Someone far away, getting nearer. "Who's...calling a whore?"

      "...eyelids fluttering. I think...coming around."

      Darkness drifted away. Eyes opened slowly. Found himself spreadeagled on a carpeted floor. Where was the rowboat?

      Pretty face with brown eyes, blond hair, bent over him. "Joey, you OK? Can you sit up?"

      Alison. He was pretty sure of it. Alison never came to the pond, did she?

      He let two strangers pull him gently into a sitting position. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Drank from a paper cup someone handed him.

      He said to Alison, "We're at Crossroads, right?"

      "Yes, Joey. How do you feel?"

      Steel wool scraping inside his skull. "Like shit. What happened?"

      "You fainted. I guess." She looked as if she had more to say, but she glanced at the others in the room and stopped herself.

      A bald man with thick eyeglasses approached Joey. He said, "I'm Doctor Merriman. Mind if I take a look?"

      Joey still felt woozy. "Go right ahead."

      Dr. Merriman shined his penlight into Joey's eyes and muttered, "Good. Just fine."

      Alison said, "Should we take him to a hospital?"

      "Not unless he feels it necessary. Do you want to go to a hospital, Joey?"

      Joey shook his head, making himself slightly dizzy. "No, I'm all right. Let me walk around a little."

      Merriman helped him to his feet. "Alison grabbed you before you hit the floor. You don't seem to have any bruises. I think you'll be fine after you get some fresh air. You don't have blood sugar problems, do you?"

      "Not that I know of."

      "You might want to check it out. If you're feeling fit enough, I'm going back to the seminar."

      "Yeah, OK. Thanks a lot, Doc."

      Bill Hartinger, standing off to one side with an arm around his wife, shook hands with Merriman and said, "Thanks so much, Ken. Glad you were here." Merriman left the office. Two other men, apparently recruited to drag Joey out of the seminar hall, also quietly exited.

      Alison came over and took Joey's arm. "You sure you're all right, Joey?"

      "I'm sure. How long was I out?"

      "About ten minutes."

      Carol Hartinger, her voice rich with sympathy, said, "You gave us all such a turn, Joey!"

      Bill Hartinger nodded in agreement. "You went down like you'd been poleaxed. Good thing Alison has fast reflexes."

      Alison said, "Joey, I think we'd better get you home."

      "And I was just beginning to enjoy myself."

      They led him from the office and into a hallway. Through the walls he could hear the banging of drums, the rattle of tambourines, the clashing of cymbals. His stomach performed an Immelman Loop. He locked his knees, fought back the taste of bile in his mouth.

      Mercifully, the drums stopped.

      Bill Hartinger blinked with concern from behind his glasses. "You want to sit down for a few more minutes?"

      "No. I want to get out of here. The sooner, the better."

      They turned a corner and entered the lobby. The receptionist greeted them with their coats, left behind during the crisis. Carol Hartinger said, "I'm so sorry you took ill tonight, Joey. You didn't see even a fraction of what Crossroads has to offer."

      "I guess that's something I'll just have to live with."

      Carol bent over Joey and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Well, you take care of yourself, Joey, honey. Get plenty of rest. We'll be in touch real soon." She turned to Alison, and her smile took on a certain vulpine cast. "Alison, such a pleasure to meet you. Be good to Joey now, hear?"

      Alison said nothing. Bill Hartinger jumped in with, "Maybe we can do brunch some weekend and attend a Sunday seminar." He forestalled any objections by saying, "We'll leave it open. Joey, Alison, I'm so glad you could come tonight. You're both on the mailing list now, so you'll be kept up to date on all Crossroads activities."

      Finally out of the Hartingers' grasp, Joey and Alison pushed through the front door and out into a drenching rainstorm.

      "Oh, this is just perfect!" said Alison. "Joey, can you make a run for the car?"

      "I'll give it a shot."

      By the time they arrived at the Mazda, both were soaked to the skin. Alison fumbled for her keys, dropped them in a puddle, retrieved them with a curse and finally opened the car doors.

      As she started the engine with one hand and wiped the rain out of her eyes with the other, she said, "Let it never be said that you don't know how to show a girl a good time."

      "What are you complaining about? I'm the one who's going to have pneumonia on top of grand mal epilepsy."

      The windshield wipers worked furiously against the downpour but had little effect. As Alison pulled into traffic, Joey felt as if he were riding inside a mobile aquarium.

      "I'm sorry," Alison said. She fiddled with some knobs on the dash. "I'm putting the defroster on. I'll turn up the heat as soon as the windows clear." She looked over at Joey. "Are you really OK? Don't bullshit me, either."

      "I'm a little shaky, but I think I'll make it. Scout's Honor."

      "Do you think you really have epilepsy?"

      "No. I'm pretty sure I don't."

      "You sure you don't want to go to the emergency room?"

      "Yes. I'm dead certain I don't have health insurance."

      Joey tested his various body parts, checking for any malfunctions. He wiggled his fingers and toes, swivelled his head from side to side, breathed deeply and exhaled loudly. No obvious defects. There was an electric, coppery taste on the back of his tongue, and his head hurt, but he decided that he would live.

      Traffic was light in the city tonight. Alison relaxed her death-grip on the steering wheel. "What happened back there?"

      "I don't know."

      "Well, make a good guess."

      Joey sat up and rubbed his clammy hands over the heater vent. "It was the drums."

      "The Pulse of Life triggered your attack?"

      "It's happened before. Not quite so bad, but certain rhythms make me feel weird. Light-headed and nauseous, like. I've never had any episodes like this until recently."

      "Maybe you ought to have it checked out."

      "Maybe. It's only been ten years since my last physical."

      Joey switched on the radio. The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again" bounced out of the rear speakers. Joey was relieved. Just good old-fashioned rock 'n' roll. None of that weird-ass, seizure-inducing percussion shit.

      They stopped at a signal. Alison said, without looking at him, "You know what was strange, Joey?"

      "What?"

      "When you pitched forward, no one in that entire room noticed, except for me and the Hartingers. They were all completely oblivious."

      "You mean my ill-timed collapse didn't cause a scandal among the Crossroaders?"

      The light turned green, and Alison moved forward. "Nobody dropped a beat. Bill Hartinger motioned to a couple of Robertson's assistants. They picked you up and hustled us out the back. But nobody else made a move to help or even paid much attention. They kept right on clapping their hands and banging on their goddamn tambourines."

      "A very thoughtful bunch." Joey stared out the window at the sullen street people huddled in the entryways of department stores, crawling into refrigerator cartons to escape the cold and wet. "Tell me, was I the only one there who tried to slow dance with the floor?"

      "While we were dragging you out, I spotted a few faces that didn't look quite right. One woman in particular. Her mouth was kind of slack and drooling, and she was making these really gross panting noises."

      "Jesus," said Joey, "did I look like that?"

      "No, you were very discreet. You turned deathly pale, sweated a bit, then dropped like a load of wet laundry."

      "Thank God for small favors."

      Alison pulled up in front of Joey's apartment building, ignoring the fire hydrant she was blocking. She said, "So. Here we are, and it's only nine-fifteen. What are you going to do now?"

      "I'm going to take about nine aspirins, and then I'm going to go to bed."

      "And tomorrow?"

      "We'll see what tomorrow brings."

      "Are you going to do any more snooping into the Crossroads Center?"

      "Probably not. I've got other things to do. Like go to work."

      Alison shivered and hugged herself. "God, those people give me the creeps!"

      "Go home and forget about them. I plan to do the same."

      Alison reached over and gently wiped some of the moisture from his brow. She left her fingers there for a moment, obviously checking for fever. "I'll walk up with you."

      "To put me in my jammies and tuck me in? No thanks, Mom."

      She shot him a look of annoyance. "Just humor me. You're a little bit hot."

      "I promise not to spaz out again before I get to my apartment."

      "Get moving, and no more lip."

      Alison had never visited his digs, and Joey wasn't sure he wanted her to see them now. Dirty underwear had the habit of turning up in inappropriate places, and the garbage should have been taken out much earlier in the week. Still, it helped the throbbing in his skull to know that she wanted to make sure he arrived home safely.

      Having unlocked his front door, Joey decided it would be best not to invite Alison in. He opened the door only partway, turned and said, "Um, I think I can take it from here."

      "You sure?" He caught her trying to peer over his shoulder into the living room.

      "Uh huh." He reached out and patted her clumsily on the shoulder. "Thanks, Alison. You've been a real sport tonight."

      She twirled a finger in her hair, darkened and tangled by the rain. "You get yourself some sleep. I'll phone you tomorrow afternoon."

      "'Night. Say hi to Brad for me."

      He hadn't meant to be snide, but he saw Alison wince. Before he could say anything more, she was on her way down the stairs. He heard her call up to him, her voice full of fatigue, "'Night, Joey."

      In his bathroom, he stripped off his wet clothes and threw them into the tub. He opened a new bottle of Tylenol, swallowed four caplets, then headed for the bedroom. Since he owned neither a bathrobe nor pajamas, he dug out a sweatshirt, another pair of jeans and a pair of heavy socks. These would keep him warm until the wall heater did its stuff.

      Common sense told him he should just call it day, but he was too keyed up to sleep just yet. He considered watching TV, but that held little appeal tonight. The latest issue of Fangoria had arrived that afternoon, so he took the magazine and, after sweeping stray tortilla chips from the sheets, got into bed.

      He tried to read an article on a soon-to-be-released film by Wes Craven, but he had trouble concentrating. There were too many questions that needed to be answered, and he couldn't stop his restless mind from gnawing on them.

      Was Tiffany Wellington dead or alive? What, if anything, did the stripper have to do with the New Age weenies at the Crossroads Center? And perhaps most important, why did he black out when those drums began to play?

      The wind gusted. The window beside the bed, the one that led to the fire escape, rattled.

      Joey turned a page, only half-aware of what he was reading.

      The window rattled again.

      Funny. That window never budged unless it was --

      Unlocked.

      Scrambling out of bed, Joey told himself not to panic. That he couldn't remember opening that window didn't mean anything. It could have been unlocked for weeks. Yessir, the fates really looked out for Joey Spelvin. An open window in one of San Francisco's most crime-ridden neighborhoods goes unnoticed by the local hoodlums. What a stroke of luck!

      He inched over to the window and reached for the lock. He froze when he heard a series of noises outside, barely audible over the howl of the wind and the patter of the rain. A metallic click, a plasticky rattle, then a fairly loud snap.

      Put it all together, and it sounded like what?

      Like someone flipping over a cassette in a portable tape player.

      A huge white hand opened the window from the outside. It reached for Joey, who shrieked and leaped backward, tripping over a stack of slick magazines on the floor. The hand withdrew, and then the Walkman stuck his head and massive shoulders through the opening. Rain trickled down the slick lenses of his mirror shades.

      The Walkman said, "Come in or go out, Joey?" Then he laughed in a chilling, high-pitched giggle. "I guess I'm coming in and you're going out. Hee hee!"

      Joey ran for the living room. He knocked furniture to the floor behind him, hoping to trip his pursuer. Wheezing with exertion, he scrabbled at the deadbolt on the front door.

      Heavy footsteps pounded across the floor. Joey finally wrenched the door open.

      A thin man in biker's leathers waited behind it. Joey had seen him before, talking to Tiffany at The Hot Spot. This time, the biker held a naked switchblade.

      He shook his head and motioned with the knife. "Back inside, friend."

      The Walkman seized Joey under the armpits and lifted him off the floor. The biker came into the apartment and shut the door.

      Joey started to scream, but the Walkman clamped a hand over his mouth. Joey gagged. The hand smelled like spoiled meat.

      "Take him out the back," the biker said. "I'll stay and take a look around."

      "Right." The Walkman turned and headed toward the bedroom.

      Joey squirmed in the giant's arms, fighting him every step of the way. The effort was worthless. The Walkman imperturbably lugged him to the open bedroom window and down the rain-slick fire escape to the limousine that waited below.

      The Walkman opened the car door and boosted Joey into the backseat. Joey landed next to Tiffany Wellington and her manager, Concasseur.

      The Walkman banged the limo door closed. The unseen driver started the engine.

      "Please," said silver-haired, skull-faced Concasseur. "Come for a drive with us, won't you?"