Prologue
HE SAW THE man clearly: tall, with dark clothes, a
stark figure against the misty gray sky. He was walking into
the big granite building, ugly and flat-looking, with scores
of windows that didn’t look out over much except if you
were up high. Then, suddenly, he was behind the man, just
over his shoulder, keeping pace with him, watching him
take the elevator to the nineteenth floor. He was nearly
beside him as he walked down the long corridor and opened
the door to a large office. A smiling receptionist greeted
him, laughing at something he said. He watched the man
greet two other people, a young man and a young woman,
both well dressed, both obviously subordinate to him. He
went into a large office with the man, saw a United States
flag, a huge desk with its computer on top, the built-in
bookshelves behind him, the windows beside him. He
punched up the computer. Then, he was right behind
the man; he could have reached out and helped him put on
the long black robe. He watched him fasten the two clips
closed. The man opened a door and walked into a big room,
the look on his face somber, becoming cold, all the earlier
humor wiped clean. There was a buzz. It stopped abruptly
1
when he came into the room. Then the place went deathly
silent.
Suddenly the room began to spin, faces blurred into one
another, the very air of the room turned dark and darker
still, and then the great main doors burst open and three
men slammed into the room. They were carrying guns,
assault guns like Russian AK47s. They were shooting, people
were screaming, blood was spewing everywhere. He
saw the man’s face tighten with horror and fury. He saw the
man suddenly leap over the railing that had separated him
from the rest of that roomful of people, his black robe
swirling. His leg was up, he was turning, striking out, his
motion so fast it was hard to see it clearly. Someone
screamed loudly.
He was right behind the man now, heard him breathe,
could feel the controlled rage in him, the vicious tension
and determination, and wondered.
Suddenly, the man whirled about again, turning this time
to face him. He stared at himself, looked deeply into the
eyes of a man who had just killed and would kill again. He
felt the spit pool in his mouth, the coiled muscles, and felt
his arm fly out, striking a man’s throat.
He jerked up, flailing at the single sheet that was wound
tightly around him like a mummy’s shroud, a yell dying on
his lips. He was soaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his
head. His heart was pounding so fast and hard he thought
he’d explode. Again, he thought, that bloody dream yet
again. He didn’t think he could stand it.
An hour later, he let himself out of his house, carefully
locking the door behind him. He was on the way to his car
when a man jumped out of the bushes and blinded him with
a good half dozen photo flashes. It was too much.
He grabbed the photographer, hauled him up by his shirtfront,
and yelled right in his face, “You’ve gone over the
line, you little bastard.” He grabbed his camera, pulled the
film out, and threw him aside. He tossed the camera to
the man, who was lying on his back, gaping at him.
“You can’t do that!”
“I just did. Get off my property.”
The man scrambled to his feet, holding his camera to his
chest. “I’ll sue you! The public has a right to know!”
He wanted to beat the guy senseless. The urge was so
strong he was shaking with it. It was then he knew he had to
leave. Otherwise it might not stop before he went nuts and
really hurt one of the jerks. Or he simply just went nuts.
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