with comfortable but unremarkable furniture.

  Upstairs, he stops only briefly at each room, getting an overall picture

  of the second-floor layout before taking time for a thorough

  investigation. There's a master bedroom with attached bath, walk-in

  closet . . . a guest bedroom . . . kids' room . . . another bath .. .

  The final bedroom at the end of the hall--which puts him at the front of

  the house--is used as an office. It contains a big desk and computer

  system, but it's more cozy than businesslike. A plump sofa stands under

  the shuttered windows, a stained-glass lamp on the desk.

  One of the two longest walls is covered with paintings hung in a double

  row, frames almost touching. Although the pieces of the collection are

  obviously by more than one artist, the subject matter, without

  exception, is dark and violent, rendered with unimpeachable skill,

  twisted shadows, disembodied eyes wide with terror, a Ouija board on

  which stands a blood-spotted trivet, ink-black palm trees silhouetted

  against an ominous sunset, a face distorted by a funhouse mirror, the

  gleaming steel blades of sharp knives and scissors, a mean street where

  menacing figures lurk just beyond the sour-yellow glow of street lamps,

  leafless trees with coly limbs, a hot-eyed raven perched upon a bleached

  skull, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, an ice pick, meat cleaver, hatchet,

  a queerly stained hammer lying obscenely on a silk negligee and

  lace-trimmed bedsheet . . .

  He likes this artwork.

  It speaks to him.

  This is life as he knows it.

  Turning from the gallery wall, he clicks on the stained-glass lamp and

  marvels at its multi-hued luminous beauty.

  In the clear sheet of glass that protects the top of the desk, the

  mirror-image circles and ovals and teardrops of color are still lovely

  but darker than when viewed directly. In some indefinable way, they are

  also foreboding.

  Leaning forward, he sees the twin ovals of his eyes staring back at him

  from the polished glass. Glimmering with their own tiny reflections of

  the mosaic lamplight, they seem to be not eyes, in fact, but the

  luminous sensors of a machine or, if eyes, then the fevered eyes of

  something soulless--and he quickly looks away from them before too much

  self-examination leads him to fearful thoughts and intolerable

  conclusions.

  "I need to be someone," he says nervously.

  His gaze falls upon a photograph in a silver frame, which also stands on

  the desk. A woman and two little girls. A pretty trio.

  Smiling.

  He picks up the photograph to study it more closely. He presses one

  fingertip against the woman's face and wishes he could touch her for

  real, feel her warm and pliant skin. He slides his finger across the

  glass, first touching the blond-haired child, and then the dark-haired

  pixie.

  After a minute or two, when he moves away from the desk, he carries the

  photograph with him. The three faces in the portrait are so appealing

  that he needs to be able to look at them again whenever the desire

  arises.

  As he investigates the titles on the spines of the volumes in the

  bookcases, he makes a discovery that gives him an understanding, however

  incomplete, of why he was drawn from the gray autumnal plains of the

  Midwest to the post-Thanksgiving sun of California.

  On a few of the shelves, the books--mystery novels--are by the same

  author, Martin Stillwater. The surname is the one he saw on the mailbox

  outside.

  He puts aside the silver-framed portrait and withdraws a few of these

  novels from the shelves, surprised to see that some of the dustjacket

  illustrations are familiar because the original paintings are hanging on

  the gallery wall that so fascinated him. Each title appears in a

  variety of translations, French, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish,

  Danish, Japanese, and several other languages.

  But nothing is as interesting as the author's photo on the back of each

  jacket. He studies them for a long time, tracing Stillwater's features

  with one finger.

  Intrigued, he peruses the copy on the jacket flaps. Then he reads the

  first page of a book, the first page of another, and another.

  He happens upon a dedication page in the front of one book and reads

  what is printed there, This opus is for my mother and father, Jim and

  Alice Stillwater, who taught me to be an honest man--and who can't be

  blamed if I am able to think like a criminal.

  His mother and father. He stares in astonishment at their names.

  He has no memory of them, cannot picture their faces or recall where

  they might live.

  He returns to the desk to consult the Rolodex. He discovers Jim and

  Alice Stillwater in Mammoth Lakes, California. The street address means

  nothing to him, and he wonders if it is the house in which he grew up.

  He must love his parents. He dedicated a book to them. Yet they are

  ciphers to him. So much has been lost.

  He returns to the bookshelves. Opening the U.S. or British edition of

  every title in the collection to study the dedication, he eventually

  characters are based--excluding, of course, the homicidal psychopaths.

  And two volumes later, To my daughters, Charlotte and Emily, with the

  hope they will read this book one day when they are grown up and will

  know that the daddy in this story speaks my own heart when he talks with

  such conviction and emotion about his feelings for his own little girls.

  Putting the books aside, he picks up the photograph once more and holds

  it in both hands with something like reverence.

  The attractive blonde is surely Paige. A perfect wife.

  The two girls are Charlotte and Emily,-although he has no way of knowing

  which is which. They look sweet and obedient.

  Paige, Charlotte, Emily.

  At last he has found his life. This is where he belongs. This is home.

  The future begins now.

  Paige, Charlotte, Emily.

  This is the family toward which destiny has led him.

  "I need to be Marty Stillwater," he says, and he is thrilled to have

  found, at last, his own warm place in this cold and lonely world.

  Dr. Paul Guthridge's office suite had three examination rooms. Over the

  years, Marty had been in all of them. They were identical to one

  another, indistinguishable from rooms in doctors' offices from Maine to

  Texas, pale-blue walls, stainless-steel fixtures, otherwise white-on

  white, scrub sink, stool, an eye chart. The place had no more charm

  than a morgue though a better smell.

  Marty sat on the edge of a padded examination table that was protected

  by a continuous roll of paper sheeting. He was shirtless, and the room

  was cool. Though he was still wearing his pants, he felt naked,

  vulnerable. In his mind's eye, he saw himself having a catatonic

  seizure, being unable to talk or move or even blink, whereupon the

  physician would mistake him for dead, strip him naked, wire an ID tag to

  his big toe, tape his eyelids shut, and ship him off to the coroner for

  processing.

  Although it earned him a livin
g, a suspense writer's imagination made

  him more aware of the constant proximity of death than were most people.

  Every dog was a potential rabies carrier. Every strange van passing

  through the neighborhood was driven by a sexual psychopath who would

  kidnap and murder any child left unattended for more than three seconds.

  Every can of soup in the pantry was botulism waiting to happen.

  He was not particularly afraid of doctors--though he was not comforted

  by them, either.

  What troubled him was the whole idea of medical science, not because he

  distrusted it but because, irrationally, its very existence was a

  reminder that life was tenuous, death inescapable. He didn't need

  reminders. He already possessed an acute awareness of mortality, and

  spent his life trying to cope with it.

  Determined not to sound like an hysteric while describing his symptoms

  to Guthridge, Marty recounted the odd experiences of the past three days

  in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. He tried to use clinical rather than

  emotional terms, beginning with the seven-minute fugue in his office and

  ending with the abrupt panic attack he had suffered as he had been

  leaving the house to drive to the doctor's office.

  Guthridge was an excellent internist--in part because he was a good

  listener--although he didn't look the role. At forty-five, he appeared

  ten years younger than his age, and he had a boyish manner. Today he

  wore tennis shoes, chinos, and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. In the

  summer, he favored colorful Hawaiian shirts. On those rare occasions

  when he wore a traditional white smock over slacks, shirt, and tie, he

  claimed to be "playing doctor" or "on strict probation from the American

  Medical Association's dress-code committee," or "suddenly overwhelmed by

  the godlike responsibilities of my office."

  Paige thought Guthridge was an exceptional physician, and the girls

  regarded him with the special affection usually reserved for a favorite

  uncle.

  Marty liked him too.

  He suspected the doctor's eccentricities were not calculated entirely to

  amuse patients and put them at ease. Like Marty, Guthridge seemed

  morally offended by the very fact of death. As a younger man, perhaps

  he'd been drawn to medicine because he saw the physician as a knight

  battling dragons incarnated as illnesses and diseases.

  Young knights believe that noble intentions, skill, and faith will

  prevail over evil. Older knights know better--and sometimes use humor

  as a weapon to stave off bitterness and despair. Guthridge's quips and

  Mickey Mouse sweatshirts might relax his patients, but they were also

  his armor against the hard realities of life and death.

  "Panic attack? You, of all people, suffering a panic attack?"

  Paul Guthridge asked doubtfully.

  Marty said, "Hyperventilating, heart pounding, felt like I was going to

  explode sounds like a panic attack to me."

  "Sounds like sex."

  Marty smiled. "Trust me, it wasn't sex."

  "You could be right," Guthridge said with a sigh. "It's been so long,

  I'm not sure what sex was like exactly. Believe me, Marty, this is a

  bad decade to be a bachelor, so many really nasty diseases out there.

  You meet a new girl, date her, give her a chaste kiss when you take her

  home--and then wait to see if your lips are going to rot and fall off.

  "That's a swell image."

  "Vivid, huh? Maybe I should've been a writer." He began to examine

  Marty's left eye with an ophthalmoscope. "Have you been having

  unusually intense headaches?"

  "One headache over the weekend. But nothing unusual."

  "Repeated spells of dizziness?"

  "No."

  "Temporary blindness, noticeable narrowing of peripheral vision?"

  "Nothing like that."

  Turning his attention to Marty's right eye, Guthridge said, "As for

  being a writer other doctors have done it, you know. Michael Crichton,

  Robin Cook, Somerset Maugham--' "Seuss."

  "Don't be sarcastic. Next time I have to give you an injection, I might

  use a horse syringe."

  "It always feels like you do anyway. I'll tell you something, being a

  writer isn't half as romantic as people think."

  "At least you don't have to handle urine samples," Guthridge said,

  setting aside the ophthalmoscope.

  With squiggly ghost images of the instrument light still dancing in his

  eyes, Marty said, "When a writer's first starting out, a lot of editors

  and agents and movie producers treat him as if he is a urine sample."

  "Yeah, but now you're a celebrity," Guthridge said, plugging his

  stethoscope ear tips in place.

  "Far from it," Marty objected.

  Guthridge pressed the icy steel of the stethoscope diaphragm against

  Marty's chest. "Okay, breathe deeply . . . hold . . .

  breathe out . . . and again." After listening to Marty's lungs as well

  as his heart, the doctor put the stethoscope aside.

  "Hallucinations?"

  "No."

  "Strange smells?"

  "No."

  "Things taste the way they should? I mean, you haven't been eating ice

  cream and it suddenly tasted bitter or oniony, nothing like that?"

  "Nothing like that."

  As he wrapped the pressure cuff of a sphygmomanometer around Marty's

  arm, Guthridge said, "Well, all I know is, to get into People magazine,

  you've got to be a celebrity of one kind or another--rock singer, actor,

  smarmy politician, murderer, or maybe the guy with the world's largest

  collection of ear wax. So if you think you aren't a celebrity author,

  then I want to know who you've killed and exactly how much damn ear wax

  you own."

  "How'd you know about People?"

  "We subscribe for the waiting room." He pumped air into the cuff until

  it was tight, then read the falling mercury on the gauge before he

  continued, "The latest copy was in this morning's mail.

  My receptionist showed it to me, really amused. She said you were the

  least likely Mr. Murder she could imagine."

  Confused, Marty said, "Mr. Murder?"

  "You haven't seen the piece?" Guthridge asked as he pulled off the

  pressure cuff, punctuating his question with the ugly sound of a Velcro

  seal tearing open.

  "Not yet, no. They don't show it to you in advance. You mean, in the

  article, they call me Mr. Murder?"

  "Well, it's sort of cute."

  "Cute?" Marty winced. "I wonder if Philip Roth would think it was cute

  to be

  "Mr. Litterateur' or Terry McMillan

  "Ms. Black Saga."

  "

  "You know what they say--all publicity is good publicity."

  "That was Nixon's first reaction to Watergate, wasn't it?"

  "We actually take two subscriptions to people. I'll give you one of our

  copies when you leave." Guthridge grinned impishly. "You know, until I

  saw the magazine, I never realized what a really scary guy you are."

  Marty groaned. "I was afraid of this."

  "It's not bad really. Knowing you, I suspect you'll find it a little

  embarrassing. But it won't kill you."

  "What is going to kill me, Doc?"

  Frowning, Guthridge said, "Based on
this exam, I'd say old age.

  From all outward signs, you're in good shape."

  "The key word is 'outward,"

  " Marty said.

  "Right. I'd like you to have some tests. It'll be on an out-patient

  basis at Hog Hospital."

  "I'm ready," Marty said grimly, though he was not ready at all.

  "Oh, not today. They won't have an opening until at least tomorrow,

  probably Wednesday."

  "What're you looking for with these tests?"

  "Brain tumors, lesions. Severe blood chemistry imbalances. Or maybe a

  shift in the position of the pineal gland, putting pressure on

  surrounding brain tissue which could cause symptoms similar to some of

  yours. Other things. But don't worry about it because I'm pretty sure

  we're going to draw a blank. Most likely, your problem is simply

  stress."

  "That's what Paige said."

  "See? You could've saved my fee."

  "Be straight with me, Doc."

  "I am being straight."

  "I don't mind saying this scares me."