The day had been profitable, though. Thanks to Cal's impressive collection of periodicals, newspapers and microform, Alison now knew more than she ever wanted to know about the Crossroads Center.

      During a leisurely morning walk around campus, Alison had spotted Crossroads flyers tacked and taped to various bulletin boards and light poles. Most were partially hidden by other student-related notices, indicating that the Crossroaders did the bulk of their recruiting early in the semester.

      In terms of design and production, the Crossroads flyers were many cuts above the rest, having been professionally typeset and using four-color photography. They featured happy, fresh-faced, multi-ethnic young people. The copy extolled the virtues of the Crossroads experience and urged everyone to "Be Ridden To Success!".

      By striking up casual conversations in the library and at the Student Union game room, Alison learned that most people on campus had never heard of Crossroads. She did find, however, one sophomore woman who had attended a seminar with a former boyfriend.

      "Oh, yeah," the woman said, flipping another quarter into a pinball machine, "they're pretty creepy, like if the Moonies started shopping at Sharper Image."

      If Claude Baribeau's guess that Concasseur had not left Haiti prior to 1985 was correct, then the Crossroads organization had existed well before the bokor's arrival in the United States. From what Alison could piece together, in late 1984 something called the Crossroads Fellowship had been dreamed up by Walnut Creek real estate developer Tony Slocum. Formerly the child star of the Sixties sit-com "Stitch in Time," Slocum claimed to have kicked a drug habit and adjusted to life as a has-been by putting his destiny in the hands of a higher order of beings. He communicated with these mysterious, amorphous beings through music, meditation and rock crystals.

      Thanks to a keen public relations sense, Slocum wangled air-time on local morning television and radio talk shows. He began advertising motivational and inspirational booklets, audiocassettes and videotapes in the classified sections of various New Age and self-help publications. Within six months, he had gathered around him a loyal cadre of one hundred believers, the so-called Crossroads Fellowship.

      Because Slocum seemed harmless, sincere and not overly greedy, he quickly became a favorite interview subject of feature writers all over the Bay Area. The San Francisco Chronicle, the San Francisco Examiner and the Oakland Tribune all ran stories about him. "Entertainment Tonight" featured him on their "Where Are They Now?" segment. When ABC aired the "Stitch in Time Reunion Special," it copped an impressive Neilsen share and brought even more attention to Tony Slocum and his nutty-but-trendy beliefs.

      It seemed like Slocum had a good thing going for a while, but by the end of 1986 the Crossroads Fellowship had undergone some drastic changes. Until that point, almost anyone was welcome to join. Suddenly, however, Slocum actively began to recruit young urban professionals -- or people who fancied themselves young urban professionals. Fewer housewives, plumbers and junior high school teachers entered the ranks, while more stockbrokers, lawyers and advertising account executives flocked to the Crossroads meetings.

      On June 20, 1987, the new Crossroads Center for Personality Enhancement was formally opened in San Francisco. On August 5, Tony Slocum and his wife, Anne, disappeared while vacationing on Cape Hatteras. They presumably perished in a sailing accident, but their bodies were never found. Their abandoned boat was recovered by the Coast Guard, but the vessel gave no clue as to what might have happened to the couple.

      Crossroads somehow continued without Slocum. The "Fellowship" business was summarily scrapped, and the center made no bones about being a for-profit venture. Gradually, the organization had stepped out of the media limelight, maintaining a lower profile while still expanding its membership roster, relying increasingly on word-of-mouth. Alison had found little mention of Crossroads in the media during the last year and a half.

      Packing up her books and photocopies, Alison made a mental note to tell Joey and Claude what she had also learned about Riggs Robertson, the master of ceremonies at the Crossroads Seminar. More or less on a whim, she had picked up "The Great TV Game Show Guide" and looked for Robertson in the index. Sure enough, there he was, listed as the host for a half-dozen shows.

      What surprised her, though, was that the index also listed Riggs' identical twin brother, Randy.

      Apparently, Riggs and Randy were the youngest siblings of a large Los Angeles show-biz family. For most of their careers in broadcasting, the Robertson brothers had worked separately, Riggs concentrating on television, Randy doing his thing as an AM radio jock. But from 1985 through 1987, they teamed up as co-hosts for "Double or Nothing," a syndicated game show seen in 150 markets nationwide.

      Alison's curiosity was sufficiently piqued for her to go back to the newspaper room and search for any reports about either of the Robertsons. She hit the jackpot with a front-page story dated January 30, 1989.

      After the cancellation of "Double or Nothing," the brothers moved to the San Francisco Bay Area. Randy gave up television to do traffic reports for KQOV-FM in Marin, and Riggs earned his living by doing commercial voice-overs, commuting south two or three times a month.

      During the early morning hours of January 30, Randy Robertson shot and killed his ten-year-old son Aaron and his six-year-old daughter Camille while they slept in their beds. He then beat his wife Julie to death with Aaron's Louisville Slugger.

      A few hours later, Randy arrived at his brother's house. Through a window, he fired six shots into the bedroom where Riggs slept alone. Riggs was hit twice, once in the arm, once in the abdomen. He remained in critical condition for the next three weeks.

      Randy returned to his car, locked himself in and fired a .38 caliber bullet through the roof of his mouth and into his brain. Police found the bloody mess about fifteen minutes later.

      No motive for the murder spree was ever determined. Randy Robertson left a suicide note of sorts, but its meaning eluded the investigating Homicide team. On a napkin from Burger King, left on the dash of his car, Randy had scrawled in pencil, GO OUT!

      Alison wasn't sure what the story meant, either. But she suspected it might have something to do with Joey. And if it did, then it did not bode well.

      On the way home, she wished that everything she needed to know could have been found at the library. Unfortunately, some information could only be obtained through interviews with disagreeable sources.

      She reached her apartment with only enough time for a quick shower and a change of clothes. Before heading for the bathroom, she cursorily checked her answering machine. The little green light was not flashing, so apparently no one had left any messages.

      As Alison finished drying her hair, someone knocked on the front door. She checked herself in the mirror and saw that she would pass muster. Pushing Ming away from the door, she put an eye to the peephole. Doug Meisner waited outside. Alison sighed and let him in.

      "Hi, Doug. Let me get my purse, and we can be on our way. Don't let the cat out."

      Doug scootched down to pat Ming. The Siamese backed away, hackles raised and tail bushed out like a bottle brush. Doug wisely kept his hands to himself.

      If one was in an uncharitable frame of mind, one might observe that Doug Meisner looked more than a little like that perennial cover-boy, Alfred E. Neuman. His ears didn't jut out quite as far as those of the cartoon character, and all his teeth were in place. But the resemblance was there, nevertheless, down to the carrot-red hair and the goofy freckles.

      He said to Alison, "Is Caffe' Venezia OK?"

      "Sounds great."

      Actually, she would have preferred something a little less elaborate, but she didn't feel like arguing about it. When Alison had first called Doug to suggest they get together, she hoped they could simply meet over coffee. Meisner, however, was hell-bent on turning this into a romantic assignation.

      At the restaurant, they endured a thirty-minute wait, longer than was strictly necessary because Doug refused to share a table with another couple. As she sat on an uncomfortable bench, making small talk while others were shown to their seats, Alison salivated at the rich aromas of fresh bread, tomatoes and garlic. She'd had nothing to eat since breakfast, and now she was famished.

      Doug surveyed the diners and pointed out a couple near the window. "Hey, there's Tracey Sousa with Dave Di Fillipo. My, my, they look chummy. And I thought Tracey was only into women these days."

      Good old Doug Meisner. He was, without a doubt, the worst gossip Alison knew. Not exactly an endearing trait, but it sometimes proved useful.

      They finally got a table, and Alison started devouring the bread the waiter brought. Lighting a cigarette for each of them, Doug said, "You know, Alison, I'm so glad we finally got this chance to get to know each other. When you're in law school, you get tired of socializing with students all the time. It's a real pleasure to talk to someone with different interests."

      "I know actually what you mean, Doug."

      She and Doug had met a year ago, at a party Brad threw at the Euclid Street apartment. A member of Brad's law school class, Doug distinguished himself that evening by shamelessly hitting on Alison at every available opportunity. Alison made it quite clear that his attentions were not appreciated, but that had not deterred him in the least.

      They ordered their food, capellini for Doug, fettucine alfredo for Alison. After a half-hearted inquiry into what Alison's job at Light Phantastic entailed, Doug started dishing the dirt in earnest, recounting the latest law school love affairs, political in-fighting and drug dependencies. That Alison could not know half the people he mentioned did not seem to concern him.

      By the time the entrees arrived, Alison was ready to get down to the real reason for this dinner. Twirling a forkful of pasta, she said, "So, Doug, what do you hear about Brad Taylor these days?"

      Doug eyed her warily. He clearly did not want to discuss Alison's former boyfriend. "Oh, nothing. Nothing much."

      "Come on, Doug. We both know you can do better than that."

      "You're not still seeing him, are you?"

      "It's all over between Brad and me. I swear."

      Doug didn't exactly rub his hands together, but Alison could plainly read the satisfaction this admission brought him.

      "Sometimes I worry about Bradley," Doug said, shaking his head and not looking the least sympathetic. "That boy's walking a thin line."

      "How so?"

      "Well, if you really want to know, he's missed eighty percent of his classes this semester. I never see him studying in the library anymore. And from what I hear, his editors at the journal are ready to skin him alive for blowing them off at the last minute. If Brad doesn't get his act together soon, he's very likely to flunk out."

      She had suspected this, but anger and humiliation still curdled her stomach. So many lies. Sorry, Allie, I've got a study group tonight. Or I'll be at the library till midnight. Don't wait up.

      She watched Doug Meisner as he chewed a wad of angel hair pasta. He was enjoying this. She wanted to grab him by the collar and rub his face into his plate of food.

      But this interview wasn't just about her wrecked love life. She had to remember that other, more important, things were at stake.

      "Who's the woman he's been seeing?" she said.

      Doug must have caught the dangerous edge in her voice, because he swallowed hastily and tried to back-pedal out of this conversational topic. "Well, gee, Alison, maybe you --"

      "Come on, Meisner, you cheap little tattle-tale. Who's the goddamn woman?"

      The self-satisfied smirk disappeared. "Well, there've been two of them, actually," he said, voice lowered. "Until about a week ago, he was seeing Beth Akins, who's a first-year. But recently I saw him with another woman. She's not a student. A little older than Brad, I think. Attractive, very business-like. I'm not sure, but I thought I saw a wedding ring on her finger."

      Alison pushed her plate of unfinished fettucine away. The sight of it was making her ill. "Her name's Carol Hartinger."

      "Oh," said Doug Meisner, actually looking ashamed of himself. "Then you know her."

      "Oh, yeah," Alison said. "I know her."