having 
crept up with catlike quiet. She gave an involuntary start. Water slopped out of 
the glass and splattered on the floor.
She said, You
Here, he said, taking the glass from her hand.
startled me.
Me? he said, smiling, fixing her with icy blue eyes. Oh, I certainly didnt 
mean to. Im sorry. Im harmless, Mrs. Devon. Really, I am. All I want is a 
drink of water. You didnt think I wanted anything elsedid you?
He was so damned bold. She couldnt believe how bold he was, how smart-mouthed 
and cool and aggressive. She wanted to slap his face, but she was afraid of what 
would happen after that. Slapping himin any way acknowledging his insulting 
double entendres or other offensesseemed sure to encourage rather than deter 
him.
He stared at her with unsettling intensity, voraciously. His smile was that of a 
predator.
She sensed the best way to handle Streck was to pretend innocence and monumental 
thick headedness, to ignore his nasty sexual innuendos as if she had not 
understood them. She must, in short, deal with him as a mouse might deal with 
any threat from which it was unable to flee. Pretend you do not see the cat, 
pretend that it is not there, and perhaps the cat will be confused and 
disappointed by the lack of reaction and will seek more responsive prey 
elsewhere.
To break away from his demanding gaze, Nora tore a couple of paper towels from 
the dispenser beside the sink and began to mop up the water she had spilled on 
the floor. But the moment she stooped before Streck, she realized shed made a 
mistake, because he did not move out of her way but stood over her, loomed over 
her, while she squatted in front of him. The situation was full of erotic 
symbolism. When she realized the submissiveness implied by her position at his 
feet, she popped up again and saw that his smile had broadened.
Flushed and flustered, Nora threw the damp towels into the waste can under the 
sink.
Art Streck said, Cooking, needlepoint . . . yeah, I think thats real nice, 
real nice. What other things do you like to do?
Thats it, Im afraid, she said. I dont have any unusual hobbies. Im not a 
very interesting person. Low-key. Dull, even.
Damning herself for being unable to order the bastard out of her house, she 
slipped past him and went to the oven, ostensibly to check that it was finished 
preheating, but she was really just trying to get out of Strecks reach.
He followed her, staying close. When I pulled up out front, I saw lots of 
flowers. You tend the flowers?
Staring at the oven dials, she said, Yes . . . I like gardening.
I approve of that, he said, as if she ought to care whether he approved or 
not. Flowers . . . thats a good thing for a woman to have an interest in. 
Cooking, needlepoint, gardeningwhy youre just full of womanly interests and 
talents. Ill bet you do everything well, Mrs. Devon. I mean everything a woman 
should do. Ill bet youre a first-rate woman in every department.
If be touches me, Ill scream, she thought.
However, the walls of the old house were thick, and the neighbors were some 
distance away. No one would hear her or come to her rescue.
Ill kick him, she thought. Ill fight back.
But, in fact, she was not sure that she would fight, was not sure that she had 
the gumption to fight. Even if she did attempt to defend herself, he was bigger 
and stronger than she was.
Yeah, Ill bet youre a first-rate woman in every department, he repeated, 
delivering the line more provocatively than before.
Turning from the oven, she forced a laugh. My husband would be astonished to 
hear that. Im not too bad at cakes, but Ive still not learned to make a decent 
piecrust, and my pot roast always turns out bone-dry. My needlepoint's not half 
bad, but it takes me forever to get anything done. She slipped past him and 
returned to the counter. She was amazed to hear herself chattering on as she 
opened the box of icing mix. Desperation made her garrulous. Ive got a green 
thumb with flowers, but Im not much of a housekeeper, and if my husband didnt 
help outwhy, this place would be a disaster.
She thought she sounded phony. She detected a note of hysteria in her voice that 
had to be evident to him. But the mention of a husband had obviously given Art 
Streck second thoughts about pushing her further. As Nora poured the mix into a 
bowl and measured out the required butter, Streck drank the water she had given 
him. He went to the sink and put the empty glass in the dishpan with the dirty 
bowls and utensils. This time he did not press unnecessarily close to her.
Well, I better get back to work, he said.
She gave him a calculatedly distracted smile, and nodded. She began to hum 
softly as she returned to her own task, as if untroubled.
He crossed the kitchen and pushed open the swinging door, then stopped and said, 
Your aunt really liked dark places, didnt she? This kitchen would be swell, 
too, if you brightened it up.
Before she could respond, he went out, letting the door swing shut behind him.
In spite of his unasked-for opinion of the kitchen decor, Streck seemed to have 
pulled in his horns, and Nora was pleased with herself. Using a few white lies 
about her nonexistent husband, delivered with admirable equanimity, she had 
handled him after all. That was not exactly the way a cat would have dealt with 
an aggressor, but it was not the timid, frightened behavior of a mouse, either.
She looked around at the high-ceilinged kitchen and decided it was too dark. The 
walls were a muddy blue. The frosted globes of the overhead lights were opaque, 
shedding a drab, wintry glow. She considered having the kitchen repainted, the 
lights replaced.
Merely to contemplate making major changes in Violet Devons house was dizzying, 
exhilarating. Nora had redone her own bedroom since Violets death, but nothing 
else. Now, wondering if she could follow through with extensive redecoration, 
she felt wildly daring and rebellious. Maybe. Maybe she could. If she could fend 
off Streck, maybe she could dredge up the courage to defy her dead aunt.
Her upbeat self-congratulatory mood lasted just twenty minutes, which was long 
enough to put the cake pans in the oven and whip up the icing and wash some of 
the bowls and utensils. Then Streck returned to tell her the TV set was repaired 
and to give her the bill. Though he had seemed subdued when he left the kitchen, 
he was as cocky as ever when he entered the second time. He looked her up and 
down as if undressing her in his imagination, and when he met her eyes he gave 
her a challenging look.
She thought the bill was too high, but she did not question it because she 
wanted him out of the house quickly. As she sat at the kitchen table to write 
the check, he pulled the now-familiar trick of standing too close to her, trying 
to cow her with his masculinity and superior size. When she stood and handed him 
the check, he contrived to take it in such a way that his hand touched hers 
suggestively.
All the way along the hail, Nora was more than half-convinced that he would 
suddenly put down his tool kit and attack her from behind. But she got to the 
door, and he stepped past her onto the veranda, and her racing heart began to 
slow to a more normal pace.
He hesitated just outside the door. Whats your husband do?
The question disconcerted her. It was something he might have asked earlier, in 
the kitchen, when she had spoken of her husband, but now his curiosity seemed 
inappropriate.
She should have told him it was none of his business, but she was still afraid 
of him. She sensed that he could be easily angered, that the pent-up violence in 
him could be triggered with minor effort. So she answered him with another lie, 
one she hoped would make him reluctant to harass her any further: Hes a. . . 
policeman.
Streck raised his eyebrows. Really? Here in Santa Barbara?
Thats right.
Quite a house for a policeman.
Excuse me? she said.
Didnt know policemen were paid so well.
Oh, but I told youI inherited the house from my aunt.
Of course, I remember now. You told me. Thats right.
Trying to reinforce the lie, she said, We were living in an apartment when my 
aunt died, and then we moved here. Youre rightwe wouldnt have been able to 
afford it otherwise.
Well, he said, Im happy for you. I sure am. A lady as pretty as you deserves 
a pretty house.
He tipped an imaginary hat to her, winked, and went along the walk toward the 
street, where his white van was parked at the curb.
She closed the door and watched him through a clear segment of the leaded, 
stained-glass oval window in the center of the door. He glanced back, saw her, 
and waved. She stepped away from the window, into the gloomy hallway, and 
watched him from a point at which she could not be seen.
Clearly, he hadnt believed her. He knew the husband was a lie. She shouldnt 
have said she was married to a cop, for Gods sake; that was too obvious an 
attempt to dissuade him. She should have said she was married to a plumber or 
doctor, anything but a cop. Anyway, Art Streck was leaving. Though he knew she 
was lying, he was leaving.
She did not feel safe until his van was out of sight.
Actually, even then, she did not feel safe.
2
After murdering Dr. Davis Weatherby, Vince Nasco had driven his gray Ford van to 
a service station on Pacific Coast Highway. In the public phone booth, he 
deposited coins and called a Los Angeles number that he had long ago committed 
to memory.
A man answered by repeating the number Vince had dialed. It was one of the usual 
three voices that responded to calls, the soft one with a deep timbre. Often, 
there was another man with a hard sharp voice that grated on Vince.
Infrequently, a woman answered; she had a sexy voice, throaty and yet girlish. 
Vince had never seen her, but he had often tried to imagine what she looked 
like.
Now, when the soft-spoken man finished reciting the number, Vince said, Its 
done. I really appreciate your calling me, and Im always available if you have 
another job. He was confident that the guy on the other end of the line would 
recognize his voice, too.
Im delighted to hear all went well. Weve the highest regard for your 
Workmanship. Now remember this, the contact said. He recited a seven-digit 
telephone number.
Surprised, Vince repeated it.
The contact said, Its one of the public phones at Fashion Island. In the 
open-air promenade near Robinsons Department Store. Can you be there in fifteen 
minutes?
Sure, Vince said. Ten.
Ill call in fifteen with the details.
Vince hung up and walked back to the van, whistling. Being sent to another 
public telephone to receive the details could mean only one thing: they had a 
job for him already, two in one day!
3
Later, after the cake was baked and iced, Nora retreated to her bedroom at the 
southwest corner of the second floor.
When Violet Devon had been alive, this had been Noras sanctuary in spite of the 
lack of a lock on the door. Like all the rooms in the large house, it had been 
crammed with heavy furniture, as if the place served as a warehouse instead of a 
home. It had been dreary in all other details as well. Nevertheless, when 
finished with her chores, or when dismissed after one of her aunts interminable 
lectures, Nora had fled to her bedroom, where she escaped into books or vivid 
daydreams.
Violet inevitably checked on her niece without warning, creeping soundlessly 
along the hall, suddenly throwing open the unlockable door, entering with the 
hope of catching Nora in a forbidden pastime or practice. These unannounced 
inspections had been frequent during Noras childhood and adolescence, dwindling 
in number thereafter, though they had continued through the final weeks of 
Violet Devons life, when Nora had been a grown woman of twenty-nine. Because 
Violet had favored dark dresses, had worn her hair in a tight bun, and had gone 
without a trace of makeup on her pale, sharp-featured face, she had often looked 
less like a woman than like a man, a stern monk in coarse penitential robes, 
prowling the corridors of a bleak medieval retreat to police the behavior of 
fellow monastics.
If caught daydreaming or napping, Nora was severely reprimanded and punished 
with onerous chores. Her aunt did not condone laziness.
Books were permittedif Violet had first approved of thembecause, for one 
thing, books were educational. Besides, as Violet often said, Plain, homely 
women like you and me will never lead a glamorous life, never go to exotic 
places. So books have a special value to us. We can experience most everything 
vicariously, through books. This isnt bad. Living through books is even better 
than having friends and knowing . . . men.
With the assistance of a pliable family doctor, Violet had kept Nora out of 
public school on the pretense of poor health. She had been educated at home, so 
books were her only school as well.
In addition to having read thousands of books by the age of thirty, Nora had 
become a self-taught artist in oils, acrylics, watercolors, pencil. Drawing
and painting were activities of which Aunt Violet approved. Art was a solitary 
pursuit that took Noras mind off the world beyond the house and helped her 
avoid contact with people who would inevitably reject, hurt, and disappoint her.
One corner of Noras room had been furnished with a drawing board, an easel, and 
a cabinet for supplies. Space for her miniature studio was created by pushing 
other pieces of furniture together, not by removing anything, and the effect was 
claustrophobic.
Many times over the years, especially at night but even in the middle of the 
day, Nora had been overcome by a feeling that the floor of the bedroom was going 
to collapse under all the furniture, that she was going to crash down into the 
chamber below, where she would be crushed to death beneath her own massive 
four-poster bed. When that fear overwhelmed her, she had fled onto the rear 
lawn, where she sat in the open air, hugging herself and shuddering. Shed been 
twenty-five before she realized that her anxiety attacks arose not only from the 
overfurnished rooms and dark decor of the house but from the domineering 
presence of her aunt.
On a Saturday morning four months ago, eight months after Violet Devons death, 
Nora had abruptly been seized by an acute need for change and had frantically 
reordered her bedroom-studio. She carried and dragged out all the smaller pieces 
of furniture, distributing them evenly through the other five crowded chambers 
on the second floor. Some of the heavier things had to be dismantled and taken 
away in sections, but finally she succeeded in eliminating everything but the 
four-poster bed, one nightstand, a single armchair, her drawing board and stool, 
the supply cabinet, and the easel, which was all she needed. Then she stripped 
off the wallpaper.
Throughout that dizzying weekend, shed felt as if the revolution had come, as 
if her life would never be the same. But by the time she had redone her bedroom, 
the spirit of rebellion had evaporated, and she had left the rest of the house 
untouched.
Now this one place, at least, was bright, even cheerful. The walls were painted 
the palest yellow. The drapes were gone, and in their place were Levolor blinds 
that matched the paint. She had rolled up the dreary carpet and had polished the 
beautiful oak floor.
More than ever, this was her sanctuary. Without fail, upon passing through the 
door and seeing what she had wrought, her spirits lifted and she found some 
surcease from her troubles.
After her frightening encounter with Streck, Nora was soothed, as always, by the 
bright room. She sat at the drawing board and began a pencil sketch, a 
Preliminary study for an oil painting that she had been contemplating for Some 
time. Initially, her hands shook, and she had to pause repeatedly to regain 
sufficient control to continue drawing, but in time her fear abated.
She . was even able to think about Streck as she worked and to try to imagine 
just how far he might have gone if she had not managed to maneuver
him out of the house. Recently, Nora had wondered if Violet Devons pessimistic 
view of the outside world and of all other people was accurate; though
it was the primary view that Nora, herself, had been taught, she had the nagging 
suspicion that it might be twisted, even sick. But now she had encountered Art 
Streck, and he seemed to be ample proof of Violets contentions, proof that 
interacting too much with the outside world was dangerous.
But after a while, when her sketch was half finished, Nora began to think that 
she had misinterpreted everything Streck had said and done. Surely he could not 
have been making sexual advances toward her. Not toward her.
She was, after all, quite undesirable. Plain. Homely. Perhaps even ugly. Nora 
knew this was true because, regardless of Violets faults, the old woman had 
some virtues, one of which was a refusal to mince words. Nora was unattractive, 
drab, not a woman who could expect to be held, kissed, cherished. This was a 
fact of life that Aunt Violet made her understand at an early age.
Although his personality was repellent, Streck was a physically attractive man, 
one who could have his choice of pretty women. It was ridiculous to assume he 
would be interested in a drudge like her.
Nora still wore the clothes that her aunt had bought for herdark, shapeless 
dresses and skirts and blouses similar to those that Violet had worn. Brighter 
and more feminine dresses would only call attention to her bony, graceless body 
and to the characterless and uncomely lines of her face.
But why had Streck said that she was pretty?
Oh, well, that was easily explained. He was making fun of her, perhaps. Or, more 
likely, he was being polite, kind.
The more she thought about it, the more Nora believed that she had misjudged the 
poor man. At thirty, she was already a nervous old maid, as fear-ridden as she 
was lonely.
That thought depressed her for a while. But she redoubled her efforts on the 
sketch, finished it, and began another from a different perspective. As the 
afternoon waned she escaped into her art.
From downstairs the chimes of the ancient grandfather clock rose punctually on 
the hour, half-hour, and quarter-hour.
The west-falling sun turned more golden as time passed, and as the day wore on 
the room grew brighter. The air seemed to shimmer. Beyond the south window a 
king palm stirred gently in the May breeze.
By four oclock, she was at peace, humming as she worked. When the telephone 
rang, it startled her.
She put down her pencil and reached for the receiver. Hello?
Funny, a man said.
Excuse me?
They never heard of him.
Im sorry, she said, but I think youve got the wrong number. This is you, 
Mrs. Devon?
She recognized the voice now. It was him. Streck.
For a moment, she could not speak.
He said, They never heard of him. I called the Santa Barbara police and
asked to speak with Officer Devon, but they said they dont have an Officer 
Devon on the force. Isnt that odd, Mrs. Devon?
What do you want? she asked shakily.
I figure its a computer error, Streck said, laughing quietly. Yeah, sure, 
some sort of computer error dropped your husband from their records. I think 
youd better tell him as soon as he gets home, Mrs. Devon. If he doesnt get 
this straightened out . . . why, hell, he might not get his paycheck at the end 
of the week.
He hung up, and the sound of the dial tone made her realize that she should have 
hung up first, should have slammed down the handset as soon as he said that hed 
called the police station. She dared not encourage him even to the extent of 
listening to him on the phone.
She went through the house, checking all the windows and doors. They were 
securely locked.
4
At McDonalds on East Chapman Avenue in Orange, Travis Cornell had ordered five 
hamburgers for the golden retriever. Sitting on the front seat of the pickup, 
the dog had eaten all of the meat and two buns, and it had wanted to express its 
gratitude by licking his face.
Youve got the breath of a dyspeptic alligator, he protested, holding the 
animal back.
The return trip to Santa Barbara took three and a half hours because the 
highways were much busier than they had been that morning. Throughout the 
journey, Travis glanced at his companion and spoke to it, anticipating a display 
of the unnerving intelligence it had shown earlier. His expectations were 
unfulfilled. The retriever behaved like any dog on a long trip. Once in a while, 
it did sit very erect, looking through the windshield or side window at the 
scenery with what seemed an unusual degree of interest and attention. But most 
of the time it curled up and slept on the seat, snuffling in its dreams or it 
panted and yawned and looked bored.
When the odor of the dogs filthy coat became intolerable, Travis rolled down 
the windows for ventilation, and the retriever stuck its head out in the wind. 
With its ears blown back, hair streaming, it grinned the foolish and charmingly 
witless grin of all dogs who had ever ridden shotgun in such a fashion.
In Santa Barbara, Travis stopped at a shopping center, where he bought Several 
cans of Alpo, a box of Milk-Bone dog biscuits, heavy plastic dishes for pet food 
and water, a galvanized tin washtub, a bottle of pet shampoo With a flea- and 
tick-killing compound, a brush to comb out the animals tangled coat, a collar, 
and a leash.
As Travis loaded those items into the back of the pickup, the dog watched
him through the rear window of the cab, its damp nose pressed to the glass. 
Getting behind the wheel, he said, Youre filthy, and you stink. Youre
not going to be a lot of trouble about taking a bath, are you? The dog yawned.
By the time Travis pulled into the driveway of his four-room rented bungalow on 
the northern edge of Santa Barbara and switched off the pickups engine, he was 
beginning to wonder if the poochs actions that morning had really been as 
amazing as he remembered.
If you dont show me the right stuff again soon, he told the dog as he slipped 
his key into the front door of the house, Im going to have to assume that I 
stripped a gear out there in the woods, that Im just nuts and that I imagined 
everything.
Standing beside him on the stoop, the dog looked up quizzically.
Do you want to be responsible for giving me doubts about my own sanity? 
Hmmmmm?
An orange and black butterfly swooped past the retrievers face, startling it. 
The dog barked once and raced after the fluttering prey, off the stoop, down the 
walkway. Dashing back and forth across the lawn, leaping high, snapping at the 
air, repeatedly missing its bright quarry, it nearly collided with the 
diamond-patterned trunk of a big Canary Island date palm, then narrowly avoided 
knocking itself unconscious in a head-on encounter with a concrete birdbath, and 
at last crashed clumsily into a bed of New Guinea impatiens over which the 
butterfly soared to safety. The retriever rolled once, scrambled to its feet, 
and lunged out of the flowers.
When it realized that it had been foiled, the dog returned to Travis. It gave 
him a sheepish look.
Some wonder dog, he said. Good grief.
He opened the door, and the retriever slipped in ahead of him. It padded off 
immediately to explore these new rooms.
You better be housebroken, Travis shouted after it.
He carried the galvanized washtub and the plastic bag full of other purchases 
into the kitchen. He left the food and pet dishes there, and took everything 
else outside through the back door. He put the bag on the concrete patio and set 
the tub beside it, near a coiled hose that was attached to an outdoor faucet.
Inside again, he removed a bucket from beneath the kitchen sink, filled it with 
the hottest water he could draw, carried it outside, and emptied it into the 
tub. When Travis had made four trips with the hot water, the retriever appeared 
and began to explore the backyard. By the time Travis filled the tub more than 
half full, the dog had begun to urinate every few feet along the whitewashed 
concrete-block wall that defined the property line, marking its territory.
When you finish killing the grass, Travis said, youd better be in the mood 
for a bath. You reek.
The retriever turned toward him and cocked its head and appeared to listen when 
he spoke. But it did not look like one of those smart dogs in the movies. It did 
not look as if it understood him. It just looked dumb. As soon as he
stopped talking, it hurried a few steps farther along the wall and peed again. 
Watching the dog relieve itself, Travis felt an urge of his own. He went
inside to the bathroom, then changed into an older pair of jeans and a T-shirt 
for the sloppy job ahead.
When Travis came outside again, the retriever was standing beside the steaming 
washtub, the hose in its teeth. Somehow, it had managed to turn the faucet. 
Water gushed out of the hose, into the tub.
For a dog, successfully manipulating a water faucet would be very difficult if 
not impossible. Travis figured that an equivalent test of his own ingenuity and 
dexterity would be trying to open a child-proof safety cap on an aspirin bottle 
with one hand behind his back.
Astonished, he said, Waters too hot for you?
The retriever dropped the hose, letting water pour across the patio, and stepped 
almost daintily into the tub. It sat and looked at him, as if to say, Lets get 
on with it, you dink.
He went to the tub and squatted beside it. Show me how you can turn off the 
water.
The dog looked at him stupidly.
Show me, Travis said.
The dog snorted and shifted its position in the warm water.
If you could turn it on, you can turn it off. How did you do it? With your 
teeth? Had to be with your teeth. Couldnt do it with a paw, for Gods sake. But 
that twisting motion would be tricky. You couldve broken a tooth on the 
cast-iron handle.
The dog leaned slightly out of the tub, just far enough to bite at the neck of 
the bag that held the shampoo.
You wont turn off the faucet? Travis asked.
The dog just blinked at him, inscrutable.
He sighed and turned off the water. All right. Okay. Be a wiseass. He took the 
brush and shampoo out of the bag and held them toward the retriever. Here. You 
probably dont even need me. You can scrub yourself, Im sure.
The dog issued a long, drawn-out woooooof that started deep in its throat, and 
Travis had the feeling it was calling him a wiseass.
Careful now, he told himself. Youre in danger of leaping off the deep end, 
Travis. This is a damn smart dog youve got here, but he cant really understand 
what youre saying, and he cant talk back.
The retriever submitted to its bath without protest, enjoying itself. After 
ordering the dog out of the tub and rinsing off the shampoo, Travis spent an 
hour brushing its damp coat. He pulled out burrs, bits of weeds that hadnt 
flushed away, unsnarled the tangles. The dog never grew impatient, and by Six 
oclock it was transformed.
Groomed, it was a handsome animal. Its coat was predominantly medium gold with 
feathering of a lighter shade on the backs of its legs, on its belly and 
buttocks, and on the underside of the tail. The undercoat was thick and soft to 
provide warmth and repel water. The outer coat was also soft but not as thick, 
and in some places these longer hairs were wavy. The tail had a
slight upward curve, giving the retriever a happy, jaunty look, which was 
emphasized by its tendency to wag continuously.
The dried blood on the ear was from a small tear already healing. The blood on 
the paws resulted not from serious injury but from a lot of running over 
difficult ground. Travis did nothing except pour boric-acid solution, a mild 
antiseptic, on these minor wounds. He was confident that the dog would 
experience only slight discomfortor maybe none at all, for it was not 
limpingand that it would be completely well in a few days.
The retriever looked splendid now, but Travis was damp, sweaty, and stank of dog 
shampoo. He was eager to shower and change. He had also worked up an appetite.
The only task remaining was to collar the dog. But when he attempted to buckle 
the new collar in place, the retriever growled softly and backstepped out of his 
reach.
Whoa now. Its only a collar, boy.
The dog stared at the loop of red leather in Traviss hand and continued to 
growl.
You had a bad experience with a collar, huh?
The dog stopped growling, but it did not take a step toward him.
Mistreated? Travis asked. That must be it. Maybe they choked you with a 
collar, twisted it and choked you, or maybe they put you on a short chain. 
Something like that?
The retriever barked once, padded across the patio, and stood in the farthest 
corner, looking at the collar from a distance.
Do you trust me? Travis asked, remaining on his knees in an unthreatening 
posture.
The dog shifted its attention from the loop of leather to Travis, meeting his 
eyes.
I will never mistreat you, he said solemnly, feeling not at all foolish for 
speaking so directly and sincerely to a mere dog. You must know that I wont. I 
mean, you have good instincts about things like that, dont you? Rely on your 
instincts, boy, and trust me.
The dog returned from the far end of the patio and stopped just beyond Traviss 
reach. It glanced once at the collar, then fixed him with that uncannily intense 
gaze. As before, he felt a degree of communion with the animal that was as 
profound as it was eerieand as eerie as it was indescribable.
He said, Listen, therell be times Ill want to take you places where youll 
need a leash. Which has to be attached to a collar, doesnt it? Thats the only 
reason I want you to wear a collarso I can take you everywhere with me. That 
and to ward off fleas. But if you really dont want to submit to it, I wont 
force you.
For a long time they faced each other as the retriever mulled over the 
situation. Travis continued to hold the collar out as if it represented a gift 
rather than a demand, and the dog continued to stare into his new masters eyes. 
At last, the retriever shook itself, sneezed once, and slowly came forward.
Thats a good boy, Travis said encouragingly.
When it reached him, the dog settled on its belly, then rolled onto its back 
with all four legs in the air, making itself vulnerable. It gave him a look that 
was full of love, trust, and a little fear.
Crazily, Travis felt a lump form in his throat and was aware of hot tears 
scalding the corners of his eyes. He swallowed hard and blinked back the tears 
and told himself he was being a sentimental dope. But he knew why the dogs 
considered submission affected him so strongly. For the first time in three 
years, Travis Cornell felt needed, felt a deep connection with another living 
creature. For the first time in three years, he had a reason to live.
He slipped the collar in place, buckled it, gently scratched and rubbed the 
retrievers exposed belly.
Got to have a name for you, he said.
The dog scrambled to its feet, faced him, and pricked its ears as if waiting to 
hear what it would be called.
God in heaven, Travis thought, Im attributing human intentions to him. Hes a 
mutt, special maybe but still only a mutt. He may look as if hes waiting to 
hear what hell be called, but he sure as hell doesnt understand English.
Cant think of a single name thats fitting, Travis said at last. We dont 
want to rush this. Its got to be just the right name. Youre no ordinary dog, 
fur face. Ive got to think on it a while until I hit the right moniker.
Travis emptied the washtub, rinsed it out, and left it to dry. Together, he and 
the retriever went into the home they now shared.
5
Dr. Elisabeth Yarbeck and her husband Jonathan, an attorney, lived in Newport 
Beach in a sprawling, single-story, ranch-style home with a shake-shingle roof, 
cream-colored stucco walls, and a walkway of Bouquet Canyon stone. The waning 
sun radiated copper and ruby light that glinted and flashed in the beveled glass 
of the narrow leaded windows flanking the front door, giving those panes the 
look of enormous gemstones.
Elisabeth answered the door when Vince Nasco rang the bell. She was about fifty, 
trim and attractive, with shaggy silver-blond hair and blue eyes. Vince told her 
his name was John Parker, that he was with the FBI, and that he needed to speak 
with her and her husband in regards to a case currently Under investigation.
Case? she said. What case?
It involves a government-financed research project on which you were Once 
involved, Vince told her, for that was the opening line that he had been told 
to use.
She examined his photo ID and Bureau credentials carefully.
He was not concerned. The phony papers had been prepared by the same People who 
had hired him for this job. The forged documents had been
provided ten months ago to assist him on a hit in San Francisco, and had served 
him well on three other occasions.
Though he knew the ID would meet with her approval, he was not sure that he, 
himself, would pass inspection. He was wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, 
blue tie, and highly polished black shoescorrect attire for an agent. His size 
and his expressionless face also served him well in the role he was playing. But 
the murder of Dr. Davis Weatherby and the prospect of two more murders within 
the next few minutes had wildly excited him, had filled him with a manic glee 
that was almost uncontainable. Laughter kept building within him, and the 
struggle to repress it grew more difficult by the minute. In the drab green Ford 
sedan, which he had stolen forty minutes ago expressly for this one job, he had 
been seized by a fit of the shakes induced not by nervousness but by intense 
pleasure of an almost sexual nature. Hed been forced to pull the car to the 
side of the road and sit for ten minutes, breathing deeply, until he had calmed 
down a bit.
Now, Elisabeth Yarbeck looked up from the forged ID, met Vinces eyes, and 
frowned.
He risked a smile, though there was a danger of slipping into uncontrollable 
laughter that would blow his cover. He had a boyish smile that, by its marked 
contrast with his size, could be disarming.
After a moment, Dr. Yarbeck also smiled. Satisfied, she returned his credentials 
and welcomed him into her house.
Ill need to speak with your husband, too, Vince reminded her as she closed 
the front door behind them.
Hes in the living room, Mr. Parker. This way, please.
The living room was large and airy. Cream-colored walls and carpet. Pale-green 
sofas. Big plate-glass windows, partly shielded by green awnings, provided views 
of the meticulously landscaped property and of houses on the hills below.
Jonathan Yarbeck was stuffing handfuls of wood chips in among the logs that hed 
piled in the brick fireplace, getting ready to light a fire. He stood up, 
dusting his hands together, as his wife introduced Vince. . . . John Parker of 
the FBI.
FBI? Yarbeck said, raising his eyebrows inquiringly.
Mr. Yarbeck, Vince said, if there are other members of the family at home, 
Id also like to speak with them now, so I dont have to repeat myself.
Shaking his head, Yarbeck said, Theres just Liz and me. Kids are away at 
college. Whats this all about?
Vince drew the silencer-equipped pistol from inside his suit jacket and shot 
Jonathan Yarbeck in the chest. The attorney was flung backward against the 
mantel, where he hung for a moment as if nailed in place, then fell atop the 
brass fireplace tools.
Sssssnap.
Elisabeth Yarbeck was briefly frozen by astonishment and horror. Vince quickly 
moved on her. He grabbed her left arm and twisted it up behind her
back, hard. When she cried out in pain, he put the pistol against the side of 
her head and said, Be quiet, or Ill blow your fuckin brains out.
He forced her to accompany him across the room to her husbands body. Jonathan 
Yarbeck was face-down on top of a small brass coal shovel and a brass-handled 
poker. He was dead. But Vince did not want to take chances. He shot Yarbeck 
twice in the back of the head at close range.
A strange, thin, catlike sound escaped Liz Yarbeckthen she began to sob.
Because of the distance and the smoky tint on the glass, Vince did not believe 
even the neighbors could see through the big windows, but he wanted to deal with 
the woman in a more private place. He forced her into the hall and headed deeper 
into the house, looking in doors as they went until he found the master bedroom. 
There, he gave her a hard shove, and she sprawled on the floor.
Stay put, he said.
He switched on the bedside lamps. He went to the big sliding-glass doors that 
opened onto the patio and began to close the drapes.
The moment his back was turned, the woman scrambled to her feet and ran toward 
the hall door.
He caught her, slammed her up against the wall, drove a fist into her stomach, 
knocking the wind out of her, then threw her to the floor again. Lifting her 
head by a handful of hair, he forced her to look him in the eyes. Listen, lady, 
Im not going to shoot you. I came here to get your husband. Just your husband. 
But if you try to slip away from me before Im ready to let you go, Ill have to 
waste you, too. Understand?
He was lying, of course. She was the one he was being paid to hit, and the 
husband had to be removed simply because he was there. However, it was true that 
Vince was not going to shoot her. He wanted her to be cooperative until he could 
tie her up and deal with her at a more leisurely pace. The two shootings had 
been satisfying, but he wanted to draw this one out, kill her more slowly. 
Sometimes, death could be savored like good food, fine wine, and glorious 
sunsets.
Gasping for breath, sobbing, she said, Who are you?
None of your business.
What do you want?
Just shut up, cooperate, and youll get out of this alive.
She was reduced to urgent prayer, running the words together and sometimes 
punctuating them with small desperate wordless sounds.
Vince finished closing the drapes.
He tore the phone out of the wall and pitched it across the room.
Taking the woman by the arm again, he pulled her to her feet and dragged her 
into the bathroom. He searched through drawers until he found first-aid 
Supplies; the adhesive tape was just what he needed.
In the bedroom once more, he made her lie on her back on the bed. He Used the 
tape to bind her ankles together and to secure her wrists in front of
her. From a bureau drawer, he got a pair of her flimsy panties, which he wadded 
up and stuffed into her mouth. He sealed her mouth shut with a final strip of 
tape.
She was shaking violently, blinking through tears and sweat.
He left the bedroom, went to the living room, and knelt beside Jonathan
Yarbecks corpse, with which he had unfinished business. He turned it over.
One of the bullets that had entered the back of Yarbecks head had punched
out through his throat, just under his chin. His open mouth was full of blood.
One eye was rolled back in his skull, so only the white showed.
Vince looked into the other eye. Thank you, he said sincerely, reverently. 
Thank you, Mr. Yarbeck.
He closed both eyelids. He kissed them.
Thank you.
He kissed the dead mans forehead.
Thank you for what youve given me.
Then he went into the garage, where he searched through cabinets until he found 
some tools. He selected a hammer with a comfortable rubberized handle and a 
polished steel head.
When he returned to the quiet bedroom and put the hammer on the mattress beside 
the bound woman, her eyes widened almost comically.
She began to twist and squirm, tried to wrench her hands loose of the looped 
adhesive tape, to no avail.
Vince stripped out of his clothes.
Seeing the womans eyes fix on him with the same terror with which she had 
regarded the hammer, he said, No, please, dont worry, Dr. Yarbeck. Im not 
going to molest you. He hung his suit jacket and shirt on the back of a chair. 
I have no sexual interest in you. He slipped out of his shoes, socks, and 
trousers. You wont have to suffer that humiliation. Im not that sort of man. 
Im just removing my clothes to avoid getting blood all over them.
Naked, he picked up the hammer and swung it at her left leg, shattering her 
knee. Perhaps fifty or sixty hammer strikes after he began, The Moment arrived.
Sssssnap.
Sudden energy blasted through him. He felt inhumanly alert, acutely sensitive of 
the color and texture of everything around him. And he felt far stronger than 
ever before in his life, like a god in a mans body.
He dropped the hammer and fell to his bare knees beside the bed. He put his 
forehead on the bloodied bedspread and took deep breaths, shuddering with 
pleasure so intense it could almost not be borne.
A couple of minutes later, when he had recovered, when he had adjusted to his 
new and more powerful condition, he got up, turned to the dead woman, and 
bestowed kisses on her battered face, plus one in the palm of each of her hands.
Thank you.
He was so deeply moved by the sacrifice she had made for him that he
thought he might weep. But his joy at his own good fortune was greater than his 
pity for her, and the tears would not flow.
In the bathroom he took a quick shower. As the hot water sluiced the soap from 
him, he thought about how lucky he was to have found a way to make murder his 
business, to be paid for what he would have done anyway, without remuneration.
When he had dressed again, he used a towel to wipe off the few things he had 
touched since entering the house. He always remembered every move hed made, and 
he never worried about missing an object in the wipe-down and leaving a stray 
fingerprint. His perfect memory was just another part of his Gift.
When he let himself out of the house, he discovered that night had fallen.
 
 
THREE
1
Throughout the early part of the evening, the retriever exhibited none of the 
remarkable behavior that had stirred Traviss imagination. He kept a watch on 
the dog, sometimes directly, sometimes out of the corner of his eye, but he saw 
nothing that engaged his curiosity.
He made a dinner of bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for himself, and he 
opened a can of Alpo for the retriever. It liked the Alpo well enough, consuming 
the stuff in great gulps, but it clearly preferred his food. It sat on the 
kitchen floor beside his chair, looking at him forlornly as he ate two 
sandwiches at the red Formica-topped table. At last he gave it two strips of 
bacon.
Nothing about its doggy begging was extraordinary. It performed no startling 
tricks. It merely licked its chops, whined now and then, and repeatedly employed 
a limited repertoire of sorrowful expressions designed to elicit pity and 
compassion. Any mutt would have tried to cadge a treat in the same fashion.
Later, in the living room, Travis switched on the television, and the dog curled 
up on the couch beside him. After a while it put its head on his thigh, wanting 
to be petted and scratched behind the ears, and he obliged. The dog glanced 
occasionally at the television but had no great interest in the programs.
Travis was not interested in TV, either. He was intrigued only by the dog. He 
wanted to study it and encourage it to perform more tricks. Although he tried to 
think of ways to elicit displays of its astonishing intelligence, he could come 
up with no tests that would reliably gauge the animals mental capacity.
Besides, Travis had a hunch that the dog would not cooperate in a test. Most of 
the time it seemed instinctively to conceal its cleverness. He recalled its 
witlessness and comical clumsiness in pursuit of the butterfly, then contrasted 
that behavior with the wit and agility required to turn on the patio water 
faucet: those actions appeared to be the work of two different animals. Though 
it was a crazy idea, Travis suspected that the retriever did not wish to draw 
attention to itself and that it revealed its uncanny intelligence only in times 
of crisis (as in the woods), or if it was very hungry (as when it had opened the 
glove compartment in the truck to obtain the candy bar), or if no one was 
watching (as when it had turned on the water faucet).
This was a preposterous idea because it suggested that the dog was not
only highly intelligent for one of its species but was aware of the 
extraordinary nature of its own abilities. Dogsall animals, in factsimply did 
not possess the high degree of self awareness required to analyze themselves in 
comparison to others of their kind. Comparative analysis was strictly a human 
quality. If a dog was especially bright and capable of many tricks, it would 
still not be aware it was different from most of its kind. To assume this dog 
was, in fact, aware of such things was to credit it not only with remarkable 
intelligence but with a capacity for reason and logic, and with a facility for 
rational judgment superior to the instinct that ruled the decisions of all other 
animals.
You, Travis told the retriever, gently stroking its head, are an enigma 
wrapped in a mystery. Either that, or Im a candidate for a rubber room.
The dog looked at him in response to his voice, gazed into his eyes for a 
moment, yawnedand suddenly jerked its head up and stared beyond him at the 
bookshelves that flanked the archway between the living and dining rooms. The 
satisfied, dopey, doggy expression on its face had vanished, replaced by the 
keen interest Travis had seen before, which transcended ordinary canine 
alertness.
Scrambling off the sofa, the retriever dashed to the bookshelves. It ran back 
and forth beneath them, looking up at the colorful spines of the neatly arranged 
volumes.
The rental house came fullyif unimaginatively and cheaplyfurnished, with 
upholstery chosen for durability (vinyl) or for the ability to conceal 
ineradicable stains (eye-searing plaids). Instead of wood, there was lots of 
wood-finish Formica that was resistant to chipping, scratching, abrasion, and 
cigarette burns. Virtually the only things in the place reflecting Travis 
Cornells own tastes and interests were the booksboth paperbacks and 
hardcovers that filled the shelves in the living room.
The dog appeared to be intensely curious about at least some of those few 
hundred volumes.
Getting to his feet, Travis said, What is it, boy? Whats got your tail in an 
uproar?
The retriever jumped onto its hind feet, put its forepaws on one of the shelves, 
and sniffed the spines of the books. It glanced at Travis, then returned to its 
eager examination of his library.
He went to the shelf in question, withdrew one of the volumes to which the dog 
had pressed its nose Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson and held it 
out. This? Youre interested in this?
The dog studied the painting of Long John Silver and a pirate ship that adorned 
the dust jacket. It looked up at Travis, then down at Long John Silver again. 
After a moment, it dropped back from the shelf, onto the floor, dashed to the 
shelves on the other side of the archway, leaped up again, and began sniffing 
other books.
Travis replaced Treasure Island and followed the retriever. It was now applying 
its damp nose to his collection of Charles Dickenss novels. Travis Picked up a 
paperback of A Tale of Two Cities.
Again, the retriever carefully studied the cover illustration as if actually 
trying to determine what the book was about, then looked up expectantly at 
Travis.
Utterly baffled, he said, The French Revolution. Guillotines. Beheadings. 
Tragedy and heroism. Its . . . uh . . . well, its all about the importance of 
valuing individuals over groups, about the need to place a far greater value on 
one mans or womans life than on the advancement of the masses.
The dog returned its attention to the tomes shelved in front of it, sniffing, 
sniffing.
This is nuts, Travis said, putting A Tale of Two Cities back where hed gotten 
it. Im giving plot synopses to a dog, for Gods sake!
Dropping its big forepaws down to the next shelf, the retriever panted and 
snuffled over the literature on that row. When Travis did not pull any of those 
books out for inspection, the dog tilted its head to get into the shelf, gently 
gripped a volume in its teeth, and tried to withdraw it for further examination.
Whoa, Travis said, reaching for the book. Keep your slobber off the fine 
bindings, fur face. This ones Oliver Twist. Another Dickens. The story of an 
orphan in Victorian England. He gets involved with shady characters, the 
criminal underworld, and they
The retriever dropped to the floor and padded back to the shelves on the other 
side of the archway, where it continued to sniff at those volumes within its 
reach. Travis could have sworn it even gazed up wistfully at the books that were 
above its head.
For perhaps five minutes, in the grip of an eerie premonition that something of 
tremendous importance was about to happen, Travis followed the dog, showing it 
the covers of a dozen novels, providing a line or two of plot description of 
each story. He had no idea if that was what the precocious pooch wanted him to 
do. Surely, it could not understand the synopses he provided. Yet it seemed to 
listen raptly as he spoke. He knew he must be misinterpreting essentially 
meaningless animal behavior, attributing complex intentions to the dog when it 
had none. Still, a premonitory tingle coursed along the back of his neck. As 
their peculiar search continued, Travis half-expected some startling revelation 
at any momentand at the same time felt increasingly gullible and foolish.
His taste in fiction was eclectic. Among the volumes he took off the shelves 
were Bradburys Something Wicked This Way Comes and Chandlers The Long Goodbye. 
Cains The Postman Always Rings Twice and Hemingways The Sun Also Rises. Two 
books by Richard Condon and one by Anne
Tyler. Dorothy Sayerss Murder Must Advertise and Elmore Leonards 52 Pick- Up.
At last the dog turned away from the books and went to the middle of the room, 
where it padded back and forth, back and forth, clearly agitated. It stopped, 
confronted Travis, and barked three times.
Whats wrong, boy?
The dog whined, looked at the laden shelves, walked in a circle, and peered up 
at the books again. It seemed frustrated. Thoroughly, maddeningly frustrated.
I dont know what more to do, boy, he said, I dont know what youre after, 
what youre trying to tell me.
The dog snorted and shook itself. Lowering its head in defeat, it returned 
resignedly to the sofa and curled up on the cushions.
Thats all? Travis asked. Were just giving up?
Putting its head down on the sofa, it regarded him with moist soulful eyes. 
Travis turned from the dog and let his gaze travel slowly over the books, as if 
they not only offered the information printed on their pages but also contained 
an important message that could not be as easily read, as if their colorful 
Spines were the strange runes of a long-lost language and, once deciphered, 
would reveal wondrous secrets. But he could not decipher them.
Having believed that he was on the trembling edge of some great revelation, 
Travis felt enormously let down. His own frustration was considerably worse than 
what the dog had exhibited, and he could not merely curl up on the sofa, put his 
head down, and forget the whole thing as the retriever had done.
What the hell was that all about? he demanded.
The dog looked up at him, inscrutable.
Was there any point to all of that stuff with the books?
The dog stared.
Is there something special about youor have I popped the pull-tab on my brain 
and emptied it?
The dog was perfectly limp and still, as if it might close its eyes at any 
moment and doze off.
If you yawn at me, damn you, Ill kick your butt.
The dog yawned.
Bastard, Travis said.
It yawned again.
Now there. What does that mean? Are you yawning on purpose because of what I 
said, because youre playing with me? Or are you just yawning? How am Ito 
interpret anything you do? How am Ito know whether any of it has meaning?
The dog sighed.
With a sigh of his own, Travis went to one of the front windows and stared out 
at the night, where the feathery fronds of the large Canary Island date palm 
were backlit by the vaguely yellow glow of the sodium-vapor streetlamps. He 
heard the dog get off the sofa and hurry out of the room, but he refused to 
inquire into its activities. For the moment, he could not handle more 
frustration.
The retriever was making noise in the kitchen. A clink. A soft clatter. Travis 
figured it was drinking from its bowl.
Seconds later, he heard it returning. It came to his side and rubbed against his 
leg.
He glanced down and, to his surprise, saw the retriever was holding a can of 
beer in its teeth. Coors. He took the proffered can and discovered it was cold.
You got this from the refrigerator!
The dog appeared to be grinning.
 
 
2
When Nora Devon was in the kitchen making dinner, the phone rang again. She 
prayed it would not be him.
But it was. I know what you need, Streck said. I know what you need. I'm not 
even pretty, she wanted to say. Im a plain, dumpy old maid, so what do you want 
with me? Im safe from the likes of you because Im not pretty. Are you blind? 
But she could say nothing.
Do you know what you need? he asked.
Finding her voice at last, she said, Go away.
I know what you need. You might not know, but I do.
This time she hung up first, slamming the handset down so hard that it must have 
hurt his ear.
Later, at eight-thirty, the phone rang again. She was sitting in bed, reading 
Great Expectations and eating ice cream. She was so startled by the first ring 
that the spoon popped out of her hand into the dish, and she nearly spilled the 
dessert.
Putting the dish and the book aside, she stared anxiously at the telephone, 
which stood on the nightstand. She let it ring ten times. Fifteen. Twenty. The 
strident sound of the bell filled the room, echoing off the walls, until each 
ring seemed to drill into her skull.
Eventually she realized she would be making a big mistake if she did not answer. 
Hed know she was here and was too frightened to pick up the receiver, which 
would please him. More than anything, he desired domination. Perversely, her 
timid withdrawal would encourage him. Nora had no experience at confrontation, 
but she saw that she was going to have to learn to stand up for herselfand 
fast.
She lifted the receiver on the thirty-first ring.
Streck said, I cant get you out of my mind.
Nora did not reply.
Streck said, You have beautiful hair. So dark. Almost black. Thick and glossy. 
I want to run my hands through your hair.
She had to say something to put him in his placeor hang up. But she could not 
bring herself to do either.
Ive never seen eyes like yours, Streck said, breathing hard. Gray but not 
like other gray eyes. Deep, warm, sexy eyes.
Nora was speechless, paralyzed.
Youre very pretty, Nora Devon. Very pretty. And I know what you need.
I do. I really do, Nora. I know what you need, and Im going to give it to 
you.,,
Her paralysis was shattered by a fit of the shakes. She dropped the phone into 
its cradle. Bending forward in bed, she felt as if she were shaking herself to 
pieces before the tremors slowly subsided.
She did not own a gun.
She felt small, fragile, and terribly alone.
She wondered if she should call the police. But what would she tell them? That 
she was the object of sexual harassment? Theyd get a big laugh out of that. 
Her? A sex object? She was an old maid, as plain as mud, not remotely the type 
to turn a mans head and give him erotic dreams. The police would suppose that 
she either was making it up or was hysterical. Or they would assume she had 
misinterpreted Strecks politeness as sexual interest, which is what even she 
had thought at first.
She pulled a blue robe on over the roomy mens pajamas that she wore, belted it. 
Barefoot, she hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where she hesitantly withdrew a 
butchers knife from the rack near the stove. Light trickled like a thin stream 
of quicksilver along the well-honed cutting edge.
As she turned the gleaming knife in her hand, she saw her eyes reflected in the 
broad, flat blade. She stared at herself in the polished steel, wondering if she 
could possibly use such a horrible weapon against another human being even in 
self-defense.
She hoped she would never have to find out.
Upstairs again, she put the butchers knife on the nightstand, within easy 
reach.
She took off her robe and sat on the edge of the bed, hugging herself and trying 
to stop shaking.
Why me? she said aloud. Why does he want to pick on me?
Streck said that she was pretty, but Nora knew it was not true. Her own mother 
had abandoned her to Aunt Violet and had returned only twice in twenty-eight 
years, the last time when Nora was six. Her father remained unknown to her, and 
no other Devon relatives were willing to take her in, a situation which Violet 
frankly attributed to Noras uncomely appearance. So although Streck said she 
was pretty, it could not possibly be her that he wanted. No, what he wanted was 
the thrill of scaring and dominating and hurting her. There were such people. 
She read about them in books, newspapers. And Aunt Violet had warned her a 
thousand times that if a man ever came on to her with sweet talk and smiles, he 
would only want to lift her up so he could later cast her down from a greater 
height and hurt her all the Worse.
After a while, the worst of the tremors passed. Nora got into bed again. Her 
remaining ice cream had melted, so she put the dish aside, on the nightstand. 
She picked up the novel by Dickens and tried to involve herself once more with 
Pips tale. But her attention repeatedly strayed to the phone, to the butchers 
knifeand to the open door and the second-floor hail beyond, Where she kept 
imagining she saw movement.
3
 
Travis went into the kitchen, and the dog followed him.
He pointed to the refrigerator and said, Show me. Do it again. Get me a beer. 
Show me how you did it.
The dog did not move.
Travis squatted. Listen, fur face, who got you out of those woods, away from 
whatever was chasing you? I did. And who bought hamburgers for you? I did. I 
bathed you, fed you, gave you a home. Now you owe me. Stop being coy. If you can 
open that thing, do it!
The dog went to the aging Frigidaire, lowered its head to the bottom corner of 
the enamel-coated door, gripped the edge in its jaws, and pulled backward, 
straining with its entire body. The rubber seal let loose with a barely audible 
sucking sound. The door swung open. The dog quickly insinuated itself into the 
gap, then jumped up and braced itself with a forepaw on each side of the storage 
compartment.
Ill be damned, Travis said, moving closer.
The retriever peered into the second shelf, where Travis had stored cans of 
beer, Diet Pepsi, and V-8 vegetable juice. It plucked another Coors from the 
supply, dropped to the floor, and let the refrigerator door slip shut again as 
it came to Travis.
He took the beer from it. Standing with a Coors in each hand, studying the dog, 
he said, more to himself than to the animal, Okay, so somebody could have 
taught you to open a refrigerator door. And he could even have taught you how to 
recognize a certain brand of beer, how to distinguish it from other cans, and 
how to carry it to him. But we still have some mysteries here. Is it likely that 
the brand you were taught to recognize would be the same one Id have in my 
refrigerator? Possible, yes, but not likely. Besides, I didnt give you any 
command. I didnt ask you to get me a beer. You did it on your own hook, as if 
you figured a beer was exactly what I needed at the moment. And it was.
Travis put one can down on the table. He wiped the other on his shirt, popped it 
open, and took a few swallows. He was not concerned that the can had been in the 
dogs mouth. He was too excited by the animals amazing performance to worry 
about germs. Besides, it had held each can by the bottom, as if concerned about 
hygiene.
The retriever watched him drink.
When he had finished a third of the beer, Travis said, It was almost as if you 
understood that I was tense, upsetand that a beer would help relax me. Now, is 
that crazy or what? Were talking analytical reasoning. Okay, so pets can sense 
their masters moods a lot of the time. But how many pets know what beer is, and 
how many realize what it can do to make the master more mellow? Anyway, howd 
you know there was beer in the fridge? I guess you couldve seen it sometime 
during the evening when I was fixing dinner, but still . .
His hands were shaking. He drank more of the beer, and the can rattled lightly 
against his teeth.
The dog went around the red Formica table to the twin cabinet doors below the 
sink. It opened one of these, stuck its head into the dark space, and pulled out 
the bag of Milk-Bone biscuits, which it brought straight to Travis.
He laughed and said, Well, if I can have a beer, I guess you deserve a treat of 
your own, huh? He took the bag from the dog and tore it open. Do a few 
Milk-Bones mellow you out, fur face? He put the open bag on the floor. Serve 
yourself. I trust you not to overindulge like an ordinary dog. He laughed 
again. Hell, I think I might trust you to drive the car!
The retriever finessed a biscuit out of the package, sat down with its hind legs 
splayed, and happily crunched up the treat.
Pulling out a chair and sitting at the table, Travis said, You give me reason 
to believe in miracles. Do you know what I was doing in those woods this 
morning?
Working its jaws, industriously grinding up the biscuit, the dog seemed to have 
lost interest in Travis for the moment.
I went out there on a sentimental journey, hoping to recall the pleasure
I got from the Santa Anas when I was a boy, in the days before . . . everything
turned so dark. I wanted to kill a few snakes like I did when I was a kid,
hike and explore and feel in tune with life like in the old days. Because for
a long time now, I havent cared whether I live or die.
The dog stopped chewing, swallowed hard, and focused on Travis with undivided 
attention.
Lately, my depressions have been blacker than midnight on the moon. Do you 
understand about depression, pooch?
Leaving the Milk-Bone biscuits behind, the retriever got up and came to him. It 
gazed into his eyes with that unnerving directness and intensity that it had 
shown before.
Meeting its stare, he said, Wouldnt consider suicide, though. For one thing, I 
was raised a Catholic, and though I havent gone to Mass in ages, I still sort 
of believe. And for a Catholic, suicide is a mortal sin. Murder. Besides, Im 
too mean and too stubborn to give up, no matter how dark things get.
The retriever blinked but did not break eye contact.
I was in those woods searching for the happiness I once knew. And then I ran 
into you.
Woof, it said, as if it were saying, Good.
He took its head in both his hands, lowered his face to it, and said, 
Depression. A feeling that existence was pointless. How would a dog know about
those things, hmmm? A dog has no worries, does it? To a dog, every day is a joy. 
So do you really understand what Im talking about, boy? Honest to God, I think 
maybe you do. But am I crediting you with too much intelligence, too much wisdom 
even for a magical dog? Huh? Sure, you can do some amazing tricks, but thats 
not the same as understanding me.
The retriever pulled away from him and returned to the Milk-Bone package. It 
took the bag in its teeth and shook out twenty or thirty biscuits onto the 
linoleum.
There you go again, Travis said. One minute, you seem half human and the 
next minute youre just a dog with a dogs interests.
However, the retriever was not seeking a snack. It began to push the biscuits 
around with the black tip of its snout, maneuvering them into the open center of 
the kitchen floor one at a time, ordering them neatly end to end.
What the hell is this?
The dog had five biscuits arranged in a row that gradually curved to the right, 
it pushed a sixth into place, emphasizing the curve.
As he watched, Travis hastily finished his first beer and opened the second. He 
had a feeling he was going to need it.
The dog studied the row of biscuits for a moment, as if not quite sure what it 
had begun to do. It padded back and forth a few times, clearly uncertain, but 
eventually nudged two more biscuits into line. It looked at Travis, then at the 
shape it was creating on the floor, then nosed a ninth biscuit into place.
Travis sipped some beer and waited tensely to see what would happen next. With a 
shake of its head and a snort of frustration, the dog went to the far end of the 
room and stood facing into the corner, its head hung low. Travis wondered what 
it was doing, and then somehow he got the idea that it had gone into the corner 
in order to concentrate. After a while, it returned and pushed the tenth and 
eleventh Milk-Bones into place, enlarging the pattern.
He was stricken again by the premonition that something of great importance was 
about to happen. Gooseflesh dimpled his arms.
This time he was not disappointed. The golden retriever used nineteen biscuits 
to form a crude but recognizable question mark on the kitchen floor, then raised 
its expressive eyes to Travis.
A question mark.
Meaning: Why? Why have you been so depressed? Why do you feel life is pointless, 
empty?
The dog apparently understood what he had told it. All right, okay, so maybe it 
didnt understand language exactly, didnt follow every word that he spoke, but 
it somehow perceived the meaning of what he was saying, or at least enough of 
the meaning to arouse its interest and curiosity.
And, by God, if it also understood the purpose of a question mark, then it was 
capable of abstract thinking! The very concept of simple symbols like 
alphabets, numbers, question marks, and exclamation pointsserving as shorthand 
for communicating complex ideas . . . well, that required abstract thinking. And 
abstract thinking was reserved for only one species on earth: humankind. This 
golden retriever was demonstrably not human, but somehow it had come into 
possession of intellectual skills that no other animal could claim.
Travis was stunned. But there was nothing accidental about the question mark. 
Crude but not accidental. Somewhere, the dog must have seen the
symbol and been taught its meaning. Statistical theorists said an infinite 
number of monkeys, equipped with an infinite number of typewriters, would 
eventually be able to recreate every line of great English prose merely by 
random chance. He figured that this dog forming a Milk-Bone question mark in 
about two minutes flat, merely by purest chance, was about ten times as unlikely 
as all those damn monkeys recreating Shakespeares plays.
The dog was watching him expectantly.
Getting up, he found he was a bit shaky in the legs. He went to the carefully 
arranged biscuits, scattered them across the floor, and returned to his chair.
The retriever studied the disarranged Milk-Bones, regarded Travis inquiringly, 
sniffed at the biscuits again, and seemed baffled.
Travis waited.
The house was unnaturally quiet, as if the flow of time had been suspended for 
every living creature, machine, and object on earththough not for him, the 
retriever, or the contents of the kitchen.
At last, the dog began to push the biscuits around with its nose as it had done 
before. In a minute or two, it formed a question mark.
Travis chugged some Coors. His heart was hammering. His palms were sweaty. He 
was filled with both wonder and trepidation, with both wild joy and fear of the 
unknown, simultaneously awestricken and bewildered. He wanted to laugh because 
he had never seen anything half as delightful as this dog. He also wanted to cry 
because only hours ago hed thought life was bleak, dark, and pointless. But no 
matter how painful it was sometimes, life was (he now realized) nonetheless 
precious. He actually felt as if God had sent the retriever to intrigue him, to 
remind him that the world was full of surprises and that despair made no sense 
when one had no understanding of the purposeand strange possibilitiesof 
existence. Travis wanted to laugh, but his laughter teetered on the brink of a 
sob. Yet when he surrendered to the sob, it became a laugh. When he attempted to 
stand, he knew that he was even shakier than before, too shaky, so he did the 
only thing he could do: he stayed in his chair and took another long swallow of 
Coors.
Cocking its head one way and then the other, looking slightly wary, the dog 
watched him as if it thought he had gone mad. He had. Months ago. But he was all 
better now.
He put down the Coors and wiped tears out of his eyes with the backs of his 
hands. He said, Come here, fur face.
The retriever hesitated, then came to him.
He ruffled and stroked its coat, scratched behind its ears. You amaze me and 
scare me. I cant figure where you came from or how you got to be what you are, 
but you couldnt have come where youre more needed. A question mark, huh? 
Jesus. All right. You want to know why I felt life had no purpose or joy for me? 
Ill tell you. I will, by God, Ill sit right here and have another beer and 
tell it to a dog. But first . . . Im going to name you.
The retriever blew air out of its nostrils, as if to say, Well, its about time.
Holding the dogs head, looking straight into its eyes, Travis said, Einstein. 
From now on, fur face, your name is Einstein.
4
 
Streck called again at ten minutes past nine.
Nora snatched up the phone on the first ring, fiercely determined to tell him 
off and make him leave her alone. But for some reason she clenched up again and 
was unable to speak.
In a repulsively intimate tone of voice, he said, You miss me, prettiness? 
Hmmmm? Do you wish Id come to you, be a man for you?
She hung up.
Whats wrong with me? she wondered. Why cant I tell him to go away and stop 
bothering me?
Maybe her speechlessness grew from a secret desire to hear a manany man, even a 
disgusting specimen like Streckcall her pretty. Although he was not the kind 
who would be capable of tenderness or affection, she could listen to him and 
imagine what it would be like to have a good man say sweet things to her.
Well, youre not pretty, she told herself, and you never ever will be, so 
stop mooning around. Next time he calls, tell him off.
She got out of bed and went down the hall to the bathroom, where there was a 
mirror. Following Violet Devons example, Nora did not have mirrors anywhere in 
the house except the bathrooms. She did not like to look at herself because what 
she saw was saddening.
This one night, however, she wanted to take a look at herself because Strecks 
flattery, though cold and calculated, had stirred her curiosity. Not that she 
hoped to see some fine quality that she had never seen before. No. From duckling 
to swan overnight . . . that was a frivolous, hopeless dream. Rather, she wanted 
to confirm that she was undesirable. Strecks unwanted interest rattled Nora 
because she was comfortable in her homeliness and solitude, and she wanted to 
reassure herself that he was mocking her, that he would not act upon his 
threats, that her peaceful solitude would endure. Or so she told herself as she 
stepped into the bathroom and switched on the light.
The narrow chamber had pale-blue tile from floor to ceiling with a white-tile 
border. A huge claw-foot tub. White porcelain and brass fixtures. The large 
mirror was somewhat streaked with age.
She looked at her hair, which Streck said was beautiful, dark, glossy. But it 
was of one shade, without natural highlights; to her, it wasnt glossy but oily, 
although she had washed it that morning.
She looked quickly at her brow, cheekbones, nose, jaw line, lips, and chin. She 
tentatively traced her features with one hand, but she saw nothing to intrigue a 
man.
M last, reluctantly, she stared into her eyes, which Streck had called lovely. 
They were a dreary, lusterless shade of gray. She could not bear to meet her own 
gaze for more than a few seconds. Her eyes confirmed her low opinion of her 
appearance. But also . . . well, in her own eyes she saw a smoldering anger that 
disturbed her, that was not like her, an anger at what she had let
herself become. Of course, that made no sense whatsoever because she was what 
nature had made hera mouseand she could do nothing about that.
Turning from the mottled mirror, she felt a pang of disappointment that her 
self-inspection had not resulted in a single surprise or reevaluation. 
Immediately, however, she was shocked and appalled by that disappointment. She 
stood in the bathroom doorway, shaking her head, amazed by her own befuddled 
thought processes.
Did she want to be appealing to Streck? Of course not. He was weird, sick, 
dangerous. The very last thing she wanted was to appeal to him. Maybe she 
wouldnt mind if another man looked on her with favor, but not Streck. She 
should get on her knees and thank God for creating her as she was, because if 
she were at all attractive, Streck would make good on his threats. Hed come 
here, and hed rape her . . . maybe murder her. Who knew about a man like that? 
Who knew what his limits were? She wasnt being a nervous old maid when she 
worried about murder, not these days: the newspapers were full of it.
She realized that she was defenseless, and she hurried back to the bedroom, 
where she had left the butchers knife.
 
 
5
Most people believe psychoanalysis is a cure for unhappiness. They are sure they 
could overcome all their problems and achieve peace of mind if only they could 
understand their own psychology, understand the reasons for their negative moods 
and self-destructive behavior. But Travis had learned this was not the case. For 
years, he engaged in unsparing self-analysis, and long ago he figured out why he 
had become a loner who was unable to make friends. However, in spite of that 
understanding, he had not been able to change.
Now, as midnight approached, he sat in the kitchen, drank another Coors, and 
told Einstein about his self-imposed emotional isolation. Einstein sat before 
him, unmoving, never yawning, as if intently interested in his tale.
I was a loner as a kid, right from the start, though I wasnt entirely without 
friends. It was just that I always preferred my own company. I guess its my 
nature. I mean, when I was a kid, I hadnt yet decided that my being friends 
with someone was a danger to him.
Traviss mother had died giving birth to him, and he knew all about that from an 
early age. In time her death would seem like an omen of what was to come, and it 
would take on a terrible importance, but that was later. As a kid, he wasnt yet 
burdened with guilt.
Not until he was ten. That was when his brother Harry died. Harry was twelve, 
two years older than Travis. One Monday morning in June, Harry talked Travis 
into walking three blocks to the beach, although their father had expressly 
forbidden them to go swimming without him. It was a private
cove without a public lifeguard, and they were the only two swimmers in sight.
Harry got caught in an undertow, Travis told Einstein. We were in the water 
together no more than ten feet apart, and the damn undertow got him, sucked him 
away, but it didnt get me. I even went after him, tried to save him, so I 
shouldve swum straight into the same current, but I guess it changed course 
just after it snatched Harry away, cause I came out of the water alive. He 
stared at the top of the kitchen table for a long moment, seeing not the red 
Formica but the rolling, treacherous, blue-green sea. I loved my big brother 
more than anyone in the world.
Einstein whined softly, as in commiseration.
Nobody blamed me for what happened to Harry. He was the older one. He was 
supposed to be the most responsible. But I felt . . . well, if the undertow took 
Harry, it shouldve taken me, too.
A night wind blew in from the west, rattled a loose windowpane.
After taking a swallow of beer, Travis said, The summer I was fourteen, I 
wanted very badly to go to tennis camp. Tennis was my big enthusiasm then. So my 
dad enrolled me in a place down near San Diego, a full month of intense 
instruction. He drove me there on a Sunday, but we never made it. Just north of 
Oceanside, a trucker fell asleep at the wheel, his rig jumped the median, and we 
were wiped. Dad was killed instantly. Broken neck, broken back, skull crushed, 
chest caved in. I was in the front seat beside him, and I came out of it with a 
few cuts, bruises, and two broken fingers.
The dog was studying him intently.
It was just like with Harry. Both of us should have died, my father and me, but 
I escaped. And we wouldnt have been making the damn drive if I hadnt agitated 
like hell about tennis camp. So this time, there was no getting around it. Maybe 
I couldnt be blamed for my mother dying in childbirth, and maybe I couldnt be 
pinned with Harrys death, but this one . . . Anyway, although I wasnt always 
at fault, it began to be clear that I was jinxed, that it wasnt safe for people 
to get too close to me. When I loved somebody, really loved them, they were sure 
as shit going to die.
Only a child could have been convinced that those tragic events meant he was a 
walking curse, but Travis was a child then, only fourteen, and no other 
explanation was so neat. He was too young to understand that the mindless 
violence of nature and fate often had no meaning that could be ascertained. At 
fourteen, he needed meaning in order to cope, so he told himself that he was 
cursed, that if he made any close friends he would be sentencing them to early 
death. Being somewhat of an introvert to begin with, he found it almost too easy 
to turn inward and make do with his own company.
By the time he graduated from college at the age of twenty-one, he was a 
confirmed loner, though maturity had given him a healthier perspective On the 
deaths of his mother, brother, and father. He no longer consciously thought of 
himself as jinxed, no longer blamed himself for what had happened to his family. 
He remained an introvert, without close friends, partly because he had lost the 
ability to form and nurture intimate relationships and partly
because he figured he could not be shattered by grief if he had no friends to 
lose.
Habit and self-defense kept me emotionally isolated, he told Einstein.
The dog rose and crossed the few feet of kitchen floor that separated them. It 
insinuated itself between his legs and put its head in his lap.
Petting Einstein, Travis said, Had no idea what I wanted to do after college, 
and there was a military draft then, so I joined up before they could call me. 
Chose the army. Special Forces. Liked it. Maybe because . . . well, there was a 
sense of camaraderie, and I was forced to make friends. See, I pretended not to 
want close ties with anyone, but I must have because I put myself in a situation 
where it was inevitable. Decided to make a career out of the service. When Delta 
Forcethe antiterrorist groupwas formed, thats where I finally landed. The 
guys in Delta were tight, real buddies. They called me The Mute and Harpo 
because I wasnt a talker, but in spite of myself I made friends. Then, on our 
eleventh operation, my squad was flown into Athens to take the U.S. embassy back 
from a group of Palestinian extremists whod seized it. Theyd killed eight 
staff members and were still killing one an hour, wouldnt negotiate. We hit 
them quick and sneakyand it was a fiasco. Theyd booby-trapped the place. Nine 
men in my squad died. I was the only survivor. A bullet in my thigh. Shrapnel in 
my ass. But a survivor.
Einstein raised his head from Traviss lap.
Travis thought he saw sympathy in the dogs eyes. Maybe because that was what he 
wanted to see.
Thats eight years ago, when I was twenty-eight. Left the army. Came home to 
California. Got a real-estate license because my dad had sold real estate, and I 
didnt know what else to do. Did real well, maybe cause I didnt care if they 
bought the houses I showed them, didnt push, didnt act like a salesman. Fact 
is, I did so well that I became a broker, opened my own office, hired 
salespeople.
Which was how he had met Paula. She was a tall blond beauty, bright and amusing, 
and she could sell real estate so well that she joked about having lived an 
earlier life in which she had represented the Dutch colonists when they had 
bought Manhattan from the Indians for beads and trinkets. She was smitten with 
Travis. Thats what shed told him: Mr. Cornell, sir, I am smitten. I think 
its your strong, silent act. Best Clint Eastwood imitation Ive ever seen. 
Travis resisted her at first. He did not believe he would jinx Paula; at least, 
he didnt consciously believe it; he had not openly reverted to childhood 
superstition. But he did not want to risk the pain of loss again. Undeterred by 
his hesitancy, she pursued him, and in time he had to admit he Was in love with 
her. So in love that he told her about his lifelong tag game With Death, 
something of which he spoke to no one else. Listen, Paula said, you wont 
have to mourn me. Im going to outlive you because Im not the type to bottle up 
my feelings. I take out my frustrations on those around me, so Im bound to 
shave a decade off your life.
They had been married in a simple courthouse ceremony four years ago,
the summer after Traviss thirty-second birthday. He had loved her. Oh God, how 
he had loved her.
To Einstein, he said, We didnt know it then, but she had cancer on our wedding 
day. Ten months later, she was dead.
The dog put its head down in his lap again.
For a while, Travis could not continue.
He drank some beer.
He stroked the dogs head.
In time he said, After that, I tried to go on as usual. Always prided myself in 
going on, facing up to anything, keeping my chin up, all that bullshit. Kept the 
real-estate office running another year. But none of it mattered any more. Sold 
it two years ago. Cashed in all my investments, too. Turned everything into cash 
and socked it in the bank. Rented this house. Spent the last two years . . . 
well, brooding. And I got squirrelly. Hardly a surprise, huh? Squirrelly as 
hell. Came full circle, you see, right back to what I believed when I was a kid. 
That I was a danger to anyone who gets close to me. But you changed me, 
Einstein. You turned me around in one day. I swear, its like you were sent to 
show me that lifes mysterious, strange, and full of wonders and that only a 
fool withdraws from it willingly and lets it pass him by.
The dog was peering up at him again.
He lifted his beer can, but it was empty.
Einstein went to the fridge and got another Coors.
Taking the can from the dog, Travis said, Now, after hearing the whole sorry 
thing, what do you think? You think its wise for you to hang around with me? 
You think its safe?
Einstein woofed.
Was that a yes?
Einstein rolled onto his back and put all four legs in the air, baring his belly 
as he had done earlier when he had permitted Travis to collar him.
Putting his beer aside, Travis got off his chair, settled on the floor, and 
stroked the dogs belly. All right, he said. All right. But dont die on me, 
damn you. Dont you dare die on me.
 
 
6
 
Nora Devons telephone rang again at eleven oclock.
It was Streck. Are you in bed now, prettiness?
She did not reply.
Do you wish I was there with you?
Since the previous call, she had thought about how to handle him and had come up 
with several threats she hoped might work. She said, If you dont leave me 
alone, Ill go to the police.
Nora, do you sleep in the nude?
She was sitting in bed. She sat up straighter, tense, rigid. Ill go to the
police and say you tried to . . . to force yourself on me. I will, I swear! 
will.
Id like to see you in the nude, he said, ignoring her threat. Ill lie. Ill 
say you r-raped me.
Wouldnt you like me to put my hands on your breasts, Nora?
Dull cramps in her stomach forced her to bend forward in bed. Ill have the 
telephone company put a tap on my line, record all the calls I get, so Ill have 
proof.
Kiss you all over, Nora. Wouldnt that be nice?
The cramps were getting worse. She was shaking uncontrollably, too. Her voice 
cracked repeatedly as she employed her final threat: I have a gun. I have a 
gun.
Tonight youll dream about me, Nora. Im sure you will. Youll dream about me 
kissing you everywhere, all over your pretty body
She slammed the phone down.
Rolling onto her side on the bed, she hunched her shoulders and drew up her 
knees and hugged herself. The cramps had no physical cause. They were strictly 
an emotional reaction, generated by fear and shame and rage and enormous 
frustration.
Gradually, the pain passed. Fear subsided, leaving only rage.
She was so wrenchingly innocent of the world and its ways, so unaccustomed to 
dealing with people, that she couldnt function unless she restricted herself to 
the house, to a private world without human contact. She knew nothing about 
social interaction. She had not even been capable of holding a polite 
conversation with Garrison Dilworth, Aunt Violets attorneyNoras attorney 
nowduring their meetings to settle the estate. She had answered his questions 
as succinctly as possible and had sat in his presence with her eyes downcast and 
her cold hands fidgeting in her lap, crushingly shy. Afraid of her own lawyer! 
If she couldnt deal with a kind man like Garrison Dilworth, how could she ever 
handle a beast like Art Streck? In the future, she wouldnt dare have a 
repairman in her home, no matter what broke down; she would just have to live in 
ever-worsening decay and ruin because the next man might be another Streckor 
worse. In the tradition established by her aunt, Nora already had groceries 
delivered from a neighborhood market, so she did not have to go out to shop, but 
now she would be afraid to let the delivery boy into the house; he had never 
been the least aggressive, suggestive, or in any way insulting, but one day he 
might see the vulnerability that Streck had Seen .
She hated Aunt Violet.
On the other hand, Violet had been right: Nora was a mouse. Like all mice, her 
destiny was to run, to hide, and to cower in the dark.
Her fury abated just as her cramps had done.
Loneliness took the place of anger, and she wept quietly.
Later, sitting with her back against the headboard, blotting her reddened eyes 
with Kleenex and blowing her nose, she bravely vowed not to become a recluse. 
Somehow she would find the strength and courage to venture out Into the world 
more than shed done before. She would meet people. She
would get to know the neighbors that Violet had more or less shunned. She would 
make friends. By God, she would. And she wouldnt let Streck intimidate her. She 
would learn how to handle other problems that came along as well, and in time 
she would be a different woman from the one she was now. A promise to herself. A 
sacred vow.
She considered unplugging the telephone, thus foiling Streck, but she was afraid 
she might need it. What if she woke, heard someone in the house, and was unable 
to plug in the phone fast enough?
Before turning out the lights and pulling up the covers, she closed the lockless 
bedroom door and braced it shut with the armchair, which she tilted under the 
knob. In bed, in the dark, she felt for the butchers knife, which shed placed 
on the nightstand, and she was reassured when she put her hand directly upon it 
without fumbling.
Nora lay on her back, eyes open, wide awake. Pale amber light from the 
streetlamps found its way through the shuttered windows. The ceiling was banded 
with alternating strips of black and faded gold, as if a tiger of infinite 
length were leaping over the bed in a jump that would never end. She wondered if 
she would ever sleep easily again.
She also wondered if she would find anyone who could care about her and for 
herout there in the bigger world that she had vowed to enter. Was there no one 
who could love a mouse and treat it gently?
Far away, a train whistle played a one-note dirge in the night. It was a hollow, 
cold, and mournful sound.
 
 
7
Vince Nasco had never been so busy. Or so happy.
When he called the usual Los Angeles number to report success at the Yarbeck 
house, he was referred to another public phone. This one was between a 
frozen-yogurt shop and a fish restaurant on Balboa Island in Newport Harbor.
There, he was called by the contact with the sexy, throaty, yet little-girl 
voice. She spoke circumspectly of murder, never using incriminating words but 
employing exotic euphemisms that would mean nothing in a court of law. She was 
calling from another pay phone, one she had chosen at random, so there was 
virtually no chance that either of them was tapped. But it was a Big Brother 
world where you didnt dare take risks.
The woman had a third job for him. Three in one day.
As Vince watched the evening traffic inching past on the narrow island street, 
the womanwhom he had never seen and whose name he didnt knowgave him the 
address of Dr. Albert Hudston in Laguna Beach. Hudston lived with his wife and a 
sixteen-year-old son. Both Dr. and Mrs. Hudston had to be hit; however, the 
boys fate was in Vinces hands. If the kid could
be kept out of it, fine. But if he saw Vince and could serve as a witness, he 
had to be eliminated, too.
Your discretion, the woman said.
Vince already knew that he would erase the kid, because killing was more useful 
to him, more energizing, if the victim was young. It had been a long time since 
hed blown away a really young one, and the prospect excited him.
I can only emphasize, the contact said, driving Vince a little nuts with her 
breathy pauses, that this option must be exercised with all due speed. We want 
the deal concluded tonight. By tomorrow, the competition will be aware of what 
were trying to swing, and theyll get in our way.
Vince knew the competition must be the police. He was being paid to kill three 
doctors in a single daydoctors, when he had never killed a doctor beforeso he 
knew there was something that linked them, something the cops would pick up on 
when they found Weatherby in the trunk of his car and Elisabeth Yarbeck beaten 
to death in her bedroom. Vince didnt know what the link was because he never 
knew anything about the people he was hired to kill, and he didnt really want 
to know anything. It was safer that way. But the cops would link Weatherby with 
Yarbeck and both of them with Hudston, so if Vince did not get to Hudston 
tonight, the police would be providing the man with protection by tomorrow.
Vince said, I wonder. . . do you want the option exercised in the same way as 
the other two deals today? You want a pattern?
He was thinking maybe he should burn the Hudston house to the ground with them 
in it to cover the murders.
No, we absolutely do want a pattern, the woman said. Same as the others. We 
want them to know weve been busy.
I see.
We want to tweak their noses, she said, and laughed softly. We want to rub in 
the salt.
Vince hung up and walked to the Jolly Roger for dinner. He had vegetable soup, a 
hamburger, fries, onion rings, coleslaw, chocolate cake with ice cream, and (as 
an afterthought) apple pie, all of which he washed down with five cups of 
coffee. He was ordinarily a big eater, but his appetite increased dramatically 
after a job. In fact, when he finished the pie, he wasnt full. Understandable. 
In one busy day, he had absorbed the life energies of Davis Weatherby and the 
Yarbecks; he was overcharged, a racing engine. His metabolism was in high gear; 
he would need more fuel for a while, until his body stored the excess life 
energies in biological batteries for future use.
The ability to absorb the very life force of his victim was the Gift that made 
him different from all other men. Because of the Gift, he would always be 
Strong, vital, alert. He would live forever.
He had never divulged the secret of his splendid Gift to the throaty-voiced 
Woman or to any of the people for whom he worked. Few people were imaginative 
and open-minded enough to consider seriously such an amazing talent. Vince kept 
it to himself because he was afraid theyd think he was crazy.
Outside the restaurant, he stood on the sidewalk for a while, just breathing 
deeply, savoring the crisp sea air. A chilly night wind blew off the harbor, 
sweeping scrap paper and purple jacaranda blossoms along the pavement.
Vince felt terrific. He believed he was as much of an elemental force as were 
the sea and wind.
From Balboa Island, he drove south to Laguna Beach. At eleven-twenty, he parked 
his van across the street from the Hudston house. It was in the hills, a 
single-story home slung on a steep slope to take advantage of ocean views. He 
saw lights in a couple of windows.
He climbed between the seats and sat down in the back of the van, out of sight, 
to wait until all of the Hudstons had gone to bed. Soon after leaving the 
Yarbeck house, he had changed out of his blue suit into gray slacks, a white 
shirt, a maroon sweater, and a dark-blue nylon jacket. Now, in the darkness, he 
had nothing to do except take his weapons out of a cardboard box, where they 
were hidden beneath two loaves of bread, a four-roll package of toilet tissue, 
and other items that gave the impression he had just been to the market.
The Walther P-38 was fully loaded. After finishing the job at the Yarbeck house, 
he had screwed a fresh silencer onto the barrel, one of the new short ones that, 
thanks to the high-tech revolution, was half the length of older models. He set 
the gun aside.
He had a six-inch switchblade knife. He put it in the right front pocket of his 
trousers.
When he had wound the wire garrote into a tight coil, he tucked it into the left 
inside pocket of his jacket.
He had a sap weighted with lead pellets. That went into his right exterior 
jacket pocket.
He did not expect to use anything but the gun. However, he liked to be prepared 
for any eventuality.
On some jobs he had used an Uzi submachine gun that had been illegally converted 
for automatic fire. But the current assignment did not require heavy armament.
He also had a small leather packet, half the size of a shaving kit, which 
contained a few simple burglary tools. He did not bother to inspect those 
instruments. He might not even need them because a lot of people were amazingly 
lax about home security, leaving doors and windows unlocked during the night, as 
if they believed they were living in a nineteenth-century Quaker village.
At eleven-forty he leaned between the front seats and looked through the side 
window at the Hudston house. All the lights were out. Good. They were in bed.
To give them time to fall asleep, he sat down in the back of the van again, ate 
a Mr. Goodbar, and thought about how hed spend some of the substantial fees 
that he had earned just since this morning.
Hed been wanting a power ski, one of those clever machines that made it 
possible to water-ski without a boat. He was an ocean lover. Something about
the sea drew him; he felt at home in the tides and was most fully alive when be 
was moving in harmony with great, surging, dark masses of water. He enjoyed 
scuba diving, windsailing, and surfing. His teenage years had been spent more on 
the beach than in school. He still rode the board now and then, when the surf 
was high. But he was twenty-eight, and surfing now seemed tame to him. He wasnt 
as easily thrilled as he had once been. He liked speed these days. He pictured 
himself skimming over a slate-dark sea on power skis, hammered by the wind, 
jolted by an endless series of impacts with eternally incoming breakers, riding 
the Pacific as a rodeo cowboy would ride a bronco .
At twelve-fifteen he got out of the van. He tucked the pistol under the 
waistband of his trousers and crossed the silent, deserted street to the Hudston 
house. He let himself through an unlocked wooden gate onto a side patio 
brightened only by moonlight filtered through the leafy branches of an enormous 
sheltering coral tree.
He paused to pull on a pair of supple leather gloves.
Mirrored by moonbeams, a sliding glass door connected the patio with the living 
room. It was locked. A penlight, extracted from the packet of burglary tools, 
also revealed a wooden pole laid in the interior track of the door to prevent it 
from being forced.
The Hudstons were more security-conscious than most people, but Vince was 
unconcerned. He fixed a small suction cup to the glass, used a diamond cutter to 
carve a circle in the pane near the door handle, and quietly removed the cutout 
with the cup. He reached through the hole and disengaged the lock. He cut 
another circle near the sill, reached inside, and removed the wooden pole from 
the track, pushing it under the drawn drapes, into the room beyond.
He did not have to worry about dogs. The woman with the sexy voice had told him 
that the Hudstons had no house pets. That was one reason why he liked working 
for these particular employers: their information was always extensive and 
accurate.
Easing the door open, he slipped through the closed drapes into the dark living 
room. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, listening. 
The house was tomb-silent.
He found the boys room first. It was illuminated by the green glow of the 
numerals on a digital clock-radio. The teenager was lying on his side, snoring 
softly. Sixteen. Very young. Vince liked them very young.
He moved around the bed and crouched along the side of it, face-to-face With the 
sleeper. With his teeth, he pulled the glove off his left hand. Holding the 
pistol in his right hand, he touched the muzzle to the underside of the boys 
chin.
The kid woke at once.
Vince slapped his bare hand firmly against the boys forehead and simultaneously 
fired the gun. The bullet smashed up through the soft underside of the kids 
chin, through the roof of his mouth, into his brain, killing him instantly.
Ssssnap.
An intense charge of life energy burst out of the dying body and into Vince. It 
was such pure, vital energy that he whimpered with pleasure as he felt it surge 
into him.
For a while he crouched beside the bed, not trusting himself to move. 
Transported. Breathless. At last, in the dark he kissed the dead boy on the lips 
and said, I accept. Thank you. I accept.
He crept cat-swift, cat-silent through the house and quickly found the master 
bedroom. Sufficient light was provided by another digital clock with green 
numerals and the soft glow of a night-light coming through the open bathroom 
door. Dr. and Mrs. Hudston were both asleep. Vince killed her first Ssssnap.
without waking her husband. She slept in the nude, so after he received her 
sacrifice, he put his head to her bare breasts and listened to the stillness of 
her heart. He kissed her nipples and murmured, Thank you.
When he circled the bed, turned on a nightstand lamp, and woke Dr. Hudston, the 
man was at first confused. Until he saw his wifes staring, sightless eyes. Then 
he shouted and grabbed for Vinces arm, and Vince clubbed him over the head 
twice with the butt of the gun.
Vince dragged the unconscious Hudston, who also slept in the nude, into the 
bathroom. Again, he found adhesive tape, with which he was able to bind the 
doctors wrists and ankles.
He filled the tub with cold water and wrestled Hudston into it. That frigid bath 
revived the doctor.
In spite of being naked and bound, Hudston tried to push up out of the cold 
water, tried to launch himself at Vince.
Vince hit him in the face with the pistol and shoved him down into the tub 
again.
Who are you? What do you want? Hudston spluttered as his face came up out of 
the water.
Ive killed your wife and your son, and Im going to kill you.
Hudstons eyes seemed to sink back into his damp, pasty face. Jimmy? Oh, not 
Jimmy, really, no.
Your boy is dead, Vince insisted. I blew his brains out.
At the mention of his son, Hudston broke. He did not burst into tears, did not 
begin to keen, nothing as dramatic as that. But his eyes went dead blinkjust 
that abruptly. Like a light going out. He stared at Vince, but there was no fear 
or anger in him any more.
Vince said, What youve got here is two choices: die easy or die hard. You tell 
me what I want to know, and I let you die easy, quick and painless. You get 
stubborn on me, and I can draw it out for five or six hours.
Dr. Hudston stared. Except for bright ribbons of fresh blood that banded his 
face, he was very white, wet and sickly pale like some creature that swam 
eternally in the deepest reaches of the sea.
Vince hoped the guy wasnt catatonic. What I want to know is what you have in 
common with Davis Weatherby and Elisabeth Yarbeck.
Hudston blinked, focused on Vince. His voice was hoarse and tremulous Davis and 
Liz? What are you talking about?
You know them?
Hudston nodded.
How do you know them? Go to school together? Live next door at one time?
Shaking his head, Hudston said, We. . . we used to work together at Banodyne.
Whats Banodyne?
Banodyne Laboratories.
Wheres that?
Here in Orange County, Hudston said. He gave an address in the city of Irvine.
Whatd you do there?
Research. But I left ten months ago. Weatherby and Yarbeck still work there, 
but I dont.
What sort of research? Vince asked.
Hudston hesitated.
Vince said, Quick and painlessor hard and nasty?
The doctor told him about the research he had been involved with at Banodyne. 
The Francis Project. The experiments. The dogs.
The story was incredible. Vince made Hudston run through some of the details 
three or four times before he was finally convinced the story was true.
When he was sure he had squeezed everything out of the man, Vince shot Hudston 
in the face, point-blank, the quick death hed promised.
Ssssnap.
Back in the van, driving down the night-draped Laguna Hills, away from the 
Hudston house, Vince thought about the dangerous step he had taken. Usually, he 
knew nothing about his targets. That was safest for him and for his employers. 
Ordinarily he didnt want to know what the poor saps had done to bring so much 
grief on themselves, because knowing would bring him grief. But this was no 
ordinary situation. He had been paid to kill three doctorsnot medical doctors, 
as it turned out now, but scientistsall of them upstanding citizens, plus any 
members of their families who happened to get in the way. Extraordinary. 
Tomorrows papers werent going to have enough room for all the news. Something 
very big was going on, something SO important that it might provide him with a 
once-in-a-lifetime edge, with a shot at money so big he would need help to count 
it. The money might come from selling the forbidden knowledge he had pried out 
of Hudston. . . if he could figure out who would like to buy it. But knowledge 
was not only saleable; it was also dangerous. Ask Adam. Ask Eve. If his current 
employers, the Sexy-voiced lady and the other people in L.A., learned that he 
had broken the most basic rule of his trade, if they knew that he had 
interrogated one of his victims before wasting him, they would put out a 
contract on Vince. The hunter would become the hunted.
Of course, he didnt worry a lot about dying. He had too much life stored up in 
him. Other peoples lives. More lives than ten cats. He was going to live 
forever. He was pretty sure of that. But . . . well, he didnt know for certain 
how many lives he had to absorb in order to insure immortality. Sometimes he 
felt that hed already achieved a state of invincibility, eternal life. But at 
other times, he felt that he was still vulnerable and that he would have to take 
more life energy into himself before he would reach the desired state of 
godhood. Until he knew, beyond doubt, that he had arrived at Olympus, it was 
best to exercise a little caution.
Banodyne.
The Francis Project.
if what Hudston said was true, the risk Vince was taking would be well-rewarded 
when he found the right buyer for the information. He was going to be a rich 
man.
 
 
8
Wes Dalberg had lived alone in a stone cabin in upper Holy Jim Canyon on the 
eastern edge of Orange County for ten years. His only light came from Coleman 
lanterns, and the only running water in the place was from a hand pump in the 
kitchen sink. His toilet was in an outhouse with a quarter-moon carved on the 
door (as a joke), about a hundred feet from the back of the cabin.
Wes was forty-two, but he looked older. His face was wind-scoured and 
sun-leathered. He wore a neatly trimmed beard with a lot of white whiskers. 
Although he appeared aged beyond his true years, his physical condition was that 
of a twenty-five-year-old. He believed his good health resulted from living 
close to nature.
Tuesday night, May 18, by the silvery light of a hissing Coleman lantern, he sat 
at the kitchen table until one in the morning, sipping homemade plum wine and 
reading a McGee novel by John D. MacDonald. Wes was, as he put it, an 
antisocial curmudgeon born in the wrong century, who had little, use for modern 
society. But he liked to read about McGee because McGee swam in that messy, 
nasty world out there and never let the murderous currents sweep him away.
When he finished the book at one oclock, Wes went outside to get more wood for 
the fireplace. Wind-swayed branches of sycamores cast vague moonshadows on the 
ground, and the glossy surfaces of rustling leaves shone dully with pale 
reflections of the lunar light. Coyotes howled in the distance as they chased 
down a rabbit or other small creature. Nearby, insects sang in the brush, and a 
chill wind soughed through the higher reaches of the forest.
His supply of cordwood was stored in a lean-to that extended along the entire 
north side of the cabin. He pulled the latch-peg out of the hasp on the double 
doors. He was so familiar with the arrangement of the wood in the storage space 
that he worked blindly in its lightless confines, filling a sturdy tin hod with 
half a dozen logs. He carried the hod out in both hands, put it down, and turned 
to close the doors.
He realized the coyotes and the insects had all fallen silent. Only the wind 
still had a voice.
Frowning, he turned to look at the dark forest that encircled the small clearing 
in which his cabin stood.
Something growled.
Wes squinted at the night-swaddled woods, which suddenly seemed less well 
illuminated by the moon than they had been a moment ago.
The growling was deep and angry. Not like anything he had heard out there before 
in ten years of nights alone.
Wes was curious, even concerned, but not afraid. He stood very still, listening. 
A minute ticked by, and he heard nothing further.
He finished closing the lean-to doors, pegged the latch, and picked up the hod 
full of cordwood.
Growling again. Then silence. Then the sound of dry brush and leaves crackling, 
crunching, snapping underfoot.
Judging by the sound, it was about thirty yards away. Just a bit west of the 
outhouse. Back in the forest.
The thing grumbled again, louder this time. Closer, too. Not more than twenty 
yards away now.
He could still not see the source of the sound. The deserter moon continued to 
hide behind a narrow filigree band of clouds.
Listening to the thick, guttural, yet ululant growling, Wes was suddenly uneasy. 
For the first time in ten years as a resident of Holy Jim, he felt he was in 
danger. Carrying the hod, he headed quickly toward the back of the cabin and the 
kitchen door.
The rustling of displaced brush grew louder. The creature in the woods was 
moving faster than before. Hell, it was running.
Wes ran, too.
The growling escalated into hard, vicious snarls: an eerie mix of sounds that 
seemed one part dog, part pig, part cougar, part human, and one part something 
else altogether. It was almost at his heels.
As he sprinted around the corner of the cabin, Wes swung the hod and threw it 
toward where he judged the animal to be. He heard the cordwood flying loose and 
slamming to the ground, heard the metal hod clanging end Over end, but the 
snarling only grew closer and louder, so he knew he had missed.
He hurried up the three back steps, threw open the kitchen door, stepped inside, 
and slammed the door behind him. He slipped the latch bolt in place,
a security measure he had not used in nine years, not since he had grown 
accustomed to the peacefulness of the canyon.
He went through the cabin to the front door and latched it, too. He was 
Surprised by the intensity of the fear that had overcome him. Even if a hostile 
animal was out thereperhaps a crazed bear that had come down from the
mountainsit could not open doors and follow him into the cabin. There was no 
need to engage the locks, yet he felt better for having done so. He was 
operating on instinct, and he was a good enough outdoorsman to know that 
instincts ought to be trusted even when they resulted in seemingly irrational 
behavior.
Okay, so he was safe. No animal could open a door. Certainly, a bear couldnt, 
and it was most likely a bear.
But it hadnt sounded like a bear. Thats what had Wes Dalberg so spooked:
it had not sounded like anything that could possibly be roaming those woods. He 
was familiar with his animal neighbors, knew all the howls, cries, and other 
noises they made.
The only light in the front room was from the fireplace, and it did not dispel 
the shadows in the corners. Phantoms of reflected firelight cavorted across the 
walls. For the first time, Wes would have welcomed electricity.
He owned a Remington 12-gauge shotgun with which he hunted small game to 
supplement his diet of store-bought foods. It was on a rack in the kitchen. He 
considered getting it down and loading it, but now that he was safely behind 
locked doors, he was beginning to be embarrassed about having panicked. Like a 
greenhorn, for Gods sake. Like some lardass suburbanite shrieking at the sight 
of a fieldmouse. If he had just shouted and clapped his hands, he would most 
likely have frightened off the thing in the brush. Even if his reaction could be 
blamed on instinct, he had not behaved in accordance with his self-image as a 
hard-bitten canyon squatter. If he armed himself with the rifle now, when there 
was no compelling need for it, hed lose a large measure of self-respect, which 
was important because the only opinion of Wes Dalberg that Wes cared about was 
his own. No gun.
Wes risked going to the living rooms big window. This was an alteration made by 
someone who held the Forest Service lease on the cabin about twenty years ago; 
the old, narrow, multipane window had been taken out, a larger hole cut in the 
wall, and a big single-pane window installed to take advantage of the 
spectacular forest view.
A few moon-silvered clouds appeared phosphorescent against the velvety blackness 
of the night sky. Moonlight dappled the front yard, glistered on the grill and 
hood and windshield of Wess Jeep Cherokee, and outlined the shadowy shapes of 
the encroaching trees. At first nothing moved except a few branches swaying 
gently in the mild wind.
He studied the woodland scene for a couple of minutes. Neither seeing nor 
hearing anything out of the ordinary, he decided the animal had wandered off. 
With considerable relief and with a resurgence of embarrassment, he started to 
turn away from the windowthen glimpsed movement near the Jeep. He squinted, saw 
nothing, remained watchful for another minute or two. Just when he decided he 
had imagined the movement, he saw it again:
something coming out from behind the Jeep. He leaned closer to the window.
Something was rushing across the yard toward the cabin, coming fast and low to 
the ground. Instead of revealing the nature of the enemy, the moonlight
made it more mysterious, shapeless. The thing was hurtling at the cabin. 
AbruptlyJesus, God!the creature was airborne, a strangeness flying straight at 
him through the darkness, and Wes cried out, and an instant later the beast 
exploded through the big window, and Wes screamed, but the scream was cut short.
 
 
9
Because Travis was not much of a drinker, three beers were enough to insure 
against insomnia. He was asleep within seconds of putting his head on the 
pillow. He dreamed that he was the ringmaster in a circus where all the 
performing animals could speak, and after each show he visited them in their 
cages, where each animal told him a secret that amazed him even though he forgot 
it as soon as he moved along to the next cage and the next secret.
At four oclock in the morning, he woke and saw Einstein at the bedroom window. 
The dog was standing with its forepaws on the sill, its face limned by 
moonlight, staring out at the night, very alert.
Whats wrong, boy? Travis asked.
Einstein glanced at him, then returned his attention to the moon-washed night. 
He whined softly, and his ears perked up slightly.
Somebody out there? Travis asked, getting off the bed, pulling on his jeans.
The dog dropped onto all fours and hurried out of the bedroom.
Travis found him at another window in the darkened living room, studying the 
night on that side of the house. Crouching beside the dog, putting a hand on the 
broad furry back, he said, Whats the matter? Huh?
Einstein pressed his snout to the glass and mewled nervously.
Travis could see nothing threatening on the front lawn or on the street. Then a 
thought struck him, and he said, Are you worried about whatever was chasing you 
in the woods this morning?
The dog regarded him solemnly.
What was it out there in the forest? Travis wondered.
Einstein whined again and shuddered.
Remembering the retrieversand his ownstark fear in the Santa Ana foothills, 
recalling the uncanny feeling that something unnatural had been stalking them, 
Travis shivered. He looked out at the night-draped world. The spiky black 
patterns of the date palms fronds were edged in wan yellow light from the 
nearest streetlamp. A fitful wind harried small funnels of dust and leaves and 
bits of litter along the pavement, dropped them for a few seconds and left them 
for dead, then enlivened them again. A lone moth bumped softly against the 
window in front of Traviss and Einsteins faces, evidently mistaking the 
reflection of the moon or streetlamp for a flame.
Are you worried that its still after you? he asked.
The dog woofed once, quietly.
Well, I dont think it is, Travis said. I dont think you understand how far 
north weve come. We had wheels, but it would have, had to follow on foot, which 
it couldnt have done. Whatever it was, its far behind us, Einstein, far down 
there in Orange County, with no way of knowing where weve gone. You dont have 
to worry about it any more. You understand?
Einstein nuzzled and licked Traviss hand as if reassured and grateful. But he 
looked out the window again and issued a barely audible whimper.
Travis had to coax him back into the bedroom. There, the dog wanted to lie on 
the bed beside his master, and in the interest of calming the animal, Travis did 
not object.
Wind murmured and moaned in the bungalows eaves.
Now and then the house creaked with ordinary middle-of-the-night settling 
noises.
Engine purring, tires whispering, a car went by on the street.
Exhausted from the emotional as well as the physical exertions of the day, 
Travis was soon asleep.
Near dawn he came half awake and realized that Einstein was at the bedroom 
window again, keeping watch. He murmured the retrievers name and wearily patted 
the mattress. But Einstein remained on guard, and Travis drifted off once more.
 
 
FOUR
1
The day following her encounter with Art Streck, Nora Devon went for a long 
walk, intending to explore parts of the city that she had never seen before. She 
had taken short walks with Violet once a week. Since the old womans death, Nora 
still went out, though less often, and she never ventured farther than six or 
eight blocks from home. Today, she would go much farther. This was to be the 
first small step in a long journey toward liberation and self-respect.
Before setting out, she considered having a light lunch later at a restaurant 
chosen at random along the way. But she had never been in a restaurant. The 
prospect of dealing with a waiter and dining in the company of strangers was 
daunting. Instead, she packed one apple, one orange, and two oatmeal cookies in 
a small paper bag. She would eat lunch alone, in a park somewhere. Even that 
would be revolutionary. One small step at a time.
The sky was clear. The air was warm. With vivid green spring growth, the trees 
looked fresh; they stirred in a breeze just strong enough to take the searing 
edge off the hot sunlight.
As Nora strolled past the well-kept houses, the vast majority of which were in 
one style of Spanish architecture or another, she looked at doors and windows 
with a new curiosity, wondering about the people who lived within. Were they 
happy? Sad? In love? What music and books did they enjoy? What food? Were they 
planning vacations to exotic places, evenings at the theater, visits to 
nightclubs?
She had never wondered about them before because she had known their lives and 
hers would never cross. Wondering about them would have been a
waste of time and effort. But now.
When she encountered other walkers, she kept her head down and averted her face, 
as she had always done before, but after a while she found the Courage to look 
at some of them. She was surprised when many smiled at her and said hello. In 
time, she was even more surprised when she heard herself respond.
At the county courthouse she paused to admire the yellow blossoms of the Yucca 
plants and the rich red bougainvillea that climbed the stucco wall and twined 
through the ornate wrought-iron grille over one of the tall windows.
At the Santa Barbara Mission, built in 1815, she stood at the foot of the
front steps and studied the handsome faade of the old church. She explored the 
courtyard with its Sacred Garden and climbed the west bell tower.
Gradually, she began to understand why, in some of the many books she had read, 
Santa Barbara had been called one of the most beautiful places on earth. She had 
lived there nearly all her life, but because she had cowered in the Devon house 
with Violet and, on venturing out, had looked at little more than her own shoes, 
she was seeing the town for the first time. It both charmed and thrilled her.
At one oclock, in Alameda Park within sight of the pond, she sat on a bench 
near three ancient and massive date palms. Her feet were getting sore, but she 
did not intend to go home early. She opened the paper bag and began lunch with 
the yellow apple. Never had anything tasted half as delicious. Famished, she 
quickly ate the orange, too, dropping the pieces of peel into the bag, and she 
was starting on the first of the oatmeal cookies when Art Streck sat down beside 
her.
Hello, prettiness.
He was wearing only blue running shorts, running shoes, and thick white athletic 
socks. However, he clearly hadnt been running, for he wasnt sweating. He was 
muscular with a broad chest, deeply tanned, exceedingly masculine. The whole 
purpose of his attire was to display his physique, so Nora at once averted her 
eyes.
Shy? he asked.
She could not speak because the bite she had taken from the oatmeal cookie was 
stuck in her mouth. She couldnt work up any saliva. She was afraid she would 
choke if she tried to swallow the piece of cookie, but she couldnt very well 
just spit it out.
My sweet, shy Nora, Streck said.
Looking down, she saw how badly her right hand was trembling. The cookie was 
being shaken to pieces in her fingers; bits of it dropped onto the paving 
between her feet.
She had told herself that she would go for a daylong walk as a first step toward 
liberation, but now she had to admit there had been another reason for getting 
out of the house. She had been trying to avoid Strecks attentions. She was 
afraid to stay home, afraid that hed call and call and call. But now he had 
found her in the open, beyond the protection of her locked windows and bolted 
doors, which was worse than the telephone, infinitely worse.
Look at me, Nora.
No.
Look at me.
The last of the disintegrating cookie fell from her right hand.
Streck took her left hand, and she tried to resist him, but he squeezed, 
grinding the bones of her fingers, so she surrendered. He put her hand palm down 
on his bare thigh. His flesh was firm and hot.
Her stomach twisted, and her heart thumped, and she did not know which she would 
do firstpuke or pass out.
Moving her hand slowly up and down his bare thigh, he said, Im what you need, 
prettiness. I can take care of you.
As if it were a wad of paste, the oatmeal cookie glued her mouth shut. She kept 
her head down, but she raised her eyes to look out from under her brow. She 
hoped to see someone nearby to whom she could call for help, but there were only 
two young mothers with their small children, and even they were too far away to 
be of assistance.
Lifting her hand from his thigh, putting it on his bare chest, Streck said, 
Having a nice stroll today? Did you like the mission? Hmmm? And werent the 
yucca blossoms pretty at the courthouse?
He rambled on in that cool, smug voice, asking her how she had liked other 
things shed seen, and she realized he had been following her all morning, 
either in his car or on foot. She hadnt seen him, but there was no doubt he bad 
been there because he knew every move she had made since leaving the house, 
which frightened and infuriated her more than anything else he had done.
She was breathing hard and fast, yet she felt as if she could not get her 
breath. Her ears were ringing, yet she could hear every word he said too 
clearly. Though she thought she might strike him and claw at his eyes, she was 
also paralyzed, on the verge of striking but unable to strike, simultaneously 
strong with rage and weak with fear. She wanted to scream, not for help but in 
frustration.
Now, he said, youve had a real nice stroll, a nice lunch in the park, and 
youre in a relaxed mood. So you know what would be nice now? You know what 
would make this a terrific day, prettiness? A really special day? What well do 
is get in my car, go back to your place, up to your yellow room, get in that 
four-poster bed
Hed been in her bedroom! He must have done it yesterday. When he was supposed 
to have been in the living room fixing the TV, he must have sneaked upstairs, 
the bastard, prowling through her most private place, invading her sanctuary, 
poking through her belongings.
that big old bed, and Im going to strip you down, honey, strip you down and 
fuck you
Nora would never be able to decide whether her sudden courage arose from the 
horrible realization that hed violated her sanctuary, whether it was that he 
had spoken an obscenity in her presence for the first time, or whether both, but 
she snapped her head up and glared at him and spat the wad of uneaten cookie in 
his face. Flecks of spittle and damp spatters of food stuck on his right cheek, 
right eye, and on the side of his nose. Bits of oatmeal Clung in his hair and 
speckled his forehead. When she saw anger flash into Strecks eyes and contort 
his face, Nora felt a surge of terror at what shed done: But she was also 
elated that she had been able to break the bonds of emotional paralysis that had 
immobilized her, even if her actions brought her grief, even if Streck 
retaliated.
And he did retaliate swiftly, brutally. He still held her left hand, and she
was unable to wrench free. He squeezed hard, as he had done before, grinding her 
bones. It hurt, Jesus, it hurt. But she did not want to give him the 
satisfaction of seeing her cry, and she was determined not to whimper or beg, so 
she clenched her teeth and endured. Sweat prickled her scalp, and she thought 
she might pass out. But the pain was not the worst of it; the worst was looking 
into Strecks disturbing ice-blue eyes. As he crushed her fingers, he held her 
not merely with his hand but with his gaze, which was cold and infinitely 
strange. He was trying to intimidate and cow her, and it was working by God, it 
wasbecause she saw in him a madness with which she would never be able to cope.
When he saw her despair, which evidently pleased him more than a cry of pain 
could have done, he stopped grinding her hand, but he did not let go. He said, 
Youll pay for that, for spitting in my face. And youll enjoy paying for it.
Without conviction, she said, Ill complain to your boss, and youll lose your 
job.
Streck only smiled. Nora wondered why he did not bother to wipe the bits of 
oatmeal cookie from his face, but even as she wondered about it she knew the 
reason: he was going to make her do it for him. First, he said, Lose my job? 
Oh, I already quit working for Wadlow TV. Walked out yesterday afternoon. So Id 
have time for you, Nora.
She lowered her eyes. She could not conceal her fear, was shaken by it until she 
thought her teeth would chatter.
I never do stay too long in a job. Man like me, full of so much energy, gets 
bored easy. I need to move around. Besides, lifes too short to waste all of it 
working, dont you think? So I keep a job for a while, till Ive got some money 
saved, then I coast as long as I can. And once in a while I run into a lady like 
you, someone who has a powerful need for me, someone whos just crying out for a 
man like me, and so I help her along.
Kick him, bite him, go for his eyes, she told herself.
She did nothing.
Her hand ached dully. She remembered how hot and intense the pain had been.
His voice changed, became softer, soothing, reassuring, but that frightened her 
even more. And Im going to help you, Nora. Ill be moving in for a while. Its 
going to be fun. Youre a little nervous about me, sure, I understand that, I 
really do. But believe me, this is what you need, girl, this is going to turn 
your life upside down, nothings ever going to be the same again, and thats the 
best thing could happen to you.
 
 
2
Einstein loved the park.
When Travis slipped off the leash, the retriever trotted to the nearest bed
of flowersbig yellow marigolds surrounded by a border of purple 
polyanthusesand walked slowly around it, obviously fascinated. He went to a 
blazing bed of late-blooming ranunculuses, to another of impatiens, and his tail 
wagged faster with each discovery. They said dogs could see in only black and 
white, but Travis would not have bet against the proposition that Einstein 
possessed full-color vision. Einstein sniffed everythingflowers, shrubbery, 
trees, rocks, trash cans, crumpled litter, the base of the drinking fountain, 
and every foot of ground he coveredno doubt turning up olfactory pictures of 
people and dogs that had passed this way before, images as clear to him as 
photographs would have been to Travis.
Throughout the morning and early afternoon, the retriever had done nothing 
amazing. In fact, his Im-just-an-ordinary-dumb-dog behavior was so convincing 
that Travis wondered if the animals nearly human intelligence came only in 
brief flashes, sort of the beneficial equivalent of epileptic seizures. But 
after all that had happened yesterday, Einsteins extraordinary nature, though 
seldom revealed, was no longer open to debate.
As they were strolling around the pond, Einstein suddenly went rigid, lifted his 
head, raised his floppy ears a bit, and stared at a couple sitting on a park 
bench about sixty feet away. The man was in running shorts, and the woman wore a 
rather baggy gray dress; he was holding her hand, and they appeared to be deep 
in conversation.
Travis started to turn away from them, heading out toward the open green of the 
park to give them privacy.
But Einstein barked once and raced straight toward the couple.
Einstein! Here! Come back here!
The dog ignored him and, nearing the pair on the bench, began to bark furiously.
By the time Travis reached the bench, the guy in running shorts was standing. 
His arms were raised defensively, and his hands were fisted as he warily moved 
back a step from the retriever.
Einstein!
The retriever stopped barking, turned away from Travis before the leash Could be 
clipped to the collar again, went to the woman on the bench, and Put his head in 
her lap. The change from snarling dog to affectionate pet was so sudden that 
everyone was startled.
Travis said, Im sorry. He never
For Christs sake, said the guy in running shorts, you cant let a vicious 
dog run loose in a park!
not vicious, Travis said. He
Bullshit, the runner said, spraying spittle. The damn thing tried to bite me. 
You enjoy lawsuits or something?
dont know what got into
Get it out of here, the runner demanded.
Nodding, embarrassed, Travis turned to Einstein and saw that the woman had 
coaxed the retriever onto the bench. Einstein was sitting with her, facing her, 
his forepaws in her lap, and she was not merely petting him but hugging
him. In fact, there was something a little desperate about the way she was 
holding on to him.
Get it out of here! the runner said furiously.
The guy was taller, broader in the shoulders, and thicker in the chest than 
Travis, and he took a couple of steps forward, looming over Travis, using his 
superior size to intimidate. By being aggressive, by looking and acting a little 
dangerous, he was accustomed to getting his way. Travis despised such men.
Einstein turned his head to look at the runner, bared his teeth, and growled low 
in his throat.
Listen, buddy, the runner said angrily, are you deaf, or what? I said that 
dogs got to be put on a leash, and I see the leash there in your hand, so what 
the hell are you waiting for?
Travis began to realize something was wrong. The runners self-righteous anger 
was overdoneas if he had been caught in a shameful act and was trying to 
conceal his guilt by going immediately and aggressively on the offensive. And 
the woman was behaving peculiarly. She had not spoken a word. She was pale. Her 
thin hands trembled. But judging by the way she petted and clung to the dog, it 
wasnt Einstein that frightened her. And Travis wondered why a couple would go 
to the park dressed so differently from each other, one in running shorts and 
the other in a drab housedress. He saw the woman glance surreptitiously and 
fearfully at the runner, and suddenly he knew that these two were not 
togetherat least not by the womans choice and that the man had, indeed, been 
up to something about which he felt guilty.
Miss, Travis said, are you all right?
Of course shes not all right, the runner said. Your damn dog came barking 
and snapping at us
He doesnt seem to be terrorizing her right now, Travis said, meeting and 
holding the other mans gaze.
Bits of what appeared to be oatmeal batter were stuck on the guys cheek. Travis 
had noticed an oatmeal cookie spilling from a bag on the bench beside the woman, 
and another one crumbled on the ground between her feet. What the hell had been 
going on here?
The runner glared at Travis and started to speak. But then he looked at the 
woman and Einstein, and he evidently realized that his calculated outrage would 
no longer be appropriate. He said sullenly, Well . . . you should still get the 
damn hound under control.
Oh, I dont think hell bother anyone now, Travis said, coiling the leash. It 
was just an aberration.
Still furious but uncertain, the runner looked at the huddled woman and said, 
Nora?
She did not respond. She just kept petting Einstein.
Ill see you later, the runner told her. Getting no response, he refocused on 
Travis, narrowed his eyes, and said, If that hound comes nipping at my heels
He wont, Travis interrupted. You can get on with your run. He wont bother 
YOU.
Several times as he jogged slowly across the park to the nearest exit, the man 
glanced back at them. Then he was gone.
On the bench, Einstein had settled down on his belly with his head on the 
womans lap.
Travis said, Hes sure taken a liking to you.
Without looking up, smoothing Einsteins coat with one hand, she said, Hes a 
lovely dog.
I just got him yesterday.
She said nothing.
He sat down on the other end of the bench, with Einstein between them. My 
names Travis.
Unresponsive, she scratched behind Einsteins ears. The dog made a contented 
sound.
Travis Cornell, he said.
At last she raised her head and looked at him. Nora Devon.
Glad to meet you.
She smiled, but nervously.
Though she wore her hair straight and lank, though she used no makeup, she was 
quite attractive. Her hair was dark and glossy, her skin flawless, and her gray 
eyes were accented with green striations that seemed luminous in the bright May 
sunshine.
As if sensing his approval and frightened of it, she immediately broke eye 
contact, lowered her head once more.
He said, Miss Devon . . . is something wrong?
She said nothing.
Was that man . . . bothering you?
Its all right, she said.
With her head bowed and shoulders hunched, sitting there under a ton-weight of 
shyness, she looked so vulnerable that Travis could not just get up, walk away, 
and leave her with her problems. He said, If that man was bothering you, I 
think we ought to find a cop
No, she said softly but urgently. She slipped out from under Einstein and got 
up.
The dog scrambled off the bench to stand beside her, gazing at her with 
affection.
Rising, Travis said, I dont mean to pry, of course
She hurried away, heading out of the park on a different path from the One the 
runner had taken.
Einstein started after her but halted and reluctantly returned when Travis 
called to him.
Puzzled, Travis watched her until she disappeared, an enigmatic and troubled 
woman in a gray dress as drab and shapeless as the garb of an Amish lady or a 
member of some other sect that took great pains to cloak the female figure in 
garments that would not lead a man into temptation.
He and Einstein continued their walk through the park. Later, they went to the 
beach, where the retriever seemed astounded by the endless vistas of rolling sea 
and by the breakers foaming on the sand. He repeatedly stopped to stare out at 
the ocean for a minute or two at a time, and he frolicked happily in the surf. 
Later still, back at the house, Travis tried to interest Einstein in the books 
that had caused such excitement last evening, hoping this time to be able to 
figure out what the dog expected to find in them. Einstein sniffed without 
interest at the volumes Travis brought to himand yawned.
Throughout the afternoon, the memory of Nora Devon returned to Travis with 
surprising frequency and vividness. She did not require alluring clothes to 
capture a mans interest. That face and those green-flecked gray eyes were 
enough.
 
 
3
After only a few hours of deep sleep, Vincent Nasco took an early-morning flight 
to Acapulco, Mexico. He checked into a huge bayfront hotel, a gleaming but 
soulless high-rise where everything was glass, concrete, and terrazzo. After he 
had changed into ventilated white Top-Siders, white cotton pants, and a 
pale-blue Ban-Lon shirt, he went looking for Dr. Lawton Haines.
Haines was vacationing in Acapulco. He was thirty-nine years old, five-eleven, 
one hundred and sixty pounds, with unruly dark brown hair, and he was purported 
to look like Al Pacino, except that he had a red birthmark the size of a 
half-dollar on his forehead. He came to Acapulco at least twice a year, always 
stayed at the elegant Hotel Las Brisas on the headland at the eastern end of the 
bay, and frequently enjoyed long lunches at a restaurant adjacent to the Hotel 
Caleta, which he favored for its margaritas and its view of Playa de Caleta.
By twelve-twenty in the afternoon, Vince was seated in a rattan chair with 
comfortable yellow and green cushions at a table by the windows in that same 
restaurant. Hed spotted Haines on entering. The doctor was at another window 
table, three away from Vince, half-screened by a potted palm. Haines was eating 
shrimp and drinking margaritas with a stunning blonde. She was wearing white 
slacks and a gaily striped tube-top, and half the men in the place were staring 
at her.
As far as Vince was concerned, Haines looked more like Dustin Hoffman than like 
Pacino. He had those bold features of Hoffmans, including the nose. Otherwise, 
he was exactly as hed been described. The guy was wearing pink Cotton trousers 
and a pale-yellow shirt and white sandals, which seemed, to Vince, to be taking 
tropical resort attire to an extreme.
Vince finished a lunch of albondiga soup, seafood enchiladas in salsa verde, and 
a nonalcoholic margarita, and paid the check by the time Haines and the blonde 
were ready to leave.
The blonde drove a red Porsche. Vince followed in a rental Ford, which had too 
many miles on it, rattled with the exuberance of percussion instruments in a 
mariachi band, and had fragrant moldy carpet.
At Las Brisas, the blonde dropped Haines in the parking lot, though not until 
they stood beside her car for at least five minutes, holding each others asses 
and soul-kissing in broad daylight.
Vince was dismayed. He expected Haines to have a stronger sense of propriety. 
After all, the man had a doctorate. If educated people did not uphold 
traditional standards of conduct, who would? Werent they teaching manners and 
deportment in the universities these days? No wonder the world got ruder and 
cruder every year.
The blonde departed in her Porsche, and Haines left the lot in a white Mercedes 
560 SL sports coupe. It sure wasnt a rental, and Vince wondered where the 
doctor had gotten it.
Haines checked his car with the valet at another hotel, as did Vince. He tailed 
the doctor through the lobby, out to the beach, where at first they seemed 
embarked on an uneventful stroll along the shore. But Haines settled down beside 
a gorgeous Mexican girl in a string bikini. She was dark, superbly proportioned, 
and fifteen years younger than the doctor. She was sunbathing on a lounge, her 
eyes closed. Haines kissed her throat, startling her. Evidently, she knew him, 
for she threw her arms around him, laughing.
Vince walked down the beach and back, then sat on the sand behind Haines and the 
girl, with a pair of sunbathers interposed between them. He was not concerned 
that Haines would notice him. The doctor seemed to have eyes only for choice 
female anatomy. Besides, in spite of his size, Vince Nasco had a knack for 
fading into the background.
Out on the bay, a tourist was taking a parachute ride, hanging high in the air 
behind the towboat. Sun fell like an endless rain of gold doubloons on the sand 
and the sea.
After twenty minutes, Haines kissed the girl on the lips, and on the slopes of 
her breasts, then set off back the way he had come. The girl called out, 
Tonight at six! And Haines said, Ill be there.
Then Haines and Vince went for a pleasure drive. At first Vince thought Haines 
had a destination in mind, but after a while it seemed they were just heading 
aimlessly down the coast road, taking in the scenery. They passed Revolcadero 
Beach and kept going, Haines in his white Mercedes, Vince following as far back 
as he dared in his Ford.
Eventually they came to a scenic overlook, where Haines pulled off the road and 
parked beside a car from which four garishly dressed tourists were emerging. 
Vince parked, too, and Walked to the iron railing at the outer edge of the 
escarpment, where there was a truly magnificent view of the coastline and of 
waves breaking thunderously on the rocky shore more than a hundred feet below.
The tourists, in their parrot shirts and striped pants, finished exclaiming Over 
the sights, took their last pictures, discarded their last bits of litter, and 
departed, leaving Vince and Haines alone on the cliff. The only traffic on the
highway was an approaching black Trans Am. Vince was waiting for the car to 
pass. Then he was going to take Haines by surprise.
Instead of going by, the Trans Am pulled off the road and parked beside Hainess 
Mercedes, and a gorgeous girl, about twenty-five, got out. She hurried to 
Haines. She looked Mexican but with a measure of Chinese blood, very exotic. She 
was wearing a white halter top and white shorts, and she had the best legs Vince 
had ever seen. She and Haines moved farther along the railing, until they were 
about forty feet from Vince, where they went into a clinch that made Vince 
blush.
For the next few minutes, Vince edged along the railing toward them, leaning out 
dangerously now and then, craning his neck to gawk down at the crashing waves 
that threw water twenty feet into the airsaying Whooo boy! when a 
particularly big breaker hit the craggy outcroppings of stone trying to make it 
look as if his movement in their direction was entirely innocent.
Though they had turned their backs to him, the breeze carried bits of their 
conversation. The woman seemed worried that her husband might find out that 
Haines was in town, and Haines was pushing her to make up her mind about 
tomorrow night. The guy was shameless.
The highway cleared of traffic again, and Vince decided he might not get another 
opportunity to nail Haines. He closed the last few feet between him and the 
girl, grabbed her by the nape of the neck and the belt of her shorts, plucked 
her off the ground, and threw her over the railing. Screaming, she plummeted 
toward the rocks below.
It happened so fast that Haines didnt even have time to react. The instant the 
woman was airborne, Vince turned on the startled doctor and punched him in the 
face, twice, splitting both his lips, breaking his nose, and knocking him 
unconscious.
As Haines crumpled to the ground, the woman hit the rocks below, and Vince 
received her gift even at that distance: Ssssnap.
He would have liked to lean over the railing to take a long look at her 
shattered body on the rocks down there, but unfortunately he had no time to 
spare. The highway would not long be free of traffic.
He carried Haines back to the Ford and put him in the front seat, letting him 
slump against the door as if sleeping peacefully. He made sure the mans head 
tipped back to let the blood from his nose trickle down his throat.
From the coast highway, which was twisty and frequently in poor repair for such 
a major route, Vince followed a series of lesser unpaved roads, each narrower 
and more rugged than the one before, traveling from gravel to dirt surfaces, 
heading deeper into the rain forest, until he came to a lonely dead end at a 
green wall of immense trees and lush vegetation. Twice during the drive, Haines 
had begun to regain consciousness, but Vince had quieted the doctor by thumping 
his head against the dashboard.
Now, he dragged the unconscious man out of the Ford, through a gap in the brush, 
and deep under the trees, until he found a shady clearing floored with hairy 
moss. Cawing and trilling birds fell silent, and unknown animals with peculiar 
voices moved off through the underbrush. Large insects, including a beetle as 
big as Vinces hand, scuttled out of his way, and lizards scampered up tree 
trunks.
Vince returned to the Ford, where he had left some interrogation equipment in 
the trunk. A packet of syringes and two vials of sodium pentothal. A leather sap 
weighted with lead pellets. A hand-applied Taser that resembled a remote-control 
device for a television set. And a corkscrew with a wooden handle.
Lawton Haines was still unconscious when Vince returned to the clearing. His 
breath rattled in his broken nose.
Haines should have been dead twenty-four hours ago. The people who had employed 
Vince for three jobs yesterday had expected to use another freelancer who lived 
in Acapulco and operated throughout Mexico. But that guy had died yesterday 
morning when a long-awaited air-mail package from Fortnum & Mason in London 
surprisingly contained two pounds of plastic explosives instead of assorted 
jellies and marmalades. Out of desperate necessity, the outfit in Los Angeles 
had given the job to Vince, though he was getting to be dangerously overworked. 
It was a big break for him, for he was sure this doctor must also be connected 
with Banodyne Laboratories and could provide more details about the Francis 
Project.
Now, exploring the rain forest around the clearing where Haines lay, Vince found 
a fallen tree from which he was able to pull off a loose, curved section of 
thick bark that would serve as a ladle. He located an algae-mottled stream and 
scooped up nearly a quart of water in the bark vessel. The stuff looked foul. No 
telling what exotic bacteria thrived in it. But, of course, at this point the 
possibility of disease would not matter to Haines.
Vince threw the first ladle of water in Hainess face. A minute later he 
returned with a second scoopful from which he forced the doctor to drink. After 
a lot of spluttering, choking, gagging, and a little vomiting, Haines was at 
last clearheaded enough to understand what was being said to him, and to respond 
intelligibly.
Holding up the leather sap, the Taser, and the corkscrew, Vince explained how 
hed use each of them if Haines was uncooperative. The doctorwho revealed 
himself to be a specialist in brain physiology and functionproved more 
intelligent than patriotic, and he eagerly divulged every detail of the 
top-secret defense work in which he was engaged at Banodyne.
When Haines swore there was no more to be told, Vince prepared the sodium 
pentothal. As he drew the drug into the syringe, he said, conversationally, 
Doctor, what is it with you and women?
Haines, lying on his back in the hairy moss with his arms at his sides, exactly 
as Vince had told him to lie, was not able to adjust quickly to the change of 
subject. He blinked in confusion.
I been following you since lunch, and I know you got three of them on a String 
in Acapulco
Four, Haines said, and in spite of his terror a visible pride surfaced. That 
Mercedes Im driving belongs to Giselle, the sweetest little
Youre using one womans car to cheat on her with three others?
Haines nodded and tried to smile, but he winced as the smile sent new waves of 
pain through his ruined nose. Ive always . . . had this way with the ladies.
For Gods sake! Vince was appalled. Dont you realize these arent the 
sixties or seventies any more? Free loves dead. Its got a price now. Steep 
price. Havent you heard about herpes, AIDS, all that stuff? Administering the 
pentothal, he said, You must be a carrier for every venereal disease known to 
man.
Blinking stupidly at him, Haines at first looked baffled and then was deep in a 
pentothal sleep. Under the drug, he confirmed all that he had already told Vince 
about Banodyne and the Francis Project.
When the drug wore off, Vince used the Taser on Haines, just for the fun of it, 
until the batteries wore out. The scientist twitched and kicked like a 
half-crushed water bug, back bowed, digging at the moss with his heels and head 
and hands.
When the Taser was of no further use, Vince beat him unconscious with the 
leather sap and killed him by applying the corkscrew to the space between two 
ribs, angling it up into the beating heart.
Ssssnap.
Throughout, a sepulchral silence hung over the rain forest, but Vince sensed a 
thousand eyes watching, the eyes of wild things. He believed that the hidden 
watchers approved of what he had done to Haines because the scientists 
lifestyle made him an affront to the natural order of things, the natural order 
that all the creatures of the jungle obeyed.
He said, Thank you, to Haines, but he did not kiss the man. Not on the mouth. 
Not even on the forehead. Hainess life energy was as invigorating and welcome 
as anyones, but his body and spirit were unclean.
 
 
4
Nora went straight home from the park. The mood of adventure and the spirit of 
freedom that had colored the morning and the early afternoon could not be 
recaptured. Streck had sullied the day.
Closing the front door behind her, she engaged the regular lock, the dead-bolt 
lock, and the brass safety chain. She went through the downstairs rooms, drawing 
the drapes tightly shut at all the windows to prevent Arthur Streck from seeing 
inside if he should come prowling around. But she could not tolerate the 
resultant darkness, so she turned on every lamp in every room. In the kitchen, 
she closed the shutters and checked the lock on the back door.
Her contact with Streck had not only terrified her but had left her feeling 
dirty. More than anything, she wanted a long, hot shower.
But her legs were suddenly shaky and weak, and she was seized by a spell of 
dizziness. She had to grab hold of the kitchen table to steady herself. She knew 
she would fall if she tried to climb the stairs just then, so she sat down, 
folded her arms on the table, put her head in her arms, and waited until she 
felt better.
When the worst of the dizziness passed, she remembered the bottle of brandy in 
the cupboard by the refrigerator, and she decided a drink might help steady her. 
She had bought the brandyRemy Martinafter Violet had died because Violet had 
not approved of any stronger drink than partially fermented apple cider. As an 
act of rebellion, Nora had poured a glass of brandy for herself when she had 
come home from her aunts funeral. She had not enjoyed it and had emptied most 
of the contents of the glass down the drain. But now it seemed that a shot of 
brandy would stop her shivering.
First she went to the sink and washed her hands repeatedly under the hottest 
water she could tolerate, using both soap and then a lot of Ivory dishwashing 
liquid, scrubbing away every trace of Streck. When she was done, her hands were 
red and looked raw.
She brought the brandy bottle and a glass to the table. She had read books in 
which characters had sat down with a fifth of booze and a heavy load of despair, 
determined to use the former to wash away the latter. Sometimes it worked for 
them, so maybe it would work for her. If brandy could improve her state of mind 
even marginally, she was prepared to drink the whole damn bottle.
But she did not have it in her to be a lush. She spent the next two hours 
sipping at a single glass of Remy Martin.
When she tried to turn her mind away from thoughts of Streck, she was 
relentlessly tormented by memories of Aunt Violet, and when she tried not to 
think of Violet, she was right back to Streck again, and when she forced herself 
to put both of them out of her mind, she thought of Travis Cornell, the man in 
the park, and dwelling on him gave her no comfort either. He had seemed 
nicegentle, polite, concernedand he had gotten rid of Streck. But he was 
probably just as bad as Streck. If she gave him half a chance, Cornell would 
probably take advantage of her the same way Streck was trying to do. Aunt Violet 
had been a tyrant, twisted and sick, but increasingly it seemed that she had 
been right about the dangers of interacting with other people.
Ah, but the dog. That was a different story. She had not been afraid of the dog, 
not even when he had dashed toward the park bench, barking ferociously. Somehow, 
she knew that the retrieverEinstein, his master had called himwas not barking 
at her, that his anger was focused on Streck. Clinging to Einstein, shed felt 
safe, protected, even with Streck still looming over her.
Maybe she should get a dog of her own. Violet had abhorred the very idea of 
house pets. But Violet was dead, forever dead, and there was nothing to prevent 
Nora from having a dog of her own.
Except . .
Well, she had the peculiar notion that no other dog would give her the profound 
feeling of security she had gotten from Einstein. She and the retriever had 
enjoyed instant rapport.
Of course, because the dog rescued her from Streck, she might be attributing 
qualities to him that he did not possess. Naturally, she would view him as a 
savior, her valiant guardian. But no matter how vigorously she tried to disabuse 
herself of the notion that Einstein was only a dog like any other, she still 
felt he was special, and she was convinced no other dog would give her the 
degree of protection and companionship that Einstein could provide.
A single glass of Remy Martin, consumed over two hours, plus thoughts of 
Einstein, did in fact lift her spirits. More important, the brandy and memories 
of the dog also gave her the courage to go to the kitchen telephone with the 
determination to call Travis Cornell and offer to buy his retriever. After all, 
he had told her hed owned the dog only one day, so he couldnt be deeply 
attached to it. For the right price, he might sell. She paged through the 
directory, found Cornells number, and dialed it.
He answered on the second ring. Hello?
On hearing his voice, she realized that any attempt to buy the dog from him 
would give him a lever with which he could attempt to pry his way into her life. 
She had forgotten that he might be just as dangerous as Streck.
Hello? he repeated.
Nora hesitated.
Hello? Is anyone there?
She hung up without saying a word.
Before she spoke with Cornell about the dog, she needed to devise an approach 
that would somehow discourage him from thinking he could make a move on her if, 
in fact, he was like Streck.
 
 
5
When the telephone rang at a few minutes before five oclock, Travis was 
emptying a can of Alpo into Einsteins bowl. The retriever was watching with 
interest, licking his chops but waiting until the last scraps had been scraped 
from the can, exhibiting restraint.
Travis went for the phone, and Einstein went for the food. When no one answered 
Traviss first greeting, he said hello again, and the dog glanced away from his 
bowl. When Travis still got no answer, he asked if anyone was on the line, which 
seemed to intrigue Einstein because the dog padded across the kitchen to look up 
at the receiver in Traviss hand.
Travis hung up and turned away, but Einstein stood there, gazing at the wall 
phone.
Probably a wrong number.
Einstein glanced at him, then at the phone again.
Or kids thinking theyre being clever.
Einstein whined unhappily.
Whats eating you?
Einstein just stood there, riveted by the phone.
With a sigh, Travis said, Well, Ive had all the bewilderment I can handle for 
one day. If youre going to wax mysterious, youll have to do it without me.
He wanted to watch the early news before preparing dinner for himself, so he got 
a Diet Pepsi from the fridge and went into the living room, leaving the dog in 
peculiar communion with the telephone. He switched on the TV, sat in the big 
armchair, popped the tab on his Pepsiand heard Einstein getting into some kind 
of trouble in the kitchen.
Whatre you doing out there?
A clank. A clatter. The sound of claws scrabbling against a hard surface. A 
thump, and another.
Whatever damage you do, Travis warned, youre going to have to pay for. And 
howre you going to earn the bucks? Might have to go up to Alaska and work as a 
sled dog.
The kitchen got quiet. But only for a moment. Then there were a couple of 
clunks, a rattle, a rustle, more scrabbling of claws.
Travis was intrigued in spite of himself. He used the remote-control unit to 
mute the TV.
Something hit the kitchen floor with a bang.
Travis was about to go see what had happened, but before he rose from the chair, 
Einstein appeared. The industrious dog was carrying the telephone directory in 
his jaws. He must have leaped repeatedly at the kitchen counter where the book 
lay, pawing it, until he pulled it onto the floor. He crossed the living room 
and deposited the book in front of the armchair.
What do you want? Travis asked.
The dog nudged the directory with his nose, then gazed at Travis expectantly.
You want me to call someone?
Woof.
Who?
Einstein nosed the phone book again.
Travis said, Now who would you want me to call? Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Old 
Yeller?
The retriever stared at him with those dark, undoglike eyes, which were more 
expressive than ever but insufficient to communicate what the animal Wanted.
Listen, maybe you can read my mind, Travis said, but I cant read yours.
Whining in frustration, the retriever padded out of the room, disappearing 
around the corner into the short hallway that served the bath and two bedrooms.
Travis considered following, but he decided to wait and see what happened next.
In less than a minute, Einstein returned, carrying a gold-framed eight-by-ten 
photograph in his mouth. He dropped it beside the phone directory. It was the 
picture of Paula that Travis kept on the bedroom dresser. It had been taken on 
their wedding day, ten months before she died. She looked beautifuland 
deceptively healthy.
No good, boy. I cant call the dead.
Einstein huffed as if to say Travis was thickheaded. He went to a magazine rack 
in the corner, knocked it over, spilling its contents, and came back with an 
issue of Time, which he dropped beside the gold-framed photograph. With his 
forepaws, he scraped at the magazine, pulling it open and leafing through its 
pages, tearing a few in the process.
Moving to the edge of the armchair, leaning forward, Travis watched with 
interest.
Einstein paused a couple of times to study the open pages of the magazine, then 
continued to paw through it. Finally, he came to an automobile advertisement 
that prominently featured a striking brunette model. He looked up at Travis, 
down at the ad, up at Travis again, and woofed.
I dont get you.
Pawing the pages again, Einstein found an ad in which a smiling blonde was 
holding a cigarette. He snorted at Travis.
Cars and cigarettes? You want me to buy you a car and a pack of Virginia 
Slims?
After another trip to the overturned magazine rack, Einstein returned with a 
copy of a real-estate magazine that still showed up in the mail every month even 
though Travis had been out of the racket for two years. The dog pawed through 
that one as well until he found an ad that featured a pretty brunette 
real-estate saleswoman in a Century 21 jacket.
Travis looked at Paulas photograph, at the blonde smoking the cigarette, at the 
perky Century 21 agent, and he remembered the other ad with the brunette and the 
automobile, and he said, A woman? You want me to call . . . some woman?
Einstein barked.
Who?
With his jaws, Einstein gently took hold of Traviss wrist and tried to pull him 
out of the chair.
Okay, okay, let go. Ill follow you.
But Einstein was taking no chances. He would not let go of Traviss wrist, 
forcing his master to walk in a half-stoop all the way across the living room 
and dining room, into the kitchen, to the wall phone. There, he finally released 
Travis.
Who? Travis asked again, but suddenly he understood. There was only one woman 
whose acquaintance both he and the dog had made. Not the lady we met in the 
park today?
Einstein began to wag his tail.
And you think thats who just called us?
The tail wagged faster.
How could you know who was on the line? She didnt say a word. And what are you 
up to here, anyway? Matchmaking?
The dog woofed twice.
Well, she was certainly pretty, but she wasnt my type, fella. A little 
strange, didnt you think?
Einstein barked at him, ran to the kitchen door and jumped at it twice, turned 
to Travis and barked again, ran around the table, barking all the way, dashed to 
the door and jumped at it once more, and gradually it became apparent that he 
was deeply disturbed about something.
About the woman.
She had been in some kind of trouble this afternoon in the park. Travis 
remembered the bastard in the running shorts. He had offered to help the woman, 
and she had refused. But had she reconsidered and phoned him a few minutes ago, 
only to discover that she did not have the courage to explain her plight?
You really think thats who called?
The tail started wagging again.
Well . . . even if it was her, its not wise to get involved.
The retriever rushed at him, seized the right leg of his jeans, and shook the 
denim furiously, nearly tugging Travis off balance.
All right, already! Ill do it. Get me the damn directory.
Einstein let go of him and raced out of the room, slipping on the slick 
linoleum. He returned with the directory in his jaws.
Only as Travis took the phone book did he realize that he had expected the dog 
to understand his request. The animals extraordinary intelligence and abilities 
were now things that Travis took for granted.
With a jolt, he also realized that the dog would not have brought the directory 
to him in the living room if it had not understood the purpose of such a book.
By God, fur face, you have been well named, havent you?
 
 
6
Although Nora usually ate dinner no earlier than seven, she was hungry. The 
morning walk and the glass of brandy had given her an appetite that even 
thoughts of Streck could not spoil. She didnt feel like cooking, so she 
prepared a platter of fresh fruit and some cheese, plus a croissant heated in 
the oven.
Nora usually ate dinner in her room, in bed with a magazine or book, because she 
was happiest there. Now, as she prepared a platter to take upstairs, the 
telephone rang.
Streck.
It must be him. Who else? She received few calls.
She froze, listening to the phone. Even after it stopped, she leaned against the 
kitchen counter, feeling weak, waiting for the ringing to start again.
 
 
7
When Nora Devon did not answer her telephone, Travis was ready to go back to the 
evening news on TV, but Einstein was still agitated. The retriever leaped up 
against the counter, pawed at the directory, pulled it to the floor again, took 
it in his jaws, and hurried out of the kitchen.
Curious about the dogs next move, Travis followed and found him waiting at the 
front door with the phone book still in his mouth.
What now?
Einstein put one paw on the door.
You want to go out?
The dog whined, but the sound was muffled by the directory in his mouth. 
Whatre you going to do with the phone book out there? Bury it like a bone? 
Whats up?
Although he received answers to none of his questions, Travis opened the door 
and let the retriever out into the golden, late-afternoon sunshine. Einstein 
dashed straight to the pickup parked in the driveway. He stood at the passenger 
door, looking back with what might have been impatience.
Travis walked to the truck and looked down at the retriever. He sighed. I 
suspect you want to go somewhere, and I suspect you dont have in mind the 
offices of the telephone company.
Dropping the directory, Einstein jumped up, put his forepaws against the door of 
the truck and stood there, looking over his shoulder at Travis. He barked.
You want me to look up Miss Devons address in the phone book and go there. Is 
that it?
One woof.
Sorry, Travis said. I know you liked her, but Im not in the market for a 
woman. Besides, shes not my type. I already told you that. And Im not her 
type, either. Fact is, I have a hunch that nobodys her type.
The dog barked.
NO
The dog dropped to the ground, rushed at Travis, and took hold of one leg of his 
jeans again.
No, he said, reaching down and grabbing Einstein by the collar. Theres no 
point chewing up my wardrobe, because Im not going.
Einstein let go, twisted out of his grasp, and sprinted to the long bed of 
brightly blooming impatiens, where he started to dig furiously, tossing mangled 
flowers onto the lawn behind him.
Whatre you doing now, for Gods sake?
The dog kept digging industriously, working his way through the bed, back and 
forth, apparently bent on totally destroying it.
Hey, stop that! Travis hurried toward the retriever.
Einstein fled to the other end of the front yard and commenced digging a hole in 
the grass.
Travis went after him.
Einstein escaped once more to another corner of the lawn, where he began ripping 
out more grass, then to the birdbath, which he tried to undermine, then back to 
what was left of the impatiens.
Unable to catch the retriever, Travis finally halted, gasped for breath, and 
shouted, Enough!
Einstein stopped digging in the flowers and raised his head, snaky trailers of 
coral-red impatiens dangling from his mouth.
Well go, Travis said.
Einstein dropped the flowers and came out of the ruins, onto the lawn warily.
No tricks, Travis promised. If it means that much to you, then well go see 
the woman. But God knows what Im going to say to her.
 
 
8
With her dinner platter in one hand and a bottle of Evian in the other, Nora 
went along the downstairs hallway, comforted by the sight of lights blazing in 
every room. On the upstairs landing, she used her elbow to flick the switch for 
the second-floor hall lights. She would need to include a lot of light bulbs in 
her next grocery order because she intended to leave all the lights burning day 
and night for the foreseeable future. It was an expense she did not in the least 
begrudge.
Still buoyed by the brandy, she began to sing softly to herself as she headed 
for her room: Moon River, wider than a mile . .
She stepped through the door. Streck was lying on the bed.
He grinned and said, Hi, babe.
For an instant she thought he was a hallucination, but when he spoke she knew he 
was real, and she cried out, and the platter fell from her hand, Scattering 
fruit and cheese across the floor.
Oh my, what an awful mess youve made, he said, sitting up and swinging his 
legs over the edge of the bed. He was still wearing his running shorts, athletic 
socks, and running shoes; nothing else. But theres no need to clean it up now. 
Theres other business to take care of first. I been waiting a long time for you 
to come upstairs. Waiting and thinking about you . . . getting Primed for you. . 
. He stood. And now its time to teach you what youve never learned.
Nora could not move. Could not breathe.
He must have come to the house directly from the park, arriving before
she did. He had forced entry, leaving no trace of a break-in, and hed been 
waiting here on the bed all the time shed been sipping brandy in the kitchen. 
There was something about his waiting up here that was creepier than anything 
else he had done, waiting and teasing himself with the promise of her, getting a 
kick out of listening to her putter around downstairs in ignorance of his 
presence.
When he was finished with her, would he kill her?
She turned and ran into the second-floor hallway.
As she put her hand on the newel post at the head of the stairs and started 
down, she heard Streck behind het.
She plunged down the steps, taking them two and three at a time, terrified that 
she was going to twist an ankle and fall, and at the landing her knee nearly 
buckled, and she stumbled but kept going, leaped down the last flight, into the 
first-floor hall.
Seizing her from behind, catching the baggy shoulders of her dress, Streck spun 
her around to face him.
 
 
9
As Travis swung to the curb in front of the Devon house, Einstein stood on the 
front seat, placed both forepaws on the door handle, bore down with all of his 
weight, and opened the door. Another neat trick. He was out of the truck and 
galloping up the front walkway before Travis had engaged the hand brake and 
switched off the engine.
Seconds later, Travis reached the foot of the veranda steps in time to see the 
retriever on the porch as he stood on his hind paws and hit the doorbell with 
one forepaw. The bell was audible from inside.
Climbing the steps, Travis said, Now, what the devils gotten into you?
The dog rang the bell again.
Give her a chance
As Einstein hit the button a third time, Travis heard a man shout in anger and 
pain. Then a womans cry for help.
Barking as ferociously as he had done in the woods yesterday, Einstein clawed at 
the door as if he actually believed he could tear his way through it.
Pressing forward, Travis peered through a clear segment in the stained-glass 
window. The hallway was brightly lit, so he was able to see two people 
struggling only a few feet away.
Einstein was barking, snarling, going crazy.
Travis tried the door, found it locked. He used his elbow to smash in a couple 
of the stained-glass segments, reached inside, fumbled for the lock, located it 
and the security chain, and went inside just as the guy in running shorts pushed 
the woman aside and turned to face him.
Einstein didnt give Travis a chance to act. The retriever bolted along the 
hallway, straight toward the runner.
The guy reacted as anyone would upon seeing a charging dog the size of this one: 
he ran. The woman tried to trip him, and he stumbled but did not fall. At the 
end of the corridor, he slammed through a swinging door, out of sight.
Einstein raced past Nora Devon and reached the still-swinging door at full tilt, 
timing his approach perfectly, streaking through the opening as the door rocked 
inward. He vanished after the runner. In the room beyond the swinging doorthe 
kitchen, Travis figuredthere was much barking, snarling, and shouting. 
Something fell with a crash, then something else made an even louder crash, and 
the runner cursed, and Einstein made a vicious sound that gave Travis a chill, 
and the din grew worse.
He went to Nora Devon. She was leaning against the newel post at the bottom of 
the stairs. He said, You okay?
He almost . . . almost . .
But he didnt, Travis guessed.
No.
He touched the blood on her chin. Youre hurt.
His blood, she said, seeing it on Traviss fingertips. I bit the bastard. 
She looked toward the swinging door, which had stopped moving now. Dont let 
him hurt the dog.
Not likely, Travis said.
The noise in the kitchen subsided as Travis pushed through the swinging door. 
Two ladder-back chairs had been knocked over. A large blue-flowered ceramic 
cookie jar lay in pieces on the tile floor, and oatmeal cookies were scattered 
across the room, some whole and some broken and some squashed. The runner was 
sitting in a corner, his bare legs pulled up, hands crossed defensively on his 
chest. One of the mans shoes was missing, and Travis suspected the dog had 
gotten hold of it. The runners right hand was bleeding, which was evidently 
Nora Devons work. He was also bleeding from his left calf, but that wound 
appeared to be a dog bite. Einstein was guarding him, staying back out of range 
of a kick, but ready to tear at the runner if the guy was foolish enough to 
attempt to leave the corner.
Nice job, Travis told the dog. Very nice indeed.
Einstein made a whining sound that indicated acceptance of the praise. But when 
the runner started to move, the happy whine turned instantly to a snarl. 
Einstein snapped at the man, who jerked back into the corner again.
Youre finished, Travis told the runner.
He bit me! They both bit me. Petulant rage. Astonishment. Disbelief. flit 
me.
Like a lot of bullies whod had their way all of their lives, this man was 
shocked to discover he could be hurt, beaten. Experience had taught him that 
people would always back down if he pressed them hard enough and if he kept a 
crazy-mean look in his eyes. He thought he could never lose. Now, his face was 
pale, and he looked as if he was in a state of shock.
Travis went to the phone and called the police.
 
FIVE
1
Late Thursday morning, May 20, when Vincent Nasco returned from his one-day 
vacation in Acapulco, he picked up the Times at the Los Angeles International 
Airport before taking the commuter vanthey called it a limousine, but it was a 
vanback to Orange County. He read the newspaper during the trip to his 
townhouse in Huntington Beach, and on page three he saw the story about the fire 
at Banodyne Laboratories in Irvine.
The blaze had broken out shortly after six oclock yesterday morning, when Vince 
had been on his way to the airport to catch the plane to Acapulco. One of the 
two Banodyne buildings had been gutted before the firemen had brought the flames 
under control.
The people who had hired Vince to kill Davis Weatherby, Lawton Haines, the 
Yarbecks, and the Hudstons had almost certainly employed an arsonist to torch 
Banodyne. They seemed to be trying to eradicate all records of the Francis 
Project, both those stored in Banodyne files and those in the minds of the 
scientists who had participated in the research.
The newspaper said nothing about Banodynes defense contracts, which were 
apparently not public knowledge. The company was referred to as a leader in the 
genetic-engineering industry, with a special focus on the development of 
revolutionary new drugs derived from recombinant-DNA research.
A night watchman had died in the blaze. The Times offered no explanation as to 
why he had been unable to flee the fire. Vince figured the guy had been killed 
by intruders, then incinerated to cover the murder.
The commuter van ferried Vince to the front door of his townhouse. The rooms 
were cool and shadowy. On the uncarpeted floors, each footstep was hard and 
clearly defined, echoing hollowly through the nearly empty house.
He had owned the place for two years, but he had not fully furnished it. In 
fact, the dining room, den, and two of the three bedrooms contained nothing 
except cheap drapes for privacy.
Vince believed that the townhouse was a way station, a temporary residence from 
which he would one day move to a house on the beach at Rincon, where the surf 
and the surfers were legendary, where the vast rolling sea was the overwhelming 
fact of life. But his failure to furnish his current residence had nothing to do 
with its temporary status in his plans. He simply liked bare white walls, clean 
concrete floors, and empty rooms.
When he eventually purchased his dream house, Vince intended to have polished 
white ceramic tile installed on the floors and walls in every one of its big 
rooms. There would be no wood, no stone or brick, no textured surfaces to 
provide the visual warmth that other people seemed to prize. The furniture 
would be built to his specifications, with several coats of glossy white enamel, 
upholstered in white vinyl. The only deviations that he would permit from all 
those shiny white surfaces would be the necessary use of glass and highly 
polished steel. Then, there, thus encapsulated, he would at last feel at peace 
and at home for the first time in his life.
Now, after unpacking his suitcase, he went down to the kitchen to prepare lunch. 
Tuna fish. Three hard-boiled eggs. Half a dozen rye crackers. Two apples and an 
orange. A bottle of Gatorade.
The kitchen had a small table and one chair in the corner, but he ate upstairs 
in the sparsely furnished master bedroom. He sat in a chair at the window that 
faced west. The ocean was only a block away, on the other side of the Coast 
Highway and beyond a wide public beach, and from the second floor he could see 
the rolling water.
The sky was partially overcast, so the sea was dappled with sunshine and 
shadows. In some places it looked like molten chrome, but in other places it 
might have been a surging mass of dark blood.
The day was warm, though it looked strangely cold, wintry.
Staring at the ocean, he always felt that the ebb and flow of blood through his 
veins and arteries was in perfect sympathy with the rhythm of the tides.
When he finished eating, he sat for a while in communion with the sea, crooning 
to himself, looking through his faint reflection on the glass as if peering 
through the wall of an aquarium, although he felt himself to be within the ocean 
even now, far beneath the waves in a clean, cool, endless world of silence.
Later in the afternoon, he drove his van to Irvine and located Banodyne 
Laboratories. Banodyne was set against the backdrop of the Santa Ana Mountains. 
The company had two buildings on a multiple-acre lot that was surprisingly large 
in an area of such expensive real estate: one L-shaped two-story structure and a 
larger V-shaped single story with only a few narrow Windows that made it look 
fortresslike. Both were very modern in design, a striking mix of flat planes and 
sensuous curves faced in dark green and gray marble, quite attractive. 
Surrounded by an employee parking lot and by immense expanses of well-maintained 
grass, shaded by a few palms and coral trees, the buildings were actually larger 
than they appeared to be, for their true scale was distorted and diminished by 
that enormous piece of flat land.
The fire had been confined to the V-shaped building that housed the labs. The 
only indications of destruction were a few broken windows and soot Stains on the 
marble above those narrow openings.
The property was not walled or fenced, so Vince could have walked onto it from 
the street if he had wished, although there was a simple gate and
guard booth at the three-lane entrance road. Judging by the guards sidearm and 
by the subtly forbidding look of the building that housed the research
labs, Vince suspected the lawns were monitored electronically and that, at 
night, sophisticated alarm systems would alert watchmen to an intruders 
presence before he had taken more than a few steps across the grass. The 
arsonist must have been skilled at more than setting fires; he must also have 
had a wide knowledge of security systems.
Vince cruised past the place, then turned and drove by from the other direction. 
Like spectral presences, cloud shadows moved slowly across the lawn and slid up 
the walls of the buildings. Something about Banodyne gave it a 
portentousperhaps even slightly ominouslook. And Vince did not think that he 
was letting his view of the place be unduly colored by the research that he knew 
to have been conducted there.
He drove home to Huntington Beach.
Having gone to Banodyne in the hope that seeing the place would help him decide 
how to proceed, he was disappointed. He still did not know what to do next. He 
could not figure out to whom he could sell his information for a price worth the 
risk he was taking. Not to the U.S. government: it was their information to 
begin with. And not to the Soviets, the natural adversary, for it was the 
Soviets who had paid him to kill Weatherby, the Yarbecks, the Hudstons, and 
Haines.
Of course, he couldnt prove he had been working for the Soviets. They were 
clever when they hired a freelancer like him. But he had worked for these people 
as often as he had taken contracts from the mob, and based on dozens of clues 
over the years, he had decided they were Soviets. Once in a while he dealt with 
people other than the usual three contacts in L.A., and invariably they spoke 
with what sounded like Russian accents. Furthermore, their targets were usually 
political to at least some degreeor, as in the case of the Banodyne kills, 
military targets. And their information always proved more thorough, accurate, 
and sophisticated than the information he was given by the mob when he 
contracted for a simple gangland hit.
So who would pay for such sensitive defense information if not the U.S. or the 
Soviets? Some third-world dictator looking for a way to circumvent the nuclear 
capabilities of the most powerful countries? The Francis Project might give some 
pocket Hitler that edge, elevate him to a world power, and he might pay well for 
it. But who wanted to risk dealing with Qaddafi types? Not Vince.
Besides, he possessed information about the existence of the revolutionary 
research at Banodyne, but he did not have detailed files on how the Francis 
Projects miracles had been accomplished. He had less to sell than hed first 
thought.
However, in the back of his mind, an idea had been growing since yesterday. Now, 
as he continued to puzzle over a potential buyer for his information, that idea 
flowered.
The dog.
At home again, he sat in his bedroom, staring out at the sea. He sat there even 
after nightfall, after he could no longer see the water, and he thought about 
the dog.
Hudston and Haines had told him so much about the retriever that hed begun to 
realize his knowledge of the Francis Project, although potentially explosive and 
valuable, was not one-thousandth as valuable as the dog itself. The retriever 
could be exploited in many ways; it was a money machine with a tail. For one 
thing, he could probably sell it back to the government or to the Russians for a 
bargeload of cash. If he could find the dog, he would be able to achieve 
financial independence.
But how could he locate it?
All over southern California, a quiet searchalmost secret yet gigantic must be 
under way. The Defense Department would be putting tremendous manpower into the 
hunt, and if Vince crossed paths with those searchers, they would want to know 
who he was. He could not afford to draw attention to himself.
Furthermore, if he conducted his own search of the nearest Santa Ana foothills, 
into which the lab escapees had almost surely fled, he might encounter the wrong 
one. He might miss the golden retriever and stumble upon The Outsider, and that 
could be dangerous. Deadly.
Beyond the bedroom window, the cloud-armored night sky and the sea flowed 
together in blackness as dark as the far side of the moon.
 
 
2
On Thursday, one day after Einstein cornered Arthur Streck in Nora Devons 
kitchen, Streck was arraigned on charges of breaking and entering, assault and 
battery, and attempted rape. Because he had previously been convicted of rape 
and had served two years of a three-year sentence, his bail was high; he could 
not meet it. And since he could not locate a bondsman who would trust him, he 
seemed destined to remain in jail until his case came to trial, which was a 
great relief to Nora.
On Friday, she went to lunch with Travis Cornell.
She was startled to hear herself accept his invitation. It was true that Travis 
had seemed genuinely shocked to learn of the terror and harassment she had 
endured at Strecks hands, and it was also true that to some extent she owed her 
dignity and perhaps her life to his arrival at the penultimate moment. Yet years 
of indoctrination in Aunt Violets paranoia could not be washed away in a few 
days, and a residue of unreasonable suspicion and wariness clung to Nora. She 
would have been dismayed, maybe even shattered, if Travis had suddenly tried to 
force himself upon her, but she would not have been surprised. Having been 
encouraged since early childhood to expect the worst from people, she could be 
surprised only by kindness and compassion.
Nevertheless, she went to lunch with him.
At first, she did not know why.
However, she did not have to think long to find the answer: the dog. She wanted 
to be near the dog because he made her feel secure and because shed
never before been the recipient of such unrestrained affection as Einstein 
lavished on her. She had never previously been the object of any affection from 
anyone, and she liked it even if it came from an animal. Besides, in her heart 
Nora knew that Travis Cornell must be completely trustworthy because Einstein 
trusted him, and Einstein did not seem easily fooled.
They ate lunch at a caf that had a few linen-draped tables outside on a brick 
patio, under white- and blue-striped umbrellas, where they were permitted to 
clip the dogs leash to the wrought-iron table leg and keep him with them. 
Einstein was well-behaved, lying quietly most of the time. Occasionally he 
raised his head to gaze at them with his soulful eyes until they relinquished 
scraps of food, though he was not a pest about it.
Nora did not have much experience with dogs, but she thought that Einstein was 
unusually alert and inquisitive. He frequently shifted his position in order to 
watch the other diners, with whom he seemed intrigued.
Nora was intrigued with everything. This was her first meal in a restaurant, and 
although she had read about people having lunch and dinner in thousands of 
restaurants in countless novels, she was still amazed and delighted by every 
detail. The single rose in the milk-white vase. The matchbooks with the 
establishments name embossed on them. The way the butter had been molded into 
round pats with a flower pattern on each, then served on a bowl of crushed ice. 
The slice of lemon in the ice water. The chilled salad fork was an especially 
amazing touch.
Look at this, she said to Travis after their entres had been served and the 
waiter had departed.
He frowned at her plate and said, Something wrong?
No, no. I mean . . . these vegetables.
Baby carrots, baby squash.
Where do they get them so tiny? And look how theyve scalloped the edge of this 
tomato. Everythings so pretty. How do they ever find the time to make 
everything so pretty?
She knew these things that astonished her were things he took for granted, knew 
that her amazement revealed her lack of experience and sophistication, making 
her seem like a child. She frequently blushed, sometimes stammered in 
embarrassment, but she could not restrain herself from commenting on these 
marvels. Travis smiled at her almost continuously, but it was not a patronizing 
smile, thank God; he seemed genuinely delighted by the pleasure she took in new 
discoveries and small luxuries.
By the time they finished coffee and desserta kiwi tart for her, strawberries 
and cream for Travis, and a chocolate clair that Einstein did not have to share 
with anyoneNora had been engaged in the longest conversation of her life. They 
passed two and a half hours without an awkward silence, mainly discussing books 
becausegiven Noras reclusive lifea love of books was virtually the only thing 
they had in common. That and loneliness. He, seemed genuinely interested in her 
opinions of novelists, and he had some fascinating insights into books, insights 
which had eluded her. She laughed more in one afternoon than she had laughed in 
an entire year. But the
experience was so exhilarating that she occasionally felt dizzy, and by the time 
they left the restaurant she could not precisely remember anything they had 
actually said; it was all a colorful blur. She was experiencing sensory overload 
analogous to what a primitive tribesman might feel if suddenly deposited in the 
middle of New York City, and she needed time to absorb and process all that had 
happened to her.
Having walked to the caf from her house, where Travis had left his pickup 
truck, they now made the return trip on foot, and Nora held the dogs leash all 
the way. Einstein never tried to pull away from her, never tangled the leash 
around her legs, but padded along at her side or in front of her, docile, now 
and then looking up at her with a sweet expression that made her smile.
Hes a good dog, she said. Very good, Travis agreed. So well behaved.
Usually.
And so cute.
Dont flatter him too much.
Are you afraid hell become vain?
Hes already vain, Travis said. If he were any more vain, hed be impossible 
to live with.
The dog looked back and up at Travis, and sneezed loudly as if ridiculing his 
masters comment.
Nora laughed. Sometimes it almost seems he can understand every word youre 
saying.
Sometimes, Travis agreed.
When they arrived at the house, Nora wanted to invite him in. But she wasnt 
sure if the invitation would seem too bold, and she was afraid Travis would 
misinterpret it. She knew she was being a nervous old maid, knew she couldand 
ought totrust him, but Aunt Violet suddenly loomed in her memory, full of dire 
warnings about men, and Nora could not bring herself to do what she knew was 
right. The day had been perfect, and she dreaded extending it further for fear 
something would happen to sully the entire memory, leaving her with nothing 
good, so she merely thanked him for lunch and did not even dare to shake his 
hand.
She did, however, stoop down and hug the dog. Einstein nuzzled her neck and 
licked her throat once, making her giggle. She had never heard herself giggle 
before. She would have clung to him and petted him for hours if her enthusiasm 
for the dog had not, by comparison, made her wariness of Travis even more 
evident.
Standing in the open door, she watched them as they got into the pickup and 
drove away.
Travis waved at her.
She waved, too.
Then the truck reached the corner and began to turn right, out of sight, and 
Nora regretted her cowardice, wished shed asked Travis in for a while. She 
almost ran after them, almost shouted his name and almost rushed down
the steps to the sidewalk in pursuit. But then the truck was gone, and she was 
alone again. Reluctantly, she went into the house and closed the door on the 
brighter world outside.
 
 
3
The Bell JetRanger executive helicopter flashed over the tree-filled ravines and 
balding ridges of the Santa Ana foothills, its shadow running ahead of it 
because the sun was in the west as Friday afternoon waned. Approaching the head 
of Holy Jim Canyon, Lemuel Johnson looked out the window in the passenger 
compartment and saw four of the county sheriffs squad cars lined up along the 
narrow dirt lane down there. A couple of other vehicles, including the coroners 
wagon and a Jeep Cherokee that probably belonged to the victim, were parked at 
the stone cabin. The pilot had barely enough room to put the chopper down in the 
clearing. Even before the engine died and the sun-bronzed rotors began to slow, 
Lem was out of the craft, hurrying toward the cabin, with his right-hand man, 
Cliff Soames, close behind him.
Walt Gaines, the county sheriff, stepped out of the cabin as Lem approached. 
Gaines was a big man, six-four and at least two hundred pounds, with enormous 
shoulders and a barrel chest. His corn-yellow hair and cornflower-blue eyes 
would have lent him a movie-idol look if his face had not been so broad and his 
features blunt. He was fifty-five, looked forty, and wore his hair only slightly 
longer than he had during his twenty years in the Marine Corps.
Although Lem Johnson was a black man, every bit as dark as Walt was white, 
though he was seven inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter than Walt, though he 
had come from an upper-middle-class black family while Walts folks had been 
poor white trash from Kentucky, though Lem was ten years younger than the 
sheriff, the two were friends. More than friends. Buddies. They played bridge 
together, went deep-sea fishing together, and found unadulterated pleasure in 
sitting in lawn chairs on one or the others patio, drinking Corona beer and 
solving all of the worlds problems. Their wives even became best friends, a 
serendipitous development that was, according to Walt, a miracle, cause the 
womans never liked anyone else Ive introduced her to in thirty-two years.
To Lem, his friendship with Walt Gaines was also a miracle, for he was not a man 
who made friends easily. He was a workaholic and did not have the leisure to 
nurture an acquaintance carefully into a more enduring relationship. Of course, 
careful nurturing hadnt been necessary with Walt; they had clicked the first 
time theyd met, had recognized similar attitudes and points of view in each 
other. By the time they had known each other six months, it seemed they had been 
close since boyhood. Lem valued their friendship nearly as much as he valued his 
marriage to Karen. The pressure of his job would be harder to endure if he 
couldnt let off some steam with Walt once in a while.
Now, as the choppers blades fell silent, Walt Gaines said, Cant figure why 
the murder of a grizzled old canyon squatter would interest you feds.
Good, Lem said. Youre not supposed to figure it, and you really dont want 
to know.
Anyway, I sure didnt expect youd come yourself. Thought youd send some of 
your flunkies.
NSA agents dont like to be called flunkies, Lem said.
Looking at Cliff Soames, Walt said, But thats how he treats you fellas, isnt 
it? Like flunkies?
Hes a tyrant, Cliff confirmed. He was thirty-one, with red hair and freckles. 
He looked more like an earnest young preacher than like an agent of the National 
Security Agency.
Well, Cliff, Walt Gaines said, youve got to understand where Lem comes from. 
His father was a downtrodden black businessman who never made more than two 
hundred thousand a year. Deprived, you see. So Lem, he figures hes got to make 
you white boys jump through hoops whenever he can, to make up for all those 
years of brutal oppression.
He makes me call him Massah,  Cliff said.
I dont doubt it, Walt said.
Lem sighed and said, You two are about as amusing as a groin injury. Wheres 
the body?
This way, Massah, Walt said.
As a gust of warm afternoon wind shook the surrounding trees, as the canyon hush 
gave way to the whispering of leaves, the sheriff led Lem and Cliff into the 
first of the cabins two rooms
Lem understood, at once, why Walt had been so jokey. The forced humor was a 
reaction to the horror inside the cabin. It was somewhat like laughing aloud in 
a graveyard at night to chase away the willies.
Two armchairs were overturned, upholstery slashed. Cushions from the sofa had 
been ripped to expose the white foam padding. Paperbacks had been pulled off a 
corner bookcase, torn apart, and scattered all over the room. Glass shards from 
the big window sparkled gemlike in the ruins. The debris and the walls were 
spattered with blood, and a lot of dried blood darkened the light-pine floor.
Like a pair of crows searching for brightly colored threads with which to dress 
up their nest, two lab technicians in black suits were carefully probing through 
the ruins. Occasionally one of them made a soft wordless cawing Sound and 
plucked at something with tweezers, depositing it in a plastic envelope.
Evidently, the body had been examined and photographed, for it had been 
transferred into an opaque plastic mortuary bag and was lying near the door, 
waiting to be carried out to the meat wagon.
Looking down at the half-visible corpse in the sack, which was only a vaguely 
human shape beneath the milky plastic, Lem said, What was his name?
Wes Dalberg, Walt said. Lived here ten years or more.
Who found him?
A neighbor.
When was he killed?
Near as we can tell, about three days ago. Maybe Tuesday night. Have to wait 
for lab tests to pinpoint it. Weathers been pretty warm lately, which makes a 
difference in the rate of decomposition.
Tuesday night . . . In the predawn hours of Tuesday morning, the breakout had 
occurred at Banodyne. By Tuesday night, The Outsider could have traveled this 
far.
Lem thought about thatand shivered.
Cold? Walt asked sarcastically.
Lem didnt respond. They were friends, yes, and they were both officers of the 
law, one local and one federal, but in this case they served opposing interests. 
Walts job was to find the truth and bring it to the public, but Lems job was 
to put a lid on the case and keep it clamped down tight.
Sure stinks in here, Cliff Soames said.
You shouldve smelled it before we got the stiff in the bag, Walt said. 
Ripe.
Not just . . . decomposition, Cliff said.
No, Walt said, pointing here and there to stains that were not caused by 
blood. Urine and feces, too.
The victims?
Dont think so, Walt said.
Done any preliminary tests of it? Lem asked, trying not to sound worried. 
On-site microscopic exam?
Nope. Well take samples back to the lab. We think it belongs to whatever came 
crashing through that window.
Looking up from the body bag, Lem said, You mean the man who killed Dalberg.
Wasnt a man, Walt said, and I figure you know that.
Not a man? Lem said.
At least not a man like you or me.
Then what do you think it was?
Damned if I know, Walt said, rubbing the back of his bristly head with one big 
hand. But judging from the body, the killer had sharp teeth, maybe claws, and a 
nasty disposition. Does that sound like what youre looking for?
Lem could not be baited.
For a moment, no one spoke.
A fresh piny breeze came through the shattered window, blowing away some of the 
noxious stench.
One of the lab men said, Ah, and plucked something from the rubble with his 
tweezers.
Lem sighed wearily. This situation was no good. They would not find enough to 
tell them what killed Dalberg, though they would gather sufficient evidence to 
make them curious as hell. However, this was a matter of national defense, in 
which no civilian would be wise to indulge his curiosity. Lem was going to have 
to put a stop to their investigation. He hoped he could intervene without 
angering Walt. It would be a real test of their friendship.
Suddenly, staring at the body bag, Lem realized something was wrong with the 
shape of the corpse. He said, The head isnt here.
You feds dont miss a trick, do you? Walt said.
He was decapitated? Cliff Soames asked uneasily.
This way, Walt said, leading them into the second room.
It was a largeif primitivekitchen with a hand pump in the sink and an 
old-fashioned wood-burning stove.
Except for the head, there were no signs of violence in the kitchen. Of course, 
the head was bad enough. It was in the center of the table. On a plate.
Jesus, Cliff said softly.
When they had entered the room, a police photographer had been taking shots of 
the head from various angles. He was not finished, but he stepped back to give 
them a better view.
The dead mans eyes were missing, torn out. The empty sockets seemed as deep as 
wells.
Cliff Soames had turned so white that, by contrast, his freckles burned on his 
skin as if they were flecks of fire.
Lem felt sick, not merely because of what had happened to Wes Dalberg but 
because of all the deaths yet to come. He was proud of both his management and 
investigatory skills, and he knew he could handle this case better than anyone 
else. But he was also a hardheaded pragmatist, incapable of underestimating the 
enemy or of pretending there would be a quick ending to this nightmare. He would 
need time and patience and luck to track down the killer, and meanwhile more 
bodies would pile up.
The head had not been cut off the dead man. It was not as neat as that. It 
appeared to have been clawed and chewed and wrenched off.
Lems palms were suddenly damp.
Strange . . . how the empty sockets of the head transfixed him as surely as if 
they had contained wide, staring eyes.
In the hollow of his back, a single droplet of sweat traced the course of his 
Spine. He was more scared than he had ever beenor had ever thought he could 
bebut he did not want to be taken off the job for any reason. It was vitally 
important to the very security of the nation and the safety of the public that 
this emergency be handled right, and he knew no one was likely to perform as 
well as he could. That was not just ego talking. Everyone said he Was the best, 
and he knew they were right; he had a justifiable pride and no false modesty. 
This was his case, and he would stay with it to the end.
His folks had raised him with an almost too-keen sense of duty and 
responsibility. A black man, his father used to say, has to do a job twice
as well as a white man in order to get any credit at all. Thats nothing to be 
bitter about. Nothing worth protesting. Its just a fact of life. Might as well 
protest the weather turning cold in winter. Instead of protesting, the thing to 
do is just face facts, work twice as hard, and youll get where you want to go 
And you must succeed because you carry the flag for all your brothers. As a 
result of that upbringing, Lem was incapable of less than total, unhesitating 
commitment to every assignment. He dreaded failure, rarely encountered it, but 
could be thrown into a deep funk for weeks when the successful conclusion of a 
case eluded him.
Talk to you outside a minute? Walt asked, moving to the open rear door of the 
cabin.
Lem nodded. To Cliff, he said, Stay here. Make sure nobodypathologists, 
photographer, uniformed cops, nobodyleaves before Ive had a chance to talk to 
them.
Yes, sir, Cliff said. He headed quickly toward the front of the cabin to 
inform everyone that they were temporarily quarantinedand to get away from the 
eyeless head.
Lem followed Walt Gaines into the clearing behind the cabin. He noticed a metal 
hod and firewood scattered over the ground, and paused to study those objects.
We think it started out here, Walt said. Maybe Dalberg was getting wood for 
the fireplace. Maybe something came out of those trees, so he threw the hod at 
it and ran into the house.
They stood in the bloody-orange late-afternoon sunlight, at the perimeter of the 
trees, peering into the purple shadows and mysterious green depths of the 
forest.
Lem was uneasy. He wondered if the escapee from Weatherbys lab was nearby, 
watching them.
So whats up? Walt asked.
Cant say.
National security?
Thats right.
The spruces and pines and sycamores rustled in the breeze, and he thought he 
heard something moving furtively through the brush.
Imagination, of course. Nevertheless, Lem was glad that both he and Walt Gaines 
were armed with reliable pistols in accessible shoulder holsters.
Walt said, You can keep your lip zipped if you insist, but you cant keep me 
totally in the dark. I can figure out a few things for myself. Im not stupid.
Never thought you were.
Tuesday morning, every damn police department in Orange and San Bernardino 
counties gets an urgent request from your NSA asking us to be prepared to 
cooperate in a manhunt, details to follow. Which puts us all on edge. We know 
what you guys are responsible forguarding defense research, keeping the 
vodka-pissing Russians from stealing our secrets. And since Southern 
Californias the home of half the defense contractors in the country, theres 
plenty to be stolen here.
Lem kept his eyes on the woods, kept his mouth shut.
So, Walt continued, we figure were going to be looking for a Russian agent 
with something hot in his pockets, and were happy to have a chance to help kick 
some ass for Uncle Sam. But by noon, instead of getting details, we get a 
cancellation of the request. No manhunt after all. Everythings under control, 
your office tells us. Original alert was issued in error, you say.
Thats right. The agency had realized that local police could not be 
sufficiently controlled and, therefore, could not be fully trusted. It was a job 
for the military. Issued in error.
Like hell. By late afternoon of the same day, we learn Marine choppers from El 
Toro are quartering the Santa Ana foothills. And by Wednesday morning, a hundred 
Marines with high-tech tracking gear are flown in from Camp Pendleton to carry 
on the search at ground level.
I heard about that, but it had nothing to do with my agency, Lem said.
Walt studiously avoided looking at Lem. He stared off into the trees. Clearly, 
he knew Lem was lying to him, knew that Lem had to lie to him, and he felt it 
would be a breach of good manners to make Lem do it while they maintained eye 
contact. Though he looked crude and ill-mannered, Walt Gaines was an unusually 
considerate man with a rare talent for friendship.
But he was also the county sheriff, and it was his duty to keep probing even 
though he knew Lem would reveal nothing. He said, Marines tell us its just a 
training exercise.
Thats what I heard.
Were always notified of training exercises ten days ahead.
Lem did not reply. He thought he saw something in the forest, a flicker of 
shadows, a darkish presence moving through piny gloom.
So the Marines spend all day Wednesday and half of Thursday out there in the 
hills. But when reporters hear about this exercise and come snooping around, 
the leathernecks suddenly call it off, pack up, go home. It was almost as if . . 
. whatever they were looking for was so worrisome, so damn topsecret that theyd 
rather not find it at all if finding it meant letting the press know about it.
Squinting into the forest, Lem strained to see through steadily deepening 
shadows, trying to catch another glimpse of the movement that had drawn his 
attention a moment ago.
Walt said, Then yesterday afternoon the NSA asks to be kept informed about any 
peculiar reports, unusual assaults, or exceedingly violent murders. We ask for 
clarification, dont get any.
There. A ripple in the murkiness beneath the evergreen boughs. About eighty feet 
in from the perimeter of the woods. Something moving quickly and stealthily from 
one sheltering shadow to another. Lem put his right hand under his coat, on the 
butt of the pistol in his shoulder holster.
But then just one day later, Walt said, we find this poor son of a bitch 
Dalberg torn to piecesand the case is peculiar as hell and about as 
exceedingly violent as I ever hope to see. Now here you are, Mr. Lemuel Asa 
Johnson, director of the Southern California Office of the NSA, and I know you 
didnt come coppering in here just to ask me whether I want onion or guacamole 
dip at tomorrow nights bridge game.
The movement was closer than eighty feet, much closer. Lem had been confused by 
the layers of shadows and by the queerly distorting late-afternoon sunlight that 
penetrated the trees. The thing was no more than forty feet away, maybe closer, 
and suddenly it came straight at them, bounded at them through the brush, and 
Lem cried out, drew the pistol from his holster, and involuntarily stumbled 
backward a few steps before taking a shooters stance with his legs spread wide, 
both hands on the gun.
Its just a mule deer! Walt Gaines said.
Indeed it was. Just a mule deer.
The deer stopped a dozen feet away, under the drooping boughs of a spruce, 
peering at them with huge brown eyes that were bright with curiosity. Its head 
was held high, ears pricked up.
Theyre so used to people in these canyons that theyre almost tame, Walt 
said.
Lem let out a stale breath as he holstered his pistol.
The mule deer, sensing their tension, turned from them and loped away along the 
trail, vanishing into the woods.
Walt was staring hard at Lem. Whats out there, buddy?
Lem said nothing. He blotted his hands on his suit jacket.
The breeze was stiffening, getting cooler. Evening was on its way, and night was 
close behind it.
Never saw you spooked before, Walt said.
A caffeine jag. Ive had too much coffee today.
Bullshit.
Lem shrugged.
It seems tove been an animal that killed Dalberg, something with lots of 
teeth, claws, something savage, Walt said. Yet no damn animal would carefully 
place the guys head on a plate in the center of the kitchen table. Thats a 
sick joke. Animals dont make jokes, not sick or otherwise. Whatever killed 
Dalberg . . . it left the head like that to taunt us. So what in Christs name 
are we dealing with?
You dont want to know. And you dont need to know cause Im assuming 
jurisdiction in this case.
Like hell.
Ive got the authority, Lem said. Its now a federal matter, Walt. Im 
impounding all the evidence your people have gathered, all reports theyve 
written thus far. You and your men are to talk to no one about what youve seen 
here. No one. Youll have a file on the case, but the only thing in it will be a 
memo from me, asserting the federal prerogative under the correct statute. 
Youre out from under. No matter what happens, no one can blame you, Walt.
Shit.
Let it go.
Walt scowled. Ive got to know
Let it go.
are people in my county in danger? At least tell me that much, damn it.
Yes.
In danger?
Yes.
And if I fought you, if I tried to hang on to jurisdiction in this case, would 
there be anything I could do to lessen that danger, to insure the public 
safety?
No. Nothing, Lem said truthfully.
Then theres no point in fighting you.
None, Lem said.
He started back toward the cabin because the daylight was fading fast, and he 
did not want to be near the woods as darkness crept in. Sure, it had only been a 
mule deer. But next time?
Wait a minute, Walt said. Let me tell you what I think, and you just listen. 
You dont have to confirm or deny what I say. All youve got to do is hear me 
out.
Go on, Lem said impatiently.
The shadows of the trees crept steadily across the bristly dry grass of the 
clearing. The sun was balanced on the western horizon.
Walt paced out of the shadows into the waning sunlight, hands in his back 
pockets, looking down at the dusty ground, taking a moment to collect his 
thoughts. Then: Tuesday afternoon, somebody walked into a house in Newport 
Beach, shot a man named Yarbeck, and beat his wife to death. That night, 
somebody killed the Hudston family in Laguna Beachhusband, wife, and a teenage 
son. Police in both communities use the same forensics lab, so it didnt take 
long to discover one gun was used both places. But thats about all the police 
in either case are going to learn because your NSA has quietly assumed 
jurisdiction in those crimes, too. In the interest of national security.
Lem did not respond. He was sorry he had even agreed to listen. Anyway, he was 
not taking direct charge of the investigation into the murders of the 
scientists, which were almost surely Soviet-inspired. Hed delegated that task 
to other men, so hed be free to concentrate on finding the dog and The 
Outsider.
The sunlight was burnt orange. The cabin windows smoldered with reflections of 
that fading fire.
Walt said, Okay. Then theres Dr. Davis Weatherby of Corona Del Mar. Missing 
since Tuesday. This morning, Weatherbys brother finds the doctors body in the 
trunk of his car. Local pathologists hardly arrive at the scene before NSA 
agents show up.
Lem was slightly unnerved by the swiftness with which the sheriff evidently 
gathered, coordinated, and absorbed information from various communities that 
were not in the unincorporated part of the county and were not, therefore, under 
his authority.
Walt grinned but with little or no humor. Didnt expect me to have made all 
these connections, huh? Each of these things happened in a different police
jurisdiction, but as far as Im concerned this county is one sprawling city of 
two million people, so I make it my business to work hand in glove with all the 
local departments.
Whats your point?
My point is that its astonishing to have six murders of upstanding citizens in 
one day. This is Orange County, after all, not L.A. And its even more 
astonishing that all six deaths are related to urgent matters of national 
security. So it arouses my curiosity. I start checking into the backgrounds of 
these people, looking for something that links them
Walt, for Christs sake!
and I discover they all workor did workfor something called Banodyne 
Laboratories.
Lem was not angry. He couldnt get angry with Waltthey were tighter than 
brothersbut the big mans canniness was maddening right now. Lem said, Listen, 
youve no right to conduct an investigation.
Im sheriff, remember?
But none of these murdersexcept Dalberg herefalls into your jurisdiction to 
begin with, Lem said. And even if it did . . . once the NSA steps in, youve 
no right to continue. In fact, youre expressly forbidden by law to continue.
Ignoring him, Walt said, So I look up Banodyne, see what kind of work they do, 
and I discover theyre into genetic engineering, recombinant
DNA
Youre incorrigible.
Theres no indication Banodynes at work on defense projects, but that doesnt 
mean anything. Could be blind contracts, projects so secret that the funding 
doesnt even appear on public record.
Jesus, Lem said irritably. Dont you understand how damn mean we can get when 
weve got national security laws on our side?
Just speculating now, Walt said.
Youll speculate your honky ass right into a prison cell.
Now, Lemuel, lets not have an ugly racial confrontation here.
Youre incorrigible.
Yeah, and youre repeating yourself. Anyway, I did some heavy thinking, and I 
figure the murders of these people who work at Banodyne must be connected 
somehow to the manhunt the Marines conducted on Wednesday and Thursday. And to 
the murder of Wesley Dalberg.
Theres no similarity between Dalbergs murder and the others.
Of course theres not. Wasnt the same killer. I can see that. The Yarbecks, 
the Hudstons, and Weatherby were hit by a pro, while poor Wes Dalberg was torn 
to pieces. Still, theres a connection, by God, or you wouldnt be interested, 
and the connection must be Banodyne.
The sun was sinking. Shadows pooled and thickened.
Walt said, Heres what I figure: they were working on some new bug at Banodyne, 
a genetically altered germ, and it got loose, contaminated some-
one, but it didnt just make him sick. What it did was severely damage his 
brain, turn him into a savage or something
An updated Dr. Jekyll for the high-tech age? Lem interrupted sarcastically.
so he slipped out of the lab before anyone knew what happened to him, fled 
into the foothills, came here, attacked Dalberg.
You watch a lot of bad horror movies or what?
As for Yarbeck and the others, maybe they were eliminated cause they knew what 
happened and were so scared about the consequences that they intended to go 
public.
Off in the dusky canyon, a soft, ululant howl arose. Probably just a coyote. Lem 
wanted to get out of there, away from the forest. But he felt that he had to 
deal with Walt Gaines, deflect the sheriff from these lines of inquiry and 
consideration.
Let me get this straight, Walt. Are you saying the United States government had 
its own scientists killed to shut them up?
Walt frowned, knowing how unlikelyif not downright impossiblehis scenario was.
Lem said, Is life really just a Ludlum novel? Killed our own people? Is it 
National Paranoia Month or something? Do you really believe that crap?
No, Walt admitted.
And how could Dalbergs killer be a contaminated scientist with brain damage? I 
mean, Christ, you yourself said it was some animal that killed Dalberg, 
something with claws, sharp teeth.
Okay, okay, so I dont have it figured. Not all of it, anyway. But Im sure 
its all tied in with Banodyne somehow. Im not entirely on the wrong track-am 
I?
Yes, you are, Lem said. Entirely.
Really?
Really. Lem felt bad about lying to Walt and manipulating him, but he did it 
anyway. I shouldnt even tell you that youre chasing after false spoor, but as 
a friend I guess I owe you something.
Additional wild voices had joined the eerie howling in the woods, confirming 
that the cries were only those of coyotes, yet the sound chilled Lem Johnson and 
made him eager to depart.
Rubbing the nape of his bull neck with one hand, Walt said, It doesnt have 
anything at all to do with Banodyne?
Nothing. Its just a coincidence that Weatherby and Yarbeck both worked there 
and that Hudston used to work there. If you insist on making the Connection, 
youll just be spinning your wheelswhich is fine by me.
The sun set and, in passing, seemed to unlock a door through which a much 
Cooler, brisker breeze swept into the darkening world.
Still rubbing his neck, Walt said, Not Banodyne, huh? He sighed. I know you 
too well, buddy. Youve got such a strong sense of duty that youd lie to your 
own mother if that was in the best interests of the country.
Lem said nothing.
All right, Walt said. Ill drop it. Your case from here on. Unless more 
people in my jurisdiction get killed. If that happens . . . well, I might try to 
take control of things again. Cant promise you that I wont. Ive got a sense 
of duty, too, you know.
I know, Lem said, feeling guilty, feeling like a total shit.
At last, they both headed back to the cabin.
The skywhich was dark in the east, still streaked with deep orange and red and 
purple light in the westseemed to be descending like the lid of a box.
Coyotes howled.
Something out in the night woods howled back at them.
Cougar, Lem thought, but he knew that now he was even lying to himself.
 
 
4
On Sunday, two days after their successful Friday lunch date, Travis and Nora 
drove to Solvang, a Danish-style village in the Santa Ynez Valley. It was a 
touristy place with hundreds of shops selling everything from exquisite 
Scandinavian crystal to plastic imitations of Danish beer stems. The quaint 
architecture (though calculated) and the tree-lined streets enhanced the simple 
pleasures of window-shopping.
Several times Travis felt the urge to take Noras hand and hold it while they 
strolled. It seemed natural, right. Yet he sensed that she might not be ready 
for even such harmless contact as hand-holding.
She was wearing another drab dress, dull blue this time, nearly as shapeless as 
a sack. Sensible shoes. Her thick dark hair still hung limp and unstyled, as it 
had been when hed first seen her.
Being with her was pure pleasure. She had a sweet temperament and was 
unfailingly sensitive and kind. Her innocence was refreshing. Her shyness and 
modesty, though excessive, endeared her to him. She viewed everything with a 
wide-eyed wonder that was charming, and he delighted in surprising her with 
simple things: a shop that sold only cuckoo clocks; another that sold only 
stuffed animals; a music box with a mother-of-pearl door that opened to reveal a 
pirouetting ballerina.
He bought her a T-shirt with a personalized message that he would not let her 
see until it was ready: NORA LOVES EINSTEIN. Though she professed she could 
never wear a T-shirt, that it wasnt her style, Travis knew she would wear it 
because she did, indeed, love the dog.
Perhaps Einstein could not read the words on the shirt, but he seemed to 
understand what was meant. When they came out of the shop and unhooked his leash 
from the parking meter where theyd tethered him, Einstein regarded the message 
on the shirt solemnly while Nora held it up for his inspection, then happily 
licked and nuzzled her.
The day held only one bad moment for them. As they turned a corner and 
approached another shop window, Nora stopped suddenly and looked around at the 
crowds on the sidewalkspeople eating ice cream in big homemade waffle-cookie 
cones, people eating apple tarts wrapped in wax paper, guys in feather-decorated 
cowboy hats theyd bought in one of the stores, pretty young girls in 
short-shorts and halters, a very fat woman in a yellow muumuu, people speaking 
English and Spanish and Japanese and Vietnamese and all the other languages YOU 
could hear at any Southern California tourist spotand then she looked along the 
busy street at a gift shop built in the form of a three-story stone-and-timber 
windmill, and she stiffened, looked stricken. Travis had to guide her to a bench 
in a small park, where she sat trembling for a few minutes before she could even 
tell him what was wrong.
Overload, she said at last, her voice shaky. So many . . . new sights . . . 
new sounds . . . so many different things all at once. Im so sorry.
Its all right, he said, touched.
Im used to a few rooms, familiar things. Are people staring?
No ones noticed anything. Theres nothing to stare at.
She sat with her shoulders hunched, her head hung forward, her hands fisted in 
her lapuntil Einstein put his head on her knees. As she petted the dog, she 
began gradually to relax.
I was enjoying myself, she said to Travis, though she did not raise her head, 
really enjoying myself, and I thought how far from home I was, how wonderfully 
far from home
Not realty. Less than an hours drive, he assured her.
A long, long way, she said.
Travis supposed that for her it was, in fact, a great distance.
She said, And when I realized how far from home I was and how .. . different 
everything was . . . I clenched up, afraid, like a child.
Would you like to go back to Santa Barbara now?
No! she said, meeting his eyes at last. She shook her head. She dared to look 
around at the people moving through the small park and at the gift shop shaped 
like a windmill. No. I want to stay a while. All day. I want to have dinner in 
a restaurant here, not at a sidewalk caf but inside, like other people do, 
inside, and then I want to go home after dark. She blinked and repeated those 
two words wonderingly, After dark.
All right.
Unless, of course, you hoped to get back sooner.
No, no, he said. I planned on making a day of it.
This is very kind of you.
Travis raised one eyebrow. What do you mean?
You know.
Im afraid I dont.
Helping me step out into the world, she said. Giving up your time to help 
someone . . . like me. Its very generous of you.
He was astonished. Nora, let me assure you, its not charity work Im involved 
in here!
Im sure a man like you has better things to do with a Sunday afternoon in 
May.
Oh, yes, he said self-mockingly, I could have stayed home and given all my 
shoes a meticulous shining with a toothbrush. Could have counted the number of 
pieces in a box of elbow macaroni.
She stared at him in disbelief.
By God, youre serious, Travis said. You think Im here just because Ive 
taken pity on you.
She bit her lip and said, Its all right. She looked down at the dog again. I 
dont mind.
But Im not here out of pity, for Gods sake! Im here because I like being 
with you, I really do, I like you very much.
Even with her head lowered, the blush that crept into her cheeks was visible.
For a while neither of them spoke.
Einstein looked up at her adoringly as she petted him, though once in a while he 
rolled his eyes at Travis as if to say, All right, youve opened the door of a 
relationship, so dont just sit there like a fool, say something, move forward, 
win her over.
She scratched the retrievers ears and stroked him for a couple of minutes, and 
then she said, Im okay now.
They left the little park and strolled past the shops again, and in a while it 
was as if her moment of panic and his clumsy proclamation of affection had not 
happened.
He felt as if he were courting a nun. Eventually, he realized that the situation 
was even worse than that. Since the death of his wife three years ago, he had 
been celibate. The whole subject of sexual relations seemed strange and new to 
him again. So it was almost as if he were a priest wooing a nun.
Nearly every block had a bakery, and the wares in the display windows of each 
shop looked more delicious than what had been for sale in the previous place. 
The scents of cinnamon, powdered sugar, nutmeg, almonds, apples, and chocolate 
eddied in the warm spring air.
Einstein stood on his hind feet at each bakery, paws on the windowsill, and 
stared longingly through the glass at the artfully arranged pastries. But he 
didnt go into any of the shops, and he never barked. When he begged for a 
treat, his soulful whining was discreetly low, so as not to bother the swarming 
tourists. Rewarded with a bit of pecan fudge and a small apple tart, he was 
satisfied and did not persist in begging.
Ten minutes later, Einstein revealed his exceptional intelligence to Nora. He 
had been a good dog around her, affectionate and bright and well-behaved, and he 
had shown considerable initiative in chasing and cornering Arthur Streck, but he 
had not previously allowed her a glimpse of his uncanny intelligence. And when 
she witnessed it, she did not at first realize what she was seeing.
They were passing the town pharmacy, which also sold newspapers and magazines, 
some of which were displayed outside in a rack near the entrance. Einstein 
surprised Nora with a sudden lurch toward the pharmacy, tearing
his leash out of her hand. Before either Nora or Travis could regain control of 
him, Einstein used his teeth to pull a magazine from the rack and brought it to 
them, dropping it at Noras feet. It was Modern Bride. As Travis grabbed for 
him, Einstein eluded capture and snatched up another copy of Modern Bride, which 
he deposited at Traviss feet just as Nora was picking up her copy to return it 
to the rack.
You silly pooch, she said. Whats gotten into you?
Taking up the leash, Travis stepped through the passersby and put the second 
copy of the magazine back where the dog had gotten it. He thought he knew 
exactly what Einstein had in mind, but he said nothing, afraid of embarrassing 
Nora, and they resumed their walk.
Einstein looked at everything, sniffing with interest at the people who passed, 
and he seemed immediately to have forgotten his enthusiasm for matrimonial 
publications.
However, they had taken fewer than twenty steps when the dog abruptly turned and 
ran between Traviss legs, jerking the leash out of his hand and nearly knocking 
him down. Einstein went directly to the pharmacy, snatched a magazine out of the 
rack, and returned.
Modern Bride.
Nora still did not get it. She thought it was funny, and she stooped to ruffle 
the retrievers coat. Is this your favorite reading material, you silly pooch? 
Read it every month, do you? You know, Ill bet you do. You strike me as a 
complete romantic.
A couple of tourists had noticed the playful dog and were smiling, but they were 
even less likely than Nora to realize there was a complex intention behind the 
animals game with the magazine.
When Travis bent down to pick up Modern Bride, intending to return it to the 
pharmacy, Einstein got to it first, took it in his jaws, and shook his head 
violently for a moment.
Bad dog, Nora said with evident surprise that Einstein had such a devilish 
streak in him.
Einstein dropped the magazine. It was badly rumpled, and some of the pages were 
torn, and here and there the paper was damp with saliva.
I guess well have to buy it now, Travis said.
Panting, the retriever sat on the sidewalk, cocked his head, and grinned up at 
Travis.
Nora remained innocently unaware that the dog was trying to tell them something. 
Of course, she had no reason to make a sophisticated interpretation of 
Einsteins behavior. She was unfamiliar with the degree of his genius and did 
not expect him to perform miracles of communication.
Glaring at the dog, Travis said, You stop it, fur face. No more of this. 
Understand me?
Einstein yawned.
With the magazine paid for and tucked into a pharmacy bag, they resumed their 
tour of Solvang, but before they reached the end of the block, the dog began to 
elaborate on his message. He suddenly gripped Noras hand gently
but firmly in his teeth and, to her startlement, pulled her along the sidewalk 
to an art gallery, where a young man and woman were admiring the landscape 
paintings in the window. The couple had a baby in a stroller, and it was the 
child to whom Einstein was directing Noras attention. He wouldnt let go of her 
hand until he had forced her to touch the pink-outfitted infants chubby arm.
Embarrassed, Nora said, He thinks your babys exceptionally cute, I guess 
which she certainly is.
The mother and father were wary of the dog at first but quickly realized he was 
harmless.
How olds your little girl? Nora asked.
Ten months, the mother said.
Whats her name?
Lana.
Thats pretty.
Finally, Einstein was willing to release Noras hand.
A few steps away from the young couple, in front of an antique shop that looked 
as if it had been transported brick by brick and timber by timber from 
seventeenth-century Denmark, Travis stopped, crouched beside the dog, lifted one 
of its ears, and said, Enough. If you ever want your Alpo again, cut it out.
Nora looked baffled. Whats gotten into him?
Einstein yawned, and Travis knew they were in trouble.
In the next ten minutes, the dog took hold of Noras hand twice again and led 
her, both times, to babies.
Modern Bride and babies.
The message was painfully clear now, even to Nora: You and Travis belong 
together. Get married. Have babies. Raise a family. Whatre you waiting for?
She was blushing furiously and seemed unable to look directly at Travis. He was 
somewhat embarrassed, too.
At last Einstein seemed satisfied that he had gotten his point across, and he 
stopped misbehaving. Until now, if asked, Travis would have said that a dog 
could not look smug.
Later, at dinnertime, the day was still pleasantly warm, and Nora changed her 
mind about eating inside, in an ordinary restaurant. She chose a place with 
sidewalk tables under red umbrellas that were, in turn, sheltered by the boughs 
of a giant oak. Travis sensed that she was not now intimidated by the prospect 
of a real restaurant experience but wanted to eat in the open air so they could 
keep Einstein with them. Repeatedly throughout dinner, she looked at Einstein, 
sometimes glancing surreptitiously at him, sometimes studying him openly and 
intently.
Travis made no reference to what had happened and pretended to have forgotten 
the whole affair. But when he had the dogs attention, and when Nora was not 
looking, he mouthed threats at the mutt: No more apple tarts. Choke chain. 
Muzzle. Straight to the dog pound.
Einstein took every threat with great equanimity, either grinning or yawning or 
blowing air out his nostrils.
 
 
5
Early Sunday evening, Vince Nasco paid a visit to Johnny The Wire Santini. 
Johnny was called The Wire for several reasons, not least of which was that he 
was tall and lean and taut, and he looked as if he was constructed of knotted 
wires in various gauges. He also had frizzy hair the shade of copper. He had 
made his bones at the tender age of fifteen, when to please his uncle, Religio 
Fustino, don of one of New Yorks Five Families, Johnny had taken it upon 
himself to strangle a freelance shit-and-coke dealer who was operating in the 
Bronx without the permission of the Family. Johnny used a length of piano wire 
for the job. This display of initiative and dedication to the principles of the 
Family had filled Don Religio with pride and love, and he had wept for only the 
second time in his life, promising his nephew the eternal respect of the Family 
and a well-paid position in the business.
Now Johnny The Wire was thirty-five and lived in a million-dollar beach house in 
San Clemente. The ten rooms and four baths had been remade by an interior 
designer commissioned to create an authenticand expensive private Art Deco 
retreat from the modern world. Everything was in shades of black, silver, and 
deep blue, with accents of turquoise and peach. Johnny had told Vince that he 
liked Art Deco because it reminded him of the Roaring Twenties, and he liked the 
twenties because that was the romantic era of legendary gangsters.
To Johnny The Wire, crime was not just a means to make money, not simply a way 
to rebel against the constraints of civilized society, and not only a genetic 
compulsion, but it was alsoand primarilya magnificent romantic tradition. He 
saw himself as a brother of every eye-patched hook-handed pirate who ever sailed 
in search of plunder, of every highwayman who had robbed a mail coach, of every 
safecracker and kidnapper and embezzler and thug in all the ages of criminal 
endeavor. He was, he insisted, mystical kin to Jesse James, Dillinger, Al 
Capone, the Dalton boys, Lucky Luciano, and legions of others, and Johnny loved 
them all, these legendary brothers in blood and theft.
Greeting Vince at the front door, Johnny said, Come in, come in, big guy. Good 
to see you again.
They hugged. Vince didnt like hugging, but he had worked for Johnnys Uncle 
Religio when hed lived back in New York, and he still did a West Coast job for 
the Fustino Family now and then, so he and Johnny went back a long way, long 
enough that a hug was required.
Youre looking good, Johnny said. Taking care of yourself, I see. Still mean 
as a snake?
A rattlesnake, Vince said, a little embarrassed to be saying such a stupid 
thing, but he knew it was the kind of outlaw crap that Johnny liked to hear.
Hadnt seen you in so long I thought maybe the cops busted your ass.
Ill never do time, Vince said, meaning that he knew prison was not part of 
his destiny.
Johnny took it to mean that Vince would go down shooting rather than submit to 
the law, and he scowled and nodded approval. They ever get you in a corner, 
blow away as many of em as you can before they take you out. Thats the only 
clean way to go down.
Johnny The Wire was an astonishingly ugly man, which probably explained his need 
to feel that he was a part of a great romantic tradition. Over the years Vince 
had noticed that the better-looking hoods never glamorized what they did. They 
killed in cold blood because they liked killing or found it necessary, and they 
stole and embezzled and extorted because they wanted easy money, and that was 
the end of it: no justifications, no self-glorification, which was the way it 
ought to be. But those with faces that appeared to have been crudely molded from 
concrete, those who resembled Quasimodo on a bad daywell, many of them tried to 
compensate for their unfortunate looks by casting themselves as Jimmy Cagney in 
Public Enemy.
Johnny was wearing a black jumpsuit, black sneakers. He always wore black, 
probably because he thought it made him look sinister instead of just ugly.
From the foyer, Vince followed Johnny into the living room, where the furniture 
was upholstered in black fabric and the end tables were finished in glossy black 
lacquer. There were ormolu table lamps by Ranc, large silver-dusted Deco vases 
by Daum, a pair of antique chairs by Jacques Ruhlmann. Vince knew the history of 
these things only because, on previous visits, Johnny The Wire had stepped out 
of his tough-guy persona long enough to babble about his period treasures.
A good-looking blonde was reclining on a silver-and-black chaise longue, reading 
a magazine. No older than twenty, she was almost embarrassingly ripe. Her 
silver-blond hair was cut short, in a pageboy. She was wearing Chinese-red silk 
lounging pajamas that clung to the contours of her full breasts, and when she 
glanced up and pouted at Vince, she seemed to be trying to look like Jean 
Harlow.
This is Samantha, Johnny The Wire said. To Samantha, he said, Toots, this 
here is a made man that nobody messes with, a legend in his own time.
Vince felt like a jackass.
Whats a made man? the blonde asked in a high-pitched voice shed no doubt 
copied from the old movie star Judy Holliday.
Standing beside the longue, cupping one of the blondes breasts and fondling it 
through the silk pajamas, Johnny said, She doesnt know the lingo, Vince. Shes 
not of the fratellanza. Shes a valley girl, new to the life, unaware of our 
customs.
He means Im no greaseball guinea, Samantha said sourly.
Johnny slapped her so hard that he nearly knocked her off the chaise longue. 
You watch your mouth, bitch.
She put a hand to her face, and tears shimmered in her eyes, and in a 
little-girl voice, she said, Im sorry, Johnny.
Stupid bitch, he muttered.
I dont know what gets into me, she said. Youre good to me, Johnny, and I 
hate myself when I act like that.
To Vince, it appeared to be a rehearsed scene, but he supposed that was just 
because theyd been through it so many times before, both privately and 
publicly. From the shine in Samanthas eyes, Vince could tell she enjoyed being 
slapped around; she smart-mouthed Johnny just so hed hit her. Johnny clearly 
liked slapping her, too.
Vince was disgusted.
Johnny The Wire called her a bitch again, then led Vince out of the living 
room and into the big study, closing the door behind them. He winked and said, 
Shes a little uppity, that one, but she can just about suck your brains out 
through your cock.
Half-sickened by Johnny Santinis sleaziness, Vince refused to be drawn into 
such a conversation. Instead, he withdrew an envelope from his jacket pocket. I 
need information.
Johnny took the envelope, looked inside, thumbed casually through the wad of 
hundred-dollar bills, and said, What you want, you got.
The study was the only room in the house untouched by Art Deco. It was strictly 
high-tech. Sturdy metal tables were lined up along three walls, and eight 
computers stood on them, different makes and models. Every computer had its own 
phone line and modem, and every display screen was aglow. On some screens, 
programs were running; data flickered across them or scrolled from top to 
bottom. Drapes were drawn over the windows, and the two flexible-neck work lamps 
were hooded to prevent glare on the monitors, so the predominant light was 
electronic-green, which gave Vince a peculiar feeling of being under the surface 
of the sea. Three laser printers were producing hard copies with only vague 
whispering sounds that for some reason brought to mind images of fish swimming 
through ocean-floor vegetation.
Johnny The Wire had killed half a dozen men, had managed bookie and numbers 
operations, had planned and executed bank robberies and jewelry heists. He had 
been involved in the Fustino Familys drug operations, extortion rackets, 
kidnapping, labor-union corruption, record and videotape counterfeiting, 
interstate truck hijacking, political bribery, and child pornography. He had 
done it all, seen it all, and although he had never exactly been bored by any 
criminal undertaking, no matter how long or often he had been involved in it, he 
had grown somewhat jaded. During the past decade, as the Computer opened 
exciting new areas of criminal activity, Johnny had seized the opportunity to 
move where no mafia wiseguy had gone before, into challenging frontiers of 
electronic thievery and mayhem. He had a gift for it, and he soon became the 
mobs premier hacker.
Given time and motivation, he could break any computer security system and pry 
through a corporations or a government agencys most sensitive information. If 
you wanted to run a major credit-card scam, charging a million bucks worth of 
purchases to other peoples American Express accounts, Johnny The Wire could 
suck some suitable names and credit histories out of TRWs files and matching 
card numbers from American Expresss data banks, and you were in business. If 
you were a don under indictment and about to go to trial on heavy charges, and 
if you were afraid of the testimony to be given by one of your cronies who had 
turned states evidence, Johnny could invade the Department of Justices most 
well-guarded data banks, discover the new identity that had been given the stool 
pigeon through the Federal Witness Relocation Program, and tell you where to 
send the hit men. Johnny rather grandly called himself the Silicon Sorcerer, 
though everyone else still called him The Wire.
As the mobs hacker, he was more valuable than ever to all the Families 
nationwide, so valuable that they didnt even mind if he moved to a comparative 
backwater like San Clemente, where he could live the good beach life while he 
worked for them. In the age of the microchip, Johnny said, the world was one 
small town, and you could sit in San Clementeor Oshkosh and pick someones 
pocket in New York City.
Johnny dropped into a high-backed black leather chair equipped with rubber 
wheels, in which he could roll swiftly from one computer to the next. He said, 
So! What can the Silicon Sorcerer do for you, Vince?
Can you tap into police computers?
Its a snap.
I need to know if, since last Tuesday, any police agency in the county has 
opened a file on any particularly strange murders.
Whore the victims?
I dont know. Im just looking for strange murders.
Strange in what way?
Im not exactly sure. Maybe . . . somebody with his throat torn out. Somebody 
ripped to pieces. Somebody all chewed up and gouged by an animal.
Johnny gave him a peculiar look. Thats strange, all right. Something like that 
would be in the newspapers.
Maybe not, Vince said, thinking of the army of government security agents that 
would be working diligently to keep the press in the dark about the Francis 
Project and to conceal the dangerous developments on Tuesday at the Banodyne 
labs. The murders might be in the news, but the police will probably be 
suppressing the gory details, making them look like ordinary homicides. So from 
what the papers print, I wont be able to tell which victims are the ones Im 
interested in.
All right. Can do.
Youd also better prowl around at the County Animal Control Authority to see if 
theyre getting any reports of unusual attacks by coyotes or cougars or other 
predators. And not just attacks on people, but on livestockcows, sheep. There 
might even be some neighborhood, probably on the eastern
edge of the county, where a lot of family pets are disappearing or being chewed 
up real bad by something wild. If you run across that, I want to know.
Johnny grinned and said, You tracking down a werewolf?
It was a joke; he did not expect or want an answer. He had not asked why this 
information was needed, and he would never ask, because people in their line of 
work did not poke into each others business. Johnny might be curious, but Vince 
knew that The Wire would never indulge his curiosity.
Vince was unnerved not by the question but by the grin. The green light from the 
computer screens was reflected by Johnnys eyes and by the saliva on his teeth 
and, to a lesser extent, by his wiry copper-colored hair. As ugly as he was to 
begin with, the eerie luminescence made him look like a revived corpse in a 
Romero film.
Vince said, Another thing. I need to know if any police agency in the county is 
running a quiet search for a golden retriever.
A dog?
Yeah.
Cops dont usually look for lost dogs.
I know, Vince said.
This dog got a name?
No name.
Ill check it out. Anything else?
Thats it. When can you put it together?
Ill call you in the morning. Early.
Vince nodded. And depending on what you turn up, I might need you to keep 
tracking these things on a daily basis.
Childs play, Johnny said, spinning around once in his black leather chair, 
then jumping to his feet with a grin. Now, Im gonna fuck Samantha. Hey! You 
want to join in? Two studs like us, going at her at the same time, we could 
reduce that bitch to a little pile of jelly, have her begging for mercy. How 
about it?
Vince was glad for the weird green lighting because it covered the fact that he 
had gone ghost-pale. The idea of messing around with that infected slut, that 
diseased whore, that rotting and festering round-heeled pump, was enough to make 
him sick. He said, Got an appointment I cant break.
Too bad, Johnny said.
Vince forced himself to say, Wouldve been fun.
Maybe next time.
The very idea of the three of them going at it . . . well, it made Vince feel 
unclean. He was overcome by a desire for a steaming-hot shower.
6 
Sunday night, pleasantly tired from a long day in Solvang, Travis thought he 
would fall asleep the moment he put his head on his pillow, but he did not. He 
couldnt stop thinking about Nora Devon. Her gray eyes flecked with green. 
Glossy black hair. The graceful, slender line of her throat. The musical sound 
of her laughter, the curve of her smile.
Einstein was lying on the floor in the pale-silver light that came through the 
window and vaguely illuminated one small section of the dark room. But after 
Travis tossed and turned for an hour, the dog finally joined him on the bed and 
put his burly head and forepaws on Traviss chest.
Shes so sweet, Einstein. One of the gentlest, sweetest people Ive ever 
known.
The dog was silent.
And shes very bright. Shes got a sharp mind, sharper than she realizes. She 
sees things I dont see. She has a way of describing things that make them fresh 
and new. The whole world seems fresh and new when I see it with her.
Though still and quiet, Einstein had not fallen asleep. He was very attentive. 
When I think about all that vitality, intelligence, and love of life being 
suppressed for thirty years, I want to cry. Thirty years in that old dark house. 
Jesus. And when I think of how she endured those years without letting it make 
her bitter, I want to hug her and tell her what an incredible woman she is, what 
a strong and courageous and incredible woman.
Einstein was silent, unmoving.
A vivid memory flashed back to Travis: the clean shampoo smell of Noras hair 
when he had leaned close to her in front of a gallery window in Solvang. He 
breathed deep and could actually smell it again, and the scent accelerated his 
heartbeat.
Damn, he said. Ive only known her a few days, but damn if I dont think Im 
falling in love.
Einstein lifted his head and woofed once, as if to say it was about time that 
Travis realized what was happening, and as if to say that he had brought them 
together and was pleased to take credit for their future happiness, and as if to 
say that it was all part of some grand design and that Travis was to stop 
fretting about it and just go with the flow.
For another hour, Travis talked about Nora, about the way she looked and moved, 
about the melodic quality of her soft voice, about her unique perspective on 
life and her way of thinking, and Einstein listened with the attentiveness and 
genuine interest that was the mark of a true, concerned friend. It was an 
exhilarating hour. Travis had never thought he would love anyone again. Not 
anyone, not at all, and certainly not this intensely. Less than a week ago, his 
abiding loneliness had seemed unconquerable.
Later, thoroughly exhausted both physically and emotionally, Travis slept.
Later still, in the hollow heart of night, he came half awake and was dimly 
aware that Einstein was at the window. The retrievers forepaws were on the 
windowsill, his snout against the glass. He was staring out at the darkness, 
alert.
Travis sensed that the dog was troubled.
But in his dream, he had been holding Noras hand under a harvest moon, and he 
did not want to come fully awake for fear he would not be able to regain that 
pleasant fantasy.
 
 
7
On Monday morning, May 24, Lemuel Johnson and Cliff Soames were at the small 
zoomostly a petting zoo for childrenin sprawling Irvine Park, on the eastern 
edge of Orange County. The sky was cloudless, the sun bright and hot. The 
immense oaks did not stir a leaf in the motionless air, but birds swooped from 
branch to branch, peeping and trilling.
Twelve animals were dead. They lay in bloody heaps.
During the night, someone or something had climbed the fences into the pens and 
had slaughtered three young goats, a white-tailed deer and her recently born 
fawn, two peacocks, a lop-eared rabbit, a ewe and two lambs.
A pony was dead, though it had not been savaged. Apparently, it had died of 
fright while throwing itself repeatedly against the fence in an attempt to 
escape whatever had attacked the other animals. It lay on its side, neck twisted 
in an improbable angle.
The wild boars had been left unharmed. They snorted and sniffed continuously at 
the dusty earth around the feeding trough in their separate enclosure, looking 
for bits of food that might have spilled yesterday and been missed until now.
Other surviving animals, unlike the boars, were skittish.
Park employeesalso skittishwere gathered near an orange truck that belonged to 
the county, talking with two Animal Control officers and with a young, bearded 
biologist from the California Department of Wildlife.
Crouching beside the delicate and pathetic fawn, Lem studied the wounds in its 
neck until he could no longer tolerate the stench. Not all of the foul odors 
were caused by the dead animals. There was evidence that the killer had 
deposited feces and sprayed urine on its victims, just as it had done at 
Dalbergs place.
Pressing a handkerchief against his nose to filter the reeking air, he moved to 
a dead peacock. Its head had been torn off, as had one leg. Both of its clipped 
wings were broken, and its iridescent feathers were dulled and pasted together 
with blood.
Sir, Cliff Soames called from the adjoining pen.
Lem left the peacock, found a service gate that opened into the next enclosure, 
and joined Cliff at the carcass of the ewe.
Flies swarmed around them, buzzing hungrily, settling upon the ewe, then darting 
off as the men fanned them away.
Cliffs face was bloodless, but he did not look as shocked or as nauseated as he 
had been last Friday, at Dalbergs cabin. Perhaps this slaughter didnt
affect him as strongly because the victims were animals instead of human beings. 
Or perhaps he was consciously hardening himself against the extreme violence of 
their adversary.
Youll have to come to this side, Cliff said from where he crouched beside the 
ewe.
Lem stepped around the sheep and squatted beside Cliff. Though the ewes head 
was in the shadow of an oak bough overhanging the pen, Lem saw that her right 
eye had been torn out.
Without comment, Cliff used a stick to lever the left side of the ewes head off 
the ground, revealing that the other socket was also vacant.
The cloud of flies thickened around them.
Looks like it was our runaway, all right, Lem said.
Lowering his own handkerchief from his face, Cliff said, Theres more. He led 
Lem to three additional carcassesboth lambs and one of the goats that were 
eyeless. Id say its beyond argument. The damn thing that killed Dalberg last 
Tuesday night, then roamed the foothills and canyons for five days, doing . .
What?
God knows what. But it wound up here last night.
Lem used his handkerchief to mop the sweat off his dark face. Were only a few 
miles north-northwest of Dalbergs cabin.
Cliff nodded.
Which way you think its headed?
Cliff shrugged.
Yeah, Lem said. No way of knowing where its going. Cant begin to outthink 
it because we havent the slightest idea how it thinks. Lets just pray to God 
it stays out here in the unpopulated end of the county. I dont want to even 
consider what could happen if it decides to head into the easternmost suburbs 
like Orange Park Acres and Villa Park.
On the way out of the compound, Lem saw that the flies were gathered on the dead 
rabbit in such numbers that they looked like a piece of dark cloth draped over 
the carcass and rippling in a light breeze.
 
 
Eight hours later, at seven oclock Monday evening, Lem stepped up to the 
lectern in a large meeting room on the grounds of the Marine Air Station at El 
Toro. He leaned toward the microphone, tapped it with a finger to be sure it was 
active, heard a loud hollow thump, and said, May I have your attention, 
please?
A hundred men were seated on metal folding chairs. They were all young, 
well-built, and healthy-looking, for they were members of elite Marine 
Intelligence units. Five two-squad platoons had been drawn from Pendleton and 
other bases in California. Most of them had been involved in the search of the 
Santa Ana foothills last Wednesday and Thursday, following the breakout at the 
Banodyne labs.
They were still searching, having just returned from a full day in the hills and 
canyons, but they were no longer conducting the operation in uniform. To deceive 
reporters and local authorities, they had driven in cars and pickups and Jeep 
wagons to various points along the current search perimeter. They had gone into 
the wilds in groups of three or four, dressed as ordinary hikers:
jeans or khaki pants in the rugged Banana Republic style; T-shirts or cotton 
safari shirts; Dodger or Budweiser or John Deere caps, or cowboy hats. They went 
armed with powerful handguns that could be quickly concealed in nylon backpacks 
or under their loose T-shirts if they encountered real hikers or state 
authorities. And in Styrofoam coolers, they carried compact Uzi submachine guns 
that could be brought into service in seconds if they found the adversary.
Every man in the room had signed a secrecy oath, which put him in jeopardy of a 
long prison term if he ever divulged the nature of this operation to anyone. 
They knew what they were hunting, though Lem was aware that some of them had 
trouble believing the creature really existed. Some were afraid. But others, 
especially those who had previously served in Lebanon or Central America, were 
familiar enough with death and horror to be unshaken by the nature of their 
current quarry. A few oldtimers went as far back as the final year of the 
Vietnam War, and they professed to believe that the mission was a piece of cake. 
In any event, they were all good men, and they had a wary respect for the 
strange enemy they were stalking, and if The Outsider could be found, they would 
find it.
Now, when Lem asked for their attention, they immediately fell silent.
General Hotchkiss tells me that youve had another fruitless day out there, 
Lem said, and I know youre as unhappy about that as I am. Youve been working 
long hours in rugged terrain for six days now, and youre tired, and youre 
wondering how long this is going to drag on. Well, were going to keep looking 
until we find what were after, until we corner The Outsider and kill it. There 
is no way we can stop if its still loose. No way.
None of the hundred even grumbled in disagreement.
And always rememberwere also looking for the dog.
Every man in the room probably hoped that he would be the one to find the dog 
and that someone else would encounter The Outsider.
Lem said, On Wednesday, were bringing in another four Marine Intelligence 
squads from more distant bases, and theyll spell you on a rotating basis, 
giving you a couple of days off. But youll all be out there tomorrow morning, 
and the search area has been redefined.
A county map was mounted on the wall behind the lectern, and Lem Johnson pointed 
to it with a yardstick. Well be shifting north-northwest, into the hills and 
canyons around Irvine Park.
He told them about the slaughter at the petting zoo. He gave a graphic 
description of the condition of the carcasses, for he did not want any of these 
men to get careless.
What happened to those zoo animals, Lem said, could happen to any of you if 
you let your guard down at the wrong place and time.
A hundred men regarded him with utmost seriousness, and in their eyes he saw a 
hundred versions of his own tightly controlled fear.
 
 
8
Tuesday night, May 25, Tracy Leigh Keeshan could not sleep. She was so excited 
she felt as if she might burst. She pictured herself as a dandelion gone to 
seed, a puffball of fragile white fuzz, and then a gust of wind would come along 
and all the bits of fluff would be sent spinning in every direction poofto the 
far corners of the world, and Tracy Keeshan would exist no more, destroyed by 
her own excitement.
She was an unusually imaginative thirteen-year-old.
Lying in bed in her dark room, she did not even have to close her eyes to see 
herself on horsebackon her own chestnut stallion, Goodheart, to be 
precisethundering along the racetrack, the rails flashing past, the other 
horses in the field left far behind, the finish line less than a hundred yards 
ahead, and the adoring crowds cheering wildly in the grandstand .
In school, she routinely got good grades, not because she was a diligent student 
but because learning came easily to her, and she could do well without much 
effort. She didnt really care about school. She was slender, blond, with eyes 
the precise shade of a clear summer sky, very pretty, and boys were drawn to 
her, but she didnt spend any more time thinking about boys than she did 
worrying about her school work, not yet anyway, although her girlfriends were so 
fixated on boys, so consumed by the subject that they sometimes bored Tracy half 
to death.
What Tracy cared aboutdeeply, profoundly, passionatelywas horses, racing 
thoroughbreds. She had been collecting pictures of horses since she was five and 
had been taking riding lessons since she was seven, though for the longest time 
her parents had not been able to afford to buy her a horse of her own. During 
the past two years, however, her fathers business had prospered, and two months 
ago they had moved into a big new house on two acres in Orange Park Acres, which 
was a horsey community with plenty of riding trails. At the back end of their 
lot was a private stable for six horses, though only one stall was occupied. 
Just todayTuesday, May 25, a day of glory, a day that would live forever in 
Tracy Keeshans heart, a day that just proved there was a Godshe had been given 
a horse of her own, the splendid and beautiful and incomparable Goodheart.
So she could not sleep. She went to bed at ten, and by midnight she was more 
awake than ever. By one oclock Wednesday morning, she could not stand it any 
longer. She had to go out to the stables and look at Goodheart. Make sure he was 
all right. Make sure he was comfortable in his new home. Make sure he was real.
She threw off the sheet and thin blanket and got quietly out of bed. She
was wearing panties and a Santa Anita Racetrack T-shirt, so she just pulled on a 
pair of jeans and slipped her bare feet into blue Nike running shoes.
She turned the knob on her door slowly, quietly, and went out into the hail, 
letting the door stand open.
The house was dark and quiet. Her parents and her nine-year-old brother Bobby 
were asleep.
Tracy went down the hall, through the living room and the dining room, not 
turning on lights, relying on the moonlight that penetrated the large windows.
In the kitchen, she silently pulled open the utility drawer on the corner 
secretary and withdrew a flashlight. She unlocked the back door and let herself 
out onto the rear patio, stealthily easing the door shut behind her, not yet 
switching on the flashlight.
The spring night was cool but not chilly. Silvered by moonlight above but with 
dark undersides, a few big clouds glided like white-sailed galleons across the 
sea of night, and Tracy stared up at them for a while, enjoying the moment. She 
wanted to absorb every detail of this special time, letting her anticipation 
build. After all, this would be her first moment alone with the proud and noble 
Goodheart, just the two of them sharing their dreams of the future.
She crossed the patio, went around the swimming pool, where the reflection of 
the moon rippled gently in the chlorinated water, and stepped out onto the 
sloping lawn. The dew-damp grass seemed to shimmer in the lambent lunar beams.
Off to the left and right, the property line was defined by white ranch fencing 
that appeared vaguely phosphorescent in the moonglow. Beyond the fences were 
other properties of at least an acre and some as large as the Keeshan place, and 
all across Orange Park Acres the night was still but for a few crickets and 
nocturnal frogs.
Tracy walked slowly toward the stables at the end of the yard, thinking about 
the triumphs that lay ahead for her and Goodheart. He would not race again. He 
had placed in the money at Santa Anita, Del Mar, Hollywood Park, and other 
tracks throughout California, but he had been injured and could no longer race 
safely. However, he could still be put to stud, and Tracy had no doubt that hed 
sire winners. Within a week they hoped to add two good mares to the stable, and 
then theyd take the horses immediately to a breeding farm, where Goodheart 
would impregnate the mares. All three would be brought back here, where Tracy 
would care for them. Next year two healthy colts would be born, and then the 
young ones would be boarded with a trainer near enough so Tracy could visit 
constantly, and shed help out with their training, learn all there was to learn 
about rearing a champion, and thenand thenshe and the offspring of Goodheart 
would make racing history, oh yes, she was quite confident of making racing 
history Her fantasizing was interrupted when, about forty yards from the 
stables,
she stepped in something mushy and slippery, and nearly fell. She didnt smell 
manure, but she figured it must be a pile left by Goodheart when theyd had
him out in the yard last evening. Feeling stupid and clumsy, she switched on the 
flashlight and directed it at the ground, and instead of manure she found the 
remains of a brutally mutilated cat.
Tracy made a hissing sound of disgust and instantly switched off the flashlight.
The neighborhood was crawling with cats, partly because they were useful for 
controlling the mouse population around everyones stables. Coyotes regularly 
ventured in from the hills and canyons to the east, in search of prey. Although 
cats were quick, coyotes were sometimes quicker, and at first Tracy thought a 
coyote had dug under the fence or leaped over it and had gotten hold of this 
unfortunate feline, which had probably been prowling for rodents.
But a coyote would have eaten the cat right on the spot, leaving little more 
than a bit of tail and a scrap or two of fur, for a coyote was a gourmand rather 
than gourmet and had a ravenous appetite. Or it would have carried the cat away 
for leisurely consumption elsewhere. Yet this cat had not looked even 
half-eaten, merely torn to pieces, as if something or someone had killed it 
merely for the sick pleasure of rending it apart .
Tracy shuddered.
And remembered the rumors about the zoo.
In Irvine Park, which was only a couple of miles away, someone apparently had 
killed several caged animals in the small petting zoo two nights ago. 
Drug-crazed vandals. Thrill killers. The story was just a hot rumor, and no one 
was able to confirm it, but there were indications that it was true. Some kids 
had bicycled out to the park yesterday after school, and theyd not seen any 
mangled carcasses, but theyd reported that there seemed to be fewer animals in 
the pens than usual. And the Shetland pony was definitely missing. Park 
employees had been uncommunicative when approached.
Tracy wondered if the same psychos were prowling Orange Park Acres, killing cats 
and other family pets, a possibility that was spooky and sickening. Suddenly, 
she realized that people deranged enough to slaughter cats for the sheer fun of 
it would also be sufficiently twisted to get a kick out of killing horses.
An almost crippling pang of fear flashed through her as she thought of Goodheart 
out there in the stable all by himself. For a moment, she could not move.
Around her, the night seemed even quieter than it had been.
It was quieter. The crickets were no longer chirruping. The frogs had stopped 
croaking, too.
The galleon clouds seemed to have dropped anchor in the sky, and the night 
appeared to have frozen in the ice-pale glow of the moon.
Something moved in the shrubbery.
Most of the enormous lot was devoted to open expanses of lawn, but a score of 
trees stood in artfully placed groupsmostly Indian laurels and jacarandas, plus 
a couple of coralsand there were beds of azaleas, California lilac bushes, Cape 
honeysuckles.
Tracy distinctly heard shrubbery rustling as something pushed roughly and 
hurriedly through it. But when she switched on the flashlight and swept the beam 
around the nearest plantings, she could not see anything moving.
The night was silent again.
Hushed.
Expectant.
She considered returning to the house, where either she could wake her father to 
ask him to investigate, or she could go to bed and wait until morning to 
investigate the situation herself. But what if it was only a coyote in the 
shrubbery? In that case, she was in no danger. Though a hungry coyote would 
attack a very young child, it would run from anyone Tracys size. Besides, she 
was too worried about her noble Goodheart to waste any more time; she had to be 
sure that the horse was all right.
Using the flashlight to avoid any more dead cats that might be strewn about, she 
headed toward the stable. She had taken only a few steps when she heard the 
rustling again and, worse, an eerie growling that was unlike the sound of any 
animal shed ever heard before.
She began to turn, might have run for the house then, but in the stable 
Goodheart whinnied shrilly, as if in fear, and kicked at the board walls of his 
stall. She pictured a leering psycho going after Goodheart with hideous 
instruments of torture. Her concern for her own welfare was not half as strong 
as her fear that something terrible would happen to her beloved breeder of 
champions, so she sprinted to his rescue.
Poor Goodheart began kicking even more frantically. His hooves slammed 
repeatedly against the walls, drummed furiously, and the night seemed to echo 
with the thunder of an oncoming storm.
She was still about fifteen yards from the stable when she heard the strange 
guttural growling again and realized that something was coming after her, 
bearing down on her from behind. She skidded on the damp grass, whirled, and 
brought up her flashlight.
Rushing toward her was a creature that had surely escaped from Hell. It let out 
a shriek of madness and rage.
In spite of the flashlight, Tracy did not get a clear look at the attacker. The 
beam wavered, and the night grew darker as the moon slipped behind a cloud, and 
the hateful beast was moving fast, and she was too scared to understand what she 
was seeing. Nevertheless, she saw enough to know it was nothing she had ever 
seen before. She had an impression of a dark, misshapen head with asymmetrical 
depressions and bulges, enormous jaws full of sharp curved teeth, and amber eyes 
that blazed in the flashlight beam the way a dogs or a cats eyes will glow in 
a cars headlights.
Tracy screamed.
The attacker shrieked again and leaped at her.
It hit Tracy hard enough to knock the breath clear out of her. The flashlight 
flew from her hand, tumbled across the lawn. She fell, and the creature came 
down on top of her, and they rolled over and over toward the stable. As they 
rolled, she flailed desperately at the thing with her small fists, and she felt 
its
claws sinking into the flesh along her right side. Its gaping mouth was at her 
face, she felt its hot rank breath washing her over, smelled blood and decay and 
worse, and she sensed that it was going for her throatshe thought, Im dead, oh 
God, its going to kill me, I'm dead, like the catand she would have been dead 
in seconds, for sure, if Goodheart, less than fifteen feet away now, had not 
kicked out the latched half-door of his stall and bolted straight at them in 
panic.
The stallion screamed and reared up on its hind feet when it saw them, as if it 
would trample them underfoot.
Tracys monstrous attacker shrieked again, though not in rage this time but in 
surprise and fear. It released her and flung itself to one side, out from under 
the horse.
Goodhearts hooves slammed into the earth inches from Tracys head, and he 
reared up again, pawing at the air, screaming, and she knew that in his terror 
he might unwittingly trample her skull to mush. She threw herself out from under 
him, and also away from the amber-eyed beast, which had disappeared in the 
darkness on the other side of the stallion.
Still, Goodheart reared and screamed, and Tracy was screaming as well, and dogs 
were howling all over the neighborhood, and now lights appeared in the house, 
which gave her hope of survival. However, she sensed that the attacker wasnt 
ready to give up, that it was already circling the frantic stallion to make 
another try for her. She heard it snarling, spitting. She knew she would never 
reach the distant house before the thing dragged her down again, so she 
scrambled toward the nearby stable, to one of the empty stalls. As she went, she 
heard herself chanting, Jesus, oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus . .
The two halves of the Dutch-style stall door were bolted firmly together. 
Another bolt fastened the entire door to the frame. She unlatched that second 
bolt, pulled open the door, rushed into the straw-scented darkness, shut the 
door behind her, and held it with all the strength she possessed, for it could 
not be latched from inside.
An instant later, her assailant slammed into the other side of the door, trying 
to knock it open, but the frame prevented that. The door would only move 
outward, and Tracy hoped the amber-eyed creature was not smart enough to figure 
out how the door worked.
But it was smart enough (Dear Lord in Heaven, why wasnt it as dumb as it was 
ugly!)
and after hitting the barrier only twice, it began to pull instead of push. The 
door was almost yanked out of Tracys grasp.
She wanted to scream for help, but she needed every ounce of energy to dig in 
her heels and hold the stall door shut. It rattled and thumped against the frame 
as her demonic assailant wrestled with it. Fortunately, Goodheart was still 
letting loose shrill squeals and whinnies of terror, and the assailant was also 
shriekinga sound that was strangely animal and human at the same timeso her 
father could have no doubt where the trouble was.
The door jerked open a few inches.
She yelped and pulled it shut.
Instantly the attacker yanked it partway open again and held it ajar, striving 
to pull the door wider even as she struggled to reclose it. She was losing. The 
door inched open. She saw the shadowy outline of the malformed face. The sharply 
pointed teeth gleamed dully. The amber eyes were faint now, barely visible. It 
hissed and snarled at her, and its pungent breath was stronger than the scent of 
straw.
Whimpering in terror and frustration, Tracy drew back on the door with all of 
her strength.
But it opened another inch.
And another.
Her heart was hammering loud enough to muffle the first shotgun blast. She 
didnt know what shed heard until a second shot boomed through the night, and 
then she knew her father had grabbed his 12-gauge on the way out of the house.
The stall door slammed shut in front of her as the attacker, frightened by the 
gunfire, let go of it. Tracy held fast.
Then she thought that maybe, in all the confusion, Daddy might believe that 
Goodheart was to blame, that the poor horse had gone loco or something. From 
within the stall she cried out, Dont shoot Goodheart! Dont shoot the horse!
No more shots rang out, and Tracy immediately felt stupid for thinking her 
father would blow away Goodheart. Daddy was a cautious man, especially with 
loaded guns, and unless he knew exactly what was happening, he wouldnt fire 
anything but warning shots. More likely than not, hed just blasted some 
shrubbery to bits.
Goodheart was probably all right, and the amber-eyed assailant was surely 
hightailing it for the foothills or the canyons or back to wherever it had come 
from (What was that crazy damn thing?)
and the ordeal was over, thank God.
She heard running footsteps, and her father called her name.
She pushed open the stall door and saw Daddy rushing toward her in a pair of 
blue pajama bottoms, barefoot, with the shotgun cradled in his arm. Mom was 
there too, in a short yellow nightie, hurrying behind Daddy with a flashlight.
Up near the top of the sloped yard stood Goodheart, the sire of future 
champions, his panic gone, unhurt.
Tears of relief sprang from Tracy at the sight of the unharmed stallion, and she 
stumbled out of the stall, wanting to go have a closer look at him. With her 
second or third step, a fiercely hot pain flamed along her entire right side, 
and she was suddenly dizzy. She staggered, fell, put one hand to her side, felt 
something wet, and realized that she was bleeding. She remembered the claws 
sinking into her just before Goodheart had burst from his stall, frightening off 
the assailant, and as if from a great distance she heard herself saying, Good 
horse . . . what a good horse . .
Daddy dropped to his knees beside her. Baby, what the hell happened, whats 
wrong?
Her mother arrived, too.
Daddy saw the blood. Call an ambulance!
Her mother, not given to hesitation or hysterics in time of trouble, turned 
immediately and ran back toward the house.
Tracy was getting dizzier. Creeping in at the edges of her vision was a darkness 
that was not part of the night. She wasnt afraid of it. It seemed like a 
welcoming, healing darkness.
Baby, her father said, putting a hand on her wounds.
Weakly, realizing she was slightly delirious and wondering what she was going to 
say, she said, Remember when I was very little . . . just a little girl . . . 
and I thought some horrible thing. . . lived in my closet. . . at night?
He frowned worriedly. Honey, maybe youd better be still, be quiet and still.
As she lost consciousness, Tracy heard herself say, with a seriousness that both 
amused and frightened her, Well . . . I think maybe it was the boogeyman who 
used to live in the closet at the other house. I think maybe . . . he was real . 
. . and hes come back.
 
 
9
At four-twenty Wednesday morning, only hours after the attack at the Keeshan 
house, Lemuel Johnson reached Tracy Keeshans hospital room at St. Josephs in 
Santa Ana. Quick as he was, however, Lem found Sheriff Walt Gaines had arrived 
ahead of him. Walt stood in the corridor, towering over a young doctor in 
surgical greens and a white lab coat; they seemed to be arguing quietly.
The NSAs Banodyne crisis team was monitoring all police agencies in the county, 
including the police department in the city of Orange, in whose jurisdiction the 
Keeshan house fell. The teams night-shift leader had called Lem at home with 
news of this case, which fit the profile of expected Banodyne-related incidents.
You relinquished jurisdiction, Lem pointedly reminded Walt when he joined the 
sheriff and doctor at the girls closed door.
Maybe this isnt part of the same case. You know it is.
Well, that determination hasnt been made.
It was madeback at the Keeshans house when I talked with your men. Okay, so 
lets say Im just here as an observer.
My ass, Lem said.
What about your ass? Walt asked, smiling.
Its got a pain in it, and the name of the pain is Walter.
How interesting, Walt said. You name your pains. Do you give names to 
toothaches and headaches as well?
Ive got a headache right now, and its name is Walter, too.
Thats too confusing, my friend. Better call the headache Bert or Harry or 
something.
Lem almost laughedhe loved this guybut he knew that, in spite of their 
friendship, Walt would use the laughter as a lever to pry himself back into the 
case. So Lem remained stone-faced, though Walt obviously knew that Lem wanted to 
laugh. The game was ridiculous, but it had to be played.
The doctor, Roger Selbok, resembled a young Rod Steiger. He frowned when they 
raised their voices, and he possessed some of the powerful presence of Steiger, 
too, because his frown was enough to chasten and quiet them.
Selbok said the girl had been put through tests, had been treated for her 
wounds, and had been given a painkiller. She was tired. He was just about to 
administer a sedative to guarantee her a restful sleep, and he did not think it 
was a good idea for policemen of any stripe to be asking her questions just now.
The whispering, the early-morning hush of the hospital, the scent of 
disinfectants that filled the hall, and the sight of a white-robed nun gliding 
past was enough to make Lem uneasy. Suddenly, he was afraid that the girl was in 
far worse condition than he had been told, and he voiced his concern to Selbok.
No, no. Shes in pretty good shape, the doctor said. Ive sent her parents 
home, which I wouldnt have done if there was anything to worry about. The left 
side of her face is bruised, and the eye is blackened, but theres nothing 
serious in that. The wounds along her right side required thirty-two stitches, 
so well need to take precautions to keep the scarring to a minimum, but shes 
in no danger. Shes had a bad scare. However, shes a bright kid, and 
self-reliant, so I dont think shell suffer lasting psychological trauma. 
Still, I dont think its a good idea to subject her to an interrogation 
tonight.
Not an interrogation, Lem said. Just a few questions.
Five minutes, Walt said.
Less, Lem said.
They kept at Selbok, and at last they wore him down. Well . . . I guess youve 
got your job to do, and if you promise not to be too insistent with her
Ill handle her as if shes made of soap bubbles, Lem said.
Well handle her as if shes made of soap bubbles, Walt said.
Selbok said, Just tell me . . . what the devil happened to her?
She hasnt told you herself? Lem asked.
Well, she talks about being attacked by a coyote . .
Lem was surprised, and he saw Walt was startled, too. Maybe the case had nothing 
to do with Wes Dalbergs death and the dead animals at the Irvine Park petting 
zoo, after all.
But, the physician said, no coyote would attack a girl as big as Tracy.
Theyre only a danger to very small children. And I dont believe her wounds are 
like those a coyote would inflict.
Walt said, I understand her father drove the assailant off with a shotgun. 
Doesnt he know what attacked her?
No, Selbok said. He couldnt see what was happening in the dark, so he only 
fired two warning shots. He says something dashed across the yard, leaped the 
fence, but he couldnt see any details. He says that Tracy first told him it was 
the boogeyman who used to live in her closet, but she was delirious then. She 
told me it was a coyote. So. . . do you know whats going on here? Can you tell 
me anything I need to know to treat the girl?
I cant, Walt said. But Mr. Johnson here knows the whole situation.
Thanks a lot, Lem said.
Walt just smiled.
To Selbok, Lem said, Im sorry, Doctor, but Im not at liberty to discuss the 
case. Anyway, nothing I could tell you would alter the treatment youd give 
Tracy Keeshan.
When Lem and Walt finally got into Tracys hospital room, leaving Dr. Selbok in 
the corridor to time their visit, they found a pretty thirteen-year-old who was 
badly bruised and as pale as snow. She was in bed, the sheets pulled up to her 
shoulders. Though she had been given painkillers, she was alert, even edgy, and 
it was obvious why Selbok wanted to give her a sedative. She was trying not to 
show it, but she was scared.
I wish youd leave, Lem told Walt Gaines.
If wishes were filet mignon, wed always eat well at dinner, Walt said. Hi, 
Tracy, Im Sheriff Walt Gaines, and this is Lemuel Johnson. Im about as nice as 
they come, though Lem here is a real stinkereverybody says so but you dont 
have to worry because Ill keep him in line and make him be nice to you. Okay?
Together, they coaxed Tracy into a conversation. They quickly discovered that 
shed told Selbok shed been attacked by a coyote because, though she knew it 
wasnt true, she didnt believe she could convince the physicianor anyone 
elseof the truth of what shed seen. I was afraid theyd think Id been hit 
real hard on the head, had my brains scrambled, she said, and then theyd keep 
me here a lot longer.
Sitting on the edge of the girls bed, Lem said, Tracy, you dont have to worry 
that Ill think youre scrambled. I believe I know what you saw, and all I want 
from you is confirmation.
She stared at him disbelievingly.
Walt stood at the foot of her bed, smiling down at her as if he were a big, 
affectionate teddy bear come to life. He said, Before you passed out, you told 
your dad youd been attacked by the boogeyman who used to live in your closet. 
It was sure ugly enough, the girl said quietly. But thats not what it, was, 
I guess.
Tell me, Lem said.
She stared at Walt, at Lem, then sighed. You tell me what you think I
shouldve seen, and if youre close, Ill tell you what I can remember. But Im 
not going to start it cause I know youll think Im looney tunes.
Lem regarded Walt with unconcealed frustration, realizing there was no way to 
avoid divulging some of the facts of the case.
Walt grinned.
To the girl, Lem said, Yellow eyes.
She gasped and went rigid. Yes! You do know, dont you? You know what was out 
there. She started to sit up, winced in pain as she pulled the stitches in her 
wound, and slumped back against the bed. What was it, what was it?
Tracy, Lem said, I cant tell you what it was. Ive signed a secrecy oath. If 
I violated it, I could be put in jail, but more important . . . I wouldnt have 
much respect for myself.
She frowned, finally nodded. I guess I can understand that.
Good. Now tell me everything you can about your assailant.
As it turned out, she had not seen much because the night was dark and her 
flashlight had illuminated The Outsider for only an instant. Pretty big for an 
animal . . . maybe as big as me. The yellow eyes. She shuddered. And its face 
was . . . strange.
In what way?
Lumpy . . . deformed, the girl said. Though she had been very pale at the 
start, she grew paler now, and fine beads of sweat appeared along her hairline, 
dampening her brow.
Walt was leaning on the footrail of the bed, straining forward, intensely 
interested, not wanting to miss a word.
A sudden Santa Ana wind buffeted the building, startling the girl. She looked 
fearfully at the rattling window, where the wind moaned, as if she was afraid 
something would come smashing through the glass.
Which was, Lem reminded himself, exactly how The Outsider had gotten to Wes 
Dalberg.
The girl swallowed hard. Its mouth was huge . . . and the teeth . .
She could not stop shaking, and Lem put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Its 
okay, honey. Its over now. Its all behind you.
After a pause to regain control of herself, but still shivering, Tracy said, I 
think it was kind of hairy . . . or furry . . . Im not sure, but it was very 
Strong.
What kind of animal did it resemble? Lem asked.
She shook her head. It wasnt like anything else."
But if you had to say it was like some other animal, would you say it was more 
like a cougar than anything else?
No. Not a cougar.
Like a dog?
She hesitated. Maybe . . . a little bit like a dog.
Maybe a little bit like a bear, too?
No.
Like a panther?
No. Not like any cat.
Like a monkey?
She hesitated again, frowned, thinking. I dont know why . . . but, yeah, maybe 
a little like a monkey. Except, no dog and no monkey has teeth like that.
The door opened from the hall, and Dr. Selbok appeared. Youre already past 
five minutes.
Walt started to wave the doctor out.
Lem said, No, its okay. Were finished. Half a minute yet.
Im counting the seconds, Selbok said, retreating.
To the girl Lem said, Can I rely on you?
She matched his gaze and said, To keep quiet?
Lem nodded.
She said, Yeah. I sure dont want to tell anybody. My folks think Im mature 
for my age. Mentally and emotionally mature, I mean. But if I start telling wild 
stories about . . . about monsters, theyre going to think Im not so mature 
after all, and maybe theyll figure Im not responsible enough to take care of 
the horses, and so maybe theyll slow down the breeding plans. I wont risk 
that, Mr. Johnson. No, sir. So as far as Im concerned, it was a loco coyote. 
But . .
Yes?
Can you tell me . . . is there any chance itll come back?
I dont think so. But it would be wise, for a while, not to go out to the 
stable at night. All right?
All right, she said. Judging by her haunted expression, she would remain 
indoors after dusk for weeks to come.
They left the room, thanked Dr. Selbok for his cooperation, and went down to the 
hospitals parking garage. Dawn had not yet arrived, and the cavernous concrete 
structure was empty, desolate. Their footsteps echoed hollowly off the wails.
Their cars were on the same floor, and Walt accompanied Lem to the green, 
unmarked NSA sedan. As Lem put the key in the door to unlock it, Walt looked 
around to be sure they were alone, then said, Tell me.
Cant.
Ill find out.
Youre off the case.
So take me to court. Get a bench warrant.
I might.
For endangering the national security.
It would be a fair charge.
Throw my ass in jail.
I might, Lem said, though he knew he would not.
Curiously, though Walts doggedness was frustrating and more than a little 
irritating, it was also pleasing to Lem. He had few friends, of which Walt was 
the most important, and he liked to think the reason he had few friends was 
because he was selective, with high standards. If Walt had backed off entirely,
if he had been completely cowed by federal authority, if hed been able to turn 
off his Curiosity as easily as turning off a light switch, he would have been 
slightly tarnished and diminished in Leins eyes.
What reminds you of a dog and an ape and has yellow eyes? Walt asked. Aside 
from your mama, that is.
You leave my mama out of this, honky, Lem said. Smiling in spite of himself, 
he got into the car.
Walt held the door open and leaned down to look in at him. What in the name of 
God escaped from Banodyne?
I told you this has nothing to do with Banodyne.
And the fire they had at the labs the next day . . . did they set it themselves 
to destroy the evidence of what theyd been up to?
Dont be ridiculous, Lem said wearily, thrusting the key into the ignition. 
Evidence could be destroyed in a more efficient and less drastic manner. if 
there was evidence to destroy. Which there isnt. Because Banodyne has nothing 
to do with this.
Lem started the car, but Walt would not give up. He held the door open and 
leaned in even closer to be heard above the rumble of the engine: Genetic 
engineering. Thats what theyre involved with at Banodyne. Tinkering with 
bacteria and virus to make new bugs that do good deeds like manufacture insulin 
or eat oil slicks. And they tinker with the genes of plants as well, I guess, to 
produce corn that grows in acidic soil or wheat that thrives with half the usual 
water. We always think of gene tinkering as being done on a small scaleplants 
and germs. But could they screw around with an animals genes so it produced 
bizarre offspring, a whole new species? Is that what theyve done, and is that 
whats escaped from Banodyne?
Lem shook his head exasperatedly. Walt, Im not an expert on recombinant DNA, 
but I dont think the science is nearly sophisticated enough to work with any 
degree of confidence on that sort of thing. And what would be the point, anyway? 
Okay, just supposing they could make a weird new animal by fiddling with the 
genetic structure of an existing specieswhat use would there be for it? I mean, 
aside from exhibition in a carnival freak show?
Walts eyes narrowed. I dont know. You tell me.
Listen, research money is always damn tight, and theres fierce competition for 
every major and minor grant, so no ones going to be able to afford to 
experiment with something that has no use. Get me? Now, because Im involved 
here, you know this has to be a matter of national defense, which would mean 
Banodyne was squandering Pentagon money to make a carnival freak.
The words squander and Pentagon have sometimes been used in the Same 
sentence, Walt said drily.
Be real, Walt. Its one thing for the Pentagon to let some of its contractors 
Waste money in the production of a needed weapons system. But its altogether 
another thing for them to knowingly hand out funds for experiments with no 
defense potential. The system is sometimes inefficient, sometimes even corrupt, 
but its never outright stupid. Anyway, Ill say it one more time: This
entire conversation is pointless because this has nothing to do with Banodyne. 
Walt stared in at him for a long moment, then sighed. Jesus, Lem, youre
good. I know youve got to be lying to me, but I half-think youre telling the 
truth.
I am telling the truth.
Youre good. So tell me . . . what about Weatherby, Yarbeck, and the others? 
Got their killer yet?
No. In fact, the man Lem had put in charge of the case had reported that it 
appeared as if the Soviets had used a killer outside of their own agencies and 
perhaps outside of the political world entirely. The investigation seemed 
stymied. But all he said to Walt was, No.
Walt started to straighten up and close the car door, then leaned down and in 
again. One more thing. You notice it seems to have a meaningful destination?
Whatre you talking about?
Its been moving steadily north or north-northwest ever since it broke out of 
Banodyne, Walt said.
It didnt break out of Banodyne, damn it.
From Banodyne to Holy Jim Canyon, from there to Irvine Park, and from there to 
the Keeshan house tonight. Steadily north or north-northwest. I suppose you know 
what that might mean, where it might be headed, but of course I darent ask you 
about it or youll heave me straight into prison and let me rot there.
Im telling you the truth about Banodyne.
So you say.
Youre impossible, Walt.
So you say.
So everyone says. Now will you let me go home? Im beat.
Smiling, Walt closed the door at last.
Lem drove out of the hospital garage to Main Street, then to the freeway, 
heading home toward Placentia. He hoped to make it back into bed no later than 
dawn.
As he piloted the NSA sedan through streets as empty as midocean sea-lanes, he 
thought about The Outsider heading northward. Hed noticed the same thing 
himself. And he was convinced that he knew what it was seeking even if he did 
not know where, precisely, it was going. From the first, the dog and The 
Outsider had possessed a special awareness of each other, an uncanny instinctual 
awareness of each others moods and activities even when they were not in the 
same room. Davis Weatherby had suggested, more than half seriously, that there 
was something telepathic about the relationship of those two creatures. Now, The 
Outsider was very likely still in tune with the dog and, by some sixth sense, 
was following it.
For the dogs sake, Lem hoped to God that was not the case.
It had been evident in the lab that the dog had always feared The Outsider, and 
with good reason. The two were the yin and yang of the Francis Project, the 
success and the failure, the good and the bad. As wonderful, right, and
good as the dog waswell, The Outsider was every bit as hideous, wrong, and 
evil. And the researchers had seen that The Outsider did not fear the dog but 
hated it with a passion that no one had been able to understand. Now that both 
were free, The Outsider might single-mindedly pursue the dog, for it had never 
wanted anything more than to tear the retriever limb from limb.
Lem realized that, in his anxiety, he had put his foot down too hard on the 
accelerator. The car was rocketing along the freeway. He eased back on the 
pedal.
Wherever the dog was, with whomever it had found shelter, it was in jeopardy. 
And those who had given it shelter were also in grave danger.
 
 
SIX
1
Through the last week of May and the first week of June, Nora and Travis and 
Einsteinwere together nearly every day.
Initially, she had worried that Travis was somehow dangerous, not as dangerous 
as Art Streck but still to be feared; however, shed soon gotten through that 
spell of paranoia. Now she laughed at herself when she remembered how wary of 
him she had been. He was sweet and kind, precisely the sort of man who, 
according to her Aunt Violet, did not exist anywhere in the world.
Once Noras paranoia had been overcome, shed then been convinced that the only 
reason Travis continued to see her was because he pitied her. Being the 
compassionate man he was, he would not be able to turn his back on anyone in 
desperate need or trouble. Most people, meeting Nora, would not think of her as 
desperateperhaps strange and shy and pathetic, but not desperate. Yet she 
wasor had beendesperately unable to cope with the world beyond her own four 
walls, desperately afraid of the future, and desperately lonely. Travis, being 
every bit as perceptive as he was kind, saw her desperation and responded to it. 
Gradually, as May faded into June and the days grew hotter under the summer sun, 
she dared to consider the possibility that he was helping her not because he 
pitied her but because he really liked her.
But she couldnt understand what a man like him would see in a woman like her. 
She seemed to have nothing whatsoever to offer.
All right, yes, she had a self-image problem. Maybe she was not really as 
hopelessly drab and dull as she felt. Still, Travis clearly deservedand could 
surely havebetter female companionship than she could provide.
She decided not to question his interest. The thing to do was just relax and 
enjoy it.
Because Travis had sold his real-estate business after the death of his wife and 
was essentially retired, and because Nora had no job either, they were free to 
be together most of the day if they wantedand they were. They went to 
galleries, haunted bookstores, took long walks, went on longer drives into the 
picturesque Santa Ynez Valley or up along the gorgeous Pacific coast.
Twice they set out early in the morning for Los Angeles and spent a long day 
there, and Nora was as overwhelmed by the sheer size of the city as she was by 
the activities they pursued: a movie-studio tour, a visit to the zoo, and a 
matinee performance of a hit musical.
One day Travis talked her into having her hair cut and styled. He took her to a 
beauty parlor that his late wife had frequented, and Nora was so nervous that 
she stuttered when she spoke to the beautician, a perky blonde named Melanie. 
Violet always cut Noras hair at home, and after Violets death, Nora cut it 
herself. Being tended by a beautician was a new experience, as unnerving as 
eating in a restaurant for the first time. Melanie did something she called 
feathering, and cut off a lot of Noras hair while somehow still leaving it 
full. They did not allow Nora to watch in the mirror, did not let her get a 
glimpse of herself until she was blown dry and combed out. Then they spun her 
around in the chair and confronted her with herself, and when she saw her 
reflection, she was stunned.
You look terrific, Travis said.
Its a total transformation, Melanie said.
Terrific, Travis said.
Youve got such a pretty face, great bone structure, Melanie said, but all 
that straight, long hair made your features look elongated and pointy. This 
frames your face to its best advantage.
Even Einstein seemed to like the change in her. When they left the beauty shop, 
the dog was waiting for them where they had left him tethered to a parking 
meter. He did a canine double-take when he saw Nora, jumped up with his front 
paws on her, and sniffed her face and hair, whining happily and wagging his 
tail.
She hated the new look. When they had turned her to the mirror, shed seen a 
pathetic old maid trying to pass for a pretty, vivacious young thing. The styled 
hair was simply not her. It only emphasized that she was basically a plain, drab 
woman. She would never be sexy, charming, with-it, or any of the other things 
that the new hairstyle tried to say she was. It was rather like fastening a 
brightly colored feather duster to the back end of a turkey and attempting to 
pass it off as a peacock.
Because she did not want to hurt Traviss feelings, she pretended to like what 
had been done to her. But that night she washed her hair and brushed it dry, 
pulling on it until all the so-called style had been tugged from it. Because of 
the feathering, it did not hang as straight and lank as it had previously, but 
she did the best with it that she could.
The next day, when Travis picked her up for lunch, he was clearly startled to 
find that she had reverted to her previous look. However, he said nothing about 
it, asked no questions. She was so embarrassed and afraid of having hurt his 
feelings that, for the first couple of hours, she was not able to meet his eyes 
for more than a second or two at a time.
 
 
In spite of her repeated and increasingly vigorous demurrals, Travis insisted On 
taking her shopping for a new dress, a bright and summery frock that she could 
wear to dinner at Talk of the Town, a dressy restaurant on West Gutierrez, where 
he said you could sometimes see some of the movie stars
who lived in the area, members of a film colony second only to that in Beverly 
HillsBel Air. They went to an expensive store, where she tried on a score of 
dresses, modeling each for Traviss reaction, blushing and mortified. The 
saleswoman seemed genuinely approving of the way everything looked on Nora, and 
she kept telling Nora that her figure was perfect, but Nora couldnt shake the 
feeling that the woman was laughing at her.
The dress Travis liked best was from the Diane Freis collection. Nora couldnt 
deny that it was lovely: predominantly red and gold, though with an almost 
riotous background of other colors somehow more right in combination than they 
should have been (which apparently was a trait of Freiss designs). It was 
exceedingly feminine. On a beautiful woman it would have been a knockout. But it 
just was not her. Dark colors, shapeless cuts, simple fabrics, no ornamentation 
whatsoeverthat was her style. She tried to tell him what was best for her, 
explained that she could never wear such a dress as this, but he said, You look 
gorgeous in it, really, you look gorgeous.
She let him buy it. Dear God, she really did. She knew it was a big mistake, was 
wrong, and that she would never wear it. As the dress was being wrapped, Nora 
wondered why she had acquiesced, and she realized that, in spite of being 
mortified, she was flattered to have a man buying clothes for her, to have a man 
take an interest in her appearance. She never dreamed such a thing would happen 
to her, and she was overwhelmed.
She couldnt stop blushing. Her heart pounded. She felt dizzy, but it was a good 
dizziness.
Then, as they were leaving the store, she learned that he had paid five hundred 
dollars for the dress. Five hundred dollars! She had intended to hang it in the 
closet and look at it a lot, use it as a starting point for pleasant daydreams, 
which was all fine and dandy if it had cost fifty dollars, but for five hundred 
she would have to wear it even if it made her feel ridiculous, even if she did 
look like a poseur, a scrubwoman pretending to be a princess.
The following evening, during the two hours before Travis was to pick her up and 
escort her to Talk of the Town, she put the dress on and took it off a half 
dozen times. She repeatedly sorted through the contents of her closet, searching 
frantically for something else to wear, something more sensible, but she didnt 
have anything because she had never before needed clothes for a dressy 
restaurant.
Scowling at herself in the bathroom mirror, she said, You look like Dustin 
Hoffman in Tootsie.
She suddenly laughed because she knew she was being too hard on herself. But she 
couldnt go easier on herself because that was how she felt: like a guy in drag. 
In this case, feelings were more important than facts, so her laughter quickly 
soured.
She broke down and cried twice, and considered calling him to cancel their date. 
But she wanted more than anything to see him, no matter how horribly humiliating 
the evening was going to be. She used Murine to get the red out of her eyes, and 
she tried the dress on againand took it off.
When he arrived at a few minutes past seven, he looked handsome in a dark suit.
Nora was wearing a shapeless blue shift with dark-blue shoes.
He said, Ill wait.
She said, Huh? For what?
You know, he said, meaning, Go change.
The words came out in a nervous rush, and her excuse was limp: Travis, Im 
sorry, this is terrible, Im so sorry, but I spilled coffee all over the dress.
Ill wait in here, he said, walking to the living room archway.
She said, A whole pot of coffee.
Better hurry. Our reservation is for seven-thirty.
Steeling herself for the amused whispers if not outright laughter of everyone 
who saw her, telling herself that Traviss opinion was the only one that 
mattered, she changed into the Diane Freis dress.
She wished she had not undone the hairstyle that Melanie had given her a couple 
of days ago. Maybe that would help.
No, it would probably just make her look more ludicrous.
When she came downstairs again, Travis smiled at her and said, Youre lovely.
She didnt know whether the food at Talk of the Town was as good as its 
reputation or not. She tasted nothing. Later, she could not clearly remember the 
decor of the place, either, though the faces of the other customers including 
the actor Gene Hackmanwere burned into her memory because she was certain that, 
all evening, they were staring at her with amazement and disdain.
In the middle of dinner, evidently well aware of her discomfort, Travis put down 
his wineglass and leaned toward her and said quietly, You really do look 
lovely, Nora, no matter what you think. And if you had the experience to be 
aware of such things, youd realize that most of the men in the room are 
attracted to you.
But she knew the truth, and she could face it. If men really were staring at 
her, it was not because she was pretty. People could be expected to stare at a 
turkey with a feather duster trying to pass itself off as a peacock.
Without a trace of makeup, he said, you look better than any woman in the 
room.
No makeup. That was another reason they were staring at her. When a Woman put on 
a five-hundred-dollar dress to be taken to an expensive restaurant, she made 
herself look as good as possible with lipstick, eyeliner, makeup, skin blush, 
and God knew what else. But Nora had never even thought about makeup.
The chocolate mousse dessert, though surely delicious, tasted like library paste 
to her and repeatedly stuck in her throat.
She and Travis had talked for long hours during the past couple of weeks, and 
they had found it surprisingly easy to reveal intimate feelings and thoughts to 
each other. She had learned why he was alone in spite of his good looks
and relative wealth, and he had learned why she harbored a low opinion of 
herself. So when she could not choke down any more of the mousse, when she 
implored Travis to take her home right away, he said softly, If theres any 
justice, Violet Devon is sweating in Hell tonight.
Shocked, Nora said, Oh, no. She wasnt that bad.
All the way home, he was silent, brooding.
When he left her at her door, he insisted she set up a meeting with Garrison 
Dilworth, who had been her aunts attorney and now took care of Noras minor 
legal business. From what youve told me, Travis said, Dilworth knew your 
aunt better than anyone, so Id bet dollars to doughnuts he can tell you things 
about her that will break this goddamn stranglehold she has on you even from the 
grave.
Nora said, But therere no great dark secrets about Aunt Violet. She was what 
she appeared to be. She was a very simple woman, really. A sort of sad woman.
Sad my ass, Travis said.
He persisted until she agreed to make the appointment with Garrison Dilworth.
Later, upstairs in her bedroom, when she tried to take off the Diane Freis, she 
discovered she didnt want to undress. All evening, she had been impatient to 
get out of that costume, for it had seemed like a costume on her. But now, in 
retrospect, the evening possessed a warm glow, and she wanted to prolong that 
glow. Like a sentimental high school girl, she slept in the five-hundred-dollar 
dress.
 
 
Garrison Dilworths office had been carefully decorated to convey 
respectability, stability, and reliability. Beautifully detailed oak paneling. 
Heavy royal-blue drapes hung from brass rods. Shelves full of leather-bound law 
books. A massive oak desk.
The attorney himself was an intriguing cross between a personification of 
Dignity and Probityand Santa Claus. Tall, rather portly, with thick silver 
hair, past seventy but still working a full week, Garrison favored three-piece 
suits and subdued ties. In spite of his many years as a Californian, his deep 
and smooth and cultured voice clearly marked him as a product of the upper-class 
Eastern circles in which he had been born, raised, and educated. But there was 
also a decidedly merry twinkle in his eyes, and his smile was quick, warm, 
altogether Santalike.
He did not distance himself by staying behind his desk, but sat with Nora and 
Travis in comfortable armchairs around a coffee table on which stood a large 
Waterford bowl. I dont know what you came here expecting to learn. There are 
no secrets about your aunt. No great dark revelations that will change your 
life
I knew as much, Nora said. Im sorry weve bothered you.
Wait, Travis said. Let Mr. Dilworth finish.
The attorney said, Violet Devon was my client, and an attorney has a 
responsibility to protect clients confidences even after their death. At least 
thats my view, though some in the profession might not feel such a lasting 
obligation. Of course, as Im speaking to Violets closest living relative and 
heir, I suppose theres little I would choose not to divulgeif in fact there 
were any secrets to reveal. And I certainly see no moral constraint against my 
expressing an honest opinion of your aunt. Even attorneys, priests, and doctors 
are allowed to have opinions of people. He took a deep breath and frowned. I 
never liked her, I thought she was a narrow-minded, totally self-involved woman 
who was at least slightly . . . well, mentally unstable. And the way she raised 
you was criminal, Nora. Not abusive in any legal sense that would interest the 
authorities, but criminal nonetheless. And cruel.
For as long as Nora could recall, a large knot had seemed to be tied tight 
inside of her, pinching vital organs and vessels, leaving her tense, restricting 
the flow of blood and making it necessary for her to live with all her senses 
damped down, forcing her to struggle along as if she were a machine getting 
insufficient power. Suddenly, Garrison Dilworths words untied that knot, and a 
full, unrestricted current of life rushed through her for the first time.
She had known what Violet Devon had done to her, but knowing was not enough to 
help her overcome that grim upbringing. She needed to hear her aunt condemned by 
someone else. Travis had already denounced Violet, and Nora had felt some small 
release at hearing what he said. But that had not been enough to free her 
because Travis hadnt known Violet and, therefore, spoke without complete 
authority. Garrison knew Violet well, however, and his words released Nora from 
bondage.
She was trembling violently, and tears were trickling down her face, but she was 
unaware of both conditions until Travis reached out from his chair to put one 
hand consolingly upon her shoulder. She fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief. 
Im sorry.
Dear lady, Garrison said, dont apologize for breaking through that iron 
shell youve been in all your life. This is the first time Ive seen you show a 
strong emotion, the first time Ive seen you in any condition other than extreme 
shyness, and its lovely to behold. Turning to Travis, giving Nora time to blot 
her eyes, he said, What more did you hope to hear me say?
There are some things Nora doesnt know, things she ought to know and that I 
dont believe would violate even your strict code of client privilege if you 
were to divulge them.
Such as?
Travis said, Violet Devon never worked yet lived reasonably well, never in 
want, and she left enough funds to keep Nora pretty much for the rest of her 
life, at least as long as Nora stays in that house and lives like a recluse. 
Where did her money come from?
Come from? Garrison sounded surprised. Nora knows that, surely.
But she doesnt, Travis said.
Nora looked up and saw Garrison Dilworth staring at her in astonishment. He 
blinked and said, Violets husband was moderately well-to-do. He died quite 
young, and she inherited everything.
Nora gaped at him and could barely find sufficient breath to speak. Husband?
George Olmstead, the attorney said.
Ive never heard that name.
Garrison blinked rapidly again, as if sand had blown in his face. She never 
mentioned a husband?
Never.
But didnt a neighbor ever mention
We had nothing to do with our neighbors, Nora said. Violet didnt approve of 
them.
And in fact, Garrison said, now that I think about it, there might have been 
new neighbors on both sides by the time you came to live with Violet.
Nora blew her nose and put away her handkerchief. She was still trembling. Her 
sudden sense of release from bondage had generated powerful emotions, but now 
they subsided somewhat to make room for curiosity.
All right? Travis asked.
She nodded, then stared hard at him and said, You knew, didnt you? About the 
husband, I mean. Thats why you brought me here.
I suspected, Travis said. If shed inherited everything from her parents, she 
would have mentioned it. The fact that she didnt talk about where the money 
came from . . . well, it seemed to me to leave only one possibility a husband, 
and very likely a husband with whom shed had troubles. Which made even more 
sense when you think about how down she was on people in general and on men in 
particular.
The attorney was so dismayed and agitated that he could not sit still. He got up 
and paced past an enormous antique globe that was lighted from within and seemed 
made of parchment. Im flabbergasted. So you never really understood why she 
was bitterly misanthropic, why she suspected everyone of having her worst 
interests at heart?
No, Nora said. I didnt need to know why, I guess. It was just the way she 
was.
Still pacing, Garrison said, Yes. Thats true. Im convinced she was a 
borderline paranoid even in her youth. And then, when she discovered that George 
had betrayed her with other women, the switch clicked all the way over in her. 
She got much worse after that.
Travis said, Why did Violet still use her maiden name, Devon, if shed been 
married to Olmstead?
She didnt want his name any more. Loathed the name. She sent him packing, very 
nearly drove him out of the house with a stick! She was about to divorce him 
when he died, Garrison said. She had learned about his affairs with other 
women, as Ive said. She was furious. Ashamed and enraged. I must say. . . I 
cant entirely blame poor George because I dont think he,
found much love and affection at home. He knew the marriage was a mistake within 
a month of the wedding.
Garrison paused beside the globe, one hand resting lightly on top of the world, 
staring far into the past. Ordinarily, he did not look his age. Now, as he gazed 
back across the years, the lines in his face seemed to deepen, and his blue eyes 
appeared faded. After a moment he shook his head and continued:
Anyway, those were different times, when a woman betrayed by a husband was an 
object of pity, ridicule. But even for those days, I thought Violets reaction 
was overblown. She burned all his clothes and changed the locks on the house . . 
. she even killed a dog, a spaniel, of which he was fond. Poisoned it. And 
mailed it to him in a box.
Dear God, Travis said.
Garrison said, Violet took back her maiden name because she didnt want his any 
more. The thought of carrying George Olmsteads name through life repelled her, 
she said, even though he was dead. She was an unforgiving woman.
Yes, Nora agreed.
His face pinched with distaste at the memory, and Garrison said, When George 
was killed, she didnt bother to conceal her pleasure.
Killed? Nora half-expected to hear that Violet had murdered George Olmstead 
yet had somehow escaped prosecution.
It was an auto accident, forty years ago, Garrison said. He lost control on 
the Coast Highway driving home from Los Angeles, went over the edge where, in 
those days, there wasnt a guardrail. The embankment was sixty or eighty feet 
high, very steep, and Georges cara large black Packard rolled over several 
times on the way down to the rocks below. Violet inherited everything because, 
though she had initiated divorce proceedings against him, George had not gotten 
around to changing his will.
Travis said, So George Olmstead not only betrayed Violet but, in dying, left 
her with no target for her anger. So she directed that anger at the world in 
general.
And at me in particular, Nora said.
 
 
That same afternoon, Nora told Travis about her painting. She had not mentioned 
her artistic pursuits before, and he had not been in her bedroom to see her 
easel, supply cabinet, and drawing board. She was not sure why she had kept this 
aspect of her life a secret from him. She had mentioned an interest in art, 
which was why they had gone to galleries and museums, but Perhaps she had never 
spoken of her own work because she was afraid that, On seeing her canvases, he 
would be unimpressed.
What if he felt that she had no real talent?
Aside from the escape provided by books, the thing that kept Nora going
through many grim, lonely years was her painting. She believed that she was 
good, perhaps very good, though she was too shy and too vulnerable to voice that 
conviction to anyone. What if she was wrong? What if she had no talent and had 
been merely filling time? Her art was the primary medium by which she defined 
herself. She had little else with which to sustain even her thin and shaky 
self-image, so she desperately needed to believe in her talent. Traviss opinion 
meant more to her than she could say, and if his reaction to her painting was 
negative, she would be devastated.
But after leaving Garrison Dilworths office, Nora knew that the time had come 
to take the risk. The truth about Violet Devon had been a key that had unlocked 
Noras emotional prison. She would need a long time to move from her cell, down 
the long hall to the outside world, but the journey would inevitably continue. 
Therefore, she would have to open herself to all the experiences that her new 
life provided, including the awful possibility of rejection and severe 
disappointment. Without risk, there was no hope of gain.
Back at the house, she considered taking Travis upstairs to have a look at a 
half dozen of her most recent paintings. But the idea of having a man in her 
bedroom, even with the most innocent intentions, was too unsettling. Garrison 
Dilworths revelations freed her, yes, and her world was rapidly broadening, but 
she was not yet that free. Instead, she insisted that Travis and Einstein sit on 
one of the big sofas in the furniture-stuffed living room, where she would bring 
some of her canvases for viewing. She turned on all the lights, drew the drapes 
away from the windows, and said, Ill be right back.
But upstairs she dithered over the ten paintings in her bedroom, unable to 
decide which two she should take to him first. Finally she settled on four 
pieces, though it was a bit awkward carrying that many at once. Halfway down the 
stairs, she halted, trembling, and decided to take the paintings back and select 
others. But she retreated only four steps before she realized that she could 
spend the entire day in vacillation. Reminding herself that nothing could be 
gained without risk, she took a deep breath and went quickly downstairs with the 
four paintings that she had originally chosen.
Travis liked them. More than liked them. He raved about them. My God, Nora, 
this is no hobby painting. This is the real thing. This is art.
She propped the paintings on four chairs, and he was not content to study them 
from the sofa. He got up for a closer look, moved from one canvas to another and 
back again.
Youre a superb photorealist, he said. Okay, so Im no art critic, but by God 
youre as skilled as Wyeth. But this other thing . . . this eerie quality in two 
of these . .
His compliments had left her blushing furiously, and she had to swallow hard to 
find her voice. A touch of surrealism.
She had brought two landscapes and two still lifes. One of each was, indeed, 
strictly a photorealist work. But the other two were photorealism with a strong 
element of surrealism. In the still life, for example, several water glasses, a 
pitcher, spoons, and a sliced lemon were on a table, portrayed in excruciating
detail, and at first glance the scene looked very realistic; but at second 
glance you noticed that one of the glasses was melting into the surface on which 
it stood, and that one slice of lemon was penetrating the side of a glass as if 
the glass had been formed around it.
Theyre brilliant, they really are, he said. Do you have others?
Did she have others!
She made two additional trips to her bedroom, returning with six more paintings.
With each new canvas, Traviss excitement grew. His delight and enthusiasm were 
genuine, too. Initially she thought that he might be humoring her, but soon she 
was certain he was not disguising his true reaction.
Moving from canvas to canvas and back again, he said, Your sense of color is 
excellent.
Einstein accompanied Travis around the room, adding a soft woof after each of 
his masters statements and vigorously wagging his tail, as if expressing 
agreement with the assessment.
Theres such mood in these pieces, Travis said.
Woof.
Your control of the medium is astonishing. Ive no sense that Im looking at 
thousands of brush strokes. Instead, it seems as if the picture just appeared on 
the canvas magically.
Woof.
Its hard to believe youve had no formal schooling.
Woof.
Nora, these are easily good enough to sell. Any gallery would take these
in a minute. -
Woof.
You could not only make a living at this . . . I think you could build one hell 
of a reputation.
Because she had not dared to admit how seriously she had always taken her work, 
Nora had often painted one picture over another, using a canvas again and again. 
As a consequence, many of her pieces were gone forever. But in the attic she had 
stored more than eighty of her best paintings. Now, because Travis insisted, 
they brought down more than a score of those wrapped canvases, tore off the 
brown paper, and propped them on the living-room furniture. For the first time 
in Noras memory, that dark chamber looked bright and welcoming.
Any gallery would be delighted to do a show of these, Travis said. In fact, 
tomorrow, lets load some of them into the truck and take them around to a few 
galleries, hear what they say.
Oh no, no.
I promise you, Nora, you wont be disappointed.
She was suddenly in the clutches of anxiety. Although thrilled by the prospect 
of a career in art, she was also frightened by the big step she would be taking. 
Like walking off the edge of a cliff.
She said, Not yet. In a week . . . or a month . . . well load them in the
truck and take them to a gallery. But not yet, Travis. I just cant . . I cant 
handle it yet.
He grinned at her. Sensory overload again?
Einstein came to her and rubbed against her leg, looking up with a sweet 
expression that made Nora smile.
Scratching behind the dogs ears, she said, So much has happened so fast. I 
cant absorb it all. I keep having to fight off attacks of dizziness. I feel a 
little bit as if Im on a carousel thats whirling around faster and faster, out 
of control.
What she said was true, to an extent, but that was not the only reason she 
wished to delay going public with her art. She also wanted to move slowly in 
order to have time to savor every glorious development. If she rushed into 
things, the transformation from reclusive spinster to a full-fledged participant 
in life would go too fast, and later it would be just a blur. She wanted to 
enjoy every moment of her metamorphosis.
As if she were an invalid who had been confined since birth to a single dark 
room full of life-support equipment, and as if she had just been miraculously 
cured, Nora Devon was coming cautiously out into a new world.
 
 
Travis was not solely responsible for Noras emergence from reclusion. Einstein 
had an equally large role in her transformation.
The retriever had obviously decided that Nora could be trusted with the secret 
of his extraordinary intelligence. After the Modern Bride and baby business in 
Solvang, the dog gave her glimpse after glimpse of his undoglike mind at work.
Taking his lead from Einstein, Travis told Nora how he had found the retriever 
in the woods and how something strangeand never seenhad been pursuing it. He 
recounted all the amazing things the dog had done since then. He also told her 
of Einsteins occasional bouts with anxiety in the heart of the night, when he 
sometimes stood at a window and stared out at the darkness as if he believed the 
unknown creature in the woods would find him.
They sat for hours one evening in Noras kitchen, drinking pots of coffee and 
eating homemade pineapple cake and discussing explanations for the dogs uncanny 
intelligence. When not cadging bits of cake, Einstein listened to them with 
interest, as if he understood what they were saying about him, and sometimes he 
whined and paced impatiently, as if frustrated that his canine vocal apparatus 
did not permit him to speak. But they were mostly spinning their wheels because 
they had no explanations worth discussing.
I believe he could tell us where he comes from, why hes so damn different from 
other dogs, Nora said.
Einstein busily swept the air with his tail.
Oh, Im sure of it, Travis said. Hes got a humanlike self-awareness.
He knows hes different, and I suspect he knows why, and I think hed like to 
tell us about it if he could only find a way.
The retriever barked once, ran to the far end of the kitchen, ran back, looked 
up at them, did a frantic little dance of purely human frustration, and finally 
slumped on the floor with his head on his paws, alternately chuffing and whining 
softly.
Nora was most intrigued by the story of (he night that the dog had gotten 
excited over Traviss book collection. He recognizes that books are a means of 
communication, she said. And maybe he senses theres a way to use books to 
bridge the communications gap between him and us.
How? Travis asked as he lifted another forkful of pineapple cake.
Nora shrugged. I dont know. But maybe the problem was that your books werent 
the right kind. Novels, you said?
Yeah. Fiction.
She said, Maybe what we need is books with pictures, images he can react to. 
Maybe if we gathered up a lot of picture books of all kinds, and magazines with 
pictures, and maybe if we spread them out on the floor and worked with Einstein, 
maybe wed find some way to communicate with him.
The retriever leaped to his feet and padded directly to Nora. From the 
expression on his face and from the intent look in his eyes, Nora knew that her 
proposal was a good one. Tomorrow, she would collect dozens of books and 
magazines, and put the scheme into operation.
Its going to take a lot of patience, Travis warned her.
Ive got oceans of patience.
You may think you have, but sometimes dealing with Einstein gives a whole new 
meaning to the word.
Turning to Travis, the dog blew air out of his nostrils.
The prospects for more direct communication looked bleak during the first few 
sessions with the dog on Wednesday and Thursday, but the big breakthrough was 
not long in coming: Friday evening, June 4, they found the way, and after that 
their lives could never be the same.
 
 
2
...reports of screaming in an unfinished housing tract, Bordeaux Ridge
Friday evening, June 4, less than an hour before nightfall, the sun cast gold 
and copper light on Orange County. It was the second day of blistering 
temperatures in the mid-nineties, and the stored heat of the long summer day 
radiated off the pavement and buildings. Trees seemed to droop wearily. The air 
was motionless. On the freeways and surface streets, the sound of traffic was 
muffled, as if the thick air filtered the roar of engines and blaring of horns.
repeat, Bordeaux Ridge, under construction at the east end
In the gently rolling foothills to the northeast, in an unincorporated area of 
the county adjacent to Yorba Linda, where the suburban sprawl had only recently 
begun to reach, there was little traffic. The occasional blast of a horn or 
squeal of brakes was not merely muffled but curiously mournful, melancholy in 
the humid stillness.
Sheriffs Deputies Teel Porter and Ken Dimes were in a patrol carTeel driving, 
Ken riding shotgunwith a broken ventilation system: no air-conditioning, not 
even forced air coming out of the vents. The windows were open, but the sedan 
was an oven.
You stink like a dead hog, Teel Porter told his partner.
Yeah? Ken Dimes said. Well, you not only stink like a dead hog, you look like 
a dead hog.
Yeah? Well, you date dead hogs.
Ken smiled in spite of the heat. That so? Well, I hear from your women that you 
make love like a dead hog.
Their tired humor could not mask the fact that they were weary and 
uncomfortable. And they were answering a call that didnt promise much 
excitement: probably kids playing games; kids loved to play on construction 
sites. Both deputies were thirty-two, husky former high school football players. 
They werent brothersbut, as partners for six years, they were brothers.
Teel turned off the county road onto a lightly oiled dirt lane that led into the 
Bordeaux Ridge development. About forty houses were in various stages of 
construction. Most were still being framed, but a few had already been stuccoed.
Now there, Ken said, is the kind of shit I just cant believe people fall 
for. I mean, hell, what kind of name is Bordeaux for a housing tract in 
Southern California? Are they trying to make you believe theres going to be 
vineyards here one day? And they call it Ridge, but the whole tracts in this 
stretch of flatland between the hills. Their sign promises serenity. Maybe now. 
But what about when they pitch up another three thousand houses out here in the 
next five years?
Teel said, Yeah, but the part gets me is miniestates. What the fuck is a 
miniestate. Nobody in his right mind would think these are estatesexcept maybe 
Russians whove spent their lives living twelve to an apartment. These are tract 
homes.
The concrete curbs and gutters had been poured along the streets of Bordeaux 
Ridge, but the pavement had not yet been put down. Teel drove slowly, trying not 
to raise a lot of dust, raising it anyway. He and Ken looked left and right at 
the skeletal forms of unfinished houses, searching for kids who were up to no 
good.
To the west, at the edge of the city of Yorba Linda and adjacent to Bordeaux 
Ridge, were finished tracts where people already lived. From those residents, 
the Yorba Linda Police had received calls about screaming somewhere in this 
embryonic development. Because the area had not yet been annexed into the city, 
the complaint fell into the jurisdiction of the Sheriffs Department.
At the end of the street, the deputies saw a white pickup that belonged to
the company that owned Bordeaux: Tulemann Brothers. It was parked in front of 
three almost-completed display models.
Looks like theres a foreman still here, Ken said.
Or maybe its the night watchman on duty a little early, Tee! said.
They parked behind the truck, got out of the stiflingly hot patrol car, and 
stood for a moment, listening. Silence.
Ken shouted, Hello! Anybody here?
His voice echoed back and forth through the deserted tract.
Ken said, You want to look around?
Shit, no, Teel said. But lets do it.
Ken still did not believe anything was wrong at Bordeaux Ridge. The pickup could 
have been left behind at the end of the day. After all, other equipment remained 
on the tract overnight: a couple of Bob-cats on a long-bed truck, a backhoe. And 
it was still likely that the reported screaming had been kids playing.
They grabbed flashlights from the car because, even if electric service to the 
tract had been connected, there were no lamps or ceiling lights in the 
unfinished structures.
Resettling their gunbelts on their hips more out of habit than out of any belief 
that they would need weapons, Ken and Teel walked through the nearest of the 
partially framed houses. They were not looking for anything in particular, just 
going through the motions, which was half of all police work.
A mild and inconstant breeze sprang up, the first of the day, and blew sawdust 
ghosts through the open sides of the house. The sun was falling rapidly 
westward, and the wall studs cast prison-bar shadows across the floor. The last 
light of the day, which was changing from gold to muddy red, imparted a soft 
glow to the air like that around the open door of a furnace. The concrete pad 
was littered with nails that winked in the fiery light and clinked underfoot.
For a hundred and eighty thousand bucks, Tee! said, probing into black corners 
with the beam of his flashlight, Id expect rooms a little bigger than these.
Taking a deep breath of sawdust-scented air, Ken said, Hell, Id expect rooms 
as big as airport lounges.
They stepped out of the back of the house, into a shallow rear yard, where they 
switched off their flashes. The bare, dry earth was not landscaped. It was 
littered with the detritus of construction: scraps of lumber, chunks of broken 
concrete, rumpled pieces of tarpaper, tangled loops of wire, more nails, useless 
lengths of PVC pipe, cedar shingles discarded by roofers, Styrofoam soft-drink 
cups and Big Mac containers, empty Coke cans, and less identifiable debris.
No fences had yet been constructed, so they had a view of all twelve backyards 
along this street. Purple shadows seeped across the sandy soil, but they could 
see that all the yards were deserted.
No signs of mayhem, Tee! said.
No damsels in distress, Ken said.
Well, lets at least walk along here, look between buildings, Teel said. We 
ought to give the public something for their money.
Two houses later, in the thirty-foot-wide pass-through between structures, they 
found the dead man.
Damn, Teel said.
The guy was lying on his back, mostly in shadow, with only the lower half of his 
body revealed in the dirty-red light, and at first Ken and Teel didnt realize 
what a horror theyd stumbled across. But when he knelt beside the corpse, Ken 
was shocked to see that the mans gut had been torn open.
Jesus Christ, his eyes, Teel said.
Ken looked up from the ravaged torso and saw empty sockets where the victims 
eyes should have been.
Retreating into the littered yard, Tee! drew his revolver.
Ken also backed away from the mutilated corpse and slipped his own gun out of 
his holster. Though he had been perspiring all day, he felt suddenly damper, 
slick with a different kind of sweat, the cool, sour sweat of fear.
PCP, Ken thought. Only some asshole stoned on PCP would be violent enough to do 
something like this.
Bordeaux Ridge was silent.
Nothing moved except the shadows, which seemed to grow longer by the second.
Some angel-dust junkie did this, Ken said, putting his fears about PCP into 
words.
I was thinking the same thing, Teel said. You want to look any farther?
Not just the two of us, by God. Lets radio for assistance.
They began to retrace their steps, warily keeping a watch on all sides as they 
moved, and they did not go far before they heard the noises. A crash. A clatter 
of metal. Glass breaking.
Ken had no doubt whatsoever where the sounds came from. The racket originated 
inside the closest of the three houses that were nearing completion and that 
would serve as sales models.
With no suspect in sight and no clue as to where to begin looking for one, they 
would have been justified in returning to the patrol car and calling for 
assistance. But now that theyd heard the disturbance in the model home, their 
training and instinct required them to act more boldly. They moved toward the 
back of the house.
A plyboard skin had been nailed over the studs, so the walls were not open to 
the elements, and chicken wire had been fixed to the tar-papered boards, and 
half the place was stuccoed. In fact, the stucco looked damp, as if the job had 
been started only today. Most of the windows were installed; only a few cutouts 
were still covered with tattered sheets of opaque plastic.
Another crash, louder than the first, was followed by the sound of more glass 
shattering inside.
Ken Dimes tried the sliding glass door that connected the rear yard and the 
family room. It was not locked.
From outside, Tee! studied the family room through the glass. Although some 
light still entered the house by way of undraped doors and windows, shadows 
ruled the interior. They could see that the family room was deserted, so Tee! 
eased through the half-open door with his flashlight in one hand and his Smith & 
Wesson clutched firmly in the other.
You go around front, Tee! whispered, so the bastard doesnt get out that 
way.
Bending down to stay below window level, Ken hurried around the corner, along 
the side of the house, around to the front, and every step of the way he 
half-expected someone to jump on him from the roof or leap out through one of 
the unfinished windows.
 
 
The interior had been Sheetrocked, the ceilings textured. The family room opened 
into a breakfast area adjoining the kitchen, all of it one large flowing space 
without partitions. Oak cabinets had been installed in the kitchen, but the tile 
floor had not yet been put down.
The air had the lime odor of drywallers mud, with an underlying scent of wood 
stain.
Standing in the breakfast area, Tee! listened for more sounds of destruction, 
movement.
Nothing.
If this was like most California tract homes, he would find the dining room to 
the left, beyond the kitchen, then the living room, the entrance foyer, and a 
den. If he went into the hallway that led out of the breakfast area, he would 
probably find a laundry room, the downstairs bath, a coat closet, then the 
foyer. He could see no advantage of one route over another, so he went into the 
hall and checked the laundry first.
The dark room had no windows. The door was standing half-open, and the 
flashlight showed only yellow cabinets and the spaces where the washer and dryer 
would be placed. However, Teel wanted to look at the section behind the door, 
where he figured there was a sink and work area. He pushed the door all the way 
open and went in fast, swinging the flashlight and the gun in that direction. He 
found the stainless-steel sink and built-in table that he expected, but no 
killer.
He was more on edge that he had been in years. He could not keep the Image of 
the dead man from flickering repeatedly through his mind: those empty eye 
sockets.
Not just on edge, he thought. Face it, youre scared shitless.
 
 
 
Out front, Ken jumped across a narrow ditch and headed for the houses double 
entrance doors, which were still closed. He surveyed the surrounding
area and saw no one trying to escape. As twilight descended, Bordeaux Ridge 
looked less like a tract under development than like a bombed-out neighborhood. 
Shadows and dust created the illusion of rubble.
 
 
In the laundry room, Teel Porter turned, intending to step into the hail, and on 
his right, in the group of yellow cabinets, the two-foot-wide, six-foot-high 
door of a broom closet flew open, and this thing came at him as if it were a 
jack-in-the-box, Jesus, for a split second he was sure it must be a kid in a 
rubber fright mask. He could not see clearly in the backsplash of the 
flashlight, which was pointed away from the attacker, but then he knew it was 
real because those eyes, like circles of smoky lamplight, were not just plastic 
or glass, no way. He fired the revolver, but it was aimed ahead, into the hall, 
and the slug plowed harmlessly into the wall out there, so he tried to turn, but 
the thing was all over him, hissing like a snake. He fired again, into the floor 
this timethe sound was deafening in that enclosed space then he was driven 
backward against the sink, and the gun was torn out of his hand. He also lost 
the flashlight, which spun off into the corner. He threw a punch, but before his 
fist was halfway though its arc, he felt a terrible pain in his belly, as if 
several stilettos had been thrust into him all at once, and he knew instantly 
what was happening to him. He screamed, screamed, and in the gloom the misshapen 
face of the jack-in-the-box loomed over him, its eyes radiantly yellow, and Teel 
screamed again, flailed, and more stilettos sank through the soft tissue of his 
throat Ken Dimes was four steps from the front doors when he heard Tee! scream.
A cry of surprise, fear, pain.
Shit.
They were double doors, stained oak. The one on the right was secured to the 
sill and header by sliding bolts, while the one on the left was the active 
doorand unlocked. Ken rushed inside, caution briefly forgotten, then halted in 
the gloomy foyer.
Already, the screaming had stopped.
He switched on his flashlight. Empty living room to the right. Empty den to the 
left. A staircase leading up to the second floor. No one anywhere in sight.
Silence. Perfect silence. As in a vacuum.
For a moment Ken hesitated to call out to Teel, for fear he would be revealing 
his position to the killer. Then he realized that the flashlight, without which 
he could not proceed, was enough to give him away; it did not matter if he made 
noise.
Teel!
The name echoed through the vacant rooms.
Teel, where are you?
No reply.
Teel must be dead. Jesus. He would respond if he was alive.
Or he might just be injured and unconscious, wounded and dying. In that case, 
perhaps it would be best to go back to the patrol car and call for an ambulance.
No. No, if his partner was in desperate shape, Ken had to find him fast and 
administer first aid. Tee! might die in the time it took to call an ambulance. 
Delaying that long was too great a risk.
Besides, the killer had to be dealt with.
Only the vaguest smoky-red light penetrated the windows now, for the day was 
being swallowed by the night. Ken had to rely entirely on the flashlight, which 
was not ideal because, each time the beam moved, shadows leaped and swooped, 
creating illusory assailants. Those false attackers might distract him from real 
danger.
Leaving the front door wide open, he crept along the narrow hall that led to the 
back of the house. He stayed close to the wall. The sole of one of his shoes 
squeaked with nearly every step he took. He held the gun out in front of him, 
not aimed at the floor or ceiling, because for the moment, at least, he didnt 
give a damn about safe weapons procedure.
On the right, a door stood open. A closet. Empty.
The stink of his own perspiration grew greater than the lime and wood-stain 
odors of the house.
He came to a powder room on his left. A quick sweep of the light revealed 
nothing out of the ordinary, though his own frightened face, reflected in the 
mirror, startled him.
The rear of the housefamily room, breakfast area, kitchenwas directly ahead, 
and on his left was another door, standing open. In the beam of the flashlight, 
which suddenly began to quiver violently in his hand, Ken saw Teels body on the 
floor of a laundry room, and so much blood that there could be no doubt he was 
dead.
Beneath the waves of fear that washed across the surface of his mind, there were 
undercurrents of grief, rage, hatred, and a fierce desire for vengeance.
Behind Ken, something thumped.
He cried out and turned to face the threat.
But the hall to the right and the breakfast area to the left were both deserted.
The sound had come from the front of the house. Even as the echo of it died 
away, he knew what hed heard: the front door being closed.
Another sound broke the stillness, not as loud as the first but more unnerving: 
the clack of the doors dead bolt being engaged.
Had the killer departed and locked the door from the outside, with a key? But 
where would he get a key? Off the foreman that he had murdered? And Why would he 
pause to lock up?
More likely, he had locked the door from inside, not merely to delay Kens 
escape but to let him know the hunt was still under way.
Ken considered dousing the flashlight because it pinpointed him for the enemy, 
but by now the twilight glow at the windows was purple-gray and did not reach 
into the house at all. Without the flashlight, he would be blind.
How the hell was the killer finding his way in this steadily deepening darkness? 
Was it possible that a PCP junkies night vision improved when he was high, just 
as his strength increased to that of ten men as a side effect of the angel dust?
The house was quiet.
He stood with his back to the hallway wall.
He could smell Teels blood. A vaguely metallic odor.
Click, click, click.
Ken stiffened and listened intently, but he heard nothing more after those three 
quick noises. They had sounded like swift footsteps crossing the concrete floor, 
taken by someone wearing boots with hard leather heelsor shoes with cleats.
The noises had begun and ended so abruptly that he had not been able to tell 
where they were coming from. Then he heard them againclick, click, click, 
clickfour steps this time, and they were in the foyer, moving in this 
direction, toward the hall in which he stood.
He immediately pushed away from the wall, turning to face the adversary, 
dropping into a crouch and thrusting both the flashlight and the revolver toward 
where he had heard the steps. But the hallway was deserted.
Breathing through his open mouth to reduce the noise of his own rapid 
respiration, which he feared would mask the movements of the enemy, Ken eased 
along the hall, into the foyer. Nothing. The front door was closed all right, 
but the den and the living room and the staircase and the gallery above were 
deserted.
Click, click, click, click.
The noises arose from an entirely different direction now, from the back of the 
house, in the breakfast area. The killer had fled silently out of the foyer, 
across the living room and dining room, into the kitchen, into the breakfast 
area, circling through the house, coming around behind Ken. Now the bastard was 
entering the hall that Ken had just left. And though the guy had been silent 
while flitting through the other rooms, he was making those noises again, 
obviously not because he had to make them, not because his shoes clicked with 
every step the way Kens shoes squeaked, but because he wanted to make the 
noises again, wanted to taunt Ken, wanted to say: Hey, Im behind you now, and 
here I come, ready or not, here I come.
Click, click, click.
Ken Dimes was no coward. He was a good cop who had never walked away from 
trouble. He had received two citations for bravery in only seven years on the 
force. But this faceless, insanely violent son of a bitch, scurrying through the 
house in total darkness, silent when he wanted to be and making
taunting sounds when it suited himhe baffled and scared Ken. And although Ken 
was as courageous as any cop, he was no fool, and only a fool would walk boldly 
into a situation that he did not understand.
Instead of returning to the hall and confronting the killer, be went to the 
front door and reached for the lever-action brass handle, intending to get the 
hell out. Then he noticed the door hadnt merely been closed and dead-bolted. A 
length of scrap wire had been wound around the handle on the fixed door and 
around that on the active door, linking them, fastening them together. He would 
have to unwind the wire before he could get out, which might take half a minute.
Click, click, click.
He fired once toward the hallway without even looking and ran in the opposite 
direction, crossing the empty living room. He heard the killer behind him. 
Clicking. Coming fast in the darkness. Yet when Ken reached the dining room and 
was almost to the doorway that led into the kitchen, intending to make a break 
for the family room and the patio door by which Tee! had entered, he heard the 
clicking coming from in front of him. He was sure the killer had pursued him 
into the living room, but now the guy had gone back into the lightless hallway 
and was coming at him from the other direction, making a crazy game of this. 
From the sounds the bastard was making, he seemed just about to enter the 
breakfast area, which would put only the width of the kitchen between him and 
Ken, so Ken decided to make a stand right there, decided to blow away this 
psycho the moment the guy appeared in the beam of the light Then the killer 
shrieked.
Clicking along the hallway, still out of sight but coming toward Ken, the 
attacker let out a shrill inhuman cry that was the essence of primal rage and 
hatred, the strangest sound that Ken had ever heard, not the sound a man would 
make, not even a lunatic. He gave up all thought of confrontation, pitched his 
flashlight into the kitchen to create a diversion, turned away from the 
approaching enemy, and fled again, though not back into the living room, not 
toward any part of the house in which this game of cat and mouse could be 
extended, but straight across the dining room toward a window that glimmered 
vaguely with the last dim glow of twilight. He tucked his head down, brought his 
arms up against his chest, and turned sideways as he slammed into the glass. The 
window exploded, and he fell out into the rear yard, rolling through 
construction debris. Splintery scraps of two-by-fours and chunks of concrete 
poked painfully into his legs and ribs. He scrambled to his feet, spun toward 
the house, and emptied his revolver at the broken window in case the killer was 
in pursuit of him.
In the settling night, he saw no sign of the enemy.
Figuring he had not scored a hit, he wasted no time cursing his luck. He 
sprinted around the house, along the side of it, and out to the street. He had 
to get to the patrol car, where there was a radioand a pump-action riot gun.
3
On Wednesday and Thursday, the second and third of June, Travis and Nora and 
Einstein searched diligently for a way to improve human-canine communications, 
and in the process man and dog had almost begun to chew up furniture in 
frustration. However, Nora proved to have enough patience and confidence for all 
of them. When the breakthrough came near sunset on Friday evening, the fourth of 
June, she was less surprised than either Travis or Einstein.
They had purchased forty magazineseverything from Time and Life to McCalls and 
Redbookand fifty books of art and photography, and had brought them to the 
living room of Traviss rental house, where there was space to spread everything 
out on the floor. They had put pillows on the floor as well, so they could work 
at the dogs level and be comfortable.
Einstein had watched their preparations with interest.
Sitting on the floor with her back against the vinyl sofa, Nora took the 
retrievers head in both hands and, with her face close to his, their noses 
almost touching, she said, Okay, now you listen to me, Einstein. We want to 
know all sorts of things about you: where you came from, why youre smarter than 
an ordinary dog, what you were afraid of in the woods that day Travis found you, 
why you sometimes stare out the window at night as if youre frightened of 
something. Lots more. But you cant talk, can you? No. And so far as we know, 
you cant read. And even if you can read, you cant write. So weve got to do 
this with pictures, I think.
From where he sat near Nora, Travis could see that the dogs eyes never wavered 
from hers as she spoke. Einstein was rigid. His tail hung down, motionless. He 
not only seemed to understand what she was telling him, but he appeared to be 
electrified by the experiment.
How much does the mutt really perceive, Travis wondered, and how many of his 
reactions am I imagining because of pure wishful thinking?
People have a natural tendency to anthropomorphize their pets, to ascribe human 
perceptions and intentions to the animals where none exist. In Einstein's case, 
where there really was an exceptional intelligence at work, the temptation to 
see profound meaning in every meaningless doggy twitch was even greater than 
usual.
Were going to study all these pictures, looking for things that interest you, 
for things thatll help us understand where you came from and how you got to be 
what you are. Every time you see something thatll help us put the puzzle 
together, youve got somehow to bring it to our attention. Bark at it or put a 
paw on it or wag your tail.
This is nuts, Travis said.
Do you understand me, Einstein? Nora asked.
The retriever issued a soft woof.
This will never work, Travis said.
Yes, it will, Nora insisted. He cant talk, cant write, but he can show us 
things. If he points out a dozen pictures, we might not immediately understand 
what meaning they have for him, how they refer to his origins, but in time well 
find a way to relate them to one another and to him, and well know what hes 
trying to tell us.
The dog, his head still trapped firmly in Noras hands, rolled his eyes toward 
Travis and woofed again.
We ready? Nora asked Einstein.
His gaze flicked back to her, and he wagged his tail.
All right, she said, letting go of his head. Lets start.
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, for hours at a time, they leafed through scores 
of publications, showing Einstein pictures of all kinds of things people, 
trees, flowers, dogs, other animals, machines, city streets, country lanes, 
cars, ships, planes, food, advertisements for a thousand products hoping he 
would see something that would excite him. The problem was that he saw many 
things that excited him, too many. He barked at, pawed at, woofed at, put his 
nose to, or wagged his tail at perhaps a hundred out of the thousands of 
pictures, and his choices were of such variety that Travis could see no pattern 
to them, no way to link them and divine meaning from their association to one 
another.
Einstein was fascinated by an automobile ad in which the car, being compared to 
a powerful tiger, was shown locked in an iron cage. Whether it was the car or 
the tiger that seized his interest was not clear. He also responded to several 
computer advertisements, Alpo and Purina Dog Chow ads, an ad for a portable 
stereo cassette player, and pictures of books, butterflies, a parrot, a forlorn 
man in a prison cell, four young people playing with a striped beach ball, 
Mickey Mouse, a violin, a man on an exercise treadmill, and many other things. 
He was tantalized by a photograph of a golden retriever like himself, and was 
downright excited by a picture of a cocker spaniel, but curiously he showed 
little or no interest in other breeds of dogs.
His strongestand most puzzlingresponse was to a photo in a magazine article 
about an upcoming movie from 20th CenturyFox. The films story involved the 
supernaturalghosts, poltergeists, demons risen from Hell and the photo that 
agitated him was of a slab-jawed, wickedly fanged, lantern-eyed demonic 
apparition. The creature was no more hideous than others in the film, less 
hideous than several of them, yet Einstein was affected by only that one demon.
The retriever barked at the photograph. He scurried behind the sofa and peeked 
around the end of it as if he thought the creature in the picture might rise off 
the page and come after him. He barked again, whined, and had to be coaxed back 
to the magazine. Upon seeing the demon a second time, Einstein growled 
menacingly. Frantically, he pawed at the magazine, turning its pages until, 
somewhat tattered, it was completely closed.
Whats so special about that picture? Nora asked the dog.
Einstein just stared at herand shivered slightly.
Patiently, Nora reopened the magazine to the same page.
Einstein closed it again.
Nora opened it.
Einstein closed it a third time, snatched it up in his jaws, and carried it out 
of the room.
Travis and Nora followed the retriever into the kitchen, where they watched him 
go straight to the trash can. The can was one of those with a foot pedal that 
opened a hinged lid. Einstein put a paw on the pedal, watched the lid open, 
dropped the magazine into the can, and released the pedal.
Whats that all about? Nora wondered.
I guess thats one movie he definitely doesnt want to see.
Our own four-footed, furry critic.
That incident occurred Thursday afternoon. By early Friday evening, Traviss 
frustrationand that of the dogwere nearing critical mass.
Sometimes Einstein exhibited uncanny intelligence, but sometimes he behaved like 
an ordinary dog, and these oscillations between canine genius and dopey mutt 
were enervating for anyone trying to understand how he could be so bright. 
Travis began to think that the best way to deal with the retriever was to just 
accept him for what he was: be prepared for his amazing feats now and then, but 
dont expect him to deliver all the time. Most likely the mystery of Einsteins 
unusual intelligence would never be solved.
However, Nora remained patient. She frequently reminded them that Rome wasnt 
built in a day and that any worthwhile achievement required determination, 
persistence, tenacity, and time.
When she launched into these lectures about steadfastness and endurance, Travis 
sighed wearilyand Einstein yawned.
Nora was unperturbed. After they had examined the pictures in all of the books 
and magazines, she collected those to which Einstein had responded, spread them 
out across the floor, and encouraged him to make connections between one image 
and another.
All of these are pictures of things that played important roles in his past, 
Nora said.
I dont think we can be certain of that, Travis said.
Well, thats what weve asked him to do, she said. Weve asked him to 
indicate pictures that might tell us something about where hes come from.
But does he understand the game?
Yes, she said with conviction.
The dog woofed.
Nora lifted Einsteins paw and put it on the photograph of the violin. Okay, 
pooch. You remember a violin from somewhere, and it was important to you 
somehow.
Maybe he performed at Carnegie Hall, Travis said.
Shut up. To the dog Nora said, All right. Now is the violin related to any of 
these other pictures? Is there a link to another image that would help us 
understand what the violin means to you?
Einstein stared at her intently for a moment, as if pondering her question. Then 
he crossed the room, walking carefully in the narrow aisles between the rows of 
photographs, sniffing, his gaze flicking left and right, until he
found the ad for the Sony portable stereo cassette player. He put one paw on it 
and looked back at Nora.
Theres an obvious connection, Travis said. The violin makes music, and the 
cassette deck reproduces music. Thats an impressive feat of mental association 
for a dog, but does it really mean anything else, anything about his past?
Oh, Im sure it does, Nora said. To Einstein she said, Did someone in your 
past play the violin?
The dog stared at her.
She said, Did your previous master have a cassette player like that one?
The dog stared at her.
She said, Maybe the violinist in your past used to record his own music on a 
cassette system?
The dog blinked and whined.
All right, she said, is there another picture here that you can associate 
with the violin and the tape deck?
Einstein stared down at the Sony ad for a moment, as if thinking, then walked 
into another aisle between two more rows of pictures, this time stopping at a 
magazine open to a Blue Cross advertisement that showed a doctor in a white coat 
standing at the bedside of a new mother who was holding her baby. Doctor and 
mother were all smiles, and the baby looked as serene and innocent as the Christ 
child.
Crawling nearer to the dog on her hands and knees, Nora said, Does that picture 
remind you of the family that owned you?
The dog stared at her.
Was there a mother, father, and new baby in the family you used to live with?
The dog stared at her.
Still sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa, Travis said, Gee, 
maybe weve got a real case of reincarnation on our hands. Maybe old Einstein 
remembers being a doctor, a mother, or a baby in a previous life.
Nora would not dignify that suggestion with a response.
A violin-playing baby, Travis said.
Einstein mewled unhappily.
On her hands and knees in a doglike position, Nora was only two or three feet 
from the retriever, virtually face-to-face with him. All right. This is getting 
us nowhere. Weve got to do more than just have you associate one picture with 
another. Weve got to be able to ask questions about these pictures and somehow 
get answers.
Give him paper and pen, Travis said.
This is serious, Nora said, impatient with Travis as she had never been with 
the dog.
I know its serious, he said, but its also ridiculous.
She hung her head for a moment, like a dog suffering in summer heat, then 
suddenly looked up at Einstein and said, How smart are you really, pooch?
You want to prove youre a genius? You want to have our everlasting admiration 
and respect? Then heres what you have to do: learn to answer my questions with 
a simple yes or no.
The dog watched her closely, expectantly.
If the answer to my question is yeswag your tail, Nora said. But only if the 
answer is yes. While this test is under way, youve got to avoid wagging it out 
of habit or just because you get excited. Wagging is only for when you want to 
say yes. And when you want to say no, you bark once. Just once.
Travis said, Two barks mean Id rather be chasing cats, and three barks mean 
Get me a Budweiser. 
Dont confuse him, Nora said sharply.
Why not? He confuses me.
The dog did not even glance at Travis. His large brown eyes remained focused 
intently on Nora as she explained the wag-for-yes and bark-for-no system again.
All right, she said, lets try it. Einstein, do you understand the yes-no 
signs?
The retriever wagged his tail five or six times, then stopped.
Coincidence, Travis said. Means nothing.
Nora hesitated a moment, framing her next question, then said, Do you know my 
name?
The tail wagged, stopped.
Is my name . . . Ellen?
The dog barked. No.
Is my name . . . Mary?
One bark. No.
Is my name . . . Nona?
The dog rolled his eyes, as if chastising her for trying to trick him. No 
wagging. One bark.
is my name . . . Nora?
Einstein wagged his tail furiously.
Laughing with delight, Nora crawled forward, sat up, and hugged the retriever.
Ill be damned, Travis said, crawling over to join them.
Nora pointed to the photo on which the retriever still had one paw. Did you 
react to this picture because it reminds you of the family you used to live 
with?
One bark. No.
Travis said, Did you ever live with any family?
One bark.
But youre not a wild dog, Nora said. You mustve lived somewhere before 
Travis found you.
Studying the Blue Cross advertisement, Travis suddenly thought he knew all the 
right questions. Did you react to this picture because of the baby?
One bark. No.
Because of the woman?
No.
Because of the man in the white lab coat?
Much wagging: Yes, yes, yes.
So he lived with a doctor, Nora said. Maybe a vet.
Or maybe a scientist, Travis said as he followed the intuitive line of thought 
that had stricken him.
Einstein wagged a yes at the mention of scientist.
Research scientist, Travis said. Yes.
In a lab, Travis said. Yes, yes, yes. Youre a lab dog? Nora asked. Yes.
A research animal, Travis said. Yes.
And thats why youre so bright. Yes.
Because of something theyve done to you. Yes.
Traviss heart raced. They actually were communicating, by God, not just in 
broad strokes, and not just in the comparatively crude way he and Einstein had 
communicated the night that the dog had formed a question mark out of 
Milk-Bones. This was communication with extreme specificity. Here they were, 
talking as if they were three peoplewell, almost talkingand suddenly nothing 
would ever be the same again. Nothing could possibly be the same in a world 
where men and animals possessed equal (if different) intellects, where they 
faced life on equal terms, with equal rights, with similar hopes and dreams. All 
right, okay, so maybe he was blowing this out of proportion. Not all animals had 
suddenly been given human-level consciousness and intelligence; this was only 
one dog, an experimental animal, perhaps the only one of his kind. But Jesus. 
Jesus. Travis stared in awe at the retriever, and a chill swept through him, not 
a chill of fear but of wonder.
Nora spoke to the dog, and in her voice was a trace of the same awe that had 
briefly rendered Travis speechless: They didnt just let you go, did they?
One bark. No.
You escaped?
Yes.
That Tuesday morning I found you in the woods? Travis asked. Had you just 
escaped then?
Einstein neither barked nor wagged his tail.
Days before that? Travis asked.
The dog whined.
He probably has a sense of time, Nora said, because virtually all animals 
follow natural day-night rhythms, dont they? They have instinctive clocks, 
biological clocks. But he probably doesnt have any concept of calendar days.
He doesnt really understand how we divide time up into days and weeks and 
months, so he has no way of answering your question.
Then thats something well have to teach him, Travis said.
Einstein vigorously wagged his tail.
Thoughtfully, Nora said, Escaped . .
Travis knew what she must be thinking. To Einstein, he said, Theyll be looking 
for you, wont they?
The dog whined and wagged his tailwhich Travis interpreted as a yes with a 
special edge of anxiety.
 
 
4
An hour after sunset, Lemuel Johnson and Cliff Soames, trailed by two additional 
unmarked cars carrying eight NSA agents, arrived at Bordeaux Ridge. The unpaved 
street through the center of the unfinished housing tract was lined with 
vehicles, mostly black-and-whites bearing the Sheriffs Department shield, plus 
cars and a van from the coroners office.
Lem was dismayed to see that the press had already arrived. Both print 
journalists and television crews with minicams were being kept behind a police 
line, half a block from the apparent scene of the murder. By quietly suppressing 
details of the death of Wesley Dalberg in Holy Jim Canyon and of the associated 
murders of the scientists working at Banodyne, and by instituting an aggressive 
campaign of disinformation, the NSA had managed to keep the press ignorant of 
the connections among all these events. Lem hoped that the deputies manning 
these barriers were among Walt Gainess most trusted men and that they would 
meet reporters questions with stony silence until a convincing cover story 
could be developed.
Sawhorses were lifted out of the way to let the unmarked NSA cars through the 
police line, then were put into place again.
Lem parked at the end of the street, past the crime scene. He left Cliff Soames 
to brief the other agents, and he headed toward the unfinished house that 
appeared to be the focus of attention.
The patrol cars radios filled the hot night air with codes and jargonand with 
a hiss-pop-crackle of static, as if the whole world were being fried on a cosmic 
griddle.
Portable kliegs stood on tripods, flooding the front of the house with light to 
facilitate the investigation. Lem felt as if he were on a giant stage set. Moths 
swooped and fluttered around the kliegs. Their amplified shadows darted across 
the dusty ground.
Casting his own exaggerated shadow, he crossed the dirt yard to the house. 
Inside, he found more kliegs. Dazzlingly bright light bounced off white walls. 
Looking pale and sweaty in that harsh glare were a couple of young deputies, men 
from the coroners office, and the usual intense types from the Scientific 
Investigation Division.
A photographers strobe flashed once, twice, from farther back in the house. The 
hallway looked crowded, so Lem went around to the back by way of the living 
room, dining room, and kitchen.
Walt Gaines was standing in the breakfast area, in the dimness behind the last 
of the hooded kliegs. But even in those shadows, his anger and grief were 
visible. He had evidently been at home when he had gotten word about the murder 
of a deputy, for he was wearing tattered running shoes, wrinkled tan chinos, a 
brown- and red-checkered short-sleeve shirt. In spite of his great size, bull 
neck, muscular arms, and big hands, Walts clothes and slump-shouldered posture 
gave him the look of a forlorn little boy.
From the breakfast area, Lem could not see past the lab men and into the laundry 
room, where the body still lay. He said, Im sorry, Walt. Im so sorry.
Name was Teel Porter. His dad Red Porter and I been friends twenty-five years. 
Red just retired from the department last year. How am I going to tell him? 
Jesus. Ive got to do it myself, us being so close. Cant pass the buck this 
time.
Lem knew that Walt never passed the buck when one of his men was killed in the 
line of duty. He always personally visited the family, broke the bad news, and 
sat with them through the initial shock.
Almost lost two men, Walt said. Other ones badly shaken.
How was Teel . . . ?
Gutted like Dalberg. Decapitated.
The Outsider, Lem thought. No doubt about it now.
Moths had gotten inside and were bashing against the lens of the klieg light 
behind which Lem and Walt stood.
His voice thickening with anger, Walt said, Havent found . . . his head. How 
do I tell his dad that Teels head is missing?
Lem had no answer.
Walt looked hard at him. You cant push me all the way out of it now. Not now 
that one of my men is dead.
Walt, my agency works in purposeful obscurity. Hell, even the number of agents 
on the payroll is classified information. But your department is subject to full 
press attention. And in order to know how to proceed in this case, your people 
would have to be told exactly what theyre looking for. That would mean 
revealing national defense secrets to a large group of deputies
Your men all know whats up, Walt countered.
Yes, but my men have signed secrecy oaths, undergone extensive security checks, 
and are trained to keep their mouths shut.
My men can keep a secret, too.
Im sure they can, Lem said carefully. im sure they dont talk outside the 
shop about ordinary cases. But this isnt ordinary. No, this has to remain in 
our hands.
Walt said, My men can sign secrecy oaths.
Wed have to background-check everyone in your department, not just deputies 
but file clerks. Itd take weeks, months.
Looking across the kitchen at the open door to the dining room, Walt noticed 
Cliff Soames and another NSA agent talking with two deputies in the next room. 
You started taking over the minute you got here, didnt you? Before you even 
talked to me about it?
Yeah. Were making sure your people understand that they must not talk of 
anything theyve seen here tonight, not even to their own wives. Were citing 
the appropriate federal laws to every man, cause we want to be sure they 
understand the fines and prison terms.
Threatening me with jail again? Walt asked, but there was no humor in his 
voice, as there had been when theyd spoken days ago in the garage of St. 
Josephs Hospital after seeing Tracy Keeshan.
Lem was depressed not only by the deputys death but by the wedge that this case 
was driving between him and Walt. I dont want anyone in jail. Thats why I 
want to be sure they grasp the consequences
Scowling, Walt said, Come with me.
Lem followed him outside, to a patrol car in front of the house.
They sat in the front seat, Walt behind the steering wheel, with the doors 
closed. Roll up the windows, so well have total privacy.
Lem protested that theyd suffocate in this heat without ventilation. But even 
in the dim light, he saw the purity and volatility of Walts anger, and he 
realized his position was that of a man standing in gasoline while holding a 
burning candle. He rolled up his window.
Okay, Walt said. Were alone. Not NSA District Director and Sheriff. Just old 
friends. Buddies. So tell me all about it.
Walt, damn it, I cant.
Tell me now, and Ill stay off the case. I wont interfere.
Youll stay off the case anyway. You have to.
Damned if I do, Walt said angrily. I can walk right down the road to those 
jackals. The car faced out of Bordeaux Ridge, toward the sawhorses where 
reporters waited, and Walt pointed at them through the dusty windshield. I can 
tell them that Banodyne Laboratories was working on some defense project that 
got out of hand, tell them that someone or something strange escaped from those 
labs in spite of the security, and now its loose, killing people.
You do that, Lem said, you wouldnt just wind up in jail. Youd lose your 
job, ruin your whole career.
I dont think so. In court Id claim I had to choose between breaching the 
national security and betraying the trust of the people who elected me to office 
in this county. Id claim that, in a time of crisis like this, I had to put 
local public safety above the concerns of the Defense bureaucrats in Washington. 
Im confident just about any jury would vindicate me. Id stay out of jail, and 
in the next election Id win by even more votes than I got the last time.
Shit, Lem said because he knew Walt was correct.
If you tell me about it now, if you convince me that your people are better
able to handle the situation than mine, then Ill step out of your way. But if 
you wont tell me, Ill blow it wide open.
Id be breaking my oath. Id be putting my neck in the noose.
No onell ever know you told me.
Yeah? Well then, Walt, for Christs sake, why put me in such an awkward 
position just to satisfy your curiosity?
Walt looked stung. Its not as petty as that, damn you. Its not just 
curiosity.
Then what is it?
One of my men is dead!
Leaning his head back against the seat, Lem closed his eyes and sighed. Walt had 
to know why he was required to forswear vengeance for the killing of one of his 
own men. His sense of duty and honor would not allow him to back off without at 
least that much. His was not exactly an unreasonable position.
Do I go down there, talk to the reporters? Walt asked quietly. Lem opened his 
eyes, wiped a hand across his damp face. The interior of the car was 
uncomfortably warm, muggy. He wanted to roll down his window. But now and then 
men walked past on their way in or out of the house, and he really could not 
risk anyone overhearing what he was going to tell Walt. You were right to focus 
on Banodyne. For a few years theyve been doing defense-related research.
Biological warfare? Walt asked. Using recombinant DNA to make nasty new 
viruses?
Maybe that, too, Lem said. But germ warfare doesnt have anything to do with 
this case, and Im only going to tell you about the research thats related to 
our problems here.
The windows were fogging. Walt started the car. There was no air conditioning, 
and the fog on the windows continued to spread, but even the vague, moist, warm 
breeze from the vents was welcome.
Lem said, They were working on several research programs under the heading of 
the Francis Project. Named for Saint Francis of Assisi.
Blinking in surprise, Walt said, Theyd name a warfare-related project after a 
saint?
Its apt, Lem assured him. Saint Francis could talk to birds and animals. And 
at Banodyne, Dr. Davis Weatherby was in charge of a project aimed at making 
human-animal communication possible.
Learning the language of porpoisesthat sort of thing?
No. The idea was to apply the very latest knowledge in genetic engineering to 
the creation of animals with a much higher order of intelligence, animals 
capable of nearly human-level thought, animals with whom we might be able to 
Communicate.
Walt stared at him in openmouthed disbelief.
Lem said, Thereve been several scientific teams working on very different 
experiments under the umbrella label of the Francis Project, all of which have
been funded for at least five years. For one thing, there were Davis Weatherbys 
dogs . .
Dr. Weatherby had been working with the sperm and ova of golden retrievers, 
which he had chosen because the dogs had been bred with ever greater refinement 
for more than a hundred years. For one thing, this refinement meant that, in the 
purest of the breed, all diseases and afflictions of an inheritable nature had 
been pretty much excised from the animals genetic code, which insured Weatherby 
of healthy and bright subjects for his experiments. Then, if the experimental 
pups were born with abnormalities of any kind, Weatherby could more easily 
distinguish those mutations of a natural type from those that were an unintended 
side effect of his own sly tampering with the animals genetic heritage, and he 
would be able to learn from his own mistakes.
Over the years, seeking solely to increase the intelligence of the breed without 
causing a change in its physical appearance, Davis Weatherby had fertilized 
hundreds of genetically altered retriever ova in vitro, then had transferred the 
fertile eggs to the wombs of bitches who served as surrogate mothers. The 
bitches carried the test-tube pups to full term, and Weatherby studied these 
young dogs for indications of increased intelligence.
There were a hell of a lot of failures, Lem said. Grotesque physical 
mutations that had to be destroyed. Stillborn pups. Pups that looked normal but 
were less intelligent than usual. Weatherby was doing cross-species engineering, 
after all, so you can figure that some pretty horrible possibilities were 
realized.
Walt stared at the windshield, now entirely opaqued. Then he frowned at Lem. 
Cross-species? What do you mean?
Well, you see, he was isolating those genetic determinants of intelligence in 
species that were brighter than the retriever
Like apes? Theyd be brighter than dogs, wouldnt they?
Yeah. Apes. . . and human beings.
Jesus, Walt said.
Lem adjusted a dashboard vent to direct the flow of tepid air into his face. 
Weatherby was inserting that foreign genetic material into the retrievers 
genetic code, simultaneously editing out the dogs own genes that limited its 
intelligence to that of a dog.
Walt rebelled. Thats not possible! This genetic material, as you call it, 
surely it cant be passed from one species to another.
It happens in nature all the time, Lem said. Genetic material is transferred 
from one species to another, and the carrier is usually a virus. Lets say a 
virus thrives in rhesus monkeys. While in the monkey, it acquires genetic 
material from the monkeys cells. These acquired monkey genes become a part of 
the virus itself. Later, upon infecting a human host, that virus has the 
capability of leaving the monkeys genetic material in its human host. Consider 
the AIDS virus, for instance. Its believed AIDS was a disease carried by 
certain monkeys and by human beings for decades, though neither species was 
susceptible to it; I mean, we were strictly carrierswe never got sick
from what we carried. But then, somehow, something happened in monkeys, a 
negative genetic change that made them not only carriers but victims of the AIDS 
virus. Monkeys began to die of the disease. Then, when the virus passed to 
humans, it brought with it this new genetic material specifying susceptibility 
to AIDS, so before long human beings were also capable of contracting the 
disease. Thats how it works in nature. Its done even more efficiently in the 
lab.
As creeping condensation fogged the side windows, Walt said, So Weatherby 
really succeeded in breeding a dog with human intelligence?
It was a long, slow process, but gradually he made advancements. And a little 
over a year ago, the miracle pup was born.
Thinks like a human being?
Not like a human being, but maybe as well as.
Yet it looks like an ordinary dog?
That was what the Pentagon wanted. Which made Weatherbys job a lot harder, I 
guess. Apparently, brain size has at least a little bit to do with intelligence, 
and Weatherby might have made his breakthrough a lot sooner if hed been able to 
develop a retriever with a larger brain. But a larger brain would have meant a 
reconfigured and much larger skull, so the dog would have looked damned 
unusual.
All the windows were fogged over now. Neither Walt nor Lem tried to clear the 
misted glass. Unable to see out of the car, confined to its humid and 
claustrophobic interior, they seemed to be cut off from the real world, adrift 
in time and space, a condition that was oddly conducive to the consideration of 
the wondrous and outrageous acts of creation that genetic engineering made 
possible.
Walt said, The Pentagon wanted a dog that looked like a dog but could think 
like a man? Why?
Imagine the possibilities for espionage, Lem said. In times of war, dogs 
would have no trouble getting deep into enemy territory, scouting installations 
and troop strength. Intelligent dogs, with whom we could somehow communicate, 
would then return and tell us what they had seen and what theyd overheard the 
enemy talking about.
Tell us? Are you saying dogs could be made to talk, like canine versions of 
Francis the Mule or Mr. Ed? Shit, Lem, be serious!
Lem sympathized with his friends difficulty in absorbing these astounding 
possibilities. Modern science was advancing so rapidly, with so many 
revolutionary discoveries to be explored every year, that to laymen there was 
going to be increasingly less difference between the application of that science 
and magic. Few nonscientists had any appreciation for how different the world of 
the next twenty years was going to be from the world of the present, as 
different as the 1980s were from the 1780s. Change was occurring at an 
Incomprehensible rate, and when you got a glimpse of what might be coming as 
Walt just hadit was both inspiring and daunting, exhilarating and scary.
Lem said, In fact, a dog probably could be genetically altered to be able to 
speak. Might even be easy, I dont know. But to give it the necessary vocal
apparatus, the right kind of tongue and lips . . . thatd mean drastically 
altering its appearance, which is no good for the Pentagons purposes. So these 
dogs wouldnt speak. Communication would no doubt have to be through an 
elaborate sign language.
Youre not laughing, Walt said. This has got to be a fucking joke, so why 
arent you laughing?
Think about it, Lem said patiently. In peacetime . . . imagine the president 
of the United States presenting the Soviet premier with a one-year-old golden 
retriever as a gift from the American people. Imagine the dog living in the 
premiers home and office, privy to the most secret talks of the USSRs highest 
Party officials. Once in a while, every few weeks or months, the dog might 
manage to slip out at night, to meet with a U.S. agent in Moscow and be 
debriefed.
Debriefed? This is insane! Walt said, and he laughed. But his laughter had a 
sharp, hollow, decidedly nervous quality which, to Lem, indicated that the 
sheriffs skepticism was slipping away even though he wanted to hold on to it.
Im telling you that its possible, that such a dog was in fact conceived by in 
vitro fertilization of a genetically altered ovum by genetically altered sperm, 
and carried to term by a surrogate mother. And after a year of confinement at 
the Banodyne labs, sometime in the early morning hours of Monday, May 17, that 
dog escaped by a series of incredibly clever actions that cannily circumvented 
the facilitys security system.
And the dogs now loose?
Yes.
And thats whats been killing
No, Lem said. The dog is harmless, affectionate, a wonderful animal. I was in 
Weatherbys lab while he was working with the retriever. In a limited way, I 
communicated with it. Honest to God, Walt, when you see that animal in action, 
see what Weatherby created, it gives you enormous hope for this sorry species of 
ours.
Walt stared at him, uncomprehending.
Lem searched for the words to convey what he felt. As he found the language to 
describe what the dog had meant to him, his chest grew tight with emotion. Well 
. . . I mean, if we can do these amazing things, if we can bring such a wonder 
into the world, then theres something of profound value in us no matter what 
the pessimists and doomsayers believe. If we can do this, we have the power and, 
potentially, the wisdom of God. Were not only makers of weapons, but makers of 
life. If we could lift members of another species up to our level, create a 
companion race to share the world . . . our beliefs and philosophies would be 
changed forever. By the very act of altering the retriever, weve altered 
ourselves. By pulling the dog to a new level of awareness, we are inevitably 
raising our own awareness as well.
Jesus, Lem, you sound like a preacher.
Do I? Thats because Ive had more time to think about this than you
have. In time, youll understand what Im talking about. Youll begin to feel 
it, too, this incredible sense that humankind is on its way to godhoodand that 
we deserve to get there.
Walt Gaines stared at the steamed glass, as if reading something of great 
interest in the patterns of condensation. Then: Maybe what you say is right. 
Maybe were on the brink of a new world. But for now weve got to live in and 
deal with the old one. So if it wasnt the dog that killed my deputy what was 
it?
Something else escaped from Banodyne the same night that the dog got out, Lem 
said. His euphoria was suddenly tempered by the need to admit that there had 
been a darker side to the Francis Project. They called it The Outsider.
 
 
5
Nora held up the magazine ad that compared an automobile to a tiger and that 
showed the car in an iron cage. To Einstein, she said, All right, lets see 
what else you can clarify for us. What about this one? What is it that 
interested you in this photographthe car?
Einstein barked once: No.
Was it the tiger? Travis asked. One bark.
The cage? Nora asked.
Einstein wagged his tail: Yes.
Did you choose this picture because they kept you in a cage? Nora asked.
Yes.
Travis crawled across the floor until he found the photo of a forlorn man in a 
prison cell. Returning with it, showing it to the retriever, he said, And did 
you choose this one because the cell is like a cage?
Yes.
And because the prisoner in the picture reminded you of bow you felt when you 
were in a cage?
Yes.
The violin, Nora said. Did someone at the laboratory play the violin for 
you?
Yes.
Why would they do that, I wonder? Travis said.
That was one the dog could not answer with a simple yes or no.
Did you like the violin? Nora asked. Yes.
You like music in general?
Yes.
Do you like jazz?
The dog neither barked nor wagged his tail.
Travis said, He doesnt know what jazz is. I guess they never let him hear any 
of that.
Do you like rock and roll? Nora asked.
One bark and, simultaneously, a wagging of the tail.
Whats that supposed to mean? Nora asked.
Probably means yes and no, Travis said. He likes some rock and roll. but 
not all of it.
Einstein wagged his tail to confirm Traviss interpretation.
Classical? Nora asked.
Yes.
Travis said, So weve got a dog thats a snob, huh?
Yes, yes, yes.
Nora laughed in delight, and so did Travis, and Einstein nuzzled and licked them 
happily.
Travis looked around for another picture, snatched up the one of the man on the 
exercise treadmill. They wouldnt want to let you out of the lab, I guess. Yet 
theyd want to keep you fit. Is this how they exercised you? On a treadmill?
Yes.
The sense of discovery was exhilarating. Travis would have been no more 
thrilled, no more excited, no more awestricken if he had been communicating with 
an extraterrestrial intelligence.
 
 
 
6
Im falling down a rabbit hole, Walt Gaines thought uneasily as he listened to 
Lem Johnson.
This new high-tech world of space flight, computers in the home, 
satellite-relayed telephone calls, factory robots, and now biological 
engineering seemed utterly unrelated to the world in which he was born and grew 
up. For Gods sake, he had been a child during World War II, when there had not 
even been jet aircraft. He hailed from a simpler world of boatlike Chryslers 
with tail fins, phones with dials instead of push buttons, clocks with hands 
instead of digital display boards. Television did not exist when he was born, 
and the possibility of nuclear Armageddon within his own lifetime was something 
no one then could have predicted. He felt as though he had stepped through an 
invisible barrier from his world into another reality that was on a faster 
track. This new kingdom of high technology could be delightful or frightening 
and occasionally both at the same time.
Like now.
The idea of an intelligent dog appealed to the child in him and made him want to 
smile.
But something elseThe Outsiderhad escaped from those labs, and it scared the 
bejesus out of him.
The dog had no name, Lem Johnson said. Thats not so unusual. Most scientists 
who work with lab animals never name them. If youve named an animal, youll 
inevitably begin to attribute a personality to it, and then your relationship to 
it will change, and youll no longer be as objective in your observations as you 
have to be. So the dog had only a number until it was clear this was the success 
Weatherby had been working so hard to achieve. Even then, when it was evident 
that the dog would not have to be destroyed as a failure, no name was given to 
it. Everyone simply called it the dog, which was enough to differentiate it 
from all of Weatherbys other pups because theyd been referred to by numbers. 
Anyway, at the same time, Dr. Yarbeck was working on other, very different 
research under the Francis Project umbrella, and she, too, finally met with some 
success.
Yarbecks objective was to create an animal with dramatically increased 
intelligencebut one also designed to accompany men into war as police dogs 
accompanied cops in dangerous urban neighborhoods. Yarbeck sought to engineer a 
beast that was smart but also deadly, a terror on the battlefield ferocious, 
stealthy, cunning, and intelligent enough to be effective in both jungle and 
urban warfare.
Not quite as intelligent as human beings, of course, not as smart as the dog 
that Weatherby was developing. It would be sheer madness to create a killing 
machine as intelligent as the people who would have to use and control it. 
Everyone had read Frankenstein or had seen one of the old Karloff movies, and no 
one underestimated the dangers inherent in Yarbecks research.
Choosing to work with monkeys and apes because of their naturally high 
intelligence and because they already possessed humanlike hands, Yarbeck 
ultimately selected baboons as the base species for her dark acts of creation. 
Baboons were among the smartest of primates, good raw material. They were deadly 
and effective fighters by nature, with impressive claws and fangs, fiercely 
motivated by the territorial imperative, and eager to attack those whom they 
perceived as enemies.
Yarbecks first task in the physical alteration of the baboon was to make it 
larger, big enough to threaten a grown man, Lem said. She decided that it 
would have to stand at least five feet and weigh one hundred to a hundred and 
ten pounds.
Thats not so big, Walt protested.
Big enough.
I could swat down a man that size.
A man, yes. But not this thing. Its solid muscle, no fat at all, and far 
quicker than a man. Stop and think of how a fifty-pound pit bull can make 
mincemeat of a grown man, and youll realize what a threat Yarbecks warrior 
Could be at a hundred and ten.
The patrol cars steam-silvered windshield seemed like a movie screen on Which 
Walt saw projected images of brutally murdered men: Wes Dalberg,
Teel Porter . . . He closed his eyes but still saw cadavers. Okay, yeah, I get 
your point. A hundred and ten pounds would be enough if were talking about 
something designed to fight and kill.
So Yarbeck created a breed of baboons that would grow to greater size. Then she 
set to work altering the sperm and ova of her giant primates in other ways, 
sometimes by editing the baboons own genetic material, sometimes by introducing 
genes from other species.
Walt said, The same sort of cross-species patch-and-stitch that led to the 
smart dog.
I wouldnt call it patch-and-stitch . . . but yeah, essentially the same 
techniques. Yarbeck wanted a large, vicious jaw on her warrior, something more 
like that of a German shepherd, even a jackal, so there would be room for more 
teeth, and she wanted the teeth to be larger and sharper and perhaps slightly 
hooked, which meant she had to enlarge the baboons head and totally alter its 
facial structure to accommodate all of this. The skull had to be greatly 
enlarged, anyway, to allow for a bigger brain. Dr. Yarbeck wasnt working under 
the constraints that required Davis Weatherby to leave his dogs appearance 
unchanged. In fact, Yarbeck figured that if her creation was hideous, if it was 
alien, it would be an even more effective warrior because it would serve not 
only to stalk and kill our enemies but terrorize them.
In spite of the warm, muggy air, Walt Gaines felt a coldness in his belly, as if 
he had swallowed big chunks of ice. Didnt Yarbeck or anyone else consider the 
immorality of this, for Christs sake? Didnt any of them ever read The Island 
of Doctor Moreau? Lem, you have a goddamn moral obligation to let the public 
know about this, to blow it wide open. And so do I.
No such thing, Lem said. The idea that theres good and evil knowledge . . . 
well, thats strictly a religious point of view. Actions can be either moral or 
immoral, yes, but knowledge cant be labeled that way. To a scientist, to any 
educated man or woman, all knowledge is morally neutral.
But, shit, application of the knowledge, in Yarbecks case, wasnt morally 
neutral.
Sitting on one or the others patio on weekends, drinking Corona, dealing with 
the weighty problems of the world, they loved to talk about this sort of thing. 
Backyard philosophers. Beery sages taking smug pleasure in their wisdom. And 
sometimes the moral dilemmas they discussed on weekends were those that later 
arose in the course of their police work; however, Walt could not remember any 
discussion that had had as urgent a bearing on their work as this one.
Applying knowledge is part of the process of learning more, Lem said. The 
scientist has to apply his discoveries to see where each application leads. 
Moral responsibility is on the shoulders of those who take the technology out of 
the lab and use it to immoral ends.
Do you believe that bullshit?
Lem thought a moment. Yeah, I guess I do. I guess, if we held scientists 
responsible for the bad things that flowed from their work, theyd never go
to work in the first place, and thered be no progress at all. Wed still be 
living in caves.
Walt pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his face, giving 
himself a moment to think. It wasnt so much the heat and humidity that had 
gotten to him. It was the thought of Yarbecks warrior roaming the Orange County 
hills that made him break out in a sweat.
He wanted to go public, warn the unwary world that something new and dangerous 
was loose upon the earth. But that would be playing into the hands of the new 
Luddites, who would use Yarbecks warrior to generate public hysteria in an 
attempt to bring an end to all recombinant-DNA research. Already, such research 
had created strains of corn and wheat that could grow with less water and in 
poor soil, relieving world hunger, and years ago they had developed a man-made 
virus that, as a waste product, produced cheap insulin. If he took word of 
Yarbecks monstrosity to the world, he might save a couple of lives in the short 
run, but he might be playing a role in denying the world the beneficial miracles 
of recombinant-DNA research, which would cost tens of thousands of lives in the 
long run.
Shit, Walt said. Its not a black-and-white issue, is it?
Lem said, Thats what makes life interesting.
Walt smiled sourly. Right now, its a whole hell of a lot more interesting than 
I care for. Okay. I can see the wisdom of keeping a lid on this. Besides, if we 
made it public, youd have a thousand half-assed adventurers out there looking 
for the thing, and theyd end up victims of it, or theyd gun down one another.
Exactly.
But my men could help keep the lid on by joining in the search.
Lem told him about the hundred men from Marine Intelligence units who were still 
combing the foothills, dressed as civilians, using high-tech tracking gear and, 
in some cases, bloodhounds. Ive already got more men on line than you could 
supply. Were already doing as much as can be done. Now will you do the right 
thing? Will you stay out of it?
Frowning, Walt said, For now. But I want to be kept informed.
Lem nodded. All right.
And I have more questions. For one thing, why do they call it The Outsider?
Well, the dog was the first breakthrough, the first of the lab subjects to 
display unusual intelligence. This one was next. They were the only two 
successes: the dog and the other. At first, they added capital letters to the 
way they pronounced it, The Other, but in time it became The Outsider because 
that seemed to fit better. It was not an improvement on one of Gods creations, 
as was the dog; it was entirely outside of creation, a thing apart. An 
abominationthough no one actually said as much. And the thing was aware of its 
status as an outsider, acutely aware.
Why not just call it the baboon?
Because . . . it doesnt really look much of anything like a baboon any more. 
Not like anything youve ever seenexcept in a nightmare.
Walt did not like the expression on his friends dark face, in his eyes. He 
decided not to ask for a better description of The Outsider; perhaps that was 
something he did not need to know.
Instead, he said, What about the Hudston, Weatherby, and Yarbeck murders? Who 
was behind all that?
We dont know the man who pulled the trigger, but we know the Soviets hired 
him. They also killed another Banodyne man who was on vacation in Acapulco.
Walt felt as if he were jolting through one of those invisible barriers again, 
into an even more complicated world. Soviets? Were we talking about the 
Soviets? Howd they get into the act?
We didnt think they knew about the Francis Project, Lem said. But they did. 
Apparently, they even had a mole inside Banodyne who reported out to them on our 
progress. When the dog and, subsequently, The Outsider escaped, the mole 
informed the Soviets, and evidently the Soviets decided to take advantage of the 
chaos and do us even more damage. They killed every project leaderYarbeck and 
Weatherby and Hainesplus Hudston, who had once been a project leader but no 
longer worked at Banodyne. We think they did this for two reasons: first, to 
bring the Francis Project to a halt; second, to make it harder for us to track 
down The Outsider.
How would that make it harder?
Lem slumped in his seat as if, in talking of the crisis, he was more clearly 
aware of the burden on his shoulders. By eliminating Hudston, Haines, and 
especially Weatherby and Yarbeck, the Soviets cut us off from the people who 
would have the best idea how The Outsider and the dog think, the people best 
able to figure out where those animals might go and how they might be 
recaptured.
Have you actually pinned it on the Soviets?
Lem sighed. Not entirely. Im focused primarily on recovering the dog and The 
Outsider, so we have another entire task force trying to track down the Soviet 
agents behind the murders, arson, and data hijacking. Unfortunately, the Soviets 
seem to have used freelance hitmen outside of their own network, so we have no 
idea where to look for the triggermen. That side of the investigation is pretty 
much stalled.
And the fire at Banodyne a day or so later? Walt asked.
Definitely arson. Another Soviet action. It destroyed all the paper and 
electronic files on the Francis Project. There were backup computer disks at 
another location, of course . . . but data on them has somehow been erased.
The Soviets again?
We think so. The leaders of the Francis Project and all their files have been 
wiped out, leaving us in the dark when it comes to trying to figure how either 
the dog or The Outsider might think, where they might go, how they might be 
tricked into captivity.
Walt shook his head. Never thought Id be on the side of the Russians, but 
putting a stop to this project seems like a good idea.
Theyre far from innocent. From what I hear, theyve got a similar project
under way at laboratories in the Ukraine. I wouldnt doubt were working 
diligently to destroy their files and people the way theyve destroyed ours. 
Anyway, the Soviets would like nothing better than for The Outsider to run wild 
in some nice peaceable suburb, gutting housewives and chewing the heads off 
little kids, because if that happens a couple of times . . . well, then the 
whole things going to blow up in our face.
Chewing the heads off little kids? Jesus.
Walt shuddered and said, Is that likely to happen?
We dont believe so. The Outsider is aggressive as hellit was designed to be 
aggressive, after alland it has a special hatred for its makers, which is 
something Yarbeck didnt count on and something she hoped to be able to correct 
in future generations. The Outsider takes great pleasure in slaughtering us. But 
its also smart, and it knows that every killing gives us a new fix on its 
whereabouts. So its not going to indulge its hatred too often. Its going to 
stay away from people most of the time, moving mainly at night. Once in a while, 
out of curiosity, it might poke into residential areas along the edge of the 
developed eastern flank of the county
As it did at the Keeshan place.
Yeah. But I bet it didnt go there to kill anyone. Just plain curiosity. It 
doesnt want to be caught before it accomplishes its main goal.
Which is?
Finding and killing the dog, Lem said.
Walt was surprised. Why would it care about the dog?
We dont really know, Lem said. But at Banodyne, it harbored a fierce hatred 
of the dog, worse than what it felt toward people. When Yarbeck worked with it, 
constructing a sign language with which to communicate complex ideas, The 
Outsider several times expressed a desire to kill and mutilate the dog, but it 
would never explain why. It was obsessed with the dog.
So you think now its tracking the retriever?
Yes. Because evidence seems to indicate that the dog was the first to break out 
of the labs that night in May, and that its escape drove The Outsider mad. The 
Outsider was kept in a large enclosure inside Yarbecks lab, and everything 
belonging to itbedding, many educational devices, toyswas torn and smashed to 
pieces. Then, apparently realizing that the dog was going to be forever out of 
its reach if it didnt make good its own escape, The Outsider put its mind to 
the problem and, by God, found its own way out.
But if the dog got a good head start
Theres a link between the dog and The Outsider that no one understands. A 
mental link. Instinctual awareness. We dont know its extent, but we cant rule 
out the possibility that this link is strong enough for one of them to follow 
the other over considerable distances. Its apparently a sort of mild sixth 
sense that was somehow a bonus of the technique of intelligence enhancement used 
in both Weatherbys and Yarbecks research. But were only guessing. We dont 
really know for sure. Theres so fucking much we dont know!
Both men were silent for a while.
The humid closeness of the car was no longer entirely unpleasant, Given all the 
dangers loose in the modern world, these steamy confines seemed safe and 
comfortable, a haven.
Finally, not wanting to ask any more questions, afraid of the answers he might 
get, Walt nevertheless said, Banodyne is a high-security building. Its 
designed to keep unauthorized people from getting in, but it must be hard to get 
out of the place, too. Yet both the dog and The Outsider escaped.
Yes.
And obviously no one ever figured they could. Which means theyre both smarter 
than anyone realized.
Yes.
Walt said, In the case of the dog . . . well, if its smarter than anyone 
figured, so what? The dog is friendly.
Lem, who had been staring at the opaqued windshield, finally met Walts eyes. 
Thats right. But if The Outsider is smarter than we thought . . . if its very 
nearly as smart as a man, then catching its going to be even harder.
Very nearly . . . or as smart as a man.
No. Impossible.
Or even smarter, Walt said.
No. That couldnt be.
Couldnt?
Definitely couldnt?
Lem sighed, wearily rubbed his eyes, and said nothing. He was not going to start 
lying to his best friend again.
 
 
7
Nora and Travis went through the photographs one by one, learning a little more 
about Einstein. By barking once or vigorously wagging his tail, the dog answered 
questions and was able to confirm that he had chosen the advertisements for 
computers because they reminded him of the computers in the lab where he had 
been kept. The photo of four young people playing with a striped beach ball 
appealed to him because one of the scientists in the lab had evidently used 
balls of various sizes in an intelligence test that Einstein had particularly 
enjoyed. They were unable to determine the reason for his interest in the 
parrot, the butterflies, Mickey Mouse, and many other things, but that was only 
because they could not hit upon the pertinent yes-or-no questions that would 
have led to explanations.
Even when a hundred questions failed to reveal the meaning of one of the 
photographs, the three of them remained excited and delighted by the process of 
discovery, for they met with success in enough cases to make the effort 
worthwhile. The only time the mood changed for the worse was when they
queried Einstein about the magazine picture of the demon from an upcoming horror 
movie. He became extremely agitated. He tucked his tail between his legs, bared 
his teeth, growled deep in his throat. Several times, he padded away from the 
photograph, going behind the sofa or into another room, where he stayed for a 
minute or two before returning, reluctantly, to face additional questions, and 
he shivered almost continuously when being quizzed about the demon.
Finally, after trying for at least ten minutes to determine the reason for the 
dogs dread, Travis pointed to the slab-jawed, wickedly fanged, luminous-eyed 
movie monster and said, Maybe you dont understand, Einstein. This isnt a 
picture of a real, living thing. This is a make-believe demon from a movie. Do 
you understand what I mean when I say make-believe?
Einstein wagged his tail: Yes.
Well, this is a make-believe monster. One bark: No.
Make-believe, phony, not real, just a man in a rubber suit, Nora said.
No.
Yes, Travis said.
No.
Einstein tried to run off behind the sofa again, but Travis grabbed him by the 
collar and held him. Are you claiming to have seen such a thing?
The dog raised his gaze from the picture, looked into Traviss eyes, shuddered, 
and whimpered.
The pitiful note of profound fear in Einsteins soft whine and an indescribably 
disturbing quality in his dark eyes combined to affect Travis to an extent that 
surprised him. Holding the collar with one hand, his other hand on Einsteins 
back, Travis felt the shivers that quaked through the dogand suddenly he was 
shivering, too. The dogs stark fear was transmitted to him, and he thought, 
crazily, By God, he really has seen something like this.
Sensing the change in Travis, Nora said, Whats wrong?
Instead of answering her, he repeated the question that Einstein had not yet 
answered: Are you claiming to have seen such a thing?
Yes.
Something that looks exactly like this demon?
A bark and a wag: Yes and no.
Something that looks at least a little bit like it?
Yes.
Letting go of the collar, Travis stroked the dogs back, trying to soothe him, 
but Einstein continued to shiver. Is this why you keep a watch at the Window 
some nights?
Yes.
Clearly puzzled and alarmed by the dogs distress, Nora began to pet him, too. 
I thought you were worried that people from the lab would find
you.
Einstein barked once.
Youre not afraid people from the lab will find you?
Yes and no.
Travis said, But youre more afraid that . . . this other thing will find you.
Yes, yes, yes.
Is this the same thing that was in the woods that day, the thing that chased 
us, the thing I shot at? Travis asked.
Yes, yes, yes.
Travis looked at Nora. She was frowning. But its only a movie monster. Nothing 
in the real world looks even a little bit like it.
Padding across the room, sniffing at the assorted photographs, Einstein paused 
again at the Blue Cross ad that featured the doctor, mother, and baby in a 
hospital room. He brought the magazine to them and dropped it on the floor. He 
put his nose to the doctor in the picture, then looked at Nora, at Travis, put 
his nose to the doctor again, and looked up expectantly.
Before, Nora said, you told us the doctor represented one of the scientists 
in that lab.
Yes.
Travis said, So are you telling me the scientist who worked on you would know 
what this thing in the woods was?
Yes.
Einstein went looking through the photographs again, and this time he returned 
with the ad that showed a car in a cage. He touched his nose to the cage; then, 
hesitantly, he touched his nose to the picture of the demon.
Are you saying the thing in the woods belongs in a cage? Nora asked.
Yes.
More than that, Travis said, I think hes telling us that it was in a cage at 
one time, that he saw it in a cage.
Yes.
In the same lab where you were in a cage?
Yes, yes, yes.
Another experimental lab animal? Nora asked.
Yes.
Travis stared hard at the photograph of the demon, at its thick brow and deeply 
set yellow eyes, at its deformed snoutlike nose and mouth bristling with teeth. 
At last he said, Was it an experiment . . . that went wrong?
Yes and no, Einstein said.
Now at a peak of agitation, the dog crossed the living room to the front window, 
jumped up and braced his forepaws on the sill, and peered out at the Santa 
Barbara evening.
Nora and Travis sat on the floor among the opened magazines and books, happy 
with the progress they had made, beginning to feel the exhaustion that their 
excitement had maskedand frowning at each other in puzzlement.
She spoke softly. Do you think Einsteins capable of lying, making up wild 
stories like children do?
I dont know. Can dogs lie, or is that just a human skill? He laughed at
the absurdity of his own question. Can dogs lie? Can a moose be elected to the 
presidency? Can cows sing?
Nora laughed, too, and very prettily. Can ducks tap-dance?
In a fit of silliness that was a reaction to the difficulty of dealing 
intellectually and emotionally with the whole idea of a dog as smart as 
Einstein, Travis said, I once saw a duck tap-dancing.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah. In Vegas.
Laughing, she said, What hotel was he performing at?
Caesars Palace. He could sing, too.
The duck?
Yeah. Ask me his name.
What was his name?
Sammy Davis Duck, Jr., Travis said, and they laughed again. He was such a big 
star they didnt even have to put his entire name on the marquee for people to 
know who was performing there.
They just put Sammy, huh?
No. Just Jr.
Einstein returned from the window and stood watching them, his head cocked, 
trying to figure out why they were acting so peculiar.
The puzzled expression on the retrievers face struck both Travis and Nora as 
the most comical thing they had ever seen. They leaned on each other, held each 
other, and laughed like fools.
With a snort of derision, the retriever went back to the window.
As they gradually regained control of themselves and as their laughter subsided, 
Travis became aware that he was holding Nora, that her head was on his shoulder, 
that the physical contact between them was greater than any they had allowed 
themselves before. Her hair smelled clean, fresh. He could feel the body heat 
pouring off her. Suddenly, he wanted her desperately, and he knew he was going 
to kiss her when she raised her head from his shoulder. A moment later she 
looked up, and he did what he knew hed dohe kissed herand she kissed him. For 
a second or two, she did not seem to realize what was happening, what it meant; 
briefly, it was without significance, sweet and utterly innocent, not a kiss of 
passion but of friendship and great affection. Then the kiss changed, and her 
mouth softened. She began to breathe faster, and her hand tightened on his arm, 
and she tried to pull him closer. A low murmur of need escaped herand the sound 
of her own voice brought her to her senses. Abruptly, she stiffened with 
complete awareness of him as a man, and her beautiful eyes were wide with 
wonderand fearat what had almost happened. Travis instantly drew back because 
he knew instinctively that the time was not right, not yet perfect. When at last 
they did make love, it must be exactly right, without hesitation or distraction, 
because for the rest of their lives they would always remember their first time, 
and the memory Should be all bright and joyous, worth taking out and examining a 
thousand times as they grew old together. Although it was not quite time to put 
their
future into words and confirm it with vows, Travis had no doubt that he and Nora 
Devon would be spending their lives with each other, and he realized that, 
subconsciously, hed been aware of this inevitability for at least the past few 
days.
After a moment of awkwardness, as they drew apart and tried to decide whether to 
comment on the sudden change in their relationship, Nora finally said, Hes 
still at the window.
Einstein pressed his nose to the glass, staring out at the night.
Could he be telling the truth? Nora wondered. Could there have been something 
else that escaped from the lab, something that bizarre?
If they had a dog as smart as him, I guess they might have had other things 
even more peculiar. And there was something in the woods that day.
But theres no danger of it finding him, surely. Not after you brought him this 
far north.
No danger, Travis agreed. I dont think Einstein understands how far we came 
from where I found him. Whatever was in the woods couldnt track him down now. 
But Ill bet the people from that lab have mounted one hell of a search. Its 
them I'm worried about. And so is Einstein, which is why he usually plays at 
being a dumb dog in public and reveals his intelligence only in private to me 
and now you. He doesnt want to go back.
Nora said, If they find him . .
They wont.
But if they do, what then?
Ill never give him up, Travis said. Never.
 
 
8
By eleven oclock that night, Deputy Porters headless corpse and the mutilated 
body of the construction foreman had been removed from Bordeaux Ridge by the 
coroners men. A cover story had been concocted and delivered to the reporters 
at the police barricades, and the press had seemed to buy it; they had asked 
their questions, had taken a couple of hundred photographs, and had filled a few 
thousand feet of videotape with images that would be edited down to a hundred 
seconds on tomorrows TV newscast. (In this age of mass murder and terrorism, 
two victims rated no more than two minutes airtime: ten seconds for lead-in, a 
hundred seconds for film, ten seconds for the well-coiffed anchorpersons to look 
respectfully grim and saddenedthen on to a story about a bikini contest, a 
convention of Edsel owners, or a man who claimed to have seen an alien 
spacecraft shaped like a Twinkie.) The reporters were gone now, as were the lab 
men, the uniformed deputies, and all of Lemuel Johnsons agents except Cliff 
Soames.
Clouds hid the fragment moon. The kliegs were gone, and the only light came from 
the headlamps of Walt Gainess car. He had swung his sedan around and aimed his 
lights at Lems car, which was parked at the end of the unpaved street, so Lem 
and Cliff would not have to fumble around in the dark. In the deep gloom beyond 
the headlamps, half-framed houses loomed like the fossilized skeletons of 
prehistoric reptiles.
As he walked toward his car, Lem felt as good as he could feel under the 
circumstances. Walt had agreed to allow federal authorities to assume 
jurisdiction without a challenge. Although Lem had broken a dozen regulations 
and had violated his secrecy oath by telling Walt the details of the Francis 
Project, he was sure Walt could keep his mouth shut. The lid was still on the 
case, a bit looser than it had been, perhaps, but still in place.
Cliff Soames reached the car first, opened the door, and got in on the 
passengers side, and as Lem opened the drivers door he heard Cliff say, Oh, 
Jesus, oh God. Cliff was scrambling back out of the car even as Lem looked in 
from the other side and saw what the uproar was about. A head.
Teel Porters head, no doubt.
It was on the front seat of the car, propped so it was facing Lem when he opened 
the door. The mouth hung open in a silent scream. The eyes were gone.
Reeling back from the car, Lem reached under his coat and pulled his revolver.
Walt Gaines was already out of his car, his own revolver in hand, running toward 
Lem. Whats wrong?
Lem pointed.
Reaching the NSA sedan, Walt looked through the open door and let out a thin, 
anguished sound when he saw the head.
Cliff came around from the other side of the car, gripping his gun, with the 
muzzle pointed straight up. The damn thing was here when we arrived, while we 
were in the house.
Might still be here, Lern said, anxiously surveying the darkness that crowded 
them on all sides, beyond the beams from the patrol cars headlights.
Studying the night-swaddled housing development, Walt said, Well call in my 
men, get a search under way.
No point to it, Lem said. The thing will take off if it sees your men 
returning . . . if its not gone already.
They were standing at the edge of Bordeaux Ridge, beyond which lay miles of open 
land, foothills and mountains, out of which The Outsider had come and into which 
it could disappear again. Those hills, ridges, and canyons were only vague forms 
in the meager glow of the partial moon, more sensed than Seen.
From somewhere down the unlighted street came a loud clatter, as if a pile of 
lumber or shingles had been knocked over.
It is here, Walt said.
Maybe, Lem said. But were not going to go looking for it in the dark, not 
just the three of us. Thats what it wants.
They listened.
Nothing more.
We searched the whole tract when we first got here, before you arrived, Walt 
said.
Cliff said, It mustve kept one step ahead of you, making a game of dodging 
your men. Then it saw us arrive, and it recognized Lem.
Recognized me from the couple of times I visited Banodyne, Lem agreed. In 
fact . . . The Outsider was probably waiting here just for me. It probably 
understands my role in all this and knows Im in charge of the search for it and 
the dog. So it wanted to leave the deputys head for me.
To mock you? Walt said.
To mock me.
They were silent, peering uneasily at the blackness within and around the 
unfinished houses.
The hot June air was motionless.
For a long while, the only sound was the idling engine of the sheriffs car.
Watching us, Walt said.
Another clatter of overturned construction materials. Nearer this time.
The three men froze, each looking a different direction, guarding against 
attack.
The subsequent silence lasted almost a minute.
When Lem was about to speak, The Outsider shrieked. The cry was alien, chilling. 
This time they could identify the direction from which it came: out in the open 
land, in the night beyond Bordeaux Ridge.
Its leaving now, Lem said. Its decided we cant be lured into a search, 
just the three of us, so its leaving before we can bring in reinforcements.
It shrieked again, from farther away. The eerie cry was like sharp fingernails 
raked across Lems soul.
In the morning, he said, well move our Marine Intelligence teams into the 
foothills east of here. Well nail the damn thing. By God, we will.
Turning to Lems sedan, evidently contemplating the unpleasant task of dealing 
with Teel Porters severed head, Walt said, Why the eyes? Why does it always 
tear out the eyes?
Lem said, Partly because the creatures just damned aggressive, bloodthirsty. 
Thats in its genes. And partly because it really enjoys spreading terror, I 
think. But also . .
What?
I wish I didnt remember this, but I do, very clearly . .
On one of his visits to Banodyne, Lem had witnessed a disturbing conversation 
(of sorts) between Dr. Yarbeck and The Outsider. Yarbeck and her assistants had 
taught The Outsider a sign language similar to that developed by the researchers 
who attempted the first experiments in communication with the higher primates, 
like gorillas, back in the mid-1970s. The most successful gorilla subjecta 
female named Koko, which had been the center of countless news stories over the 
past decadewas reputed to have attained a sign-language vocabulary of 
approximately four hundred words. When Lem had last seen it, The Outsider 
boasted a vocabulary considerably larger than
Kokos, though still primitive. In Yarbecks lab, Lem had watched as the 
man-made monstrosity in the large cage had exchanged complicated series of hand 
signals with the scientist, while an assistant had whispered a running 
translation. The Outsider had expressed a fierce hostility toward everyone and 
everything, frequently interrupting its dialogue with Yarbeck to dash around its 
cage in uncontrolled rage, banging on the iron bars, screeching furiously. To 
Lem, the scene was frightening and repellent, but he was also filled with a 
terrible sadness and pity at the plight of The Outsider: the beast would always 
be caged, always a freak, alone in the world as no other creature not even 
Weatherbys doghad ever been. The experience had affected him so deeply that he 
still remembered nearly every exchange of sign language between The Outsider and 
Yarbeck, and now a pertinent part of that eerie conversation came back to him:
At one point The Outsider had signed: Tear out your eyes.
You want to tear out my eyes? Yarbeck signed.
Tear out everyones eyes.
Why?
So cant see me.
Why dont you want to be seen?
Ugly.
You think youre ugly?
Much ugly.
Where did you get the idea youre ugly?
From people.
What people?
Everyone who see me first time.
Like this man with us today? Yarbeck signed, indicating Lem.
Yes. All think me ugly. Hate me.
No one hates you.
Everyone.
No ones ever told you that youre ugly. How do you know thats what they think?
I know.
How do you know?
I know, I know, I know! It raced around its cage, rattling the bars, shrieking, 
and then it returned to face Yarbeck. Tear out my own eyes.
So you wont have to look at yourself?
So wont have to look at people looking at me, the creature had signed, and Lem 
had pitied it then, deeply, though his pity had in no way diminished his fear of 
it.
Now, standing in the hot June night, he told Walt Gaines about that exchange in 
Yarbecks lab, and the sheriff shivered.
Jesus, Cliff Soames said. It hates itself, its otherness, and so it hates its 
maker even more.
And now that youve told me this, Walt said, Im surprised none of You ever 
understood why it hates the dog so passionately. This poor damned
twisted thing and the dog are essentially the only two children of the Francis 
Project. The dog is the beloved child, the favored child, and The Outsider has 
always known that. The dog is the child that the parents want to brag about, 
while The Outsider is the child they would prefer to keep locked securely in a 
cellar, and so it resents the dog, stews in resentment every minute of every 
day.
Of course, Lem said, youre right. Of course.
It also gives new meaning to the two smashed mirrors in the upstairs bathrooms 
in the house where Teel Porter was killed, Walt said. The thing couldnt bear 
the sight of itself.
In the distance, very far away now, something shrieked, something that was not 
of Gods creation.
 
 
SEVEN
1
During the rest of June, Nora did some painting, spent a lot of time with 
Travis, and tried to teach Einstein to read.
Neither she nor Travis was sure that the dog, although very smart, could be 
taught such a thing, but it was worth a try. If he understood spoken English, as 
seemed to be the case, then it followed that he could be taught the printed word 
as well.
Of course, they could not be absolutely certain that Einstein did understand 
spoken English, even though he responded to it with apt and specific reactions. 
It was remotely possible that, instead, the dog did not perceive the precise 
meanings of the words themselves but, by some mild form of telepathy, could read 
the word-pictures in peoples minds as they spoke.
But I dont believe thats the case, Travis said one afternoon as he and Nora 
sat on his patio, drinking wine coolers and watching Einstein frolic in the 
spray of a portable lawn sprinkler. Maybe because I dont want to believe it. 
The idea that hes both as smart as me and telepathic is just too much. If 
thats the case, then maybe I should be wearing the collar and he should be 
holding the leash!
It was a Spanish test that appeared to indicate the retriever was not, in fact, 
even slightly telepathic.
In college, Travis had taken three years of Spanish. Later, upon choosing a 
career in the military and signing on with the elite Delta Force, hed been 
encouraged to continue those language studies because his superiors believed the 
escalating political instability in Central and South America guaranteed that 
Delta would be required to conduct antiterrorist operations in Spanish speaking 
countries with steadily increasing frequency. He had been out of Delta for many 
years, but contact with the large population of California Hispanics had kept 
him relatively fluent.
Now, when he gave Einstein orders or asked questions in Spanish, the dog Stared 
at him stupidly, wagging his tail, unresponsive. When Travis persisted in 
Spanish, the retriever cocked his head and whuffed as if to inquire if this Was 
a joke. Surely, if the dog was reading mental images that arose in the mind of 
the speaker, he would be able to read them regardless of the language that 
inspired those images.
Hes no mind reader, Travis said. There are limits to his geniusthank God!
Day after day, Nora sat on the floor of Traviss living room or on the patio, 
explaining the alphabet to Einstein and trying to help him to understand how 
words were formed from those letters and how those printed words were related to 
the spoken words that he already understood. Now and then, Travis took charge of 
the lessons to give Nora a break, but most of the time he sat nearby, reading, 
because he claimed not to have the patience to be a teacher.
She used a ring-binder notebook to compile her own primer for the dog. On each 
left-hand page, she taped a picture cut from a magazine, and on each right-hand 
page she printed, in block letters, the name of the object that was pictured on 
the left, all simple words: TREE, CAR, HOUSE, MAN, WOMAN, CHAIR. . . With 
Einstein sitting beside her and staring intently at the primer, she would point 
to the picture first, then to the word, pronouncing it repeatedly.
On the last day of June, Nora spread a score or more of unlabeled pictures on 
the floor.
Its test time again, she told Einstein. Lets see if you can do better than 
you did on Monday.
Einstein sat very erect, his chest puffed out, his head held high, as if 
confident of his ability.
Travis was sitting in the armchair, watching. He said, If you fail, fur face, 
were going to trade you in on a poodle that can roll over, play dead, and beg 
for its supper.
Nora was pleased to see that Einstein ignored Travis. This is not a time for 
frivolity, she admonished.
I stand corrected, professor, Travis said.
Nora held up a flashcard with TREE printed on it. The retriever went unerringly 
to the photo of a pine tree and indicated it with a touch of his nose. When she 
held up a card that said CAR, he put a paw on the photo of the car, and when she 
held up HOUSE, he sniffed at the picture of a colonial mansion. They went 
through fifty words, and for the first time the dog correctly paired every 
printed word with the image it represented. Nora was thrilled by his progress, 
and Einstein could not stop wagging his tail.
Travis said, Well, Einstein, youre still a hell of a long way from reading 
Proust.
Rankled by Traviss needling of her star pupil, Nora said, Hes doing fine! 
Terrific. You cant expect him to be reading at college level overnight. Hes 
learning faster than a child would.
Is that so?
Yes, thats so! Much faster than a child would.
Well then, maybe he deserves a couple of Milk-Bones.
Einstein dashed immediately into the kitchen to get the box of dog biscuits.
2
As the summer wore on, Travis was amazed by the swift progress Nora made in 
teaching Einstein to read.
By the middle of July, they graduated from her homemade primer to childrens 
picture books by Dr. Seuss, Maurice Sendak, Phil Parks, Susi Bohdal, Sue 
Dreamer, Mercer Mayer, and many others. Einstein appeared to enjoy all of them 
immensely, though his favorites were by Parks and especiallyfor reasons neither 
Nora nor Travis could discern the charming Frog and Toad books by Arnold Lobel. 
They brought armsful of childrens books home from the city library and 
purchased additional stacks of them at the bookstore.
At first, Nora read them aloud, carefully moving a finger under each word as she 
spoke it, and Einsteins eyes followed along as he leaned in toward the book 
with undivided attention. Later, she did not read the book aloud but held it 
open for the dog and turned the pages for him when he indicated by a whimper or 
some other signthat he had finished that portion of the text and was ready to 
proceed to the next page.
Einsteins willingness to sit for hours, focusing on the books, seemed proof 
that he was actually reading them and not just looking at the cute drawings. 
Nevertheless, Nora decided to test him on the contents of some of the volumes by 
posing a number of questions about the story lines.
After Einstein had read Frog and Toad All Year, Nora closed the book and said, 
All right. Now, answer yes or no to these questions.
They were in the kitchen, where Travis was making a cheese-and-potato casserole 
for dinner. Nora and Einstein were sitting on chairs at the kitchen table. 
Travis paused in his cooking to watch the dog take the quiz.
Nora said, Firstwhen Frog came to see Toad on a winters day, Toad was in bed 
and did not want to come outside. Is that right?
Einstein had to sidle around on his chair to free his tail and wag it. Yes.
Nora said, But finally Frog got Toad outside, and they went ice-skating.
One bark. No.
They went sledding, she said.
Yes.
Very good. Later that same year, at Christmas, Frog gave Toad a gift. Was it a 
sweater?
No.
A new sled?
No.
A clock for his mantel?
Yes, yes, yes.
Excellent! Nora said. Now what shall we read next? How about this One. 
Fantastic Mr. Fox.
Einstein wagged his tail vigorously.
Travis would have enjoyed taking a more active role in the dogs education, but 
he could see that working intensely with Einstein was having an enormously 
beneficial effect on Nora, and he did not want to interfere. Indeed, he 
sometimes played the curmudgeon, questioning the value of teaching the pooch to 
read, making wisecracks about the pace of the dogs progress or its taste in 
reading matter. This mild naysaying was just enough to redouble Noras 
determination to stick with the lessons, to spend even more time with the dog, 
and to prove Travis wrong. Einstein never reacted to those negative remarks, and 
Travis suspected the dog exhibited forbearance because he understood the little 
game of reverse psychology in which Travis was engaged.
Exactly why Noras teaching chores made her blossom was not clear. Perhaps it 
was because she had never interacted with anyonenot even with Travis or with 
her Aunt Violetas intensely as she had with the dog, and the mere process of 
extensive communication encouraged her to come farther out of her shell. Or 
perhaps giving the gift of literacy to the dog was extremely satisfying to her. 
She was by nature a giving person who took pleasure in sharing with others, yet 
she had spent all of her life as a recluse without a single previous opportunity 
to express that side of her personality. Now she had a chance to give of 
herself, and she was generous with her time and energy, and in her own 
generosity she found joy.
Travis also suspected that, through her relationship with the retriever, she was 
expressing a natural talent for mothering. Her great patience was that of a good 
mother dealing with a child, and she often spoke to Einstein so tenderly and 
affectionately that she sounded as if she were addressing her own much-loved 
offspring.
Whatever the reason, Nora became more relaxed and outgoing as she worked with 
Einstein. Gradually forsaking her shapeless dark dresses for summery white 
cotton slacks, colorful blouses, jeans and T-shirts, she seemed to grow ten 
years younger. She had her glorious dark hair redone at the beauty salon and did 
not brush out all the styling this time. She laughed more often and more 
engagingly. In conversation, she met Traviss eyes and seldom looked shyly away 
from him, as she had done previously. She was quicker to touch him, too, and to 
put an arm around his waist. She liked to be hugged, and they kissed with ease 
now, although their kissing remained, for the most part, that of uncertain 
teenagers in the early stages of courting.
On July 14, Nora received news that lifted her spirits even higher. The Santa 
Barbara District Attorneys Office called to tell her that it was not going to 
be necessary for her to appear in court to testify against Arthur Streck. In 
light of his previous criminal record, Streck had changed his mind about 
pursuing a plea of innocence and waging a defense against charges of attempted 
rape, assault, and breaking and entering. He had instructed his attorney to 
plea-bargain with the D.A. As a result, they dropped all charges except assault, 
and Streck accepted a prison sentence of three years, with a provision that he 
serve at least two years before being eligible for parole. Nora had dreaded the 
trial. Suddenly she was free, and in celebration she got slightly tipsy for the 
first time in her life.
That same day, when Travis brought home a new stack of reading material, 
Einstein discovered there were Mickey Mouse picture books for children and
comic books, and the dog was as jubilant about that discovery as Nora was about 
the resolution of the charges against Arthur Streck. His fascination with Mickey 
and Donald Duck and the rest of the Disney gang remained a mystery, but it was 
undeniable. Einstein couldnt stop wagging his tail, and he slobbered all over 
Travis in gratitude.
Everything would have been rosy if, in the middle of the night, Einstein had 
stopped going through the house from window to window, looking out at the 
darkness with obvious fear.
 
 
 
 
 
3
By Thursday morning, July 15, almost six weeks after the murders at Bordeaux 
Ridge, two months after the dog and The Outsider had escaped from Banodyne, 
Lemuel Johnson sat alone in his office on an upper floor of the federal building 
in Santa Ana, the county seat of Orange County. He stared out the window at the 
pollutant-rich haze that was trapped under an inversion layer, blanketing the 
western half of the county and adding to the misery of hundred-degree heat. The 
bile-yellow day matched his sour mood.
His duties were not limited to the search for the lab escapees, but that case 
constantly worried him when he was doing other work. He was unable to put the 
Banodyne affair out of mind even to sleep, and lately he was averaging only four 
or five hours of rest a night. He could not tolerate failure.
No, in truth, his attitude was much stronger than that: he was obsessed with 
avoiding failure. His father, having started life dirt-poor and having built a 
successful business, had inculcated in Lem an almost religious belief in the 
need to achieve, to succeed, and to fulfill all of ones goals. No matter how 
much success you had, his dad often said, life could pull the rug right out from 
under you if you werent diligent. Its even worse for a black man, Lem. With a 
black man, success is like a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. Hes up there real 
high, and its sweet, but when he makes a mistake, when he fails, its a 
mile-long drop into an abyss. An abyss. Because failure means being poor. And in 
a lot of peoples eyes, even in this enlightened age, a poor miserable failed 
black man is no man at all, hes just a nigger. That Was the only time his 
father ever used the hated word. Lem had grown up With the conviction that any 
success he achieved was merely a precarious toehold on the cliff of life, that 
he was always in danger of being blown off that cliff by the winds of adversity, 
and that he dared not relent in his determination to cling fast and to climb to 
a wider, safer ledge.
He wasnt sleeping well, and his appetite was no good. When he did eat, the meal 
was inevitably followed by severe acid indigestion. His bridge game had gone to 
hell because he could not concentrate on the cards; at their
weekly get-togethers with Walt and Audrey Gaines, the Johnsons were taking a 
beating.
He knew why he was obsessed with closing every case successfully, but that 
knowledge was of no help in modifying his obsession.
We are what we are, he thought, and maybe the only time we can change what we 
are is when life throws us such a surprise that its like hitting a plate-glass 
window with a baseball bat, shattering the grip of the past.
So he stared out at the blazing July day and brooded, worried.
Back in May, he had surmised that the retriever might have been picked up by 
someone and given a home. It was, after all, a handsome animal, and if it 
revealed even a small fraction of its intelligence to anyone, its appeal would 
be irresistible; it would find sanctuary. Therefore, Lem figured locating the 
dog would be harder than tracking down The Outsider. A week to locate The 
Outsider, he had thought, and perhaps a month to lay hands on the retriever.
He had issued bulletins to every animal pound and veterinarian in California, 
Nevada, and Arizona, urgently requesting assistance in locating the golden 
retriever. The flyer claimed that the animal had escaped from a medical research 
lab that was conducting an important cancer experiment. The loss of the dog, the 
bulletin claimed, would mean the loss of a million dollars of research money and 
countless hours of researchers timeand might seriously impede the development 
of a cure for certain malignancies. The flyer included a photograph of the dog 
and the information that, on the inside of its left ear, it bore a lab tattoo: 
the number 33-9. The letter accompanying the flyer requested not only 
cooperation but confidentiality. The mailing had been repeated every seven days 
since the breakout at Banodyne, and a score of NSA agents had been doing nothing 
but phoning animal pounds and vets in the three states to be certain they 
remembered the flyer and continued to keep a lookout for a retriever with a 
tattoo.
Meanwhile, the urgent search for The Outsider could, with some confidence, be 
confined to undeveloped territories because it would be reluctant to show 
itself. And there was no chance that someone would think it was cute enough to 
take home. Besides, The Outsider had been leaving a trail of death that could be 
followed.
Subsequent to the murders at Bordeaux Ridge east of Yorba Linda, the creature 
had fled into the unpopulated Chino Hills. From there it had gone north, 
crossing into the eastern end of Los Angeles County, where its presence was next 
pinpointed, on June 9, on the outskirts of semirural Diamond Bar. The Los 
Angeles County Animal Control Authority had received numerous and 
hystericalreports from Diamond Bar residents regarding wild-animal attacks on 
domestic pets. Others called the police, believing the slaughter was the work of 
a deranged man. In two nights, more than a score of Diamond Bars domestic 
animals had been torn to pieces, and the condition of the carcasses left no 
doubt in Lems mind that the perpetrator was The Outsider.
Then the trail went ice-cold for more than a week, until the morning of June 18, 
when two young campers at the foot of Johnstone Peak, on the southern flank of 
the vast Angeles National Forest, reported seeing something they insisted was 
from another world. They had locked themselves in their van, but the creature 
had tried repeatedly to get in at them, going so far as to smash a side window 
with a rock. Fortunately, the pair kept a .32 pistol in the van, and one of them 
opened fire on their assailant, driving it off. The press treated the campers as 
a couple of kooks, and on the evening news the happy-talk anchorpersons got a 
lot of mileage out of the story.
Lem believed the young couple. On a map, he traced the thinly populated corridor 
of land by which The Outsider could have gone from Diamond Bar to the area below 
Johnstone Peak: over the San Jose Hills, through Bonelli Regional Park, between 
San Dimas and Glendora, then into the wilds. It would have had to cross or go 
under three freeways that cut through the area, but if it had traveled in the 
deep of night, when there was little or no traffic, it could have passed unseen. 
He shifted the hundred men from Marine Intelligence into that portion of the 
forest, where they continued their search in civilian dress, in groups of three 
and four.
He hoped the campers had hit The Outsider with at least one shot. But no blood 
was found at their campsite.
He was beginning to worry that The Outsider might evade capture for a long time. 
Lying north of the city of Los Angeles, the Angeles National Forest was 
discouragingly immense.
Nearly as large as the entire state of Delaware, Cliff Soames said after he 
had measured the area on the wall map pinned to the bulletin board in Lems 
office and had calculated the square miles. Cliff had come from Delaware. He was 
relatively new to the West and still had a newcomers amazement at the gigantic 
scale of everything at this end of the continent. He was also young, with the 
enthusiasm of youth, and he was almost dangerously optimistic. Cliffs 
upbringing had been radically different from Lems, and he did not feel himself 
to be on a tightrope or at risk of having his life destroyed by just one error, 
by a single failure. Sometimes Lem envied him.
Lem stared at Cliffs scribbled calculations. If it takes refuge in the San 
Gabriel Mountains, feeding on wildlife and content with solitude, venturing out 
only rarely to vent its rage on the people living along the periphery of the 
preserve . . . it might never be found.
But remember, Cliff said, it hates the dog more than it hates men. It wants 
the dog and has the ability to find it.
So we think.
And could it really tolerate a wild existence? I mean, yeah, its part savage, 
but its also smart. Maybe too smart to be content with a hardscrabble life in 
that rugged country.
Maybe, Lem said.
Theyll spot it soon, or itll do something to give us another fix on it, 
Cliff predicted.
That was June 18.
When they found no trace of The Outsider during the next ten days, the expense 
of keeping a hundred men in the field grew insupportable. On June 29, Lem 
finally had to relinquish the Marines that had been put at his disposal and send 
them back to their bases.
Day by day, Cliff was heartened by the lack of developments and was willing to 
believe that The Outsider had suffered a mishap, that it was dead, that they 
would never hear of it again.
Day by day, Lem sank deeper into gloom, certain that he had lost control of the 
situation and that The Outsider would reappear in a most dramatic fashion, 
making its existence known to the public. Failure.
The only bright spot was that the beast was now in Los Angeles County, out of 
Walt Gainess jurisdiction. If there were additional victims, Walt might not 
even learn of them and would not have to be persuaded, all over again, to remain 
out of the case.
By Thursday, July 15, exactly two months after the breakout at Banodyne, almost 
one month after the campers had been terrorized by a supposed extraterrestrial 
or smaller cousin of Bigfoot, Lem was convinced he would soon have to consider 
alternate careers. No one had blamed him for the way things had gone. The heat 
was on him to deliver, but it was no worse than the heat he had felt on other 
big investigations. Actually, some of his superiors viewed the lack of 
developments in the same favorable light as did Cliff Soames. But in his most 
pessimistic moments, Lem envisioned himself employed as a uniformed security 
guard working the night shift in a warehouse, demoted to the status of a 
make-believe cop with a rinky-dink badge.
Sitting in his office chair, facing the window, staring grimly at the hazy 
yellow air of the blazing summer day, he said aloud, Damn it, Ive been trained 
to deal with human criminals. How the hell can I be expected to outthink a 
fugitive from a nightmare?
A knock sounded at his door, and as he swiveled around in his chair, the door 
opened. Cliff Soames entered in a rush, looking both excited and distraught. 
The Outsider, he said. Weve got a new fix on it . . . but two people are 
dead.
 
 
Twenty years ago in Vietnam, Lems NSA chopper pilot had learned everything 
worth knowing about putting down and taking off in rugged terrain. Now, 
remaining in constant radio contact with the L.A. County sheriffs deputies who 
were on the scene already, he had no difficulty locating the site of the murders 
by visual navigation, making use of natural landmarks. At a few minutes after 
one oclock, he put his craft down on a wide section of a barren ridge 
overlooking Boulder Canyon in the Angeles National Forest, just a hundred yards 
from the spot where the bodies had been found.
When Lem and Cliff left the chopper and hurried along the crest of the ridge 
toward the gathered deputies and forest rangers, a hot wind buffeted them. It 
carried the scent of dry brush and pine. Only tufts of wild grass, parched and 
brittled by the July sun, had managed to put down roots on this high ground. Low 
scrub growthincluding desert plants like mesquite
marked the upper reaches of the canyon walls that dropped away to the right and 
left of them, and down on the lower slopes and canyon floors were trees and 
greener undergrowth.
They were less than four air miles north of the town of Sunland, fourteen air 
miles north of Hollywood, and twenty miles north of the populous heart of the 
great city of Los Angeles, yet it seemed they were in a desolation measuring a 
thousand miles across, disquietingly far from civilization. The sheriffs 
deputies had parked their four-wheel-drive wagons on a crude dirt track 
three-quarters of a mile awaycoming in, Lems chopper had flown over those 
vehiclesand they had hiked with ranger guides to the site where the bodies had 
been found. Now, gathered around the corpses were four deputies, two men from 
the county crime lab, and three rangers, and they looked as if they, too, felt 
isolated in a primeval place.
When Lem and Cliff arrived, the sheriffs men had just finished tucking the 
remains in body bags. The zippers hadnt yet been closed, so Lem saw that one 
victim was male, the other female, both young and dressed for hiking. Their 
wounds were grievous; their eyes were gone.
The dead now numbered five innocents, and that toll conjured a specter of guilt 
that haunted Lem. At times like this, he wished that his father had raised him 
with no sense of responsibility whatsoever.
Deputy Hal Bockner, tall and tan but with a surprisingly reedy voice, apprised 
Lem of the identity and condition of the victims: Based on the ID he was 
carrying, the males name was Sidney Tranken, twenty-eight, of Glendale. Body 
has more than a score of nasty bite marks, even more claw marks, slashes. 
Throat, as you saw, torn open. Eyes
Yes, Lem said, seeing no need to dwell on these grisly details.
The men from the crime lab pulled the zippers shut on the body bags. It was a 
cold sound that hung for a moment like a chain of icicles in the hot July air.
Deputy Bockner said, At first we thought Tranken was probably knifed by some 
psycho. Once in a while you get a homicidal nut who prowls these forests instead 
of the streets, preying on hikers. So we figured . . . knifed first, then all 
this other damage mustve been done by animals, scavengers, after the guy was 
dead. But now . . . were not so sure.
I dont see blood on the ground here, Cliff Soames said with a note of 
puzzlement. Thered have been a lot of it.
They werent killed here, Deputy Bockner said, then went on with his Summary 
at his own pace. Female, twenty-seven, Ruth Kasavaris, also of Glendale. Also 
vicious bite marks, slashes. Her throat
Cutting him off again, Lem said, When were they killed?
Best guess before lab tests is that they died late yesterday. We believe the 
bodies were carried up here because theyd be found quicker on the ridge top. A 
popular hiking trail runs along here. But it wasnt other hikers found them. It 
was a routine fire-patrol plane. Pilot looked down, saw them sprawled here on 
the bare ridge.
This high ground above Boulder Canyon was more than thirty air miles
north-northwest of Johnstone Peak, where the young campers had taken refuge from 
The Outsider in their van and had later fired at it with a .32 pistol on June 
18, twenty-eight days ago. The Outsider would have been reckoning 
north-northwest by sheer instinct and no doubt would have frequently been 
required to backtrack out of box canyons; therefore, in this mountainous terrain 
it had very likely traveled between sixty and ninety miles on the ground to 
cover those thirty air miles. Still, that was only a pace of three miles a day, 
at most, and Lem wondered what the creature had been doing during the time it 
was not traveling or sleeping or chasing down food.
Youll want to see where these two were killed, Bockner said. Weve found the 
place. And youll want to see the den, too.
Den?
The lair, one of the forest rangers said. The damn lair.
The deputies, rangers, and crime-lab men had been giving Lem and Cliff odd looks 
ever since they had arrived, but Lem had not been surprised by that. Local 
authorities always regarded him with suspicion and curiosity because they were 
not accustomed to having a powerhouse federal agency like the NSA show up and 
claim jurisdiction; it was a rarity. But now he realized that their curiosity 
was of a different kind and degree than what he usually encountered, and for the 
first time he perceived their fear. They had found somethingthe lair of which 
they spokethat gave them reason to believe this case was even stranger than the 
sudden appearance of the NSA would usually indicate.
In suits, ties, and polished street shoes, neither Lem nor Cliff was properly 
dressed for a hike down into the canyon, but neither of them hesitated when the 
rangers led the way. Two deputies, the lab men, and one of the three rangers 
remained behind with the bodies, which left a party of six for the descent. They 
followed a shallow channel carved by runoff from rainstorms, then switched to 
what might have been a deer trail. After descending to the very bottom of the 
canyon, they turned southeast and proceeded for half a mile. Soon Lem was sweaty 
and covered with a film of dust, and his socks and pant legs were full of 
prickling burrs.
Heres where they were killed, Deputy Bockner said when he led them into a 
clearing surrounded by scrub pines, cottonwoods, and brush.
The pale, sandy earth and sun-bleached grass were mottled with enormous dark 
stains. Blood.
And right back here, one of the rangers said, is where we found the lair.
It was a shallow cave in the base of the canyon wall, perhaps ten feet deep, 
twenty feet wide, no more than a dozen steps from the small clearing where the 
hikers had been murdered. The mouth of the cave was about eight feet wide but 
low, requiring Lem to stoop a bit as he entered. Once inside, he was able to 
stand erect, for the ceiling was high. The place had a mildly unpleasant, musty 
smell. Light found its way through the entrance and through a two-foot-wide 
water-carved hole in the ceiling, but for the most part the chamber was shadowy 
and twenty degrees cooler than the canyon outside.
Only Deputy Bockner accompanied Lem and Cliff. Lem sensed that the others held 
back not out of any concern that the cave would be too crowded, but out of an 
uneasiness about the place.
Bockner had a flashlight. He switched it on and played the beam over the things 
he had brought them to see, dispelling some of the shadows and causing others to 
flit batlike across the room to roost on different perches.
In one corner, dry grass had been piled to a depth of six or eight inches to 
make a bed on the sandstone floor. Beside the bed was a galvanized bucket full 
of relatively fresh water carried from the nearest stream, evidently placed 
there so the sleeper could get a drink upon waking in the middle of the night.
It was here, Cliff said softly.
Yes, Lem agreed.
Instinctively he sensed The Outsider had made this bed; somehow, its alien 
presence was still in the chamber. He stared at the bucket, wondering where the 
creature had acquired it. Most likely, along the way from Banodyne, it had 
decided it would eventually find a burrow and hide for a while, and it had 
realized it would need a few things to make its life in the wild more 
comfortable. Perhaps breaking into a stable or barn or empty house, it had 
stolen the bucket and various other things that Bockner now revealed with his 
flashlight.
A plaid flannel blanket for when the weather turned cooler. A horse blanket, 
judging by the look of it. What caught Lems attention was the neatness with 
which the blanket had been folded and placed on a narrow ledge in the wall 
beside the entrance.
A flashlight. This was on the same shelf that held the blanket. The Outsider had 
exceedingly good night vision. That was one of the design requirements with 
which Dr. Yarbeck had been working: in the dark, a good genetically engineered 
warrior would be able to see as well as a cat. So why would it want a 
flashlight? Unless . . . maybe even a creature of the night was sometimes afraid 
of darkness.
That thought jolted Lem, and suddenly he pitied the beast as he had pitied it 
that day he had watched it communicating by crude sign language with Yarbeck, 
the day it had said that it wanted to tear its own eyes out so it would never 
have to look at itself again.
Bockner moved the beam of his own flashlight and focused it on twenty candy 
wrappers. Apparently, The Outsider had stolen a couple family packs of candy 
somewhere along the way. The strange thing was that the wrappers were not 
crumpled but were smoothed out and laid flat on the floor along the back 
wallten from Reeses peanut butter cups and ten from Clark Bars. Perhaps The 
Outsider liked the bright colors of the wrappers. Or perhaps it kept them to 
remind itself of the pleasure that the candy had given it because, Once those 
treats were gone, there was not much other pleasure to be had in the hard life 
to which it had been driven
In the farthest corner from the bed, deep in shadows, was a pile of bones. The 
bones of small animals. Once the candy was eaten, The Outsider had been forced 
to hunt in order to feed itself. And without the means to light a
fire, it had fed savagely on raw meat. Perhaps it kept the bones in the cave 
because it was afraid that, by disposing of them outside, it would be leaving 
clues to its whereabouts. By storing them in the darkest, farthest corner of its 
haven, it seemed to have a civilized sense of neatness and order, but to Lem it 
also seemed as if The Outsider had hidden the bones in the shadows because it 
was ashamed of its own savagery.
Most pathetically of all, a peculiar group of items was stored in a niche in the 
wall above the grassy bed. No, Lem decided, not just stored. The items were 
carefully arranged, as if for display, the way an aficionado of art glass or 
ceramics or Mayan pottery might display a valuable collection. There was a round 
stained-glass bauble of the sort that people hung from their patio covers to 
sparkle in the sun; it was about four inches in diameter, and it portrayed a 
blue flower against a pale-yellow background. Beside that bauble was a bright 
copper pot that had probably once contained a plant on the sameor 
anotherpatio. Next to the pot were two things that surely had been taken from 
inside a house, perhaps from the same place where The Outsider had stolen the 
candy: first, a fine porcelain study of a pair of red-feathered cardinals 
sitting on a branch, every detail exquisitely crafted; second, a crystal 
paperweight. Apparently, even within the alien breast of Yarbecks monstrosity, 
there was an appreciation of beauty and a desire to live not as an animal but as 
a thinking being in an ambience at least lightly touched by civilization.
Lem felt sick at heart as he considered the lonely, tortured, self-hating, 
inhuman yet self-aware creature that Yarbeck had brought into the world.
Last of all, the niche above the grass bed held a ten-inch-high figure of Mickey 
Mouse that was also a coin bank.
Lems pity swelled because he knew why the bank had appealed to The Outsider. At 
Banodyne, there had been experiments to determine the depth and nature of the 
dogs and The Outsiders intelligence, to discover how close their perceptions 
were to those of a human being. One of the experiments had been designed to 
probe their ability to differentiate between fantasy and reality. On several 
occasions, the dog and The Outsider had separately been shown a videotape that 
had been assembled from film clips of all kinds: bite of old John Wayne movies, 
footage from George Lucass Star Wars, news films, scenes from a wide variety of 
documentariesand old Mickey Mouse, cartoons. The reactions of the dog and The 
Outsider were filmed and, later, they were quizzed to see it they understood 
which segments of the videotape were of real events and which were flights of 
the imagination. Both creatures had gradually learned to identify fantasy when 
they saw it; but, strangely, the one fantasy they most wanted to believe in, the 
fantasy they clung to the longest, was Mickey Mouse. They were enthralled by 
Mickeys adventures with his cartoon friends. After escaping Banodyne, The 
Outsider had some how come across this coin bank and had wanted it badly because 
the poor damn thing was reminded of the only real pleasure it had ever known 
while in the lab.
In the beam of Deputy Bockners flashlight, something on the shelf glinted. It 
was lying nearly flat beside the coin bank, and they almost overlooked it. Cliff 
stepped onto the grass bed and plucked the gleaming object Out of the wall 
niche: a three-inch-by-four-inch triangular fragment of a mirror.
The Outsider huddled here, Lem thought, trying to take heart from its meager 
treasures, trying to make as much of a home for itself as was possible. Once in 
a while it picked up this jagged shard from a mirror and stared at itself, 
perhaps searching hopefully for an aspect of its countenance that was not ugly, 
perhaps trying to come to terms with what it was. And failing. Surely failing.
Dear God, Cliff Soames said quietly, for the same thoughts had apparently 
passed through his mind. The poor miserable bastard.
The Outsider had possessed one additional item: a copy of People magazine. 
Robert Redford was on the cover. With a claw, sharp stone, or some other 
instrument, The Outsider had cut out Redfords eyes.
The magazine was rumpled and tattered, as if it had been paged through a hundred 
times, and now Deputy Bockner handed it to them and suggested they page through 
it once more. On doing so, Lem saw that the eyes of every person pictured in the 
issue had been either scratched, cut, or crudely torn out.
The thoroughness of this symbolic mutilationnot one image in the magazine had 
been sparedwas chilling.
The Outsider was pathetic, yes, and it was to be pitied.
But it was also to be feared.
Five victimssome gutted, some decapitated.
The innocent dead must not be forgotten, not for a moment. Neither an affection 
for Mickey Mouse nor a love of beauty could excuse such slaughter.
But Jesus .
The creature had been given sufficient intelligence to grasp the importance and 
the benefits of civilization, to long for acceptance and a meaningful existence. 
Yet a fierce lust for violence, a killing instinct second to none in nature, was 
also engineered into it because it was meant to be a smart killer on a long 
invisible leash, a living machine of war. No matter how long it existed in 
peaceful solitude in its canyon cave, no matter how many days or weeks it 
resisted its own violent urges, it could not change what it was. The pressure 
would build within it until it could no longer contain itself, until the 
slaughter of small animals would not provide enough psychological relief, and 
then it would seek larger and more interesting prey. It might damn itself for 
its savagery, might long to remake itself into a creature that could exist in 
harmony with the rest of the world, but it was powerless to change what it Was. 
Only hours ago, Lem had pondered how difficult it was for him to become a 
different man from the one his father had raised, how hard it was for any man to 
change what life had made him, but at least it was possible if one had the 
determination, willpower, and time. However, for The Outsider change Was 
impossible; murder was in the beasts genes, locked in, and it could expect no 
hope of re-creation or salvation.
What the hell is this all about? Deputy Bockner asked, finally unable to 
repress his curiosity.
Believe me, Lem said, you dont want to know.
What was in this cave? Bockner asked.
Lem only shook his head. If two more people had to die, it was a stroke of good 
fortune that they had been murdered in a national forest. This was federal land, 
which meant much simpler procedures by which the NSA could assume authority in 
the investigation.
Cliff Soames was still turning the fragment of mirror over and over in his hand, 
staring at it thoughtfully.
Looking around the eerie chamber one last time, Lem Johnson made a promise to 
himself and to his dangerous quarry: When I find you, I wont consider trying to 
take you alive; no net or tranquilizer guns, as the scientists and the military 
types would prefer; instead, Ill shoot you quick and clean, take you down fast.
That was not only the safest plan. It would also be an act of compassion and 
mercy.
 
 
 
4
By the first of August, Nora sold all of Aunt Violets furniture and other 
possessions. She had phoned a man who dealt in antiques and secondhand 
furniture, and he had given her one price for everything, and she had accepted 
it happily. Nowexcept for dishes, silverware, and the furniture in the bedroom 
that she had made her ownthe rooms were empty from wall to wall. The house 
seemed cleansed, purified, exorcised. All evil spirits had been driven out, and 
she knew she now had the will to redecorate entirely. But she no longer wanted 
the place, so she telephoned a real-estate agent and put it on the market.
Her old clothes were gone, too, all of them, and she had an entirely new 
wardrobe with slacks and skirts and blouses and jeans and dresses like any woman 
might have. Occasionally, she felt too conspicuous in bright colors, but she 
always resisted the urge to change into something dark and drab.
She still had not found the courage to put her artistic talent on the market and 
see if her work was worth anything. Travis nudged her about it now and then, in 
ways he thought were subtle, but she was not ready to lay her fragile ego on the 
anvil and give just anyone a chance to swing a hammer at it. Soon, but not yet.
Sometimes, when she looked at herself in a mirror or noticed her reflection in a 
sun-silvered store window, she realized that, indeed, she was pretty. Not 
beautiful, perhaps, not gorgeous like some movie star, but moderately pretty. 
However, she did not seem to be able to hold on to this breakthrough perception 
of her appearance, at least not for long, because every few days she would be 
surprised anew by the comeliness of the face looking back at her from the 
mirror.
On the fifth of August, late in the afternoon, she and Travis were sitting at 
the table in his kitchen, playing Scrabble, and she was feeling pretty. A few 
minutes ago, in the bathroom, shed had another of those revelations when she 
had looked in the mirror, and in fact she had liked her looks more than ever 
before. Now, back at the Scrabble board, she felt buoyant, happier than she 
would have once believed possibleand mischievous. She started using her tiles 
to spell nonsense words and then vociferously defended them when Travis 
questioned their legitimacy.
Dofnup? he said, frowning at the board. Theres no such word as dofnup.
Its a triangular cap that loggers wear, she said.
Loggers?
Like Paul Bunyan.
Loggers wear knit caps, what you call toboggan caps, or round leather caps with 
earflaps.
Im not talking about what they wear to work in the woods, she explained 
patiently.  Dofnup. Thats the name of the cap they wear to bed.
He laughed and shook his head. Are you putting me on?
She kept a straight face. No. Its true.
Loggers wear a special cap to bed?
Yes. The dofnup.
He was unaccustomed to the very idea that Nora would play a joke on him, so he 
fell for it. Dofnup? Why do they call it that?
Beats me, she said.
Einstein was on the floor, on his belly, reading a novel. Since graduating with 
startling swiftness from picture books to childrens literature like The Wind in 
the Willows, he had been reading eight and ten hours a day, every day. He 
couldnt get enough books. Hed become a prose junkie. Ten days ago, when the 
dogs obsession with reading had finally outstripped Noras patience for holding 
books and turning pages, they had tried to puzzle out an arrangement that would 
make it possible for Einstein to keep a volume open in front of him and turn the 
pages himself. At a hospital-supply company, they had found a device designed 
for patients who had the use of neither arms nor legs. It was a metal stand onto 
which the boards of the book were clamped; electrically powered mechanical arms, 
controlled by three push buttons, turned the pages and held them in place. A 
quadriplegic could operate it with a stylus held in his teeth; Einstein used his 
nose. The dog seemed immensely pleased by the arrangement. Now, he whimpered 
softly about something he had just read, pushed one of the buttons, and turned 
another page.
Travis spelled wicked and picked up a lot of points by using a doublescore 
square, so Nora used her tiles to spell hurkey, which was worth even more 
points.
Hurkey? Travis said doubtfully.
Its a favorite Yugoslavian meal, she said.
It is?
Yes. The recipe includes both ham and turkey, which is why they call it She 
couldnt finish. She broke into laughter.
He gaped at her in astonishment. You are putting me on. You are putting me on! 
Nora Devon, whats become of you? When I first met you, I said to myself, Now, 
theres the grimmest-damn-most-serious young woman Ive ever seen.
And squirrelly.
Well, not squirrelly.
Yes, squirrelly, she insisted. You thought I was squirrelly.
All right, yeah, I thought you were so squirrelly you probably had the attic of 
that house packed full of walnuts.
Grinning, she said, If Violet and I had lived in the south, wed have been 
straight out of Faulkner, wouldnt we?
Too weird even for Faulkner. But now just look at you! Making up dumb words and 
dumber jokes, conning me into believing them cause Id never expect Nora Devon, 
of all people, to do any such thing. Youve sure changed in these few months.
Thanks to you, she said.
Maybe thanks to Einstein more than me.
No. You most of all, she said, and abruptly she was stricken by that old 
shyness that had once all but paralyzed her. She looked away from him, down at 
her tray of Scrabble tiles, and in a low voice she said, You most of all. Id 
never have met Einstein if I hadnt met you. And you .. . cared about me . . . 
worried about me . . . saw something in me that I couldnt see. You remade me.
No, he said. You give me too much credit. You didnt have to be remade. This 
Nora was always there, inside the old one. Like a flower all cramped up and 
hidden inside a drab little seed. You just had to be encouraged to. . . well, to 
grow and bloom.
She could not look at him. She felt as if a tremendous stone had been placed on 
the back of her neck, forcing her to bow her head, and she was blushing. But she 
found the courage to say, Its so damn hard to bloom. . . to change. Even when 
you want to change, want it more than anything in the world, its hard. Desire 
to change isnt enough. Or desperation. Couldnt be done without . . . love. 
Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she was unable to lift it. Love is like 
the water and the sun that make the seed grow.
He said, Nora, look at me.
That stone on her neck must have weighed a hundred pounds, a thousand.
Nora?
It weighed a ton.
Nora, I love you too.
Somehow with great effort, she lifted her head. She looked at him. His brown 
eyes, so dark as to be almost black, were warm and kind and beautiful.
She loved those eyes. She loved the high bridge and narrow line of his nose. She 
loved every aspect of his lean and ascetic face.
I should have told you first, he said, because its easier for me to say it 
than it is for you. I should have said it days ago, weeks ago: Nora, by God, I 
love you. But I didnt say it because I was afraid. Every time I let myself love 
someone, I lose them, but this time I think maybe itll be different. Maybe 
youll change things for me the way I helped change them for you, and maybe this 
time lucks with me.
Her heart raced. She could barely get her breath, but she said, I love you.
Will you marry me?
She was stunned. She did not know what shed expected to happen, but certainly 
not this. Just hearing him say he loved her, just being able to express the same 
sentiments to himthat was enough to keep her happy for weeks, months. She 
expected to have time to walk around their love, as if it were a great and 
mysterious edifice that, like some newly discovered pyramid, must be studied and 
pondered from every angle before she dared to undertake an exploration of the 
interior.
Will you marry me? be repeated.
This was too fast, recklessly fast, and just sitting there on a kitchen chair 
she got as dizzy as if she had been spinning around on a carnival ride, and she 
was afraid, too, so she tried to tell him to slow down, tried to tell him they 
had plenty of time to consider the next step before taking it, but to her 
surprise she heard herself say, Yes. Oh, yes.
He reached out and took both her hands.
She cried, then, but they were good tears.
Lost in his book, Einstein had nevertheless been aware of what was transpiring. 
He came to the table, sniffing at both of them, rubbing against their legs, and 
whining happily.
Travis said, Next week?
Married? But it takes time to get a license and everything.
Not in Las Vegas. I can call ahead, make arrangements with a wedding chapel in 
Vegas. We can go next week and be married.
Crying and laughing at the same time, she said, All right.
Terrific, Travis said, grinning.
Einstein wagged his tail furiously: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
 
 
5
On Wednesday, the fourth of August, working on contract for the Tetragna Family 
of San Francisco, Vince Nasco hit a little cockroach named Lou Pantangela. The 
cockroach had turned states evidence and was scheduled, in September, to 
testify in court against members of the Tetragna organization.
Johnny The Wire Santini, computer hacker for the mob, had used his high-
tech expertise to invade federal computer files and locate Pantangela. The 
cockroach was living under the protection of two federal marshals in a safe 
house in, of all places, Redondo Beach, south of L.A. After testifying this 
autumn, he was scheduled to be given a new identity and a new life in 
Connecticut, but of course he was not going to live that long.
Because Vince would probably have to waste one or both of the marshals to get at 
Pantangela, the rubout was going to bring a lot of heat, so the Tetragnas 
offered him a very high price$60,000. They had no way of knowing that the need 
to kill more than one man was a bonus to Vince; it made the job morenot 
lessattractive.
He ran surveillance on Pantangela for almost a week, using a different vehicle 
every day to avoid being spotted by the cockroachs bodyguards. They did not 
often let Pantangela outside, but they were still more confident of their hiding 
place than they should have been because three or four times a week they allowed 
him to have a late lunch in public, accompanying him to a little trattoria four 
blocks from the safe house.
They had changed Pantangelas appearance as much as possible. He had once had 
thick black hair that he had worn longish, over his collar, Now his hair was cut 
short and dyed light brown. Hed had a mustache, but theyd made him shave it 
off. He had been sixty pounds overweight, but after two months in the care of 
the marshals, he had lost about forty pounds. Nevertheless, Vince recognized 
him.
On Wednesday, August 4, they took Pantangela to the trattoria at one oclock, as 
usual. At ten minutes past one, Vince strolled in to have his own lunch.
The restaurant had only eight tables in the middle and six booths along each 
side wall. It looked clean but had too much Italian kitsch for Vinces taste: 
red- and white-checkered tablecloths; garish murals of roman ruins; empty wine 
bottles used as candleholders; a thousand bunches of plastic grapes, for Gods 
sake, hanging from lattice fixed to the ceiling and meant to convey the 
atmosphere of an arbor. Because Californians tend to eat an early dinner, at 
least by Eastern standards, they also eat an early lunch, and by ten past one, 
the number of diners had already peaked and was declining. By two oclock, it 
was likely that the only customers remaining would be Pantangela, his two 
bodyguards, and Vince, which was what made it such a good place for the hit.
The trattoria was too small to bother with a hostess at lunch, and a sign told 
guests to seat themselves. Vince walked back through the room, past the 
Pantangela party, to an empty booth behind them.
Vince had given a lot of thought to his clothes. He was wearing rope sandals, 
red cotton shorts, and a white T-shirt on which were blue waves, a yellow sun, 
and the words ANOTHER CALIFORNIA BODY. His aviator sunglasses were mirrored. He 
carried an open-topped canvas beach bag that was boldly lettered MY STUFF. If 
you glanced in the bag when he walked past, youd see a tightly rolled towel, 
bottles of tanning lotion, a small radio, and a hairbrush,
but you wouldnt see the fully automatic, silencer-equipped Uzi pistol with a 
forty-round magazine hidden in the bottom. With his deep tan to complement the 
outfit, he achieved the look he wanted: a very fit but aging surfer; a 
leisure-sotted, shiftless, and probably harebrained jerk who would be beaching 
it every day, pretending to be young, and still self-intoxicated when he was 
sixty.
He only glanced uninterestedly at Pantangela and the marshals, but he was aware 
of them giving him the once-over, then dismissing him as harmless. Perfect.
The booths had high padded backs, so from where he sat he could not see 
Pantangela. But he could hear the cockroach and the marshals talking now and 
then, mostly about baseball and women.
After a week of surveillance, Vince knew that Pantangela never left the 
trattoria sooner than two-thirty, usually three oclock, evidently because he 
insisted on an appetizer, a salad, a main course, and dessert, the whole works. 
That gave Vince time for a salad and an order of linguini with clam sauce.
His waitress was about twenty, white-blond, pretty, and as deeply tanned as 
Vince. She had the hip look and sound of a beach girl, and she started coming on 
to him right away, while taking his order. He figured she was one of those sand 
nymphs whose brain was as sun-fried as her body. She probably spent every summer 
evening on the beach, doing dope of every description, spreading her legs for 
any stud who vaguely interested herand most of them would interest herwhich 
meant that, no matter how healthy she looked, she was disease-ridden. Just the 
idea of humping her made him want to puke, but he had to play out the role hed 
chosen for himself, so he flirted with her and tried to look as if he could 
barely keep from drooling at the thought of her naked, writhing body pinned 
under him.
At five minutes past two, Vince had finished lunch, and the only other customers 
in the place were Pantangela and the two marshals. One of the waitresses had 
left for the day, and the other two were in the kitchen. It could not have been 
better.
The beach bag was on the booth beside him. He reached into it and withdrew the 
Uzi pistol.
Pantangela and the marshals were talking about the Dodgers chances of getting 
in the World Series.
Vince got up, stepped around to their booth, and sprayed them with twenty to 
thirty rounds from the Uzi. The stubby, high-tech silencer worked beautifully, 
and the shots sounded like nothing more than a stuttering man having trouble 
pronouncing a word that began with a sibilant. It went down so fast that the 
marshals didnt have a chance to reach for their own weapons. They didnt even 
have time to be surprised.
Ssssnap.
Ssssnap.
Ssssnap.
Pantangela and his guardians were dead in three seconds.
Vince shuddered with intense pleasure, and was briefly overcome by the wealth of 
life energy that he had just absorbed. He could not speak. Then in a tremulous 
and raspy voice, he said, Thank you.
When he turned away from the booth, he saw his waitress standing in the middle 
of the room, frozen in shock. Her wide blue eyes were fixated on the dead men, 
but now her gaze shifted slowly to Vince.
Before she could scream, he emptied the rest of the magazine into her, maybe ten 
shots, and she went down in a rain of blood.
Ssssnap.
Thank you, he said, then said it again because she had been young and vital 
and, therefore, of more use to him.
Concerned that someone else would come out of the kitchenor maybe someone would 
walk past the restaurant and look in and see the waitress on the floorVince 
stepped quickly to his booth, snatched up the beach bag, and jammed the Uzi 
pistol under the towel. Putting on his mirrored sunglasses, he got out of there.
He was not worried about fingerprints. He had coated the pads of his fingers 
with Elmers glue. It dried nearly transparent and could not be noticed unless 
he turned his hands palms-up and called peoples attention to it. The layer of 
glue was thick enough to fill the minute lines in the skin, leaving the 
fingertips smooth.
Outside, he walked to the end of the block, turned the corner, and got into his 
van, which was parked at the curb. As far as he could tell, no one gave him a 
second look.
He went to the ocean, looking forward to some time in the sun and an 
invigorating swim. Going to Redondo Beach, two blocks away, seemed too bold, so 
he followed the Coast Highway south to Bolsa Chica, just north of where he lived 
in Huntington Beach.
As he drove, he thought about the dog. He was still paying Johnny The Wire to 
keep tabs on animal pounds, police agencies, and anyone else who might be 
dragged into the search for the retriever. He knew about the National Security 
Agencys bulletin to veterinarians and animal-control authorities in three 
states, and he also knew that the NSA had so far had no luck.
Maybe the dog had been killed by a car, or by the creature that Hudston had 
called The Outsider, or by a coyote pack in the hills. But Vince didnt want 
to believe it was dead because that would mean an end to his dream of making a 
huge financial killing with the dog either by ransoming it back to the 
authorities or selling it to a rich showbiz type who could work up an act with 
it, or by finding some means of using the animals secret intelligence tO pull a 
safe and profitable scam on unsuspecting marks.
What he preferred to believe was that someone had found the dog and had taken it 
home as a pet. If he could just locate the people who had the dog, he could buy 
it from themor blow them away and just take the mutt.
But where the hell was he supposed to look? How was he supposed to find them? If 
they were findable, the NSA would surely reach them first.
Most likely, if the dog was not already dead, the best way to get his hands on 
it was to find The Outsider first and let that beast lead him to the dog, which 
Hudston had seemed to think it would. But that was not an easy task, either.
Johnny The Wire was also still providing him with information about particularly 
violent killings of people and animals throughout southern California. Vince 
knew about the slaughter at the Irvine Park petting zoo, the murder of Wes 
Dalberg, and the men at Bordeaux Ridge. Johnny had turned up the rash of reports 
about mutilated pets in the Diamond Bar area, and Vince had actually seen the TV 
news story about the young couple who had encountered what they thought was an 
extraterrestrial in the wilds below Johnstone Peak. Three weeks ago, two hikers 
had been found horribly mauled in the Angeles National Forest, and by hacking 
his way into the NSAs own computers, Johnny had confirmed that they had taken 
over jurisdiction in that case, too, which meant it had to be the work of The 
Outsider.
Since then, nothing.
Vince was not ready to give up. Not by a long shot. He was a patient man. 
Patience was part of his job. He would wait, watch, keep Johnny The Wire at 
work, and sooner or later he would get what he was after. He was sure of it. He 
had decided that the dog, like immortality, was part of his great destiny.
At Bolsa Chica State Beach, he stood for a while with the surf pounding against 
his thighs, staring out at the great dark masses of surging water. He felt as 
powerful as the sea. He was filled with scores of lives. He would not have been 
surprised if electricity had suddenly leaped from his fingertips the way 
thunderbolts flashed from the hands of the gods in mythology.
Finally, he threw himself forward, into the water, and swam against the powerful 
incoming waves. He went far out before turning parallel to the shore, swimming 
first south and then north, keeping at it until, exhausted, he at last allowed 
the tide to carry him back to shore.
He dozed for a while in the hot afternoon sun. He dreamed of a pregnant woman, 
her stomach large and round, and in the dream he strangled her to death.
He often dreamed of killing children or, even better, the unborn children of 
pregnant women because it was something he longed to do in real life. Child 
murder was, of course, much too dangerous; it was a pleasure he had to deny 
himself, though a childs life energy would be the richest, the purest, the most 
worthy of absorption. Too dangerous by far. He couldnt indulge in infanticide 
until he was certain he had achieved immortality, whereupon he would no longer 
need to fear the police or anyone else.
Although he often had such dreams, the one he woke from on Bolsa Chica Beach 
struck him as more meaningful than others of its type. It felt . .. different. 
Prophetic. He sat yawning and blinking in the westering sun, pretending not to 
notice the bikinied girls who were giving him the eye, and he told himself that 
this dream was a glimpse of pleasure to come. One day he would actually feel his 
hands around the throat of a pregnant woman like the one in the
dream, and he would know the ultimate thrill, receive the ultimate gift, not 
only her life energy but the pure, untapped energy of the unborn in her womb.
Feeling like a million bucks, he returned to his van, drove home, showered, and 
went out to dinner at the nearest Stuart Anderson steak house, where he treated 
himself to filet mignon.
 
 
6
Einstein bolted past Travis, out of the kitchen, across the small dining room, 
disappearing into the living room. Carrying the leash, Travis went after him. 
Einstein was hiding behind the sofa.
Travis said, Listen, its not going to hurt.
The dog watched him warily.
Weve got to take care of this before we go off to Vegas. The vet will give you 
a couple of shots, vaccinate you against distemper and rabies. Its for your own 
good, and it really wont hurt. Really. Then well get you a license, which we 
shouldve done weeks ago.
One bark. No.
Yes, we will.
No.
Crouching, holding the leash by the clip with which he would attach it to the 
collar, Travis took a step toward Einstein.
The retriever scrambled away. He ran to the armchair, leaped up, and stood on 
that observation platform, watching Travis intently.
Coming slowly out from behind the sofa, Travis said, Now, you listen up, fur 
face. Im your master
One bark.
Frowning, Travis said, Oh, yes, I am your master. You may be one damn smart 
dogbut youre still the dog, and Im the man, and Im telling you that were 
going to the vet.
One bark.
Leaning against the dining-room archway, arms folded, smiling, Nora said, I 
think hes trying to give you a taste of what children are like, in case we ever 
decide to have any.
Travis lunged toward the dog.
Einstein flew off his perch and was already out of the room when Travis, unable 
to halt, fell over the armchair.
Laughing, Nora said, This is vastly entertaining.
Whered he go? Travis demanded.
She pointed to the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and bath.
He found the retriever in the master bedroom, standing on the bed, facing the 
doorway. You cant win, Travis said. This is for your own good, damn it, and 
youre going to have those shots whether you like it or not.
Einstein lifted one hind leg and peed on the bed.
Astonished, Travis said, What in the hell are you doing?
Einstein stopped peeing, stepped away from the puddle that was soaking into the 
quilted bedspread, and stared defiantly at Travis.
Travis had heard stories of dogs and cats expressing extreme displeasure by 
stunts like this. When he had owned the real-estate agency, one of his 
saleswomen had boarded her miniature collie in a kennel for two weeks while away 
on vacation. When she returned and bailed out the dog, it punished her by 
urinating on both her favorite chair and her bed.
But Einstein was not an ordinary dog. Considering his remarkable intellect, the 
soiling of the bed was even more of an outrage than it would have been if he had 
been ordinary.
Getting angry now, moving toward the dog, Travis said, This is inexcusable.
Einstein scrambled off the mattress. Realizing the dog would try to slip around 
him and out of the room, Travis scuttled backward and slammed the door. Cut off 
from the exit, Einstein swiftly changed directions and dashed to the far end of 
the bedroom, where he stood in front of the dresser.
No more fooling around, Travis said sternly, brandishing the leash.
Einstein retreated into a corner.
Closing in at a crouch, spreading his arms to prevent the dog from bolting 
around either side of him, Travis finally made contact and clipped the leash to 
the collar. Ha!
Huddled defeatedly in the corner, Einstein hung his head and began to shudder.
Traviss sense of triumph was short-lived. He stared in dismay at the dogs 
bowed and trembling head, at the visible shivers that shook the animals flanks. 
Einstein issued low, almost inaudible, pathetic whines of fear.
Stroking the dog, trying to calm and reassure him, Travis said, This really is 
for your own good, you know. Distemper, rabiesthe sort of stuff you dont want 
to mess with. And it will be painless, my friend. I swear it will.
The dog would not look at him and refused to take heart from his assurances.
Under Traviss hand, the dog felt as if he were shaking himself to pieces. He 
stared hard at the retriever, thinking, then said, In that lab . . . did they 
put a lot of needles in you? Did they hurt you with needles? Is that why youre 
afraid of getting vaccinations?
Einstein only whimpered.
Travis pulled the reluctant dog out of the corner, freeing his tail for a 
session. Dropping the leash, he took Einsteins head in both hands and forced 
his face up, so they were eye-to-eye.
Did they hurt you with needles in the lab?
Yes.
Is that why youre afraid of the vet?
Though he did not stop shuddering, the dog barked once: No.
You were hurt by needles, but youre not afraid of them?
No.
Then why are you like this?
Einstein just stared at him and made those terrible sounds of distress.
Nora opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked in. Did you get the leash on 
him yet, Einstein? Then she said, Phew! What happened in here?
Still holding the dogs head, staring into his eyes, Travis said, He made a 
bold statement of displeasure.
Bold, she agreed, moving to the bed and beginning to strip off the soiled 
spread, blanket, and sheets.
Trying to puzzle out the reason for the dogs behavior, Travis said, Einstein, 
if its not needles youre afraid ofis it the vet?
One bark. No.
Frustrated, Travis brooded on his next question while Nora pulled the mattress 
cover from the bed.
Einstein trembled.
Suddenly, Travis had a flash of understanding that illuminated the dogs 
contrariness and fear. He cursed his own thickheadedness. Hell, of course! 
Youre not afraid of the vetbut of who the vet might report you to.
Einsteins shivering subsided a bit, and he wagged his tail briefly. Yes. If 
people from that lab are hunting for youand we know they must be hunting 
furiously because you have to be the most important experimental animal in 
historythen theyre going to be in touch with every vet in the state, arent 
they? Every vet . . . and every dog pound . . . and every dog-licensing agency.
Another burst of vigorous tail wagging, less shivering.
Nora came around the bed and stooped down beside Travis. But golden retrievers 
have to be one of the two or three most popular breeds. Vets and 
animal-licensing bureaucrats deal with them all the time. If our genius dog here 
hides his light under a bushel and plays dopey mutt
Which he can do quite well.
then theyd have no way of knowing he was the fugitive.
Yes, Einstein insisted.
To the dog, Travis said, What do you mean? Are you saying they would be able to 
identify you?
Yes.
How? Nora wondered. Travis said, A mark of some kind? Yes.
Somewhere under all that fur? Nora asked.
One bark. No.
Then where? Travis wondered.
Pulling loose of Traviss hands, Einstein shook his head so hard that his floppy 
ears made a flapping noise.
Maybe on the pads of his feet, Nora said.
No, Travis said even as Einstein barked once. When I found him, his
feet were bleeding from a lot of hard travel, and I had to clean out the wounds 
with boric acid. Id have noticed a mark on one of his paws.
Again, Einstein shook his head violently, flapping his ears.
Travis said, Maybe on the inner lip. They tattoo racehorses on the inner lip to 
identify them and prevent ringers from being run. Let me peel back your lips and 
have a look, boy.
Einstein barked onceNoand shook his head violently.
At last Travis got the point. He looked in the right ear and found nothing. But 
in the left ear, he saw something. He urged the dog to go with him to the 
window, where the light was better, and he discovered that the mark consisted of 
two numbers, a dash, and a third number tattooed in purple ink on the pink-brown 
flesh: 33-9.
Looking over Traviss shoulder, Nora said, They probably had a lot of pups they 
were experimenting with, from different litters, and they had to be able to 
identify them.
Jesus. If Id taken him to a vet, and if the vet had been told to look for a 
retriever with a tattoo . .
But he has to have shots.
Maybe hes already had them, Travis said hopefully.
We dont dare count on that. He was a lab animal in a controlled environment 
where he might not have needed shots. And maybe the usual inoculations wouldve 
interfered with their experiments.
We cant risk a vet.
If they do find him, Nora said, we simply wont give him up.
They can make us, Travis said worriedly.
Damned if they can.
Damned if they cant. More likely than not, the governments financing the 
research, and they can crush us. We cant risk it. More than anything else, 
Einsteins afraid of going back to the lab.
Yes, yes, yes.
But, Nora said, if he contracts rabies or distemper or
Well get him the shots later, Travis said. Later. When the situation cools 
down. When hes not so hot.
The retriever whined happily, nuzzling Traviss neck and face in a sloppy 
display of gratitude.
Frowning, Nora said, Einstein is about the number-one miracle of the twentieth 
century. You really think hes ever going to cool down, that theyll ever stop 
looking for him?
They might not stop for years, Travis admitted, stroking the dog. But 
gradually theyll begin to search with less enthusiasm and less hope. And the 
Vets will start forgetting to look in the ears of every retriever thats brought 
to them. Until then, hell have to go without the shots, I guess. Its the best 
thing we can do. Its the only thing we can do.
Ruffling Einsteins coat with one hand, Nora said: I hope youre right.
I am.
I hope so.
I am.
 
 
Travis was badly shaken by how close he had come to risking Einsteins freedom, 
and for the next few days he brooded about the infamous Cornell Curse. Maybe it 
was happening all over again. His life had been turned around and made livable 
because of the love he felt for Nora and for this impossible damn dog. And now 
maybe fate, which had always dealt with him in a supremely hostile manner, would 
rip both Nora and the dog away from him.
He knew that fate was only a mythological concept. He did not believe there was 
actually a pantheon of malevolent gods looking down on him through a celestial 
keyhole and plotting tragedies for him to endureyet he could not help looking 
warily at the sky now and then. Each time he said something even slightly 
optimistic about the future, he found himself knocking on wood to counter 
malicious fates. At dinner, when he toppled the salt shaker, he immediately 
picked up a pinch of the stuff to throw it over his shoulder, then felt foolish 
and dusted it off his fingers. But his heart began to pound, and he was filled 
with a ridiculous superstitious dread, and he didnt feel right again until he 
snatched up more salt and tossed it behind him.
Although Nora was surely aware of Traviss eccentric behavior, she had the good 
grace to say nothing about his jitters. Instead, she countered his mood by 
quietly loving him every minute of the day, by speaking with great delight about 
their trip to Vegas, by being in unrelieved good humor, and by not knocking on 
wood.
She did not know about his nightmares because he did not tell her about them. It 
was the same bad dream, in fact, two nights in a row.
In the dream, he was wandering in the wooded canyons of the Santa Ana foothills 
of Orange County, the same woods in which he had first met Einstein. He had gone 
there with Einstein again, and with Nora, but now he had lost them. Frightened 
for them, he plunged down steep slopes, scrambled up hills, struggled through 
clinging brush, calling frantically for Nora, for the dog. Sometimes he heard 
Nora answering or Einstein barking, and they sounded as if they were in trouble, 
so he turned in the direction from which their voices came, but each time he 
heard them they were farther off and in a different place, and no matter how 
intently he listened or how fast he made his way through the forest, he was 
losing them, losing them
until he woke, breathless, heart racing, a silent scream caught in his throat.
Friday, August 6, was such a blessedly busy day that Travis had little time to 
worry about hostile fate. First thing in the morning, he telephoned a wedding 
chapel in Las Vegas and, using his American Express number, made arrangements 
for a ceremony on Wednesday, August 11, at eleven oclock. Overcome by a 
romantic fever, he told the chapel manager that he wanted
twenty dozen red roses, twenty dozen white carnations, a good organist (no damn 
taped music) who could play traditional music, so many candles that the altar 
would be bright without harsh electric light, a bottle of Dom Perignon with 
which to conclude events, and a first-rate photographer to record the nuptials. 
When those details had been agreed upon, he telephoned the Circus Circus Hotel 
in Las Vegas, which was a family-oriented enterprise that boasted a 
recreational-vehicle campgrounds behind the hotel itself; he arranged for camp 
space beginning the night of Sunday, August 8. With another call to an RV 
campgrounds in Barstow, he also secured reservations for Saturday night, when 
they would pull off the road halfway to Vegas. Next, he went to a jewelry store, 
looked at their entire stock, and finally bought an engagement ring with a big, 
flawless three-carat diamond and a wedding band with twelve quarter-carat 
stones. With the rings hidden under the seat of the truck, Travis and Einstein 
went to Noras house, picked her up, and took her to an appointment with her 
attorney, Garrison Dilworth.
Getting married? Thats wonderful! Garrison said, pumping Traviss hand. He 
kissed Nora on the cheek. He seemed genuinely delighted. Ive asked around 
about you, Travis.
Surprised, Travis said, You have?
For Noras sake.
The attorneys statement made Nora blush and protest, but Travis was pleased 
that Garrison had been concerned about her welfare.
Fixing Travis with a measured stare, the silver-haired attorney said, I gather 
you did quite well in real estate before you sold your business.
I did all right, Travis confirmed modestly, feeling as if he were speaking 
with Noras father, trying to make the right impression.
Very well, Garrison said. And I also hear youve invested the profits rather 
well.
Im not broke, Travis admitted.
Smiling, Garrison said, I also hear youre a good, reliable man with more than 
your share of kindness.
It was Traviss turn to blush. He shrugged.
To Nora, Garrison said, Dear, Im delighted for you, happier than I can say.
Thank you. Nora favored Travis with a loving, radiant look that made him want 
to knock on wood for the first time all day.
Because they intended to take a honeymoon of at least a week or ten days 
following the wedding, Nora did not want to have to rush back to Santa Barbara 
in the event her real-estate agent found a taker for Violet Devons house. She 
asked Garrison Dilworth to draw up a power of attorney, giving him authority to 
handle all aspects of such a sale in her name during her absence. This was done 
in less than half an hour, signed and witnessed. After another round of 
congratulations and best wishes, they were on their way to buy a travel trailer.
They intended to take Einstein with them not only to the wedding in Vegas but on 
the honeymoon. Finding good, clean motels that would accept a dog
might not always be easy where they were going, so it was prudent to take a 
motel-on-wheels with them. Furthermore, neither Travis nor Nora could have made 
love with the retriever in the same room. Itd be like having another person 
there, Nora said, blushing as bright as a well-polished apple. Staying in 
motels, they would have to rent two roomsone for them and one for 
Einsteinwhich seemed too awkward.
By four oclock, they found what they were looking for: a middle-size, silvery, 
Quonset-shaped Airstream with a kitchenette, a dining nook, a living room, one 
bedroom, and one bath. When they retired for the night, they could leave 
Einstein in the front of the trailer and close the bedroom door after 
themselves. Because Traviss pickup was already equipped with a good trailer 
hitch, they were able to hook the Airstream to the rear bumper and haul it with 
them as soon as the sale was concluded.
Einstein, riding in the pickup between Travis and Nora, kept craning his head 
around to look out the back window at the gleaming, semicylindrical trailer as 
if amazed at the ingenuity of humankind.
They shopped for trailer curtains, plastic dishes and drinking glasses, food 
with which to stock the kitchenette cabinets, and a host of other items they 
needed before they hit the road. By the time they returned to Noras house and 
cooked omelets for a late dinner, they were dragging. For once there was nothing 
smartass about Einsteins yawns; he was just tired.
That night, at home in his own bed, Travis slept the deep, deep sleep of ancient 
petrified trees and dinosaur fossils. The dreams of the previous two nights were 
not repeated.
 
 
Saturday morning, they set Out on their journey to Vegas and to matrimony. 
Seeking to travel mostly on wide divided highways on which they would be 
comfortable with the trailer, they took Route 101 south and then east until it 
became Route 134, which they followed until it became Interstate 210, with the 
city of Los Angeles and its suburbs to the south of them and the great Angeles 
National Forest to the north. Later, on the vast Mojave Desert, Nora was 
thrilled by the barren yet hauntingly beautiful panoramas of sand, stone, 
tumbleweed, mesquite, Joshua trees, and other cacti. The world, she said, 
suddenly seemed much bigger than she had ever realized, and Travis took pleasure 
in her bedazzlement.
Barstow, California, was a sprawling pit stop in that enormous wasteland, and 
they arrived at the big RV campgrounds by three that afternoon. Frank and Mae 
Jordan, the middle-aged couple in the next camper space, were from Salt Lake 
City and were traveling with their pet, a black Labrador named Jack.
To Traviss and Noras surprise, Einstein had a terrific time playing with Jack. 
They chased each other around the trailers, took playful nips at each other, 
tangled and tumbled and sprang up and went chasing again. Frank Jordan tossed a 
red rubber ball for them, and they sprinted after it, vying to
be the champion retriever. The dogs also made a game of trying to get the ball 
away from each other and then holding on to it as long as possible. Travis was 
exhausted just watching them.
Einstein was undoubtedly the smartest dog in the world, the smartest dog of all 
time, a phenomenon, a miracle, as perceptive as any manbut he was also a dog. 
Sometimes, Travis forgot this fact, but he was charmed every time Einstein did 
something to remind him.
Later, after sharing charcoal-grilled hamburgers and corn on the cob with the 
Jordans, and after downing a couple of beers in the clear desert night, they 
said goodbye to the Salt Lakers, and Einstein seemed to say goodbye to Jack. 
Inside the Airstream, Travis patted Einstein on the head and told him, That was 
very nice of you.
The dog cocked his head, staring at Travis as if to ask what the devil he meant.
Travis said, You know what Im talking about, fur face.
I know, too, Nora said. She hugged the dog. When you were playing games with 
Jack, you could have made a fool of him if youd wanted to, but you let him win 
his share, didnt you?
Einstein panted and grinned happily.
After one last nightcap, Nora took the bedroom, and Travis slept on the fold-out 
sofa bed in the living room. Travis had thought about sleeping with her, and 
perhaps she had considered allowing him into her bed. After all, the wedding was 
less than four days away. God knew, Travis wanted her. And although she surely 
suffered slightly with a virgins fear, she wanted him, too; he had no doubt of 
that. Each day, they were touching each other and kissing more oftenand more 
intimatelyand the air between them crackled with erotic energy. But why not do 
things right and proper since they were so close to the day? Why not go to their 
marriage bed as virginsshe as a virgin to everyone, he to her?
That night, Travis dreamed that Nora and Einstein were lost in the desolate 
reaches of the Mojave. In the dream, he was for some reason legless, forced to 
search for them at an agonizingly slow crawl, which was bad because he knew 
that, wherever they were, they were under attack by . . . something.
 
 
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday in Las Vegas, they prepared for the wedding, watched 
Einstein playing enthusiastically with other campers dogs, and took side trips 
to Charleston Peak and Lake Mead. In the evenings, Nora and Travis left Einstein 
with his books while they went to stage shows. Travis felt guilty about leaving 
the retriever alone, but by various means Einstein indicated that he did not 
want them to stay at the trailer merely because the Strip hotels were so 
prejudiced and shortsighted as to refuse to allow well-behaved genius dogs into 
the casinos and showrooms.
Wednesday morning, Travis dressed in a tuxedo, and Nora wore a simple 
calf-length white dress with spare lace trim at the cuffs and neckline. With
Einstein between them, they drove to their wedding in the pickup, leaving the 
unhitched Airstream at the campgrounds.
The nondenominational, commercial chapel was the funniest place Travis had ever 
seen, for the design was earnestly romantic, solemn, and tacky all at the same 
time. Nora thought it was hilarious, too, and upon entering they had trouble 
suppressing their laughter. The chapel was tucked in among neondripping, glitzy, 
high-rise hotels on Las Vegas Boulevard South. It was only the size of a 
one-story house, pale-pink stucco with white doors. Engraved in brass above the 
doors was the legend YE SHALL GO TWO BY TWO . . . Instead of depicting religious 
images, the stained-glass windows were aglow with garishly rendered scenes from 
famous love stories including Romeo and Juliet, Abelard and Heloise, Aucassin 
and Nicolette, Gone with the Wind, Casablancaand, unbelievably, I Love Lucy and 
Ozzie & Harriet.
Curiously, the tackiness did not deflate their buoyant mood. Nothing could 
diminish this day. Even the outrageous chapel was to be prized, remembered in 
every gaudy detail to be vividly recalled over the years, and always to be 
recalled fondly because it was their chapel on their day and therefore special 
in its own strange way.
Dogs were not ordinarily admitted. But Travis had generously tipped the entire 
staff in advance to insure that Einstein would not only be allowed inside but 
would be made to feel as welcome as anyone.
The minister, the Reverend Dan Dupree Please call me Reverend Dan was a 
florid-faced, potbellied fellow, a strenuous smiler and glad-hander who looked 
like a stereotypical used-car salesman. He was flanked by two paid witnesseshis 
wife and her sisterwho were wearing bright summery dresses for the occasion.
Travis took his place at the front of the chapel.
The woman organist struck up The Wedding March.
Nora had expressed a deep desire to actually walk down the aisle and meet Travis 
rather than just beginning the ceremony at the altar railing. Furthermore, she 
wanted to be given away, as other brides were. That should have been her 
fathers singular honor, of course, but she had no father. Nor was anyone else 
at hand who would be a likely candidate for the job, and at first it seemed that 
she would have to make the walk alone or on the arm of a stranger. But in the 
pickup, on their way to the ceremony, she had realized that Einstein was 
available, and she had decided that no one in the world was more suited to 
accompany her down the aisle than the dog.
Now, as the organist played, Nora entered the back of the nave with the dog at 
her side. Einstein was acutely aware of the great honor of escorting her, and he 
walked with all the pride and dignity he could muster, his head held high, his 
slow steps timed to hers.
No one seemed disturbedor even surprisedthat a dog was giving Nora away. This 
was, after all, Las Vegas.
Shes one of the loveliest brides Ive ever seen, Reverend Dans wife 
whispered to Travis, and he sensed that she was sincere, that she did not 
routinely bestow that compliment.
The photographers flash blinked repeatedly, but Travis was too involved with 
the sight of Nora to be bothered by the strobe.
Vases full of roses and carnations filled the small nave with their perfume, and 
a hundred candles flickered softly, some in clear glass votive cups and others 
on brass candelabras. By the time Nora arrived at his side, Travis was oblivious 
of the tacky decor. His love was an architect that entirely remade the reality 
of the chapel, transforming it into a cathedral as grand as any in the world.
The ceremony was brief and unexpectedly dignified. Travis and Nora exchanged 
vows, then rings. Tears full of reflected candlelight shimmered in her eyes, and 
Travis wondered for a moment why her tears should blur his vision, then realized 
that he, too, was on the verge of tears. A burst of dramatic organ music 
accompanied their first kiss as man and wife, and it was the sweetest kiss he 
had ever known.
Reverend Dan popped the Dom Perignon and, at Traviss direction, poured a glass 
for everyone, the organist included. A saucer was found for Einstein. Slurping 
noisily, the retriever joined in their toast to life, happiness, and love 
eternal.
 
 
Einstein spent the afternoon in the forward end of the trailer, in the living 
room, reading.
Travis and Nora spent the afternoon at the other end of the trailer, in bed. 
After closing the bedroom door, Travis put a second bottle of Dom Perignon in an 
ice bucket and loaded a compact-disk player with four albums of George Winstons 
most mellow piano music.
Nora drew down the blind at the only window and switched on a small lamp with a 
gold cloth shade. The soft amber light lent the room an aura rather like that of 
a place in a dream.
For a while they lay on the bed, talking, laughing, touching, kissing, then 
talking less and kissing more.
Gradually, Travis undressed her. Hed never before seen her unclothed, and he 
found her even more lovely and more exquisitely proportioned than he had 
imagined. Her slender throat, the delicacy of her shoulders, the fullness of her 
breasts, the concavity of her belly, the flair of her hips, the round sauciness 
of her buttocks, the long smooth supple sleekness of her legsevery line and 
angle and curve excited him but also filled him with great tenderness.
After he undressed himself, he patiently and gently introduced her to the art of 
love. With a profound desire to please and with full awareness that everything 
was new to her, he showed Norasometimes not without delicious teasing all the 
sensations that his tongue, fingers, and manhood could engender in her.
He was prepared to find her hesitant, embarrassed, even fearful, because her 
first thirty years of life had not prepared her for this degree of intimacy. But 
she harbored no trace of frigidity and was eager to engage in any act that 
flight pleasure either or both of them. Her soft cries and breathless murmurs
of excitement delighted him. Each time that she sighed climactically and 
surrendered to a shudder of ecstasy, Travis became more aroused, until he was of 
a size and firmness that he had never attained before, until his need was almost 
painful.
When at last he let his warm seed flower within her, he buried his face in her 
throat and called her name and told her that he loved her, told her again and 
again, and the moment of release seemed so long that he half-thought time had 
stopped or that he had tapped an inexplicable well that could never be 
exhausted.
With consummation achieved, they held each other for a long time, silent, not 
needing to talk. They listened to music, and in a while they finally spoke of 
what they felt, both physically and emotionally. They drank some champagne, and 
in time they made love again. And again.
Although the constant shadow of certain death looms over every day, the 
pleasures and joys of life can be so fine and deeply affecting that the heart is 
nearly stilled by astonishment.
 
 
From Vegas, they hauled the Airstream north on Route 95, across the immense 
Nevada barrens. Two days later, on Friday, August 13, they reached Lake Tahoe 
and connected the trailer to the electric and water lines at an RV campsite on 
the California side of the border.
Nora was not quite as easily overwhelmed by each new scenic vista and novel 
experience as she had been. However, Lake Tahoe was so stunningly beautiful that 
it filled her with childlike wonder again. Twenty-two miles long and twelve 
miles wide, with the Sierra Nevadas on its western flank and the Carson Range on 
the east, Tahoe was said to be the clearest body of water in the world, a 
shimmering jewel in a hundred amazingly iridescent shades of blue and green.
For six days, Nora and Travis and Einstein hiked in the Eldorado, Tahoe, and 
Toiyabe National Forests, vast primeval tracts of pine, spruce, and fir. They 
rented a boat and went on the lake, exploring paradisiacal coves and graceful 
bays. They went sunning and swimming, and Einstein took to the water with the 
enthusiasm indigenous to his breed.
Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the late afternoon, more often at night, 
Nora and Travis made love. She was surprised by her carnal appetite. She could 
not get enough of him.
I love your mind and your heart, she told him, but, God help me, I love your 
body almost as much! Am I depraved?
Good heavens, no. Youre just a young, healthy woman. In fact, given the life 
youve led, youre emotionally healthier than youve any right to be. Really, 
Nora, you stagger me.
Id like to straddle you instead.
Maybe you are depraved, he said, and laughed.
Early on the serenely blue morning of Friday the twentieth, they left Tahoe and 
drove across the state to the Monterey Peninsula. There, where the continental 
shelf met the sea, the natural beauty was, if possible, even greater than that 
at Tahoe, and they stayed four days, leaving for home on the afternoon of 
Wednesday, August 25.
Throughout their trip, the joy of matrimony was so all-consuming that the 
miracle of Einsteins humanlike intelligence did not occupy their thoughts as 
much as previously. But Einstein reminded them of his unique nature when they 
drew near to Santa Barbara late that afternoon. Forty or fifty miles from home, 
he grew restless. He shifted repeatedly on the seat between Nora and Travis, sat 
up for a minute, then laid his head on Noras lap, then sat up again. He began 
to whimper strangely. By the time they were ten miles from home, he was 
shivering.
Whats wrong with you, fur face? she asked.
With his expressive brown eyes, Einstein tried hard to convey a complex and 
important message, but she could not understand him.
Half an hour before dusk, when they reached the city and departed the freeway 
for surface streets, Einstein began alternately to whine and growl low in his 
throat.
Whats wrong with him? Nora asked.
Frowning, Travis said, I dont know.
As they pulled into the driveway of Traviss rented house and parked in the 
shade of the date palm, the retriever began to bark. He had never barked in the 
truck, not once on their long journey. It was ear-splitting in that confined 
space, but he would not stop.
When they got out of the truck, Einstein bolted past them, positioned himself 
between them and the house, and continued barking.
Nora moved along the walkway toward the front door, and Einstein darted at her, 
snarling. He seized one leg of her jeans and tried to pull her off balance. She 
managed to stay. on her feet and, when she retreated to the birdbath, he let go 
of her.
Whats gotten into him? she asked Travis.
Staring thoughtfully at the house, Travis said, He was like this in the woods 
that first day . . . when he didnt want me to follow the dark trail.
Nora tried to coax the dog closer in order to pet him.
But Einstein would not be coaxed. When Travis tested the dog by approaching the 
house, Einstein snarled and forced him to retreat.
Wait here, Travis told Nora. He walked to the Airstream in the driveway and 
went inside.
Einstein trotted back and forth in front of the house, looking up at the door 
and windows, growling and whining.
As the sun rolled down the western sky and kissed the surface of the sea, the 
residential street was quiet, peaceful, ordinary in every respectyet Nora felt 
a wrongness in the air. A warm wind off the Pacific elicited whispers from the 
palm and eucalyptus and ficus trees, sounds that might have been pleasant any 
other day but which now seemed sinister. In the lengthening shadows, in the last 
orange and purple light of the day, she also perceived an indefinable
menace. Except for the dogs behavior, she had no reason to think that danger 
was near at hand; her uneasiness was not intellectual but instinctual.
When Travis returned from the trailer, he was carrying a large revolver. It had 
been in a bedroom drawer, unloaded, throughout their honeymoon trip. Now, Travis 
finished inserting cartridges into the chambers and snapped the cylinder shut.
Is that necessary? she asked worriedly.
Something was in the woods that day, Travis said, and though I never actually 
saw it . . . well, it put the hair up on the back of my neck. Yeah, I think the 
gun might be necessary.
Her own reaction to the whispering trees and afternoon shadows gave her a hint 
of what Travis must have felt in the woods, and she had to admit that the gun 
made her feel at least slightly better.
Einstein had stopped pacing and had taken up his guard position on the walkway 
again, barring their approach to the house.
To the retriever, Travis said, Is someone inside? A quick wag of the tail. 
Yes.
Men from the lab? One bark. No.
The other experimental animal you told us about? Yes.
The thing that was in the woods?
Yes.
All right, Im going in there.
No.
Yes, Travis insisted. Its my house, and were not going to run from this, 
whatever the hell it is.
Nora remembered the magazine photograph of the movie monster to which Einstein 
had reacted so strongly. She did not believe anything even remotely like that 
creature could actually exist. She believed that Einstein was exaggerating or 
that they had misunderstood what he had been trying to tell them about the 
photo. Nevertheless, she suddenly wished they had not only the revolver but a 
shotgun.
This is a .357 Magnum, Travis told the dog, and one shot, even if it hits an 
arm or a leg, will knock down the biggest, meanest man and keep him down. Hell 
feel as if hes been hit by a cannonball. Ive taken firearms training from the 
best, and Ive done regular target practice over the years to keep my edge. I 
really know what Im doing, and Ill be able to handle myself in there. Besides, 
we cant just call the cops, can we? Because whatever they find in there is 
going to raise eyebrows, lead to a lot of questions, and sooner or later theyll 
have you back in that damn lab again.
Einstein was clearly unhappy with Traviss determination, but the dog padded up 
the front steps to the stoop and looked back as if to say, All right, okay, but 
Im not letting you go in there alone.
Nora wanted to go in with them, but Travis was adamant that she remain in the 
front yard. She reluctantly admitted thatsince she lacked both a
weapon and the skill to use itthere was nothing she could do to help and that 
she would most likely only get in the way.
Holding the revolver at his side, Travis joined Einstein on the stoop and 
inserted his key in the door.
 
 
7
Travis disengaged the lock, pocketed the key, and pushed the door inward, 
covering the room beyond with the .357. Warily, he stepped across the threshold, 
and Einstein entered at his side.
The house was silent, as it should have been, but the air reeked of a bad smell 
that did not belong.
Einstein growled softly.
Little of the fast-fading sunlight entered the house through the windows, many 
of which were partly or entirely covered with drapes. But it was bright enough 
for Travis to see that the sofas upholstery was slashed. Shredded foam padding 
spilled onto the floor. A wooden magazine rack had been hammered to pieces 
against the wall, gouging holes in the plasterboard. The TV screen had been 
smashed in with a floor lamp, which still protruded from the set. Books had been 
taken off the shelves, torn apart, and scattered across the living room.
In spite of the breeze blowing in through the door, the stench seemed to be 
getting worse.
Travis flicked the wall switch. A corner lamp came on. It did not shed much 
light, just enough to reveal more details of the rubble.
Looks like somebody went through here with a chainsaw and then a power mower, he 
thought.
The house remained silent.
Leaving the door open behind him, he took a couple of steps into the room, and 
the crumpled pages of the ruined books crunched crisply underfoot. He noticed 
dark, rusty stains on some of the paper and on the bone-white foam padding, and 
suddenly he stopped, realizing the stains were blood.
A moment later, he spotted the corpse. It was that of a big man, lying on his 
side on the floor near the sofa, half-covered by gore-smeared book pages, book 
boards, and dust jackets.
Einsteins growling grew louder, meaner.
Moving closer to the body, which was just a few feet from the dining-room 
archway, Travis saw that it was his landlord, Ted Hockney. Beside him was his 
Craftsman toolbox. Ted had a key to the house and Travis had no objections to 
his entering at any time to make repairs. Lately there had been a number of 
repairs required, including a leaky faucet and broken dishwasher. Evidently, Ted 
had walked down the block from his own house and entered With the intention of 
fixing something. Now Ted was broken, too, and beyond repair.
Because of the ripe stink, Travis first thought the man must have been killed at 
least a week ago. But on closer inspection, the corpse proved to be neither 
bloated with the gas of decomposition nor marked by any signs of decay, so it 
could not have been there for very long. Perhaps only a day, perhaps less. The 
hideous stench had two other sources: for one thing, the landlord had been 
disemboweled; furthermore, his killer had apparently defecated and urinated on 
and around the body.
Ted Hockneys eyes were gone.
Travis felt sick, and not only because he had liked Ted. He would have been 
sickened by such insane violence regardless of who the dead man had been. A 
death like this left the victim no dignity whatsoever and somehow diminished the 
entire human race.
Einsteins low growling gave way to ugly snarling punctuated with hard, sharp 
barks.
With a nervous twitch and a sudden hammering of his heart, Travis turned from 
the corpse and saw that the retriever was facing into the nearby dining room. 
The shadows were deep in there because the drapes were drawn shut over both 
windows, and only a thin gray light passed through from the kitchen beyond.
Go, get out, leave! an inner voice told him.
But he did not turn and run because he had never run away from anything in his 
life. Well, all right, that was not quite true: he had virtually run away from 
life itself these past few years when he had let despair get the best of him. 
His descent into isolation had been the ultimate cowardice. However, that was 
behind him; he was a new man, transformed by Einstein and Nora, and he was not 
going to run again, damned if he was.
Einstein went rigid. He arched his back, thrust his head down and forward, and 
barked so furiously that saliva flew from his mouth.
Travis took a step toward the dining-room arch.
The retriever stayed at Traviss side, barking more viciously.
Holding the revolver in front of him, trying to take confidence from the 
powerful weapon, Travis eased forward another step, treading cautiously in the 
treacherous rubble. He was only two or three steps from the archway. He squinted 
into the gloomy dining room.
Einsteins barking resounded through the house until it seemed as if a whole 
pack of dogs must be loose in the place.
Travis took one more step, then saw something move in the shadowy dining room.
He froze.
Nothing. Nothing moved. Had it been a phantom of the mind?
Beyond the arch, layered shadows hung like gray and black crepe.
He wasnt sure if he had seen movement or merely imagined it.
Back off, get out, now! the inner voice said.
In defiance of it, Travis raised one foot, intending to step into the archway.
The thing in the dining room moved again. This time there was no doubt of its 
presence, because it rushed out of the deepest darkness at the far side
of that chamber, vaulted onto the dining-room table, and came straight at 
Travis, emitting a blood-freezing shriek. He saw lantern eyes in the gloom, and 
a nearly man-size figure thatin spite of the poor lightgave an impression of 
deformity. Then the thing was coming off the table, straight at him.
Einstein charged forward to engage it, but Travis tried to step back and gain an 
extra second in which to squeeze off a shot. As he pulled the trigger, he 
slipped on the ruined books that littered the floor, and fell backward. The 
revolver roared, but Travis knew he had missed, had fired into the ceiling. For 
an instant, as Einstein scrambled toward the adversary, Travis saw the 
lantern-eyed thing more clearly, saw it work alligator jaws and crack open an 
impossibly wide mouth in a lumpish face, revealing wickedly hooked teeth.
Einstein, no! he shouted, for he knew the dog would be torn to pieces in any 
confrontation with this hellish creature, and he fired again, twice, wildly, 
from his position on the floor.
His cry and the shots not only brought Einstein to a halt but gave the enemy 
second thoughts about going up against an armed man. The thing turned it was 
quick, far quicker than a catand crossed the unlighted dining room to the 
kitchen doorway. For a moment, he saw it silhouetted in the murky light from the 
kitchen, and he had the impression of something that had never been meant to 
stand erect but was standing erect anyway, something with a misshapen head twice 
as large as it ought to have been, a hunched back, arms too long and terminating 
in claws like the tines of a garden rake.
He fired again and came closer the mark. The bullet tore out a chunk of the door 
frame.
With a shriek, the beast disappeared into the kitchen.
What in the name of God was it? Where had it come from? Had it really escaped 
from the same lab that had produced Einstein? But how had they made this 
monstrosity? And why? Why?
He was a well-read man: in-fact, for the last few years, most of his time was 
devoted to books, so possibilities began to occur to him. Recombinant-DNA 
research was foremost among them.
Einstein stood in the middle of the dining room, barking, facing the doorway 
where the thing had vanished.
Lurching to his feet in the living room, Travis called the dog back to his side, 
and Einstein returned quickly, eagerly.
He shushed the dog, listened intently. He heard Nora frantically calling his 
name from the yard out front, but he heard nothing in the kitchen.
For Noras benefit, he shouted, Im okay! Im all right! Stay out there!
Einstein was shivering.
Travis could hear the loud two-part thudding of his own heart, and he could 
almost hear the sweat trickling down his face and down the small of his back, 
but he could hear nothing whatsoever to pinpoint that escapee from a nightmare. 
He did not think it had gone out the back door into the rear yard. For One 
thing, he figured the creature did not want to be seen by a lot of people and, 
therefore, only went outside at night, traveled exclusively in the dark, When it 
could slip even into a fair-sized town like Santa Barbara without being
spotted. The day was still light enough to make the thing leery of the outdoors. 
Furthermore, Travis could sense its presence nearby, the way he might sense that 
someone was staring at him behind his back, the way he might sense an oncoming 
thunderstorm on a humid day with a lowering sky. It was out there, all right, 
waiting in the kitchen, ready and waiting.
Cautiously, Travis returned to the archway and stepped into the half-dark dining 
room.
Einstein stayed close at his side, neither whining nor growling nor barking. The 
dog seemed to realize that Travis needed complete silence in order to hear any 
sound the beast might make.
Travis took two more steps.
Ahead, through the kitchen door, he could see a corner of the table, the sink, 
part of a counter, half of the dishwasher. The setting sun was at the other end 
of the house, and the light in the kitchen was dim, gray, so their adversary 
would not cast a revealing shadow. It might be waiting on either side of the 
door, or it might have climbed onto the counters from which it could launch 
itself down at him when he entered the room.
Trying to trick the creature, hoping that it would react without hesitation to 
the first sign of movement in the doorway, Travis tucked the revolver under his 
belt, quietly picked up one of the dining-room chairs, eased to within six feet 
of the kitchen, and pitched the chair through the open door. He snatched the 
revolver out of his waistband and, as the chair sailed into the kitchen, assumed 
a shooters stance. The chair crashed into the Formica-topped table, clattered 
to the floor, and banged against the dishwasher.
The lantern-eyed enemy did not go for it. Nothing moved. When the chair finished 
tumbling, the kitchen was again marked by a hushed expectancy.
Einstein was making a curious sound, a quiet shuddery huffing, and after a 
moment Travis realized the noise was a result of the dogs uncontrollable 
shivering.
No question about it: the intruder in the kitchen was the very thing that had 
pursued them through the woods more than three months ago. During the 
intervening weeks, it had made its way north, probably traveling mostly in the 
wildlands to the east of the developed part of the state, relentlessly tracking 
the dog by some means that Travis could not understand and for reasons he could 
not even guess.
In response to the chair he had thrown, a large white-enameled canister crashed 
to the floor just beyond the kitchen doorway, and Travis jumped back in 
surprise, squeezing off a wild shot before he realized he was only being 
taunted. The lid flew off the container when it hit the floor, and flour spilled 
across the tile.
Silence again.
By responding to Traviss taunt with one of its own, the intruder had displayed 
unnerving intelligence. Abruptly Travis realized that, coming from the same 
research lab as Einstein and being a product of related experiments, the 
creature might be as smart as the retriever. Which would explain Einsteins fear 
of it. If Travis had not already accommodated himself to the idea of a
dog with humanlike intelligence, he might have been unable to credit this beast 
with more than mere animal cleverness; however, events of the past few months 
had primed him to acceptand quickly adapt toalmost anything.
Silence.
Only one round left in the gun.
Deep silence.
He had been so startled by the flour canister that he had not noticed from which 
side of the doorway it had been flung, and it had fallen in such a fashion that 
he could not deduce the position of the creature that had hurled it. He still 
did not know if the intruder was to the left or right of the doorway.
He was not sure he any longer cared where it was. Even with the .357 in hand, he 
did not think he would be wise to enter the kitchen. Not if the damn thing was 
as smart as a man. It would be like doing battle with an intelligent buzz saw, 
for Christs sake.
The light in the east-facing kitchen was dwindling, almost gone. In the dining 
room, where Travis and Einstein stood, the darkness was deepening. Even behind 
them, in spite of the open front door and window and the corner lamp, the living 
room was filling with shadows.
In the kitchen, the intruder hissed loudly, a sound like escaping gas, which was 
immediately followed by a click-click-click that might have been made by its 
sharply clawed feet or hands tapping against a hard surface.
Travis had caught Einsteins tremors. He felt as if he were a fly on the edge of 
a spiders web, about to step into a trap.
He remembered Ted Hockneys bitten, bloodied, eyeless face.
Click-click.
In antiterrorist training, he had been taught how to stalk men, and he had been 
good at it. But the problem here was that the yellow-eyed intruder was maybe as 
smart as a man but could not be counted on to think like a man, so Travis had no 
way of knowing what it might do next, how it might respond to any initiative he 
made. Therefore, he could never outthink it, and by its alien nature the 
creature had a perpetual and deadly advantage of surprise.
Click.
Travis quietly took a step back from the open kitchen door, then another Step, 
treading with exaggerated care, not wanting the thing to discover that he was 
retreating because only God knew what it might do if it knew he was slipping out 
of its reach. Einstein padded silently into the living room, now equally eager 
to put distance between himself and the intruder.
When he reached Ted Hockneys corpse, Travis glanced away from the dining room, 
searching for the least littered route to the front doorand he
saw Nora standing by the armchair. Frightened by the gunfire, she had gotten a 
butchers knife from the kitchenette in the Airstream and had come to see if he 
needed help.
He was impressed by her courage but horrified to see her there in the glow of 
the corner lamp. Suddenly it seemed as if his nightmares of losing both
Einstein and Nora were on the verge of coming true, the Cornell Curse again, 
because now they were both inside the house, both vulnerable, both possibly 
within striking distance of the thing in the kitchen.
She started to speak.
Travis shook his head and raised one hand to his mouth.
Silenced, she bit her lip and glanced from him to the dead man on the floor.
As Travis quietly stepped through the rubble, he was stricken by a feeling that 
the intruder had gone out the back of the house and was coming around the side, 
heading for the front door, risking being seen by neighbors in the gloom of 
twilight, intending to enter behind them, swift and fast. Nora was standing 
between Travis and the front door, so he would not have a clear shot at the 
creature if it came that way; hell, it would be all over Nora one second after 
it reached the door. Trying not to panic, trying not to think of Hockneys 
eyeless face, Travis moved more quickly across the living room, risking the 
crackle of some debris underfoot, hoping those small noises would not carry to 
the kitchen if the intruder was still out there. Reaching Nora, he took her by 
the arm and propelled her toward the front door, out onto the stoop and down the 
stairs, looking left and right, half-expecting to see the living nightmare 
rushing at them, but it was nowhere in sight.
The gunshots and Noras shouting had drawn neighbors as far as their front doors 
all along the street. A few had even come outside onto porches and lawns. 
Somebody surely would have called the cops. Because of Einsteins status as a 
much-wanted fugitive, the police seemed almost as grave a danger as the 
yellow-eyed thing in the house. 
The three of them piled into the pickup. Nora locked her door, and Travis locked 
his. He started the engine and backed the truckand the Airstream out of the 
driveway, into the street. He was aware of people staring.
The twilight was going to be short-lived, as it always was near the ocean. 
Already, the sunless sky was blackish in the east, purple overhead, and a 
steadily darkening blood-red in the west. Travis was grateful for the oncoming 
cover of nightfall, although he knew the yellow-eyed creature would be sharing 
it with them.
He drove past the gaping neighbors, none of whom he had ever met during his 
years of self-imposed solitude, and he turned at the first corner. Nora held 
Einstein tightly, and Travis drove as fast as he dared. The trailer rocked and 
swayed behind them when he took the next couple of corners at too great a speed.
What happened in there? she asked.
It killed Hockney earlier today or yesterday
It?
and it was waiting for us to come home.
It? she repeated.
Einstein mewled.
Travis said, Ill have to explain later. He wondered if he could explain.
No description he gave of the intruder would do it justice; he did not possess 
the words necessary to convey the degree of its strangeness.
They had gone no more than eight blocks when they heard sirens in the 
neighborhood that they had just left. Travis drove another four blocks and 
parked in the empty lot of a high school.
What now? Nora asked.
We abandon the trailer and the truck, he said. Theyll be looking for both.
He put the revolver in her purse, and she insisted on slipping the butchers 
knife in there, too, rather than leave it behind.
They got out of the pickup and, in the descending night, walked past the side of 
the school, across an athletic field, through a gate in a chain-link fence, and 
onto a residential street lined with mature trees.
With nightfall, the breeze became a blustery wind, warm and parched. It blew a 
few dry leaves at them and harried dust ghosts along the pavement.
Travis knew they were too conspicuous even without the trailer and truck. The 
neighbors would be telling the police to look for a man, woman, and golden 
retrievernot the most common trio. They would be wanted for questioning in the 
death of Ted Hockney, so the search for them would not be perfunctory. They had 
to get out of sight quickly.
He had no friends with whom they could take refuge. After Paula died, he had 
withdrawn from his few friends, and he hadnt maintained relationships with any 
of the real-estate agents who had once worked for him. Nora had no friends, 
either, thanks to Violet Devon.
The houses they passed, most with warm lights in the windows, seemed to mock 
them with unattainable sanctuary.
 
 
8
Garrison Dilworth lived on the border between Santa Barbara and Montecito, on a 
lushly landscaped half acre, in a stately Tudor home that did not mesh well with 
the California flora but which perfectly complemented the attorney. When he 
answered the door, he was wearing black loafers, gray slacks, a navy-blue sports 
jacket, a white knit shirt, and half-lens tortoiseshell reading glasses over 
which he peered at them in surprise but, fortunately, not with displeasure. 
Well, hello there, newlyweds!
Are you alone? Travis asked as he and Nora and Einstein stepped into a large 
foyer floored with marble.
Alone? Yes.
On the way over, Nora had told Travis that the attorneys wife had passed away 
three years ago and that he was now looked after by a housekeeper named Gladys 
Murphy.
Mrs. Murphy? Travis asked.
Shes gone home for the day, the attorney said, closing the door behind them. 
You look distraught. What on earths wrong?
We need help, Nora said.
But, Travis warned, anyone who helps us may be putting himself in jeopardy 
with the law.
Garrison raised his eyebrows. What have you done? Judging by the solemn look of 
youId say youve kidnapped the president.
Weve done nothing wrong, Nora assured him.
Yes, we have, Travis disagreed. And were still doing itwere harboring the 
dog.
Puzzled, Garrison frowned down at the retriever.
Einstein whined, looking suitably miserable and lovable.
And theres a dead man in my house, Travis said.
Garrisons gaze shifted from the dog to Travis. Dead man?
Travis didnt kill him, Nora said.
Garrison looked at Einstein again.
Neither did the dog, Travis said. But Ill be wanted as a material witness, 
something like that, sure as hell.
Mmmmm, Garrison said, why dont we go into my study and get this straightened 
out?
He led them through an enormous and only half-lit living room, along a short 
hallway, into a den with rich teak paneling and a copper ceiling. The maroon 
leather armchairs and couch looked expensive and comfortable. The polished teak 
desk was massive, and a detailed model of a five-masted schooner, all sails 
rigged, stood on one corner. Nautical itemsa ships wheel, a brass sextant, a 
carved bullocks horn filled with tallow that held what appeared to be 
sail-making needles, six types of ship lanterns, a helmsmans bell, and sea 
chartswere used as decoration. Travis saw photographs of a man and woman on 
various sailboats, and the man was Garrison.
An open book and a half-finished glass of Scotch were on a small table beside 
one of the armchairs. Evidently, the attorney had been relaxing here when they 
had rung the doorbell. Now, he offered them a drink, and they both said they 
would have whatever he was having.
Leaving the couch for Travis and Nora, Einstein took the second armchair. He sat 
in it, rather than curling up, as if prepared to participate in the discussion 
to come.
At a corner wet bar, Garrison poured Chivas Regal on the rocks in two glasses. 
Although Nora was unaccustomed to whiskey, she startled Travis by downing her 
drink in two long swallows and asking for another. He decided that she had the 
right idea, so he followed suit and took his empty glass back to the bar while 
Garrison was refilling Noras.
Id like to tell you everything and have your help, Travis said, but you 
really must understand you could be putting yourself on the wrong side of the 
law.
Recapping the Chivas, Garrison said, Youre talking as a layman now. As an 
attorney, I assure you the law isnt a line engraved in marble, immovable and 
unchangeable through the centuries. Rather . . . the law is like a string, fixed 
at both ends but with a great deal of play in itvery loose, the line of the 
lawso you can stretch it this way or that, rearrange the arc of it so you are 
nearly alwaysshort of blatant theft or cold-blooded murdersafely on the right 
side. Thats a daunting thing to realize but true. Ive no fear that anything 
you tell me could land my bottom in a prison cell, Travis.
Half an hour later, Travis and Nora had told him everything about Einstein. For 
a man only a couple of months shy of his seventy-first birthday, the 
silver-haired attorney had a quick and open mind. He asked the right questions 
and did not scoff. When given a ten-minute demonstration of Einsteins uncanny 
abilities, he did not protest that it was all mere trickery and flummery; he 
accepted what he saw, and he readjusted his ideas of what was normal and 
possible in this world. He exhibited greater mental agility and flexibility than 
most men half his age.
Holding Einstein on his lap in the big leather armchair, gently scratching the 
dogs ears, Garrison said, If you go to the media, hold a press conference, 
blow the whole thing wide open, then we might be able to sue in court to allow 
you to keep custody of the dog.
Do you really think that would work? Nora asked.
At best, Garrison admitted, its a fifty-fifty chance. Travis shook his 
head. No. We wont risk it.
What have you in mind to do? Garrison asked.
Run, Travis said. Stay on the move.
And what will that accomplish? Itll keep Einstein free.
The dog woofed in agreement.
Freebut for how long? Garrison asked.
Travis got up and paced, too agitated to sit still any longer. They wont stop 
looking, he admitted. Not for a few years.
Not ever, the attorney said.
All right, its going to be tough, but its the only thing we can do. Damned if 
well let them have him. He has a dread of the lab. Besides, he more or less 
brought me back to life
And he saved me from Streck, Nora said.
He brought us together, Travis said.
Changed our lives.
Radically changed us. Now hes as much a part of us as our own child Would be, 
Travis said. He felt a lump of emotion in his throat when he met the dogs 
grateful gaze. We fight for him, just as hed fight for us. Were family. We 
live together . . . or we die together.
Stroking the retriever, Garrison said, It wont only be the people from the lab 
looking for you. And not only the police.
The other thing, Travis said, nodding.
Einstein shivered.
There, there, easy now, Garrison said reassuringly, patting the dog. To
Travis, he said, What do you think the creature is? Ive heard your description 
of it, but that doesnt help much.
Whatever it is, Travis said, God didnt make it. Men made it. Which means it 
has to be a product of recombinant-DNA research of some kind. God knows why. God 
knows what they thought they were doing, why they wanted to build something like 
that. But they did.
And it seems to have an uncanny ability to track you.
To track Einstein, Nora said.
So well keep moving, Travis said, And well go a long way.
Thatll require money, but the banks dont open for more than twelve hours, 
Garrison said. If youre going to run, something tells me youve got to head 
out tonight.
Heres where we could use your help, Travis told him.
Nora opened her purse and withdrew two checkbooks, Traviss and her own. 
Garrison, what wed like to do is write a check on Traviss account and one on 
mine, payable to you. Hes only got three thousand in his checking, but he has a 
large savings account at the same bank, and theyre authorized to transfer funds 
to prevent overdrawing. My accounts the same way. If we give you one of 
Traviss checks for twenty thousandbackdated so it appears tove been written 
before all this troubleand one of mine for twenty, you could deposit them into 
your account. As soon as they clear, youd buy eight cashiers checks for five 
thousand apiece and send them to us.
Travis said, The police will want me for questioning, but theyll know I didnt 
kill Ted Hockney because no man couldve torn him apart like that. So they wont 
put a lock on my accounts.
If federal agencies are behind the research that produced Einstein and this 
creature, Garrison said, then theyll be hot to get their hands on you, and 
they might freeze your accounts.
Maybe. But probably not right away. Youre in the same town, so your bank 
should clear my check by Monday at the latest.
Whatll you do for funds in the meantime, while youre waiting for me to send 
you the forty thousand?
Weve got some cash and travelers checks left over from the honeymoon, Nora 
said.
And my credit cards, Travis added.
They can track you by credit cards and travelers checks.
I know, Travis said. So Ill use them in a town where we dont intend to 
stay, and well scoot out fast as we can.
When Ive purchased the cashiers checks for forty thousand, where do I send 
them?
Well be in touch by phone, Travis said, returning to the couch and sitting at 
Noras side. Well work something out.
And the rest of your assetsand Noras?
Well worry about that later, Nora said.
Garrison frowned. Before you leave here, Travis, you can sign a letter giving 
me the right to represent you in any legal matters that may
arise. If anyone does try to freeze your assets, or Noras, I can beat them off 
if at all possiblethough Ill keep a low profile until they connect me with 
you.
Noras funds are probably safe for a while. She and I havent told anyone but 
you about the marriage. The neighbors will tell the police I left in the company 
of a woman, but they wont know who she is. Have you told anyone about us?
Just my secretary, Mrs. Ashcroft. But shes not a gossip.
All right, then, Travis said. I dont think the authorities will find out 
about the marriage license, so they might take quite a while to come up with 
Noras name. But when they do, theyll discover youre her attorney. If they 
monitor my accounts for canceled checks in the hope of learning where Ive gone, 
theyll know about the twenty thousand I paid to you, and theyll come looking 
for you
That doesnt give me the slightest pause, Garrison said.
Maybe not, Travis said. But as soon as they connect me to Nora and both of us 
to you, theyll be watching you closely. As soon as that happens . . . then the 
next time we call, youll have to tell us at once, so we can hang up and break 
off all contact with you.
I understand perfectly, the attorney said.
Garrison, Nora said, you dont have to involve yourself in this. Were really 
asking too much of you.
Listen, my dear, Im almost seventy-one. I still enjoy my law practice, and I 
still go sailing . . . but in truth I find life a bit on the dull side these 
days. This affair is just what I need to get my ancient blood flowing faster. 
Besides, I do believe you have an obligation to help keep Einstein free, not 
just for the reasons you mentioned but because . . . mankind has no right to 
employ its genius in the creation of another intelligent species, then treat it 
like property. If weve come so far that we can create as God creates, then we 
have to learn to act with the justice and mercy of God. In this case, justice 
and mercy require that Einstein remain free.
Einstein raised his head from the attorneys lap, gazed up admiringly, then 
nuzzled his cold nose under Garrisons chin.
 
 
In the three-car garage, Garrison kept a new black Mercedes 560 SEL, an older 
white Mercedes 500 SEL with pale-blue interior, and a green Jeep that he used 
primarily to drive down to the marina, where he kept his boat.
The white one used to belong to Francine, my wife, the attorney said as he led 
them to the car. I dont use it much any more, but I keep it in Working order, 
and I drive it often enough to prevent the tires from disintegrating. I should 
have gotten rid of it when Franny died. It was her car, after all. But . . . she 
loved it so, her flashy white Mercedes, and I can remember the way she looked 
when she was behind the wheel . . . Id like you to take it.
A sixty-thousand-dollar getaway car? Travis said, sliding one hand along the 
polished hood. Thats going on the run in style.
No one will be looking for it, Garrison said. Even if they do eventually 
connect me with you two, they wont know Ive given you one of my cars.
We cant accept something this expensive, Nora said.
Call it a loan, the attorney told her. When youre finished with it, when 
youve gotten another car, just park this one somewherea bus terminal, an 
airportand give me a call to tell me where it is. I can send someone to collect 
it.
Einstein put his forepaws on the drivers door of the Mercedes and peered into 
the car through the side window. He glanced at Travis and Nora and woofed as if 
to say he thought they would be foolish if they turned down such an offer.
 
 
9
With Travis driving, they left Garrison Dilworths house at ten-fifteen 
Wednesday night and took Route 101 north. By twelve-thirty they passed through 
San Luis Obispo, went by Paso Robles at one oclock in the morning. They stopped 
for gasoline at a self-service station at two oclock, an hour south of Salinas.
Nora felt useless. She was not even able to spell Travis at the wheel because 
she did not know how to drive. To some extent, that was Violet Devons fault, 
not Noras, just one more result of a lifetime of seclusion and oppression; 
nonetheless, she felt utterly useless and was displeased with herself. But she 
was not going to remain helpless the rest of her life. Damn it, no. She was 
going to learn to drive and to handle firearms. Travis could teach her both 
skills. Given his background, he could also instruct her in the martial arts, 
judo or karate. He was a good teacher. He had certainly done a splendid job of 
teaching her the art of lovemaking. That thought made her smile, and slowly her 
highly self-critical mood abated.
For the next two and a half hours, as they drove north to Salinas and then on to 
San Jose, Nora dozed fitfully. When not sleeping, she took comfort in the empty 
miles they were putting behind them. On both sides of the highway, vast 
stretches of farmland seemed to roll on to infinity under the frost-pale light 
of the moon. When the moon set, they drove long stretches in unrelieved darkness 
before spotting an occasional light at a farm or a cluster of roadside 
businesses.
The yellow-eyed thing had tracked Einstein from the Santa Ana foothills in 
Orange County to Santa Barbaraa distance of more than one hundred and 
twenty-five air miles, Travis had said, and probably close to three hundred 
miles on foot in the wildsin three months. Not a fast pace. So if they went 
three hundred air miles north from Santa Barbara before finding a place to hole 
up in the San Francisco Bay area, maybe the stalker would not reach
them for seven or eight months. Maybe it would never reach them. Over how great 
a distance could it sniff out Einstein? Surely, there were limits to its uncanny 
ability to track the dog. Surely.
 
 
10
At eleven oclock Thursday morning, Lemuel Johnson stood in the master bedroom 
of the small house that Travis Cornell had rented in Santa Barbara. The dresser 
mirror had been smashed. The rest of the room had been trashed as well, as if 
The Outsider had been driven into a jealous rage upon seeing that the dog lived 
in domestic comfort while it was forced to roam the wildlands and live in 
comparatively primitive conditions.
In the debris that covered the floor, Lem found four silver-framed photographs 
that had probably stood on the dresser or nightstands. The first was of Cornell 
and an attractive blonde. By now Lem had learned enough about Cornell to know 
that the blonde at his side must be his late wife, Paula. Another photo, a 
black-and-white shot of a man and woman, was old enough that Lem guessed the 
people smiling at the camera were Cornells parents. The third was of a young 
boy, about eleven or twelve, also black-and-white, also old, which might have 
been a shot of Travis Cornell himself but which was more likely a picture of the 
brother who had died young.
The last of the four photos was of ten soldiers grouped on what appeared to be 
the wooden steps in front of a barracks, grinning at the camera. One of the ten 
was Travis Cornell. And on a couple of their uniforms, Lem noticed the 
distinctive patch of Delta Force, the elite antiterrorist corps.
Uneasy about that last photograph, Lem put it on the dresser and headed back 
toward the living room, where Cliff was continuing to sift through bloodstained 
rubble. They were looking for something that would mean nothing to the police 
but might be extremely meaningful to them.
The NSA had been slow to pick up on the Santa Barbara killing, and Lem had not 
been alerted until almost six oclock this morning. As a result, the press had 
already reported the grisly details of Ted Hockneys murder. They were 
enthusiastically disseminating wild speculations about what might have killed 
Hockney, focusing primarily on the theory that Cornell kept some kind of exotic 
and dangerous pet, perhaps a cheetah or panther, and that the animal had 
attacked the unsuspecting landlord when he had let himself into the house. The 
TV cameras had lingered lovingly on the shredded and blood spattered books. It 
was National Enquirer stuff, which did not surprise Lem because he believed the 
line separating sensational tabloids like the Enquirer and the so-called 
legitimate pressespecially electronic news mediawas often thinner than most 
journalists cared to admit.
He had already planned and put into operation a disinformation campaign to 
reinforce the presss wrongheaded hysteria about jungle cats on the loose. 
NSA-paid informants would come forth, claiming to know Cornell, and would
vouch that he did, indeed, keep a panther in the house in addition to a dog. 
Others who had never met Cornell would, in identifying themselves as his 
friends, sorrowfully report that they had urged him to have the panther defanged 
and declared as it had reached maturity. Police would want to question 
Cornelland the unidentified womanregarding the panther and its current 
whereabouts.
Lem was confident the press would be nicely deflected from all inquiries that 
might lead them closer to the truth.
Of course, down in Orange County, Walt Gaines would hear about this murder, 
would make friendly inquiries with local authorities here, and would swiftly 
conclude that The Outsider had tracked the dog this far north. Lem was relieved 
that he had Walts cooperation.
Entering the living room, where Cliff Soames was at work, Lem said, Find 
anything?
The young agent rose from the debris, dusted his hands together, and said, 
Yeah. I put it on the dining-room table.
Lem followed him into the dining room, where a fat ring-binder notebook was the 
only item on the table. When he opened it and leafed through the contents, he 
saw photographs that had been cut from glossy magazines and taped to the 
left-hand pages. Opposite each photo, on the right-hand page, was the name of 
the pictured object printed in large block letters: TREE, HOUSE, CAR...
What do you make of it? Cliff asked.
Scowling, saying nothing, Lem continued to leaf through the book, knowing it was 
important but at first unable to guess why. Then it hit him: Its a primer. To 
teach reading.
Yeah, Cliff said.
Lem saw that his assistant was smiling. You think they must know the dogs 
intelligent, that it mustve revealed its abilities to them? And so they . . . 
decided to teach it to read?
Looks that way, Cliff said, still smiling. Good God, do you think its 
possible? Could it be taught to read?
Undoubtedly, Lem said. In fact, teaching it to read was on Dr. Weatherbys 
schedule of experiments for this autumn.
Laughing softly, wonderingly, Cliff said, Ill be damned.
Before you get too much of a kick out of it, Lem said, you better consider 
the situation. This guy knows the dog is amazingly smart. He mightve succeeded 
in teaching it to read. So we have to figure hes worked out a means of 
communicating with it as well. He knows its an experimental animal. He must 
know a lot of people are looking for it.
Cliff said, He must know about The Outsider, too, because the dog would have 
found a way of telling him.
Yes. Yet, knowing all of this, he hasnt chosen to go public. He couldve sold 
the story to the highest bidder. But he didnt. Or if hes a crusading type, he 
couldve called in the press and blasted the Pentagon for funding this kind of 
research.
But he didnt, Cliff said, frowning.
Which means, first and foremost, hes committed to the dog, committed to 
keeping it for his own and to preventing its recapture.
Nodding, Cliff said, Which makes sense if what weve heard about him is true. I 
mean, this guy lost his whole damn family when he was young. Lost his wife after 
less than a year. Lost all those buddies in Delta Force. So he became a recluse, 
cut himself off from all his friends. Mustve been lonely as hell. Then along 
comes the dog . .
Exactly, Lem said. And for a man with Delta Force training, staying 
undercover wont be difficult. And if we do find him, hell know how to fight 
for the dog. Jesus, will he know how to fight!
We havent confirmed the Delta Force rumor yet, Cliff said hopefully.
I have, Lem said, and he described the photograph he had seen in the wrecked 
bedroom.
Cliff sighed. Were in deep shit now.
Up to our necks, Lem agreed.
 
 
11
They had reached San Francisco at six oclock Thursday morning and, by 
six-thirty, had found a suitable motela sprawling facility that looked modern 
and clean. The place did not accept pets, but it was easy to sneak Einstein into 
the room.
Although a small chance existed that an arrest warrant might have been issued 
for Travis, he checked into the motel using his ID. Hed no choice because Nora 
possessed neither credit cards nor a drivers license. These days, desk clerks 
were willing to -accept cash, but not without ID; the chains computer demanded 
data on the guests.
He did not, however, give the correct make or license number of his car, for he 
had parked out of sight of the office for the very purpose of keeping those 
details from the clerk.
They paid for only one room and kept Einstein with them because they were not 
going to need privacy for lovemaking. Exhausted, Travis barely managed to kiss 
Nora before falling into a deep sleep. He dreamed of things With yellow eyes, 
misshapen heads, and crocodile mouths full of sharks teeth.
He woke five hours later, at twelve-ten Thursday afternoon.
Nora had gotten up before him, showered, and dressed again in the only Clothes 
she had. Her hair was damp and clung alluringly to the nape of her fleck. The 
waters hot and forceful, she told him.
So am I, he said, embracing her, kissing her.
Then you better cool off, she said, pulling away from him. Little ears are 
listening.
Einstein? He has big ears.
In the bathroom, he found Einstein standing on the counter, drinking out of a 
sinkful of cold water that Nora had drawn for him.
You know, fur face, for most dogs, the toilet is a perfectly adequate source of 
drinking water.
Einstein sneezed at him, jumped down from the counter, and padded out of the 
bathroom.
Travis had no means of shaving, but he decided a days growth of beard would 
give him the look he needed for the work he would have to do this evening in the 
Tenderloin district.
They left the motel and ate at the first McDonalds they could find. After 
lunch, they drove to a local branch of the Santa Barbara bank where Travis had 
his checking account. They used his computer-banking card, his MasterCard, and 
two of his Visa cards to make cash withdrawals totaling fourteen hundred 
dollars. Next they went to an American Express office, and using one of Traviss 
checks and his Gold Card, they acquired the maximum allowable five hundred 
dollars in cash and forty-five hundred in travelers checks. Combined with the 
twenty-one hundred in cash and travelers checks left over from their honeymoon, 
they had eighty-five hundred in liquid assets.
During the rest of the afternoon and early evening, they went shopping. With 
credit cards, they bought a complete set of luggage and purchased enough clothes 
to fill the bags. They got toiletries for both of them and an electric razor for 
Travis.
Travis also bought a Scrabble game, and Nora said, You dont really feel in the 
mood for games, do you?
No, he replied cryptically, enjoying her puzzlement. Ill explain later.
Half an hour before sunset, with their purchases packed tightly in the spacious 
trunk of the Mercedes, Travis drove into the heart of San Franciscos 
Tenderloin, which was the area of the city that lay below OFarrell Street, 
wedged between Market Street and Van Ness Avenue. It was a district of sleazy 
bars featuring topless dancers, go-go joints where the girls wore nothing at 
all, rap parlors where men paid by the minute to sit with nude young women and 
talk about sex and where more than talk was usually accomplished.
This degeneracy was a shocking revelation to Nora, who had begun to think of 
herself as experienced and sophisticated. She was not prepared for the cesspool 
of the Tenderloin. She gaped at the gaudy neon signs that advertised peep shows, 
female mud wrestling, female impersonators, gay baths, and massage parlors. The 
meaning of some of the billboard come-ons at the worst bars baffled her, and she 
said, What do they mean when the marquee says Get a Wink at the Pink?
Looking for a parking place, Travis said, It means their girls dance entirely 
nude and that, during the dance, they spread their labia to show themselves more 
completely.
No!
Yes.
My God. I dont believe it. I mean, I do believe itbut I dont believe it. 
Whats it meanExtreme Close-Up?
The girls dance right at the customers tables. The law doesnt allow touching, 
but the girls dance close, swinging their bare breasts in the customers faces. 
You could insert one, maybe two, but not three sheets of paper between their 
nipples and the mens lips.
In the back seat, Einstein snorted as if with disgust.
I agree, fella, Travis told him.
They passed a cancerous-looking place with flashing red and yellow bulbs and 
rippling bands of blue and purple neon, where the sign promised LIVE
SEX SHOW.
Appalled, Nora said, My God, are there other shows where they have sex with the 
dead?
Travis laughed so hard he almost back-ended a carload of gawking college boys. 
No, no, no. Even the Tenderloin has some limits. They mean live as opposed to 
on film. You can see plenty of sex on film, theaters that show only 
pornography, but that place promises live sex, on stage. I dont know if they 
deliver on the promise.
And I dont care to find out! Nora said, sounding as if she were Dorothy from 
Kansas and had just wandered into an unspeakable new neighborhood of Oz. 
Whatre we doing here?
This is the place you come to when youre trying to find things they dont sell 
on Nob Hilllike young boys or really large amounts of dope. Or phony drivers 
licenses and other counterfeit ID.
Oh, she said. Oh, yes, I see. This area is controlled by the underworld, by 
people like the Corleones in The Godfather.
Im sure the mob owns more of these places than not, he said as he maneuvered 
the Mercedes into a parking space at the curb. But dont ever make the mistake 
of thinking-the real mob is a bunch of honorable cuties like the Corleones.
Einstein was agreeable to remaining with the Mercedes.
Tell you what, fur face. If were real lucky, Travis joked, well get you a 
new identity, too. Well make you into a poodle.
 
 
Nora was surprised to discover that, as twilight settled over the city, the 
breeze off the bay was chilly enough for them to need the nylon, quilt-lined 
Jackets they had bought earlier in the day.
Even in summer, nights can be cool here, he said. Soon, the fog rolls in. The 
stored-up heat of the day pulls it off the water.
He would have worn his jacket even if the evening air had been mild, for he was 
carrying his loaded revolver under his belt and needed the jacket to Conceal it.
Is there really a chance youll need the gun? she asked as they walked away 
from the car.
Not likely. Im carrying it mainly for ID.
Huh?
Youll see.
She looked back at the car, where Einstein was staring out the rear window, 
looking forlorn. She felt bad leaving him there. But she was quite certain that 
even if these establishments would admit dogs such places were not good for 
Einsteins moral welfare.
Travis seemed interested solely in those bars whose signs were either in both 
English and Spanish or in Spanish only. Some places were downright shabby and 
did not conceal the peeling paint and the moldy carpeting, while others used 
mirrors and glitzy lighting to try to hide their true roach-hole nature. A few 
were actually clean and expensively decorated. In each, Travis spoke in Spanish 
with the bartender, sometimes with musicians if there were any and if they were 
on a break, and a few times he distributed folded twenty-dollar bills. Since she 
spoke no Spanish, Nora did not know what he was asking about or why he was 
paying these people.
On the street, searching for another sleazy lounge, he explained that the 
biggest illegal migration was Mexican, Salvadoran, Nicaraguandesperate people 
escaping economic chaos and political repression. Therefore, more 
Spanish-speaking illegals were in the market for phony papers than were 
Vietnamese, Chinese, or those in all other language groups put together. So the 
quickest way to get a lead on a supplier of phony paper is through the Latino 
underworld.
Have you got a lead?
Not yet. Just bits and pieces. And probably ninety-nine percent of what Ive 
paid for is nonsense, lies. But dont worrywell find what we need. Thats why 
the Tenderloin doesnt go out of business: people who come here always find what 
they need.
The people who came here surprised Nora. In the streets, in the topless bars, 
all kinds could be found. Asians, Latinos, whites, blacks, and even Indians 
mingled in an alcoholic haze, so it seemed as if racial harmony was a beneficial 
side effect of the pursuit of sin. Guys swaggered around in leather jackets and 
jeans, guys who looked like hoods, which she expected. But there were also men 
in business suits, clean-cut college kids, others dressed like cowboys, and 
wholesome surfer types who looked as if they had stepped out of an old Annette 
Funicello movie. Bums sat on the pavement or stood on corners, grizzled old 
winos in reeking clothes, and even some of the business-suit types had a weird 
glint in their eyes that made you want to run from them, but it seemed as if 
most of the people here were those who would pass for ordinary upstanding 
citizens in any decent neighborhood. Nora was amazed.
Not many women were on the streets or in the company of the men in the bars. No, 
correct that: there were women to be seen, but they looked more lascivious than 
the nude dancers, and only a few of them seemed not to be for sale.
At a topless bar called Hot Tips, which had signs in both Spanish and English, 
the recorded rock music was so loud Nora got a headache. Six
beautiful girls with exquisite bodies, wearing only spike heels and sequined 
bikini panties, were dancing at the tables, wriggling, writhing, swinging their 
breasts in the sweaty faces of men who were either mesmerized or hooting and 
clapping. Other topless girls, equally pretty, were witnessing.
While Travis spoke in Spanish with the bartender, Nora noticed some of the 
customers looking at her appraisingly. They gave her the creeps. She kept one 
hand on Traviss arm. She couldnt have been torn away from him with a crowbar.
The stink of stale beer and whiskey, body odor, the layered scents of various 
cheap perfumes, and cigarette smoke made the air as heavy as that in a 
steambath, though less healthful.
Nora clenched her teeth and thought, I will not be sick and make a fool of 
myself. I simply will not.
After a couple of minutes of rapid conversation, Travis passed a pair of 
twenties to the bartender and was directed to the back of the lounge, where a 
guy as big as Arnold Schwarzenegger was sitting on a chair beside a doorway that 
was covered by a densely beaded curtain. He was wearing black leather pants and 
a white T-shirt. His arms seemed as large as tree trunks. His face looked as if 
it had been cast in cement, and he had gray eyes almost as transparent as glass. 
Travis spoke with him in Spanish and passed him two twenties.
The music faded from a thunderous din to a mere roar. A woman, speaking into a 
microphone, said All right, boys, if you like what you see, then show itstart 
stuffin those pussies.
Nora twitched in shock, but as the music rose again, she saw what was meant by 
the crude announcement: the customers were expected to slip folded five- and 
ten-dollar bills into the dancers panties.
The hulk in black leather pants got off his chair and led them through the 
beaded curtain, into a room ten feet wide and eighteen or twenty feet long, 
where six more young women in spike heels and bikini panties were getting ready 
to take over from the dancers already on the floor. They were checking their 
makeup in mirrors, applying lipstick, or just chatting with each other. They 
were all (she saw) as good-looking as the girls out front. Some of them had hard 
faces, pretty but hard, though others were as fresh-faced as schoolteachers. All 
were the kind of women that men probably had in mind when they talked about 
girls who were stacked.
The hulk led Travisand Travis led Nora, holding her handthrough that dressing 
room toward the door at the other end. As they went, one of the topless 
dancersa striking blondeput a hand on Noras shoulder and walked beside her.
Are you new, honey?
Me? No. Oh, no, I dont work here.
The blonde, who was so well-endowed that Nora felt like a boy, said, You got 
the equipment, honey.
Oh, no, was all Nora could say.
You like my equipment? the blonde asked.
Oh, well, youre very pretty, Nora said.
To the blonde, Travis said, Give it up, sister. The lady doesnt swing that 
way.
The blonde smiled sweetly. If she tries it, she might like it.
They went through a door, out of the dressing room and into a narrow, shabby, 
poorly lit hallway before Nora realized she had been propositioned. By a woman!
She did not know whether to laugh or gag. Probably both.
The hulk took them to an office at the back of the building and left them, 
saying, Mr. Van Dyne will be with you in a minute.
The office had gray walls, gray metal chairs, filing cabinets, and a gray metal 
desk that was battered and scarred. No pictures or calendars hung on the bare 
walls. No pens or notepads or reports were on the desk. The place looked as if 
it was seldom used.
Nora and Travis sat on the two metal chairs in front of the desk.
The music from the bar was still audible but no longer deafening. When she 
caught her breath, Nora said, Where do they all come from?
Who?
All those pretty girls with their perfect boobs and tight little bottoms and 
long legs, and all of them willing to . . . to do that. Where do so many of them 
come from?
Theres a breeding farm outside of Modesto, Travis said.
She gaped at him.
He laughed and said, Im sorry. I keep forgetting how innocent you are, Mrs. 
Cornell. He kissed her cheek. His stubble scratched a little, but it was nice. 
In spite of wearing yesterdays clothes and not having shaved, he seemed as 
clean as a well-scrubbed baby compared to the gauntlet they had run in order to 
reach this office. He said, I should answer you straight because you dont know 
when Im joking.
She blinked, Then there isnt a breeding farm outside Modesto?
No. Theres all kinds of girls who do it. Girls who hope to break into showbiz, 
go to L.A. to be movie stars but cant make it, so they drift into places like 
this in L.A. or they come north to San Francisco or they go to Vegas. Most are 
decent enough kids. They see this as temporary. Very good money can be made 
fast. Its a way to build up a stake before taking another crack at Hollywood. 
Then there are some, the self-haters, who do it to humiliate themselves. Others 
are in rebellion from their parents, from their first husbands, from the whole 
damn world. And some are hookers.
The hookers meet . . . johns here? she asked.
Maybe, maybe not. Some probably dance to have an explicable source of income 
when the IRS knocks on their doors. They report their earnings as dancers, which 
gives them a better chance of concealing what they make from turning tricks.
Its sad, she said.
Yeah. In some cases . . . in a lot of cases, its damn sad.
Fascinated, she said, Will we get false IDs from this Van Dyne?
I believe so.
She regarded him solemnly. You really do know your way around, dont you?
Does it bother youthat I know places like this?
She thought a moment. Then: No. In fact . . . if a womans going to take a 
husband, I suppose he ought to be a man who knows what to do in any situation. 
It gives me a lot of confidence.
In me?
In you, yes, and confidence that were going to get through this all right, 
that were going to save Einstein and ourselves.
Confidence is good. But in Delta Force, one of the first things you learn is 
that being overly confident can get you killed.
The door opened, and the hulk returned with a round-faced man in a gray suit, 
blue shirt, and black tie.
Van Dyne, the newcomer said, but he did not offer to shake hands. He went 
around the desk and sat in a spring-backed chair. He had thinning blond hair and 
baby-smooth cheeks. He looked like a stockbroker in a television commercial: 
efficient, smart, as well-meaning as he was well-groomed. I wanted to talk to 
you because I want to know whos spreading these falsehoods about me.
Travis said, We need new IDdrivers licenses, social security cards, the whole 
works. First-rate, with full backup, not junk.
Thats what Im talking about, Van Dyne said. He raised his eyebrows 
quizzically. Where on earth did you get the idea that Im in that sort of 
business? Im afraid youve been misinformed.
We need first-rate paper with full backup, Travis repeated.
Van Dyne stared at him, at Nora. Let me see your wallet. And your purse, miss.
Putting his wallet on the desk, Travis told Nora, Its okay.
Reluctantly, she put her purse beside the wallet.
Please stand and let Caesar search you, Van Dyne said.
Travis stood and motioned for Nora to get up as well.
Caesar, the cement-faced hulk, searched Travis with embarrassing thoroughness, 
found the .357 Magnum, put it on the desk. He was even more thorough with Nora, 
unbuttoning her blouse and boldly feeling the cups of her bra for a miniature 
microphone, battery, and recorder. She blushed and would not have permitted 
these intimacies if Travis had not explained to her what Caesar was looking for, 
Besides, Caesar remained expressionless throughout, as if he were a machine 
without the potential for erotic response.
When Caesar was finished with them, they sat down while Van Dyne went through 
Traviss wallet and then through Noras purse. She was afraid he was going to 
take their money without giving them anything in return, but he appeared to be 
interested in only their ID and the butchers knife that Nora Still carried.
To Travis, Van Dyne said, Okay. If you were a cop, you wouldnt be allowed to 
carry a Magnumhe swung out the cylinder and looked at the
ammunitionloaded with magnums. The ACLU would have your ass. He smiled at 
Nora. No policewoman carries a butchers knife.
Suddenly she understood what Travis meant when hed said he was carrying the 
revolver not for protection but for its value as ID.
Van Dyne and Travis haggled a bit, finally settling on sixty-five hundred as the 
price for two sets of ID with full backup.
Their belongings, including the butchers knife and revolver, were returned to 
them.
From the gray office, they followed Van Dyne into the narrow hall, where he 
dismissed Caesar, then to a set of dimly lit concrete stairs leading to a 
basement beneath Hot Tips, where the rock music was further filtered by the 
intervening concrete floor.
Nora was not sure what she expected to find in the basement: maybe men who all 
looked like Edward 0. Robinson and wore green eye shades on elastic bands and 
labored over antique printing presses, producing not just false identification 
papers but stacks of phony currency. What she found, instead, surprised her.
The steps ended in a stone-walled storage room about forty by thirty feet. Bar 
supplies were stacked to shoulder height. They walked along a narrow aisle 
formed by cartons of whiskey, beer, and cocktail napkins, to a steel fire door 
in the rear wall. Van Dyne pushed a button in the door frame, and a 
closed-circuit security camera made a purring sound as it panned them.
The door was opened from inside, and they went through into a smaller room with 
subdued lighting, where two young bearded guys were working at two of seven 
computers lined up on work tables along one wall. The first guy was wearing soft 
Rockport shoes, safari pants, a web belt, and a cotton safari shirt. The other 
wore Reeboks, jeans, and a sweatshirt that featured the Three Stooges. They 
looked almost like twins, and both resembled young versions of Steven Spielberg. 
They were so intensely involved with their computer work that they did not look 
up at Nora and Travis and Van Dyne, but they were having fun, too, talking 
exuberantly to themselves, to their machines, and to each other in high-tech 
language that made no sense whatsoever to Nora.
A woman in her early twenties was also at work in the room. She had short blond 
hair and oddly beautiful eyes the color of pennies. While Van Dyne spoke with 
the two guys at the computers, the woman took Travis and Nora to the far end of 
the room, put them in front of a white screen, and photographed them for the 
phony drivers licenses.
When the blonde disappeared into a darkroom to develop the film, Travis and Nora 
rejoined Van Dyne at the computers, where the young men were working happily. 
Nora watched them accessing the supposedly secure computers of the California 
Department of Motor Vehicles and the Social Security Administration, as well as 
those of other federal, state, and local government agencies.
When I told Mr. Van Dyne that I wanted ID with full backup, Travis 
explained, I meant the drivers licenses must be able to stand up to inspection
if were ever stopped by a highway patrolman who runs a check on them. The 
licenses were getting are indistinguishable from the real thing. These guys are 
inserting our new names into the DMVs files, actually creating computer records 
of these licenses in the states data banks.
Van Dyne said, The addresses are phony, of course. But when you settle down 
somewhere, under your new names, you just apply to the DMV for a change of 
address like the law requires, and then youll be perfectly legit. Were setting 
these up to expire in about a year, at which time youll go into a DMV office, 
take the usual test, and get brand-new licenses because your new names are in 
their files.
Whatre our new names? Nora wondered.
You see, Van Dyne said, speaking with the quiet assurance and patience of a 
stockbroker explaining the market to a new investor, we have to start with 
birth certificates. We keep computer files of infant deaths all over the western 
United States, going back at least fifty years. Weve already searched those 
lists for the years each of you was born, trying to find babies who died with 
your hair and eye colorsand with your first names, too, just because its 
easier for you not to have to change both first and last. We found a little 
girl, Nora Jean Aimes, born October twelfth of the year you were born and who 
died one month later, right here in San Francisco. We have a laser printer with 
virtually an infinite choice of type styles and sizes, with which weve already 
produced a facsimile of the kind of birth certificate that was in use in San 
Francisco at that time, and it bears Nora Jeans name, vital statistics. Well 
make two Xeroxes of it, and youll receive both. Next, we tapped into the Social 
Security files and appropriated a number for Nora Jean Aimes, who never was 
given one, and we also created a history of Social Security tax payments. He 
smiled. Youve already paid in enough quarters to qualify you for a pension 
when you retire. Likewise, the IRS now has computer records that show youve 
worked as a waitress in half a dozen cities and that youve faithfully paid your 
taxes every year.
Travis said, With a birth certificate and legitimate Social Security number, 
they were then able to get a drivers license that would have real ID behind 
it.
So Im Nora Jean Aimes? But if her birth certificates on record, so is her 
death certificate. If someone wanted to check
Van Dyne shook his head. In those days, both birth and death certificates were 
strictly paper documents, no computer files. And because it squanders more money 
that it spends wisely, the government has never had the funds to transfer 
records of the precomputer era into electronic data banks. So if someone gets 
suspicious about you, they cant just search out the death records On computer 
and learn the truth in two minutes flat. Theyd have to go to the courthouse, 
dig back through the coroner's files for that year, and find Nora Jeans death 
certificate. But that wont happen because part of our service involves having 
Nora Jeans certificate removed from public records and destroyed now that 
youve bought her identity.
Were into TRW, the credit-reporting agency, one of the twin Spielberg 
look-alikes said with obvious delight.
Nora saw data flickering across the green screens, but none of it had any 
meaning for her.
Theyre creating solid credit histories for our new identities, Travis told 
her. By the time we do settle down somewhere and put in a change of address 
with the DMV and TRW, our mailbox will be flooded with offers for credit 
cardsVisa, MasterCard, probably even American Express and Carte Blanche.
Nora Jean Aimes, she said numbly, trying to grasp how quickly and thoroughly 
her new life was being built.
Because they could locate no infant who had died in the year of Traviss birth 
with his first name, he had to settle for being Samuel Spencer Hyatt, who had 
been born that January and had perished that March in Portland, Oregon. The 
death would be expunged from the public record, and Traviss new identity would 
stand up to fairly intense scrutiny.
Strictly for fun (they said), the bearded young operators created a military 
record for Travis, crediting him six years in the Marines and awarding him a 
Purple Heart plus a couple of citations for bravery during a 
peace-keeping-mission-turned-violent in the Middle East. To their delight, he 
asked if they could also create a valid real-estate brokers license under his 
new name, and within twenty-five minutes they cracked into the right data banks 
and did the job.
Cake and pie, one of the young men said.
Cake and pie, the other echoed. Nora frowned, not understanding.
Piece of cake, one of them explained.
Easy as pie, the other said.
Cake and pie, Nora said, nodding.
The blonde with copper-penny eyes returned, carrying drivers licenses imprinted 
with Traviss and Noras pictures. Youre both quite photogenic, she said.
Two hours and twenty minutes after meeting Van Dyne, they left Hot Tips with two 
manila envelopes containing a variety of documents supporting their new 
identities. Out on the street, Nora felt a little dizzy and held on to Traviss 
arm all the way back to the car.
Fog had rolled through the city while they had been in Hot Tips. The blinking 
lights and flashing-rippling neon of the Tenderloin were softened yet curiously 
magnified by the mist, so it seemed as if every cubic centimeter of night air 
was awash with strange lights, with an aurora borealis brought down to ground 
level. Those sleazy streets had a certain mystery and cheap allure after dark, 
in the fog, but not if youd seen them in daylight first and remembered what you 
had seen.
In the Mercedes, Einstein was waiting patiently.
Couldnt arrange to have you turned into a poodle, after all, Nora told him as 
she buckled her seat belt. But we sure did ourselves up right. Einstein, say 
hello to Sam Hyatt and Nora Aimes.
The retriever put his head over the front seat, looked at her, looked at
Travis, and snorted once as if to say they could not fool him, that he knew who 
they were.
To Travis, Nora said, Your antiterrorist training . . . is that where you 
learned about places like Hot Tips, people like Van Dyne? Is that where 
terrorists get new ID once they slip into the country?
Yeah, some go to people like Van Dyne, though not usually. The Soviets supply 
papers for most terrorists. Van Dyne services mostly ordinary illegal 
immigrants, though not the poor ones, and criminal types looking to dodge arrest 
warrants.
As he started the car, she said, But if you could find Van Dyne, maybe the 
people looking for us can find him.
Maybe. Itll take them a while, but maybe they can.
Then theyll find out all about our new identities.
No, Travis said. He turned on the defroster and the windshield wipers to clear 
the condensation off the outside of the glass. Van Dyne wouldnt keep records. 
He doesnt want to be caught with proof of what he does. If the authorities ever 
tumble to him and go in there with search warrants, they wont find anything in 
Van Dynes computers except the accounting and purchasing records for Hot Tips.
As they drove through the city, heading for the Golden Gate Bridge, Nora stared 
in fascination at the people in the streets and in other cars, not just in the 
Tenderloin but in every neighborhood through which they passed. She wondered how 
many of them were living under the names and identities with which they had been 
born and how many were changelings like her and Travis.
In less than three hours, weve been totally remade, she said.
Some world we live in, huh? More than anything else, thats what high 
technology meansmaximum fluidity. The whole world is becoming ever more fluid, 
malleable. Most financial transactions are now handled with electronic money 
that flashes from New York to L.A.or around the world in seconds. Money 
crosses borders in a blink; it no longer has to be smuggled out past the guards. 
Most records are kept in the form of electrical charges that only computers 
read. So everythings fluid. Identities are fluid. The past is fluid.
Nora said, Even the genetic structure of a species is fluid these days.
Einstein woofed agreement.
Nora said, Scary, isnt it?
A little, Travis said as they approached the light-bedecked southern entrance 
to the fog-mantled Golden Gate Bridge, which was all but invisible in the mist. 
But maximum fluidity is basically a good thing. Social and financial fluidity 
guarantee freedom. I believeand I hopethat were heading toward an age when 
the role of governments will inevitably dwindle, when therell be no way to 
regulate and control people as thoroughly as was possible in the past. 
Totalitarian governments wont be able to stay in power.
How so?
Well, how can a dictatorship control its citizens in a high-tech society of 
maximum fluidity? The only way is to refuse to allow high tech to intrude,
seal the borders, and live entirely in an earlier age. But thatd be national 
suicide for any country that tried it. They couldnt compete. In a few decades, 
theyd be modern aborigines, primitive by the standards of the civilized 
high-tech world. Right now, for instance, the Soviets try to restrict computers 
to their defense industry, which cant last. Theyll have to computerize their 
entire economy and teach their people to use computersand then how can they 
keep the screws tight when their citizens have been given the means to 
manipulate the system and foil its controls on them?
At the entrance to the bridge, no northbound toll was collected. They drove onto 
the span, where the speed limit had been drastically reduced because of the 
weather.
Looking up at the ghostly skeleton of the bridge, which glistened with 
condensation and vanished in the fog, Nora said, You seem to think the world 
will be paradise in a decade or two.
Not paradise, he said. Easier, richer, safer, happier. But not a paradise. 
After all, there will still be all the problems of the human heart and all the 
potential sicknesses of the human mind. And the new worlds bound to bring us 
some new dangers as well as blessings.
Like the thing that killed your landlord, she said.
Yes.
In the back seat, Einstein growled.
 
 
 
12
That Thursday afternoon, August 26, Vince Nasco drove to Johnny The Wire 
Santinis place in San Clemente to pick up the past weeks report, which was 
when he learned of the murder of Ted Hockney in Santa Barbara the previous 
evening. The condition of the corpse, especially the missing eyes, linked it to 
The Outsider. Johnny had also ascertained that the NSA had quietly assumed 
jurisdiction in the case, which convinced Vince it was related to the Banodyne 
fugitives.
That evening, he got a newspaper and, over a dinner of seafood enchiladas and 
Dos Equis at a Mexican restaurant, he read about Hockney and about the man who 
had rented the house where the murder occurredTravis Cornell. The press was 
reporting that Cornell, a former real-estate broker who had once been a member 
of Delta Force, kept a panther in the house and that the cat had killed Hockney, 
but Vince knew that the cat was bullshit, just a cover story. The cops said they 
wanted to talk to Cornell and to an unidentified woman seen with him, though 
they had not filed any charges against them.
The story also had one line about Cornells dog: Cornell and the woman may be 
traveling with a golden retriever.
If I can find Cornell, Vince thought, Ill find the dog.
This was the first break hed had, and it confirmed his feeling that owning the 
retriever was a part of his great destiny.
To celebrate, he ordered more seafood enchiladas and beer.
 
 
 
13
Travis, Nora, and Einstein stayed Thursday night at a motel in Marin County, 
north of San Francisco. They got a six-pack of San Miguel at a convenience store 
and take-out chicken, biscuits, and coleslaw from a fast-food restaurant, and 
ate a late dinner in the room.
Einstein enjoyed the chicken and showed considerable interest in the beer.
Travis decided to pour half a bottle in the new yellow plastic dish they had 
gotten the retriever during their shopping spree earlier in the day. But no 
more than half a bottle, no matter how much you like it. I want you sober for 
some questions and answers.
After dinner, the three of them sat on the king-size bed, and Travis unwrapped 
the Scrabble game. He put the board upside down on the mattress, with the 
playing surface concealed, and Nora helped him sort all the lettered game tiles 
into twenty-six piles.
Einstein watched with interest and did not seem even slightly woozy from his 
half-bottle of San Miguel .
Okay, Travis said, I need more detailed answers than weve been able to get 
with yes-and-no questions. It occurred to me that this might work.
Ingenious, Nora agreed.
To the dog, Travis said, I ask you a question, and you indicate the letters 
that are needed to spell out the answer, one letter at a time, word by word. You 
got it?
Einstein blinked at Travis, looked at the stacks of lettered tiles, raised his 
eyes to Travis again, and grinned.
Travis said, All right. Do you know the name of the laboratory from which you 
escaped?
Einstein put his nose to the pile of Bs.
Nora plucked a tile off the stack and put it on the portion of the board that 
Travis had left clear.
In less than a minute, the dog spelled BANODYNE.
Banodyne, Travis said thoughtfully. Never heard of it. Is that the entire 
name?
Einstein hesitated, then began to choose more letters until he had spelled out 
BANODYNE LABORATORIES INC.
On a pad of motel stationery, Travis made a note of the answer, then returned 
all the tiles to their individual stacks. Where is Banodyne located?
IRVINE.
That makes sense, Travis said. I found you in the woods north of Irvine. All 
right . . . I found you on Tuesday, May eighteenth. When had you escaped from 
Banodyne?
Einstein stared at the tiles, whined, and made no choices.
In all the reading youve done, Travis said, youve learned about months, 
weeks, days, and hours. You have a sense of time now.
Looking at Nora, the dog whined again.
She said, He has a sense of time now, but he didnt have one when he escaped, 
so its hard to remember how long he was on the run.
Einstein immediately began to indicate letters: THATS RIGHT.
Do you know the names of any researchers at Banodyne?
DAVIS WEATHERBY.
Travis made a note of the name. Any others?
Hesitating frequently to consider possible spellings, Einstein finally produced 
LAWFON HANES, AL HUDSTUN, and a few more.
After noting all of them on the motel stationery, Travis said, These will be 
some of the people looking for you.
YES. AND JOHNSON.
Johnson? Nora said. Is he one of the scientists?
NO. The retriever thought for a moment, studied the stacks of letters, and 
finally continued: SECURITY.
Hes head of security at Banodyne? Travis asked.
NO. BIGGER.
Probably a federal agent of some kind, Travis told Nora as she returned the 
letters to their stacks.
To Einstein, Nora said, Do you know this Johnsons first name? Einstein gazed 
at the letters and mewled, and Travis was about to tell him it was all right if 
he didnt know Johnsons first name, but then the dog attempted to spell it: 
LEMOOOL.
There is no such name, Nora said, taking the letters away.
Einstein tried again: LAMYOULL. Then again: LIMUUL.
Thats not a name, either, Travis said.
A third time: LEMB YOU WILL.
Travis realized the dog was struggling to spell the name phonetically. He chose 
six lettered tiles of his own: LEMUEL.
Lemuel Johnson, Nora said.
Einstein leaned forward and nuzzled her neck. He was wiggling with pleasure at 
having gotten the name across to them, and the springs of the motel bed creaked.
Then he stopped nuzzling Nora and spelled DARK LEMUEL.
Dark? Travis said. By dark you mean Johnson is . . . evil?
NO. DARK.
Nora restacked the letters and said, Dangerous?
Einstein snorted at her, then at Travis, as if to say they were sometimes 
unbearably thickheaded. NO. DARK.
For a moment they sat in silence, thinking, and at last Travis said, Black! You 
mean Lemuel Johnson is a black man.
Einstein chuffed softly, shook his head up and down, swept his tail back and 
forth on the bedspread. He indicated nineteen letters, his longest answer:
THERES HOPE FOR YOU YET.
Nora laughed.
Travis said, Wiseass.
But he was exhilarated, filled with a joy that he would have been hard-pressed 
to describe if he had been required to put it into words. They had been 
communicating with the retriever for many weeks, but the Scrabble tiles provided 
a far greater dimension to their communication than they had enjoyed previously. 
More than ever, Einstein seemed to be their own child. But there was also an 
intoxicating feeling of breaking through the barriers of normal human 
experience, a feeling of transcendence. Einstein was no ordinary mutt, of 
course, and his high intelligence was more human than canine, but he was a 
dogmore than anything else, a dogand his intelligence was still qualitatively 
different from that of a man, so there was inevitably a strong sense of mystery 
and great wonder in this interspecies dialogue. Staring at THERES HOPE FOR YOU 
YET, Travis thought a broader meaning could be read into the message, that it 
could be directed at all humankind.
For the next half an hour, they continued questioning Einstein, and Travis 
recorded the dogs answers. In time they discussed the yellow-eyed beast that 
had killed Ted Hockney.
What is the damned thing? Nora asked.
THE OUTSIDER.
Travis said,  The Outsider? What do you mean?
THATS WHAT THEY CALLED IT.
The people in the lab? Travis asked. Why did they call it The Outsider?
BECAUSE IT DOES NOT BELONG.
Nora said, I dont understand.
TWO SUCCESSES. ME AND IT. I AM DOG. IT IS NOTHING THAT CAN BE NAMED. OUTSIDER.
Travis said, Its intelligent, too?
YES.
As intelligent as you?
MAYBE.
Jesus, Travis said, shaken.
Einstein made an unhappy sound and put his head on Noras knee, seeking the 
reassurance that petting could provide him.
Travis said, Why would they create a thing like that?
Einstein returned to the stacks of letters: TO KILL FOR THEM.
A chill trickled down Traviss spine and seeped deep into him. Who did they 
want it to kill?
THE ENEMY.
What enemy? Nora asked.
IN WAR.
With understanding came revulsion bordering on nausea. Travis sagged back 
against the headboard. He remembered telling Nora that even a world
without want and with universal freedom would fall far short of paradise because 
of all the problems of the human heart and all the potential sicknesses of the 
human mind.
To Einstein, he said. So youre telling us that The Outsider is a prototype of 
a genetically engineered soldier. Sort of. . . a very intelligent, deadly police 
dog designed for the battlefield.
IT WAS MADE TO KILL. IT WANTS TO KILL.
Reading the words as she laid out the tiles, Nora was appalled. But this is 
crazy. How could such a thing ever be controlled? How could it be counted on not 
to turn against its masters?
Travis leaned forward from the headboard. To Einstein, he said, Why is The 
Outsider looking for you?
HATES ME.
Why does it hate you?
DONT KNOW.
As Nora replaced the letters, Travis said, Will it continue looking for you?
YES. FOREVER.
But how does something like that move unseen?
AT NIGHT.
Nevertheless . .
LIKE RATS MOVE UNSEEN.
Looking puzzled, Nora said. But how does it track you?
FEELS ME.
Feels you? What do you mean? she asked.
The retriever puzzled over that one for a long time, making several false starts 
on an answer, and finally said, CANT EXPLAIN.
Can you feel it, too? Travis asked.
SOMETIMES.
Do you feel it now?
YES. FAR AWAY.
Very far away, Travis agreed. Hundreds of miles. Can it really feel you and 
track you from that far away?
EVEN FARTHER.
Is it tracking you flow?
COMING.
The chill in Travis grew icier. When will it find you?
DONT KNOW.
The dog looked dejected, and he was shivering again.
Soon? Will it feel its way to you soon?
MAYBE NOT SOON.
Travis saw that Nora was pale. He put a hand on her knee and said, We wont run 
from it the rest of our lives. Damned if we will. Well find a place to settle 
down and wait, a place where well be able to prepare a defense and where well 
have the privacy to deal with The Outsider when it arrives.
Shivering, Einstein indicated more letters with his nose, and Travis laid out 
the tiles: I SHOULD GO.
What do you mean? Travis asked, replacing the tiles.
I DANGER YOU.
Nora threw her arms around the retriever and hugged him. Dont you even think 
such a thing. Youre part of us. Youre family, damn you, were all family, 
were all in this together, and we stick it out together because thats what 
families do. She stopped hugging the dog and took his head in both hands, met 
him nose to nose, peered deep into his eyes. If I woke up some morning and 
found youd left us, itd break my heart. Tears shimmered in her eyes, a tremor 
in her voice. Do you understand me, fur face? It would break my heart if you 
went off on your own.
The dog pulled away from her and began to choose lettered tiles again: I
WOULD DIE.
You would die if you left us? Travis asked.
The dog chose more letters, waited for them to study the words, then looked 
solemnly at each of them to be sure they understood what he meant:
I WOULD DIE OF LONELY.
 
 
 
 
PART TWO
 
Guardian
Love alone is capable of uniting living beings in such a way as to complete and 
fulfill them, for it alone takes them and joins them by what is deepest in 
themselves.
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
Greater love hath no man than this:
that he lay down his life
for his friends.
The Gospel According to Saint John
 
 
 
EIGHT
1
On the Thursday that Nora drove to Dr. Weingolds office, Travis and Einstein 
went for a walk across the grassy hills and through the woods behind the house 
they had bought in the beautiful California coastal region called Big Sur.
On the treeless hills, the autumn sun warmed the stones and cast scattered cloud 
shadows. The breeze off the Pacific drew a whisper from the dry golden grass. In 
the sun, the air was mild, neither hot nor cool. Travis was comfortable in jeans 
and a long-sleeved shirt.
He carried a Mossberg short-barreled pistol-grip pump-action 12-gauge shotgun. 
He always carried it on his walks. If he ever encountered someone who asked 
about it, he intended to tell them he was hunting rattlesnakes.
Where the trees grew most vigorously, the bright morning seemed like late 
afternoon, and the air was cool enough to make Travis glad that his shirt was 
flannel. Massive pines, a few small groves of giant redwoods, and a variety of 
foothill hardwoods filtered the sun and left much of the forest floor in 
perpetual twilight. The undergrowth was dense in places: the vegetation included 
those low, impenetrable thickets of evergreen oaks sometimes called chaparral, 
plus lots of ferns that flourished because of the frequent fog and the constant 
humidity of the seacoast air.
Einstein repeatedly sniffed out cougar spoor and insisted on showing Travis the 
tracks of the big cats in the damp forest soil. Fortunately, he fully understood 
the danger of stalking a mountain lion, and was able to repress his natural urge 
to prowl after them.
The dog contented himself with merely observing local fauna. Timid deer could 
often be seen ascending or descending their trails. Raccoons were plentiful and 
fun to watch, and although some were quite friendly, Einstein knew they could 
turn nasty if he accidentally frightened them; he chose to keep a respectful 
distance.
On other walks, the retriever had been dismayed to discover the squirrels, Which 
he could approach safely, were terrified of him. They froze with fear, Stared 
wild-eyed, small hearts pounding visibly.
WHY SQUIRRELS AFRAID? he had asked Travis one evening.
Instinct, Travis had explained. Youre a dog, and they know instinctively 
that dogs will attack and kill them.
NOT ME.
No, not you, Travis agreed, ruffling the dogs coat. You wouldnt hurt them. 
But the squirrels dont know youre different, do they? To them, you look like a 
dog, and you smell like a dog, so youve got to be feared like a dog.
I LIKE SQUIRRELS.
I know. Unfortunately, theyre not smart enough to realize it.
Consequently, Einstein kept his distance from the squirrels and tried hard not 
to terrify them, often sauntering past with his head turned the other way as if 
unaware of them.
This special day, their interest in squirrels and deer and birds and raccoons 
and unusual forest flora was minimal. Even views of the Pacific did not intrigue 
them. Today, unlike other days, they were walking only to pass the time and to 
keep their minds off Nora.
Travis repeatedly looked at his watch, and he chose a circular route that would 
bring them back to the house at one oclock, when Nora was expected to return.
It was the twenty-first of October, eight weeks after they had acquired new 
identities in San Francisco. After considerable thought, they had decided to 
come south, substantially reducing the distance that The Outsider would have to 
travel in order to put its hands on Einstein. They would not be able to get on 
with their new lives until the beast found them, until they killed it; 
therefore, they wanted to hasten rather than delay that confrontation.
On the other hand, they did not want to risk returning too far south toward 
Santa Barbara, for The Outsider might cover the distance between them faster 
than it had traveled from Orange County to Santa Barbara last summer. They could 
not be certain that it would continue to make only three or four miles a day. If 
it moved faster this time, it might come upon them before they were ready for 
it. The Big Sur area, because of its sparse population and because it was a 
hundred ninety air miles from Santa Barbara, seemed ideal. If The Outsider got a 
fix on Einstein and tracked him down as slowly as before, the thing would not 
arrive for almost five months. If it doubled its speed somehow, swiftly crossing 
the open farmland and the wild hills between there and here, quickly skirting 
populated areas, it would still not reach them until the second week of 
November.
That day was drawing near, but Travis was satisfied that he had made every 
preparation possible, and he almost welcomed The Outsiders arrival. Thus far, 
however, Einstein said that he did not feel his adversary was dangerously close. 
Evidently, they still had plenty of time to test their patience before the 
showdown.
By twelve-fifty, they reached the end of their circular route through the hills 
and canyons, returning to the yard behind their new house. It was a two-story 
structure with bleached-wood walls, a cedar-shingled roof, and massive stone 
chimneys on both the north and south sides. It boasted front and rear porches on 
the east and west, and either vantage point offered a view of wooded slopes.
Because no snow ever fell here, the roof was only gently pitched, making it 
possible to walk all over it, and that was where Travis made one of his first 
defensive modifications to the house. He looked up now, as he came out of the 
trees, and saw the herringbone pattern of two-by-fours that he had fixed across 
the roof. They would make it safer and easier to move quickly across those 
sloped surfaces. If The Outsider crept up on the house at night, it would not be 
able to enter by the downstairs windows because, at sundown, those were 
barricaded with interior locking shutters that Travis had installed himself and 
that would foil any would-be intruder except, perhaps, a maniacally determined 
man with an ax. The Outsider would then most likely climb the porch posts onto 
the front or rear porch roof to have a look at the second-floor windows, which 
it would find also protected by interior shutters. Meanwhile, warned of the 
enemys approach by an infrared alarm system that be had installed around the 
house three weeks ago, Travis would go onto the roof by way of an attic trap 
door. Up there, making use of the two-by-four handholds, he would be able to 
creep to the edge of the main roof, look down on the porch roof or on any 
portion of the surrounding yard, and open fire on The Outsider from a position 
where it could not reach him.
Twenty yards behind and east of the house was a small rust-red barn that backed 
up to the trees. Their property included no tillable land, and the original 
owner apparently erected the barn to house a couple of horses and some chickens. 
Travis and Nora used it as a garage because the dirt driveway led two hundred 
yards in from the highway, past the house, directly to the double doors on the 
barn.
Travis suspected that, when The Outsider arrived, it would scout the house from 
the woods and then from the cover of the barn. It might even wait in there, 
hoping to catch them by surprise when they came out for the Dodge pickup or the 
Toyota. Therefore, he had rigged the barn with a few surprises.
Their nearest neighborswhom they had met only oncewere over a quarter-mile to 
the north, out of sight beyond trees and chaparral. The highway, which was 
closer, was not much traveled at night, when The Outsider was most likely to 
strike. If the confrontation involved a great deal of gunfire, the shots would 
echo and reecho through the woods and across the bare hills, so the few people 
in the areaneighbors or passing motoristswould have trouble determining where 
the noise originated. He ought to be able to kill the creature and bury it 
before someone came nosing around.
Now, more worried about Nora than about The Outsider, Travis climbed the 
back-porch steps, unlocked the two dead bolts on the rear door, and went Into 
the house, with Einstein close behind him. The kitchen was large enough to serve 
also as the dining room, yet it was cozy: oak walls, a Mexican-tile floor, 
beige-tile counters, oak cabinets, a hand-textured plaster ceiling, the best 
appliances. The big plank table with four comfortable padded chairs and a stone 
fireplace helped make this the center of the house.
There were five other roomsan enormous living room and a den at the front of 
the first floor; three bedrooms upstairsplus one bath down and one
up. One of the bedrooms was theirs, and one served as Noras studio where she 
had done a little painting since they moved inand the third was empty, awaiting 
developments.
Travis switched on the kitchen lights. Although the house seemed isolated, they 
were only two hundred yards from the highway, and power poles followed the line 
of their dirt driveway.
Im having a beer, Travis said, You want anything?
Einstein padded to his empty water dish, which was in the corner beside his food 
dish, and scooted it across the floor to the sink.
They had not expected to be able to afford such a house so soon after fleeing 
Santa Barbaraespecially not when, during their first call to Garrison Dilworth, 
the attorney informed them that Traviss bank accounts had, indeed, been frozen. 
They had been lucky to get the twenty-thousand-dollar check through. Garrison 
had converted some of both Traviss and Noras funds into eight cashiers checks 
as planned, and had sent them to Travis addressed to Mr. Samuel Spencer Hyatt 
(the new persona), care of the Marin County motel where they had stayed for 
nearly a week. But also, claiming to have sold Noras house for a handsome 
six-figure price, he had sent another packet of cashiers checks two days later, 
to the same motel.
Speaking with him from a pay phone, Nora had said, But even if you did sell it, 
they cant have paid the money and closed the deal so soon.
No, Garrison had admitted. It wont close for a month. But you need the cash 
now, so Im advancing it to you.
They had opened two accounts at a bank in Carmel, thirty-odd miles north of 
where they now lived. They had bought the new pickup, then had taken Garrisons 
Mercedes north to the San Francisco airport, leaving it there for him. Heading 
south again, past Carmel and along the coast, they looked for a house in the Big 
Sur area. When they had found this one, they had been able to pay cash for it. 
It was wiser to buy than rent, and it was wiser to pay cash rather than finance 
the house, for fewer questions needed to be answered.
Travis was sure their ID would stand up, but he saw no reason to test the 
quality of Van Dynes papers until necessary. Besides, after buying a house, 
they were more respectable; the purchase added substance to their new 
identities.
While Travis got a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap, 
took a long swallow, then filled Einsteins dish with water, the retriever went 
to the walk-in pantry. The door was ajar, as always, and the dog opened it all 
the way. He put one paw on a pedal that Travis had rigged for him just inside 
the pantry door, and the light came on in there.
In addition to shelves of canned and bottled goods, the huge pantry contained a 
complex gadget that Travis and Nora had built to facilitate communication with 
the dog. The device stood against the rear wall: twenty-eight one-inch-square 
tubes made of Lucite, lined up side by side in a wooden frame; each tube was 
eighteen inches tall, open at the top, and fitted with a pedal-release valve at 
the bottom. In the first twenty-six tubes were stacked lettered tiles from six 
Scrabble games, so Einstein would have enough letters
to be able to form long messages. On the front of each tube was a hand-drawn 
letter that showed what it contained; A, B, C, D, and so on. The last two tubes 
held blank game tiles on which Travis had carved commasor apostrophesand 
question marks. (Theyd decided they could figure where the periods were 
supposed to go.) Einstein was able to dispense letters from the tubes by 
stepping on the pedals, then could use his nose to form the tiles into words on 
the pantry floor. They had chosen to put the device in there, out of sight, so 
they would not be required to explain it to neighbors who might drop in 
unexpectedly.
As Einstein busily pumped pedals and clicked tiles against one another, Travis 
carried his beer and the dogs water dish out to the front porch, where they 
would sit and wait for Nora. By the time he came back, Einstein had finished 
forming a message.
COULD I HAVE SOME HAMBURGER? OR THREE WEENIES?
Travis said, Im going to have lunch with Nora when she gets home. Dont YOU 
want to wait and eat with us?
The retriever licked his chops and thought for a moment. Then he studied the 
letters he had already used, pushed some of them aside, and reused the rest 
along with a K and a T and an apostrophe that he had to release from the Lucite 
tubes.
OK. BUT IM STARVED.
Youll survive, Travis told him. He gathered up the lettered tiles and sorted 
them into the open tops of the proper tubes.
He retrieved the pistol-grip shotgun that hed stood by the back door and 
carried it out to the front porch, where he put it beside his rocking chair. He 
heard Einstein turn off the pantry light and follow him.
They sat in anxious silence, Travis in his chair, Einstein on the redwood floor.
Songbirds trilled in the mild October air.
Travis sipped at his beer, and Einstein lapped occasionally at his water, and 
they stared down the dirt driveway, into the trees, toward the highway that they 
could not see.
In the glove compartment of the Toyota, Nora had a .38 pistol loaded with 
hollow-point cartridges. During the weeks since they had left Marin County, she 
had learned to drive and, with Traviss help, had become proficient with the 
.38also with a fully automatic Uzi pistol and a shotgun. She only had the .38 
today, but shed be safe going and coming from Carmel. Besides, even if The 
Outsider had crept into the area without Einsteins knowledge, it did not want 
Nora; it wanted the dog. So she was perfectly safe.
But where was she?
Travis wished he had gone with her. But after thirty years of dependency and 
fear, solo trips into Carmel were one of the means by which she asserted and 
testedher new strength, independence, and self-confidence. She would not have 
welcomed his company.
By one-thirty, when Nora was half an hour late, Travis began to get a sick, 
twisting feeling in his gut.
Einstein began to pace.
Five minutes later, the retriever was the first to hear the car turning into the 
foot of the driveway at the main road. He dashed down the porch steps, which 
were at the side of the house, and stood at the edge of the dirt lane.
Travis did not want Nora to see that he had been overly worried because somehow 
that would seem to indicate a lack of trust in her ability to take care of 
herself, an ability that she did, indeed, possess and that she prized. He 
remained in his rocking chair, his bottle of Corona in one hand.
When the blue Toyota appeared, he sighed with relief. As she went by the house, 
she tooted the horn. Travis waved as if he had not been sitting there under a 
leaden blanket of fear.
Einstein went to the garage to greet her, and a minute later they both 
reappeared. She was wearing blue jeans and a yellow- and white-checkered shirt, 
but Travis thought she looked good enough to waltz onto a dance floor among 
begowned and bejeweled princesses.
She came to him, leaned down, kissed him. Her lips were warm.
She said, Miss me terribly?
With you gone, there was no sun, no trilling from the birds, no joy. He tried 
to say it flippantly, but it came out with an underlying note of seriousness.
Einstein rubbed against her and whined to get her attention, then peered up at 
her and woofed softly, as if to say, Well?
Hes right, Travis said, Youre not being fair. Dont keep us in suspense.
I am, she said.
You are?
She grinned. Knocked up.
Oh my, he said.
Preggers. With child. In a family way. A mother-to-be.
He got up and put his arms around her, held her close and kissed her, and said, 
Dr. Weingold couldnt be mistaken, and she said, No, hes a good doctor, and 
Travis said, He mustve told you when, and she said. We, can expect the baby 
the third week of June, and Travis said stupidly, Next June? and she laughed 
and said, I dont intend to carry this baby for a whole extra year, and 
finally Einstein insisted on having a chance to nuzzle her and express his 
delight.
I brought home a chilled bottle of bubbly to celebrate, she said, thrusting a 
paper bag into his hands.
In the kitchen, when he took the bottle out of the bag, he saw that it was 
sparkling apple cider, nonalcoholic. He said, Isnt this a celebration worth 
the best champagne?
Getting glasses from a cupboard, she said, Im probably being silly, a 
world-champion worrier. . . but Im taking no chances, Travis. I never thought 
Id have a baby, never dared dream it, and now Ive got this hinkey feeling that 
I was never meant to have it and that its going to be taken away from me if I 
dont take every precaution, if I dont do everything just right. So Im not 
taking another drink until its born. Im not going to eat too much red meat, 
and Im going to eat more vegetables. I never have smoked, so thats not a 
worry. Im going to gain exactly as much weight as Dr. Weingold tells me I 
should, and Im going to do my exercises, and Im going to have the most perfect 
baby the world has ever seen.
Of course you are, he said, filling their wine glasses with sparkling apple 
cider and Pouring some in a dish for Einstein.
Nothing will go wrong, she said.
Nothing, he said.
They toasted the babyand Einstein, who was going to make a terrific godfather, 
uncle, grandfather, and furry guardian angel.
Nobody mentioned The Outsider.
 
 
Later that night, in bed in the dark, after they had made love and were just 
holding each other, listening to their hearts beating in unison, he dared to 
say, Maybe, with what might be coming our way, we shouldnt be having a baby 
just now.
Hush, she said.
But
We didnt plan for this baby, she said. In fact, we took precautions against 
it. But it happened anyway. Theres something special about the fact that it 
happened in spite of all our careful precautions. Dont you think? In spite of 
all I said before, about maybe not being meant to have it . . . well, thats 
just the old Nora talking. The new Nora thinks we were meant to have it, that 
its a great gift to usas Einstein was.
But considering what may be coming
That doesnt matter, she said. Well deal with that. Well come out of that 
all right. Were ready. And then well have the baby and really begin our life 
together. I love you, Travis.
I love you, he said. God, I love you.
He realized how much she had changed from the mousy woman hed met in Santa 
Barbara last spring. Right now, she was the strong one, the determined one, and 
she was trying to allay his fears.
She was doing a good job, too. He felt better. He thought about the baby, and he 
smiled in the dark, with his face buried in her throat. Though he now had three 
hostages to fortuneNora, the unborn baby, and Einsteinhe was in finer spirits 
than he had been in longer than he could remember. Nora had allayed his fears.
 
 
2
Vince Nasco sat in an elaborately carved Italian chair with a deep glossy finish 
that had acquired its remarkable transparency only after a couple of Centuries 
of regular polishing.
To his right was a sofa and two more chairs and a low table of equal elegance, 
arranged before a backdrop of bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes that 
had never been read. He knew they had never been read because Mario Tetragna, 
whose private study this was, had once pointed to them with pride and said, 
Expensive books. And as good as the day they were made because theyve never 
been read. Never. Not a one.
In front of him was the immense desk at which Mario Tetragna reviewed earnings 
reports from his managers, issued memos about new ventures, and ordered people 
killed. The don was at that desk now, overflowing his leather chair, eyes 
closed. He looked as if he was dead of clogged arteries and a fat-impacted 
heart, but he was only considering Vinces request.
Mario The Screwdriver Tetragnarespected patriarch of his immediate blood 
family, much-feared don of the broader Tetragna Family that controlled drug 
traffic, gambling, prostitution, loan-sharking, pornography, and other organized 
criminal activity in San Franciscowas a five-foot-seven-inch, 
three-hundred-pound tub with a face as plump and greasy and smooth as an 
overstuffed sausage casing. It was hard to believe that this rotund specimen 
could have built an infamous criminal operation. True, Tetragna had been young 
once, but even then he would have been short, and he had the look of a man whod 
been fat all his life. His pudgy, stubby-fingered hands reminded Vince of a 
babys hands. But they were the hands that ruled the Familys empire.
When Vince had looked into Mario Tetragnas eyes, he instantly realized that the 
dons stature and his all too evident decadence were of no importance. The eyes 
were those of a reptile: flat, cold, hard, watchful. If you werent careful, if 
you displeased him, he would hypnotize you with those eyes and take you the way 
a snake would take a mesmerized mouse; he would choke you down whole and digest 
you.
Vince admired Tetragna. He knew this was a great man, and he wished he could 
tell the don that he, too, was a man of destiny. But he had learned never to 
speak of his immortality, for in the past such talk had earned him ridicule from 
a man hed thought would understand.
Now, Don Tetragna opened his reptilian eyes and said, Let me be certain I 
understand. You are looking for a man. This is not Family business. It is a 
private grudge.
Yes, sir, Vince said.
You believe this man may have bought counterfeit papers and may be living under 
a new name. He would know how to obtain such papers, even though he is not a 
member of any Family, not of the fratellanza?
Yes, sir. His background is such that . . . he would know.
And you believe he would have obtained these papers in either Los Angeles or 
here, Don Tetragna said, gesturing toward the window and the city of San 
Francisco with one soft, pink hand.
Vince said, On August twenty-fifth he went on the run, starting from Santa 
Barbara by car because for various reasons he couldnt take a plane anywhere. I 
believe he wouldve wanted a new identity as quickly as he could get it. At 
first, I assumed hed go south and seek out counterfeit ID in Los
Angeles because that was closest. But Ive spent the better part of two months 
talking with all the right people in L.A., Orange County, and even San Diego, 
all the people to whom this man couldve gone for high-quality false ID, and 
Ive had a few leads, but none panned out. So if he didnt go south from Santa 
Barbara, he came north, and the only place in the north where he could get the 
kind of quality papers he would want
Is in our fair city, Don Tetragna said, gesturing again toward the window and 
smiling at the populous slopes below.
Vince supposed that the don was smiling fondly at his beloved San Francisco. But 
the smile didnt look fond. It looked avaricious.
And, Don Tetragna said, you would like for me to give you the names of the 
people who have my authorization to deal in papers such as this man needed.
If you can see it in your heart to grant me this favor, I would be most 
grateful.
They wont have kept records.
Yes, sir, but they might remember something.
Theyre in the business of not remembering.
But the human mind never forgets, Don Tetragna. No matter how hard it tries, it 
never really forgets.
How true. And you swear that the man you seek is not a member of any Family?
I swear it.
This execution must not in any way be traced to my Family.
I swear it.
Don Tetragna closed his eyes again, but not for as long as he had closed them 
before. When he opened them, he smiled broadly but, as always, it was a 
humorless smile. He was the least jolly fat man Vince had ever seen. When your 
father married a Swedish girl rather than one of his own people, his family 
despaired and expected the worst. But your mother was a good wife, unquestioning 
and obedient. And they produced youa most handsome son. But youre more than 
handsome. Youre a good soldier, Vincent. You have done fine, clean work for the 
Families in New York and New Jersey, for those in Chicago, and also for us on 
this coast. Not very long ago, you did me the great service of crushing the 
cockroach Pantangela.
For which you paid me most generously, Don Tetragna,
The Screwdriver waved one hand dismissively. Were all paid for our labors. But 
were not talking money here. Your years of loyalty and good service are worth 
more than money. Therefore, you are owed at least this One favor.
Thank you, Don Tetragna.
Youll be given the names of those who provide such papers in this City, and 
Ill see that they are all forewarned of your visit. Theyll cooperate fully.
If you say they will, Vince said, rising and bowing with only his head and 
shoulders, I know that it is true.
The don motioned him to Sit down. But before you attend to this private affair, 
Id like you to take another contract. Theres a man in Oakland who is giving me 
much grief. He thinks I cant touch him because hes politically well connected 
and well guarded. His name is Ramon Velazquez. This will be a difficult job, 
Vincent.
Vince carefully concealed his frustration and displeasure. He did not want to 
take on a troublesome hit right now. He wanted to concentrate on tracking down 
Travis Cornell and the dog. But he knew Tetragnas contract was more a demand 
than an offer. To get the names of the people who sold false papers, he must 
first waste Velazquez.
He said, I would be honored to squash any insect that has stung you. And 
therell be no charge this time.
Oh, Id insist on paying you, Vincent.
As ingratiatingly as he knew how, Vince smiled and said, Please, Don Tetragna, 
let me do this favor. It would give me great pleasure.
Tetragna appeared to consider the request, though this was what he expecteda 
free hit in return for helping Vince. He put both hands on his enormous belly 
and patted himself. I am such a lucky man. Wherever I turn, people want to do 
me favors, kindnesses.
Not lucky, Don Tetragna, Vince said, sick of their mannered conversation. You 
reap what you sow, and if you reap kindness it is because of the seeds of 
greater kindness youve sown so broadly.
Beaming, Tetragna accepted his offer to waste Velazquez for nothing. The 
nostrils of his porcine nose flared as if he had smelled something good to eat, 
and he said, But now tell me . . . to satisfy my curiosity, what will you do to 
this other man when you catch him, this man with whom you have a personal 
vendetta?
Blow his brains out and snatch his dog, Vince thought.
But he knew the kind of crap The Screwdriver wanted to hear, the same hard-assed 
stuff most of these guys wanted to hear from him, their favorite hired killer so 
he said, Don Tetragna, I intend to cut off his balls, cut off his ears, cut out 
his tongueand only then put an ice pick through his heart and stop his clock.
The fat mans eyes glittered with approval. His nostrils flared.
 
 
3
By Thanksgiving, The Outsider had not found the bleached-wood house in Big Sur.
Every night, Travis and Nora locked the shutters over the inside of the windows. 
They dead-bolted the doors. Retiring to the second floor, they slept with 
shotguns beside their bed and revolvers on their nightstands.
Sometimes, in the dead hours after midnight, they were awakened by strange 
noises in the yard or on the porch roof. Einstein padded from window
to window, sniffing urgently, but always he indicated that they had nothing to 
fear. On further investigation, Travis usually found a prowling raccoon or other 
forest creature.
Travis enjoyed Thanksgiving more than he had thought he would, given the 
circumstances. He and Nora cooked an elaborate traditional meal for just the 
three of them: roast turkey with chestnut dressing, a clam casserole, glazed 
carrots, baked corn, pepper slaw, crescent rolls, and pumpkin pie.
Einstein sampled everything because he had developed a much more sophisticated 
palate than an ordinary dog. He was still a dog, however, and though the only 
thing he strongly disliked was the sour pepper slaw, he preferred turkey above 
all else. That afternoon he spent a lot of time gnawing contentedly on the 
drumsticks.
Over the weeks, Travis had noticed that, like most dogs, Einstein would go out 
into the yard occasionally and eat a little grass, though sometimes it seemed to 
gag him. He did it again on Thanksgiving Day, and when Travis asked him if he 
liked the taste of grass, Einstein said no. Then why do you try to eat it 
sometimes?
NEED IT.
Why?
I DONT KNOW.
If you dont know what you need it for, then how do you know you need it at 
all? Instinct?
YES.
Just instinct?
DONT KNOCK IT.
That evening, the three of them sat in piles of pillows on the living-room floor 
in front of the big stone fireplace, listening to music. Einsteins golden coat 
was glossy and thick in the firelight. As Travis sat with one arm around Nora, 
petting the dog with his free hand, he thought eating grass must be a good idea 
because Einstein looked healthy and robust. Einstein sneezed a few times and 
coughed now and then, but those seemed natural reactions to the Thanksgiving 
overindulgence and to the warm, dry air in front of the fireplace. Travis was 
not for a moment concerned about the dogs health.
 
 
4
On the afternoon of Friday, November 26, the balmy day after Thanksgiving, 
Garrison Dilworth was aboard his beloved forty-two-foot Hinckley Souwester, 
Amazing Grace, in his boat slip in the Santa Barbara harbor. He was polishing 
brightwork and, diligently bent to his task, almost didnt see the two men in 
business suits as they approached along the dock. He looked up as they were 
about to announce themselves, and he knew who they were not their names, but 
who they must work foreven before they showed him their credentials.
One was named Johnson.
The other was Soames.
Pretending puzzlement and interest, he invited them aboard.
Stepping off the dock, down onto the deck, the one named Johnson said, Wed 
like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Dilworth.
What about? Garrison inquired, wiping his hands on a white rag.
Johnson was a black man of ordinary size, even a little gaunt, haggard-looking, 
yet imposing.
Garrison said, National Security Agency, you say? Surely, you dont think Im 
in the hire of the KGB?
Johnson smiled thinly. Youve done work for Nora Devon?
He raised his eyebrows. Nora? Are you serious? Well, I can assure you that Nora 
isnt the sort of person to be involved
You are her attorney, then? Johnson asked.
Garrison glanced at the freckle-faced younger man, Agent Soames, and again 
raised his eyebrows as if to ask if Johnson was always this chilly. Soames 
stared expressionlessly, taking his cue from the boss.
Oh my, were in trouble with these two, Garrison thought.
 
 
After his frustrating and unsuccessful questioning of Dilworth, Lem sent Cliff 
Soames off on a series of errands: begin the procedures to obtain a court order 
allowing taps to be placed on the attorneys home and office telephones; find 
the three pay phones nearest his office and the three nearest his house, and 
arrange for taps to be put on those as well; obtain telephone-company records of 
all long-distance calls made from Dilworths home and office phones; bring in 
extra men from the Los Angeles office to staff an around-the-clock surveillance 
of Dilworth, starting within three hours.
While Cliff was attending to those things, Lem strolled around the boat docks in 
the harbor, hoping the sounds of the sea and the calming sight of rolling water 
would help clear his mind and focus his thoughts on his problems. God knew, he 
needed desperately to get focused. Over six months had passed since the dog and 
The Outsider had escaped from Banodyne, and Lem had lost almost fifteen pounds 
in the pursuit. He had not slept well in months, had little interest in food, 
and even his sex life had suffered.
Theres such a thing as trying too hard, he told himself. It causes constipation 
of the mind.
But such admonishments did no good. He was still as blocked as a pipe full of 
concrete.
For three months, since they found Cornells Airstream in the school parking lot 
the day after Hockneys murder, Lem had known that Cornell and the woman had 
been returning, on that August night, from a trip to Vegas, Tahoe, and Monterey. 
Nightclub table cards from Vegas, hotel stationery, matchbooks, and gasoline 
credit-card receipts had been found in the trailer and pickup truck, pinpointing 
every stop of their itinerary. He had not known
the womans identity, yet he had assumed she was a girlfriend, nothing more, but 
of course he should never have assumed any such thing. Only a few days ago, when 
one of his own agents went to Vegas to marry, Lem had finally realized that 
Cornell and the woman could have gone to Vegas for that same purpose. Suddenly 
their trip had looked like a honeymoon. Within hours, he confirmed that Cornell 
had, in fact, been married in Clark County, Nevada, on August 11, to Nora Devon 
of Santa Barbara.
Seeking the woman, he discovered that her house had been sold six weeks ago, 
after shed vanished with Cornell. Looking into the sale, he found she had been 
represented by her attorney, Garrison Dilworth.
By freezing Cornells assets, Lem thought he had made it harder for the man to 
continue a fugitive existence, but now he discovered that Dilworth had helped 
slip twenty thousand out of Cornells bank and that all of the proceeds from the 
sale of the womans house had been transferred to her somehow. Furthermore, 
through Dilworth, she had closed out her local bank accounts four weeks ago, and 
that money also was in her hands. She and her husband and the dog might now have 
sufficient resources to remain in hiding for years.
Standing on the dock, Lem stared at the sun-spangled sea, which slapped 
rhythmically against the pilings. The motion nauseated him.
He looked up at the soaring, cawing seagulls. Instead of being calmed by their 
graceful flight, he grew edgy.
Garrison Dilworth was intelligent, clever, a born fighter. Now that the link had 
been made between him and the Cornells, the attorney promised to take the NSA to 
court to unfreeze Traviss assets. Youve filed no charges against the man, 
Dilworth had said. What toadying judge would grant the power to freeze his 
accounts? Your manipulation of the legal system to hamper an innocent citizen is 
unconscionable.
Lem could have filed charges against Travis and Nora Cornell for the violation 
of all sorts of laws designed to preserve the national security, and by doing so 
hed have made it impossible for Dilworth to continue lending assistance to the 
fugitives. But filing charges meant attracting media attention. Then the 
harebrained story about Cornells pet pantherand perhaps the NSAs entire 
cover-upwould come down like a paper house in a thunderstorm.
His only hope was that Dilworth would try to get in touch with the Cornells to 
tell them that his association with them had been at last uncovered and that 
contact between them would have to be far more circumspect in the future. Then, 
with luck, Lem would pinpoint the Cornells through their telephone number. He 
did not have much hope of everything working out that easily. Dilworth was no 
fool.
Looking around at the Santa Barbara yacht harbor, Lem tried to relax, for he 
knew he needed to be calm and fresh if he was to outthink the old attorney. The 
hundreds of pleasure boats at the docks, sails furled or packed away, bobbed 
gently on the rolling tide, and other boats with unfurled sails glided Serenely 
out toward the open sea, and people in bathing suits were sunning
on the decks or having early cocktails, and the gulls darted like stitching 
needles across the blue and white quilt of the sky, and people were fishing from 
the stone breakwater, and the scene was achingly picturesque, but it was also an 
image of leisure, great and calculated leisure, with which Lem Johnson could not 
identify. To Lem, too much leisure was a dangerous distraction from the cold, 
hard realities of life, from the competitive world, and any leisure activity 
that lasted longer than a few hours made him nervous and anxious to get back to 
work. Here was leisure measured in days, in weeks; here, in these expensive and 
lovingly crafted boats, was leisure measured in month long sailing excursions up 
and down the coast, so much leisure that it made Lern break into a sweat, made 
him want to scream.
He had The Outsider to worry about as well. There had been no sign of it since 
the day Travis Cornell had shot at it in his rented house, back at the end of 
August. Three months ago. What had the thing been doing in those three months? 
Where had it been hiding? Was it still after the dog? Was it dead?
Maybe, out in the wilds, it had been bitten by a rattlesnake, or maybe it had 
fallen off a cliff.
God, Lem thought, let it be dead, please, give me that much of a break. Let it 
be dead.
But he knew The Outsider was not dead because that would be too easy. Nothing in 
life was that easy. The damn thing was out there, stalking the dog. It had 
probably suppressed the urge to kill people it encountered because it knew each 
murder drew Lem and his men closer to it, and it did not want to be found before 
it had killed the dog. When the beast had torn the dog and the Cornells to 
bloody pieces, then it would once again begin to vent its rage on the population 
at large, and every death would hang heavily on Lem Johnsons conscience.
Meanwhile, the investigation into the murders of the Banodyne scientists was 
dead in the water. In fact, that second NSA task force had been dismantled. 
Obviously, the Soviets had hired outsiders for those hits, and there was no way 
to find out whom they had brought in.
A deeply tanned guy in white shorts and Top-Siders passed Lem and said, 
Beautiful day!
Like hell, Lem said.
 
 
5
The day after Thanksgiving, Travis walked into the kitchen to get a glass of 
milk and saw Einstein having a sneezing fit, but he did not think much of it. 
Nora, even quicker than Travis to worry about the retrievers welfare, was also 
unconcerned. In California, the pollen count peaks in spring and autumn; 
however, because the climate permits a twelve-month cycle of flowers, no season 
is pollen-free. Living in the woods, the situation was exacerbated.
That night, Travis was awakened by a sound he could not identify. Instantly 
alert, every trace of sleep banished, he sat up in the dark and reached for the 
shotgun on the floor beside the bed. Holding the Mossberg, he listened for the 
noise, and in a minute or so it came again: in the second-floor hallway.
He eased out of bed without waking Nora and went cautiously to the doorway. The 
hail, like most places in the house, was equipped with a low-wattage 
night-light, and in the pale glow Travis saw that the noise came from the dog. 
Einstein was standing near the head of the stairs, coughing and shaking his 
head.
Travis went to him, and the retriever looked up. You okay?
A quick wag of the tale: Yes.
He stooped and ruffled the dogs coat. You sure?
Yes.
For a minute, the dog pressed against him, enjoying being petted. Then he turned 
away from Travis, coughed a couple of times, and went downstairs.
Travis followed. In the kitchen, he found Einstein slurping water from the dish.
Having emptied the dish, the retriever went to the pantry, turned on the light, 
and began to paw lettered tiles out of the Lucite tubes.
THIRSTY.
Are you sure you feel well?
FINE. JUST THIRSTY. NIGHTMARE WOKE ME.
Surprised, Travis said, You dream?
DONT YOU?
Yeah. Too much.
He refilled the retrievers water dish, and Einstein emptied it again, and 
Travis filled it a second time. By then the dog had had enough. Travis expected 
him to want to go outside to pee, but the dog went upstairs instead and settled 
in the hall by the door of the bedroom in which Nora still slept.
In a whisper, Travis said, Listen, if you want to come in and sleep beside the 
bed, its all right.
That was what Einstein wanted. He curled up on the floor on Traviss side of the 
bed.
In the dark, Travis could reach out and easily touch both the shotgun and 
Einstein. He took greater reassurance from the presence of the dog than from the 
gun.
 
 
6
Saturday afternoon, just two days after Thanksgiving, Garrison Dilworth got in 
his Mercedes and drove slowly away from his house. Within two blocks he 
confirmed that the NSA still had a tail on him. It was a green Ford, Probably 
the same one that had followed him last evening. They stayed well back of him, 
and they were discreet, but he was not blind.
He still had not called Nora and Travis. Because he was being followed, he 
suspected his phones were being tapped as well. He could have gone to a pay 
phone, but he was afraid that the NSA could eavesdrop on the conversation with a 
directional microphone or some other high-tech gadget. And if they managed to 
record the push-button tones that he produced by punching in the Cornells 
number, they could easily translate those tones into digits and trace the number 
back to Big Sur. He would have to resort to deception to contact Travis and Nora 
safely.
He knew he had better act soon, before Travis or Nora phoned him. These days, 
with the technology available to them, the NSA could trace the call back to its 
origins as fast as Garrison would be able to warn Travis that the line was 
tapped.
So at two oclock Saturday afternoon, chaperoned by the green Ford, he drove to 
Della Colbys house in Montecito to take her to his boat, the Amazing Grace, for 
a lazy afternoon in the sun. At least that was what he had told her on the 
phone.
Della was Judge Jack Colbys widow. She and Jack were Garrisons and Francines 
best friends for twenty-five years before death broke up the foursome. Jack had 
died one year after Francine. Della and Garrison remained very close; they 
frequently went to dinner together, went dancing and walking and sailing. 
Initially, their relationship had been strictly platonic; they were simply old 
friends who had the fortuneor misfortuneto outlast everyone they most cared 
about, and they needed each other because they shared so many good times and 
memories that would be diminished when there was no longer anyone left with whom 
to reminisce. A year ago, when they suddenly found themselves in bed together, 
they had been surprised and overwhelmed with guilt. They felt as if they were 
cheating on their spouses, though Jack and Francine had died years ago. The 
guilt passed, of course, and now they were grateful for the companionship and 
gently burning passion that had unexpectedly brightened their late-autumn years.
When he pulled into Dellas driveway, she came out of the house, locked the 
front door, and hurried to his car. She was dressed in boat shoes, white slacks, 
a blue- and white-striped sweater, and a blue windbreaker. Although she was 
sixty-nine, and though her short hair was snow-white, she looked fifteen years 
younger.
He got out of the Mercedes, gave her a hug and a kiss, and said, Can we go in 
your car?
She blinked, Are you having trouble with yours?
No, he said. Id just rather take yours.
Sure.
She backed her Caddy out of the garage, and he got in on the passengers side. 
As she pulled into the street, he said, Im afraid my car might be bugged, and 
I dont want them hearing what Ive got to tell you.
Her expression was priceless.
Laughing, he said, No, Ive not gone senile overnight. If youll keep an eye on 
the rearview mirrow as you drive, youll see were being followed. Theyre very 
good, very subtle, but theyre not invisible.
He gave her time, and after a few blocks Della said, The green Ford, is it?
Thats them.
Whatve you gotten yourself into, dear?
Dont go straight to the harbor. Drive to the farmers market, and well buy 
some fresh fruit. Then drive to a liquor store, and well buy some wine. By 
then, Ill have told you everything.
Have you some secret life Ive never suspected? she asked, grinning at him. 
Are you a geriatric James Bond?
 
 
Yesterday, Lem Johnson had reopened a temporary headquarters in a claustrophobic 
office at the Santa Barbara Courthouse. The room had one narrow window. The 
walls were dark, and the overhead lighting fixture was so dim it left the 
corners full of hanging shadows like misplaced scarecrows. The borrowed 
furniture consisted of rejects from other offices. He had worked out of here in 
the day following the Hockney killing, but had closed it up after a week, when 
there was nothing more to be done in the area. Now, with the hope that Dilworth 
would lead them to the Cornells, Lem reopened the cramped field HQ, plugged in 
the phones, and waited for developments.
He shared the office with one assisting agentJim Vannwho was an almost 
too-earnest and too-dedicated twenty-five-year-old.
At the moment, Cliff Soames was in charge of the six-man team at the harbor, 
overseeing not only the NSA agents spotted throughout the area, but also 
coordinating the coverage of Garrison Dilworth with the Harbor Patrol and the 
Coast Guard. The shrewd old man apparently realized he was being followed, so 
Lem expected him, to make a break, to try to shake surveillance long enough to 
place a call to the Cornells in private. The most logical way for Garrison to 
throw off his tail was to head out to sea, go up or down the coast, put ashore 
on a launch, and telephone Cornell before his pursuers could relocate him. But 
he would be surprised to find himself accompanied out of the harbor by the local 
patrol; then, at sea, he would be followed by a Coast Guard cutter standing by 
for that purpose.
At three-forty, Cliff called to report that Dilworth and his lady friend were 
Sitting on the deck of the Amazing Grace, eating fruit and sipping wine, 
reminiscing a lot, laughing a little. From what we can pick up with directional 
microphones and from what we can see, Id say they dont have any intention of 
going anywhere. Except maybe to bed. They sure do seem to be a randy old pair.
Stay with them, Lem said. I dont trust him.
Another call came through from the search team that had secretly entered 
Dilworths house minutes after he had left. They had found nothing related to 
the Cornells or the dog.
Dilworths office had been carefully searched last night, and nothing had been 
found there, either. Likewise, a study of his phone records did not produce a 
number for the Cornells; if he had called them in the past, he always did so 
from a pay phone. An examination of his AT&T credit-card records showed no such 
calls, so if he had used a pay phone, he had not billed it to himself but had 
reversed the charges to the Cornells, leaving nothing to be traced. Which was 
not a good sign. Obviously, Dilworth had been exceedingly cautious even before 
he had known he was being watched.
 
 
Saturday, afraid the dog might be coming down with a cold, Travis kept an eye on 
Einstein. But the retriever sneezed only a couple of times and did not cough at 
all, and he seemed to be fit.
A freight company delivered ten large cartons containing all of Noras finished 
canvases that had been left behind in Santa Barbara. A couple of weeks ago, 
using a friends return address to insure that no link would exist between him 
and Nora Aimes, Garrison Dilworth had shipped the paintings to their new 
house.
Now, unpacking and unwrapping the canvases, creating piles of paper padding in 
the living room, Nora was transported. Travis knew that, for many years, this 
work was what she had lived for, and he could see that having the paintings with 
her again was not only a great joy to her but would probably spur her to return 
to her new canvases, in the spare bedroom, with greater enthusiasm.
You want to call Garrison and thank him? he asked.
Yes, absolutely! she said. But first, lets unpack them all and make sure 
none of them is damaged.
 
 
Posted around the harbor, posing as yacht owners and fishermen, Cliff Soames and 
the other NSA agents watched Dilworth and Della Colby and eavesdropped on them 
electronically as the day waned. Twilight descended without any indication that 
Dilworth intended to put to sea. Soon night fell, yet the attorney and his woman 
made no move.
Half an hour after dark, Cliff Soames got weary of pretending to fish off the 
stern of a Cheoy Lee sixty-six-foot sport yacht docked four slips away from 
Dilworths. He climbed the steps, went into the pilots cabin, and pulled the 
headphones off Hank Gorner, the agent who was monitoring the old couples 
conversation through a directional mike. He listened for himself.
. . . the time in Acapulco when Jack hired that fishing boat. .
. . . yes, the whole crew looked like pirates!
. . . we thought wed have our throats cut, be dumped at sea. .
but then it turned out they were all divinity students . . studying to be 
missionaries. . . and Jack said. .
Returning the headphones, Cliff said, Still reminiscing!
The other agent nodded. The cabin light was out, and Hank was illuminated only 
by a small, hooded, built-in work lamp above the chart table, so his features 
looked elongated and strange. Thats the way its been all day. At least they 
have some great stories.
Im going to the john, Cliff said wearily. Be right back.
Take ten hours if you want. Theyre not going anywhere.
A few minutes later, when Cliff returned, Hank Gorner pulled off his headphones 
and said, They went below decks.
Something up?
Not what wed hope. Theyre gonna jump each others bones.
Oh.
Cliff, jeez, I dont want to listen to this.
Listen, Cliff insisted.
Hank put one earphone to his head. Jeez, theyre undressing each other, and 
theyre as old as my grandparents. This is embarrassing.
Cliff sighed.
Now theyre quiet, Hank said, a frown of distaste creeping over his face. Any 
second theyre gonna start moaning, Cliff.
Listen, Cliff insisted. He snatched a light jacket off the table and went 
outside again so he wouldnt have to listen.
He took up his position in a chair on the stern deck, lifting the fishing pole 
once more.
The night was cool enough for the jacket, but otherwise it could not have been 
better. The air was clear and sweet, scented with just a slight tang of the sea. 
The moonless sky was full of stars. The water slapped lullingly against the dock 
pilings and against the hulls of the moored boats. Somewhere across the harbor, 
on another craft, someone was playing love songs from the forties. An engine 
turned overwhump-whump-whumpand there was something romantic about the sound. 
Cliff thought how nice it would be to own a boat and set out on a long trip 
through the South Pacific, toward palm-shaded islands Suddenly that idling 
engine roared, and Cliff realized it was the Amazing
Grace. As he rose from his chair, dropping the fishing pole, he saw Dilworths 
boat reversing out of its slip recklessly fast. It was a sailboat, and 
subconsciously Cliff had not expected it to move with sails furled, but it had 
auxiliary engines; they knew this, were prepared for this, but still it startled 
him. He hurried back to the cabin, Hank, get Harbor Patrol. Dilworths on the 
move.
But theyre in the sack.
Like hell they are! Cliff ran out to the bow deck and saw that Dilworth had 
already swung the Amazing Grace around and was headed toward the mouth of the 
harbor. No lights at the aft end of the boat, the area around
the wheel, just one small light forward. Jesus, he was really making a break for 
it.
 
 
By the time they unpacked all one hundred canvases, hung a few, and carried the 
rest into the unused bedroom, they were starving.
Garrisons probably having dinner now, too, Nora said. I dont want to 
interrupt him. Lets call him after weve eaten.
In the pantry, Einstein released letters from the Lucite tubes and spelled out a 
message: ITS DARK. CLOSE THE SHUTTERS FIRST.
Surprised and unsettled by his own uncharacteristic inattention to security, 
Travis hurried from room to room, closing the interior shutters and slipping the 
bolt-type latches in place. Fascinated by Noras paintings and delighted by the 
pleasure she exhibited in their arrival, he had not even noticed that night had 
arrived.
 
 
Halfway toward the mouth of the harbor, confident that distance and the engines 
roar now protected them from electronic eavesdroppers, Garrison said, Take me 
close to the outer point of the north breakwater, along the channels edge.
Are you sure about this? Della asked worriedly. Youre not a teenager.
He patted her bottom and said, Im better.
Dreamer.
He kissed her on the cheek and edged forward along the starboard railing, where 
he got into position for his jump. He was wearing dark blue swim trunks. He 
should have had a wetsuit because the water would be chilly. But he thought he 
ought to be able to swim to the breakwater, around the point of it, and haul 
himself out on the north side, out of sight of the harbor, all in a few minutes, 
long before the water temperature leached too much body heat from him.
Company! Della called from the wheel.
He looked back and saw a Harbor Patrol boat leaving the docks to the south, 
coming toward them on their port side.
They wont stop us, he thought. They have no legal right.
But he had to go over the side before the Patrol swung in and took up a position 
astern. From behind, they would see him vault the railing. As long as they were 
to port, the Amazing Grace would conceal his departure, and the boats 
phosphorescent wake would cover the first few seconds of his swim around the 
point of the breakwater, long enough for the Patrols attention to have moved on 
with Della.
They were heading out at the highest speed with which Della felt comfortable. 
The Hinckley Souwester jolted through the slightly choppy waters
with enough force to make it necessary for Garrison to hold fast to the railing. 
Still, they seemed to move past the stone wall of the breakwater at a 
frustratingly slow pace, and the Harbor Patrol drew nearer, but Garrison waited, 
waited, because he didnt want to go into the harbor a hundred yards short of 
its end. If he went in too soon, he would not be able to swim all the way out to 
the point and around it; instead, he would have to swim straight to the 
breakwater and climb its flank, within full sight of all observers. Now the 
patrol closed to within a hundred yardshe could see them when he rose from a 
crouch and looked across the Hinckleys cabin roofand began to swing around 
behind them, and Garrison could not wait much longer, could not The point! 
Della called from the wheel.
He threw himself over the railing, into the dark water, away from the boat.
The sea was cold. It shocked the breath out of him. He sank, could not find the 
surface, was seized by panic, flailed, thrashed, but then broke through to the 
air, gasping.
The Amazing Grace was surprisingly close. He felt as if he had been thrashing in 
confusion beneath the surface for a minute or more, but it must have been only a 
second or two because his boat was not yet far away. The Harbor Patrol was 
close, too, and he decided that even the churning wake of the Amazing Grace did 
not give him enough cover, so he took a deep breath and went under again, 
staying down as long as he could. When he came up, both Della and her shadowers 
were well past the mouth of the harbor, turning south, and he was safe from 
observation.
The outgoing tide was swiftly carrying him past the point of the northern 
breakwater, which was a wall of loose boulders and rocks that rose more than 
twenty feet above the waterline, mottled gray and black ramparts in the night. 
He not only had to swim around the end of that barrier but had to move toward 
land against the resistant current. Without further delay, he began to swim, 
wondering why on earth he had thought this would be a snap.
Youre almost seventy-one, he told himself as he stroked past the rocky point, 
which was illuminated by a navigation-warning light. What ever possessed you to 
play hero?
But he knew what possessed him: a deep-seated belief that the dog must remain 
free, that it must not be treated as the governments property. If weve come so 
far that we can create as God creates, then we have to learn to act with the 
justice and mercy of God. That was what he had told Nora and Travisand 
Einsteinon the night Ted Hockney had been killed, and he had meant every word 
hed said.
Salt water stung his eyes, blurred his vision. Some had gotten into his mouth, 
and it burned a small ulcer on his lower lip.
He fought the current, pulled past the point of the breakwater, out of sight of 
the harbor, then slashed toward the rocks. Reaching them at last, he hung onto 
the first boulder he touched, gasping, not yet quite able to pull himself out of 
the water.
In the intervening weeks since Nora and Travis went on the run, Garrison had 
plenty of time to think about Einstein, and he felt even more strongly that to 
imprison an intelligent creature, innocent of all crime, was an act of grave 
injustice, regardless of whether the prisoner was a dog. Garrison had devoted 
his life to the pursuit of justice that was made possible by the laws of a 
democracy, and to the maintenance of the freedom that grew from this justice. 
When a man of ideals decides he is too old to risk everything for what he 
believes in, then he is no longer a man of ideals. He may no longer be a man at 
all. That hard truth had driven him, in spite of his age, to make this night 
swim. Funnythat a long life of idealism should, after seven decades, be put to 
the ultimate test over the fate of a dog.
But what a dog.
And what a wondrous new world we live in, he thought.
Genetic technology might have to be rechristened genetic art, for every work 
of art was an act of creation, and no act of creation was finer or more 
beautiful than the creation of an intelligent mind.
Getting his second wind, he heaved entirely out of the water, onto the sloped 
north flank of the northern breakwater. That barrier rose between him and the 
harbor, and he moved inland, along the rocks, while the sea surged at his left 
side. Hed brought a waterproof penlight, clipped to his trunks, and now he used 
it to proceed, barefoot, with the greatest caution, afraid of slipping on the 
wet stones and breaking a leg or an ankle.
He could see the city lights a few hundred yards ahead, and the vague silvery 
line of the beach.
He was cold but not as cold as he had been in the water. His heart was beating 
fast but not as fast as before.
He was going to make it.
 
 
Lem Johnson drove down from the temporary HO in the courthouse, and Cliff met 
him at the empty boat slip where the Amazing Grace had been tied up. A wind had 
risen. Hundreds of craft along the docks were wallowing slightly in their 
berths; they creaked, and slack sail lines clicked and clinked against their 
masts. Dock lamps and neighboring boat lanterns cast shimmering patterns of 
light on the dark, oily-looking water where Dilworths forty-two-footer had been 
moored.
Harbor Patrol? Lem asked worriedly.
They followed him out to open sea. Seemed as if he was going to turn north, 
swung close by the point, but then he went south instead.
Did Dilworth see them?
He had to. As you seeno fog, lots of stars, clear as a bell.
Good. I want him to be aware. Coast Guard?
Ive talked to the cutter, Cliff assured him. Theyre on the spot, flanking 
the Amazing Grace at a hundred yards, heading south along the coast.
Shivering in the rapidly cooling air, Lem said, They know he might try putting 
ashore in a rubber boat or whatever?
They know, Cliff said. He cant do it under their noses.
Is the Guard sure he sees them?
Theyre lit up like a Christmas tree.
Good. I want him to know its hopeless. If we can just keep him from warning 
the Cornells, then theyll call him sooner or laterand well have them. Even if 
they call him from a pay phone, well know their general location.
In addition to taps on Dilworths home and office phones, the NSA had installed 
tracing equipment that would lock open a line the moment a connection was made, 
and keep it open even after both parties hung up, until the callers number and 
street address were ascertained and verified. Even if Dilworth shouted a warning 
and hung up the instant he recognized one of the Cornells voices, it would be 
too late. The only way he could try to foil the NSA was by not answering his 
phone at all. But even that would do him no good because, after the sixth ring, 
every incoming call was being automatically answered by the NSAs equipment, 
which opened the line and began tracing procedures.
The only thing could screw us now, Lem said, is if Dilworth gets to a phone 
we dont have monitored and warns the Cornells not to call him.
Its not going to happen, Cliff said. Were on him tight.
I wish you wouldnt say that, Lem worried. As the wind got hold of it, a metal 
clip on a loose line clanged loudly off a spar, and the sound made Lem jump. My 
dad always said the worst happens when you least expect it.
Cliff shook his head. With all due respect, sir, the more I hear you quote your 
father, the more I think he mustve been just about the gloomiest man who ever 
lived.
Looking around at the wallowing boats and wind-chopped water, feeling as if he 
was moving instead of standing still in a moving world, a little queasy, Lem 
said, Yeah . . . my dad was a great guy in his way, but he was also . . . 
impossible.
Hank Gorner shouted, Hey! He was running along the dock from the
Cheoy Lee where he and Cliff had been stationed all day. Ive just been on
With the Guard cutter. Theyre playing their searchlight over the Amazing
Grace, intimidating a little, and they tell me they dont see Dilworth. Just
the woman.
Lem said, But, Christ, hes running the boat!
No, Gorner said. Theres no lights in the Amazing Grace, but the Guards 
searchlight brightens up the whole thing, and they say the womans at the 
wheel.
Its all right. Hes just below deck, Cliff said.
No, Lem said as his heart started to pound. He wouldnt be below deck
at a time like this. Hed be studying the cutter, deciding whether to keep going 
or turn back. Hes not on the Amazing Grace.
But he has to be! He didnt get off before she pulled out of the dock.
Lem stared out across the crystalline-clear harbor, toward the light near the 
end of the northern breakwater. You said the damn boat swung out close to the 
north point, and it looked as if he was going north, but then he suddenly swung 
south.
Shit, Cliff said.
Thats where he dropped off, Lem said. Out by the point of the northern 
breakwater. Without a rubber boat. Swimming, by God.
Hes too old for that crap, Cliff protested.
Evidently not. He went around the other side, and hes headed for a phone on 
one of the northern public beaches. Weve got to stop him, and fast.
Cliff cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted the first names of the four 
agents who were positioned on other boats along the docks. His voice carried, 
echoing flatly off the water, in spite of the wind. Men came running, and even 
as Cliffs shouts faded away across the harbor, Lem was sprinting for his car in 
the parking lot.
The worst happens when you least expect it.
 
 
As Travis was rinsing dinner dishes, Nora said, Look at this.
He turned and saw that she was standing by Einsteins food and water dishes. The 
water was gone, but half his dinner remained.
She said, When have you known him to leave a single scrap?
Never. Frowning, Travis wiped his hands on the kitchen towel. The last few 
days . . . Ive thought maybe hes coming down with a cold or something, but he 
says he feels fine. And today he hasnt been sneezing or coughing like he was.
They went into the living room, where the retriever was reading Black Beauty 
with the help of his page-turning machine.
They knelt beside him, and he looked up, and Nora said, Are you sick, 
Einstein?
The retriever barked once, softly: No.
Are you sure?
A quick wag of the tail: Yes.
You didnt finish your dinner, Travis said.
The dog yawned elaborately.
Nora said, Are you telling us youre a little tired?
Yes.
If you were feeling ill, Travis said, youd let us know right away, wouldnt 
you, fur face?
Yes.
Nora insisted on examining Einsteins eyes, mouth, and ears for obvious signs
of infection, but at last she said, Nothing. He seems okay. I guess even 
Superdog has a right to be tired once in a while.
 
 
The wind had come up fast. It was chilly, and under its lash the waves rose 
higher than they had been all day.
A mass of gooseflesh, Garrison reached the landward end of the north flank of 
the harbors northern breakwater. He was relieved to depart the hard and 
sometimes jagged stones of that rampart for the sandy beach. He was sure he had 
scraped and cut both feet; they felt hot, and his left foot stung with each 
step, forcing him to limp.
At first he stayed close to the surf, away from the tree-lined park that lay 
behind the beach. Over there, where park lamps lit the walkways and where 
spotlights dramatically highlighted the palms, he would be more easily seen from 
the street. He did not think anyone would be looking for him; he was sure his 
trick had worked. However, if anyone was looking for him, he did not want to 
call attention to himself.
The gusting wind tore foam off the incoming breakers and flung it in Garrisons 
face, so he felt as if he was continuously running through spiders webs. The 
stuff stung his eyes, which had finally stopped tearing from his dunk in the 
sea, and at last he was forced to move away from the surf line, farther up the 
beach, where the softer sand met the lawn but where he was still out of the 
lights.
Young people were on the darkish beach, dressed for the chill of the night:
couples on blankets, cuddling; small groups smoking dope, listening to music. 
Eight or ten teenage boys were gathered around two all-terrain vehicles with 
balloon tires, which were not allowed on the beach during the day and most 
likely werent allowed at night.. They were drinking beer beside a pit theyd 
dug in the sand to bury their bottles if they saw a cop approaching; they were 
talking loudly about girls, and indulging in horseplay. No one gave Garrison 
more than a glance as he hurried by. In California, health-food-and-exercise 
fanatics were as common as street muggers in New York, and if an old man wanted 
to take a cold swim and then run on the beach in the dark, he was no more 
remarkable or noteworthy than a priest in a church.
As he headed north, Garrison scanned the park to his right in search of pay 
phones. They would probably be in pairs, prominently illuminated, on islands of 
concrete beside one of the walkways or perhaps near one of the public comfort 
stations.
He was beginning to despair, certain that he must have passed at least one group 
of telephones, that his old eyes were failing him, but then he saw what he was 
looking for. Two pay phones with winglike sound shields. Brightly lighted. They 
were about a hundred feet in from the beach, midway between the sand and the 
street that flanked the other side of the park.
Turning his back to the churning sea, he slowed to catch his breath and
walked across the grass, under the wind-shaken fronds of a cluster of three 
stately royal palms. He was still forty feet from the phones when he saw a car, 
traveling at high speed, suddenly break and pull to the curb with a squeal of 
tires, parking in a direct line from the phones. Garrison didnt know who they 
were, but he decided not to take any chances. He sidled into the cover provided 
by a huge old double-boled date palm that was, fortunately, not one of those 
fitted with decorative spotlights. From the notch between the trunks, he had a 
view of the phones and of the walkway leading out to the curb where the car had 
parked.
Two men got out of the sedan. One sprinted north along the park perimeter, 
looking inward, searching for something.
The other man rushed straight into the park along the walkway. When he reached 
the lighted area around the phones, his identity was clearand shocking.
Lemuel Johnson.
Behind the trunks of the Siamese date palms, Garrison drew his arms and legs 
closer to his body, sure that the joined bases of the trees provided him with 
plenty of cover but trying to make himself smaller nevertheless.
Johnson went to the first phone, lifted the handsetand tried to tear it out of 
the coinbox. It had one of those flexible metal cords, and he yanked on it hard, 
repeatedly, with little effect. Finally, cursing the instruments toughness, he 
ripped the handset loose and threw it across the park. Then he destroyed the 
second phone.
For a moment, as Johnson turned away from the phones and walked straight toward 
Garrison, the attorney thought that he had been seen. But Johnson stopped after 
only a few steps and scanned the seaward end of the park and the beach beyond. 
His gaze did not appear to rest even momentarily on the date palms behind which 
Garrison hid.
You damn crazy old bastard, Johnson said, then hurried back toward his car.
Crouched in shadows behind the palms, Garrison grinned because he knew whom the 
NSA man was talking about. Suddenly, the attorney did not mind the chill wind 
sweeping off the night sea behind him.
Damn crazy old bastard or geriatric James Bondtake your pick. Either way, he 
was still a man to be reckoned with.
 
 
In the basement switching room of the telephone company, Agents Rick Olbier and 
Denny Jones were tending the NSAs electronic tapping and tracing equipment, 
monitoring Garrison Dilworths office and home lines. It was dull duty, and they 
played cards to make the time pass: two-hand pinochle and five-hundred rummy, 
neither of which was a good game, but the very idea of two-hand poker repelled 
them.
When a call came through to Dilworths home number at fourteen minutes past 
eight oclock, Olbier and Jones reacted with far more excitement than
the situation warranted because they were desperate for action. Olbier dropped 
his cards on the floor, and Jones threw his on the table, and they reached for 
the two headsets as if this was World War II and they were expecting to overhear 
a top-secret conversation between Hitler and Goring.
Their equipment was set to open the line and lock in a tracer pulse if Dilworth 
did not answer by the sixth ring. Because he knew the attorney was not at home 
and that the phone would not be answered, Olbier overrode the program and opened 
the line after the second ring.
On the computer screen, green letters announced: NOW TRACING.
And on the open line, a man said, Hello?
Hello, Jones said into the mike on his headset.
The callers number and his local Santa Barbara address appeared on the screen. 
This system worked much like the 911 police emergency computer, providing 
instant identification of the caller. But now, above the address on the screen, 
a companys rather than an individuals name appeared: TELEPHONE SOLICITATIONS, 
INC.
On the line, responding to Denny Jones, the caller said, Sir, Im pleased to 
tell you that you have been selected to receive a free eight-by-ten photograph 
and ten free pocket prints of any
Jones said, Who is this?
The computer was now searching data banks of Santa Barbara street addresses to 
cross-check the ID of the caller.
The voice on the phone said, Well, Im calling in behalf of Olin Mills, sir, 
the photography studio, where the finest quality
Wait a sec, Jones said.
The computer verified the identity of the telephone subscriber who placed the 
call: Dilworth was getting a sales pitch, nothing more.
I dont want any! Jones said sharply, and disconnected.
Shit, Olbier said.
Pinochle? Jones said.
 
 
In addition to the six men who had been at the harbor, Lem called in four more 
from the temporary HQ at the courthouse.
He stationed five along the perimeter of the Oceanside park, a few hundred yards 
apart. Their job was to watch the wide avenue that separated the park from a 
business district, where there were a lot of motels but also restaurants, Yogurt 
shops, gift shops, and other retail enterprises. All of the businesses had 
phones, of course, and even some of the motels would have pay phones in their 
front offices; using any of them, the attorney could alert Travis and Nora 
Cornell. At this hour on a Saturday evening, some stores were closed, but some 
of themand all of the restaurantswere open. Dilworth must not be permitted to 
cross the street.
The sea wind was stiffening and growing chillier. The men stood with their hands 
in their jackets, heads tucked down, shivering.
Palm fronds were rattled by sudden gusts. Tree-roosting birds shrilled in alarm, 
then resettled.
Lem sent another agent to the southwest corner of the park, out by the base of 
the breakwater that separated the public beach from the harbor on the other 
side. His job was to prevent Dilworth from returning to the breakwater, climbing 
it, and sneaking back across the harbor to phones in another part of the city.
A seventh man was dispatched to the northwest corner of the park, down by the 
water line, to be sure Dilworth did not proceed north onto private beaches and 
into residential areas where he might persuade someone to allow him to use an 
unmonitored phone.
Just Lem, Cliff, and Hank were left to comb through the park and adjoining beach 
in search of the attorney. He knew he had too few men for the job, but these 
tenplus Olbier and Jones at the telephone companywere the only people he had 
in town. He could see no point ordering in more agents from the Los Angeles 
office; by the time they arrived, Dilworth would either have been found and 
stoppedor would have succeeded in calling the Cornells.
 
 
The roofless all-terrain vehicle was equipped with a roll bar. It had two bucket 
seats, behind which was a four-foot-long cargo area that could accommodate 
additional passengers or a considerable amount of gear.
Garrison was flat on his stomach on the floor of the cargo hold, under a 
blanket. Two teenage boys were in the bucket seats, and two more were in the 
cargo hold on top of Garrison, sprawled as if they were sitting on nothing more 
than a pile of blankets. They were trying to keep the worst of their weight off 
Garrison, but he still felt half-crushed.
The engine sounded like angry wasps: a high, hard buzzing. It deafened Garrison 
because his right ear was flat against the cargo bed, which transmitted and 
amplified every vibration.
Fortunately, the soft beach provided a relatively smooth ride.
The vehicle stopped accelerating, slowed, and the engine noise dropped 
dramatically.
Shit, one of the boys whispered to Garrison, theres a guy ahead with a 
flashlight, flagging us down.
They drew to a halt, and over the whispery idling of the engine, Garrison heard 
a man say, Where you boys headed?
Up the beach.
Thats private property up there. You have any right up there?
Its where we live, Tommy, the driver, responded.
Is that so?
Dont we look like a bunch of spoiled rich kids? one of them asked, playing 
wiseass.
What you been up to? the man asked suspiciously.
Beach cruisin, hangin out. But it got too cold.
You boys been drinking?
You dolt, Garrison thought as he listened to the interrogator. These are 
teenagers youre talking to, poor creatures whose hormonal imbalances have 
thrown them into rebellion against all authority for the next couple of years. I 
have their sympathy because Im in flight from the cops, and theyll take my 
side without even knowing what Ive done. If you want their cooperation, youll 
never get it by bullying them.
Drinking? Hell no, another boy said. Check the cooler in back if you want. 
Nothing in it but Dr. Pepper.
Garrison, who was pressed up against the ice chest, hoped to God the man would 
not come around to the back of the vehicle and have a look. If the guy got that 
close he would almost surely see there was something vaguely human about the 
shape under the blanket on which the boys were sitting.
Dr. Pepper, huh? What kind of beer was in there before you drank it all?
Hey, man, Tommy said. Whyre you hassling us? Are you a cop or what?
Yeah, in fact, I am.
Wheres your uniform? one of the boys asked.
Undercover. Listen, Im disposed to let you kids go on, not check your breath 
for liquor or anything. But I have to knowdid you see an old white-haired guy 
on the beach tonight?
Who cares about old guys? one of the boys asked. We were looking for women.
Youd have noticed this old character if youd seen him. Hed most likely have 
been wearing swim trunks.
Tonight? Tommy said. Its almost December, man. You feel that wind?
Maybe he was wearing something else.
Didnt see him, Tommy said. No old guy with white hair. Any you guys see 
him?
The other three said they had not seen any old fart fitting the description they 
had been given, and then they were allowed to drive on, north from the public 
beach, into a residential area of seaside homes and private beaches.
When they had rounded a low hill and were out of sight of the man who had 
stopped them, they pulled the blanket off Garrison, and he sat up with 
considerable relief.
Tommy dropped the other three boys off at their houses and took Garrison home 
with him because his parents were out for the evening. He lived in a house that 
looked like a ship with multiple decks, slung over a bluff, all glass and 
angles.
Following Tommy into the foyer, Garrison caught a glimpse of himself in a 
mirror. He looked nothing like the dignified silver-haired barrister known by 
everyone in the citys courts. His hair was wet, dirty, and matted. His face Was 
smeared with dirt. Sand, bits of grass, and threads of seaweed were stuck
to his bare skin and tangled in his gray chest hair. He grinned happily at 
himself.
Theres a phone in here, Tommy said from the den.
 
 
After preparing dinner, eating, cleaning up, and then worrying about Einsteins 
loss of appetite, Nora and Travis had forgotten about calling Garrison Dilworth 
and thanking him for the care with which he had packaged and shipped her 
paintings. They were sitting in front of the fireplace when she remembered.
In the past, when they had called Garrison, they had done so from public phones 
in Carmel. That had proved to be an unnecessary precaution. And now, tonight, 
neither of them was in the mood to get in the car and drive into town.
We could wait and call him from Carmel tomorrow, Travis said.
Itll be safe to phone from here, she said. If theyd made a link between you 
and Garrison, hed have called and warned us off.
He might not know theyve made a link, Travis said. He might not know theyre 
watching him.
Garrison would know, she said firmly.
Travis nodded. Yeah, Im sure he would.
So its safe to call him.
She was halfway to the phone when it rang.
The operator said, I have a collect call for anyone from a Mr. Garrison 
Dilworth in Santa Barbara. Will you accept the charges?
 
 
A few minutes before ten oclock, after conducting a thorough but fruitless 
search of the park and beach, Lem reluctantly admitted that Garrison Dilworth 
had somehow gotten past him. He sent his men back to the courthouse and harbor.
He and Cliff also drove back to the harbor to the sport yacht from which they 
had based their surveillance of Dilworth. When they put in a call to the Coast 
Guard cutter pursuing the Amazing Grace, they learned that the attorney's lady 
had turned around well short of Ventura and was heading north along the coast, 
back to Santa Barbara.
She entered the harbor at ten thirty-six.
At the empty slip belonging to Garrison, Lem and Cliff huddled in the crisp 
wind, watching her bring the Hinckley smoothly and gently into its mooring. It 
was a beautiful boat, beautifully handled.
She had the gall to shout at them, Dont just stand there! Grab the lines and 
help tie her up!
They obliged primarily because they were anxious to speak with her and could not 
do so until the Amazing Grace was secured.
Once their assistance had been rendered, they stepped through the railing gate. 
Cliff was wearing Top-Siders as part of his boaters disguise, but Lem was in 
street shoes and not at all sure-footed on the wet deck, especially as the boat 
was rocking slightly.
Before they could say a word to the woman, a voice behind them said, Excuse me, 
gentlemen
Lem turned and saw Garrison Dilworth in the glow of a dock lamp, just boarding 
the boat behind them. He was wearing someone elses clothes. His pants were much 
too big in the waist, cinched in with a belt. They were too short in the legs, 
so his bare ankles were revealed. He wore a voluminous shirt.
please excuse me, but Ive got to get into some warm clothes of my own and 
have a pot of coffee
Lem said, God damn it.
to thaw out these old bones.
After a gasp of astonishment, Cliff Soames let out a hard bark of laughter, then 
glanced at Lem and said, Sorry.
Lems stomach cramped and burned with an incipient ulcer. He did not wince with 
pain, did not double over, did not even put a hand on his gut, gave no 
indication of discomfort because any such sign from him might increase 
Dilworths satisfaction. Lem just glared at the attorney, at the woman, then 
left without saying a word.
That damn dog, Cliff said as he fell into step at Lems side on the dock, 
sure inspires one hell of a lot of loyalty.
Later, bedding down in a motel because he was too tired to close the temporary 
field office tonight and go home to Orange County, Lem Johnson thought about 
what Cliff had said. Loyalty. One hell of a lot of loyalty.
Lem wondered if he had ever felt such a strong bond of loyalty to anyone as the 
Cornells and Garrison Dilworth apparently felt toward the retriever. He tossed 
and turned, unable to sleep, and he finally realized there was no use trying to 
switch off his inner lights until he satisfied himself that he was capable of 
the degree of loyalty and commitment that he had seen in the Cornells and their 
attorney.
He sat up in the darkness, leaning against the headboard.
Well, sure, he was damn loyal to his country, which he loved and honored.
And he was loyal to the Agency. But to another person? All right, Karen.
His wife. He was loyal to Karen in every wayin his heart, mind, and gonads.
He loved Karen. He had loved her deeply for almost twenty years.
Yeah, he said aloud in the empty motel room at two oclock in the morning, 
yeah, if youre so loyal to Karen, why arent you with her now?
But he wasnt being fair to himself. After all, he had a job to do, an important 
job.
Thats the trouble, he muttered, youve alwaysalwaysgot a job to do.
He slept away from home more than a hundred nights a year, one in three. And 
when he was home, he was distracted half the time, his mind on the
latest case. Karen had once wanted children, but Lem had delayed the start of a 
family, claiming that he could not handle the responsibility of children until 
he was sure his career was secure.
Secure? he said. Man, you inherited your daddys money. You started out with 
more of a cushion than most people.
If he was as loyal to Karen as those people were to that mutt, then his 
commitment to her should mean that her desires ought to come before all others. 
If Karen wanted a family, then family should take precedence over career. Right? 
At least he should have compromised and started a family when they were in their 
early thirties. His twenties could have gone to the career, his thirties to 
child-rearing. Now he was forty-five, almost forty-six, and Karen was 
forty-three, and the time for starting a family had passed.
Lem was overcome with a great loneliness.
He got out of bed, went into the bathroom in his shorts, switched on the light, 
and stared hard at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. He 
had lost so much weight on this case that his face was beginning to look 
downright skeletal.
Stomach cramps seized him, and he bent over, holding onto the sides of the sink, 
his face in the basin. Hed been afflicted only for the past month or so, but 
his condition seemed to be worsening with startling speed. The pain took a long 
time to pass.
When he confronted his reflection in the mirror again, he said, Youre not even 
loyal to your own self, you asshole. Youre killing yourself, working yourself 
to death, and you cant stop. Not loyal to Karen, not loyal to yourself. Not 
really loyal to your country or the Agency, when it comes right down to it. 
Hell, the only thing youre totally and unswervingly committed to is your old 
mans crackpot vision of life as a tightrope walk.
Crackpot.
That word seemed to reverberate in the bathroom long after hed spoken it. He 
had loved and respected his father, had never said a word against him. Yet today 
he had admitted to Cliff that his dad had been impossible. And nowcrackpot 
vision. He still loved his dad and always would. But he was beginning to wonder 
if a son could love a father and, at the same time, completely reject his 
fathers teachings.
A year ago, a month ago, even a few days ago, he would have said it was 
impossible to hold fast to that love and still be his own man. But now, by God, 
it seemed not only possible but essential that he separate his love for his 
father from his adherence to his fathers workaholic code.
Whats happening to me? he wondered.
Freedom? Freedom, at last, at forty-five?
Squinting into the mirror, he said, Almost forty-six.
 
 
NINE
1
Sunday, Travis noted that Einstein still had less of an appetite than usual, but 
by Monday, November 29, the retriever seemed fine. On Monday and Tuesday, 
Einstein finished every scrap of his meals, and he read new books. He sneezed 
only once and did not cough at all. He drank more water than in the past, though 
not an excessive amount. If he seemed to spend more time by the fireplace, if he 
padded through the house less energetically . . . well, winter was swiftly 
settling upon them, and animals behavior changed with the seasons.
At a bookstore in Carmel, Nora bought a copy of The Dog Owners Home Veterinary 
Handbook. She spent a few hours at the kitchen table, reading, researching the 
possible meanings of Einsteins symptoms. She discovered that listlessness, 
partial loss of appetite, sneezing, coughing, and unusual thirst could signify a 
hundred ailmentsor mean nothing at all. About the only thing it couldnt be is 
a cold, she said. Dogs dont get colds like we do. But by the time she got 
the book, Einsteins symptoms had diminished to such an extent that she decided 
he was probably perfectly healthy.
In the pantry off the kitchen, Einstein used the Scrabble tiles to tell them:
FIT AS A FIDDLE.
Stooping beside the dog, stroking him, Travis said, I guess you ought to know 
better than anyone.
WHY SAY FIT AS A FIDDLE?
Replacing the tiles in their Lucite tubes, Travis said, Well, because it 
meanshealthy.
BUT WHY DOES IT MEAN HEALTHY?
Travis thought about the metaphorfit as a fiddleand realized he was not sure 
why it meant what it did. He asked Nora, and she came to the pantry door, but 
she had no explanation for the phrase, either.
Pawing out more letters, pushing them around with his nose, the retriever asked: 
WHY SAY SOUND AS A DOLLAR?
Sound as a dollarmeaning healthy or reliable, Travis said.
Stooping beside them, speaking to the dog, Nora said, That ones easier. The 
United States dollar was once the soundest, most stable currency in the World. 
Still is, I suppose. For decades, there was no terrible inflation in the dollar 
like in some other currencies, no reason to lose faith in it, so folks
said, Im as sound as a dollar. Of course, the dollar isnt what it once was, 
and the phrase isnt as fitting as it used to be, but we still use it.
WHY STILL USE IT?
Because . . . weve always used it, Nora said, shrugging.
WHY SAY HEALTHY AS A HORSE? HORSES NEVER SICK?
Gathering up the tiles and sorting them back into their tubes, Travis said, No, 
in fact, horses are fairly delicate animals in spite of their size. They get 
sick pretty easily.
Einstein looked expectantly from Travis to Nora.
Nora said, We probably say were healthy as a horse because horses look strong 
and seem like they shouldnt ever get sick, even though they get sick all the 
time.
Face it, Travis told the dog, we humans say things all the time that dont 
make sense.
Pumping the letter-dispensing pedals with his paw, the retriever told them:
YOU ARE A STRANGE PEOPLE.
Travis looked at Nora, and they both laughed.
Beneath YOU ARE A STRANGE PEOPLE, the retriever spelled: BUT I LIKE YOU ANYWAY.
Einsteins inquisitiveness and sense of humor seemed, more than anything else, 
to indicate that, if he had been mildly ill, he was now recovered.
That was Tuesday.
On Wednesday, December 1, while Nora painted in her second-floor studio, Travis 
devoted the day to inspecting his security system and to routine weapons 
maintenance.
In every room, a firearm was carefully concealed under furniture or behind a 
drape or in a closet, but always within easy reach. They owned two Mossberg 
pistol-grip shotguns, four Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnums loaded with 
.357s, two .38 pistols that they carried with them in the pickup and Toyota, an 
Uzi carbine, two Uzi pistols. They could have obtained their entire arsenal 
legally, from a local gun shop, once they purchased a house and established 
residence in the county, but Travis had not been willing to wait that long. He 
had wanted to have the weapons on the first night they settled into their new 
home; therefore, through Van Dyne in San Francisco, he and Nora had located an 
illegal arms salesman and had acquired what they needed. Of course, they could 
not have bought conversion kits for the Uzis from a licensed gun dealer. But 
they were able to purchase three such kits in San Francisco, and now the Uzi 
carbine and pistols were fully automatic.
Travis moved from room to room, checking that the weapons were properly 
positioned, that they were free of dust, that they did not need to be oiled, and 
that their magazines were fully loaded. He knew that everything would be in 
order, but he just felt more comfortable if he conducted this inspection once a 
week. Though he had been out of uniform for many years, the old military 
training and methodology were still a part of him, and under pressure they 
surfaced more quickly than he had expected.
Taking a Mossberg with them, he and Einstein also walked around the
house, stopping at each of the small infrared sensors that were, as much as 
possible, placed inconspicuously against backdrops of rocks or plants, snug 
against the trunks of a few trees, at the corners of the house, and beside an 
old rotting pine stump at the edge of the driveway. He had bought the components 
on the open market, from an electronics dealer in San Francisco. It was dated 
stuff, not at all state-of-the-art security technology, but he chose it because 
he was familiar with it from his days in Delta Force, and it was good enough for 
his purposes. Lines from the sensors ran underground, to an alarm box in one of 
the kitchen cupboards. When the system was switched on at night, nothing larger 
than a raccoon could come within thirty feet of the houseor enter the barn at 
the back of the propertywithout tripping the alarm. No bells would ring, and no 
sirens would blare because that would alert The Outsider and might run it off. 
They didnt want to chase it away; they wanted to kill it. Therefore, when the 
system was tripped, it turned on clock radios in every room of the house, all of 
which were set at low volume so as not to frighten off an intruder but high 
enough to warn Travis and Nora.
Today, all the sensors were in place, as usual. All he had to do was wipe off 
the light film of dust that had coated the lenses.
The palace moat is in good repair, mlord, Travis said.
Einstein woofed approval.
In the rust-red barn, Travis and Einstein examined the equipment that, they 
hoped, would provide a nasty surprise for The Outsider.
In the northwest corner of the shadowy interior, to the left of the big rolling 
door, a pressurized steel tank was clamped in a wall rack. In the diagonally 
opposite southeast corner at the back of the building, beyond the pickup and 
car, an identical vessel was bolted to an identical rack. They resembled large 
propane tanks of the sort people used at summer cabins for gas cooking, but they 
did not hold propane. They were filled with nitrous oxide, which was sometimes 
inaccurately called laughing gas. The first whiff did exhilarate you and make 
you want to laugh, but the second whiff knocked you out before the laugh could 
escape your lips. Dentists and surgeons frequently used nitrous oxide as an 
anesthetic. Travis had purchased it from a medical-supply house in San 
Francisco.
After switching on the barn lights, Travis checked the gauges on both tanks. 
Full pressure.
In addition to the large rolling door at the front of the barn, there was a 
smaller, man-size door at the rear. These were the only two entrances. Travis 
had boarded over a pair of windows in the loft. At night, when the alarm system 
was engaged, the smaller rear door was left unlocked in the hope that The 
Outsider, intending to scout the house from the cover of the barn, would let 
itself into the trap. When it opened the door and crept into the barn, it would 
trigger a mechanism that would slam and lock the door behind it. The front door, 
already locked from outside, would prevent an exit in that direction.
Simultaneous with the springing of the trap, the large tanks of nitrous oxide 
Would release their entire contents in less than one minute because Travis
had fitted them with high-pressure emergency-release valves tied in with the 
alarm system. He had caulked all of the draft-admitting cracks in the barn and 
had insulated the place as thoroughly as possible in order to insure that the 
nitrous oxide would be contained within the structure until one of the doors was 
unlocked from outside and opened to vent the gas.
The Outsider could not take refuge in the pickup or the Toyota, for they would 
be locked. No corner in the barn would be free of the gas. Within less than a 
minute, the creature would collapse. Travis had considered using poisonous gas 
of some kind, which he probably could have obtained on the underground market, 
but he had decided against going to that extreme because, if something went 
wrong, the danger to him and Nora and Einstein would be too great.
Once gas had been released and The Outsider had succumbed, Travis could simply 
open one of the doors, vent the barn, enter with the Uzi carbine, and kill the 
beast where it lay unconscious. At worst, even if the time taken airing out the 
building gave The Outsider a chance to regain consciousness, it would still be 
groggy and disoriented and easily dispatched.
When they had ascertained that everything in the barn was as it should be, 
Travis and Einstein returned to the yard behind the house. The December day was 
cool but windless. The forest surrounding the property was preternaturally 
still. The trees stood motionless under a low sky of slate-colored clouds.
Travis said, Is The Outsider still coming?
With a quick wag of the tail, Einstein said, Yes.
Is it close?
Einstein sniffed the clean, winter-crisp air. He padded across the yard to the 
perimeter of the northern woods and sniffed again, cocked his head, peered 
intently into the trees. He repeated this ritual at the southern end of the 
property.
Travis had the feeling that Einstein was not actually employing his eyes, ears, 
and nose in search of The Outsider. He had some way of monitoring The Outsider 
that was far different from the means by which he would track a cougar or 
squirrel. Travis perceived that the dog was employing an inexplicable sixth 
sensecall it psychic or at least quasi-psychic. The retrievers use of its 
ordinary senses was probably either the trigger by which it engaged that psychic 
abilityor mere habit.
At last, Einstein returned to him and whined curiously.
Is it close? Travis asked.
Einstein sniffed the air and surveyed the gloom of the encircling forest, as if 
he could not decide on an answer.
Einstein? Is something wrong?
Finally, the retriever barked once: No.
Is The Outsider getting close?
A hesitation. Then: No.
Are you sure?
Yes.
Really sure?
Yes.
At the house, as Travis opened the door, Einstein turned away from him, padded 
across the back porch, and stood at the top of the wooden steps, taking one 
final look around at the yard and at the peaceful, shadowed, soundless forest. 
Then, with a faint shiver, he followed Travis inside.
Throughout the inspection of the defenses during the afternoon, Einstein had 
been more affectionate than usual, rubbing against Traviss legs a great deal, 
nuzzling, seeking by one means or another to be petted or patted or scratched. 
That evening, as they watched television, then played a three-way game of 
Scrabble on the living-room floor, the dog continued to seek attention. He kept 
putting his head in Noras lap, then in Traviss. He seemed as if he would be 
content to be stroked and have his ears gently scratched until next summer.
From the day of their first encounter in the Santa Ana foothills, Einstein had 
gone through spells of purely doggy behavior, when it was hard to believe that 
he was, in his own way, as intelligent as a man. Tonight, he was in one of those 
moods again. In spite of his cleverness at Scrabblein which his score was 
second only to Noras, and in which he took devilish pleasure forming words that 
made sly references to her as yet unnoticeable pregnancy he was nonetheless, 
this night, more of a dog than not.
Nora and Travis chose to finish the evening with a little light reading 
detective storiesbut Einstein did not want them to bother inserting a book in 
his page-turning machine. Instead, he lay on the floor in front of Noras 
armchair and went instantly to sleep.
He still seems a little draggy, she said to Travis.
He ate all his dinner, though. And we did have a long day.
The dogs breathing, as it slept, was normal, and Travis was not worried. 
Actually, he was feeling better about their future than he had for some time. 
The inspection of their defenses had given him renewed confidence in their 
preparations, and he believed they would be able to handle The Outsider when it 
arrived. And thanks to Garrison Dilworths courage and dedication to their 
cause, the government had been stymied, perhaps for good, in its efforts to 
track them down. Nora was painting again with great enthusiasm, and Travis had 
decided to use his real-estate license, under the name of Samuel Hyatt, to go 
back to work once The Outsider had been destroyed. And if Einstein was still a 
little draggy . . . well, he was certainly more energetic than he had been for a 
while and was sure to be himself by tomorrow or the day after, at the latest.
That night, Travis slept without dreaming.
In the morning, he was up before Nora. By the time he showered and dressed, she 
was up, too. On her way into the shower, she kissed him, nibbled On his lip, and 
mumbled sleepy vows of love. Her eyes were puffy, and her hair was mussed, and 
her breath was sour, but he would have rushed her
straight back into bed if she had not said, Try me this afternoon, Romeo. Right 
now, the only lust in my heart is for a couple of eggs, bacon, toast, and 
coffee.
He went downstairs and, starting in the living room, opened the interior 
shutters to let in the morning light. The sky looked as low and gray as it had 
been yesterday, and he would not be surprised if rain fell before twilight.
In the kitchen, he noticed that the pantry door was open, the light on. He 
looked in to see if Einstein was there, but the only sign of the dog was the 
message that he had spelled out sometime during the night.
FIDDLE BROKE. NO DOCTOR. PLEASE. DONT WANT TO GO BACK TO LAB. AFRAID. AFRAID.
Oh shit. Oh Jesus.
Travis stepped out of the pantry and shouted, Einstein!
No bark. No sound of padding feet.
The shutters still covered the kitchen windows, and most of the room was not 
illuminated by the glow from the pantry. Travis snapped on the lights.
Einstein was not there.
He ran into the den. The dog was not there, either.
Heart pounding almost painfully, Travis climbed the stairs two at a time, looked 
in the third bedroom that would one day be a nursery and then in the room that 
Nora used as a studio, but Einstein was not in either place, and he was not in 
the master bedroom, not even under the bed where Travis was desperate enough to 
check, and for a moment he could not figure out where in the hell the dog had 
gone, and he stood listening to Nora singing in the showershe was oblivious of 
what was happeningand he started into the bathroom to tell her that something 
was wrong, horribly wrong, which was when he thought of the downstairs bath, so 
he ran out of the bedroom and along the hall and descended the stairs so fast he 
almost lost his balance, almost fell, and in the first-floor bath, between the 
kitchen and the den, he found what he most feared to find.
The bathroom stank. The dog, ever considerate, had vomited in the toilet but had 
not possessed the strengthor perhaps the clarity of mindto flush. Einstein was 
lying on the bathroom floor, on his side. Travis knelt next to him. Einstein was 
still but not dead, not dead, because he was breathing; he inhaled and exhaled 
with a rasping noise. He tried to lift his head when Travis spoke to him, but he 
did not have the strength to move.
His eyes. Jesus, his eyes.
Ever so gently, Travis lifted the retrievers head and saw that those 
wonderfully expressive brown eyes were slightly milky. A watery yellow discharge 
oozed from the eyes; it had crusted in the golden fur. A similar sticky 
discharge bubbled in Einsteins nostrils.
Putting a hand on the retrievers neck, Travis felt a laboring and irregular 
heartbeat.
No, Travis said. Oh, no, no. Its not going to be like this, boy. Im not 
going to let it happen like this.
He lowered the retrievers head to the floor, got up, turned toward the
doorand Einstein whimpered almost inaudibly, as if to say that he did not want 
to be left alone.
Ill be right back, right back, Travis promised. Just hold on, boy. Ill be 
right back.
He ran to the stairs and climbed faster than before. Now, his heart was beating 
with such tremendous force that he felt as if it would tear loose of him. He was 
breathing too fast, hyperventilating.
In the master bathroom, Nora was just stepping out of the shower, naked and 
dripping.
Traviss words ran together in panic: Get dressed quick weve got to get to the 
vet now for gods sake hurry.
Shocked, she said, Whats happened?
Einstein! Hurry! I think hes dying.
He grabbed a blanket off the bed, left Nora to dress, and hurried downstairs to 
the bathroom. The retrievers ragged breathing seemed to have gotten worse in 
just the minute that Travis had been away. He folded the blanket twice, to a 
fourth of its size, then eased the dog onto it.
Einstein made a pained sound, as if the movement hurt him.
Travis said, Easy, easy. Youll be all right.
At the door, Nora appeared, still buttoning her blouse, which was damp because 
she had not taken time to towel off before dressing. Her wet hair hung straight.
In a voice choked with emotion, she said, Oh, fur face, no, no. She wanted to 
stoop and touch the retriever, but there was no time to delay. Travis said, 
Bring the pickup alongside the house.
While Nora sprinted to the barn, Travis folded the blanket around Einstein as 
best he could, so only the retrievers head, tail, and hind legs protruded. 
Trying unsuccessfully not to elicit another whimper of pain, Travis lifted the 
dog in his arms and carried him out of the bathroom, across the kitchen, out of 
the house, pulling the door shut behind him but leaving it unlocked, not giving 
a damn about security right now.
The air was cold. Yesterdays calm was gone. Evergreens swayed, shivered, and 
there was something ominous in the way their bristling, needled branches pawed 
at the air. Other leafless trees raised black, bony arms toward the somber sky.
In the barn, Nora started the pickup. The engine roared. Travis cautiously 
descended the porch steps and went out to the driveway,
walking as if he were carrying an armload of fragile antique china. The blustery 
wind stood Traviss hair straight up, flapped the loose ends of the blanket, and 
ruffled the fur on Einsteins exposed head, as if it were a wind with a 
malevolent consciousness, as if it wanted to tear the dog away from him.
Nora swung the pickup around, heading out, and stopped where Travis Waited She 
would drive.
It was true what they said: sometimes, in certain special moments of crisis, in 
times of great emotional tribulation, women are better able to bite the
bullet and do what must be done than men often are. Sitting in the trucks
passenger seat, cradling the blanket-wrapped dog in his arms, Travis was in no 
condition to drive. He was shaking badly, and he realized that he had been 
crying from the time he had found Einstein on the bathroom floor. He had seen 
difficult military service, and he had never panicked or been paralyzed with 
fear while on dangerous Delta Force operations, but this was different, this was 
Einstein, this was his child. If he had been required to drive, hed probably 
have run straight into a tree, or off the road into a ditch. There were tears in 
Noras eyes, too, but she didnt surrender to them. She bit her lip and drove as 
if she had been trained for stunt work in the movies. At the end of the dirt 
lane, they turned right, heading north on the twisty Pacific Coast Highway 
toward Carmel, where there was sure to be at least one veterinarian.
During the drive, Travis talked to Einstein, trying to soothe and encourage him. 
Everythings going to be all right, just fine, its not as bad as it seems, 
youll be good as new.
Einstein whimpered and struggled weakly in Traviss arms for a moment, and 
Travis knew what the dog was thinking. He was afraid that the vet would see the 
tattoo in his ear, would know what it meant, and would send him back to 
Banodyne.
Dont you worry about that, fur face. Nobodys going to take you away from us. 
By God, they arent. Theyll have to walk through me first, and they arent 
going to be able to do that, no way.
No way, Nora agreed grimly.
But in the blanket, cradled against Traviss chest, Einstein trembled violently.
Travis remembered the lettered tiles on the pantry floor: FIDDLE
BROKE. . . AFRAID. . . AFRAID.
Dont be afraid, he pleaded with the dog. Dont be afraid. Theres no reason 
to be afraid.
In spite of Traviss heartfelt assurances, Einstein shivered and was afraid and 
Travis was afraid, too.
 
 
2
Stopping at an Arco service station on the outskirts of Carmel, Nora found the 
vets address in a phone book and called him to be sure he was in. Dr. James 
Keenes office was on Dolores Avenue at the southern end of town. They pulled up 
in front of the place at a few minutes before nine.
Nora had been expecting a typically sterile-looking veterinary clinic and was 
surprised to find that Dr. Keenes offices were in his home, a quaint two-story 
Country English house of stone and plaster and exposed timbers with a roof that 
curved over the eaves.
As they hurried up the stone walk with Einstein, Dr. Keene opened the door 
before they reached it, as if he had been on the lookout for them. A
sign indicated that the entrance to the surgery was around the side of the 
house, but the vet took them in at the front door. He was a tall, 
sorrowful-faced man with sallow skin and sad brown eyes, but his smile was warm, 
and his manner was gracious.
Closing the door, Dr. Keene said, Bring him this way, please.
He led them swiftly along a hallway with an oak parquet floor protected by a 
long, narrow oriental carpet. On the left, through an archway, lay a pleasantly 
furnished living room that actually looked lived-in, with footstools in front of 
the chairs, reading lamps, laden bookshelves, and crocheted afghans folded 
neatly and conveniently over the backs of some chairs for when the evenings were 
chilly. A dog stood just inside the archway, a black Labrador. It watched them 
solemnly, as if it understood the gravity of Einsteins condition, and it did 
not follow them.
At the rear of the large house, on the left side of the hail, the vet took them 
through a door into a clean white surgery. Lined along the walls were 
white-enameled and stainless-steel cabinets with glass fronts, which were filled 
with bottles of drugs, serums, tablets, capsules, and the many powdered 
ingredients needed to compound more exotic medicines.
Travis gently lowered Einstein onto an examination table and folded the blanket 
back from him.
Nora realized that she and Travis looked every bit as distraught as they would 
have if theyd been bringing a dying child to a doctor. Traviss eyes were red, 
and though he was not actively crying at the moment, he continually blew his 
nose. The moment she had parked the pickup in front of the house and had pulled 
on the hand brake, Nora had ceased to be able to repress her own tears. Now she 
stood on the other side of the examination table from Dr. Keene, with one arm 
around Travis, and she wept quietly.
The vet was apparently used to strong emotional reactions from pet owners, for 
he never once glanced curiously at Nora or Travis, never once indicated by any 
means that he found their anxiety and grief to be excessive.
Dr. Keene listened to the retrievers heart and lungs with a stethoscope, 
palpated his abdomen, examined his oozing eyes with an ophthalmoscope. Through 
those and several other procedures, Einstein remained limp, as if paralyzed. The 
only indications that the dog still clung to life were his faint whimpers and 
ragged breathing.
Its not as serious as it seems, Nora told herself as she blotted her eyes with 
a Kleenex.
Looking up from the dog, Dr. Keene said, Whats his name?
Einstein, Travis said.
How long have you owned him?
Only a few months.
Has he had his shots?
No, Travis said. Damn it, no.
Why not?
Its . . . complicated, Travis said. But therere reasons that shots couldnt 
be gotten for him.
No reasons good enough, Keene said disapprovingly. Hes got no license, no 
shots. Its very irresponsible not to see that your dog is properly licensed and 
vaccinated.
I know, Travis said miserably. I know.
Whats wrong with Einstein? Nora said.
And she thought-hoped-prayed: Its not as serious as it seems.
Lightly stroking the retriever, Keene said, Hes got distemper.
 
 
Einstein had been moved to a corner of the surgery, where he lay on a thick, 
dog-size foam mattress that was protected by a zippered plastic coverlet. To 
prevent him from moving aroundif at any time he had the strength to movehe was 
tethered on a short leash to a ringbolt in the wall.
Dr. Keene had given the retriever an injection. Antibiotics, he explained. No 
antibiotics are effective against distemper, but theyre indicated to avoid 
secondary bacteriological infections.
He had also inserted a needle in one of the dogs leg veins and had hooked him 
to an IV drip to counteract dehydration.
When the vet tried to put a muzzle on Einstein, both Nora and Travis objected 
strenuously.
Its not because Im afraid hell bite, Dr. Keene explained. Its for his own 
protection, to prevent him from chewing at the needle. If he has the strength, 
hell do what dogs always do to a woundlick and bite at the source of the 
irritation.
Not this dog, Travis said. This dogs different. He pushed past Keene and 
removed the device that bound Einsteins jaws together.
The vet started to protest, then thought better of it. All right. For now. Hes 
too weak now, anyway.
Still trying to deny the awful truth, Nora said, But how could it be so 
serious? He showed only the mildest symptoms, and even those went away over a 
couple of days.
Half the dogs who get distemper never show any symptoms at all, the vet said 
as he returned a bottle of antibiotics to one of the glass-fronted cabinets and 
tossed a disposable syringe in a waste can. Others have only a mild illness, 
symptoms come and go from one day to the next. Some, like Einstein, get very 
ill. It can be a gradually worsening illness, or it can change suddenly from 
mild symptoms to . . . this. But there is a bright side here.
Travis was crouched beside Einstein, where the dog could see him without lifting 
his head or rolling his eyes, and could therefore feel attended, watched over, 
loved. When he heard Keene mention a bright side, Travis looked up eagerly. 
What bright side? What do you mean?
The dogs condition, before it contracts distemper, frequently determines the 
course of the disease. The illness is most acute in animals that are ill-kept 
and poorly nourished. Its clear to me that Einstein was given good care.
Travis said, We tried to feed him well, to make sure he got plenty of 
exercise.
He was bathed and groomed almost too often, Nora added.
Smiling, nodding approval, Dr. Keene said, Then we have an edge. We have real 
hope.
Nora looked at Travis, and he could meet her eyes only briefly before he had to 
look away, down at Einstein. It was left to her to ask the dreaded question: 
Doctor, hes going to be all right, isnt he? He wonthe wont die, will he?
Apparently, James Keene was aware that his naturally glum face and drooping eyes 
presented, merely in repose, an expression that did little to inspire 
confidence. He cultivated a warm smile, a soft yet confident tone of voice, and 
an almost grandfatherly manner that, although perhaps calculated, seemed genuine 
and helped balance the perpetual gloom God had seen fit to visit upon his 
countenance.
He came to Nora, put his hands on her shoulders. My dear, you love this dog 
like a baby, dont you?
She bit her lip and nodded.
Then have faith. Have faith in God, who watches over sparrows, so they say, and 
have a little faith in me, too. Believe it or not, Im pretty good at what I do, 
and I deserve your faith.
I believe you are good, she told him.
Still squatting beside Einstein, Travis said thickly, But the chances. Whatre 
the chances? Tell us straight?
Letting go of Nora, turning to Travis, Keene said, Well, the discharge from his 
eyes and nose isnt as thick as it can get. Not nearly. No pus blisters on the 
abdomen. You say hes vomited, but youve seen no diarrhea?
No. Just vomiting, Travis said.
His fevers high but not dangerously so. Has he been slobbering excessively?
No, Nora said.
Fits of head-shaking and chewing on air, sort of as if he had a bad taste in 
his mouth?
No, Travis and Nora said simultaneously.
Have you seen him run in circles or fall down without reason? Have you seen him 
lie on his side and kick violently, as if he were running? Aimless wandering 
around a room, bumping into walls, jerking and twitchinganything like that?
No, no, Travis said.
And Nora said. My God, could he get like that?
If he goes into second-stage distemper, yes, Keene said. Then theres brain 
involvement. Epileptic-like seizures. Encephalitis.
Travis came to his feet in a sudden lurch. He staggered toward Keene, then 
stopped, swaying. His face was pale. His eyes filled with a terrible fear. 
Brain involvement? If he recovered, would there be . . . brain damage?
An oily nausea rippled in Nora. She thought of Einstein with brain damageas 
intelligent as a man, intelligent enough to remember that he had once been 
special, and to know that something had been lost, and to know that he was now 
living in a dullness, a grayness, that his life was somehow less than what it 
had once been. Sick and dizzy with fear, she had to lean against the examination 
table.
Keene said, Most dogs in second-stage distemper dont survive. But if he made 
it, there would, of course, be some brain damage. Nothing that would require he 
be put to sleep. He might have lifelong chorea, for instance, which is 
involuntary jerking or twitching, rather like palsy, and often limited to the 
head. But he could be relatively happy with that, lead a pain-free existence, 
and he could still be a fine pet.
Travis almost shouted at the vet: To hell with whether hed make a fine pet or 
not. Im not concerned about physical effects of the brain damage. What about 
his mind?
Well hed recognize his masters, the doctor said. Hed know you and remain 
affectionate towards you. No problem there. He might sleep a lot. He might have 
periods of listlessness. But hed almost certainly remain housebroken. He 
wouldnt forget that training
Shaking, Travis said, I dont give a damn if he pisses all over the house as 
long as he can still think!
Think? Dr. Keene said, clearly perplexed. Well . . . what do you mean 
exactly? He is a dog, after all.
The vet had accepted their anxious, grief-racked behavior as within the 
parameters of normal pet-owner reactions in a case like this. But now, at last, 
he began to look at them strangely.
Partly to change the subject and dampen the vets suspicion, partly because she 
simply had to know the answer, Nora said, All right, but is Einstein in 
second-stage distemper?
Keene said, From what Ive seen so far, hes still in the first stage. And now 
that treatment has begun, if we dont see any of the more violent symptoms 
during the next twenty-four hours, I think we have a good chance of keeping him 
in first stage and rolling it back.
And theres no brain involvement in first stage? Travis asked with an urgency 
that again caused Keene to furrow his brow.
No. Not in first stage.
And if he stays in first stage, Nora said, he wont die?
In his softest voice and most comforting manner, James Keene said, Well, now, 
the chances are very high that hed survive just first-stage distemper and 
without any aftereffects. I want you to realize that his chances of recovery are 
quite high. But at the same time, I dont want to give you false hope. Thatd be 
cruel. Even if the disease proceeds no further than first stage . . . Einstein 
could die. The percentages are on the side of life, but death is possible.
Nora was crying again. She thought she had gotten a grip on herself. She thought 
she was ready to be strong. But now she was crying. She went to
Einstein, sat on the floor beside him, and put one hand on his shoulder, just to 
let him know that she was there.
Keene was becoming slightly impatient withand thoroughly baffled by their 
tumultuous emotional response to the bad news. A new note of sternness entered 
his voice as he said, Listen, all we can do is give him top-flight care and 
hope for the best. Hell have to remain here, of course, because distemper 
treatment is complex and ought to be administered under veterinary supervision. 
Ill have to keep him on the intravenous fluids, antibiotics .
and therell be regular anticonvulsants and sedatives if he begins to have 
seizures.
Under Noras hand, Einstein shivered as if he had heard and understood the grim 
possibilities.
All right, okay, yes, Travis said, obviously, hes got to stay here in your 
office. Well stay with him.
Theres no need Keene began.
Right, yes, no need, Travis said quickly, but we want to stay, well be okay, 
we can sleep here on the floor tonight.
Oh, Im afraid thats not possible, Keene said.
Yes, it is, oh yes, entirely possible, Travis said, babbling now in his 
eagerness to convince the vet. Dont worry about us, Doctor. Well manage just 
fine. Einstein needs us here, so well stay, the important thing is that we 
stay, and of course well pay you extra for the inconvenience.
But Im not running a hotel!
We must stay, Nora said firmly.
Keene said, Now, really, Im a reasonable man, but
With both hands, Travis seized the vets right hand and held it tightly, 
startling Keene. Listen, Dr. Keene, please, let me try to explain. I know this 
is an unusual request. I know we must sound like a couple of lunatics to you, 
but weve got our reasons, and theyre good ones. This is no ordinary dog, Dr. 
Keene. He saved my life
And he saved mine, too, Nora said. In a separate incident.
And he brought us together, Travis said. Without Einstein, we would never 
have met, never married, and wed both be dead.
Astonished, Keene looked from one to the other. You mean he saved your 
livesliterally? And in two separate incidents?
Literally, Nora said.
And then brought you together?
Yes, Travis said. Changed our lives in more ways than we can count or ever 
explain.
Held fast in Traviss hands, the vet looked at Nora, lowered his kind eyes to 
the wheezing retriever, shook his head, and said, Im a sucker for heroic dog 
stories. Ill want to hear this one, for sure.
Well tell you all about it, Nora promised. But, she thought, itll be a 
carefully edited version.
When I was five years old, James Keene said, I was saved from drowning by a 
black Labrador.
Nora remembered the beautiful black lab in the living room and wondered if it 
was actually a descendant of the animal that had saved Keeneor just a reminder 
of the great debt he owed to dogs.
All right, Keene said, you can stay.
Thank you. Traviss voice cracked. Thank you.
Freeing his hand from Travis, Keene said, But itll be at least forty-eight 
hours before we can be at all confident that Einstein will survive. Itll be a 
long haul.
Forty-eight hours is nothing, Travis said. Two nights of sleeping on the 
floor. We can handle that.
Keene said, I have a hunch that, for you two, forty-eight hours is going to be 
an eternity, under the circumstances. He looked at his wristwatch and said, 
Now, my assistant will arrive in about ten minutes, and shortly after that 
well open the office for morning hours. I cant have you underfoot in here 
while Im seeing other patients. And you wouldnt want to wait in the patient 
lounge with a bunch of other anxious owners and sick animals; that would only 
depress you. You can wait in the living room, and when the office is closed late 
this afternoon, you can return here to be with Einstein.
Can we peek in on him during the day? Travis asked.
Smiling, Keene said, All right. But just a peek.
Under Noras hand, Einstein finally stopped shivering. Some of the tension went 
out of him, and he relaxed, as if he had heard they would be allowed to remain 
close by, and was immensely comforted.
 
 
The morning passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Dr. Keenes living room had a 
television set, books, and magazines, but neither Nora nor Travis could get 
interested in TV or reading.
Every half hour or so, they slipped down the hall, one at a time, and peeked in 
at Einstein. He never seemed worse, but he never seemed any better, either.
Keene came in once and said, By the way, feel free to use the bathroom. And 
theres cold drinks in the refrigerator. Make coffee if you want. He smiled 
down at the black lab at his side. And this fella is Pooka. Hell love you to 
death if you give him a chance.
Pooka was, indeed, one of the friendliest dogs Nora had ever seen. Without 
encouragement, he would roll over, play dead, sit up on his haunches, and then 
come snuffling around, tail wagging, to be rewarded with some petting and 
scratching.
All morning, Travis ignored the dogs pleas for affection, as if petting Pooka 
would in some way be a betrayal of Einstein and would insure Einsteins death of 
distemper.
However, Nora took comfort from the dog and gave it the attention it desired. 
She told herself that treating Pooka well would please the gods and that the 
gods would then look favorably upon Einstein. Her desperation produced in her a 
superstition just as fierce asif different fromthat which gripped her husband.
Travis paced. He sat on the edge of a chair, head bowed, his face in his hands. 
For long periods, he stood at one of the windows, staring out, not seeing the 
street that lay out there but some dark vision of his own. He blamed himself for 
what had happened, and the truth of the situation (which Nora recalled for him) 
did nothing to lessen his irrational sense of guilt.
Facing a window, hugging himself as if he were cold, Travis said quietly, Do 
you think Keene saw the tattoo?
I dont know. Maybe not.
Do you think theres really been a description of Einstein circulated to vets? 
Will Keene know what the tattoo means?
Maybe not, she said. Maybe were too paranoid about this.
But after hearing from Garrison and learning of the lengths to which the 
government had gone to prevent him from getting a warning to them, they knew 
that an enormous and urgent search for the dog must be still under way. So there 
was no such thing as being too paranoid.
 
 
From noon until two, Dr. Keene closed the office for lunch. He invited Nora and 
Travis to eat with him in the big kitchen. He was a bachelor who knew how to 
take care of himself, and he had a freezer stocked with frozen entres that he 
had prepared and packaged himself. He defrosted individually wrapped slabs of 
homemade lasagna and, with their help, made three salads. The food was good, but 
neither Nora nor Travis was able to eat much of it.
The more Nora knew of James Keene, the more she liked him. He was lighthearted 
in spite of his morose appearance, and his sense of humor ran toward 
self-deprecation. His love of animals was a light within that gave him a special 
glow. Dogs were his greatest love, and when he spoke of them his enthusiasm 
transformed his homely features and made of him a handsomer and quite appealing 
man.
The doctor told them of the black lab, King, that had saved him from drowning 
when he was a child, and he encouraged them to tell him how Einstein saved their 
lives. Travis recounted a colorful story about going hiking and almost walking 
into an injured and angry bear. He described how Einstein warned him off and 
then, when the half-mad bear gave chase, how Einstein challenged and repeatedly 
foiled the beast. Nora was able to tell a story closer to the truth: harassment 
by a sexual psychopath whose attack had been interrupted by Einstein and who had 
been held by the retriever until the police arrived.
Keene was impressed. He really is a hero!
Nora sensed that the stories about Einstein had so completely won the vet Over 
that, if he did spot the tattoo and knew what it meant, he might conceivably put 
it out of his mind and might let them go in peace once Einstein was recovered. 
If Einstein recovered.
But as they were gathering up the dishes, Keene said, Sam, Ive been wondering 
why your wife calls you Travis.
They were prepared for this. Since assuming new identities, they had decided 
that it was easier and safer for Nora to continue calling him Travis, rather 
than trying to use Sam all the time and then, at some crucial moment, slipping 
up. They could claim that Travis was a nickname shed given him, that the origin 
was a private joke; with winks at each other and foolish grins, they could imply 
there was something sexual about it, something much too embarrassing to explain 
further. That was how they handled Keenes question, but they were in no mood to 
wink and grin foolishly with any conviction, so Nora was not sure they carried 
it off. In fact she thought their nervous and inept performance might increase 
Keenes suspicions if he had any.
 
 
Just before afternoon office hours were to begin, Keene received a call from his 
assistant, whod had a headache when she had gone to lunch, and who now reported 
that the headache had been complicated by an upset stomach. The vet was left to 
handle his patients alone, so Travis quickly volunteered his and Noras 
services.
Weve got no veterinary training, of course. But we can handle any manual labor 
involved.
Sure, Nora agreed, and between us weve got one pretty good brain. We could 
do just about anything else you showed us how to do.
They spent the afternoon restraining recalcitrant cats and dogs and parrots and 
all sorts of other animals while Jim Keene treated them. There were bandages to 
be laid out, medicines to be retrieved from the cabinets, instruments to be 
washed and sterilized, fees to be collected and receipts written. Some pets, 
afflicted with vomiting and diarrhea, left messes to be cleaned up, but Travis 
and Nora tended to those unpleasantnesses as uncomplainingly and unhesitatingly 
as they performed other tasks.
They had two motives, the first of which was that, by assisting Keene, they had 
a chance to be in the surgery with Einstein throughout the afternoon. Between 
chores, they stole a few moments to pet the retriever, speak a few encouraging 
words to him, and reassure themselves that he was getting no worse. The downside 
of being around Einstein continuously was that they could see, to their dismay, 
that he did not seem to be getting any better, either.
Their other purpose was to further ingratiate themselves with the vet, to give 
him a reason to be beholden to them, so he would not reconsider his decision to 
allow them to stay the night.
The patient load was far greater than usual, Keene said, and they were not able 
to close the office until after six oclock. Wearinessand the labor they
sharedgenerated a warm feeling of camaraderie. As they made and ate dinner 
together, Jim Keene entertained them with a treasure of amusing animal stories 
culled from his experiences, and they were almost as comfortable and friendly as 
they would have been if they had known the vet for months instead of less than 
one day.
Keene prepared the guest bedroom for them, and provided a few blankets with 
which to make a crude bed on the floor of the surgery. Travis and Nora would 
sleep in the real bed in shifts, each spending half the night on the floor with 
Einstein.
Travis had the first shift, from ten oclock until three in the morning. Only 
one light was left on in the far corner of the surgery, and Travis alternately 
sat and stretched out on the piled blankets in the shadows where Einstein lay.
Sometimes, Einstein slept, and the sound of his breathing was more normal, less 
frightening. But sometimes he was awake, and his respiration was horribly 
labored, and he whimpered in pain andTravis somehow knewin fear. When Einstein 
was awake, Travis talked to him, reminiscing about experiences they had shared, 
the many good moments and happy times over the past six months, and the 
retriever seemed to be at least slightly soothed by Traviss voice.
Unable to move at all, the dog was of necessity incontinent. A couple of times 
he peed on the plastic-covered mattress. With no distaste whatsoever, with the 
same tenderness and compassion a father might show in caring for a gravely ill 
child, Travis cleaned up. In a curious way, Travis was even pleased by the mess 
because, every time Einstein peed, it was proof that he still lived, still 
functioned, in some ways, as normally as ever.
Rainsqualls came and went during the night. The sound of rain on the roof was 
mournful, like funeral drums.
Twice during the first shift, Jim Keene appeared in pajamas and a robe. The 
first time, he examined Einstein carefully and changed his IV bottle. Later, he 
administered an injection after the examination. On both occasions, he assured 
Travis that right now they did not have to see signs of improvement to be 
encouraged; right now, it was good enough that there were no indications of 
deterioration in the dogs condition.
Frequently during the night, Travis wandered to the other end of the surgery and 
read the words of a simply framed scroll that hung above the scrub sink:
 
TRIBUTE TO A DOG
The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the 
one that never deserts him, the one that never proves Ungrateful or treacherous, 
is his dog. A mans dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health 
and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow 
and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his masters side. He will 
kiss the hand that has no food to offer; he will lick the wounds and sores that 
come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his 
pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. 
When riches take wing and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his 
love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
Senator George Vest, 1870
Each time he read the tribute, Travis was filled anew with wonder at Einsteins 
existence. What fantasy of children was more common than that their dogs were 
fully as perceptive and wise and clever as any adult? What gift from God would 
more delight a young mind than to have the family dog prove able to communicate 
on a human level and to share triumphs and tragedies with full understanding of 
their meaning and importance? What miracle could bring more joy, more respect 
for the mysteries of nature, more sheer exuberance over the unanticipated 
wonders of life? Somehow, in the very idea of a dogs personality and human 
intelligence combined in a single creature, one had a hope of a species at once 
as gifted as humankind but more noble and worthy. And what fantasy of adults was 
more common than that, one day, another intelligent species would be found to 
share the vast, cold universe and, by sharing it, would at last provide some 
relief from our races unspeakable loneliness and sense of quiet desperation?
And what other loss could be more devastating than the loss of Einstein, this 
first hopeful evidence that humankind carried within it the seeds not merely of 
greatness but of godhood?
These thoughts, which Travis could not suppress, shook him and drew from him a 
thick sob of grief. Damning himself for being an emotional basket case, he went 
into the downstairs hall, where Einstein would not be aware of and perhaps be 
frightened byhis tears.
 
 
Nora relieved him at three in the morning. She had to insist that he go 
upstairs, for he was reluctant to leave Keenes surgery.
Exhausted but protesting that he would not sleep, Travis tumbled into bed and 
slept.
He dreamed of being pursued by a yellow-eyed thing with wicked talons and 
foreshortened alligator jaws. He was trying to protect Einstein and Nora, 
pushing them in front of him, encouraging them to run, run, run. But somehow the 
monster got around Travis and tore Einstein to pieces, then savaged Norait was 
the Cornell Curse, which could not be avoided by a simple change of name to 
Samuel Hyattand at last Travis stopped running and fell to his knees and 
lowered his head because, having failed Nora and the dog, he wanted to die, and 
he heard the thing approachingclick-click-click
and he was afraid but he also welcomed the death that it promised
Nora woke him shortly before five in the morning. Einstein, she said urgently. 
Hes having convulsions.
 
 
When Nora led Travis into the white-walled surgery, Jim Keene was crouched over 
Einstein, ministering to him. They could do nothing but stay out of the vets 
way, give him room to work.
She and Travis held each other.
After a few minutes, the vet stood up. He looked worried, and he did not make 
his usual effort to smile or try to lift their hopes. Ive given him additional 
anticonvulsants. I think . . . hell be all right now.
Has he gone into the second stage? Travis asked. Maybe not, Keene said.
Could he be having convulsions and still be in first stage? Its possible, 
Keene said.
But not likely.
Not likely, Keene said. But . . . not impossible. Second-stage distemper, 
Nora thought miserably.
She held Travis tighter than ever.
Second stage. Brain involvement. Encephalitis. Chorea. Brain damage. Brain 
damage.
 
 
Travis would not return to bed. He remained in the surgery with Nora and 
Einstein the rest of that night.
They turned on another light, brightening the room somewhat but not enough to 
bother Einstein, and they watched him closely for signs that the distemper had 
progressed to the second stage: the jerking and twitching and chewing movements 
of which Jim Keene had spoken.
Travis was unable to extract any hope from the fact that no such symptoms were 
exhibited. Even if Einstein was in the first stage of the disease and remained 
there, he appeared to be dying.
 
 
The next day, Friday, December 3, Jim Keenes assistant was still too sick to 
come to work, so Nora and Travis helped out again.
By lunchtime, Einsteins fever had not fallen. His eyes and nose continued to 
ooze a clear though yellowish fluid. His breathing was slightly less labored, 
but in her despair Nora wondered if the dogs respiration only sounded easier 
because he was not making as great an effort to breathe and was, in fact, 
beginning to give up.
She could not eat even a bite of lunch. She washed and ironed both Traviss
clothes and her own, while they sat around in two of Jim Keenes spare 
bathrobes, which were too big for them.
That afternoon, the office was busy again. Nora and Travis were kept in constant 
motion, and Nora was glad to be overworked.
At four-forty, a time that she would never forget for as long as she lived, just 
after they finished helping Jim deal with a difficult Irish setter, Einstein 
yipped twice from his bed in the corner. Nora and Travis turned, both gasping, 
both expecting the worst, for this was the first sound other than whimpers that 
Einstein had made since his arrival at the surgery. But the retriever had lifted 
his headthe first time hed had the strength to lift it and was blinking at 
them; he looked around curiously, as if to ask where on earth he was.
Jim knelt beside the dog and, while Travis and Nora crouched expectantly behind 
him, he thoroughly examined Einstein. Look at his eyes. Theyre slightly milky 
but not at all like they were, and theyve stopped actively leaking. With a 
damp cloth, he cleaned the crusted fur beneath Einsteins eyes and wiped off his 
nose; the nostrils no longer bubbled with fresh excretions. With a rectal 
thermometer he took Einsteins temperature and, reading it, said, Falling. Down 
two full degrees.
Thank God, Travis said.
And Nora discovered that her eyes were filling with tears again.
Jim said, Hes not out of the woods yet. His heartbeat is more regular, less 
accelerated, though still not good. Nora, get one of those dishes over there and 
fill it with some water.
Nora returned from the sink a moment later and put the dish down on the floor, 
at the vets side.
Jim pushed it close to Einstein. What do you think, fella?
Einstein raised his head off the mattress again and stared at the dish. His 
lolling tongue looked dry and was coated with a gummy substance. He whined and 
licked his chops.
Maybe, Travis said, if we help him
No, Jim Keene said. Let him consider it. Hell know if he feels up to it. We 
dont want to force water thats going to make him vomit again. Hell know by 
instinct if the time is right.
With some groaning and wheezing, Einstein shifted on the foam mattress, rolling 
off his side, half onto his belly. He put his nose to the dish, sniffed the 
water, put his tongue to it tentatively, liked the first taste, had another, and 
drank a third of it before sighing and lying down again.
Stroking the retriever, Jim Keene said, Id be very surprised if he doesnt 
recover, fully recover, in time.
 
 
In time.
That phrase bothered Travis.
How much time would Einstein require for a full recovery? When The
Outsider finally arrived, they would all be better off if Einstein was healthy 
and if all of his senses were functioning sharply. The infrared alarms 
notwithstanding, Einstein was their primary early-warning system.
After the last patient left at five-thirty, Jim Keene slipped out for half an 
hour on a mysterious errand, and when he returned he had a bottle of champagne. 
Im not much of a drinking man, but certain occasions demand a nip or two.
Nora had pledged to drink nothing during her pregnancy, but even the most solemn 
pledge could be stretched under these circumstances.
They got glasses and drank in the surgery, toasting Einstein, who watched them 
for a few minutes but, exhausted, soon fell asleep.
But a natural sleep, Jim noted. Not induced with sedatives.
Travis said, How long will he need to recover?
To shake off distempera few more days, a week. Id like to keep him here two 
more days, anyway. You could go home now, if you want, but youre also welcome 
to stay. Youve been quite a help.
Well stay, Nora said at once.
But after the distemper is beaten, Travis said, hes going to be weak, isnt 
he?
At first, very weak, Jim said. But gradually hell get most if not all of his 
old strength back. Im sure now that he never went into second-stage distemper, 
in spite of the convulsions. So perhaps by the first of the year hell be his 
old self, and there should be no lasting infirmities, no palsied shaking or 
anything like that.
The first of the year.
Travis hoped that would be soon enough.
 
 
Again, Nora and Travis split the night into two shifts. Travis took the first 
watch, and she relieved him in the surgery at three oclock in the morning.
Fog had seethed into Carmel. It roiled at the windows, softly insistent.
Einstein was sleeping when Nora arrived, and she said, Has he been awake much?
Yeah, Travis said. Now and then.
Have you . . . talked to him?
Yeah.
Well?
Traviss face was lined, haggard, and his expression was grave. Ive asked him 
questions that can be answered with a yes or no.
And?
He doesnt answer them. He just blinks at me, or yawns, or he goes back to 
sleep.
Hes very tired yet, she said, desperately hoping that was the explanation for 
the retrievers uncommunicative behavior. He doesnt have the strength even for 
questions and answers.
Pale and obviously depressed, Travis said, Maybe. I dont know . . . but I 
think . . . he seems . . . confused.
He hasnt shaken the disease yet, she said. Hes still in the grip of it, 
beating the damn stuff, but still in its grip. Hes bound to be a little 
muddleheaded for a while yet.
Confused, Travis repeated.
Itll pass.
Yeah, he said. Yeah, itll pass.
But he sounded as if he believed that Einstein would never be the same again.
Nora knew what Travis must be thinking: it was the Cornell Curse again, which he 
professed not to believe in but which he still feared in his heart of hearts. 
Everyone he loved was doomed to suffer and die young. Everyone he cared about 
was torn from him.
That was all nonsense, of course, and Nora did not believe in it for a moment. 
But she knew how hard it was to shake off the past, to face only toward the 
future, and she sympathized with his inability to be optimistic just now. She 
also knew there was nothing she could do for him to haul him out of that pit of 
private anguishnothing except kiss him, hold him for a moment, then send him 
off to bed to get some sleep.
When Travis was gone, Nora sat on the floor beside Einstein and said, Therere 
some things I have to tell you, fur face. I guess youre asleep and cant hear 
me, and maybe even if you were awake you wouldnt understand what Im saying. 
Maybe youll never again understand, which is why I want to say these things 
now, while theres at least still hope that your minds intact.
She paused and took a deep breath and looked around at the still surgery, where 
the dim lights gleamed in the stainless-steel fixtures and in the glass of the 
enameled cabinets. It was a lonely place at three-thirty in the morning.
Einsteins breath came and went with a soft hiss, an occasional rattle. He 
didnt stir. Not even his tail moved.
I thought of you as my guardian, Einstein. Thats what I called you once, when 
you saved me from Arthur Streck. My guardian. You not only rescued me from that 
awful manyou also saved me from loneliness and terrible despair. And you saved 
Travis from the darkness within him, brought us together, and in a hundred other 
ways you were as perfect as any guardian angel might hope to be. In that good, 
pure heart of yours, you never asked for or wanted anything in return for all 
you did. Some Milk-Bones once in a while, a bit of chocolate now and then. But 
youd have done it all even if youd been fed nothing but Dog Chow. You did it 
because you love, and being loved in return was reward enough. And by just being 
what you are, fur face, you taught me a great lesson, a lesson I cant easily 
put into words . .
For a while, silent and unable to speak, she sat in the shadows beside her 
friend, her child, her teacher, her guardian.
But damn it, she said at last, Ive got to find words because maybe this
is the last time I can even pretend youre able to understand them. Its like 
this . . . you taught me that Im your guardian, too, that Im Traviss 
guardian, and that he is my guardian and yours. We have a responsibility to 
stand watch over one another, we are watchers, all of us, watchers, guarding 
against the darkness. Youve taught me that were all needed, even those who 
sometimes think were worthless, plain, and dull. If we love and allow ourselves 
to be loved . . . well, a person who loves is the most precious thing in the 
world, worth all the fortunes that ever were. Thats what youve taught me, fur 
face, and because of you Ill never be the same.
The rest of the long night, Einstein lay motionless, lost in a deep sleep.
 
 
Saturday, Jim Keene kept hours only in the morning. At noon he locked the office 
entrance at the side of his big, cozy house.
During the morning, Einstein had exhibited encouraging signs of recovery. He 
drank more water and spent some time on his belly instead of lying limply on his 
side. Head raised, he looked around with interest at the activity in the vets 
surgery. He even slurped up a raw-egg-and-gravy mixture that Jim put in front of 
him, downing half the contents of the dish, and he did not regurgitate what he 
had eaten. He was now entirely off intravenous fluids.
But he still dozed a lot. And his responses to Travis and Nora were only those 
of an ordinary dog.
After lunch, as they were sitting with Jim at the kitchen table, having a final 
cup of coffee, the vet sighed and said, Well, I dont see how this can be put 
off any longer. From an inner pocket of his old, well-worn corduroy jacket, he 
withdrew a folded sheet of paper and put it on the table in front of Travis.
For a moment, Nora thought it-was the bill for his services. But when Travis 
unfolded the paper, she saw that it was a wanted flyer put out by the people 
looking for Einstein.
Traviss shoulders sagged.
Feeling as if her heart had begun to sink down through her body, Nora moved 
closer to Travis so they could read the bulletin together. It was dated last 
week. In addition to a description of Einstein that included the three-number 
tattoo in his ear, the flyer stated the dog would most likely be found in the 
possession of a man named Travis Cornell and his wife, Nora, who might be living 
under different names. Descriptionsand photographsof Nora and Travis were at 
the bottom of the sheet.
How long have you known? Travis asked.
Jim Keene said, Within an hour after I first saw him, Thursday morning. Ive 
been getting weekly updates of that bulletin for six monthsand Ive had three 
follow-up calls from the Federal Cancer Institute to make sure Ill remember to 
examine any golden retriever for a lab tattoo and report it at
Once.
And have you reported him? Nora asked.
Not yet. Didnt seem any point arguing about it until we saw whether he was 
going to pull through.
Travis said, Will you report him now?
His hound-dog face settling into an expression that was even more glum than 
usual, Jim Keene said, According to the Cancer Institute, this dog was at the 
very center of extremely important experiments that might lead to a cancer cure. 
Says there that millions of dollars of research money will have been spent for 
nothing if the dog isnt found and returned to the lab to complete their 
studies.
Its all lies, Travis said.
Let me make one thing very clear to you, Jim said, leaning forward in his 
chair and folding his large hands around his coffee cup. Im an animal lover to 
the bone. Ive dedicated my life to animals. And I love dogs more than anything 
else. But Im afraid I dont have a lot of sympathy for people who believe that 
we should stop all animal experimentation, people who think medical advancements 
that help save human lives are not worth harming one guinea pig, one cat, one 
dog. People who raid labs and steal animals, ruining years of important research 
. . . they make me want to spit. Its good and right to love life, to dearly 
love it in all its most humble forms. But these people dont love lifethey 
revere it, which is a pagan and ignorant and perhaps even savage attitude.
This isnt like that, Nora said. Einstein was never used in cancer research. 
Thats just a cover story. The Cancer Institute isnt hunting for Einstein. Its 
the National Security Agency that wants him. She looked at Travis and said, 
Well, what do we do now?
Travis smiled grimly, and said, Well, I sure cant kill Jim here to stop him
The vet looked startled.
so I guess weve got to persuade him, Travis finished.
The truth? Nora asked.
Travis stared at Jim Keene for a long time, and at last said, Yeah. The truth. 
Its the only thing that might convince him to throw that damn wanted poster in 
the trash.
Taking a deep breath, Nora said, Jim, Einstein is as smart as you or me or 
Travis.
Smarter, I sometimes think, Travis said.
The vet stared at them, uncomprehending.
Lets make another pot of coffee, Nora said. This is going to be a long, long 
afternoon.
 
 
Hours later, at ten minutes past five, Saturday afternoon, Nora and Travis and 
Jim Keene crowded in front of the mattress on which Einstein lay.
The dog had just taken a few more ounces of water. He looked at them with 
interest, too.
Travis tried to decide if those large brown eyes still had the strange depth, 
uncanny alertness, and undoglike awareness that he had seen in them so many 
times before. Damn. He was not sureand his uncertainty scared him.
Jim examined Einstein, noting aloud that his eyes were clearer, almost normal, 
and that his temperature was still falling. Hearts sounding a little better, 
too.
Worn out by the ten-minute examination, Einstein flopped onto his side and 
issued a long weary sigh. In a moment, he dozed again.
The vet said, He sure doesnt seem much like a genius dog.
Hes still sick, Nora said. All he needs is a little more time to recover, 
and hell be able to show you that everything weve said is true.
When do you think hell be on his feet? Travis asked.
Jim thought about that, then said, Maybe tomorrow. Hell be very shaky at 
first, but maybe tomorrow. Well just have to see.
When hes on his feet, Travis said, when hes got his sense of balance back 
and is interested in moving around, that ought to indicate hes clearer in his 
head, too. So when hes up and aboutthats when well give him a test to prove 
to you how smart he is.
Fair enough, Jim said.
And if he proves it, Nora said, youll not turn him in?
Turn him in to people whod create this Outsider youve told me about? Turn him 
in to the liars who cooked up that baloney wanted flyer? Nora, what sort of man 
do you take me for?
Nora said, A good man.
 
 
Twenty-four hours later, on Sunday evening, in Jim Keenes surgery, Einstein was 
tottering around as if he were a little old four-legged man.
Nora scooted along the floor on her knees beside him, telling him what a fine 
and brave fellow he was, quietly encouraging him to keep going. Every step he 
took thrilled her as if he were her own baby learning to walk. But what thrilled 
her more was the look he gave her a few times: it was a look that seemed to 
express chagrin at his infirmity, but there was also a sense of humor in it, as 
if he were saying, Hey, Nora, am I a spectacleor what? Isnt this just plain 
ridiculous?
Saturday night he had eaten a little solid food, and all day Sunday he had 
nibbled at easily digestible vittles that the vet provided. He was drinking 
well, and the most encouraging sign of improvement was his insistence on going 
Outside to make his toilet. He could not stay on his feet for long periods of 
time, and once in a while he wobbled and plopped backward on his butt; however, 
he did not bump into walls or walk in circles.
Yesterday, Nora had gone shopping and had returned with three Scrabble
games. Now, Travis had separated the lettered tiles into twenty-six piles at one 
end of the surgery, where there was a lot of open floor space.
Were ready, Jim Keene said. He was sitting on the floor with Travis, his legs 
drawn up under him Indian-style.
Pooka was lying at his masters side, watching with baffled dark eyes. Nora led 
Einstein back across the room to the Scrabble tiles. Taking his head in her 
hands, looking straight into his eyes, she said, Okay, fur face. Lets prove to 
Dr. Jim that youre not just some pathetic lab animal involved in cancer tests. 
Lets show him what you really are and prove to him what those nasty people 
really want you for.
She tried to believe that she saw the old awareness in the retrievers dark 
gaze.
With evident nervousness and fear, Travis said, Who asks the first question?
I will, Nora said unhesitatingly. To Einstein, she said, Hows the fiddle?
They had told Jim Keene about the message that Travis had found the morning 
Einstein had been so very illFIDDLE BROKESO the vet understood what Nora was 
asking.
Einstein blinked at her, then looked at the letters, blinked at her again, 
sniffed the letters, and she was getting a sick feeling in her stomach when, 
suddenly, he began to choose tiles and push them around with his nose.
FIDDLE JUST OUT OF TUNE.
Travis shuddered as if the dread he had contained was a powerful electric charge 
that had leapt out of him in an instant. He said, Thank God, thank you God, 
and he laughed with delight.
Holy shit, Jim Keene said.
Pooka raised his head very high and pricked his ears, aware that something 
important was happening but not sure what it was.
Her heart swelling with relief and excitement and love, Nora returned the 
letters to their separate piles and said, Einstein, who is your master? Tell us 
his name.
The retriever looked at her, at Travis, then made a considered reply.
NO MASTER. FRIENDS.
Travis laughed. By God, Ill settle for that! No one can be his master, but 
anyone should be damned proud to be his friend.
Funnythis proof of Einsteins undamaged intellect made Travis laugh with 
delight, the first laughter of which he had been capable in days, but it made 
Nora weep with relief.
Jim Keene looked on in wide-eyed wonder, grinning stupidly. He said, I feel 
like a child whos sneaked downstairs on Christmas Eve and actually seen the 
real Santa Claus putting gifts under the tree.
My turn, Travis said, sliding forward and putting a hand on Einsteins head, 
patting him. Jim just mentioned Christmas, and its not far away.
Twenty days from now. So tell me, Einstein, what would you most like to have 
Santa bring you?
Twice, Einstein started to line up the lettered tiles, but both times he had 
second thoughts and disarranged them. He tottered and thumped down on his butt, 
looked around sheepishly, saw that they were all expectant, got up again, and 
this time produced a three-word request for Santa.
MICKEY MOUSE VIDEOS.
 
 
 
 
They didnt get to bed until two in the morning because Jim Keene was 
intoxicated, not drunk from beer or wine or whiskey but from sheer joy over 
Einsteins intelligence. Like a mans, yes, but still the dog, still the dog, 
wonderfully like, yet wonderfully different from, a mans thinking, based on 
what little Ive seen. But Jim did not press for more than a dozen examples of 
the dogs wit, and he was the first to say that they must not tire their 
patient. Still, he was electrified, so excited he could barely contain himself. 
Travis would not have been too surprised if the vet had suddenly just exploded.
In the kitchen, Jim pleaded with them to retell stories about Einstein: the 
Modern Bride business in Solvang; the way he had taken it upon himself to add 
cold water to the first hot bath that Travis had given him; and many more. Jim 
actually retold some of the same stories himself, almost as if Travis and Nora 
had never heard them, but they were happy to indulge him.
With a flourish, he snatched the wanted flyer off the table, struck a kitchen 
match, and burned the sheet in the sink. He washed the ashes down the drain. To 
hell with the small minds whod keep a creature like that locked up to be poked 
and prodded and studied. They mightve had the genius to make Einstein, but they 
dont understand the meaning of what they themselves have done. They dont 
understand the greatness of it, because if they did they wouldnt want to cage 
him.
At last, when Jim Keene reluctantly agreed that they were all in need of sleep, 
Travis carried Einstein (already sleeping) up to the guest room. They made a 
blanket-cushioned place for him on the floor next to the bed.
In the dark, under the covers, with Einsteins soft snoring to comfort them, 
Travis and Nora held each other.
She said, Everythings going to be all right now.
Theres still some trouble coming, he said. He felt as if Einsteins recovery 
had weakened the curse of untimely death that had followed him all of his life. 
But he was not ready to hope that the curse had been banished altogether. The 
Outsider was still out there somewhere . . . coming.
 
 
 
TEN
1
On Tuesday afternoon, December 7, when they took Einstein home, Jim Keene was 
reluctant to let them go. He followed them out to the pickup and stood at the 
drivers window, restating the treatment that must be continued for the next 
couple of weeks, reminding them that he wanted to see Einstein once a week for 
the rest of the month, and urging them to visit him not only for the dogs 
medical care but for drinks, dinner, conversation.
Travis knew the vet was trying to say he wanted to remain a part of Einstein's 
life, wanted to participate in the magic of it. Jim, believe me, well be back. 
And before Christmas, youll have to come out to our place, spend the day with 
us.
Id like that.
So would we, Travis said sincerely.
On the drive home, Nora held Einstein in her lap, wrapped in a blanket once 
more. He still did not have his old appetite, and he was weak. His immune system 
had taken severe punishment, so he would be more than usually susceptible to 
illness for a while. He was to be kept in the house as much as possible and 
pampered until he had regained his previous vigor probably after the first of 
the year, according to Jim Keene.
The bruised and swollen sky bulged with saturated dark clouds. The Pacific Ocean 
was so hard and gray that it did not appear to be water but looked more like 
billions of shards and slabs of slate being continuously agitated by some 
geological upheaval in the earth below.
The bleak weather could not dampen their high spirits. Nora was beaming, and 
Travis found himself whistling. Einstein studied the scenery with great 
interest, clearly treasuring even the somber beauty of this nearly colorless 
winter day. Perhaps he had never expected to see the world outside Jim Keenes 
office again, in which case even a sea of jumbled stone and a contusive sky were 
precious sights.
When they reached home, Travis left Nora in the pickup with the retriever and 
entered the house alone, by the back door, carrying the .38 pistol they kept in 
the truck. In the kitchen, where the lights had been on ever since their hasty 
departure last week, he immediately took an Uzi automatic pistol from its hiding 
place in a cabinet, and put the lighter gun aside. He proceeded cautiously from 
room to room, looking behind every large item of furniture and in every closet.
He saw no signs of burglary, and he expected none. This rural area was 
relatively crime-free. You could leave your door unlocked for days at a time 
without risking thieves who would take everything down to the wallpaper.
The Outsider, not a burglar, worried him.
The house was deserted.
Travis checked the barn, too, before driving the pickup inside, but it was also 
safe.
In the house, Nora put Einstein down and pulled the blanket off him. He tottered 
around the kitchen, sniffing at things. In the living room he looked at the cold 
fireplace and inspected his page-turning machine.
He returned to the kitchen pantry, clicked on the light with his foot pedal, and 
pawed letters out of the Lucite tubes.
HOME.
Stooping beside the dog, Travis said, Its sure good to be here, isnt it?
Einstein nuzzled Traviss throat and licked his neck. The golden coat was fluffy 
and smelled clean because Jim Keene had given the dog a bath, in his surgery, 
under carefully controlled conditions. But as fluffy and fresh as he was, 
Einstein still did not look himself; he seemed tired, and he was thinner, too, 
having lost a few pounds in less than a week.
Pawing out more letters, Einstein spelled the same word again, as if to 
emphasize his pleasure: HOME.
Standing at the pantry door, Nora said, Home is where the heart is, and theres 
plenty of heart in this one. Hey, lets have an early dinner and eat it in the 
living room while we run the videotape of Mickeys Christmas Carol. Would you 
like that?
Einstein wagged his tail vigorously.
Travis said, Do you think you could handle your favorite fooda few weenies for 
dinner?
Einstein licked his chops. He dispensed more letters, with which he expressed 
his enthusiastic approval of Traviss suggestion.
HOME IS WHERE THE WEENIES ARE.
 
 
 
 
When Travis woke in the middle of the night, Einstein was at the bedroom window, 
on his hind feet with his forepaws braced on the sill. He was barely visible in 
the second-hand glow of the night-light in the adjoining bathroom. The interior 
shutter was bolted over the window, so the dog had no view of the front yard. 
But perhaps, for getting a fix on The Outsider, sight was the sense on which he 
least depended.
Something out there, boy? Travis asked quietly, not wanting to wake Nora 
unnecessarily.
Einstein dropped from the window, padded to Traviss side of the bed, and put 
his head up on the mattress.
Petting the dog, Travis whispered, Is it coming?
Replying with only a cryptic mewl, Einstein settled down on the floor beside the 
bed and went to sleep again.
In a few minutes, Travis slept, too.
He woke again near dawn to find Nora sitting on the edge of the bed, petting 
Einstein. Go back to sleep, she told Travis.
Whats wrong?
Nothing, she whispered drowsily. I woke up and saw him at the window, but 
its nothing. Go to sleep.
He did manage to fall asleep a third time, but he dreamed that The Outsider had 
been smart enough to learn how to use tools during its six-month-long pursuit of 
Einstein and now, yellow eyes gleaming, it was smashing its way through the 
bedroom shutters with an ax.
 
 
 
2
They gave Einstein his medicines on schedule, and he swallowed his pills 
obediently. They explained to him that he needed to eat well in order to regain 
his strength. He tried, but his appetite was returning only slowly. He would 
need a few weeks to regain the pounds he had lost and to recover his old 
vitality. But day by day his improvement was perceptible.
By Friday, December 10, Einstein seemed strong enough to risk a short walk 
outside. He still wobbled a little now and then, but he no longer tottered with 
every step. Hed had all of his shots at the veterinary clinic; there was no 
chance of picking up rabies on top of the distemper hed just beaten.
The weather was milder than it had been in recent weeks, with temperatures in 
the low sixties and no wind. The scattered clouds were white, and the sun, when 
not hidden, laid a warm life-giving caress on the skin.
Einstein accompanied Travis on an inspection tour of the infrared sensors around 
the house and the nitrous-oxide tanks in the barn. They moved a bit more slowly 
than the last time they had walked this line together, but Einstein seemed to 
enjoy being back on duty.
Nora was in her studio, working diligently on a new painting: a portrait of 
Einstein. He was not aware that he was the subject of her latest canvas. The 
picture was to be one of his Christmas gifts and would, once opened on the 
holiday, be hung above the fireplace in the living room.
When Travis and Einstein came out of the barn, into the yard, he said, Is it 
getting closer?
Upon being asked that question, Einstein went through his usual routine, though 
with less exertion, less sniffing of the air, and less study of the shadowy 
forest around them. Returning to Travis, the dog whined anxiously.
Is it out there? Travis asked.
Einstein gave no answer. He merely surveyed the woods againpuzzled.
Is it still coming? Travis asked.
The dog did not reply.
Is it nearer than it was?
Einstein padded in a circle, sniffed the ground, sniffed the air, cocked his 
head one way and then the other. Finally he returned to the house and stood at 
the door, looking at Travis, waiting patiently.
Inside, Einstein went directly to the pantry.
MUZZY.
Travis stared at the word on the floor. Muzzy?
Einstein dispensed more letters and nosed them into place.
MUFFLED. FUZZY.
Are you talking about your ability to sense The Outsider? A quick tail wag: 
Yes.
You cant sense it any more?
One bark: No.
Do you think ... its dead?
DONT KNOW.
Or maybe this sixth sense of yours doesnt work when youre sickor debilitated 
like you are now.
MAYBE.
Gathering up the lettered tiles and sorting them into the tubes, Travis thought 
for a minute. Bad thoughts. Unnerving thoughts. They had an alarm system around 
the property, yes, but to some extent they were depending on Einstein for an 
early warning. Travis should have felt comfortable with the precautions he had 
taken and with his own abilities, as a former Delta Force man, to exterminate 
The Outsider. But he was tormented by the feeling that he had overlooked a hole 
in their defenses and that, come the crisis, he would need Einsteins full 
powers and strength to help him deal with the unexpected.
Youre going to have to- get well as fast as you can, he told the retriever. 
Youre going to have to try to eat even when you have no real appetite. Youre 
going to have to sleep as much as you can, give your body a chance to knit up, 
and dont spend half the night at the windows, Worrying.
CHICKEN SOUP.
Laughing, Travis said, Might as well try that, too.
A BOILERMAKER KILLS GERMS DEAD.
Whered you get that idea?
BOOK. WHATS BOILERMAKER?
Travis said, A shot of whiskey dropped into a glass of beer.
Einstein considered that for a moment.
KILL GERMS BUT BECOME ALCOHOLIC.
Travis laughed and ruffled Einsteins coat. Youre a regular comedian, fur 
face.
MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY VEGAS.
I bet you could.
HEADLINER.
You certainly would be.
ME AND PIA ZADORA.
He hugged the dog, and they sat in the pantry laughing, each in his own way.
In spite of the joking, Travis knew that Einstein was deeply troubled by the 
loss of his ability to sense The Outsider. The jokes were a defensive mechanism, 
a way to hold off fear.
That afternoon, exhausted from their short walk around the house, Einstein slept 
while Nora painted feverishly in her studio. Travis sat by a front window, 
staring out at the woods, repeatedly going over their defenses in his mind, 
looking for a hole.
 
 
On Sunday, December 12, Jim Keene came out to their place in the afternoon and 
stayed for dinner. He examined Einstein and was pleased with the dogs 
improvement.
Seems slow to us, Nora said fretfully.
I told you, itll take time, Jim said.
He made a couple of changes in Einsteins medication and left new bottles of 
pills.
Einstein had fun demonstrating his page-turning machine and his 
letter-dispensing device in the pantry. He graciously accepted praise for his 
ability to hold a pencil in his teeth and use it to operate the television and 
the videotape recorder without bothering Nora and Travis for help.
Nora was at first surprised that the veterinarian looked less sad-eyed and 
sorrowful than she remembered. But she decided his face was the same; the only 
thing that had changed was her perception of him. Now that she knew him better, 
now that he was a friend of the first rank, she saw not only the glum features 
nature had given him but the kindness and humor beneath his somber surface.
Over dinner, Jim said, Ive been doing a little research into tattooing to see 
if maybe I can remove the numbers in his ear.
Einstein had been lying on the floor nearby, listening to their conversation. He 
got to his feet, wobbled a moment, then hurried to the kitchen table and jumped 
into one of the empty chairs. He sat very erect and stared at Jim expectantly.
Well, the vet said, putting down a forkful of curried chicken that hed lifted 
halfway to his mouth, most but not all tattoos can be eradicated. If! know what 
sort of ink was used and by what method it was embedded under the skin, I might 
be able to erase it.
That would be terrific, Nora said. Then even if they found us and tried to 
take Einstein back, they couldnt prove hes the dog they lost.
Thered still be traces of the tattoo that would show up under close 
inspection, Travis said. Under a magnifying glass.
Einstein looked from Travis to Jim Keene as if to say, Yeah, what about that?
Most labs just tag research animals, Jim said. Of those that tattoo, therere 
a couple of different standard inks used. I might be able to remove it and leave 
no trace except a natural-looking mottling of the flesh. Microscopic examination 
wouldnt reveal traces of the ink, not a hint of the numbers. Its a small 
tattoo, after all, which makes the job easier. Im still researching techniques, 
but in a few weeks we might try itif Einstein doesnt mind some discomfort.
The retriever left the table and padded into the pantry. They could hear the 
pumping of the letter-dispensing pedals.
Nora went to see what message Einstein was composing.
DONT WANT TO BE BRANDED. AM NOT A COW.
His desire to be free of the tattoo went deeper than Nora had thought. He wanted 
the mark removed in order to escape identification by the people at the lab. But 
evidently he also hated carrying those three numbers in his ear because they 
marked him as mere property, a condition that was an affront to his dignity and 
a violation of his rights as an intelligent creature.
FREEDOM.
Yes, Nora said respectfully, putting a hand on his head, I do understand. You 
are a . . . a person, and a person withthis was the first time she had thought 
of this aspect of the situationa soul.
Was it blasphemous to think Einstein had a soul? No. She did not think blasphemy 
entered into it. Man had made the dog; however, if there was a God, He obviously 
approved of Einsteinnot least of all because Einsteins ability to 
differentiate right from wrong, his ability to love, his courage, and his 
selflessness made him closer to the image of God than were many human beings who 
walked the earth.
Freedom, she said. If youve got a souland I know you dothen you were born 
with free will and the right to self-determination. The number in your ear is an 
insult, and well get rid of it.
After dinner, Einstein clearly wanted to monitorand participate inthe 
conversation, but he ran out of energy and slept by the fire.
Over a short brandy and coffee, Jim Keene listened as Travis outlined their 
defenses against The Outsider. Encouraged to find holes in their preparations, 
the vet could think of nothing except the vulnerability of their power supply. 
If the thing was smart enough to bring down the line that runs in from the main 
highway, it could plunge you into darkness in the middle of the night and render 
your alarm useless. And without power those tricky mechanisms in the barn 
wouldnt slam the door behind the beast or release the nitrous oxide.
Nora and Travis took him downstairs, into the half-basement under the rear of 
the house, to show him the emergency generator. It was powered by a forty-gallon 
tank of gasoline buried in the yard, and it would restore electricity to the 
house and barn and alarm system after only a ten-second delay following the loss 
of the main supply.
As far as I can see, Jim said, youve thought of everything.
I think we have, too, Nora said.
But Travis scowled. I wonder . .
 
 
On Wednesday, December 22, they drove into Carmel. Leaving Einstein with Jim 
Keene, they spent the day buying Christmas gifts, decorations for the house, 
ornaments for a tree, and the tree itself.
With the threat of The Outsider moving inexorably closer to them, it seemed 
almost frivolous to make plans for the holiday. But Travis said, Life is short. 
You never know how much time youve got left, so you cant let Christmas slide 
by without celebrating, no matter what. Besides, my Christmases havent been so 
terrific these last few years. I intend to make up for that.
Aunt Violet didnt believe in making an event of Christmas. She didnt believe 
in exchanging gifts or putting up a tree.
She didnt believe in life, Travis said. And thats just one more reason to 
do this Christmas up right. Itll be your first good one, as well as Einsteins 
first.
Starting next year, Nora thought, therell be a baby in the house with which to 
share Christmas, and wont that be a hoot!
Aside from suffering a little mild morning sickness and having put on a couple 
of pounds, shed not yet shown any signs of pregnancy. Her belly was still flat, 
and Dr. Weingold said that, considering her body type, she had a chance of being 
one of those women whose abdomen underwent only moderate distension. She hoped 
she was lucky in that regard because, after the birth, getting back into shape 
would be a lot easier. Of course, the baby was not due for six months yet, which 
gave her plenty of time to get as big as a walrus.
Returning from Carmel in the pickupthe back of which was filled with packages 
and a perfectly formed Christmas treeEinstein slept half on Noras lap. He was 
worn out from his busy day with Jim and Pooka. They got home less than an hour 
before dark. Einstein led the way toward the house
but suddenly stopped and looked around curiously. He sniffed the chilly air, 
then moved across the yard, nose to the ground, as if tracking a scent.
Heading toward the back door with her arms full of packages, Nora did not at 
first see anything unusual in the dogs behavior, but she noticed that Travis 
had halted and was staring hard at Einstein. She said, What is it?
Wait a second.
Einstein crossed the yard to the edge of the woods on the south side. He stood 
rigid, head thrust forward, then shook himself and moved on along the perimeter 
of the forest. He stopped repeatedly, standing motionless each time, and in a 
couple of minutes he came all the way around to the north.
When the retriever returned to them, Travis said, Something?
Einstein wagged his tail briefly and barked once: Yes and no.
Inside, in the pantry, the retriever laid out a message.
FELT SOMETHING.
What? Travis asked.
DONT KNOW.
The Outsider?
MAYBE.
Close?
DONT KNOW.
Are you getting your sixth sense back? Nora asked.
DONT KNOW. JUST FELT.
Felt what? Travis asked.
The dog composed an answer only after considerable deliberation.
BIG DARKNESS.
You felt a big darkness?
Yes.
Whats that mean? Nora asked uneasily.
CANT EXPLAIN BETTER. JUST FELT IT.
Nora looked at Travis and saw a concern in his eyes that probably mirrored the 
expression in her own.
A big darkness was out there somewhere, and it was coming.
 
 
3
Christmas was joyous and fine.
In the morning, sitting around the light-bedecked tree, drinking milk and eating 
homemade cookies, they opened presents. As a joke, the first gift that Nora gave 
Travis was a box of underwear. He gave her a bright orange and yellow muumuu 
obviously sized for a three-hundred-pound woman: For March, when youll be too 
big for anything else. Of course, by May youll have outgrown it. They 
exchanged serious gifts, alsojewelry and sweaters and books.
But Nora, like Travis, felt the day belonged to Einstein more than to anyone 
else. She gave him the portrait on which she had been working all month, and the 
retriever seemed stunned and flattered and delighted that she had seen fit to 
immortalize him in paint. He got three new Mickey Mouse videotapes, a pair of 
fancy metal food and water bowls with his name engraved on them to replace the 
plastic dishes he had been using, his own small battery powered clock that he 
could take with him to any room in the house (he was showing an increasing 
interest in time), and several other presents, but he Was repeatedly drawn to 
the portrait, which they propped against the wall for his inspection. Later, 
when they hung it above the living-room fireplace, Einstein stood on the hearth 
and peered up at the picture, pleased and proud.
Like any kid, Einstein perversely took almost as much pleasure in playing With 
empty boxes, crumpled wrapping paper, and ribbons as he did with the gifts 
themselves. And one of his favorite things was a joke gift: a red Santa
cap with a white porn-porn on the tip, which was held on his head by an elastic 
strap. Nora put it on him just for fun. When he saw himself in a mirror, he was 
so taken with his appearance that he objected when, a few minutes later, she 
tried to take the cap off him. He kept it on most of the day.
Jim Keene and Pooka arrived in the early afternoon, and Einstein herded them 
straight into the living room to look at his portrait above the mantel. For an 
hour, watched over by Jim and Travis, the two dogs played together in the back 
yard. That activity, having been preceded by the excitement of the mornings 
gift-giving, left Einstein in need of a nap, so they returned to the house, 
where Jim and Travis helped Nora prepare Christmas dinner.
After his nap, Einstein tried to interest Pooka in Mickey Mouse cartoons, but 
Nora saw that he met with only limited success. Pookas attention span didnt 
even last long enough for Donald or Goofy or Pluto to get Mickey into trouble. 
In respect of his companions lower 10, and apparently not bored with such 
company, Einstein turned the television off and engaged in strictly doggy 
activities: some light wrestling in the den and a lot of lying around, nose to 
nose, silently communing with each other about canine concerns.
By early evening, the house was filled with the aromas of turkey, baked corn, 
yams, and other goodies. Christmas music played. And in spite of the interior 
shutters that had been bolted over the windows when the early-winter night had 
fallen, in spite of the guns near at hand, in spite of the demonic presence of 
The Outsider that always lurked in the back of her mind, Nora had never been 
happier.
During dinner, they talked about the baby, and Jim asked if they had given any 
thought to names. Einstein, eating in the corner with Pooka, was instantly 
intrigued by the idea of participating in the naming of their firstborn. He 
dashed immediately to the pantry to spell out his suggestion.
Nora left the table to see what name the dog thought suitable.
MICKEY.
Absolutely not! she said. Were not naming my baby after a cartoon mouse.
DONALD.
Nor a duck.
PLUTO.
Pluto? Get serious, fur face.
GOOFY.
Nora firmly restrained him from pushing the letter-dispensing pedals any more, 
gathered up the used tiles and put them away, turned off the pantry light, and 
went back to the table. You may think its hilarious, she told Travis and Jim, 
who were choking with laughter, but hes serious!
After dinner, sitting around the tree in the living room, they talked about many 
things, including Jims intention of getting another dog. Pooka needs to have 
another of his kind, the vet said. Hes almost a year and a half old now, and 
Im of the belief that human companionship isnt enough for them after theyre 
well past the puppy stage. They get lonely like we do. And since Im going to 
get him a companion, I might as well get a female purebred lab
and maybe wind up with some nice puppies to sell later. So hes going to have 
not only a friend but a mate.
Nora had not noticed that Einstein was any more interested in that part of the 
conversation than in any other. However, after Jim and Pooka had gone home, 
Travis found a message in the pantry and called Nora over to have a look at it.
MATE. A COMPANION, PARTNER, ONE OF A PAIR.
The retriever had been waiting for them to notice the carefully arranged tiles. 
Now he appeared behind them and regarded them quizzically.
Nora said, Do you think youd like a mate?
Einstein slipped between them, into the pantry, disarranged the tiles, and made 
a reply.
ITS WORTH THINKING ABOUT.
But, listen, fur face, Travis said, youre one of a kind. Theres no other 
dog like you, with your JO.
The retriever considered that point but was not dissuaded.
LIFE IS MORE THAN INTELLECT.
True enough, Travis said. But I think this needs a lot of consideration.
LIFE IS FEELINGS.
All right, Nora said. Well think about it.
LIFE IS MATE. SHARING.
We promise to think about it and then discuss it with you some more, Travis 
said. Now its getting late.
Einstein quickly made one more message.
BABY MICKEY?
Absolutely not! Nora said.
 
 
That night, in bed, after she and Travis made love, Nora said, Ill bet he is 
lonely.
Jim Keene?
Well, yes, I bet hes lonely, too. Hes such a nice man, and hed make someone 
a great husband. But women are just as choosy about looks as men are, dont you 
think? They dont go for husbands with hound-dog faces. They marry the 
good-looking ones who half the time treat them like dirt. But I didnt mean Jim. 
I meant Einstein. He must get lonely now and then.
Were with him all the time.
No, were really not. I paint, and you do things in which poor Einstein doesnt 
get included. And if you do go back to real estate eventually, therell be a lot 
of time when Einsteins without anyone.
He has his books. He loves books.
Maybe books arent enough, she said.
They were silent for so long that she thought Travis had fallen asleep. Then he 
said, If Einstein mated and produced puppies, what would they be like?
You meanwould they be as smart as he is?
I wonder . . . Seems to me theres three possibilities. First, his intelligence 
isnt inheritable, so his puppies would just be ordinary puppies. Second, it is 
inheritable, but the genes of his mate would dilute the intelligence, so the 
puppies would be smart but not as smart as their father; and each succeeding 
generation would get dimmer, duller, until eventually his 
great-great-greatgrandpups would just be ordinary dogs.
Whats the third possibility?
Intelligence, being a survival trait, might be genetically dominant, very 
dominant.
In which case his puppies would be as smart as he is.
And their puppies after them, on and on, until in time youd have a colony of 
intelligent golden retrievers, thousands of them all over the world.
They were silent again.
Finally she said, Wow.
Travis said, Hes right.
What?
It is something worth thinking about.
 
 
4
Vince Nasco had never anticipated, back in November, that he would need a full 
month to get a whack at Ramon Velazquez, the guy in Oakland who was a thorn in 
the side of Don Mario Tetragna. Until he wasted Velazquez, Vince would not be 
given the names of people in San Francisco who dealt in false ID and who might 
help him track down Travis Cornell, the woman, and the dog. So he had an urgent 
need to reduce Velazquez to a hunk of putrefying meat.
But Velazquez was a goddamn shadow. The man did not make a step without two 
bodyguards at his side, which should have made him more rather than less 
conspicuous. However, he conducted his gambling and drug enterprisesinfringing 
on the Tetragna franchise in Oaklandwith all the stealth of Howard Hughes. He 
slipped and slithered on his errands, using a fleet of different cars, never 
taking the same route two days in a row, never meeting in the same place, using 
the street as an office, never staying anywhere long enough to be made, marked, 
and wiped out. He was a hopeless paranoid who believed everyone was out to get 
him. Vince couldnt keep the man in sight long enough to match him with the 
photograph that the Tetragnas had supplied. Ramon Velazquez was smoke.
Vince didnt get him until Christmas Day, and it was a hell of a mess when it 
went down. Ramon was at home with a lot of relatives. Vince came at the 
Velazquez property from the house behind it, over the high brick wall between 
one big lot and the other. Coming down on the other side, he saw Velazquez and 
some people at a barbecue on the patio near the pool, where they were roasting 
an enormous turkeydid people barbecue turkeys anywhere but in
California?and they all spotted him immediately though he was half an acre 
away. He saw the bodyguards reaching for weapons in their shoulder holsters, so 
he had no choice but to fire indiscriminately with his Uzi, spraying the entire 
patio area, taking out Velazquez, both bodyguards, a middle-aged woman who must 
have been somebodys wife, and an old dame who had to be somebodys grandmother.
Ssssnap.
Ssssnap.
Ssssnap.
Ssssnap.
Ssssnap.
Everyone else, inside and outside of the house, was screaming and diving for 
cover. Vince had to climb the wall back into the yard of the house next 
doorwhere nobody was home, thank Godand as he was hauling his ass over the 
top, a bunch of Latino types at the Velazquez place opened fire on him. He 
barely got away with his hide intact.
The day after Christmas, when he showed up at a San Francisco restaurant owned 
by Don Tetragna, to meet with Frank Dicenziano, a trusted Family capo who 
answered only to the don himself, Vince was worried. The fratellanza had a code 
about assassinations. Hell, they had a code about everythingprobably even bowel 
movementsand they took their codes seriously, but the code of assassination was 
maybe taken a little more seriously than others. The first rule of that code 
was: You dont hit a man in the company of his family unless hes gone to ground 
and you just cant reach him any other way. Vince felt fairly safe on that 
score. But another rule was that you never shot a mans wife or kids or his 
grandmother in order to get at him. Any hit man who did such a thing would 
probably wind up dead himself, wasted by the very people who had hired him. 
Vince hoped to convince Frank Dicenziano that Velazquez was a special caseno 
other target had ever eluded Vince for a monthand that what had happened in 
Oakland on Christmas Day was regrettable but unavoidable.
Just in case Dicenzianoand by extension, the donwas too furious to listen to 
reason, Vince went prepared with more than a gun. He knew that, if they wanted 
him dead, they would crowd him and take the gun away from him before he could 
use it, as soon as he walked into the restaurant and before he knew the score. 
So he wired himself with plastic explosives and was prepared to detonate them, 
wiping out the entire restaurant, if they tried to fit him for a coffin.
Vince was not sure if he would survive the explosion. He had absorbed the life 
energies of so many people recently that he thought he must be getting close to 
the immortality he had been seekingor was already therebut he could not know 
how strong he was until he put himself to the test. If his choice was standing 
at the heart of an explosion . . . or letting a couple of Wiseguys pump a 
hundred rounds into him and encase him in concrete for a dunk in the bay . . . 
he decided the former was more appealing and, perhaps, offered him a marginally 
better chance of survival.
To his surprise, Dicenzianowho resembled a squirrel with meatballs in his 
cheekswas delighted with how the Velazquez contract had been fulfilled. He said 
the don had the highest praise for Vince. No one searched Vince when he entered 
the restaurant. At a corner booth, as the first men in the room, he and Frank 
were served a special lunch of dishes not on the menu. They drank 
three-hundred-dollar Cabernet Sauvignon, a gift from Mario Tetragna.
When Vince cautiously raised the issue of the dead wife and grandmother, 
Dicenziano said, Listen, my friend, we knew this was going to be a hard hit, a 
demanding job, and that rules might have to be broken. Besides, these people 
were not our kind of people. They were just a bunch of wetback spics. They dont 
belong in this business. If they try to force their way into it, they cant 
expect us to play by the rules.
Relieved, Vince went to the mens room halfway through lunch and disconnected 
the detonator. He didnt want to set the Plastique off accidentally now that the 
crisis was past.
At the end of lunch, Frank gave Vince the list. Nine names. These people who 
are not all Family people, by the waypay the don for the right to operate their 
ID businesses in his territory. Back in November, in anticipation of your 
success with Velazquez, I spoke to these nine, and theyll remember that the don 
wants them to cooperate with you in any way they can.
Vince set out the same afternoon, looking for someone who would remember Travis 
Cornell.
Initially, he was frustrated. Two of the first four people on the list could not 
be reached. They had closed up shop and gone away for the holidays. To Vince, it 
seemed wrong that the criminal underworld would take off for Christmas and New 
Years as if they were schoolteachers.
But the fifth man, Anson Van Dyne, was at work in the basement beneath his 
topless club, Hot Tips, and at five-thirty, December 26, Vince found what he was 
after. Van Dyne looked at the photograph of Travis Cornell, which Vince had 
obtained from the back-issue files of the Santa Barbara newspaper. Yeah, I 
remember him. Hes not one you forget. Not a foreigner looking to become an 
instant American like half my customers. And not the usual sad-assed loser who 
needs to change his name and hide his face. Hes not a big guy, and he doesnt 
come on tough or anything, but you get the feeling he could mop up the floor 
with anyone who crossed him. Very self-contained. Very watchful. I couldnt 
forget him.
What you couldnt forget, said one of the two bearded boy wonders at the 
computers, is that gorgeous quiff he was with.
For her, even a dead man could get it up, the other one said.
The first said, Yeah, even a dead man. Cake and pie.
Vince was both offended and confused by their contributions to the conversation, 
so he ignored them. To Van Dyne, he said, Is there any chance youd remember 
the new names you gave them?
Sure. We got it on file, Van Dyne said.
Vince could not believe what he had heard. I thought people in your line
of work didnt keep records? Safer for you and essential for your clients.
Van Dyne shrugged. Fuck the clients. Maybe one day the feds or the locals hit 
us, put us out of business. Maybe I find myself needing a steady flow of cash 
for lawyers fees. What better than to have a list of a couple of thousand bozos 
living under phony names, bozos whod be willing to be squeezed a little rather 
than have to start all over again with new lives.
Blackmail, Vince said.
An ugly word, Van Dyne said. But apt, Im afraid. Anyway, all we care about 
is that we are safe, that there arent any records here to incriminate us. We 
dont keep the data in this dump. Soon as we provide someone with a new ID, we 
transmit the record of it over a safe phone line from the computer here to a 
computer we keep elsewhere. The way that computer is programmed, the data cant 
be pulled out of it from here; its a one-way road; so if we are busted, the 
police hackers cant reach our records from these machines. Hell, they wont 
even know the records exist.
This new high-tech criminal world made Vince woozy. Even the don, a man of 
infinite criminal cleverness, had thought these people kept no records and had 
not realized how computers had made it safe to do so. Vince thought about what 
Van Dyne had told him, getting it all sorted out in his mind. He said, So can 
you take me to this other computer and look up Cornells new
ID?
For a friend of Don Tetragnas, Van Dyne said, Ill do just about anything 
but slit my own throat. Come with me.
 
 
Van Dyne drove Vince to a busy Chinese restaurant in Chinatown. The place must 
have seated a hundred and fifty, and every table was occupied, mostly by Anglos 
rather than Asians. Although the joint was enormous and was decorated with paper 
lanterns, dragon murals, imitation rosewood screens, and strings of brass wind 
chimes in the shapes of Chinese ideograms, it reminded Vince of the kitschy 
Italian trattoria in which he had murdered the cockroach Pantangela and the two 
federal marshals last August. All ethnic art and decorfrom Chinese to Italian 
to Polish to Irishwere, when boiled down to their essence, perfectly alike.
The owner was a Chinese man in his thirties, who was introduced to Vince simply 
as Yuan. With bottles of Tsingtao provided by Yuan, Van Dyne and Vince went into 
the owners basement office, where two computers stood on two desks, one out in 
the main work area and the other shoved into a corner. The one in the corner was 
switched on, though nobody was working at it.
This is my computer, Van Dyne said. No one here ever works with it. They 
never even touch it, except to open the phone line to put the modem in operation 
every morning and to close it at night. My computers at Hot Tips are linked to 
this one.
You trust Yuan?
I got him the loan that started this business. He owes me his good fortune.
And its pretty much a clean loan, nothing that can be linked to me in any way, 
or to Don Tetragna, so Yuan remains an upstanding citizen whos of no interest 
to the cops. All he does for me in return is let me keep the computer here.
Sitting in front of the terminal, Van Dyne began to use the keyboard. In two 
minutes he had Travis Cornells new name: Samuel Spencer Hyatt.
And here, Van Dyne said as new data flickered up. This is the woman who was 
with him. Her real name was Nora Louise Devon of Santa Barbara. Now, shes Nora 
Jean Aimes.
Okay, Vince said. Now wipe them off your records.
What do you mean?
Erase them. Take them out of the computer. Theyre not yours any more. Theyre 
mine. Nobody elses. Just mine.
 
 
A short while later, they were back at Hot Tips, which was a decadent place that 
revolted Vince.
In the basement, Van Dyne gave the names Hyatt and Aimes to the bearded boy 
wonders who seemed to live down there around the clock, like a couple of trolls.
First, the trolls broke into the Department of Motor Vehicle computers. They 
wanted to see whether, in the three months since acquiring new identities, Hyatt 
and Aimes had settled down somewhere and filed a change of address with the 
state.
Bingo, one of them said.
An address appeared on the screen, and the bearded operator ordered a printout.
Anson Van Dyne tore the paper off the printer and handed it to Vince. Travis 
Cornell and Nora Devonnow Hyatt and Aimeswere living at a rural address on 
Pacific Coast Highway south of the town of Carmel.
 
 
5
On Wednesday, December 29, Nora drove into Carmel alone for an appointment with 
Dr. Weingold.
The sky was overcast, so dark that the white seagulls, swooping against the 
backdrop of clouds, were by contrast almost as bright as incandescent lights. 
The weather had been much the same since the day after Christmas, but the 
promised rain never came.
Today, however, it came in torrents just as she pulled the pickup into one of 
the spaces in the small parking lot behind Dr. Weingolds office. She was 
wearing a nylon jacket with a hood, just in case, and she pulled the hood
over her head before dashing from the truck into the one-story brick building. 
Dr. Weingold gave her the usual thorough examination and pronounced
her fit as a fiddle, which would have amused Einstein.
Ive never seen a woman at the three-month mark in better shape, the doctor 
said.
I want this to be a very healthy baby, a perfect baby.
And so it shall be.
The doctor believed that her name was Aimes and her husbands name was Hyatt, 
but he never once indicated disapproval of her marital status. The situation 
embarrassed Nora, but she supposed that the modern world, into which she had 
fluttered from the cocoon of the Devon house, was liberal-minded about these 
things.
Dr. Weingold suggested, as he had done before, that she consider a test to 
determine the babys sex, and as before she declined. She wanted to be 
surprised. Besides, if they found out they were going to have a girl, Einstein 
would start campaigning for the name Minnie.
After huddling with the doctors receptionist to schedule the next appointment, 
Nora pulled the hood over her head again and went out into the driving rain. It 
was coming down hard, drizzling off a section of roof that had no gutters, 
sluicing across the sidewalk, forming deep puddles on the macadam of the parking 
lot. She sloshed through a miniature river on her way to the pickup, and in 
seconds her running shoes were saturated.
As she reached the truck, she saw a man getting out of a red Honda parked beside 
her. She didnt notice much about himjust that he was a big guy in a small car, 
and that he was not dressed for the rain. He was wearing jeans and a blue 
pullover, and Nora thought: The poor man is going to get soaked to the skin.
She opened the drivers door and started to get into the truck. The next thing 
she knew, the man in the-blue sweater was coming in after her, shoving her 
across the seat and clambering behind the wheel. He said, If you yell, bitch, 
Ill blow your guts out, and she realized that he was jamming a revolver into 
her side.
She almost yelled anyway, involuntarily, almost tried to keep on going across 
the front seat and out the door on the passengers side. But something in his 
voice, brutal and dark, made her hesitate. He sounded as if he would shoot her 
in the back rather than let her escape.
He slammed the drivers door, and now they were alone in the truck, beyond help, 
virtually concealed from the world by the rain that streamed down the Windows 
and made the glass opaque. It didnt matter: the doctors parking lot was 
deserted, and it could not be seen from the street, so even out of the truck she 
would have had no one to whom to turn.
He was a very big man, and muscular, but it was not his size that was most 
frightening. His broad face was placid, virtually expressionless; that serenity, 
completely unsuited to these circumstances, scared Nora. His eyes were worse. 
Green eyesand cold.
Who are you? she demanded, trying to conceal her fear, sure that visible 
terror would excite him. He seemed to be balanced on a thin line. What do you 
want with me?
I want the dog.
She had thought: robber. She had thought: rapist. She had thought: psychopathic 
thrill killer. But she had not for a moment thought that he might be a 
government agent. Yet who else would be looking for Einstein? No one else even 
knew the dog existed.
Whatre you talking about? she said.
He pushed the muzzle of the revolver deeper into her side, until it hurt.
She thought of the baby growing within her. All right, okay, obviously you know 
about the dog, so theres no point playing games.
No point. He spoke so quietly that she could hardly hear him above the roar of 
the rain that drummed on the roof of the cab and snapped against the windshield.
He reached over and pulled down the hood of her jacket, opened the zipper, and 
slid his hand down her breasts, over her belly. For a moment she was terrified 
that he was, after all, intent on rape.
Instead, he said, This Weingold is a gynecologist-obstetrician. So whats your 
problem? You have some damn social disease or are you pregnant? He almost spit 
out the words social disease, as if merely pronouncing those syllables made 
him sick with disgust.
Youre no government agent. She spoke entirely from instinct.
I asked you a question, bitch, he said in a voice barely louder than a 
whisper. He leaned close, digging the gun into her side again. The air in the 
truck was humid. The all-enveloping sound of rain combined with the stuffiness 
to create a claustrophobic atmosphere that was nearly intolerable. He said, 
Which is it? You got herpes, syphilis, clap, some other crotch rot? Or are you 
pregnant?
Thinking that pregnancy might gain her a dispensation from the violence of which 
he seemed so capable, she said, Im going to have a baby. Im three months 
pregnant.
Something happened in his eyes. A shifting. Like movement in a subtle 
kaleidoscopic pattern that was composed of bits of glass all the same shade of 
green.
Nora knew that admitting pregnancy was the worst thing she could have done, but 
she did not know why.
She thought about the .38 pistol in the glove compartment. She could not 
possibly open the glove box, grab the gun, and shoot him before he pulled the 
trigger of the revolver. Still, shed have to remain constantly on the lookout 
for an opportunity, for a laxness on his part, that would give her a chance to 
go for her own weapon.
Suddenly he was climbing on top of her, and again she thought he was going to 
rape her in broad daylight, in the veiling curtains of rain but still daylight. 
Then she realized he was just changing places with her, urging her
behind the wheel while he moved into the passengers seat, keeping the muzzle of 
the revolver on her the whole time.
Drive, he said.
Where?
Back to your place.
But
Keep your mouth shut and drive.
Now she was at the opposite side of the cab from the glove box. To get to it, 
she would have to reach in front of him. He would never be that lax.
Determined to keep a rein on her galloping fear, she now found that she had to 
rein in despair as well.
She started the truck, drove out of the parking lot, and turned right in the 
street.
The windshield wipers thumped nearly as loud as her heart. She wasnt sure how 
much of the oppressive sound was made by the impacting rain and how much of it 
was the roar of her own blood in her ears.
Block by block, Nora searched for a copalthough she had no idea what she should 
do if she saw one. She never had to figure it out because no cops were anywhere 
to be seen.
Until they were out of Carmel and on the Pacific Coast Highway, the blustering 
wind not only drove rain against the windshield but also flung bristling bits of 
cypress and pine needles from the huge old trees that sheltered the towns 
streets. South along the coast, as they headed into steadily less populated 
areas, no trees overhung the road, but the wind off the ocean hit the pickup 
full force. Nora frequently felt it pulling at the wheel. And the rain, slashing 
straight at them from the sea, seemed to pummel the truck hard enough to leave 
dents in the sheet metal.
After at least five minutes of silence, which seemed like an hour, she could no 
longer obey his order to keep her mouth shut. How did you find us?
Been watching your place for more than a day, he said in that cool, quiet 
voice that matched his placid face. When you left this morning, I followed you, 
hoping youd give me an opening.
No, I mean, how did you know where we lived?
He smiled. Van Dyne.
That double-crossing creep.
Special circumstances, he assured her. The Big Man in San Francisco Owed me a 
favor, so he put pressure on Van Dyne.
Big man?
Tetragna.
Whos he?
You dont know anything, do you? he said. Except how to make babies, huh? You 
know about that, huh?
The hard taunting note in his voice was not merely sexually suggestive: it Was 
darker, stranger, and more terrifying than that. She was so frightened
of the fierce tension that she sensed in him each time he approached the subject 
of sex that she did not dare reply to him.
She turned on the headlights as they encountered thin fog. She kept her 
attention on the rain-washed highway, squinting through the smeary windshield.
He said, Youre very pretty. If I was going to stick it into anyone, Id stick 
it into you.
Nora bit her lip.
But even as pretty as you are, he said, youre like all the others, Ill bet. 
If I stuck it into you, then itd rot and fall off because youre diseased like 
all the othersarent you? Yeah. You are. Sex is death. Im one of the few who 
seem to know it, even though proof is everywhere. Sex is death. But youre very 
pretty . .
As she listened to him, her throat got tight. She was having difficulty drawing 
a deep breath.
Suddenly his taciturnity was gone. He talked fast, still soft-voiced and 
unnervingly calm, considering the crazy things he was saying, but very fast:
Im going to be bigger than Tetragna, more important. Ive got scores of lives 
in me. Ive absorbed energies from more than youd believe, experienced The 
Moment, felt The Snap. Its my Gift. When Tetragnas dead and gone, Ill be 
here. When everyone now alive is dead, Ill be here because Im immortal.
She didnt know what to say. He had come out of nowhere, somehow knowing about 
Einstein, and he was a lunatic, and there seemed to be nothing she could do. She 
was as angry about the unfairness of it as she was afraid. They had made careful 
preparations for The Outsider, and they had taken elaborate steps to elude the 
governmentbut how were they supposed to have prepared for this? It wasnt fair.
Silent again, he stared at her intently for a minute or more, another eternity. 
She could feel his icy green gaze on her as surely as she would have felt a 
cold, fondling hand.
You dont know what Im talking about, do you? he said.
No.
Perhaps because he found her pretty, he chose to explain. Ive only ever told 
one person before, and he made fun of me. His name was Danny Slowicz, and we 
both worked for the Carramazza Family in New York, biggest of the five Mafia 
Families. Little muscle work, once in a while killing people who needed killed.
Nora felt sick because he was not merely crazy and not merely a killer but a 
crazy professional killer.
Unaware of her reaction, switching his gaze from the rain-swept road to her 
face, he continued. See, we were having dinner in this restaurant, Danny and 
me, washing down clams with Valpolicella, and I explained to him that I was 
destined to lead a long life because of my ability to acquire the vital energies 
of people I wasted. I told him, See, Danny, people are like batteries,
walking batteries, filled with this mysterious energy we call life. When I off 
someone, his energy becomes my energy, and I get stronger. Im a bull, Danny, I 
says. Look at meam I a bull or what? And I got to be a bull cause I have this 
Gift of being able to take the energy from a guy. And you know what Danny 
says?
What? she asked numbly.
Well, Danny was a serious eater, so he kept his attention on his plate, face in 
his food, until he scarfs a few more clams. Then he looks up, his lips and chin 
dripping clam sauce, and he says, Yeah, Vince, so whered you learn this trick, 
huh? Whered you learn how to absorb these life energies? I said, Well, its 
my Gift, and he said, You mean like from God? So I had to think about that, 
and I said, Who knows where from? Its my Gift like Mantles hitting was a 
gift, like Sinatras voice was a gift. And Danny says, Tell me thissuppose 
you waste a guy whos an electrician. After you absorb his energy, would you all 
of a sudden know how to rewire a house? I didnt realize he was putting me on. 
I thought it was a serious question, so I explained how I absorb life energy, 
not personality, not all the stuff the guy knows, just his energy. And then 
Danny says, So if you blew away a carnival geek, you wouldnt all of a sudden 
get the urge to bite the heads off chickens. Right then I knew Danny thought I 
was either drunk or nuts, so I ate clams and didnt say any more about my Gift, 
and thats the last time I told anyone until Im here telling you.
He had called himself Vince, so now she knew his name. She did not see what good 
it would do her to know it.
He had told his story without any indication that he was aware of the insane 
black humor in it. He was a deadly serious man. Unless Travis could deal with 
him, this guy was not going to let them live.
So, Vince said, I couldnt risk Danny going around telling anyone what Id 
told him, because hed color it up, make it sound funny, and people would think 
I was nuts. The big bosses dont hire crazy hit men; they want cool, logical, 
balanced guys who can do the work clean. Which is what I am, cool and balanced, 
but Danny would have had them thinking the other way. So that night I slit his 
throat, took him to this deserted factory I knew, cut him into pieces, put him 
in a vat, and poured a lot of sulfuric acid over him. He was a favorite nephew 
of the dons, so I couldnt take a chance of anyone finding a body that might be 
traced back to me. Now, I got Dannys energy in me, along with a lot of others.
The gun was in the glove box.
Some small hope could be taken from the knowledge that the gun was in the glove 
box.
 
 
While Nora was visiting Dr. Weingold, Travis whipped up and baked a double batch 
of chocolate cookies with peanut-butter chips. Living alone, he
had learned to cook, but he had never taken pleasure in it. During the past few 
months, however, Nora had improved his culinary skills to such an extent that he 
enjoyed cooking, especially baking.
Einstein, who usually hung around dutifully throughout a baking session, in the 
anticipation of receiving a sweet morsel, deserted him before he had finished 
mixing the batter. The dog was agitated and moved around the house from window 
to window, staring out at the rain.
After a while, Travis got edgy about the dogs behavior and asked if something 
was wrong.
In the pantry, Einstein made his reply.
I FEEL A LITTLE STRANGE.
Sick? Travis asked, worried about a relapse. The retriever was recovering 
well, but still recovering. His immune system was not in condition for a major 
new challenge.
NOT SICK.
Then what? You sense . . . The Outsider?
NO. NOT LIKE BEFORE.
But you sense something?
BAD DAY.
Maybe its the rain.
MAYBE.
Relieved but still edgy, Travis returned to his baking.
 
 
The highway was silver with rain.
The daytime fog grew slightly thicker as they drove south along the coast, 
forcing Nora to slow to forty miles an hour, thirty in some places.
Using the fog as an excuse, could she slow the truck enough to risk throwing 
open her door and leaping out? No. Probably not. She would have to let their 
speed drop below five miles an hour in order not to hurt herself or her unborn 
child, and the fog simply was not dense enough to justify reducing speed that 
far. Besides, Vince kept the revolver pointed at her while he talked, and he 
would shoot her in the back as she turned to make her exit.
The pickups headlamps and those of the few oncoming cars were refracted by the 
mist. Halos of light and scintillate rainbows bounced off the shifting curtains 
of fog, briefly seen, then gone.
She considered running the truck off the road, over the edge in one of the few 
places where she knew the embankment to be gentle and the drop endurable. But 
she was afraid she would misjudge where she was and, by mistake, drive off the 
brink into a two-hundred-foot emptiness, crashing with terrible force into the 
rocky coastline below. Even if she went over at the right point, a calculated 
and survivable crash might knock her unconscious or induce a miscarriage, and if 
possible she wanted to get out of this with her life and the life of the child 
within her.
Once Vince started talking to her, he could not stop. For years he had husbanded 
his great secrets, had hidden his dreams of power and immortality from the 
world, but his desire to speak of his supposed greatness evidently had never 
diminished after the fiasco with Danny Slowicz. It was as if he had stored up 
all the words he had wanted to say to people, had put them on reels and reels of 
mental recording tape, and now he was playing them back at high speed, spewing 
out all this craziness that made Nora sick with dread.
He told her how he had learned of Einsteinthe killing of the research 
scientists in charge of various programs under the Francis Project at Banodyne. 
He knew of The Outsider, too, but was not afraid of it. He was, he said, on the 
brink of immortality, and gaining ownership of the dog was one of the final 
tasks he had to complete in order to achieve his Destiny. He and the dog were 
destined to be together because each of them was unique in this world, one of a 
kind. Once Vince had achieved his Destiny, he said, nothing could stop him, not 
even The Outsider.
Half the time, Nora didnt understand what he was saying. She supposed that if 
she did understand it, she would be as insane as he clearly was.
But though she did not always grasp his meaning, she knew what he intended to do 
to her and to Travis once he had the retriever. At first, she was afraid of 
speaking about her fate, as if putting it into words would somehow make it 
irrevocable. At last, however, when they were no more than five miles from the 
dirt lane that turned off the highway and led up to the bleached-wood house, she 
said, You wont let us go when youve got the dog, will you?
He stared at her, caressing her with his gaze. What do you think, Nora?
I think youll kill us.
Of course.
She was surprised that his confirmation of her fears did not fill her with 
greater terror. His smug response only infuriated her, damping her fear while 
increasing her determination to spoil his neat plans.
She knew, then, that she was a radically changed woman from the Nora of last 
May, who would have been reduced to uncontrollable shudders by this mans bold 
self-assurance.
I could run this truck right off the road, take my chances with an accident, 
she said.
The moment you pulled on the wheel, he said, Id have to shoot you and then 
try to regain control.
Maybe you couldnt. Maybe youd die, too.
Me? Die? Maybe. But not in anything as minor as a traffic accident. No, no. 
Ive got too many lives in me to go that easily. And I dont believe youll try 
it anyway. In your heart of hearts, you believe that man of yours will pull a 
sharp one, save you and the dog and himself. Youre wrong, of course, but you 
cant stop believing in him. He wont do anything because hell be afraid of 
hurting you. Ill go in there with a gun in your belly, and that will paralyze 
him long enough for me to blow his head off. Thats why Ive only got the 
revolver. Its all I need. His caring for you, his fear of hurting you, will get 
him killed.
Nora decided it was very important that she not let her fury show. She must try 
to look frightened, weak, utterly unsure of herself. If he underestimated her, 
he might slip up and give her some small advantage.
Taking her eyes off the rainy highway for only a second, she glanced at him and 
saw that he was staring at her not with amusement or psychopathic rage, as she 
would have expected, and not with his usual bovine placidity either, but with 
something that looked very much like affection and maybe gratitude.
Ive dreamed for years of killing a pregnant woman, he said, as if that was a 
goal no less worthwhile and commendable than wanting to build a business empire 
or feed the hungry or nurse the sick. I have never been in a situation where 
the risk of killing a pregnant woman was low enough to justify it. But in that 
isolated house of yours, once Ive dealt with Cornell, the conditions will be 
ideal.
Please, no, she said shakily, playing the weakling, though she didnt have to 
fake the nervous quiver in her voice.
Still speaking calmly but with a trace more emotion than before, he said, 
Therell be your life energy, still young and rich, but in the instant you die, 
Ill also receive the energy of the child. And thatll be perfectly pure, 
unused, a life thats unsoiled by the many contaminants of this sick and 
degenerate world. Youre my first pregnant woman, Nora, and Ill always remember 
you.,,
Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes, which was not just good acting, 
either. Although she did believe Travis would find some way to handle this man, 
she was afraid that, in the turmoil, she or Einstein would die. And she did not 
know how Travis would be able to cope with his failure to save all of them.
Dont despair, Nora, Vince said. You and your baby will not entirely cease to 
exist. Youll both become a part of me, and in me youll live forever.
 
 
Travis took the first tray of cookies out of the oven and put them on a rack to 
cool.
Einstein came sniffing around, and Travis said, Theyre too hot yet.
The dog returned to the living room to look out the front window at the rain.
 
 
Just before Nora turned off the Coast Highway, Vince slid down on the seat, 
below the window level, out of sight. He kept the gun on her. Ill blow that 
baby right out of your belly if you make the slightest wrong move.
She believed him.
Turning onto the dirt lane, which was muddy and slippery, Nora drove up
the hill toward the house. The overhanging trees shielded the road from the 
worst of the rain but collected the water on their branches and sent it to the 
ground in fatter droplets or rivulets.
She saw Einstein at a front window, and she tried to come up with some signal 
that would mean trouble, that the dog would instantly understand. She couldnt 
think of anything.
Looking up at her, Vince said, Dont go all the way to the barn. Stop right 
beside the house.
His plan was obvious. The corner of the house where the pantry and cellar stairs 
were located had no windows. Travis and Einstein would not be able to see the 
man getting out of the truck with her. Vince could hustle her around the corner, 
onto the back porch, and inside before Travis realized something was wrong.
Maybe Einsteins canine senses would detect danger. Maybe. But . . . Einstein 
had been so ill.
 
 
Einstein padded into the kitchen, excited.
Travis said, Was that Noras truck?
Yes.
The retriever went to the back door and did a dance of impatiencethen stood 
still, cocked his head.
 
 
Noras stroke of luck came when she least expected it.
When she parked alongside the house, engaged the hand brake, and switched off 
the engine, Vince grabbed her and dragged her across the seat, out of his side 
of the truck because that was the side against the back end of the house and 
most difficult to see from windows at the front corner of the structure. 
Climbing from the pickup, pulling her by one hand, he was looking around to be 
sure Travis was not nearby; distracted, he couldnt keep his revolver on Nora as 
closely as before. As she slid across the seat, past the glove box, she popped 
open the door and snatched up the .38 pistol. Vince must have heard or sensed 
something because he swung toward her, but he was too late. She jammed the .38 
into his belly and, before he could raise his gun and blow her head off, she 
squeezed the trigger three times.
With a look of shock, he slammed back against the house, which was only three 
feet behind him.
She was amazed by her own cold-bloodedness. Crazily, she thought that no one was 
so dangerous as a mother protecting her children, even if one child was unborn 
and the other was a dog. She fired once more, point-blank, at his chest.
Vince went down hard, face-first on the wet ground.
She turned from him and ran. At the corner of the house she almost collided
with Travis, who vaulted over the porch railing and landed in a crouch in front 
of her, holding the Uzi carbine.
I killed him, she said, hearing hysteria in her voice, fighting to control it. 
I shot him four times, I killed him, my God.
Travis rose from a crouch, bewildered. Nora threw her arms around him and put 
her head against his chest. As chilling rain beat upon them, she reveled in the 
living warmth of him.
Who Travis began.
Behind Nora, Vince issued a shrill breathless cry and, rolling onto his back, 
fired at them. The bullet struck Travis high in the shoulder and knocked him 
backward. If it had been two inches to the right, it would have hit Nora in the 
head.
She was almost pulled off her feet when Travis fell because she was holding him. 
But she let go fast enough and went to the left, in front of the truck, out of 
the line of fire. She got only a quick look at Vince, who was holding his 
revolver in one hand and clutching his stomach with the other, trying to get off 
the ground.
In that glimpse before she cowered down in front of the pickup, she had not seen 
any blood on the man.
What was happening here? He could not possibly have survived three rounds in the 
stomach and one in the chest. Not unless he actually was immortal.
Even as Nora scrambled for the cover of the truck, Travis had been getting off 
his back, sitting up in the mud. Blood was visible on him, spreading across his 
chest from his shoulder, soaking his shirt. He still had the Uzi in his right 
hand, which functioned in spite of the wound in that shoulder. As Vince pulled 
off a wild second shot, Travis opened fire with the Uzi. His position was no 
better than Vinces; the spray of bullets snapped into the house and ricocheted 
along the side of the truck, indiscriminate fire.
He stopped shooting. Shit. He struggled onto his feet.
Nora said, Did you get him?
He made it around the front of the house, Travis said, and headed that way.
 
 
Vince figured he was approaching immortality, almost there, if he had not 
already arrived. He was in need ofat mostonly a few more lives, and his only 
concern was that he would be snuffed out when he was that close to his Destiny. 
As a result, he took precautions. Like the latest and most expensive model 
Kevlar bulletproof vest. He was wearing one under his sweater, which was what 
had stopped the four shots the bitch had tried to pump into him. The slugs had 
flattened against the vest, drawing no blood whatsoever. But, Jesus, they had 
hurt. The impact had knocked him against the wall of the house and had driven 
the breath out of him. He felt as if he had lain on a
giant anvil while someone repeatedly pounded a blacksmiths hammer into his gut.
Hunched over his pain, hobbling toward the front of the house, trying to get out 
of the way of the damn Uzi, he was sure he was going to be shot in the back. But 
somehow he made it to the corner, climbed the porch steps, and got out of 
Cornells line of fire.
Vince took some satisfaction in having wounded Cornell, though he knew it wasnt 
mortal. And having lost the element of surprise, he was in for a protracted 
battle. Hell, the woman looked to be almost as formidable as Cornell himselfa 
crazy Amazon.
He could have sworn there was something of the timid mouse in the woman, that it 
was her nature to submit. Obviously, he misjudged herand that spooked him. 
Vince Nasco was not accustomed to making such mistakes; mistakes were for lesser 
men, not for the child of Destiny.
Scuttling across the front porch, certain that Cornell was coming fast behind 
him, Vince decided to go into the house instead of heading for the woods. They 
would expect him to run for the trees, take cover, and reconsider his strategy. 
Instead, hed go straight into the house and find a position from which he could 
see both the front and rear doors. Maybe hed take them by surprise yet.
He was passing a large window, heading for the front door, when something 
exploded through the glass.
Vince cried out in surprise and fired his revolver, but the shot went into the 
porch ceiling, and the dogJesus, thats what it was, the doghit him hard. The 
gun flew out of his hand. He was knocked backward. The dog clung to him, claws 
snagged in his clothes, teeth sunk in his shoulder. The porch railing 
disintegrated. They tumbled out into the front yard, into the rain.
Screaming, Vince hammered at the dog with his big fists until it squealed and 
let go of him. Then it went for his throat, and he just knocked it off in time 
to prevent it tearing open his windpipe.
His gut still throbbed, but he hitched and stumbled back to the porch, looking 
for his revolverand found Cornell instead. Bleeding from his shoulder, Cornell 
was on the porch, looking down at Vince.
Vince felt a great wild surge of confidence. He knew that he had been right all 
along, knew that he was invincible, immortal, because he could look straight 
into the muzzle of the Uzi without fear, without the slightest fear, so he 
grinned up at Cornell. Look at me, look! Im your worst nightmare.
Cornell said, Not even close, and opened fire.
 
 
In the kitchen Travis sat in a chair, with Einstein at his side, while Nora 
dressed his wound. As she worked, she told him what she knew about the man who 
had forced his way into the truck.
He was a damn wild card, Travis said. No way we could ever have known he was 
out there.
"I hope hes the only wild card.
Wincing as Nora poured alcohol and iodine into the bullet hole, wincing again as 
she bound the wound with gauze by passing it under his armpit, he said, Dont 
worry about making a great job of it. The bleedings not that bad. No arterys 
been hit.
The bullet had gone through, leaving a hideous exit wound, and he was in 
considerable pain, but for a while yet he would be able to function. He would 
have to seek medical attention later, maybe from Jim Keene to avoid the 
questions that any other doctor would surely insist on having answered. For now, 
he was only concerned that the wound be bound tight enough to allow him to 
dispose of the dead man.
Einstein was battered, too. Fortunately, he had not been cut when he smashed 
through the front window. He did not seem to have any broken bones, but he had 
taken several hard blows. Not in the best of shape to begin with, he looked 
badmuddy and rain-soaked and in pain. He would need to see Jim Keene, too.
Outside, rain was falling harder than ever, pounding on the roof, gurgling 
noisily through gutters and downspouts. It was slanting across the front porch 
and through the shattered window, but they did not have time to worry about 
water damage.
Thank God for the rain, Travis said. No one in the area will have heard the 
gunfire in this downpour.
Nora said, Where will we dump the body?
Im thinking. And it was hard to think clearly because the pain in his 
shoulder throbbed up and into his head.
She said, We could bury him here, in the woods
No. Wed always know he was there. Wed always worry about the body being dug 
up by wild animals, found by hikers. Better . . . therere places along the 
Coast Highway where we could pull over, wait until theres no traffic, drag him 
out of the bed of the truck, and toss him over the side. If we pick a place 
where the sea comes in right to the base of the slope, itll carry him out, move 
him away, before anyone notices him down there.
As Nora finished the bandage, Einstein abruptly got up, whined. He sniffed the 
air. He went to the back door, stood staring at it for a moment, then 
disappeared into the living room.
Im afraid hes hurt worse than he seems to be, Nora said, applying a final 
strip of adhesive tape.
Maybe, Travis said. But maybe not. Hes just been acting peculiar all day, 
ever since you left this morning. He told me it smelled like a bad day.
He was right, she said.
Einstein returned from the living room at a run and went straight to the pantry, 
switching on the lights and pumping the pedals that released lettered tiles.
Maybe he has an idea about disposing of the body, Nora said.
As Nora gathered up the leftover iodine, alcohol, gauze, and tape, Travis 
painfully pulled on his shirt and went to the pantry to see what Einstein had to 
say.
THE OUTSIDER IS HERE.
 
 
 
 
Travis slammed a new magazine into the butt of the Uzi carbine, put an extra in 
one pocket, and gave Nora one of the Uzi pistols that was kept in the pantry.
Judging by Einsteins sense of urgency, they had no time to go through the 
house, closing and bolting shutters.
The clever scheme to gas The Outsider in the barn had been built upon the 
certainty that it would approach at night and reconnoiter. Now that it had come 
in daylight and had reconnoitered while they were distracted by Vince, that plan 
was useless.
They stood in the kitchen, listening, but nothing could be heard above the 
relentless roar of the rain.
Einstein was not able to give them a more precise fix on their adversarys 
location. His sixth sense was still not working up to par. They were just lucky 
that he had sensed the beast at all. His morning-long anxiety had evidently not 
been related to any presentiment about the man who had come home with Nora but 
had been, even without his knowledge, caused by the approach of The Outsider.
Upstairs, Travis said. Lets go.
Down here, the creature could enter by doors or windows, but on the second floor 
they would at least have only windows to worry about. And maybe they could get 
shutters closed over some of those.
Nora climbed the stairs with Einstein. Travis brought up the rear, moving 
backward, keeping the Uzi aimed down at the first floor. The ascent made him 
dizzy. He was acutely aware that the pain and weakness in his injured shoulder 
was slowly spreading outward through his entire body like an ink stain through a 
blotter.
On the second floor, at the head of the stairs, he said, If we hear it come in, 
we can back off, wait until it starts to climb toward us, then step forward and 
catch it by surprise, blow it away.
She nodded.
. They had to be silent now, give it a chance to creep into the downstairs, give 
it time to decide they were on the second floor, let it gain confidence, let it 
approach the stairs with a sense of security.
A strobe-flash of lightningthe first of the stormpulsed at the window at the 
end of the hall, and thunder cracked. The sky seemed to have been shattered by 
the blast, and all the rain stored in the heavens collapsed upon the earth in 
one tremendous fall.
At the end of the hallway, one of Noras canvases flew out of her studio and 
crashed against the wall.
Nora cried out in surprise, and for an instant all three of them stared stupidly 
at the painting lying on the hall floor, half thinking that its poltergeist-like 
flight had been related to the great crash of thunder and the lightning.
A second painting sailed out of her studio, hit the wall, and Travis saw the 
canvas was shredded.
The Outsider was already in the house.
They were at one end of the short hall. The master bedroom and future nursery 
were on the left, the bathroom and then Noras studio on the right. The thing 
was just two doors away, in Noras studio, demolishing her paintings.
Another canvas flew into the hallway.
Rain-soaked, muddied, battered, still somewhat weak from his battle with 
distemper, Einstein nevertheless barked viciously, trying to warn off The 
Outsider.
Holding the Uzi, Travis moved one step down the hall. Nora grabbed his arm. 
Lets not. Lets get out.
No. Weve got to face it.
On our terms, she said.
These are the best terms were going to get.
Two more paintings flew out of the studio and clattered down on top of the 
growing pile of wrecked canvases.
Einstein was no longer barking but growling deep in his throat.
Together, they moved along the hall, toward the open door of Noras studio.
Traviss experience and training told him they ought to split up, spread out, 
instead of grouping into a single target. But this was not Delta Force. And 
their enemy was not a mere terrorist. If they spread out, they would lose some 
of the courage they needed to face the thing. Their very closeness gave them 
strength.
They were halfway to the studio door when The Outsider shrieked. It was an icy 
sound that stabbed right through Travis and quick-froze his bone marrow. He and 
Nora halted, but Einstein took two more steps before stopping.
The dog was shuddering violently.
Travis realized he, too, was shaking. The tremors aggravated the pain in his 
shoulder.
Breaking fears hold, he rushed to the open door, treading on ruined canvases, 
spraying bullets into the studio. The weapons recoil, though minimal, was like 
a chisel chipping into his wound.
He hit nothing, heard nothing scream, saw no sign of the enemy.
The floor in there was littered with a dozen mangled paintings and glass from 
the broken window by which the thing had entered after climbing ontO the front 
porch roof.
Waiting, Travis stood with his legs spread wide. The gun in both hands. Blinking 
sweat out of his eyes. Trying to ignore the seething pain in his right shoulder. 
Waiting.
The Outsider must be to the left of the dooror behind it on the right,
crouched, ready to spring. If he gave it time, maybe it would grow tired of 
waiting and would rush him, and he could cut it down in the doorway.
No, its as smart as Einstein, he told himself. Would Einstein be so dumb as to 
rush me through a narrow doorway? No. No, itll do something more intelligent, 
unexpected.
The sky exploded with thunder so powerful it vibrated the windows and shook the 
house. Chain lightning sizzled through the day.
Come on you bastard, show yourself.
He glanced at Nora and Einstein, who stood a few steps away from him, with the 
master bedroom on one side of them and the bathroom on the other side, the 
stairs behind them.
He looked again through the doorway, at the window glass among the debris on the 
floor. Suddenly he was certain that The Outsider was no longer in the studio, 
that it had gone out through the window, onto the roof of the front porch, and 
that it was coming at them from another part of the house, through another door, 
perhaps out of one of the bedrooms, or from the bathroomor maybe it would 
explode at them, shrieking, from the top of the steps.
He motioned Nora forward, to his side. Cover me.
Before she could object, he went through the doorway, into the studio, moving in 
a crouch. He nearly fell in the rubble, but stayed on his feet and spun around, 
ready to open fire if the thing was looming over him.
It was gone.
The closet door was open. Nothing in there.
He went to the broken window and cautiously looked out onto the roof of the 
rain-washed porch. Nothing.
Wind keened over the dangerously sharp shards of glass still bristling from the 
window frame.
He started back toward the upstairs hail. He could see Nora out there, looking 
in at him, scared, but gamely clutching her Uzi. Behind her, the door to the 
future nursery opened, and it was there, yellow eyes aglow. Its monstrous jaws 
cracked wide, full of teeth far sharper than the wicked glass shards in the 
window frame.
She was aware of it, started to turn, but it struck at her before she had a 
chance to fire. It tore the Uzi out of her hands.
It had no chance to gut her with its razor-edged six-inch claws because, even as 
the beast was tearing the pistol out of her hands, Einstein charged it, 
snarling. With catlike quickness, The Outsider shifted its attention from Nora 
to the dog. It whipped around on him, lashed out as if its long arms Were 
constructed with more than one elbow joint. It snatched Einstein up in both 
horrendous hands.
Crossing the studio to the hall door, Travis had no clear shot at The Outsider 
because Nora was between him and that hateful thing. As Travis reached the 
doorway, he cried out for her to fall down, to give him a line of fire, and she 
did, immediately, but too late. The Outsider scooped Einstein into the nursery 
and slammed the door, as if it were an evil nightmare-spawned jack-in-the-
box that had popped out and popped back in with its prey, all in the blink of an 
eye.
Einstein squealed, and Nora rushed the nursery door.
No! Travis shouted, pulling her aside.
He aimed the automatic carbine at the closed door and emptied the rest of the 
magazine into it, punching at least thirty holes in the wood, crying out through 
clenched teeth as pain flared through his shoulder. There was some risk of 
hitting Einstein, but the retriever would be in worse danger if Travis did not 
open fire. When the gun stopped spitting bullets, he ripped out the empty 
magazine, took a full magazine from his pocket and slammed that into the gun. 
Then he kicked open the ruined door and went into the nursery.
The window stood open, curtains blowing in the wind.
The Outsider was gone.
Einstein was on the floor, against one wall, motionless, covered with blood.
Nora made a wrenching sound of grief when she saw the retriever.
At the window, Travis spotted splashes of blood leading across the porch roof. 
Rain was swiftly washing the gore away.
Movement caught his eye, and he looked toward the barn, where The Outsider 
disappeared through the big door.
Crouching over the dog, Nora said, Oh my God, Travis, my God, after all hes 
come through and now he has to die like this.
Im going after the son-of-a-bitching bastard, Travis said ferociously. Its 
in the barn.
She moved toward the door, too, and he said, No! Call Jim Keene and then stay 
with Einstein, stay with Einstein.
But youre the one who needs me. You cant go after it alone.
Einstein needs you.
Einstein is dead, she said through tears.
Dont say that! he screamed at her. He was aware that he was irrational, as if 
he believed Einstein would not really be dead until they said he was dead, but 
he could not control himself. Dont say hes dead. Stay here with him, damn it. 
Ive already hurt that fucking fugitive from a nightmare, hurt it bad I think, 
its bleeding, and I can finish it off myself. Call Jim Keene, stay with 
Einstein.
He was also afraid that, in all of this activity, she was going to induce a 
miscarriage, if she had not already done so. Then they would have lost not only 
Einstein but the baby.
He left the room at a run.
Youre in no condition to go into that barn, he told himself. Youve got to cool 
down first. Telling Nora to call a vet for a dead dog, telling her to stay with 
it when, in fact, you could have used her at your side . . . No good. Letting 
rage and a thirst for vengeance get the best of you. No good.
But he could not stop. All of his life he had lost people he loved, and except 
in Delta Force hed never had anyone to strike back at because you cant take 
vengeance on fate.. Even in Delta, the enemy was so facelessthe
lumpish mass of maniacs and fanatics who were international terrorism that 
vengeance provided little satisfaction. But here was an enemy of unparalleled 
evil, an enemy worthy of the name, and he would make it pay for what it had done 
to Einstein.
He raced down the hallway, descended the stairs two and three at a time, was hit 
by a wave of dizziness and nausea, and nearly fell. He grabbed at the banister 
to steady himself. He leaned on the wrong arm, and hot pain flared in his 
wounded shoulder. Letting go of the railing, he lost his balance and tumbled 
down the last flight, hitting the bottom hard.
He was in worse shape than he had thought.
Clutching the Uzi, he got to his feet and staggered to the back door, onto the 
porch, down the steps, into the yard. The cold rain cleared his fuzzy head, and 
he stood for a moment on the lawn, letting the storm wash some of the dizziness 
out of him.
An image of Einsteins broken, bloody body flashed through his mind. He thought 
of the amusing messages that would never be formed on the pantry floor, and he 
thought of Christmases to come without Einstein padding around in his Santa cap, 
and he thought of love that would never be given or received, and he thought of 
all the genius puppies who would never be born, and the weight of all that loss 
nearly crushed him into the ground.
He used his grief to sharpen his rage, honed his fury until it had a razored 
edge.
Then he went to the barn.
The place swarmed with shadows. He stood at the open door, letting the rain beat 
on his head and back, peering into the barn, squinting at the layered gloom, 
hoping to spot the yellow eyes.
Nothing.
He went through the door, bold with rage, and sidled to the light switches on 
the north wall. Even when the lights came on, he could not see The Outsider.
Fighting off dizziness, clenching his teeth in pain, he moved past the empty 
space where the truck belonged, past the back of the Toyota, slowly along the 
side of the car.
The loft.
He would be moving out from under the loft in a couple of steps. If the thing 
was up there, it could leap down on him That speculation proved a dead end, for 
The Outsider was at the back of the barn, beyond the front end of the Toyota, 
crouched on the concrete floor, whimpering and hugging itself with both long, 
powerful arms. The floor around it was smeared with its blood.
He stood beside the car for almost a minute, fifteen feet from the creature, 
Studying it with disgust, fear, horror, and a weird fascination. He believed he 
could see the body structure of an ape, maybe a baboonsomething in the simian 
family, anyway. But it was neither mostly one species nor merely a patchwork of 
the recognizable parts of many animals. It was, instead, a thing unto itself. 
With its oversized and lumpish face, immense yellow eyes,
steam-shovel jaw, and long curved teeth, with its hunched back and matted coat 
and too-long arms, it attained a frightful individuality.
it was staring at him, waiting.
He took two steps forward, bringing up the gun.
Lifting its head, working its jaws, it issued a raspy, cracked, slurred, but 
still intelligible word that he could hear even above the sounds of the storm:
Hurt.
Travis was more horrified than amazed. The creature had not been designed to be 
capable of speech, yet it had the intelligence to learn language and to desire 
communication. Evidently, during the months it pursued Einstein, that desire had 
grown great enough to allow it to conquer, to some extent, its physical 
limitations. It had practiced speech, finding ways to wring a few tortured words 
from its fibrous voice box and malformed mouth. Travis was horrified not at the 
sight of a demon speaking but at the thought of how desperately the thing must 
have wanted to communicate with someone, anyone. He did not want to pity it, did 
not dare pity it, because he wanted to feel good about blowing it off the face 
of the earth.
Come far. Now done, it said with tremendous effort, as if each word had to be 
torn from its throat.
Its eyes were too alien ever to inspire empathy, and every limb was unmistakably 
an instrument of murder.
Unwrapping one long arm from around its body, it picked up something that had 
been on the floor beside it but that Travis had not noticed until now:
one of the Mickey Mouse tapes Einstein had gotten for Christmas. The famous 
mouse was pictured on the cassette holder, wearing the same outfit he always 
wore, smiling that familiar smile, waving.
Mickey, The Outsider said, and as wretched and strange and barely intelligible 
as its voice was, it somehow conveyed a sense of terrible loss and loneliness. 
Mickey.
Then it dropped the cassette and clutched itself and rocked back and forth in 
agony.
Travis took another step forward.
The Outsiders hideous face was so repulsive that there was almost something 
exquisite about it. In its unique ugliness, it was darkly, strangely seductive.
This time, when the thunder crashed, the barn lights flickered and nearly went 
out.
Raising its head again, speaking in that same scratchy voice but with cold, 
insane glee, it said, Kill dog, kill dog, kill dog, and it made a sound that 
might have been laughter.
He almost shot it to pieces. But before he could pull the trigger, The 
Outsiders laughter gave way to what seemed to be sobbing. Travis watched, 
mesmerized.
Fixing Travis with its lantern eyes, it again said, Kill dog, kill dog, kill 
dog, but this time it seemed racked with grief, as if it grasped the magnitude 
of the crime that it had been genetically compelled to commit.
It looked at the cartoon of Mickey Mouse on the cassette holder.
Finally, pleadingly, it said, Kill me.
Travis did not know if he was acting more out of rage or out of pity when he 
squeezed the trigger and emptied the Uzis magazine into The Outsider. What man 
had begun, man now ended.
When he was done, he felt drained.
He dropped the carbine and walked outside. He could not find the strength to 
return to the house. He sat down on the lawn, huddled in the rain, and wept.
He was still weeping when Jim Keene drove up the muddy lane from the Coast 
Highway.
 
 
ELEVEN
1
On Thursday afternoon, January 13, Lem Johnson left Cliff Soames and three other 
men at the foot of the dirt lane, where it met the Pacific Coast Highway. Their 
instructions were to allow no one past them but to remain on station untiland 
ifLem called for them.
Cliff Soames seemed to think this was a strange way to handle things, but he did 
not voice his objections.
Lem explained that, since Travis Cornell was an ex-Delta man with considerable 
combat skills, he ought to be handled with care. If we go storming in there, 
hell know who we are as soon as he sees us coming, and he might react 
violently. If I go in alone, Ill be able to get him to talk to me, and maybe I 
can persuade him to just give it up.
That was a flimsy explanation for his unorthodox procedure, and it did not wipe 
the frown off Cliffs face.
Lem didnt care about Cliffs frown. He went in alone, driving one of the 
sedans, and parked in front of the bleached-wood house.
Birds were singing in the trees. Winter had temporarily relaxed its hold on the 
northern California coast, and the day was warm.
Lem climbed the steps and knocked on the front door.
Travis Cornell answered the knock and stared at him through the screen door 
before saying, Mr. Johnson, I suppose.
How did you. . . oh yes, of course, Garrison Dilworth would have told you about 
me that night he got his call through.
To Lems surprise, Cornell opened the screen door. You might as well come in.
Cornell was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, apparently because of a sizable 
bandage encasing most of his right shoulder. He led Lem through the front room 
and into a kitchen, where his wife sat at the table, peeling apples for a pie.
Mr. Johnson, she said.
Lem smiled and said, Im widely known, I see.
Cornell sat at the table and lifted a cup of coffee. He offered no coffee to 
Lem.
Standing awkwardly for a moment, Lem eventually sat with them. He said, Welt, 
it was inevitable, you know. We had to catch up with you sooner or later.
She peeled apples and said nothing. Her husband stared into his coffee.
Whats wrong with them? Lem wondered.
This was not remotely like any scenario he had imagined. He was prepared for 
panic, anger, despondency, and many other things, but not for this strange 
apathy. They did not seem to care that he had at last tracked them down.
He said, Arent you interested in how we located you?
The woman shook her head.
Cornell said, If you really want to tell us, go ahead and have your fun.
Frowning, puzzled, Lem said, Well, it was simple. We knew that Mr. Dilworth had 
tove called you from some house or business within a few blocks of that park 
north of the harbor. So we tied our own computers into the telephone companys 
recordswith their permission, of courseand put men to work examining all the 
long-distance calls charged to all the numbers within three blocks of that park, 
on that one night. Nothing led us to you. But then we realized that, when 
charges are reversed, the call isnt billed to the number from which the call is 
placed; it appears on the records of the person who accepts the reversed 
chargeswhich was you. But it also appears in a special phone-company file so 
theyll be able to document the call if the person who accepted the charges 
later refuses to pay. We went through that special file, which is very small, 
and quickly found a call placed from a house along the coast, just north of the 
beach park, to your number here. When we went around to talk to the people 
therethe Essenby familywe focused on their son, a teenager named Tommy, and 
although it took some time, we ascertained that it had, indeed, been Dilworth 
who used their phone. The first part was terribly time-consuming, weeks and 
weeks, but after that . . . childs play.
Do you want a medal or what? Cornell asked.
The woman picked up another apple, quartered it, and began to strip off the 
peel.
They were not making this easy for himbut then his intentions were much 
different from what they would be expecting. They could not be criticized for 
being cool toward him when they did not yet know that he had come as a friend.
He said, Listen, Ive left my men at the end of the lane. Told them you might 
panic, do something stupid, if you saw us coming in a group. But why I really 
came alone was . . . to make you an offer.
They both met his eyes at last, with interest.
He said, Im getting out of this goddamn job by spring. Why Im getting Out . . 
. you dont have to know or care. Just say that Ive gone through a sea change. 
Learned to deal with failure, and now it doesnt scare me any more. He sighed 
and shrugged. Anyway, the dog doesnt belong in a cage. I dont give a good 
goddamn what they say, what they wantI know whats right. I know what its like 
being in a cage. Ive been in one most of my life, Until recently. The dog 
shouldnt have to go back to that. What Im going to Suggest is that you get him 
out of here now, Mr. Cornell, take him off through the woods, let him somewhere 
that hell be safe, then come back and face the music. Say that the dog ran off 
a couple of months ago, in some other
place, and you think he must be dead by now, or in the hands of people whore 
taking good care of him. Therell still be the problem of The Outsider, which 
you must know about, but you and I can work up a way to deal with that when it 
comes. Ill put men on a surveillance of you, but after a few weeks Ill pull 
them, say its a lost cause
Cornell stood up and stepped to Lems chair. With his left hand he grabbed hold 
of Lems shirt and hauled him to his feet. Youre sixteen days too late, you 
son of a bitch.
What do you mean?
The dog is dead. The Outsider killed him, and I killed The Outsider.
The woman laid down her paring knife and a piece of apple. She put her face in 
her hands and sat forward in her chair, shoulders hunched, making soft, sad 
sounds.
Ah, Jesus, Lem said.
Cornell let go of him. Embarrassed, depressed, Lem straightened his tie, 
smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt. He looked down at his pantsbrushed them 
off.
Ah, Jesus, he repeated.
 
 
Cornell was willing to lead them to the place in the forest where he had buried 
The Outsider.
Lems men dug it up. The monstrosity was wrapped in plastic, but they didnt 
have to unwrap it to know that it was Yarbecks creation.
The weather had been cool since the thing had been killed, but it was getting 
rank.
Cornell would not tell them where the dog was buried. He never had much of a 
chance to live in peace, Cornell said sullenly. But, by God, hes going to 
rest in peace now. No ones going to put him on an autopsy table and hack him 
up. No way.
In a case where the national security is at stake, you can be forced
Let them, Cornell said. If they haul me up before a judge and try to make me 
tell them where I buried Einstein, Ill spill the whole story to the press. But 
if they leave Einstein alone, if they leave me and mine alone, Ill keep my 
mouth shut. I dont intend to go back to Santa Barbara, to pick up as Travis 
Cornell. Im Hyatt now, and thats what Im going to stay. My old lifes gone 
forever. Theres no reason to go back. And if the governments smart, itll let 
me be Hyatt and stay out of my way.
Lem stared at him a long time. Then: Yeah, if theyre smart, I think theyll do 
just that.
 
 
Later that same day, as Jim Keene was cooking dinner, his phone rang. It was 
Garrison Dilworth, whom he had never met but had gotten to know
during the past week by acting as liaison between the attorney and Travis and 
Nora. Garrison was calling from a pay phone in Santa Barbara.
They show up yet? the attorney asked.
Early this afternoon, Jim said. That Tommy Essenby must be a good kid.
Not bad, really. But he didnt come to see me and warn me out of the goodness 
of his heart. Hes in rebellion against authority. When they pressured him into 
admitting that I made the call from his house that night, he resented them. As 
inevitably as billy goats ram their heads into board fences, Tommy came straight 
to me.
They took away The Outsider.
What about the dog?
Travis said he wouldnt show them where the grave was. Made them believe that 
hed kick a lot of ass and pull down the whole temple on everyone's heads if 
they pushed him.
Hows Nora? Dilworth asked.
She wont lose the baby.
Thank God. That must be a great comfort.
 
 
2
Eight months later, on the big Labor Day weekend in September, the Johnson and 
Gaines families got together for a barbecue at the sheriffs house. They played 
bridge most of the afternoon. Lem and Karen won more often than they lost, which 
was unusual these days, because Lem no longer approached the game with the 
fanatical need to win that had once been his Style.
He had left the NSA in June. Since then, he had been living on the income from 
the money he had long ago inherited from his father. By next spring, he expected 
to settle on a new line of work, a small business of some kind, in which he 
would be his own boss, able to set his own hours.
Late in the afternoon, while their wives made salads in the kitchen, Lem and 
Walt stood out on the patio, tending to the steaks on the barbecue.
So youre still known at the Agency as the man who screwed up the Banodyne 
crisis?
Thats how Ill be known until time immemorial.
Still get a pension though, Walt said.
Well, I did put in twenty-three years.
Doesnt seem right, though, that a man could screw up the biggest case Of the 
century and stilt walk away, at forty-six, with a full pension.
Three-quarter pension.
Walt breathed deeply of the fragrant smoke rising off the charring steaks. 
Still. What is our country coming to? In less liberal times, screwups like you 
Would have been flogged and put in the stocks, at least. He took another
deep whiff of the steaks and said, Tell me again about that moment in their 
kitchen.
Lem had told it a hundred times, but Walt never got tired of hearing it again. 
Well, the place was neat as a pin. Everything gleamed. And both Cornell and his 
wife are neat about themselves, too. Theyre well-groomed, well-scrubbed people. 
So they tell me the dogs been dead two weeks, dead and buried. Cornell throws 
this angry fit, hauls me out of my chair by my shirt, and glares at me like 
maybe hes going to rip my head off. When he lets go of me, I straighten my tie, 
smooth my shirt . . . and I look down at my pants, sort of out of habit, and I 
notice these golden hairs. Dog hairs. Retriever hairs, sure as hell. Now could 
it have been that these neat people, especially trying to fill their empty days 
and take their minds off their tragedy, didnt find the time to clean the house 
in more than two weeks?
Hairs were just all over your pants, Walt said.
A hundred hairs.
Like the dog had just been sitting there minutes before you came in.
Like, if Id been two minutes sooner, Id have set right down on the dog 
himself.
Walt turned the steaks on the barbecue. Youre a pretty observant man, Lem, 
which ought tove taken you far in the line of work you were in. I just dont 
understand how, with all your talents, you managed to screw up the Banodyne case 
so thoroughly.
They both laughed, as they always did.
Just luck, I guess, Lem said, which was what he always said, and he laughed 
again.
 
 
3
When James Garrison Hyatt celebrated his third birthday on June 28, his mother 
was pregnant with his first sibling, who eventually became his sister.
They threw a party at the bleached-wood house on the forested slopes above the 
Pacific. Because the Hyatts would soon be moving to a new and larger house a bit 
farther up the coast, they made it a party to remember, not merely a birthday 
bash but a goodbye to the house that had first sheltered them as a family.
Jim Keene drove in from Carmel with Pooka and Sadie, his two black labs, and his 
young golden retriever, Leonardo, who was usually called Leo. A few close 
friends came in from the real-estate office where SamTravis to 
everyoneworked in Carmel Highlands, and from the gallery in Cannel where Noras 
paintings were exhibited and sold. These friends brought their retrievers, too, 
all of them second-litter offspring of Einstein and his mate, Minnie.
Only Garrison Dilworth was missing. He had died in his sleep the previous year.
They had a fine day, a grand time, not merely because they were friends and 
happy to be with one another, but because they shared a secret wonder and joy 
that would forever bind them into one enormous extended family.
All members of the first litter, which Travis and Nora could not have borne 
adopting out, and which lived at the bleached-wood house, were also present:
Mickey, Donald, Daisy, Huey, Dewey, Louie.
The dogs had an even better time than the people, frolicking on the lawn, 
playing hide-and-seek in the woods, and watching videotapes on the TV in the 
living room.
The canine patriarch participated in some of the games, but he spent much of his 
time with Travis and Nora and, as usual, stayed close to Minnie. He limpedas he 
would for the rest of his lifebecause his right hind leg had been cruelly 
mangled by The Outsider and would not have been usable at all if his vet had not 
been so dedicated to the restoration of the limbs function.
Travis often wondered whether The Outsider had thrown Einstein against the 
nursery wall with great force and then had assumed he was dead. Or at the moment 
when it held the retrievers life in its hands, perhaps the thing had reached 
down within itself and found some drop of mercy that its makers had not designed 
into it but which had somehow been there anyway. Perhaps it remembered the one 
pleasure it and the dog had shared in the labthe cartoons. And in remembering 
the sharing, perhaps it saw itself, for the first time, as having a dim 
potential to be like other living things. Seeing itself as like others, perhaps 
it then could not kill Einstein as easily as it had expected. After all, with a 
flick of those talons, it could have gutted him.
But though he had acquired the limp, Einstein had lost the tattoo in his ear, 
thanks to Jim Keene. No one could ever prove that he was the dog from 
Banodyneand he could still play dumb dog very well when he wished.
At times during young Jimmys third birthday extravaganza, Minnie regarded her 
mate and offspring with charmed befuddlement, perplexed by their attitudes and 
antics. Although she could never fully understand them, no mother of dogs ever 
received half the love that she was given by those shed brought into the world. 
She watched over them, and they watched over her, guardians of each other.
At the dark end of that good day, when the guests were gone, when Jimmy was 
asleep in his room, when Minnie and her first litter were settling down for the 
night, Einstein and Travis and Nora gathered at the pantry off the kitchen.
The scrabble-tile dispenser was gone. In its place, an IBM computer stood on the 
floor. Einstein took a stylus in his mouth and tapped the keyboard. The message 
appeared on the screen:
THEY GROW UP FAST.
Yes, they do, Nora said. Yours faster than ours.
ONE DAY THEY WILL BE EVERYWHERE.
One day, given time and a lot of litters, Travis said, theyll be all over 
the world.
SO FAR FROM ME. ITS A SADNESS.
Yes, it is, Nora said. But all young birds fly from the nest sooner or 
later.
AND WHEN IM GONE?
What do you mean? Travis asked, stooping and ruffling the dogs thick coat.
WILL THEY REMEMBER ME?
Oh yes, fur face, Nora said, kneeling and hugging him. As long as there are 
dogs and as long as there are people fit to walk with them, they will all 
remember you.
