Flashing a reasonable facsimile of a boyish grin, the stranger said, "Pardon me, are you Joseph Spelvin?"

      Joey nodded. "That's right. Can I help you?"

      "I'm Bill Hartinger."

      This was him? This was the Killer Snuff Film King? "Uh, pleased to meet you, Mr. Hartinger. Glad you could stop by." Behind the counter, Joey stood and shook Hartinger's soft, babyish hand.

      "Carol tells me I've won a contest, a drawing or something." Hartinger reflexively patted his sandy blond hair, even though it was too short ever to get mussed.

      "That's right. You've won a gift certificate good for ten free rentals." Joey pulled out a certificate, stolen from Patterson's locked desk, and presented it to Hartinger.

      While Hartinger inspected his prize, Joey loaded his Polaroid One-Step. He centered Hartinger's blandly handsome face in the viewfinder and clicked the shutter. The bulb flashed, and Hartinger, caught unawares, flinched.

      Joey waved the developing print. "For promotional purposes only. You understand."

      Hartinger placed his briefcase on the counter, opened it and slipped the gift certificate inside. "Looks like a pretty good deal. Carol and I will really enjoy this. We're both big movie fans."

      "Oh, yeah? What do you like, in particular?"

      "My wife's a film noir buff. She's also big on the Marx Brothers and Chaplin. I go for Thirties musicals and the nouvelle vague."

      Joey wondered how the hell Hartinger ever managed to wander into Patterson's Picture Palace. "Say, if you don't mind my asking, how'd you hear about this shop? You work in the neighborhood?"

      "Umm, not really. I saw an ad in the paper for your three-for-one sale a while back, so I stopped in to check it out. You've got a good variety of titles here." "I like to think so. Something for every interest. Say, do you like horror films? We've got a great selection of those. Dawn of the Demented, Gangrene, Night of the Swamp Beast, you name it."

      Hartinger's snubbed nose crinkled slightly, but he maintained his affable grin. "I admire some of the work of David Cronenberg, but I can't say I enjoy horror movies much. Neither does my wife. Carol won't even watch Twilight Zone reruns when she's home alone." He laughed in neat, dry hah-hahs.

      Joey said, "Well, you're free to choose any tapes you like with that certificate. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret. Two hot new adult titles came in this afternoon. Down and Dirty and Flashy Trash. I haven't put them on display yet, but they're yours for the asking."

      Hartinger said in a pinched voice, as if something were jabbing him in the rectum, "I'm not interested in those at all."

      Joey wondered if there wasn't a mistake here. This deep-dish dork would have conniptions if he even caught a glimpse of Razor Cut .

      "I suppose our adult titles aren't to everyone's taste." Joey smiled and asked, "You wouldn't be an animation fan, would you?"

      Hartinger brightened. "You bet. Tex Avery. Max Fleischer. Classic Disney. Can't beat the stuff."

      Joey snapped his fingers, as if recalling some vital fact. "You're the guy who rented Cartoon Fun Fest a couple weeks ago, aren't you?"

      "Right! What a great tape! I could watch `One Froggy Evening' twenty times. I never get sick of it."

      Keeping his voice neutral, Joey said, "There was a problem with that tape after you returned it."

      "Oh? Not rewound or something?"

      "Somebody taped over the original programming."

      Hartinger frowned. "I didn't think you could do that with a pre-recorded cassette."

      "All you've got to do is stick a piece of heavy tape over the anti-recording gap. No big deal."

      "I meant, you can't do it accidentally."

      "That's true."

      They looked at each other. Joey kept on smiling.

      "Well," said Hartinger, "I can't imagine Carol or me taping over a rented cassette."

      Joey said nothing.

      Now it was Hartinger's turn to snap his fingers. "You know, I think Carol lent that tape to her sister one afternoon. Loretta has an eight-year-old who's a real brat. I wouldn't put anything past Nathan. Maybe he fiddled with the tape." "That must be what happened."

      Hartinger brought out his wallet and selected a credit card. "Look, I'm sorry if the tape was ruined. Do I owe you anything for damages or replacement?"

      "Hey, don't sweat it. We've, uh, got insurance to cover that sort of thing. Besides, this is your lucky day, right? I wouldn't want anything to spoil it."

      "Nothing spoils my day anymore," Hartinger said, uttering the words as if they were a slogan.

      "That's great. But you wouldn't say that if you worked here."

      With a straight face, Hartinger said, "I certainly would. I've learned how to eliminate negative influences from my life."

      Joey cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Really?"

      "Yes. In fact, my winning your contest is a good example of my newfound success. Things are turning around for me." Hartinger extracted a business card from his wallet. He gave it to Joey. The card read:

It was a very professional printing job, the card cut from quality stock. The raised gold type lent a sophisticated touch.

      Joey said, "Sorry, but I've never heard of the place."

      "Not many people have. Yet. But it's going to be big, Joey. Bigger than rolfing, bigger than Transactional Analysis, bigger than est. It's an incredible program. You seem to have your life in pretty good shape, but I do think you could benefit from Crossroads. It's perfect for a small businessman such as yourself."

      "I don't own the place. I'm just the assistant manager." Joey attempted to return the card.

      Hartinger motioned for him to keep it. "All the more reason to give Crossroads a try. You're an ambitious type of guy, right? There's no better way to channel your ambition. It's worked wonders for Carol and me. Two weeks after we signed up, Carol got her partnership at the law firm."

      Slipping the card into his shirt pocket, Joey said, "I don't know. I'm not real keen on this type of thing." "Look, you've done me a good turn by choosing me as a contest winner. Let me return the favor. We go to the Center on Thursday nights. Why don't you be our guest this week? It won't cost you a thing, and you don't have to join if you don't want to. What do you say?"

      Joey thought it over. He still did not have the answers he wanted. He said, "Can I bring a date?"

Alison spooned the last of the cashew chicken onto her rice. "I don't know, Joey. I'm having serious misgivings about this."

      Joey swirled a pot sticker in a puddle of soy sauce and pepper oil. "What's there to have misgivings about?" He popped the tidbit into his mouth with a flick of his chopsticks.

      "We've been invited out for the evening by the owner of a snuff film, and you don't understand why I'm having second thoughts?"

      "This Hartinger geek is about as threatening as Christopher Robin. Besides, I saw Tiffany Wellington living, breathing and writhing on Saturday night."

      "And you're certain it was really her?"

      "No question in my mind."

      Alison shook her head. "I can't believe that film was a fake. It was so real. How about -- how about if Tiffany had a twin sister?"

      "No." Joey sipped at the dregs of his ice water to cool his mouth.

      "Come on. It's a possibility."

      "No, it's not, Alison. I had identical twin brothers, remember? Any idiot could have told them apart."

      "You lived with them, knew them intimately. You know Tiffany Wellington only from a film and a performance in a smoky strip joint."

      Joey set his mouth in a thin, stubborn line. "She does not have a twin. I know what I'm talking about."

      "Then how do you explain Razor Cut?"

      "I can't. That's why we're going to the Crossroads Center tonight."

      Their waiter arrived with the check and inquired whether everything was to their satisfaction. Convinced that it was, the waiter cleared the dishes and retreated to the kitchen.

      "I did some checking around," Joey said, snagging one of the fortune cookies that came with the bill. "The Crossroads Center advertises in both the East Bay Express and the Bay Guardian. I called their advertising departments and asked if they'd ever had any complaints about the place. They wouldn't admit to any. The Center also runs a half-page display each month in a classified advertising give-away, New Age Opportunities, but that paper wouldn't answer any questions whatsoever.

      "I called the number on the card Hartinger gave me and reached only an answering machine. So far, the whole thing looks flaky but basically harmless. Were you able to find out anything at work?"

      "Not really. Arthur in Computer Graphics is concentrating on deep-tissue massage these days and hasn't paid much attention to other doctrines. Felice in Data Processing has sworn off New Age workshops --"

      Joey interrupted, "Is she the one who flunked the firewalking seminar?"

      Alison laughed. "Uh huh. Alex the key grip has heard of Crossroads and says it's a cross between Dale Carnegie and Werner Erhardt, with a dash of L. Ron Hubbard thrown in for good measure."

      "Sounds like my kind of scene."

      "So, as you discovered for yourself, Crossroads isn't well-known, but neither does it seem to have a bad rep."

      Joey patted Alison's hand. "Now doesn't that put your mind at ease? We'll just go there tonight, see what there is to be seen, chat up the Hartingers and try to figure out where they're coming from. A fun night out in the big city."

      Alison sighed and double-checked the tab. "Just don't provoke any kind of trouble, OK? I'm not in the mood for it. Your share of the bill comes to nine-fifty, including tip."

      Joey made a show of digging through his pockets. "Uh, gee, Alison, I'm kind of strapped today."

      Gathering up her purse, Alison stood and threw a twenty on the table. "Damn it, Joey, I knew you were going to stiff me on this. When am I ever going to learn?"

      Joey managed to look offended. "Hey, remember who's providing the entertainment this evening.

"For Pete's sake, Joey, we've been circling the block for fifteen minutes. We're going to be late."

      "Hartinger said the seminar doesn't start until eight. We've got plenty of time."

      "Forget it. I'm going back to the lot."

      "Only chumps pay to park, Alison. We'll find a space. Besides, have you got five bucks to spare?"

      "No. Because I wound up paying for your meal."

      "Then we don't have any choice, do we?"

      Alison cursed and swung the Mazda's wheel to make a left turn. Joey kept an eye peeled for a vacancy at the curb.

      "Did you have any trouble getting out of the house tonight?"

      "What do you mean? I go out of the house whenever I want."

      "Did you have to make up some story for Brad?"

      "No, I didn't."

      "Did he ask where you were going tonight?"

      Alison gave the steering wheel a solid punch and screamed, "Why isn't there any parking in this goddamn town?"

      A Chevy pulled out into traffic. Joey pointed to the slot. "There. Hurry, before someone else nabs it."

      Alison began the arduous process of parallel parking, muttering and frantically checking her mirrors.

      Joey said, "You didn't answer my question. Did Bradley ask where you were going tonight?"

      "Damn! I didn't cut sharp enough." Alison threw the car out of reverse and pulled up for another attempt. "No, he didn't. I haven't seen him since he left for school this morning."

      "Did you say anything at all to him about going out tonight?"

      The car finally at the proper angle, Alison managed to squeeze into the space, only lightly tapping the bumper of the vehicle behind her. "Not that it's any of your business, but I don't see much of Brad these days."

      "Really?"

      "He's pretty busy with school and all."

      "I thought it got easier after the first year." "Well, the second is no piece of cake, either. Lock up, will you?"

      They got out of the car. Joey said, "Are you and Bradley on the outs or something?"

      "No!" Alison slammed the door. "Everything is fine. We're both very busy. Brad has classes and law review and law clinic and study groups. And I've got my job and...and a lot of other stuff."

      "I see."

      The Crossroads Center seemed to be a refurbished auto dealership, a wide but lowslung edifice. Someone not looking for it would not have known what it was. The only advertisement was a small bronze plaque mounted above the doorway: CROSSROADS CENTER. MEMBERS AND GUESTS ONLY. Opaqued plate glass windows ran the perimeter of the Center but revealed none of the activity inside.

      Joey yanked on the front door and found it locked. He looked up and grinned at the video camera mounted atop the jamb. "Hi, there. I'm Joey Spelvin. This is Alison Davis. We're guests of Bill and Carol Hartinger."

      The lock buzzed. Joey held the door for Alison and followed her into the Crossroads Center for Personality Enhancement.

      An attractive young woman with hair moussed half to death greeted them from behind an orderly desk. She held out a hand to each of them in turn and smiled warmly. "Welcome to Crossroads, Mr. Spelvin, Ms. Davis. Bill and Carol told me to expect you."

      Joey took a look around. The reception area was tastefully decorated in golds and browns. It seemed like any other respectable corporate office in any of San Francisco's highrises. The decor gave no clue that this building had once been filled with Subarus.

      The receptionist scribbled with a squeaky felt-tipped pen. She handed Alison two adhesive-backed badges with their names written beneath a printed HELLO, MY NAME IS. "There you go. The Hartingers are in the auditorium. Just follow the hallway to the double glass doors. Have a good evening now!"

      "You, too." Joey peeled his name tag and stuck the thing on his shirt. He said to Alison, "I've always wanted to fill one of these out with `None of your damn business.'"

      Fifty or sixty people milled in the auditorium, a converted auto showroom now filled with rows of metal folding chairs facing a set of risers and a podium. Joey spotted Bill Hartinger and a woman he presumed to be Mrs. Hartinger. A tall and athletic, with pleasant but slightly equine features, she looked a year or two older than her husband and a whole lot smarter.

      Hartinger was biting into a cracker slathered with brie when he saw them coming. He tried to express his greetings through a mouthful of crumbs. Carol Hartinger came to his rescue, exclaiming, "Joey, what a pleasure to meet you! Bill's told me so much about you." She shook his hand and turned. "And you must be Alice!"

      Alison pointed at her tag. "Alison. Hi, how are you?"

      Hartinger, his mouth finally cleared, pumped Joey's hand vigorously and said, "I'm glad you two could make it, Joey. Really am. The seminar's about to begin, but let me introduce you around, OK?"

      "Sounds swell, Bill."

      Hartinger grabbed Joey under the arm and propelled him toward another couple, a short bearded man and a large-hipped woman with spiky black hair. The woman's eyes widened as they approached. The man ignored Joey completely and locked his gaze on Alison.

      Hartinger, all smiles and good cheer, said, "Jack, Helene, I want you to meet two special friends, Joey Spelvin and Alison Davis. Joey, Alison, this is Jack Pierson and his wife, Helene Tremayne. Jack's a copywriter for Bushey, Baggot and Green, and Helene's a small businessperson."

      "Nice to meet you," Helene conceded, gingerly shaking Joey's hand.

      "A real pleasure," Jack said to Alison. He grinned wolfishly through his scruffy beard.

      "What kind of small businessperson are you, Helene?" said Joey.

      "I'm in toddler togs." Seeing his blank look, she explained, "Children's clothes. I organize gatherings at clients' homes, sort of like an upscale Tupperware party. I encourage everyone to bring their children, and we dress them up in clothes I'v designed. Then we put on a fashion show. You wouldn't believe how much fun we have. The kids love it, the parents love it, and I sell about five hundred dollars' worth of clothes a night. It's simply phenomenal. The name of the business is Just Kidding Around."

      "I came up with that," Jack said.

      Carl Hartinger said, "Jack's quite a writer. He edits most of the Crossroads Center publications."

      "At Bee, Bee and Gee, I specialize in oat bran commercials."

      Eager to keep the conversational ball rolling, Bill Hartinger turned to Alison and said, "I hear you work for Light Phantastic."

      "That's right. I do a lot of model work for them."

      "You've certainly got the figure for it," Jack Pierson said.

      "I don't think that's what she means, honey," Helene Tremayne said, frost icing the final word.

      Before this repartee could continue, someone blew into a microphone and announced, "OK, folks, if you'll take your seats, we can begin this evening's seminar."

      Carol Hartinger tugged at Alison, saying, "Why don't we try to get a good seat down front?" Bill Hartinger said goodbye to Jack and Helene, who seemed on the verge of an extensive bout of bickering. Joey tagged along in the Hartingers' wake, eager to find out just why they were all there.

      As the seminar participants chose their seats, a gray-haired man resembling an aging game show host puttered around with the microphone, tossing it from hand to hand, as if warming up to something. The P.A. system whined with feedback like a beaten dog.

      "OK," the emcee said as soon as his audience was seated and attentive, "most of you know me, but we've got a few guests with us tonight. My name is Riggs Robertson and I'm your Crossroads Seminar Leader."

      In perfect unison, everyone in the room except Alison and Joey shouted, "Hi there, Riggs!"

      Robertson grinned in return and shouted, "Hi there, horses!"

      Alison looked at Joey. "Horses?"

      Carol Hartinger clapped her hands and stamped her Guccis on the cement floor. Bill Hartinger jammed both pinkies in his mouth and whistled.

      "Sounds like there's a lot of energy out there tonight," said Robertson. "Let's get things rolling. Who's been ridden to success this week?"

      Joey muttered, "Just what the hell is going on here?"

      Someone at the back of the hall raised a hand and shouted, "I was ridden this week, Riggs!"

      "All right!" Robertson jumped down from the risers. Trailing the microphone cord, he ran up the aisle until he located the speaker, a young man with short blond hair and a cheesy mustache.

      Robertson held out the mike and said, "OK, Bob, tell everyone what happened this week."

      Now the center of attention, Bob suddenly turned coy. "Well, you know, Riggs, it wasn't that big a deal..."

      "Come on, Bob. Don't block on us now. Tell us everything."

      Bob cleared his throat. "Well, I finally asked out Carolyn Nesbitt, the girl who sits in front of me in the accounting department."

      Applause. "Way to go!" "All right, Bob!"

      Bob let the tumult continue a few seconds before admitting, "She turn me down, though. Said she had to attend a weekend workshop on date rape."

      Groans. "Oh, Bob!" "What a shame!"

      Robertson held up a ring-studded hand. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute, horses! Let Bob finish. Bob, you said you'd been ridden to success this week. Does that mean you're pleased with this experience? Is that what I hear you saying?"

      "Uh, right, Riggs. I figure I learned a lot. I've been wanting to ask Carolyn out for six months. Now I've finally done it. I don't have to stew about it anymore. I can move on to bigger challenges. I've learned that I don't have to be afraid. Carolyn rejected me, but I survived it."

      The crowd went wild.

      Robertson took the mike away from Bob and said quietly and sincerely, "Thank you, Bob. Thank you for sharing that with us." After an appropriate pause, just enough to let the magnitude of Bob's accomplishment to sink in, the seminar leader let out with a whoop and hollered, "OK, who else has been ridden to success this week?"

      This time at least ten people responded. Robertson interviewed a black woman who revealed that she had sold three condominiums that week, properties she thought she'd never be able to foist on the public. Robertson moved on to a lawyer who won an acquittal for a leading cocaine kingpin. A podiatrist testified to winning five grand in the state lottery.

      Robertson worked his way to the front of the auditorium. He soon stood just a few feet away from Joey and Alison. Having finished with a recovering alcoholic celebrating fifteen days of sobriety, Robertson glanced at his Rolex and said, "Time for one last testimonial. Quick now! Who's been ridden to success?"

      Bill Hartinger shot his arm into the arm, a third grader with the correct answer to the math problem. Robertson spied him and scurried over, taking care not to trip on his own microphone cord.

      "OK! What happened to you this week, Bill?"

      Bending to the mike and pushing up his glasses to keep them from sliding to the floor, Hartinger said, "Riggs, something very exciting happened. I met two wonderful people, people who are experiencing Crossroads for the very first time. They're here with me tonight."

      "All right! All right!" Robertson crowed. He grabbed Joey by the arm and yanked him to his feet. He started to do the same to Alison, but she stood on her own initiative to avoid being manhandled.

      Joey found a microphone hovering beneath his nose as Robertson said, "OK! Your name's Joey Spelvin, right?"

      "Uh, yeah."

      "Speak up now! The folks in the back can't hear you."

      "Yes, my name is Joey Spelvin."

      "And this is your first visit to Crossroads?"

      "You bet."

      "Great! And what are your impressions so far?"

      "It's, uh, real...interesting." Robertson laughed, braying like a mule just before it kicks your teeth out. "You can say that again!" He didn't give Joey the opportunity but turned his attention to Alison.

      "And your name is?"

      "Alison Davis."

      "Welcome to Crossroads, Alison. Before the night is over, we're going to turn your life around. How about that, huh?"

      "I can't wait."

      Robertson dashed up onto the risers. He yelled, "OK, horses, let's show Joey and Alison what Crossroads is all about!"

      Half a hundred people shouted "OK!" at the tops of their lungs.

      Mopping his brow with a white handkerchief, Robertson said, "I think, I think it's time to feel the Pulse of Life. Don't you think so too, horses?"

      "Yes!" screamed the horses.

      "Jerry! Herb!" Robertson spoke to unseen helpers who soon appeared, lugging cardboard boxes whose contents rattled and clanged with each step.

      Jerry and Herb opened their boxes and began distributing percussion equipment: cymbals, tambourines, maracas, bongos and triangles. Every person in the audience received an instrument to play. Joey felt as if he had stepped through the web of time, back to sixth grade Music Appreciation class. Onstage, Robertson had his own musical instrument, a monster drum two-thirds his own height. He rubbed his palms across the drumhead, waiting for Jerry and Herb to finish their chore.

      "I'll set the beat," he said. "You horses join in as you please. Don't worry about upsetting the rhythm. Open yourself to the infinite and let the will of the elementals take you over." Robertson took a deep breath, held it, looked toward the ceiling and then said in a stage-whisper, "Feel the Pulse of Life and be ridden!"

      He tapped the drum with a fingertip, and the instrument boomed a rich, mellow tone. He struck it again with the heel of his hand. Slowly, Robertson increased the tempo, producing a weird, oddly-syncopated pattern of sound..lh 15

      It took Joey only ten seconds to realize that Riggs Robertson was pounding out the same rhythm to which Tiffany Wellington had performed on Saturday night. The same beat that throbbed through his own nightmares.

      As the horses joined in, shaking their maracas or striking their wood blocks, Joey wrestled with a panic that bloomed in his intestines. What the hell was wrong with him? It was only music, for Christ's sake.

      "Joey? You OK?" It was Alison, holding a triangle and half-heartedly ringing it. "Fine. No problem."

      The drumming swelled. The hair on the nape of Joey's neck prickled, and an electric coldness ran through his toes and up his spine. He dropped his tambourine but did not move to pick it up.

      Hartinger and his wife pounded out the beat on their bongos, beatific grins on their whitebread faces. A jowly black man holding a cowbell swayed from side to side, his eyes closed in rapture. A pair of fresh-faced coeds stared at Robertson with something close to adoration.

      Joey's stomach squeezed in on itself. He could scarcely breathe, and his vision blurred. He felt the urgent to escape, to run out into the night until the thunder of traffic drowned out the infernal pulse.

      One of Robertson's assistants stepped in front of Joey and poured a glass of cold liquid on his head. Joey yelped and his assailant ran away.

      He was dimly aware if Alison's hand on his arm. "Joey, let's get out of here."

      He turned to look at her, but the words caught in his throat. It wasn't Alison sitting next to him anymore. It was his older brother Jeff, Jeff who had been dead for ten years.

      Joey stood up and tried to scream, but nothing came out. His eyes rolled into his head, his knees buckled and he pitched through darkness to the concrete floor.