The Human Hoax

Welcome

2006-08-06T07:14:00.000-07:00

THE HUMAN HOAX
The Second Mackenzie Novel
byMark Alexander

In deferrence to a few readers, I have posted the Prelude and Chapters 1 through 5 of THE HUMAN HOAX. I apologize that it is only a taste and does little to advance the plot. But I hope it gives you a hint at what is to come. Little does Mac realize how he is actually pursuing himself.

As always, your comments are welcome. Perhaps I can add substantially to this next year. (It's difficult with the demanding work schedule I have.)

If you have not read the first book, THE SATAN MANEUVER, go here now.

Enjoy!

Prelude

2006-08-05T23:59:00.000-07:00

If stars within their orbits have such p'wer
To move men's lives in predetermined ways,
And dictate turnings of the wheel each hour
Through ev'ry bend and wind of our life's maze;
If planetary motions form the rules
That govern loves and laughs and jealousies
And hosts of harl'quins, jesters, clowns, and fools
Who strip all, baring reason's fallacies,
Then who can trust the foretold Golden Age,
The Saviour's promise, the release of death?
The universe machine will storm and rage
Or heaven's myst'ry still hold its breath;
.....From birth, through life, to death amidst much hate,
.....The infant wails its unseen curséd fate.

Castle Hedingham, Essex, England, April 12, 1550

A cry went up from Lord Oxford's private apartment. The sixteenth earl sat in his favorite chair staring into the early evening fire burning in the great stone fireplace.

"God's mercy, let me have a son," he declared to no one present.

Only a son would inherit his 300 odd castles and manors scattered across England. In his thirty-four years he had one daughter, Katherine, from his first marriage and no sons. His daughter was only nine years old, but already a sour-faced shrew, much like his current wife. Those two had got on together better than he'd thought possible. Scabbards to each other's daggers, he'd supposed.

He stood up and walked to the bottom of the stairs and looked up, drinking wine from a pewter mug. After a few minutes, one of the midwives walked down.

"A right healthy boy you have, Earl John." She smiled and spoke softly, more familiar than the situation normally allowed, but the earl failed to notice. No one else was about, but when he said nothing in reply, she walked back up the stairs.

Alone, he broke into a smile and raised his mug. "Praise be to God and all the angels in heaven. At last, a son. My boy Edward." The name had already been decided. After several years of that damned bloody Catholic, Queen Mary, the sickly and mild Edward the Sixth was on the throne, returning the land to the Protestant ways of his father, Henry VIII. No name other than Edward would suffice for his son.

In bed upstairs, his second wife, Margery De Vere (Margery Golding as a maid) cursed the midwives. "Take that damn crying thing away and clean it up! Leave me be, damn you, leave me be!"

The two midwives left with the infant boy. Young Katherine wiped her step-mother's brow with a wet cloth.

"That's done," said the Countess of Oxford.

Katherine smiled crookedly and offered a bowl of water. "Here, drink now. Save yourself."

The Countess sipped and coughed. "Damn you, child, you need not pour it for me! I can hold it myself!"

Katherine paid no attention to her step-mother's words. She understood, even at her young age. All women understood. A male heir held more value in this kingdom, this household, than all the women together.

Down by the fire, a thin man dressed somewhat motley approached the earl. "M'lord, it's a boy then?"

"Aye, Auric, I have a son, my Edward."

"Then shall we have a masque to celebrate the occasion?" asked Auric, who was one of Oxford's Men, his troop of players. "We've written a little device for your joy and amusement, Lord."

Earl John clapped him on the back. "Yes, Auric. Tell the men that tonight we feast. Tell the cook and the rest that it is all revels tonight! I have me a son!"

Auric had not seen such happiness radiate from his normally melancholy Earl. He left to tell his men and the kitchen staff. Tonight would be a rare night at Castle Hedingham.

Earl John finished his drink and hiked up the stairs to his wife's bedchamber. He walked in without knocking, staring at his haggardly, pale-skinned Countess.

"You've given me the son you've owed me, Margery," he said, somewhat drunkenly. "You've done your duty."

She scowled back at him. "You have your man-child and I'll none of you. You can top all the maids in your lands and I'll care not!"

He laughed. She would be the perfect Countess. He knew that a wet-nurse had been called for the child. The Countess had no desire to be a mother, and no need to be. He already had the child's caretakers in place. His wife need only be the ornament required by her position.

He left the room, not even glancing at his daughter. Katherine watched him leave through slitted eyes. Some knot inside of her, already formed, had taken on a new hardness. She turned back to her step-mother and pressed the dampened cloth again to her forehead.

-----

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

2006-08-05T10:01:00.000-07:00

PART ONE

"If by abyss we understand a great depth, is not a human heart an abyss? Can't you see that there is in the 'self' a deep so profound as to be hidden even to the person whom it defines?"
Saint Augustine, Expositions on the Psalms

Friday, June 24, 7:05 p.m.

"Detectives are already on the way to your office and your home. I think you should cooperate with them." Detective Manoukian's voice. On my answering machine. While I stood there holding what I shouldn't be holding. Couldn't be holding.

I stared at the postcard and its message, written in my handwriting: Who's there? The Escher painting on the other side showing the pealing head wrapped around an empty space and floating in the air. The way my life was now unraveling around something and someone that held no conscious meaning for me.

I looked at the newspaper article about my wife's suicide. Except that whoever sent it was telling me that it wasn't suicide. That it was murder.

Gertrude Highsmith. Dead. Anne Mackenzie. Dead. Thomas Bendbridge. Dead. Hector Balfour. Dead. Keli Bendbridge. Dead. My ex-wife among four others who formed the world's greatest dysfunctional family. An unseen serial killer now focusing on me.

Mercedes Macintyre Mackenzie. The unraveled private detective. What the hell was going on?

The message machine clicked off. Detective Manoukian of the Maui County Police Department was holding my knife with my fingerprints on it. Stolen from my bungalow two weeks ago. A murder weapon. Yes, I'm sure that the police wanted to talk with me. But I had no time for that. I had to get out of my office before they arrived with their handcuffs and their mechanically locked bars.

A blood-pounding pressure-pulse throbbed throughout my body. My hands shook slightly from the adrenaline screaming in my arteries. I shoved the postcard and the New York Times article into my back pocket. I left the dream journal on the desk. The detectives might muddle over it, but now I understood why it was stolen. An example of my handwriting. Just as Keli's diary had been stolen to copy hers.

I thrust the postal locker key into my front pocket. I quickly stepped through the office door. I didn't bother to lock it. The lights were all on. No sense in pretending. In the hallway I heard the elevator bell ring. Like in the movies. Damn! I opened the stairwell door, eased through it, and closed the door gently. I listened in the stairwell. All quiet. The detectives had no reason to think I would know they were coming. Detective Manoukian must have thought I'd already left. Such a stupid message to leave on my machine. A glitch in your upward mobility, Manoukian.

Thank God I was wearing my sneakers. I silently hurried down the stairs to the parking-floor landing, with an open doorway that led into the parking garage. My office was the only one occupied on the second floor. The first floor housed two graphic design businesses. The parking garage could hold eighteen vehicles. Only six spaces were occupied, including my Jeep, which was parked about forty feet away.

I looked around the corner of the doorway. A cop stood at the top of the exit ramp looking out at the street. S.F.P.D.

I remotely unlocked the Jeep. The parking lights flashed. The cop didn't turn around. I'd long ago disabled that irritating locking/unlocking high-twitter option. I walked casually to the back hatch and opened it gently. The Jeep was positioned pointing toward the elevator. The cop at the exit was to my front-right. If he turned around he would have to look through the back passenger-side window to see me. I stayed to the back left side of the hatch.

I didn't have much time. I could only take essentials. The laptop would have to stay up front. I opened a small interior hatch on the right inside panel and removed the three-dart tranquilizer gun where I had stowed it. I opened the carpet hatch where the spare tire, jack, and iron crowbar were stowed. Next to it was a small carry bag. I opened it and removed a matching 49er windbreaker and ballcap. The windbreaker held a two-inch-thick pack of fives, tens, and twenties totaling $1,000. It wasn't enough for what I had planned but it was a start. I put on the windbreaker and the cap. I put the tranq gun in the right pocket of the windbreaker. I grabbed the Stealth Bowie in its sheath and strapped it to the outside of my right calf. Then I went to grab my Heckler and Koch Mark 23 pistol out of the carry bag.

It wasn't there.

I hadn't removed it. The last time I'd checked it out was about a month ago at a shooting range in San Mateo. I'd searched the house when I discovered the burglary but not my Jeep. I had my Jeep with me that night, so there seemed no point. Whatever. No time to figure that out now. He had my gun. Whoever he was.

I was standing there looking like Rainman when my cell phone rang.

Shit! Time to start permanently leaving it switched to Vibrate.

I had my head down as the cop turned around and started walking toward me. I grabbed the cell and held it to my right ear. The better to keep my face covered on that side.

"Hi, this is Paul." I said it loud enough for the cop to hear. He had his right hand resting on his gun as he walked.

"Hello?" It was Roxie.

"I'm sorry, Mary. I had to work late." The forgive-me-for-disappointing-you husband.

"Mac? Is that you?"

The cop had covered half the distance. "Excuse me, Sir?" he said.

I switched the cell to my left ear, removing the tranq gun with my right hand, keeping it low.

"Mary, just meet me at the Little Zocalo. Okay? That's the Little Zocalo. I need to go now."

"Sir, could you please step out from behind the vehicle?" He had stopped, about five feet from the front-right of the Jeep. A royal blue BMW Z8 roadster was parked immediately to the right of the Jeep. The cop was exposed between the two.

I put down the phone, switching it to Vibrate. I moved to the right and said, "Can I help you?" As I cleared the rear of the Jeep, I looked the cop in the eyes. Young. Mid-twenties. He looked down and saw the tranq gun pointing at him. I fired before he could register what it was.

"Sorry," I said as he dropped to the ground. I put the gun in my jacket pocket and ran to the fallen cop. I removed the dart from his breast. Leave as little evidence behind as possible. Unless bloodwork was done within the hour, they'd never know what hit him. I hooked him under his arms and dragged him to the rear of the Jeep. He was tall and heavy. Well-built. I heaved him into the back of the Jeep and folded in his legs. He'd wake up in a few hours, a little groggy and a bitch of a sting in his chest.

The blue Z8 beeped loudly and I jumped, startled. A young blonde woman, professionally dressed, was walking across the garage toward it. She looked my way and smiled. As she reached the driver door, she happened to glance at the mound in the back of the Jeep. An uncomprehending look crossed her face, like she had seen Joan Rivers without makeup. I aimed for her left thigh and fired. She looked down at her leg and dropped like a boneless chicken. She hit her head hard on the cement. Sorry, honey. You're going to have a helluva migraine. I removed the dart and put her into the back seat of the Jeep to sleep it off. I had only one dart left. Not good. I slipped the tranq gun back into my jacket pocket.

I took her keys and hopped into the Z8 roadster, MSRP $131,500. I'd always wanted to test-drive one.

-----

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

2006-08-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

7:14 p.m.

I pulled out slowly and headed up the exit ramp, just as two detectives emerged from the stairwell doorway. They didn't recognize me, but I knew it wouldn't take them long to find the contents of the Jeep. I drove out onto Front Street, turned right and punched it, heading toward Broadway. I figured I had less than two minutes to find a gap-stopping use for the Z8.

It was about 7:15 p.m., over an hour until dusk, and traffic was heavy. I approached the four-way stop at Front and Broadway. Cars on both sides of Broadway were stopped while a truck turned left in front of me. I didn't slow down. I took the right turn in front of the truck going about forty-five. Some squealing, but the Z8 held the road. The truck honked and others followed suit. I began dodging the slow uphill westbound traffic creating a wave of honking vehicles.

I crossed Battery, ran the red light at Sansome, and moved into oncoming traffic as I approached Montgomery to pass a slow commercial van. I cut back into the fast lane and ran a second red light at Kearny, dodging a Suburu Outback and forcing a Honda Civic to slam on its brakes and slide squealing in a half-circle.

I weaved my way to Columbus Avenue still averaging forty-five and stomped on the brakes in the middle of the intersection of Columbus and Broadway. I angled the Z8 to partially block the four center lanes on both streets. Drivers started shouting and honking and swearing. The smoky smell of exhaust and burning brakes hovered in the air.

I calmly stepped out of the Z8, taking the keys with me. I pulled out the packet of money, removed the rubber band, split the stack in two unequal parts and pocketed the smaller of the two. I stared at a dapper man in a Ford Explorer flipping me off and cursing. I smiled at him as cars gathered around the intersection and with both hands threw the bills of the larger stack high up in the air. About seventy separate bills scattered in the wind southwest down Columbus, filling that part of the intersection with a small and immediately recognizable confetti. I figured the resulting confusion would back up traffic in all directions for several blocks, stalling any cop cars trying to locate me. It wouldn't take them long to know that I was on foot. I was next to Chinatown. Plenty of places there to get lost.

As car doors opened and pedestrians stepped in front of skidding vehicles, I calmly made my way a short distance to Waverly Street. As I walked, I removed the ball cap and casually dropped it on the sidewalk. Everyone around me had eyes only for the intersection. I dropped the keys to the Z8 into a corner mailbox. I removed the 49er jacket, taking the tranquilizer gun and slipping it into my right front pocket. I turned the jacket inside out and used the arms to knot it into a ball. I dropped the jacket into a trash bin and turned left down Waverly, taking one last look at the confusion in the intersection. Nobody was looking my way. So far, so good.

I walked a couple of blocks, keeping my eyes open for cops, zigzagging my way south and west until I found a small side street near Powell and Washington. A cop car was coming up Powell. Probably too soon for him to have a visual I.D. But it's always best to assume the worst. I stepped into a Chinese curio shop, one of those classic cheap-knockoffs-in-your-face tourist stops.

I walked past the electronic knockoffs near the front, past the trinkets, until I found a rack of light jackets. I picked out one that was a nondescript dark-blue. I also picked out a black Nike cap with white logo. I looked around for something else, but couldn't find what I was looking for. I paid for the jacket and cap, putting on the jacket and sticking the cap on my head backwards, after adjusting the plastic band.

I walked out looking for another shop more likely to carry what I needed. After trying a few shops, I found one with magic tricks, costumes, and a stick-on fake black mustache. The quality was low but serviceable. I bought the mustache and took a moment to put it on outside. I checked my watch. 7:35.

I went searching for a cab. I had to walk down to Sutter Street before seeing one with its light on. I got in and told the Russian driver to take me to Golden Gate Park. He asked where in the park. I said the DeYoung Museum. He said okay, but felt it necessary to inform me that the museum was closed. Great. A helpful cabbie. I told him to take me there anyway. I removed the tranq gun from my pants pocket and put it in the jacket pocket. Then I sat back, finally relaxed enough to think. My mind wanted to pull me into speculating who had set me up, but it was more important right now that I get myself into a secure location and changing into someone else. For that I needed Eric's help.

I hoped Roxie understood the message. Just a month ago she and Adrian and I were poking around Golden Gate Park. Roxie wanted to go to the Japanese Tea Gardens. Adrian was dead set against it, calling it a fake for tourists, "a little zocalo." I never figured out exactly how she came up with that description. Zocalo was a Spanish word for a Mexican town square. I suppose it was my fault. I'd once walked in on an argument between them in the office.

Roxie was saying, "TNG." Adrian, "Original." They were going back and forth like that. When I had walked in Roxie turned to me and said, "You settle this, Mac. Which is better, the original Star Trek," with a slight sneer, "or The Next Generation?" with a hopeful batting of the eyes.

I had to be honest. "Neither. The best sci-fi in any form is Babylon 5. The first American science-fiction saga. Five years of story, told like a novel. You have to watch every episode in order to get the full impact, and not even Asimov's Foundation trilogy deserves to be mentioned in the same breath."

They had stared at me like I was an unsophisticated idiot. I shrugged and ended up loaning them the DVDs. They converted.

In Babylon 5, the business district of the space station was called the Zocalo.

In the Japanese Tea Gardens, Roxie had said in an off-hand way that "Little Zocalo" sounded like a code phrase, something spies would use for emergency meetings. I said, Sure, that will be our code phrase. When there's trouble, we just say "Little Zocalo" and meet at the Japanese Tea Gardens.

It never occurred to me that I'd ever use it.

-----

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

2006-08-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

8:22 p.m.

The DeYoung Museum sat across from the Japanese Tea Gardens. In the unlikely event that the cops tracked down this particular cabbie, they'd converge here and I'd probably be able to get a heads up in time to disappear into the park.

The cabbie dropped me off at the museum. I paid him and started walking around the drive to the Gardens. A few people were out. The hazy sun hung low in the sky. The air held a fine suspended mist. I walked across the road to the entrance to the Gardens and passed it. I walked around the corner onto Martin Luther King Drive to the path behind the Gardens. A small bamboo patch grew next to a metal exit gate and after looking around I walked into the sparse growth of skinny bamboo shoots. They provided enough obscurity to relieve myself.

When I finished, I exited the bamboo and looked around. I decided to sit on a nearby bench facing the Strybing Arboretum.

I had only one primary objective: Getting to New York City and making sure my daughter Grace was safe. If someone had killed my ex-wife and I was in his sights, then my daughter could be a target as well. The Bendbridge family didn't fare too well. I didn't want mine to go the same way.

I took out my cell. It had five unanswered calls. I'd been too preoccupied to notice the vibrations. I checked voicemail. The first was Roxie calling back. "What the hell's going on, Mac? I don't get it. Call me." Damn. I had hoped she'd get a message to Eric as well. The second message was Roxie again. "Never mind." She got it. The third call was Eric. "Hey, Mac. Just wondering how's it going. Thought we could hook up sometime. Later." Eric never talked like that. I breathed with some relief. Roxie had talked to him. He was on his way.

The fourth message proved ominous: "Mr. Mackenzie, this is SFPD Lieutenant Ramon Chavez. We missed you at your office. We found the two packages you left for us. Why don't you come to my office and turn yourself in? Or I promise you, I will track you down and fuck you up good. Have a nice day, asshole."

There was no fifth message so I checked the Caller ID menu. It read PRESTO. The code Eric had selected for the buried sensors around my home whenever they were triggered by an intruder. The detectives were at my home. So much for privacy.

I speed-dialed my daughter's cell phone. No legitimate college student left home without one. In Grace's case, it was the only phone she had. She was one of the new crop that wondered why she needed a home phone when she had a cell with her all the time. After two rings her voicemail answered. "Hi. You've reached Grace. Leave a message and I might call you back." Beep.

I hoped she was studying in the library. I knew the cops might end up hearing any message I left. But to hell with it.

"Grace, this is your father. Don't go home. Someone wants to hurt me and I think they want to hurt you." I almost said that they may have killed her mother, but decided against it. "Find a friend to stay with until we talk. Don't go anywhere alone. Always be with someone. I can't tell you where I'm going because I've been set up and the police are looking for me. I'll keep trying to get hold of you. I love you."

I hung up. I'd lied to throw off anyone else who might get the message. I was going to get my butt to Manhattan, find my daughter, and check out my ex-wife's death.

I remembered the postal locker key. Some of the post offices had installed special double-lock boxes for packages that wouldn't fit into a regular post office box. I looked at the key. It had the number 5 on it. Someone had added a plastic tag with a slip of paper inside. The tag read 94062. The zip code for the little town of Woodside. Bendbridge's post office. His killer wanted me to go back there.

I figured I had to oblige. Besides, I had to spend the night somewhere. I was trained for survival in nature, but I figured I needed a temporary base to make some changes in my appearance. Why not try Bendbridge's next-door neighbor, Pamela Johansson, the petit widow with the toy poodle?

At 8:45 dusk had settled onto the park. Traffic was dying down. I got up off the bench and walked around to the entrance of the Japanese Tea Gardens. I saw a couple in shadow walking towards me from the Asian Museum. I sat on the steps leading up to the Tea Gardens entrance.

As they got closer, I saw that they were two guys, white, young and scruffy. One tall and lanky with scraggly blond hair. The other of medium height, wide and stocky. They smiled at me and I smiled back. They turned my way and stopped about ten feet in front of me. Shit. I didn't want to waste the final dart.

The tall one looked around, pulled a toothpick out of his mouth. "Say, bud, got any money?"

I didn't say anything.

"Hey. I asked ya a question. Didn't I ask him a question?" He said it to the stocky one. Great. Not only punks, but unoriginal mouthy punks. Damn. What kind of shit was on me that made me attract these types like flies? I felt like a maggot magnet.

His stocky, pockmarked friend pulled out a switchblade and made a dramatic show of pressing the button. Nothing happened. He frowned and tried again. The second time, it swished open, not too fast. A six-inch blade.

The tall one spoke, grinning. "Let's try it again. Got any money?"

I poofed out my lips and gave him two loud kissy smacks.

He lost the grin. "You're fucked."

The stocky one stepped toward me with the knife. Before I could draw the tranq gun, I heard the sharp sound of a semiautomatic handgun loading in a round.

A voice behind me said, "Wrong!"

-----

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

2006-08-02T10:05:00.000-07:00

8:49 p.m.

Eric stepped out behind me. I didn't take my eyes of the stocky one as he stopped abruptly, still holding the knife. I drew out my tranq gun, even though with Eric behind me there was no real need.

Eric said, "Drop the knife and get flat on your stomach, or lose a kneecap."

The tall one didn't stop to think. He ran like a plucked chicken. The stocky one dropped the knife and waddled after him like a startled duck.

I let out a breath, chuckled, and stood up.

"Glad you could make it."

"Nice mustache," he said. "I am under the impression that you are in some trouble. I thought I would take precautions." He lowered his gun, fitted with a suppressor.

"Where's your car?" I asked.

He motioned me to follow. He had parked on John F. Kennedy Drive past the Asian Museum, a good quarter-mile walk. His car was a Porsche 911 GT2 with a rear spoiler. The exterior was a lapis blue metallic. Not exactly calculated to escape notice.

He drove us toward 19th Avenue, made a right, heading north to begin a circuit of the park. I spent ten minutes sketching out what had happened from the time Keli and I landed in Hawaii to the moment the punks showed up. He didn't interrupt. I turned on the overhead book light and showed him the postcard and the article. When I finished, he opened the glove compartment and pulled out a thin brick of one hundred dollar bills and handed it to me. I fanned through it. Looked to be about $5,000.

"Mac, I believe that your picture will be on the news very soon. If not tonight, then by morning. I can take you to one of two secure locations."

"No. Not yet." I told him about the postal key to the Woodside post office and Pamela Johansson. "Someone wants to direct me. I want to be directed. Maybe even be confronted. And Pamela's is as good a place as any for temporary security."

"What is it that you intend to do? Long term?" he asked.

"My daughter," I said. "He could target her and use her to keep me off balance. I'm going to New York to make sure she's protected. I also have to check out Anne's things. See if there's any reason to think she was murdered."

Eric shook his head.

"You cannot fly. They will have the airports, trains, and bus terminals covered. You should avoid public transportation. That means you will have to drive. That will take a minimum of three days." He looked at me. "I should fly out there tonight for you. I can get there before morning."

I shook my head. "Whoever he is, he's still in the Bay Area. That means Roxie or Adrian may be targets. There's a lot more you can do for me here. I need an old-man makeover. Clothes, face, ID kit, and a car. Whatever you can do to give me maximum flexibility. I can get something going temporarily at Pamela's." The old-man disguise is best. We hate to admit how naturally we look past the old and the infirm in our midst. And rarely do we perceive them as a threat.

He nodded. "I need ten hours. I can meet you wherever you need me." He handed me his cell phone. "Your phone may soon be compromised. You should get rid of it. It can act as a GPS locator and bring the police to you."

I hadn't thought about that. He was right. I had used cell records in the past to track someone's movements. Most people don't realize that every couple miles or so a new cell repeater takes over a call. As you drive down a freeway, your call is handed off to the next repeater/transmitter. And every location and time is recorded.

I turned the cell off and gave it to him. I trusted him to place it where it might be best used to mislead my trackers.

"You better get home before the cops show up," I said. "They're going to be looking at you and Roxie."

"I understand. But I should give you a ride to Woodside."

"No. That'll take at least an hour out of your time. I'll take a cab. You get going on what I need. And tell Roxie I'll call her when I get the chance."

We were driving along Lincoln Way. He pulled over and let me out.

"De oppresso liber," he said quietly.

I nodded and he drove off.

-----

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

2006-08-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

9:25 p.m.

Twenty minutes later I sat in the back of another cab heading south on 280. The cabbie was Egyptian. He did not want to make the forty-mile drive until I handed him two hundred-dollar bills. I assured him that I had another if the meter required it.

I wanted to take the time to think about him. Or her. My hidden manipulator. Everything had changed. That meant everything had to be reviewed. But I didn't have that luxury just yet. I had to think ahead, plan my movements, create blinds for the cops to follow.

I had the cabbie take me past the Woodside post office, past the firehouse, and drop me off at the Woodside public library. I paid him off and tipped him well. I figured I'd better walk from here in case the cabbie was located and my trip here traced. I stepped out of the cab and looked around. If anyone was watching, there were plenty of places to hide. I walked about a quarter mile back to the post office and went inside to check on the locker. I found number 5 and unlocked it. A flat nine-by-twelve padded envelope lay inside. I pulled it out and tore it open. Inside were three items. A trade paperback book, another postal locker key...

And another postcard.

The picture looked like an old engraving of a Roman man's profile in an oval frame. Half-dressed Roman gods surrounded the frame and stood on a raised platform. Latin text was engraved all over the picture. Part of the text around the oval frame rang a bell but I couldn't place it. It read "PVBLIVS OUIDIVS NASO."

I turned over the card. It was addressed to me in my handwriting. The postcard described the engraving as being one found in a 1640 printed edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses translated by one George Sandys. I recognized the quote on the message side of the postcard.

A little more than kin and less than kind.

Hamlet's first words. Great. I'm being placed in the role of Hamlet. The role I thought applied to Hector Balfour. I looked at the picture again. I wondered what the hell Ovid had to do with anything? What the hell did any of this have to do with me?

I looked at the book. Penguin Classics edition of Ovid. The Poems of Exile. I scanned the book. The only thing that did not belong was a yellow Post-It note inside the front cover with a single phrase printed on it.

In the beginning.

A biblical reference? I didn't think so. It appeared someone expected me to discover something in this book. I scanned it a second time and found nothing else. So it must be in the text.

I checked my watch. It was half-past ten. I wondered what Pam would think of my calling on her so late. I began the long, dark walk to her home. There were no streetlights and only an occasional car. The night air was unusually fresh and full of eucalyptus. I felt invigorated so I started jogging. After about fifteen minutes, I found the lane that led to her house. I stopped jogging and slipped behind some bushes. No one was following me. I walked the rest of the way.

Most of the homes still had lights on inside. The houses were far enough from the road that I did not trigger any automatic security lights. Pam's inside lights were still on. The walkway to her front door had lights that automatically snapped on, including the front door light. I rang the doorbell. The toy poodle started yapping. I put on my best smile, hoping for an amiable reception.

She answered the door barefoot, wearing a silk kimono. A cigarette burned in her left hand.

"Yes, who..." She stopped when she saw me. I could hear someone talking on the television inside her home. She did not look at me with either delightful surprise or irritable impatience. I would have been happy with either one. There was no doubt about the nature of the look that she gave me.

Her eyes grew wide and her mouth jerked back in a spasm of unmistakable fear.

Oh, Pamela. Why did you have to watch the evening news?

Before she could yell, I pulled my right hand out of my jacket and, pointing at her torso, fired my last tranquilizing dart.

-----

Chapter 6