"But if she was involved—"

"She wasn't," Zack assured her.

"Explain," Raine ordered.

"When I came through the back room I got a quick look around. The mayor's purse was unfastened. The contents were scattered across the carpet. I realized that she was probably the one who brought the smoke bomb into the shop but there were no hot spots around her or her purse. She didn't know what she was doing."

"Then why in the world did she set off the smoke bomb?" Raine demanded.

"The most likely explanation is that either Cassidy or Niki is a parahypnotist," Zack said. "Probably formula-enhanced."

"In other words, you think that one of them hypnotized the mayor into carrying the smoke bomb into my shop and exploding it," Raine said.

"Right." Zack shrugged. "Which is why, when Her Honor came around, she had no memory of what she had done."

Raine looked at him. "What are we going to tell her? What are we going to tell Bradley, for that matter?"

Zack stretched his legs out toward the fire and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. He put his fingertips together.

"The simplest story is usually the best," he said. "Mitchell will soon realize he can't do anything with a drug charge because there is no evidence of illegal drugs. But what do you think about promoting the notion that Cassidy and Niki planned to kidnap the mayor and hold her for ransom?"

Raine blinked. "I think Mayor Escott would love it. Talk about great publicity for the upcoming election."

Calvin grinned. "Very creative, Jones."

"Cassidy and Niki will deny it," Raine pointed out.

Calvin uttered a half-amused little sound. "They'll deny everything. So what? They'll both be in padded cells within a couple of days."

"Wonder why they decided to grab me," Raine said.

"Sheer desperation," Zack said. "The idea was to watch you as closely as possible to see if you inherited whatever it is that Lawrence Quinn hoped to get from Vella. You were the only link left. When I showed up, it merely confirmed their theory that you knew something vitally important. They decided they couldn't afford to wait and allow J&J to get the secret from you."

"Those poor women," Raine whispered.

The men exchanged looks. Neither spoke.

Raine sipped her tea and lowered the cup. She frowned a little at Zack. "You said the Arcane labs have a sample of the formula that they've been studying. They must know a lot about it by now. Isn't there anything your experts could do to save Cassidy and Niki?"

Zack looked at her over the tips of his fingers. He seemed baffled by the question. "You want to save that pair? Cassidy Cutler is probably indirectly responsible for the murder of Lawrence Quinn, and it's a good bet she's the one who ran down the illusion talent the other night. She tried to kill Pandora and kidnap you. Niki was her accomplice in everything that took place."

Raine pulled her robe more tightly around herself. "It's just that the prospect of going insane is so terrifying. My aunt believed that she was hovering at the edge of it for years, and it was my own worst nightmare for a long time. The thought of letting someone else, anyone else, face that abyss makes me ill."

Zack glanced at Calvin.

Calvin raised his massive shoulders. "Don't look at me. How the heck should I know if they've come up with an antidote?"

Zack hesitated a moment longer, then, reluctantly, he unclipped his phone. "I'll see if Fallon knows anything about the status of the research."

## Fifty-three

She was in bed, Batman and Robin curled up at her feet, when she heard his phone ring. The sound was muffled by the closed door of the hall bathroom and the rush of water in the shower. The water was turned off abruptly. She heard the low rumble of Zack's voice.

A few minutes later he walked into the bedroom. He was naked except for a towel around his waist. His hair was damp. He stopped beside the bed, grim-faced.

"That was Fallon," he said. "He checked


s out you were wrong when you confirmed that the Shelbyville cops had the serial killer in custody."

"I said the analysts estimated the probability of the cops having the right man to be ninety-six point three percent."

She made a tut-tutting sound. "Not good enough, Mr. Jones. Your analysts were one hundred percent wrong. The real killer took a couple of shots at us this afternoon. One of those shots hit Zack. That was before the guy tried to torch us, by the way."

"How bad?"

He sounded genuinely worried. She relented slightly.

"The doctor said he'll be okay. I'm standing outside the emergency room as we speak, waiting to find out."

"Did they get the bastard?"

"You mean, did they get the right bastard this time? The answer is yes, no thanks to J&J."

"I don't know how we missed that one. Clearly we had insufficient or false data."

"Maybe you should rely a little less on your analysts' psychic abilities and a little more on traditional methods of criminal investigation."

"It's not like we had a lot of time to check out the reports," Fallon shot back defensively. "We had other priorities, if you will recall."

She was about to fire back but she saw Zack on the other side of the sliding glass doors. He was on his feet and moving. That was a very good sign. The medics had cut off his shirt. He wore his leather jacket open over his bare chest. She could see the edge of a large white bandage on his side.

"Zack just came out of the ER," she said. "Got to go."

"Wait," Fallon said quickly. "Don't hang up. Put him on the line."

"Okay. But before I do, there's something you and I should get clear."

"What?" he asked, very wary.

"I understand that J&J answers only to the Governing Council and the Master of the Arcane Society."

"Yeah. So, what?"

"As it happens, I will soon be the wife of the next Master."

"What?"

"That position will give me a great deal of power, not to mention enormous influence." She waved a crutch at Zack. "Better not piss me off any more, Mr. Jones."

"Give me Zack," Fallon snarled.

Zack was through the glass doors, coming toward her.

"It's Mr. Jones of J&J," she said. "He wants to speak with you."

"Figured he'd be calling," Zack said.

"Better warn you, I just told him that you and I are going to get married."

Masculine satisfaction etched his hard face. His eyes got very, very blue.

"Well, now," he said softly. "Within the Society that pretty much amounts to a formal announcement. How'd he take it?"

"In another era I believe he would have been described as apoplectic."

"Don't worry, he'll survive."

"Zack?" Fallon's voice, emanating from the small phone, sounded faint and tinny. "Is that you?"

Zack took the phone from Raine's hand, leaned forward and kissed her very thoroughly. By the time he raised his head she was tingling from head to toe.

"Zack?" Fallon was shouting now. "You there? Talk to me, damn it."

"Later," Zack said somewhat absently into the phone. "I'm a little busy at the moment."

He ended the call, dropped the phone into a pocket and went back to kissing Raine.

## Fifty-eight

They were gathered in her living room, drinking the first of the two bottles of Oregon pinot noir that Gordon had brought along. He and Andrew claimed they both needed the wine for medicinal purposes while they recovered from the shock of events. The pair occupied the sofa, the cats stretched out between them. Zack was in one of the two reading chairs. Raine took the other.

"How did you figure out where she hid the journal?" Andrew asked. "Did you know about the wall safe?"

"No." Raine looked at the leather-bound book lying on the coffee table. "But this morning I suddenly remembered the painting on the wall of her bedroom. It was the first of her mask series. "In hindsight, I


"We all know that we can expect little overt assistance from the government, the establishment media or the mainstream law enforcement community," Guerrero added. "Officially, at least, most people in this country still hold the view that the paranormal is the province of science fiction, fantasy, quacks, gurus, talk-show guests and frauds. Convincing them that a secret, dangerous conspiracy comprised of psychically enhanced individuals exists and must be taken seriously is probably beyond our ability, at least for now."

Without exception, those around the oval table sat tight-lipped and grim-faced.

"And so we welcome to this Council chamber a new Master who is uniquely qualified to lead us through these perilous times." Guerrero fixed Zack with piercing eyes. "We ask you to take the oath of office and assume the Master's Chair, Zackary Gabriel Jones."

Zack rose but made no move to go to the head of the table. Instead, he looked at each of the ten members in turn. Then, very deliberately, he set a folder down on the polished stone table.

"Before I take the oath," he said, "I am going to introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Raine Tallentyre, daughter of Judson and Miranda Tallentyre."

The name hit the room with the impact of a meteor. Jaws dropped and eyes widened. Zack knew that some of those present had served on the Council when Tallentyre was kicked out of the Society. The rest were well aware of the name.

Before anyone could say a word, Bancroft opened the door to the chamber and ushered Raine into the room.

She stopped just inside the doorway and gave everyone a cool, self-possessed nod. She was at her most austere and untouchable today in a sculpted black Armani jacket, trousers and high heels. Her dark hair was pulled straight back into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were pools of mystery behind the lenses of her black-framed glasses.

How in hell did I get so lucky? Zack thought. I will love her for the rest of my life and beyond.

He walked around the table and took her arm, making no attempt to conceal his pride.

"Welcome, my dear. Allow me to present the members of the Governing Council of the Arcane Society, USA."

He went through the names quickly. Heads nodded stiffly. There were a few mumbled greetings. Most of the members were still speechless.

Raine gave them all her dazzling screw you smile.

"What a pleasure to meet all of you," she said in a perfectly neutral tone.

Zack managed, just barely, to suppress a grin. Fortunately, none of the Council members seemed to grasp the fact that they had just been dissed.

"As many of you will have guessed," he said, "my fiancée is the daughter of the Judson Tallentyre who, many years ago, was investigated by J&J for unauthorized research. That investigation led to Tallentyre being thrown out of the Society. All records of his work were destroyed."

No one moved. They all knew the story.

"What neither the Council nor J&J was aware of at the time was that the focus of Tallentyre's research was not on the founder's formula but on an antidote for it."

That garnered another round of startled murmurs.

"The only reason Tallentyre created a version of the formula was so that he could run experiments on it with his antidote," Zack said.

The faces around the table assumed various expressions ranging from confusion to dawning comprehension. At least three of the people in the room were high-level intuitives who were no doubt starting to sense where this was going.

"I'm sure all of you realize what a great strategic advantage an antidote would provide us in our battle against Nightshade," he continued. "Among other things, it would weaken the organization's hold over its operatives."

"An antidote would be a huge asset," Paul Akashida observed. "Currently, the penalty for failure or betrayal within Nightshade brings an automatic sentence of death or insanity. The existence of an antidote would make it possible to attract defectors."

Janice Forster brightened. "It might also allow us to plant a spy within the organization."

At the far end of the table Conner Price spoke up. "Hell,


't you think of anything else?"

"I wasn't addressing you," William replied before returning his attention to Mattie. "I hope the topic isn't too painful."

"Not at this point. Barry died six years ago of heart failure. I believe cardiac ischemia is the term they used. He taught jewelry making at the San Francisco Art Institute. He was a very talented man, though a bit of an eccentric."

William was nodding. "Cardiac ischemia. I know the term well. From the Greek, ischein, meaning 'quench' or 'seize,' combined with haima, or 'blood.' A German pathology professor first introduced that term in the mid- 1800s. Rudolf Virchow. A remarkable man. What age was your husband?"

"William," Henry sang.

Mattie smiled. "Really, Henry. I'm not sensitive about this. He died two days shy of his seventieth birthday."

William winced. "Pity when a man's struck down in his prime. I myself have suffered several episodes of angina, which I've miraculously survived. I was discussing my heart condition with Lewis, just two days ago by phone. You remember our brother, I'm sure."

"Of course. I hope he and Nell and Charles are all in good health."

"Excellent," William said. He shifted in his chair, lowering his voice. "What about your husband? Did he have any warning prior to his fatal attack?"

"He'd been having chest pains, but he refused to see the doctor. Barry was a fatalist. He believed you check out when your time is up regardless what precautions you take. He compared longevity to an alarm clock that God sets the moment you're born. None of us knows when the little bell will ring, but he didn't see the point in trying to second-guess the process. He enjoyed life immensely, I'll say that about him. Most folks in my family don't make it to the age of sixty, and they're miserable every minute, dreading the inevitable."

"Sixty! Is that right? That's astonishing. Is there a genetic factor in play?"

"I don't think so. It's a little bit of everything. Cancer, diabetes, kidney failure, chronic pulmonary disease..."

William put his hands on his chest. I hadn't seen him so happy since he'd had the flu. "COPD. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The very term brings back memories. I was stricken with a lung condition in my youth—"

Henry clapped his hands. "Okay, fine. Enough said on that subject. Why don't we eat?"

He moved to the refrigerator and took out a clear glass bowl piled with coleslaw, which he plunked on the table with rather more force than was absolutely necessary. The chicken he'd fried was piled on a platter on the counter, probably still warm. He placed that in the center of the table with a pair of serving tongs. The squat little crockery pot now sat on the back of the stove, emitting the fragrance of tender beans and bay leaf. He removed serving utensils from a ceramic jug and then took down four dinner plates, which he handed to William, perhaps in hopes of distracting his attention while he brought the rest of the dinner to the table. William set a plate at each place while he quizzed Mattie at length about her mother's death from acute bacterial meningitis.

Over supper Henry steered the conversation into neutral territory. We went through ritual questions about Mattie's drive down from San Francisco, traffic, road conditions, and matters of that sort, which gave me ample opportunity to observe her. Her eyes were a clear gray and she wore very little makeup. She had strong features, with nose, cheekbones, and jaw as pronounced and well proportioned as a model's. Her skin showed signs of sun damage, and it lent her complexion a ruddy glow. I pictured her out in the fields for hours with her paint box and easel.

I could tell William was reflecting on the subject of terminal disease while I was calculating how soon I could make my excuses and depart. I intended to drag William with me so Henry and Mattie could have some time alone. I kept an eye on the clock while I worked my way through the fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, and


paused to check her watch. "Let's get a move on. Time to party."

We sped south on the 101 with Reba at the wheel.

I said, "I'm not sure this is smart. Why go to a place where everyone's drinking?"

"I'm not going there to drink. I haven't had a drink for twenty-three months, fourteen and a half days."

"Then why put yourself in harm's way?"

"I told you. Because that's where Onni is. She goes out every Thursday night to hustle guys." I opened my mouth to protest, but she shot me a look. "You're not my mother, okay? I promise I'll call my sponsor the minute I get home. At least, I would if I had one, which I don't."

Bubbles was a Montebello wine-and-champagne bistro that had once done a lively business in concert with the Edgewater Hotel and another high-priced piano bar called Spirits. The three were in easy driving distance of one another and formed a triangle traveled by every rich, hot, single person on the market back then. All three places were heavy on atmosphere—glitz, glitter, live music, small dance floors, and low lights. Drinks were pricey, served in oversize glasses, and food was an afterthought, meant to get you home again without a fatal accident.

In the mid-seventies, for reasons unknown, Bubbles became a magnet for escort services, girls working high-end out-call and "models" from Los Angeles, who drove to Montebello cruising for love. Eventually cocaine became prevalent and the county sheriff's department stepped in and shut the place down. I'd been there on occasion because my second husband, Daniel, was a jazz pianist who played the three night spots in rotation. Early in the relationship, I realized if I didn't make a point of being there with him, I might not see him until breakfast the next day. He claimed he was out "jamming" with the guys, which turned out to be true, in both the literal and metaphorical senses.

We pulled up to the left of the entrance. Reba handed her car keys to the valet and we went in. Men in suits and sport coats stood five and six deep at the bar, checking out our boobs and butts as we passed. Reba did a quick search from table to table while I followed in her wake. Bubbles hadn't changed. Illumination was achieved primarily by way of massive fish tanks that lined the walls and separated one seating area from the next. In the main room, there was a bar with a U-shaped border of booths and a scattering of tables big enough for two. In the second room, through a wide arch, a jazz combo—piano, saxophone, and bass—was set up on a wide deck above a dance floor the size of a trampoline. The music was mellow—haunting melodies from the forties that stuck in your head for days. This was not a place where voices were raised or raucous laughter cut through the murmur of civilized conversation. No one got drunk and tumbled backward into other patrons. Women didn't weep or fling drinks on their dates. No one upchucked in the elegant restrooms with their marble floors and baskets of tiny terrycloth towels. Customers smoked, but the ventilation system was high-tech and a roving band of busboys whisked away dirty ashtrays and replaced them with clean ones every five minutes or so.

Reba put a hand out and slowed me to a halt. Like a pointer, she stood and pinned a look on Onni, who sat at a table by herself, smoking a cigarette with an air of indifference I suspected was fake. The presence of two half-filled champagne flutes and a bottle resting in a nearby cooler suggested a companion who'd left the table moments before. The "real" Onni bore only passing resemblance to the Onni I'd seen in the grainy black-and-white photos. She was tall and slim, with a long thin face, wide nose, thin lips, and small nearly lashless eyes. Her dark hair was dead straight and spilled across her shoulders with the high silky shine you see in ads for shampoos. Silver earrings dangled from her lobes and brushed against her neck with every move of her head. The jacket of her black business suit had been shrugged aside, revealing a white silk tank top that looked more like a slip than


's been admitted to Saint Terry's. I'm on my way over to take him his toiletries and robe."

"What happened?"

"Well, he's desperately ill," she said, as though I'd been stupid to inquire. "All this upset over Reba has taken its toll."

"Is she here?"

"Of course not. She's never here when he needs her. That's a job that falls to Freddy or me." Her smile was self-satisfied and brittle, her manner brisk. "Well now. What can we do for you?"

"Is he allowed to have visitors?"

"You must not have heard me. He's ill. He shouldn't be disturbed."

"That wasn't what I asked. What floor is he on?"

"He's on the cardiac ward. If you insist, I suppose you could speak to his private-duty nurse. What is it you want?"

"He asked me to do a job. I'd like to give him my report."

"I'd prefer you didn't."

"But I don't work for you. I work for him," I said.

"She's in trouble again, isn't she?"

"I guess you could say that."

"You don't understand what this has done to him. He's had to rescue her all his life. Reba keeps putting him in the same position. She sets it up so that if he doesn't step in, she'll be doomed, or so she'd like him to think. I'm sure she'd deny this, but she's really still a child, doing anything she can to get her father's attention. If anything happened to her, he'd forever blame himself."

"He's her father. He gets to help her if he wants."

"Well, I may have put an end to that."

"How so?"

"I called Priscilla Holloway, Reba's parole officer. I thought she should be aware of what's been going on. I'm sure Reba's been drinking and probably gambling as well. I told Ms. Holloway Reba left the state, and she was furious."

"You'll get her sent back to prison."

"That's my hope. We'd all be better off, including her."

"Great. That's perfect. Who else did you tattle to?" I meant the question as a piece of sarcasm, but the silence that followed suggested I'd scored an unexpected bull's-eye. I stared at her. "Is that how Beck found out where she was?"

She dropped her gaze. "We had a conversation on the subject."

"You told him?"

"That's right. And I'd do it again."

"When was this?"

"Thursday. He came to the house. Nord was sleeping so I spoke to him myself. He'd been looking for her and he was very concerned. He said he didn't want to cause a problem, but he thought she'd taken something. He was quite uncomfortable and I had to work very hard persuading him to tell me what it was. He finally admitted she stole twenty-five thousand dollars. He said he didn't want to make trouble, but I thought that was nonsense and told him where she was."

"How'd you get Misty's address?"

"I didn't have her address, I had yours. Nord scribbled a note to himself the night you called. The Paradise Motel. I saw it written on the pad beside his bed."

"Lucinda, Beck manipulated you. Don't you see that?"

"Hardly. He's a lovely man. After what she did to him, I'd have told him even if he hadn't asked."

"Do you have any idea what you've done? A man was kidnapped because of you."

She laughed, tucking her purse under one arm as she picked up the overnight case. "No one was kidnapped," she said, as though the notion were absurd. "Really. You're just like her, creating drama where there is none. Everything's a crisis. Everything's the end of the world. It's never anything she's done. She's always the victim, always expecting someone else to pick up after her. Well, this time she'll have to take responsibility. Now, if you'll excuse


She said she'd call by the house at nine, but she was concerned Mr. Beckwith would find her again."

"I'll bet. Lucinda's been dishing out the information right and left," I said. "Look, if you hear from her, tell her it's important we talk. Did she leave a suitcase by any chance?"

"No, but she did have one with her. She put it in the trunk of her car before she left."

"Well, let's hope she calls in." I glanced at my watch. I'll be at my office for the next couple of hours and then I'll head home."

My office always feels odd at night, its flaws and shabbiness exaggerated by the artificial light. As I sat at my desk, all I saw through the window was dinginess reflected back at me, the dust and ancient rain streaks barring any view of the street. On weekends this part of downtown Santa Teresa is dead after 6:00 P. M., city buildings closed for the night, the courthouse and public library dark. The bungalow I occupied was the middle unit of three; identical stucco structures that, at some point, represented modest housing. Since I'd moved in, the bungalows on both sides of mine had remained vacant, which afforded me the quiet I preferred, at the same time creating an unsettling sense of isolation.

I sorted through the mound of mail the carrier had shoved through my slot. Much junk, a few bills, which I sat down and paid. I was restless, eager to get home, but felt I should stay, in the hopes that Reba would call. I did some filing. I straightened out my pencil drawer. It was make-work but gave me something useful to do. I kept glancing at the phone, willing it to ring, so when someone rapped on my side window, I nearly leaped out of my skin.

Reba was outside, concealed in the shadowy space between my bungalow and its twin next door. She'd traded her shorts for jeans and her white T-shirt looked like the one she'd been wearing when she left CIW. I unlocked the window and raised the sash. "What are you doing?"

"You have access to those garages out back?"

"Sure, the one for this unit. I've never used it, but the landlord did give me the keys."

"Grab 'em and let's go. I gotta get my car off the street. I've had those goons on my tail ever since I left the house."

"The ones we saw in L.A.?"

"Yeah, only one of 'em now has a black eye, like he walked into a door."

"Oh, dear. Wonder if I did that with my widdle chair," I said. "How'd you get away?"

"Fortunately, I know this town a lot better than they do. I led 'em around for a while, then sped up, doused my lights, turned down a little side road, and then behind a hedge. The minute I saw their car pass, I doubled back and came here."

"Where have you been all this time?"

She seemed agitated. "Don't ask. I've been busy as a little bee. Get a move on. I'm cold."

"I'll meet you out back."

I closed the window and locked it. In my bottom desk drawer I lifted aside the phone book and picked up two silver keys hooked together on a paper clip. I picked up my bag and found my trusty penlight, checking the strength of the batteries as I moved down the hallway and out the rear door. A short patch of stubby grass separated the bungalows from the row of three garages along the alley. Reba'd parked her car in the shadow of a pyracantha bush that had probably scratched the shit out of the paint on the right-hand side. I could see her at the wheel, smoking a cigarette while she waited for me.

There was a light fixture with a forty-watt bulb attached to the wood beam above the middle garage, which was the one assigned to me. The bulb yielded just enough light to see by if your eyes were good. I fumbled with the padlock and finally popped it open. I unhooked it from the hasp and hauled up the overhead door with a labored groaning of wood and rusty hinges. I flashed my penlight across the walls and floor


"No way. This is my only chance to get even with that son of a bitch."

"Oh, I get it. This isn't about Marty. It's about you and Beck."

"Of course it's about Marty, but it's also about settling the score. It's like a test. Let's see what Beck's made of. I don't think it's such a bad deal—Marty in exchange for this. The fact the feds want it is what makes it so valuable."

"There are more important things in life than revenge," I said.

"Well, that's bullshit. Name one," she said. "Besides, I'm not talking about revenge. I'm talking about getting even. Those are two different things."

"No, they're not."

"Yes, they are. Revenge is you hurt me and I grind you underfoot until you wish you were dead. Getting even restores the balance in the Universe. You kill him, I kill you. Now we're even. What else is capital punishment about? Getting even is just what it sounds like. Tit for tat. You hurt me, I hurt you back. We're square again and all's right with the world."

"Why not get even by turning him over to the IRS?"

"That's business. This is personal, between him and me."

"I don't get what you want."

"I want him to say he's sorry for what he did to me. I gave up two years of my life for him. Now I have something he wants so let him beg for it."

"That's asinine. So he pulls a long face and says sorry. What difference will that make? You know what he's like. You can't ever do business with a guy like him. You'll get screwed."

"You don't know that."

"I do. Reba, would you listen to me? He'll work you over the first chance he gets."

Her face was set. "Why don't you go get your car and bring it around? I'll wait for you here."

I shut my mouth and closed my eyes. Why argue the point when her mind was made up? "You want help with this garage door?"

"I can handle it."

I returned to the office. I locked the back door behind me, then moved down the hall turning off lights as I went. I grabbed my shoulder bag and went out the front door, pausing long enough to lock up. I stood for a moment, scanning the darkened street. All the cars in range belonged to neighbors, vehicles I'd seen before and could identify on sight. I let myself into my car and fired up the engine. I drove around the corner and nosed my VW into the alleyway.

Reba had closed and padlocked the garage. She opened the passenger-side door, put the suitcase in the backseat, and got in. I reached over into the rear and grabbed my denim jacket. "Here. Put this on before you catch cold."

"Thanks." She shrugged into the jacket and locked her seat belt in place.

"Where to?"

"The nearest public phone."

"Why not my office, as long as we're here?"

"I don't want you tied into this in any way."

"Tied into what?"

"Just find a phone," she said.

##  31

Reba wanted me to make the call to Beck. We found a phone booth outside a supermarket. The store was a bright island, icy fluorescent lights reflected in the shiny paint finish of the dozen or so cars in the parking lot out front. This was the store where I did my weekly shopping, and I longed for nothing so much as to buy milk and eggs and then wend my way home.

Reba put a handful of coins and a slip of paper with Beck's home and office numbers on the metal shelf under the phone. "Try his home phone first. If Tracy answers, maybe she'll think he has a girlfriend," she said.

"He does. Her name is Onni."

"She probably knows about her. I'm talking someone new. Might as well bug the shit out of her while we can."

"That's not nice. I thought women were supposed to be nice."

"I wouldn't bet on it if I were you."

I picked up the handset. "So what am I supposed to say to


doors were slow to respond, which gave me time enough to cross to the second set of doors. I yanked my shoe from the track and slipped into the counting room as the corridor doors slid shut. The doors to the counting room slid shut half a beat later, and I was safe. Temporarily, at any rate.

Marty's body was still there.

I went on disconnect and blocked any and all emotional responses. Now was the wrong time. I tossed the shoe aside, not daring to take time to slip it on again. I looked at the ladder affixed to the wall, following the sight of it, rung by rung, all the way to the top. I started climbing, one shoe off and one shoe on, diddle-diddle-dumpling, my son John. I knew the trap door at the top opened onto the roof. Once there, I'd hide or hang over the parapet screaming until the cops showed up. Maybe officers were already scrambling—regular Santa Teresa cops, the SWAT team, hostage negotiators—all of them decked out in bulletproof vests.

I flicked a look at Marty, still bound to his chair. Why hadn't the guys done as Beck instructed? They were supposed to get him out of there, but they'd left him where he was. My hands were perspiring, but I ventured a second quick look down, noting what I'd failed to spot earlier. The counting and bundling machines were still sitting on the counter. The currency was gone. Instead of disposing of the body, the goons must have packed up the cash and removed that instead.

I reached the top rung of the ladder and reached for the door directly above my head. I couldn't find a lock or a knob or any means to open it. I ran my hand across the surface, looking for a hook or a handle, any kind of lever that might cause it to spring open. Nothing. I clung to the top rung, hanging on for dear life while I tried to get my fingertips in the crack. I banged on it with the flat of my hand, then pushed as hard as I could.

Below, I heard the elevator door slide open. I laid my head against the ladder and held my breath.

In a conversational tone, Beck said, "That door's locked so you might as well come down. Reba's on her way. Soon as we've settled up, you're free to go."

I looked down at him. He was wearing his raincoat, apparently in preparation for his departure. He had the gun in one hand and it was pointed right at me. He probably didn't have a clue how much pressure it took to pull the trigger. If he inadvertently blew my head off, I'd be dead all the same. He leaned down and picked up my shoe.

He waggled the gun. "Come on. I don't want to hurt you. This is almost over. Wrong time to cut and run when we're down to the wire."

I eased my way down, feeling for each rung with my foot, suddenly fearful of heights. I considered letting go, plunging down on top of him, but I'd only hurt myself and there was no guarantee I'd do him any harm at all. He watched me patiently until I reached the bottom. He probably preferred keeping his eyes on me to looking at Marty. He hadn't seemed to register the fact that the body hadn't been removed.

He smiled slightly. "Good try. You had me goin' there. I thought you ran the other way..." He handed me my shoe. I paused, leaning against the wall while I pulled the shoe on.

He took my elbow and urged me through the service elevator to the corridor. He was right. It was almost over so what was the point of risking my neck. In the end, this had nothing to do with me. I hunkered, taking my time while I tied my shoelaces. Beck was getting short on patience, but I didn't like to walk with laces flapping loose. He took me by the elbow again and steered me around the corner to the public elevators. He'd left his briefcase in the hall. He picked it up and used the knuckle of his index finger to push the call button. The elevator must have been sitting right there because the doors opened instantly. The two of us got on. Beck pressed the button for the lobby. Like strangers, we stood silently against the back wall, eyes on the digital readout while the floor numbers dropped from 4 to 3 to


Meanwhile, Beck was intent on his task. He took the screwdriver and jammed it into the workings of the computer, twisting metal parts, snapping wires, careful to avoid any direct contact between the acid and his hands. He had his back to the big plate-glass windows so he didn't see Cheney step out of the shadows with his gun drawn. Vince Turner appeared along with four agents in FBI vests.

Too late to salvage the data, but I was grateful nonetheless.

Reba caught sight of them. I saw her gaze flick to the window and back to Beck. "Oh, poor Beck. You are so screwed," she said.

He stood up and reached for his briefcase. He looked at her, his expression pleasant. "Really? How do you figure that?"

Reba was silent for a beat, a slow smile lighting her battered face. "The minute I got back to town, I put in a call to a man who works for the IRS. I spilled the beans, spelled it all out—names, numbers, dates—everything he needed to get his warrants. He had to call the judge at home, but he was happy to be of help."

Facetiously, Beck said, "Oh, Jesus, Reba, get a grip. I've known for months they were on to me. This is the only thing I was really worried about and now it's taken care of. How much incriminating data you think they'll salvage from this mess?"

"Probably none."

"That's right. Thank you very much."

Beck saw Reba's attention shift. He looked over his shoulder and spotted Cheney, Vince Turner, and assorted cops and federal agents lined up on the walk. His smile might have faltered, but he didn't seem concerned. He signaled to Willard to let them in. Willard set the gun on the floor, raised his hands to show he had no weapons, and used his jumble of keys to unlock the doors.

Reba wasn't finished. "Only one problem."

Beck turned back to her. "Which is?"

"That's not Marty's."

Beck laughed. "You're full of crap."

Reba shook her head. "Nope. Not so. The feds didn't like the fact the computer had been stolen so I swapped it back."

"How'd you get into the building?"

"He let me in," she said, indicating Willard.

"Give it up, baby. The man works for me."

"Maybe so but I'm the one who's been screwing his brains out. We're just like this." She raised her left hand and made a circle with the thumb and index finger. She stuck her right index finger in the hole and pumped it like a piston. Beck winced at the crudity, but Reba laughed.

I shot a quick look at Willard, who dropped his gaze with appropriate modesty. Cops and FBI agents were crowding into the lobby. Cheney picked up Beck's gun and flicked the safety before he handed it to Vince.

Reba was saying, "After Willie let me in, I took Marty's computer up to your office. I disconnected your computer, pulled it out, and put Marty's in its place. Then I put your computer under Marty's desk. That one's Onni's. Nothing much on it but personal correspondence and a bunch of stupid computer games. I can't believe you paid her so well when all she did was waste time."

Beck still wasn't buying it. He shook his head, sliding his tongue across his front teeth while trying to suppress a smile. She might as well have been telling him she'd been abducted by aliens for use in sexual experiments.

She said, "Want to know what else I did? I'm tellin' you, Beck, I've been a busy little girl. After I swapped computers, I drove over to Salustio's and paid him the twenty-five grand I stole. Marty gave me the cash in exchange for documents he never got to use. Truth is, Salustio didn't give a damn where the money came from. Problem is, I pay him and he's still pissed at me. So I figure to compensate him for the inconvenience, I'd warn him about the raid. That gave him just enough time to get his money out of here. So now all's forgiven. He and


thirdness is, without doubt, his natural statute and the recognition of his semiotic condition, the third term, the figuration of an _orbis tertius_ that criticism carries to planetary dimensions.

Without claiming to carry out an inventory—since such a proposal alludes to invention—nor to recur to the dangers of taxonomic procedures, but rather to deconstruct on the basis of the critical function whatever taxonomy that tries to register and describe in a restricted way the critical function, it behooves us to recall the arbitrariness that results from the dualities among which we debate.

The critic installs himself between the author and the reader but, without eluding the network of implications of his work, participates in the attributions and requisites of both and, in a certain way, neutralizes the opposition by way of a third position that involves them both.

The critical text is found between the text of creation, without ceasing to be itself a creation, and the theoretical text, without ceasing to be theoretical. A convergence organized by forms of knowledge that pass through the imagination or through reason producing a third form of reasoned imagination that defines the predominant characteristic of contemporary literature.

One could attribute to the vigor of the imagination _the weakness of a thought_ that recognizes hermeneutics as the manifestation of contemporary knowing: "The contemporaneity of hermeneutics, which is thought of for good reason as the philosophy of modernity," a knowing that distances itself from philosophy in order to come closer to history, to the accidental variability of circumstances, in order to disembowel the textual truth. Vattimo attributes to the discoveries of interpretation the mission of a transcendent nature: "The history of salvation and the history of interpretation are far more tightly bound than the Catholic orthodoxy would like to admit."

In effect, he attributes to hermeneutic intermediation an eternal safe passage: "salvation occurs through interpretation," navigates between different times. The critical gaze makes the past resurface in the present of reading, an ephemeral time that is prolonged or not according to how the critical examination manages to consolidate it. In this sense all criticism is responsible for continuity, is posterior to the literary texts it deals with, a _posterity_ that is consecutive time and suspension of time: heaven. It is, in this sense, that the present of critical interpretation keeps vigil over the text, suspending the difference between times that have passed or, equally, times that will pass.

Although it is known to be ephemeral, critical writing scrutinizes a knowledge and, at the moment of finding it, it finds it but without going beyond conjecture, beyond an imminent revelation that remains under suspicion, or a supposition that, in the terms of Charles Sanders Peirce, would be an _abduction_. Neither deduction nor induction, the hypothesis is a sequestering of reason, a supposition that is valid for only a short time, a certainty that is not prolonged for much more than the clarity produced by a lightning bolt. Like the horizon always in flight, one hypothesis is displaced by another hypothesis that is left behind only to be in turn superseded by a new hypothesis, and so on successively: each epoch, each critic, each reader _supposes_.

Critical supposition may be an abduction, or it may prolong the work thanks to an infinite interpretation, like unlimited semiosis, the successive comprehension of which Peirce spoke. For this reason, despite the apparent tautological construction, it would not be merely redundant to propose _the hypothesis that interpretation is a hypothesis_ , a conjecture, a supposition that turns back on itself, a logical figure but also a game of the imagination, "a play of musement." I have already said that in this age, when _positions_ becomes less and less drastic, when _oppositions_ are defended with indifference, it would be possible to find in _supposition_ the personal procedure valid for approaching that scarce reality of reality that is ours, the truth that is ever less convincing, conditioned ever more by a plurality that puts in evidence the dangerous limits of a unique truth.

A hypothesis, a supposition, in both expressions is revealed—from the (in)formation of the word—an operation that lies beneath the text. _To suppose_ means to interpret; _to interpret_ , a way of understanding ( _entender_ ). I do not believe that "understand" in English is associated with this hypothetical position (localization), but, without a doubt, comprehension is bound to a perspective that is opened


The hallucinations of his blindness that extend those of dreaming to the wakefulness of his vainly open eyes; the will or valor of anticipating it, first, and the resignation facing the fatality afterward; the certainty of the lucidity in darkness; the memory of the shadow of forgetting; its elegy; the reading not distinguished from writing; are topics run through by an ironic network that multiplies constant references and preferences in poems, books, essays. Like the ambivalences of his memory, the ambivalences of his blindness are so frequent as to discourage, as useless, the catalogue.

When Borges formulates the _Elegy of the Shadow_ or records the _History of Night_ , it is not merely a question of affirming that resignation but of exalting the proud _belonging_ to a courageous kin: his literal ancestors (Saxons or Gauchos, both warriors), or his literary ancestors converge in _the_ _myth of the blind poet_.

It is with difficulty that the coincidence of fatalities must be attributed only to chance, a license of reasoning in which Borges does not believe. He attributes his blindness to God—in whom he also does not believe—to diminish the arrogance or enjoy a chosen liberty. For this reason he oscillates between a God (indefinite but in upper case) or the god (definite but in lower case) who, like in Plato's dialogue, chooses the poet to whom to bequeath the blindness that Borges recognizes as the perfect instrument of another poet. In "The Other," a poem from _The Other, the Same_ , "the other" itself is the title of the poem or of the title that he bequeaths as much to Milton as to another blind poet, model of poetry and blindness, who was the first, Homer, or the other who is he himself:

The pitiless god who is not named gives:
To Milton the walls of shadow,
To Cervantes exile and forgetting.

In his lecture "Blindness," Borges does not say that Oscar Wilde said it—because he did not say it—but rather that "it was said": "The Greeks maintained that Homer was blind in order to mean that poetry should not be visual, that its duty is to be auditory." It is Borges who has Wilde say that it is not important if Homer existed or not, but rather that the Greeks preferred to imagine that he was blind in order to insist on the fact that poetry is above all musical and that the visual in a poet can exist or not.

The series of enthusiasms, stubborn or blinded (he includes, in passing, Tiresias, who, prophesying, provoked the blindness of Oedipus), is extended to other Argentine writers:

My blindness had been coming on gradually since childhood. It was a slow, summer twilight. There was nothing pathetic or dramatic about it. Beginning in 1927, I had undergone eight eye operations, but since the late 1950's, when I wrote my "Poem of the Gifts," for reading and writing purposes I have been blind. Blindness ran in my family; a description of the operation performed on the eyes of my great-grandfather Edward Young Haslam appeared in the pages of the London medical journal the _Lancet_. Blindness also seems to run among the directors of the National Library. Two of my eminent forerunners, José Mármol and Paul Groussac, suffered the same fate.

Blindness, a limitation inherited from his elders, made him slide, from the standpoint of that noble and double genealogy: arms into letters, the country into the city, prose into verse, free verse into classic meter; and by way of that adverse itinerary he intended to return to the language of his elders. He says so in an autobiographical essay in which he connects blindness with the mnemonic virtues of verse—other "mémoires d'aveugle," Derrida would say—and the tendency to return through poetry to the story, where a narrative thread, an argument, could lead it like a sonorous thread, a _leitmotiv_ between spaces and walls that do not see, quotidian environments that he passes through without recognizing, converting known objects into enigmas, no less threatening for being familiar, only more frequent. A blindness that textualizes its surroundings as "the exercise of commentary illuminates the text by adding it to the text


. Norton & Co., 1991), 42.

. Although the actual German adds a letter, again the omnipresent _n_ , the unknown of pure change, to the _nth_ degree: _redner_ ; a _reder_ is rather one who builds ships.

. Christian Reder, _Wörter und Zahlen, Das Alphabet als Code_ (Vienna/New York: Springer, 2000).

. Ibid., 7.

. His whole thought deals with this problem but was first expounded in Richard Rorty, _Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature_ (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1979).

. Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, _What Is Philosophy?_ , trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchell (New York: Columbia UP, 1994), 5.

. And yet Kabbalah, as Bloom has said, is not mysticism but interpretation, "a theory of writing." Harold Bloom, _Kabbalah and Criticism_ (New York: Continuum, 1975), 52.

. See chapter 6 of this book.

. Etymology, what Deleuze and Guattari call "a specifically philosophical athleticism" ( _What Is Philosophy_ , 8), is one of Block de Behar's cherished tools. Her analysis of the relation between _chance_ and _fall_ appears in chapter 8.

### ONE. FIRST WORDS

. Jorge Luis Borges, _Obras completas_ (Buenos Aires: Emecé Editores, 1974), 522–544.

. Ibid., 444–450.

. Ralph Waldo Emerson, _Essays and Lectures_ (New York: The Library of America, 1983), 455.

. August of 1999 marked the centennial of Borges's birth. Beyond the chronological precision of commemorations, the intention of this book was to contribute to his constant celebration.

. _Perlas de la sabiduría judía (Antología de los hagiógrafos y de Pirké Avot)_ , 2ª edición bilingüe ampliada (Buenos Aires: Editorial Yehuda), 317.

. There is a connotation of the phrase _cita sin fin_ that "Endless quote" does not capture, namely, that of a _cinta sin fin_ , or tape recorder on auto-reverse, a metaphor of audio reproduction that resonates with Lisa Block de Behar's notion of the quote [W. E.].

### TWO. VARIATIONS ON A LETTER

. Louis-Auguste Blanqui, _L'éternité par les astres: Hypothèse astronomique_ , ed. L. B. de Behar (Genève: Fleuron-Slatkine, 1996), 149.

. English in the original.

. Jorge Luis Borges, _Obras completas_ (Buenos Aires: Emecé Editores, 1974), 712.

. Emir Rodríguez Monegal, "Borges y la nouvelle critique," _Revista Iberoamericana_ (July–Sept. 1972): 367–390; _Borges par lui-même_ (Paris: Seuil, 1981).

. Gregory Ulmer, "The Puncept in Grammatology," in _On Puns: The Foundation of Letters_ , ed. Jonathan Culler (New York: Blackwell, 1988), 164–189.

. Borges, _Obras completas_ , 173.(Where no volume number is indicated for Borges's _Obras completas_ , the author is citing the single-volume 1974 edition [W. E.].)

. Ibid., 773.

. See Lisa Block de Behar, "El milagro de la rosa o el ultrarrealismo de Borges," in _Al margen de Borges_ (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI Editores,


. A popular magazine devoted to rural themes [W. E.].

. Borges, _Obras completas_ , 1070.

. Roland Barthes, "Proust et les noms," in _Les critiques de notre temps et Proust_ présentation par Jacques Bersani (Paris: Garnier, 1971), 160.

. The eponymous character of a dialogue of Plato that often carries the subtitle "On the Precision and Property of Names."

. Barthes, "Proust et les noms," 160.

. The action of calling, as much in the religious sense in which God calls, attracts to Himself a person, a people, as in that of the action and result of an installing voice; although similar, that _vocation_ does not correspond completely with what linguistics considers performative utterances.

. Barthes, "Proust et les noms," 163.

. In this case we would have to understand _motivation_ in two of its senses: 1) in general, as movement or that which puts into movement (from Latin: _motor, movere_ : to move); 2) specifically, linguistically, as a principle opposed to the arbitrariness of the sign, a natural reason of being or the (onomatopoetic) possibility that the sign is imitating the thing.

. Roger Dragonetti, _La vie de la lettre au Moyen âge_ (Paris: Seuil, 1980), 22.

. _Propio_ , which also means "own" [W. E.].

. Leopoldo Lugones, _Obras poéticas completas_ (Madrid: Aguilar, 1974), 197.

. Geoffrey Hartman, _Saving the Text: Literature/Derrida/Philosophy_ (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1982), 111.

. Reading Dante, Luce Fabbri de Cressatti observed that some Italian nouns carry two meanings: one subjective and the other objective. "The distinction is found in the Latin grammars apropos of the specifying complements that carry out a subjective as well as an objective function, when the idea of an action or a sentiment is included in the respective noun. There are still today nouns that can have a specifying complement of both kinds. Typical example: 'The love of God' ( _of God_ is ambiguous. According to the context it could be 'the love of God for the world' or 'the love of the world for God')." From _Informe sobre sustantivos italianos susceptibles de dos significados, uno subjetivo y otro objetivo_ , unpublished manuscript by Luce Fabbri de Cressatti, whom I asked and now I thank.

. Emir Rodríguez Monegal, "Borges & Derrida: Boticarios," _Maldoror_ 21 (1985): 123–132.

. Lisa Block de Behar, "A manera de prólogo," in _El texto según Genette, Maldoror_ 20 (1985): 17–29.

. Gershom Scholem, _La kabbale et sa symbolique_ (Paris: Payot, 1975), 40.

. What follows depends on the words _clave_ and _llave_ in Spanish, both of which are translated by the English "key," the former denoting the musical key and connoting the more figurative meanings of "key," the latter the literal, physical object [W. E.].

. Edmond Jabès, _Ça suit son cours_ (Montpellier: Fata Morgana, 1975), 58.

. Lisa Block de Behar, _Una retórica del silencio_ (México: Siglo XXI Editores, 1984).

. _Lectarios_ —The term I use for those characters who, in the text, appear as listeners of an out-loud reading realized by another character: neither proper listeners nor proper readers (the Gutres, little Marcel of the _Recherche_ , little Jean of _Les mots_ , etc.); they are included in a literary species whose


. "Your mind must leap from a third-person perspective—'he' or 'she'—to a first person perspective—'I.' Comedians have long known how to exaggerate this leap.... To see ourselves as others see us.... This dramatic shift is a discovery." Douglas R. Hofstadter and Daniel C. Dennett, _The Mind's I: Fantasies and Reflections on Self and Soul_ (New York: Bantam Books, 1981), 20–21. The text with which the book begins is "Borges and I." It would have been interesting to observe that dramatic chance—in the strong sense of the term, as well—on the basis of the story we are analyzing here.

. Derrida, _La Dissémination_ , 120.

. Borges, _Obras completas_ , 496–498.

. Ibid., 514–518.

. Ibid., 550–556.

. Ibid., 556.

. Harold Bloom, _A Map of Misreading_ (New York: Oxford UP, 1980), 3.

. Charles Sanders Peirce, _Collected Papers_ (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1931–1958), 332.

. Umberto Eco, _Semiotics and the Philosophy of Language_ (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1984), 26.

. Rosalie Colie, _Paradoxia Epidemica: The Renaissance Tradition of Paradox_ (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1976), 517–518.

. Borges, _Obras completas_ , 508–513.

. Ibid., 508.

. Heraclitus, fragment 70, quoted in Abel Jeannière, _Héraclite_ , traduction et commentaire des _Fragments_ (Paris: Aubier, 1985), 114.

. Borges, "De las alegorías a las novelas" and "El ruiseñor de Keats," _Otras inquisiciones, Obras completas_ , 718 and 745.

. I here adopt both literary notions of the two famous essays of John Barth that appear, respectively, under those titles in _The Friday Book_ (New York: Perigee Book/Putnam, 1984), 62–76 and 193–206.

. Jacques Derrida, " 'Psyché o la invención del otro," in _Diseminario: La desconstrucción, otro descubrimiento de América_ , ed. Lisa Block de Behar (Montevideo: XYZ Editores, 1987), 49–106, 57.

. Borges, "Tema del traidor y del héroe," _Obras completas_ , 496. Borges combines the disjunctive gesture (an excluding alternative) with equivalence (a copulative union).

. Although Borges does not explicitly consider this semantic and numeric aspect of the term, he titles one of his last collections of poems _The Cipher_ ( _La cifra_ , Buenos Aires: Emecé Editores, 1981).

. Heraclitus, fragment 51, quoted in Abel Jeannière, _Héraclite_ , 111.

. Borges, in _Ficciones, Obras completas_ , 485–490.

. Borges, _Obra poética_ , 353–354.

. Ibid., 353.

. Borges, _Obras completas_ , 488.

. Ibid., 490.

. Ibid., 490.

. Ibid., 718.

. Martin Heidegger, _Phénoménologie de l'esprit de Hegel_ , sec. II, trans. Françoise d' Emmanuel Martineau (Paris: Gallimard, 1984), 112.

. Paz, _Árbol ad


. _The Holy Bible, New International Version_ (International Bible Society, 1973), 26; <http://www.gospelcom.net/ibs/bibles/use.html>.

. Christiane Chauviré, _Ludwig Wittgenstein_ (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1989), 234.

. Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, _El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha_ , 9 vols., ed. Francisco Rodríguez Marín (Madrid: Ediciones "La Lectura," 1911).

. Borges, "Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote," _Obras completas_ , I: 444–450.

. Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Valley of Fear_ (1915), _The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes_ (London: Penguin Books, 1981), 802.

. Jacques Rancière, _Les noms de l'histoire: Essai de poétique du savoir_ (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1992), 98.

. Thomas A. Sebeok, _A Sign Is Just a Sign_ (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1991), 20.

. From Lat. _eliminare_ , "faire sortir, mettre dehors," of _ex-limen, liminis_ , "seuil." (...) 1777; "[the term] is resurrected in algebra in the sense of 'to make disappear' (one or more unknowns) of a group of equations such as to obtain one equation with only one unknown. Alain Rey, _Dictionnaire historique de la langue française_ (Paris: Le Robert, 1992), 673.

. Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Sign of Four_ (1890), _The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes_. (England: Penguin Books, 1981), 111.

. Rancière, _Les noms de l'histoire_ , 22.

. _idea_ —from Gr. v. _idein_ , aorist of _horan_ = to see.

. Robert Hewison, _John Ruskin: The Argument of the Eye_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), 57.

. Plato, _Kratylos. Crátilo. Diálogos_ , trans., foreword and notes by J. L. Calvo (Madrid: Editorial Gredos, 1983), II: 365.

. Buenos Aires, October 1985.

. Borges, "El Golem," _Obras completas_ , II: 263–265.

. Borges, "Pierre Menard," _Obras completas_ , I: 449–450.

. Borges, "La supersticiosa ética del lector" (1932), _Discusión, Obras completas_ , I: 202–205; "Parábola del palacio" (1960), _El hacedor, Obras completas_ , II: 179–180; "Del rigor en las ciencias" (1960), _El hacedor, Obras completas_ , II: 225.

. Stéphane Mallarmé, "Le démon de l'analogie" (1874), in _Oeuvres complètes_ , ed. Henri Mondor and G. Jean-Aubry (Paris: Gallimard, 1945), 272–273.

. 1 Corinthians, 13: 8–10.

. Quoted in Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, _La poésie comme expérience_ (Paris: Christian Bourgois, 1986), 54.

### FIFTEEN. THE PLACE OF THE LIBRARY

. Jorge Luis Borges, _Obras completas_ (Buenos Aires: Emecé,


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First edition 1997

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# CON


worst, by far, was my head. When I turned, I could feel a slight tug on the back of my neck where dried blood had glued my hair to my skin.

He stepped back, putting distance between us. "I think you're right; I do need a shower. I need to wash your deluded filth from me."

Despite his appearances, I was beginning to see he was no idiot, just crazy.

"I'm not the deluded one here, Frank. You are if you think you're going to rule the world. You may be strong, but there are more humans than you can deal with. And you know it, or you wouldn't be hiding the fact you're a werewolf."

"You know nothing. You're just a tiny, insignificant piece in a global puzzle."

"There is no puzzle, just a greedy, crazy werewolf leading other crazy, greedy werewolves. And if I'm so insignificant, then why take me? Let me go."

"The only crazy thing about Blake was his decision to let Richard keep you for four years. Your time's up. We've waited long enough for you to come to the right decision on your own. Now, we will decide for you. We'll start with you, and then we'll help the rest of your sisters. We will stop this cycle, and a judgment will be made."

He slowly approached me with a wild light in his eyes. He didn't look upset anymore, and that worried me. He slowly knelt in front of me, spreading my knees so his hips were against the chair. His stench was overwhelming.

"You can end this now." He tilted his neck so I could see the dirt rings there. "Claim me. I will raise your brothers to be strong, not the little weaklings Richard made them."

They were _not_ weaklings. The courage they'd displayed when I'd run with them and when David had found us again, was undeniable. Weaklings were men like Frank and Blake who bullied and hurt people. Torn on how to respond, I simply chose to turn away from him. Spitting in his eye like I wanted to do would probably just result in more bleeding on my part.

He growled furiously and shoved himself to his feet. I watched him from the corner of my eye. At first, I thought he would hit me and inwardly cringed. After a moment, he seemed to calm himself and swung away to move toward the bathroom. He left the door open, no doubt so he could hear me. I averted my eyes and thought back to what he'd said.

He was right. I didn't know anything. What sisters was he talking about? I was an only child from my father and had two brothers from my mom. No sisters. And what was an Urbat? He made it sound different from a werewolf.

Perhaps I didn't need Blake. It seemed Frank had some answers, too. I just needed to figure out how to get them. The thought of being nice to him made my stomach roll. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad once he was clean.

The water turned on, and the shower curtain rustled. I risked a quick glance at the bathroom where I, thankfully, couldn't see him, then turned to look for something that might help me get out of the ties. Even the slightest tug hurt so I didn't try too hard. What was the point if I bruised myself so badly I couldn't run? I knew they wanted me alive. I was too valuable to them, which was probably why I hadn't been hurt worse.

The sudden silence from the bathroom brought me back from my thoughts. There was no way his shower had been long enough to get rid of the smell. I quickly turned away, afraid he'd come marching out in the nude. I grew nervous when he didn't make any noise for several minutes.

"Afraid you'll see something you like?" His voice, inches from my ear, startled me.

I squeezed my eyes shut and answered with more bravado than I felt. "Hardly. I just don't think my stomach can take much more—"

He smacked me upside the back of the head, stopping the rest of my comment. I winced and swallowed hard against the pain. It could have been worse.

Risking another smack, I kept talking, hoping he'd give away some useful information. "You know, it's that kind of treatment that had me running in the first place. If you


"We're going to need to get our things," he said, noting the direction of my glance.

I wrinkled my nose but knew he was right. Our plane tickets were still there.

"They dropped these off this morning," he said, showing me a pair of black, slipper flats. He didn't let me take them, but went to a knee to help put them on so I wouldn't need to bend. The flats fit me well enough.

He stood again. "Ready?"

"Just a second."

I walked back into the bedroom to make sure we weren't forgetting anything. Not much to forget since we'd arrived with just the clothes on our backs, but I still felt the need to check. Maybe I simply needed to look at the room one more time.

It was hard not to stare at the bed for a moment as the reality of what I'd done settled over me. Engaged. I didn't really feel engaged. Of all the different ways I'd imagined last night playing out after the bite, it had been completely different than I'd expected.

I wondered when I'd feel something from Emmitt like Nana Wini had mentioned. All I felt at the moment was my complete contentment. I paused. Was I really content? A little. But I felt nervous about meeting the lawyer, tired, and sore, too. I missed my brothers and wanted to get back home.

Emmitt stood in the doorway behind me, watching, and gave me a questioning look. Understanding dawned, and I smiled at him in wonder. It wasn't my contentment I was feeling, but his.

I moved to twine my fingers through his. "I'm ready."

He kissed the back of my hand, and we left the room.

The person at the front desk called a cab for us, and within minutes, we were making our way back to the old hotel. I still worried Blake had lied on the phone and would be waiting either at the hotel or at the lawyer's office. I didn't trust him after everything he'd done to me.

The cab pulled up to the hotel's drop off, and I eyed the building. Everything looked normal from the outside, but I really didn't want to go back in there. Emmitt seemed to sense my concern and told me to wait in the cab while he ran in. It was a nerve-racking wait. I scanned the parking lot around us the whole time. I caught the cabbie looking at me several times and figured I wasn't being as casual about it as I'd hoped. If I'd seen anything, I would have been yelling at the cabby to "go, go, go!" like in the movies.

Thankfully, Emmitt returned before I had to do anything so drastic. Grey and Carlos trailed behind him with their bags. I couldn't believe they had stayed in their old room. What if Blake had come back? I couldn't say anything as they piled in. The cabbie already looked ready to tell me to get out.

Emmitt gave the driver the lawyer's address as he handed me my slack bag. He caught my look at the bag and shrugged.

"There was nothing else worth taking."

I wondered what they'd done to our things and dejectedly faced forward. I wanted to go back home. I wanted Blake to leave me alone for good. I wanted to see my brothers. Above all, I wanted some time with Emmitt where we could just be normal. Well, as normal as an engaged werewolf and human could be.

With Emmitt beside me, I calmed slightly, and we rode in silence to our next stop.

The news crew waited outside the lawyer's office. Carlos and Grey hung back, looking like personal bodyguards. In a way, I guessed that they were.

After the reporter introduced herself, we started talking about my sudden fortune and the cause of it. I had to look appropriately upset since Richard had passed away scarcely a month ago. Thankfully, that topic was short-lived. They recorded most of our conversation, but I knew they'd edit the heck out of it to make it news worthy.

I answered as many questions as I could; and by the time we needed to go in, I'd committed to a charity and an amount. Though I invited the reporter to come inside with us, she declined. She already had the information she needed from the copy of the will she'd acquired and our talk.

Trepidation filled me as I watched her walk away. If the news crew left, were we still safe?


didn't know how he'd known I was getting cold but appreciated that he did. He claimed a quick kiss when he handed it to me. Holding hands, we walked into the meeting room.

Nana Wini sat at the table. I eased myself onto the chair beside her and tried not to wince at the tenderness in my stomach, a pointless effort since everyone in the room watched me closely.

"What happened to you? I can smell blood," Nana said, concerned.

"I ran into a door." I smirked at being able to use that line. No one in the room appreciated my humor. I cleared my throat and looked at Thomas.

"Thank you for keeping Liam and Aden safe. Frank admitted Blake attempted to get them back." I glanced at Nana Wini. "I'm guessing Frank followed us here and called Blake. I think Blake was on his way here while we were going to him. Anyway, when we got to Wisconsin," I gently massaged my head, remembering, "I got a visit from Frank. He's the reason I ran into a door. He took me to another hotel and started saying some weird things...like I was just one piece of a huge puzzle and that they would start with me but get all of my sisters."

"You have sisters?" Nana Wini asked.

"No, I don't. I think he means women like me—us." I met Charlene's eyes. "I've been having visions of other women. So far, there seems to be five of us total. I'm guessing each of us has a unique ability. One of the women seemed to have a calming effect on the crowd around her. The other two were harder to tell." I paused, thinking. "Does Gabby have any special abilities?"

"She's told Sam about an unusual pull she has on human men. According to Sam, they appear to be very attracted to her. Yet, our men don't seem any more or less attracted to her because of it," Charlene said.

If I had premonitions, Charlene could control minds, and the redhead could influence people's emotions, I didn't see how being exceptionally attractive qualified as a special ability.

"Hmm. My abilities changed when I met Emmitt and again when I met you. You said yours first changed when you Claimed Thomas. Maybe hers will manifest when she's with her Mate?"

Nana Wini spoke up. "She found her Mate but isn't acknowledging him. We'll have to keep an eye on the situation."

"What happened when you met me?" Charlene asked, circling back to what I'd said.

"Well, it wasn't exactly when we met but when we first touched. Before meeting any of you, my premonitions were about the stock markets. When I met Emmitt, I started to see people. Women. But when I first touched you, I was transported to another place. It was like a white nothing filled with monitors. Each monitor had an image of one of us, women with power. Around us, there were always werewolves. Somehow, we're in the middle of them. I wasn't able to study the images before I was pulled out of that place."

"When I let go," Charlene said, nodding. "It makes sense. I seem to enhance Thomas's ability as pack leader through our mental link. Perhaps I enhance yours when we touch."

"Maybe," I said. "I did notice something else important, I think. The images I've seen played out when touching Emmitt are the same ones in that room. I'm thinking that's my source. And I'm still not clear why I don't see a vision every time I'm with Emmitt." There was a lot I wasn't clear about, actually.

"To be safe, we need to warn Gabby about Blake and his men," I said. "And I think we need to look for the others like us. I don't want any of them to have to deal with Frank or Blake on their own."

Emmitt reached over and clasped my hand. I smiled at him reassuringly, not wanting him to think I was blaming him.

"Did Frank say anything more about the puzzle? What he meant?" Nana Wini asked.

"No. Nothing clear, anyway. He said they were going to stop this cycle so a judgment would be made. He was talking about Urbat, making it sound like it was another type of werewolf."

Everyone sat quietly for a few moments,