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Title: Life Blood
Author: Thomas Hoover

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Language: English

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LIFE BLOOD
It lies hidden deep in the
mist-shrouded rain forest of
Central America.

A place where a brilliant
doctor fulfills dreams for
some – and creates chilling
nightmares for others.

Now, filmmaker Morgan
James is about to journey
straight into the heart of a
dark conspiracy.

Where a bizarre human
experiment comes at a terrible price, and where she may be the next to pay
with her . . . Life Blood

BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER

Nonfiction
Zen Culture
The Zen Experience

Fiction
The Moghul
Caribbee
Wall Street Samurai
(The Samurai Strategy)
Project Daedalus
Project Cyclops
Life Blood
Syndrome

All free as e-books at
www.thomashoover.info

Thomas Hoover

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2000 by Thomas Hoover
All rights reserved.
First Printing: December, 2000 10 987654321
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 0-7860-1313-3

Key words:
THOMAS HOOVER (Author)
LIFE BLOOD (Novel: Medical Thriller)
In Vitro, Independent Film, Adoption, Fertility, Human
Eggs, Guatemala, Peten, Maya, Mayan Pyramid, Vision Serpent,
Jaguar, Baalum, Mayan Mothers, Movie Making, Copal

LIFE BLOOD

Chapter One

New York, New York. A blissful spring morning beckoned, cloudless and
blue and pure. I was driving my high-mileage Toyota down Seventh Avenue,
headed for the location shoot that was supposed to wind up principal
photography for my first feature film, Baby Love. It was about the pain and
joy of adoption. I guess directing your first feature is something like giving
birth to your first child, but that gets us way, way ahead of the story.
My name, by the way, is Morgan Smyth James, after two grandmothers,
and I'm thirty-eight and single and strive to be eternally optimistic. That
morning, however, in spite of everything else, I was missing Steve terribly
and feeling like I'd screwed up essential components of my life.
To try for some perspective, let me say I'd always planned to have a
normal, loving family. Really. Find an emotionally present soul mate who
cared about things I care about—okay, slim and smart and spectacular in bed
wouldn't be a minus—get married on a lawn with lots of white roses some
sunny June afternoon, work one or even two perfect kids into our fulfilling,
giving lives. But somehow I'd managed to have none of that. I'd messed up at
every turn.
In reality I had nobody to blame but myself. Eighteen years ago, just out of
college, I turned down two really nice guys. My body was fertile and
hormone-driven—was it ever!—but grad school loomed and my greatest fear
(instead of, as now, my fondest hope) was getting "trapped" into motherhood.
Also, I had the youthful delusion that life was forever.
There was, in truth, one simpatico young director I met at NYU film
school whom I would have married in a minute, but after Jason won my heart
he dumped me for his under­graduate sweetheart who had skillfully gotten
herself knocked up during his Christmas break.
Which was when I first developed my fallback strategy for coping with bad
news. After moping around in sweats for two days, cutting class and hiding in
a revival house showing a Goddard retrospective, not understanding half the

French and too bleary-eyed to read the subtitles, I decided to build a defense
system. From that day on, I'd put all heart­break in a special box, nail down the
lid, and act as though it wasn't there. It worked then and it still works, more or
less, now. People sometimes accuse me of living in selective denial (they're
right), but it makes me one heck of a survivor.
And something else. I decided then and there to focus my life: I'd
concentrate on learning to make movies and let the family part just play out
naturally. I had the idea that whereas men's affections couldn't be controlled, a
career could. Even then I realized it was only a partial truth, but I decided to
go with it anyway.
Which brings us down to three years back. And a funny thing was
happening. Almost without realizing it, I'd started lingering in stores to look at
little pink jumpers, begun gazing into the baby carriages that suddenly seemed
to be sprouting everywhere. The phrase "my baby" became the most pow­erful
one I could imagine, made my throat swell till I'd half choke.
At which precise time, like a deus ex machina, enter Steve Abrams, the
man who gave me hope. He came along just as I was noticing that infinite
stream of wonderful guys had dwindled down to relationship dropouts, men
with distant eyes and former wives in other states. We discovered each other
at the reopened Oloffson Hotel in Haiti, where I was shooting a documentary
about voodoo and he was photo­graphing that country's ragged, plucky
children for National Geographic. No ex-spouses, no need for psychic
pampering. Okay, he wasn't going to win a Mr. Universe contest any time
soon; he had a couple of extra pounds that, actually, I kind of liked. But he
was my age, had great brown eyes, sandy hair thinning only just a bit. No
Greek god but definitely a man. He could tune a Jeep carburetor with his eyes
closed or fix a cranky hotel lock, then recite Byron (sort of) and proceed to
snare the perfect Chilean red for crawfish etouffee (yes!). But I knew I loved
him when I realized it was more than any of that. I felt as if I'd found the other
half of myself. Just one glance across the table and we each knew what the
other was thinking, feeling. We'd laugh at the same instant, then as though on
cue, half cry together over the miseries of that wretched island. Sometimes it

was almost eerie. And as for lovemaking, let me just say Steve didn't need a
how-to manual. We were made for each other.
Maybe it's un-PC to mention it, but I also felt safe around him. And I think
he felt the same. We liked that feeling. Us fending off the world.
When we got back to New York, we had to see each other every day. We
still had separate apartments—thanks to the New York real-estate squeeze—
but we were scouting in our spare time for an affordable loft in lower
Manhattan that could accommodate Steve's darkroom, my office, and—yes—
a baby. We evolved into parents-to-be, pricing baby carriages. Who could
have predicted it? The joy of sharing a need. It was a total high.
Before long we decided to stop waiting for the perfect
space. We'd start on the baby anyway, our first joint pro­ject—which, we
believed, would only be the first of many.
But nothing happened. Over a year and still nothing.
That was when life began to feel like a cruel bait-and-switch. When you
aren't ready, you can produce a baby in a momentary absence-of-mind,
whereas once you're finally an adult, accomplished, lots-to-offer woman,
ready to be the mother you wish you'd had, your body has closed down your
baby-making equipment like an unused Rust Belt factory. Fertility has
calculatingly abandoned you for the Sun Belt of youth.
"Well," Dr. Hannah Klein, my long-time ob/gyn, declared, "our tests all
indicate you're both fertile, so just keep trying, under optimum conditions."
Optimum conditions. There followed almost a year of "optimum
conditions." Do it upside down; wait and have a cold shower while I take my
temperature; no, not that way, not tonight. My mucus is thicker: Quick!
Eventually we both began feeling like laboratory rats. Our once-incredible
love life drifted into something only a boot-camp sergeant with Nazi leanings
could be turned on by.
I think that's what finally caused Steve to go over the edge. Three months
ago—a Friday morning I shall never forget—he stepped out of my shower,
swathed himself in a white towel, and announced he was going to Central
America to do a book. He needed time to think. The move, he ex­plained,

wasn't about us. He really wanted to spend a year down there with his Nikon,
capturing the region's tentative processes of democratic transition. Besides, he
was begin­ning to think we'd both gone a little mental about the baby.
Out came that special box of heartbreak again. I consoled myself we were
just having a seventh-inning stretch, but the wisdom in that box told me I'd
somehow blown it. The baby we hadn't created had become a specter
hovering in the ether between us, ever a reminder of failure.
As a parting gesture, the never-say-die long shot, he left a "deposit" with
Dr. Klein—for her liquid-nitrogen womb-in-waiting—enough for two final
intrauterine inseminations. Later on today I was going to see her and find out
if our last and final attempt had stuck. But nothing about my cycle was giving
me any hope.
In the meantime, though, I had a movie to finish. We were shooting an
interview at a five-story condominium building in Greenwich Village
belonging to a woman named Carly Grove, who'd recently adopted. Her story
was intriguing, but now—with my own hopes of ever having a baby down to
two outs in the bottom of the ninth—well, now I had more than one reason for
wanting to meet her. . . .
When I arrived, I lucked into a parking space right in front. Our security
guy, Lou Crenshaw, was off today getting some city paperwork sorted out, but
my crew was already upstairs—as director I get to arrive at a decent hour,
though later on I also get to do lonely postproduction work till mid­night—
leaving our three vans double-parked, with a New York City Film Board
permit prominently displayed inside each windshield. The building, formerly
a Hertz parking ga­rage, was near the end of Barrow Street, facing the Hudson
River, and was filled with artists and entrepreneurs.
The truth was, I wanted to get the interview on film as soon as possible. I
was more than a little worried Carly might decide to get cold feet and back
out. She'd started to hedge when I had one last confirming chat with her last
night, something about a "no-disclosure" agreement she now re­membered
signing. This had to be a one-take, all-or-nothing shoot.

Which was why I'd sent down the full gang this morning, not just the "key"
personnel as I'd initially planned. Leading my (motley) crew was the director
of photography, first cam­eraman Roger Drexel, a grizzled veteran with a
ponytail who'd been with my producer, David Roth and his Applecore
Productions, from back when he did beach movies and splat­ter films. He
worked with the production manager, Erica Cole, our lipstick lesbian, who
coordinated crew schedules. The second camera was handled by Greer Seiber,
recently of NYU film school, who was so happy to have a job, any job, she
acted as though David's previous string of low-budget, B-flick epics were
remakes of Gone With the Wind.
Scott Ventri, another Applecore old-timer, was key grip, the guy who got
the gear on and off the vans, set it up, and signed off on safety regs. Today he
also was responsible for blacking out windows and setting up lights. The chief
elec­trician, gaffer, was Ralph Cafiero, who'd come down the pre­vious day and
temporarily hot-wired the circuit breaker in the apartment to make sure there
was enough amperage. He and his lighting "crew," another bright-eyed (and
cheap) NYU grad named Paul Nulty, had arrived this morning ahead of
everybody else to pre-light the "set," a northeast corner of the apartment.
I'm always a little hyper about sound, so I'd asked Tony Wills, who handled
recording, to also come down the pre­vious day and record the "tone" of the
living room, the sound when there is no sound, in order to have it available for
ed­iting. Today he'd run the boom mike and be assisted by Sherry Moran, his
latest girlfriend, who was mixer/recordist. For Carly's makeup and hair, I had
Arlene Morris, an old friend from all the way back to my early days as an AD
on the soaps. . . .
I rang Carly's bell and she buzzed me right up.
She doubtless had a closet full of Donna Karan suits, but she came to the
door in pre-faded jeans and a striped sweater.
A successful publicity agent, she was petite, with dark hair and eyes and an
obvious don't-bug-me take on life.
"Come on in. My nanny's here to help keep Kevin out of the way." She was
sounding like she'd gotten her old spunk back, or so it seemed at first. "I've
completely cleared the living room."

I looked around the place, now a vision of setup pandemonium. "You're
sure this is all right?"
"Well . . ." She was biting at her lip. "Maybe we ought to talk first, okay?
But come on in. I'll probably do it. Maybe I just need a good reason to. . . ."
As her voice trailed off, I found myself mining my brain for a sales point.
Finally, out of the blue, I settled on one. "Because you're totally crazy?"
She laughed out loud. "Not a bad start. I live in total madness. It's the
definition of my life."
I laughed too and looked around. No kidding. Her loft apartment was a
wild mixture of stairs and galleries and lev­els—unconventional in every way.
Also, it had a lot of in-your-face decor, outrageous posters, and African
fertility masks, signs of a wonderful, irreverent personality. Then too, stuffed
animals and toys were strewn all over.
"I can't really afford the rent," she declared, seeing me survey the place,
"but I need the space for Kevin. I've just joined Bloomingdale's Anonymous.
Twelve steps to shred­ding your charge plates."
Her nanny, a Jehovah's Witness from Jamaica named Marcy (who
reminded me of a cuddly voodoo doll, complete with cornrows), was bringing
Carly's little boy Kevin down from his bath in the upstairs bathroom.
He was definitely adopted, sandy-haired and peachy, noth­ing like Carly's
dark, severe strands and Mediterranean skin. When Marcy put him down, he
tried to walk, and I felt my envy ratchet upward a notch. He'd just started
taking tentative steps, at eleven months old, and there was still a Frankenstein
quality as he strode stiff-legged, arms out for balance.
I walked over, picked him up, and gave him a kiss. He looked like a
Scandinavian travel poster, a cherubic vision, and I felt a great void growing
where my heart had been. Then Marcy reached out and pried him from me. I
hated to let him go so much I almost pulled him back.
"You're so lucky," I said to Carly, feeling a surge of yearn­ing. "He's great."
"You know," she said, "I've been thinking about that 'no disclosure' thing
Children of Light made me sign. That's their name, by the way. Like a vow of
silence about them. They seemed pretty serious about it."

Dear God, I thought, don't let her chicken out. Don't, don't.
"So, we won't mention them. Just never use their name."
She stood a minute, mute, and then her eyes grew determined. "No, I've got
a better idea. I like you. And I think more single women ought to know about
adoption. So you know what? I think I'll use their name all over the damned
place. I paid what they asked, and for that I ought to be able to do what I
want. What are they going to do? Come and steal Kevin back?"
Then she sighed and stared at me. "Maybe, though, you could run through
again how exactly we fit into this movie."
I liked to tell the story to people, just to get their reaction. There are always
moments of doubt in the film-making pro­cess when you wonder if the
audience for your picture is going to consist entirely of your immediate
family, your backers, and your creditors.
"Well, as I tried to explain before, it's a fictional construct intended to feel
like a documentary, about a career slave named Gail Crea who's based on a
hundred women I know. She's got a great career, manages fund-raising for a
major museum, and work is going great. But then one day she finds herself
suddenly daydreaming about babies, envying moth­ers. She yearns for
someone to take care of, has a recurrent dream she's stealing a baby out of a
carriage on the street. It's demeaning."
"God," Carly said, "I know exactly what you're talking about. I've been
there. Have I ever."
The truth was, I also knew it all too well. It was poignant and demeaning at
the same time.
"Anyway, Gail's focused on career all through her twen­ties, and by her late
thirties she's become a serious profes­sional. But her personal life is still on
hold. She 'meets people' at work, or some other way, and she has a couple of
long-standing relationships that finally crater because the guys, make that
commit-ophobes, 'need space.' Along the way, there're ghastly fix-ups and
dismal dinners with what seem like a hundred thousand misfits. She becomes
the Dat­ing Queen of New York, but eventually she realizes all the men she's
meeting are either assuaging their midlife crises with some pneumatic

bombshell named Bambi, or they're divorced and whining and carrying a ton
of emotional bag­gage. The fact is, she's become the sensible, successful pro­‐
fessional she's been looking for all this time. This all sort of seeps in as back
story."
I perched on a stool at the breakfast bar and looked down at my jeans, and
noticed that a rip was starting in the crotch. Shit, back to cottage cheese.
Those horrible eight pounds I could never get rid of.
I crossed my legs. "Finally, after she gets a couple more promotions, she
wakes up one morning and realizes she's never going to have a family. All the
stable, rational men have disappeared. Like there's a black hole or something.
Nothing's left but the walking wounded. She concludes it's actually easier to
get a baby than a decent guy—which is what she starts trying to do. High
concept: This picture is about how adopting a baby can enrich the life of a
childless human being and, not coincidentally, bring joy to an or­phaned
infant."
I remembered when I'd first pitched it to David Roth of Applecore. His
response had been; "Definitely art-house. Probably never get past the
Angelika. A wide release is gonna be three screens where they serve iced
cappuccino."
I was dead set to prove him wrong.
"So," I wound up, "I've shot the entire film, but now, thinking it over, I've
decided there's one last thing I need to do. As I go through the story, at every
step of the adoption process I want to cut to an interview, just talking heads,
tight shot, of somebody who actually went through it. Nonfiction. The real-
life happy ending. And that's where you come in."
What I wasn't telling her was, I was increasingly con­cerned the picture
might be slightly hollow without this punch of real life.
"Well," Carly declared with a grin, "my ending couldn't be happier."
"Okay, want to get started?" I looked around at Arlene, makeup, who
always seemed to have more on her face than in her bag. I kidded her about
that a lot. But she was actually the one who had found Carly, bumping into
her at a gym in the Village.

"Hey, let's go for it." Arlene grinned.
I turned back to Carly. "So how's about we prep a little while you're getting
the 'natural' look?"
In the back of my mind I knew what I wanted for the interview. Something
like the feeling I remembered from The Thin Blue Line, where people engaged
in Hamlet-like mono­logues that told us more about them than they themselves
knew, that let us really know their secrets and their fears. The interviewer was
never seen or heard.
Arlene ensconced Carly at the dining room table, a weath­ered country
French, where she'd already unfolded and plugged in a mirror with lights.
"Having Kevin has been wonderful," Carly began. "He's changed my life.
Sure, being a single 'supermom' makes for a lot of bad-hair days, but no
matter how much I complain, it's worth every burp."
I thought momentarily about having her hold him during the interview, but
instantly decided it would be too distract­ing. Kevin and his wonderful eyes
would commandeer the camera. A kid this cute in a scene was nothing less
than grand larceny.
He came toddling in now, dragging a stuffed brown bear. Then he banged
its head and tried to say its name. "Benny." His funny, awkward walk
reminded me a little of Lou Cren­shaw after a couple of drinks. God, he was
fantastic.
"Come here, sweetie." I picked him up, inhaling his fresh baby scent, and
wanted to hold him forever—while he slammed the bear against my face. This
child, I thought, is too good to be true.
He was wearing a small bracelet around his left ankle, a tiny little chain,
with a small silver medallion attached. It looked like the face of a cat. Funny.
Carly didn't have a cat, wasn't a cat person, so why the little bracelet? And the
back had a bunch of lines and dots, like a jumbled-up Morse code.
Ask her about that, I thought. But later.
Now Carly was caught up in the sound of her own voice and on a roll.
While Arlene continued with the makeup, mov­ing to her eyes, she bubbled on.

"Like I told you on the phone, I tried and tried to adopt, through a whole
bunch of lawyers, but it was a nightmare. One guy even helped me put ads in
newspapers all around the country, but nothing worked. I kept getting
scammed by women who wanted thousands of dollars up front, then backed
out at the last minute." She was getting up, looking intense. "Let me have a
minute. I want to make coffee for everybody."
I followed her into the kitchen, which was the "country" type with a faux
granite counter and lots of copper-bottomed pans hanging from the ceiling.
She was right about the pain of adoption, which was why her story was
such a burst of sunshine. As part of the start-up research for my picture, I'd
actually gone to meet an adoption attorney out in Brooklyn, a sleazy-looking
guy named Frank Brasco. I'd been pretending to be a client, to find out first­‐
hand how tough it really was. What I heard was chilling.
"I don't want to get your hopes up," he'd declared for cheery openers.
"Finding a healthy, Caucasian, American baby is virtually out of the question,
so naturally we focus on foreign-borns. All the same, it can take years, and
there's incredible paperwork. Passports for the kid, an extended visa for you
while you go there and then wait around to process everything in triplicate.
Bribes, corruption, you can't imag­ine." He sighed and adjusted his toupee, as
though the very thought made him weary. "And that's just the foreign end.
Here you have the INS, the Immigration and Naturalization Service. They
give bean-counting paper-pushers a bad name." He examined me closely.
"Not Jewish, I take it. 'Cause if that's what you're looking for, you may have
to wait for the Messiah."
Now, almost a year and a lot of experience later, I knew full well how right
he was. Which was what made Carly's story so fantastic.
"So how did you manage to get Kevin? You said it only took a few
months?"
"Well, to go back to the beginning, I didn't start out want­ing to adopt. But
when the guy I was planning to marry got cold feet—after four and a half
years, the louse—and there was nobody else on the horizon, I decided to just
have a baby on my own. You know, find some smart, good-looking hunk,

seduce him, and get things going the old-fashioned way, or if that didn't work,
then I figured I'd just go to a sperm bank. Who needs an actual man, right?"
She took out a white and green bag of coffee beans, la­beled Balducci's on
the side. I was still holding Kevin, who threw Benny onto the floor, then
began to sniffle and point.
But Carly seemed not to notice as she shook the coffee beans into the
grinder. "Well, getting a baby the fun way turned out to be moot, because it
seems I have some kind of uterine condition—which meant I couldn't get
pregnant, or even do an in vitro. Bottom line, if I wanted a baby, I had to
adopt."
She pressed the button on the coffee grinder, sending a blast of whirring
through the kitchen. In seconds it was over and she was tapping the batch into
her Braun. "So that's when I started on the attorney thing, got worked over
good trying to adopt as a single mom, and finally heard about Children of
Light."
"The adoption organization? What do you know about them?"
"Tell you the main thing," she said, "they're the place that can make it
happen." She reached over and poked Kevin's tummy. "Right, big guy?"
Sure looked that way. What a cutie.
By now the spacious living room had been turned into a mini film set, with
two 35-mm Panaflex cameras set up, windows blanked out, lights and filters
in place, and a video camera and monitor. Having tested the boom mike and
the tape recorder, Tony and Sherry were ready.
Carly announced to everybody that coffee was available, and I handed
Kevin over to Marcy. Then together we marched into the living room.
"Okay," I told her, "we're going to be filming, but ignore that fact. Just look
into the back of the camera and talk to it as though it were me."
"Hey." She grinned. "You're dealing with a pro. This is my thing."
I looked around at the cameras and the grips. "Okay, guys. Roll sound."
There was a retort as the clap stick used for synching whacked out the start of
the shoot. "Scene one, take one, Carly Grove interview."

She proceeded to hit the ground running, recounting in great detail her
story of many disappointments. She finally got to the point where she was
trying to adopt the baby of a woman in a Memphis jail, and then even that fell
through.
"Which was when my main lawyer, Chuck, just gave up and recommended
I hock the family silver, take a Valium, and try this place called Children of
Light. Where you go when all else fails. So I gave them a call."
"And what happened?" It sounded too good to be true. "Did they seem . . .
in any way unusual?"
She looked at me, as though puzzled by the question. Then she shrugged it
off. "Well, first they tried to get me to check into their clinic—it's this place
up the Hudson—to let them see if my 'condition' could be cured somehow,
using his special techniques."
"His?"
"Goddard. Dr. Alex Goddard. He's a kinda spacey guy, but he's the big-shot
presiding guru there." She remembered the camera and turned back to it. "I
told his staff I didn't have that kind of time, and anyway nothing could be
done. They were pretty insistent, so I eventually ended up talking to the man
himself. He sort of mesmerizes you, but I finally said, forget it, it's adoption or
nothing. So he just sent me back to the peons. Checkbook time."
I stared at her, hungry for details, but she didn't notice, just pressed on.
"The money they wanted, I have to tell you, was stagger­ing. Sixty
thousand. And believe me, they don't give revolv­ing credit."
I thought about the figure. It was the highest I'd heard for getting a baby,
but it wasn't totally off-the-wall. Terrific ba­bies don't drop from trees.
Carly was still going strong. "It took me almost half a year to scrounge it
together. A lot of credit lines got maxed. But when I finally did plunk down
the loot, sure enough, I had Kevin in less than three months. I don't even
know where he came from. They took care of all that, but I do know it was
probably out of the country, because of the blank INS forms I signed. But
then, who cares? With a deal this good, you don't press for details, right?"

Carly Grove had a mutual love affair with the camera. The footage was
going to be fabulous. The only problem was, it sounded like an "infomercial"
for the adoption miracle wrought by this doctor named Goddard.
When the interview began to wind down, losing its punch, I suggested we
call it a day. With the time pushing two o'clock, I wanted to get the film to the
lab, get it developed, and take a look at the rushes. I also had a doctor's
appoint­ment, not to mention a meeting with David to bring him up to speed
on what I was doing. But surely he was going to be pleased. The interview,
with Carly's honest intensity, would give the picture spine and guts. Just as I'd
hoped.
You could always tell by the reaction of the crew. Even Roger Drexel, who
usually hid his thoughts somewhere in his scraggly beard, was letting his eyes
sparkle behind his Panaflex. Scott was also grinning as he struck the lights
and Cafiero ripped up the power lines, now taped to the floor. Everybody was
in wrap mode, flushed with a great shoot.
I followed Carly into the kitchen, where Marcy was feed­ing Kevin some
Gerber applesauce. The time had come, I thought, to spring the next big
question, out of earshot of the crew.
"I hate to put you on the spot, but do you know any other women like you,
single, who've adopted through Children of Light?" I decided to experiment
with the truth. "God knows, depending on what happens in my own situation,
I'm . . . I'm thinking I might even want to check them out for myself."
"What do you mean?" She gave me a quick, concerned look.
"Maybe I'd like to talk to them about adopting too." I realized I was
babbling, my usual prelude to obsessing.
Carly's worried gaze eased up a bit, but she started twist­ing at her hair.
"Well, I might have another name. When my lawyer first told me about
them, he gave me the name of another woman who'd adopted from them, and
I talked to her a little about how they worked. She'd just gotten her baby, so I
guess she was about six months ahead of me in the process. Her name was . . .
I think it was Pauline or Paula or something. She's probably not the kind of

person who'd take their 'no disclo­sure' crap all that seriously. She was
adopting a girl, and she lives somewhere on the Upper West Side."
"Any idea how I could find her?"
"You know, she wrote kids' books, and I think she gave me her card. In
case I ever needed somebody to do some YA copy. Let me go look in my
Rolodex. I filed her card under 'Y' for Young Adult. Right. It'll just take a
second."
The woman, whose name was Paula Marks, lived on West 83rd Street. The
business card, a tasteful brown with a weave in the paper, described her as an
author. The address included a "suite" number, which meant she worked out
of her apart­ment.
"Mind if I take down her phone number and address? I'd really like to look
her up. To see if her experience was any­thing remotely like yours."
Carly gazed at her fingernails a second. "Okay, but do me a favor. Don't
tell her how you got her number." She bit her lip, stalling. "It's one thing for
me to talk to you myself. It's something else entirely to go sticking my nose
into other people's business."
"Look, I'll respect her privacy just as much as I respect yours." I paused,
listening to what I'd just said. The promise sounded pretty lame. I'd just filmed
her, or hadn't she no­ticed? "Look, let me call Paula, see if she'll agree to be
interviewed on camera. I'll keep your name entirely out if it, I promise."
She reached down and plucked Kevin out of his high chair, kissed him on
his applesauce-smeared cheek, then hugged him. "Sorry. Guess I'm being a
little paranoid. I shouldn't invite you here, then give you a hard time about
what you're going to do, or not do. I can't have it both ways."
In the ensuing tumult and confusion of the wrap, I did manage to get one
more item from Carly Grove. The address and phone number of Children of
Light. But I completely forgot the one thing I'd been meaning to ask about.
That little amulet, with the strange cat's face and the lines and dots on the
back. Why was Kevin wearing it? And by the time I got to the street,
surrounded by the clamor of crew and equip­ment, it seemed too
inconsequential to go back and bother with.

Chapter Two

Moving on, my next stress-point was to meet with my young boss, the
afore-noted David Roth, who was CEO and First Operating Kvetcher of
Applecore Productions, a kinda-sexy guy whose heart was deeply engaged,
often unsuccess­fully, with bottom lines. The issue was, I'd done today's shoot,
the interview with Carly, without troubling to secure his okay. Without, in
fact, telling him zip—the reason being I was afraid he wouldn't green-light the
idea. Now my next move was to try to convince him what I'd just done was
brilliant.
Actually I liked David a lot, and hoped the occasional tangles we'd had
over the film wouldn't stand in the way of a friendship. The truth is, you don't
meet that many inter­esting, stable men in my line of work. Our artistic goals
weren't always in sync, but all the same, he'd done an enor­mous favor for
somebody close to me and for that I'd vowed to walk through fire for him.
When I marched into his cluttered, dimly lit office, my mind still churning
over Carly's strange adoption story, what I saw sent my problem-detector
straight into the red. There, sitting across from him, was Nicholas Russo, a
five-seven smoothie in a charcoal Brioni double-breasted, the gentleman
David sometimes referred to as Nicky the Purse. Another land mine in my
life. He operated off and on as Applecore's "banker" when cash flow got dicey
and real banks got nervous. It was an arrangement of last resort, since Nicky's
loans had to be serviced at two percent a week. Do the numbers: He doubled
his money in a year. I knew too that putting money out to independent
filmmakers was part of Nicky's attempt at a legitimate front; the real cash
went onto the streets of Hell's Kitchen, just outside our door, where he got
five percent a week. And Nicky's overdue notices were not sent through the
mail.
He also had a piece of a video distributorship, Roma Ex­otics, that
reputedly specialized in . . . guess what. It was all stuff I tried not to think
about.

I had a strong hunch what was under discussion. The $350,000 David had
borrowed to finish my picture. We'd gotten the loan three months ago, when
cash was tight, and we both figured we could pay it back later in the year,
after we got a backup cable deal (though I was ultimately hoping for a
theatrical distribution, my first).
Shit! What did Nicky want? Were we behind on the weekly juice? I'd
signed on with David partly to help his bottom line. Was I instead going to
cause his ruin?
At the moment he had his back to Nicky, seemed to be meditating out the
window he loved, its vista being the grimy facades that lined the far west of
Fifty-eighth Street. His office, with its wide windows and forest of freshly
misted trees, told you he was a plant nut. Outside it was early April, the
cruelest month, but inside, with all the trees, spring was in full cry. The place
also felt like a storage room, with piles of scripts stacked around every pot.
The office normally smelled like a greenhouse, but now the aroma was one of
high anxiety.
David revolved back and looked across the potted green­ery, then broke into
a relieved smile when he saw me. I could tell from his faraway stare that he
was teetering on the verge of panic.
"Hey, come on in," he said. "Nicky's just put a brand-new proposition on
the table."
David had a keen intelligence, causing me to sometimes wonder if he was
in a line of work beneath him. (For that matter, maybe I was too.) He was
dark-haired, trim, with serious gray eyes and strong cheekbones. This
morning he was wearing his trademark black sweater, jeans, and white
sneakers, a picture of the serious go-for-broke New York indy-prod hustler.
He'd already made and lost and made sev­eral fortunes in his youthful career.
My only sexual solace since Steve left was an occasional glance at his trim
rear end. I also saluted his fiscal courage. His congenital short­fall, I regret to
say, was in the matter of judgment. Exhibit A: Nicholas Russo's funny money.
"Nicky, you remember Morgan James, the director on this project."

"Yeah, we met. 'Bout four months back." Nicky rose and offered his
manicured hand, a picture of Old World charm. His dark hair was parted down
the middle and his Brioni, which probably fell off a truck somewhere in the
Garment Center, had buttons on the cuffs that actually buttoned. "How ya
doing?"
"Hi." I disengaged myself as quickly as possible. The slimeball.
Again, why was he here? The way I understood it, we'd signed a
legitimate, ironclad note. Nicky wasn't exactly the Chase Manhattan Bank, but
I assumed he was a "man of honor," would live by any deal David had with
him. "Do we have some kind of problem?"
"Nah," Nicky said, "I'm thinking of it more in the way of an opportunity.
Dave, here, showed me some of your pic­ture this morning, and it ain't too bad.
Got me to thinking. You're gonna need a video distributor. So maybe I could
help you out."
Oh, shit and double-shit. I looked at him, realizing what he had in mind.
"How's that? Applecore already has a video distributor. We use—"
"Yeah, well, like I was telling Dave, I got a nose this picture's gonna do
some serious business." He tried a smile. "Whenever I see one of these indy
things that don't add up for me, like this one, I always know it's a winner.
What I'm telling you is, I think you got something here. He says you're
figuring on a cable deal, and maybe a theatrical release, but after that you
gotta worry about video. I'm just thinking a way I could pitch in."
Pitch in? The last thing I needed was some skin-flick wiseguy getting his
sticky hands on my picture. Forget about it.
"Well, I don't really see how. I'm shooting this one by the book. I've got a
standard Screen Actors Guild contract, and everything is strictly by the rules.
If we're current on the loan, then . . ." I looked at David, who appeared to be
running on empty. Maybe, I thought, I didn't understand what was at stake.
What had Nicky said to him? This was a man who could make people
disappear with a phone call to guys nicknamed after body parts. "Look, let me
talk to David about this. I don't know what—"

"You two're just gonna 'talk' about it?" Russo's penetrat­ing eyes dimmed.
"Now that's a little disappointing, I gotta tell you, since I sent for my business
manager, Eddie down there in the car, hoping we could reach a meeting of
minds right here. Sign a few things. Roll that note I'm holding into a
distribution deal and give everybody one less worry." He turned in his chair,
boring in on me. "Like, for instance, I checked out your locations and I
noticed there ain't no Team­sters nowhere. All you got's a bunch of fuckin'
Mick scabs driving them vans. Now that can lead to circumstances. In­‐
adequate safety procedures. Of course, that wouldn't have to be a concern if
we was partners together. Then you'd have good security. The best."
I looked at David, who seemed on the verge of a heart attack. Why was he
letting this even be discussed? Get in bed with Nicky Russo and the next thing
you know he's got somebody hanging you out the window by your ankles.
Besides, ten to one the guy was bluffing, seeing if he could scare us.
I refocused. "Mr. Russo, it may ease your mind to know that our security is
managed by a former agent for the FBI. He was with them here in New York
till about a year ago, when he came to us full time. His name is Agent Lou
Cren­shaw. You're welcome to check him out. He's familiar with union issues,
and he carries a .38. He also has plenty of friends down at 26 Federal Plaza.
So if you have any linger­ing concern about our security procedures, why don't
you run it by him?"
The mention of Lou seemed to brighten David's listless eyes. He leaned
back in his chair and almost smiled.
He had good reason. The favor he'd done for Lou, and indirectly for me,
was enough to inspire eternal loyalty. Lou would face off against half of Hell's
Kitchen for David Roth.
"That ain't the point, exactly," Russo said, shifting uncomfortably. "Thing
is, Roma could do good distribution for you. We work with a lot of people."
"Then why not submit a formal proposal? In writing. I'm in charge and
that's how I do business. If your numbers work, then we can talk."
"Just trying to be helpful." He glared at me, then seemed to dismiss my
presence. I disappeared from his radar as though lifted away by an alien

spacecraft, and he turned back to David. "You know, Dave, me and you've
kinda drifted apart lately. Old friends oughtn'ta do that. We ought to keep
more in touch. I think we get along okay."
In other words, get this pushy broad out of my face.
"It's just business, Nicky," David said, trying to conjure an empty smile.
"Business and pleasure don't always mix."
Yes! David, tell the creep to leave us alone. Tell him.
"Doing business with me ain't a pleasure?" Nicky Russo asked, hurt filling
his voice. He'd brought out a large Havana and was rolling it in between his
thumb and forefinger. "I figured we was best friends. Paisans."
"We're not not friends, Nicky. We've just got different goals in life. You
know how it is."
I worked my way around behind his desk and glanced out the window. The
lingering day was beginning to cloud over, a perfect match for my state of
mind. After this I had a late appointment with Dr. Hannah Klein. I feared she
was going to end my baby hopes.
"Yeah, well," Nicky Russo said finally, rising, "I gotta be downtown in a
little while, so I guess we can talk about this later."
"Okay, sure." David made a shrugging sign. Like: Women! What can you
do? Then he got up too. "Look, Nicky, let me chew on this. Maybe I'll get
back to you."
"Yeah, you think about it, all right?" He rose without a further word and
worked his way out the wide double doors, stumbling through the ficus forest
as he struck a match to his cigar.
"David, don't sign anything with him. Don't. I'll handle the Teamster stuff
if it comes up. I know how to talk to them."
"Okay, okay, calm down. He was just seeing if he could push me. I know
him. You called his scam with that talk about Lou. By tomorrow he'll forget
about the whole thing." He looked at me, his eyes not quite yet back in focus.
"Thanks. You can say things to him I'd get cement shoes for. Nicky's not
really ready for people like you. He has this macho front, but he doesn't know
how to handle a profes­sional woman with balls."

"You're welcome. I guess." Balls? I adored those vulner­able male bits, but I
preferred not to think of myself in those terms. Truth was, Nicky Russo
played a large part in my personal anxieties. "But I mean it. N. O."
"I hear you," he said, sighing. Then he snapped back to the moment. "So
where do things stand otherwise?"
I'd come for an after-the-fact green light of the day's shoot, but already I
was thinking about Hannah Klein. "David, I'm going to find out in about an
hour whether Steve and I are ever going to have a baby. But truthfully I don't
think I'm pregnant. I think it's over." It hurt to say it. He knew about Steve and
me—I'd written some language on maternity leave into my contract—and I
think he was mildly rooting for us. Or maybe not.
"Could be it's all for the best," he declared. He'd sat back down, picked up
a pencil off his desk to distract himself, and was whirling it pensively, one of
his few habits that made me crazy. "Maybe you were destined to make
movies, not kids."
I listened to his tone of voice, knowing he often hid his real feelings with
safe, sympathy-card sentiments. He rose to eloquence only when nothing
much was at stake. He'd even sent me flowers and a mea-culpa note twice as a
make­up after we'd had a disagreement over costs and scheduling. And one of
those times, I should have sent him flowers. Sometimes I wondered why we
worked so well together. The truth was, we operated on very different
wavelengths.
Some history to illustrate. Over the past eight years, before I teamed up
with David, I'd done three "highly praised" documentaries. But getting to that
point meant busting my behind for years and years at the lower end of the
profes­sional food chain. After NYU, I toiled as a script supervisor on PBS
documentaries, about as close to grunt work as it comes. Eventually I got a
fling as a production assistant, assembling crews, but then the money dried
up. (Thank you, Jesse Helms.) Whereupon I decided to try capitalism, work­‐
ing for three years as an AD on the soaps: first Guiding Light, then As the
World Turns, then Search for Tomorrow. I can still hear the horrible music.
Then a connection got me a slot at A&E as a line producer. Eight months later

the series got canceled, which was when I decided the time had come to take
my career into my own hands. I hocked every last credit card, went to Japan,
and made a documentary. The result: I was an "overnight" success. Men
started addressing me by my name.
My first film was about the impact of Zen on Japanese business. As part of
my research, I shaved my head and lived three months at a Kyoto temple,
eating bean curd three meals a day, after which I had enough credibility to
land long in­terviews with Tokyo CEOs. I then sold the edited footage to A&E.
When it became a critical hit, they financed a second film, about the many
gods of India and how they impact everything about the place. There, I also
got caught up in the mystical sensuality of ragas, Indian classical music, and
took up the violin (one of my major professional mistakes). Next I moved on
to Mexico's southern Yucatan to film a day in the life of a Maya village for the
Discovery Channel. They wanted me to add some footage from Guatemala,
but I scouted the country and decided it was too scary. Instead, I spent several
months in Haiti filming voodoo rituals, again for A&E. And met Steve.
Then one day I checked my bank account and realized that, financially
speaking, I was a "flop d'estime." I was doing the kind of work that does more
for your reputation than your retirement plan. I decided to go more
mainstream and see what happened. But to do that I needed a commercial
partner, a backer.
Ironically enough, when I first teamed up with David, he had bottom-line
problems too, but from the opposite direc­tion. He was busy disproving the
adage that nobody ever lost money underestimating the taste of the American
public. He knew something was wrong, but what?
Apparently, when he started out, somebody told him cable audiences
possessed an insatiable appetite for bare-skin-and- jiggle. Hey, he figured, that
stuff he could grind out in his sleep. His first, and last, epic in the skin genre
was Wet T-Shirt Weekend, whose title says it all. He explained the eco­nomics
to me once, still baffled why the picture hadn't worked. He'd assumed all you
had to do was find a bunch of nineteen-year-olds who looked like they're
sixteen, go nonunion someplace down South with a beach, and take care the

wardrobe trailer has nothing but string bikinis. "Cost only a million-eight to
make," he declared with pride, "but every penny is on the screen."
He insisted I watch it, perplexed that it was universally regarded as a
turkey. It was a painful experience, so much so I actually began to wonder if
his heart was really in it. (The great schlockmeisters secretly think they're
Fellini; they're operating at the top of their form, not consciously pandering.)
Chastened financially, he decided to move into low-budget action-
adventure. His efforts, most notably Virtual Cop, had car chases, blue-screen
explosions, buckets of fake blood. Somebody died creatively in every scene.
They did business in Asia and Southern Europe, but he was dumbfounded
when nobody at HBO or Showtime would return his calls. It gnawed at his
self-esteem.
That was the moment we found each other. He'd just concluded he needed
somebody with a quality reputation to give
Applecore an image makeover, and I'd realized I needed somebody who knew
more than I did about the mechanics of making and distributing independent
films.
We were an odd couple. I finally shook hands on the partnership after he
caved in and agreed I could do anything I wanted, so long as it looked
mainstream enough to get picked up by Time-Warner or somebody else legit.
Well, quasi-legit. We both agreed on no more bikinis and no more films about
places that required cholera shots. It was something of a compromise on both
our parts.
Thus far, though, we were getting along. Maybe luck was part of it, but
Baby Love was still on schedule and on budget. And I already had a deal
nearly in the bag with Lifetime, the women's channel, that would just about
cover the costs. Everything after that would be gravy. Again, hope hope.
Maybe not the theatrical release I'd been praying for, but good enough—so he
had to smile and not give me a hard time about the money I'd just spent. Had
to, right?
I took a deep breath.

"David, I did a little extra shooting this morning that's kind of. . . outside
the plan. But it's really important. Want to hear about it?"
"What! I thought you were finished with principal photography." He
looked disoriented, the deer in the headlights. Hints of extra crew time always
had that effect on him. "You're saying this wasn't in the budget?"
"Just listen first, okay?" Like a politician, I avoided giving him a direct
answer. I told him about the interview with Carly and the reason for it.
"Nice of you to share the news with me." His eyes nar­rowed. "I think we've
got some big-time communication is­sues here."
"Look, don't worry. I'll figure out how to save some money somewhere
else."
"Morgy, before we continue this unnerving conversation, we've got to have
a serious review of the matter of cash flow." He frowned, then went back to
whirling the pencil, his hair backlighted from the wide window, his eyes
focused on its stubby eraser as though he'd just discovered a new strain of
bacteria. "So let me break some news regarding the current budget."
He put down the pencil, adjusted its location on his desk, and looked up. "I
didn't want to have to upset you, since the picture seems to be going so well,
but we've drawn down almost all our cash. I actually think that's why Nicky
was here today, sniffing around, wanting to see a rough cut. He's got a keen
nose for indy cash-flow trouble."
"What are you saying?" It was unsettling to see David turning so serious.
"Are we—?"
"I'm saying we can cover the payroll here, all our fixed nut, even Nicky's
vig, for maybe six more weeks, if you and I don't pay ourselves. Of course, if
we can get an advance on some kind of cable deal, that would tide us over
more comfortably till this thing is in the can. But right now we're sailing
pretty close on the wind. I've bet Applecore on your picture, Morgan. We can't
screw this up."
I swallowed hard. I knew we were working on the edge, but I didn't know
the edge was down to six weeks.

"David, I'm all but ready for postproduction. I'm just thinking I may need
one more interview. Just a one-day shoot. I'm going to make this picture work.
You'll see."
He sighed. "All right, if you think it's essential, get the footage. Maybe I
can even shake another fifty out of Nicky, if I string him along about the
distribution deal—don't look so alarmed, I won't go through with it. Anyway, I
can tell he's impressed with the picture so far. Happy now?"
No, I wasn't happy. What was I going to do if Hannah Klein had bad news?
Adoption? I finally was facing the fact I'd possibly been making a movie
about myself all this time. Like Yeats, penning his own tombstone. "Cast a
cold eye, on life, on death. ."
So why not give him the whole story?
"David, if it turns out Steve and I can't have a baby, I've begun thinking
about trying to adopt." There it was. More pain. "Maybe I'm about to become
the heroine of my own picture."
He stared at me incredulously.
"Morgy, you of all people should know by now that adopt­ing would take
up all your energy, like a giant sponge. Come on. I've seen your dailies. I got
it, about how hard it is. You telling me now you didn't get it?"
He was right. Righter than he realized. But then I thought again about
Carly Grove, who'd found Kevin in no time at all, with zero hassles. The only
troubling part was that it was all so mysterious. . . .
After I left David's office, I remembered I hadn't actually had lunch, so I
grabbed two hot dogs with sauerkraut (okay, it was junk, but I secretly loved
kosher franks) and a Diet Pepsi to go, from one of the striped-umbrella
vendors, then hailed a cab clutching the grungy brown bag.
I was heading for Hannah Klein's office on the Upper West Side. And now
I had another clock ticking in addition to the biological one. The big money
clock in the sky was suddenly on final countdown.

Chapter Three

It took only a few minutes for Hannah Klein's assistant, Lori, to run the
pregnancy test that confirmed my suspicions and settled my future. Steve's
and my final attempt, another intrauterine insemination (IUI, med-speak for
an expensive "turkey baster") with the last of his deposit, had failed. The end.
The bitter end.
"Morgan," Hannah declared, staring over her desk, her raspy New York
voice boring through me like a drill, "given how this has all turned out, maybe
you ought to just start considering adoption—if having a child still means that
much to you."
Hannah Klein was pushing seventy, a chain smoker who should have been
dead a decade ago, and she unfailingly spoke the truth. Her gaze carried only
synthetic solace, but I was probably her fifteenth patient of the day and maybe
she was running low on empathy. Oddly, though, sitting there in her office,
miserable, I felt strangely liberated. I adored the woman, a child of the
Holocaust, with layers of steel like a samurai sword, but I also loved the
thought of never again having to go through the humiliation of cowering in
her straight-backed office chair, like a so-so student on probation waiting to
receive my failing grade.
It was now time to come to grips with what I'd known in my heart for a
long time. God had made me a theoretically functional reproductive machine

that just wouldn't kick over. Translation: no cysts, fibroids, polyps, no
ovulatory abnor­malities. My uterus and Fallopian tubes were just fine, Steve's
sperm counts were okay, but no baby was swimming into life inside me.
Sometimes, however, reality asks too much. It's not easy getting your mind
around the idea that some part of your life is over, finally over. The baby part.
To admit that it's time to move on to Plan B, whatever that is. Such
realizations can take a while, especially if you've been living with high-level
hope, no matter how irrational.
"I frankly don't know what else we can do," she went on, projecting
through my abyss of gloom. She was shuffling papers on her ash-strewn desk,
white hair in a bun, fine-tuned grit in her voice. Upper West Side, a fifty-year
fixture. She never wore perfume, but to me she always smelled faintly of
roses mixed with smoke. Earthy. "Aside from trying in vitro."
We'd already discussed that, but it was definitely the bot­tom level of Hell.
Besides, I was running out of money, and spirit. And now, with Steve gone,
the whole idea seemed moot anyway.
"So," she concluded, "barring that, we've done everything possible, run
every test there is, both on you and on your . . ."
"Steve," I inserted into her pause. She seemed to delib­erately block his
name at crucial moments. Maybe she thought I could have done better. Maybe
a nice solid dentist who owned a suit instead of some freelance photo jock
who showed up for his sperm counts wearing khaki safari shirts. Well, let her
deal with it.
". . . and I can't find anything. Sometimes, the body just won't cooperate.
We may never know why. You've got to face that. But still, adoption is always
an option."
Adoption. All along I'd told myself I didn't have the cour­age, or the heart.
Making movies is a full-time job, not leav­ing time to go filling out forms and
jumping through hoops for years and years. And to cap it off, I was just two
years short of the big four-oh and financially struggling—hardly an adoption
agency's profile of "ideal."

But now, now I'd just discovered Carly Grove and the mir­acle of Children
of Light. So maybe there really could be a way to adopt a beautiful child with
no hassles. Maybe it would simplify everything to the point I could actually
pull it off. Could this be my Plan B? Then what if Steve came back? Could we
be a family finally?
I wasn't used to being that lucky. And I still wanted Han­nah Klein's
thoughts, a reality test, which was why I pressed her on the point.
"Truthfully, do you think adopting is really a workable idea for somebody
like me? Would I—?"
"Morgan, I know you're making a film about the realities of the adoption
process. We both realize it's not easy." She must have seen something needful
in my eyes, because she continued on, adding detail, letting the well-known
facts con­vey the bad news. "As you're well aware, finding a young, healthy,
American baby nowadays is all but impossible. At the very least it can take
years." She was fiddling with some papers on her desk, avoiding my eyes.
Then she stubbed out her cigarette in a gesture that seemed intended to gain
time. "And even if you're willing to take a baby that's foreign-born, there still
can be plenty of heartbreak. That's just how it is."
"I'd always thought so too," I said. "It's actually the un­derlying motif of my
picture. But today I had an incredible experience. I filmed an interview of a
single woman, early forties, who just adopted a baby boy. It took less than
three months and he's blond and blue-eyed and perfect. I saw him, I held him,
and I can assure you he's as American as peach cobbler. The way she tells it,
the whole adoption process was a snap. Zero hassles and red tape."
"That's most exceptional." She peered at me dubiously. "Actually more like
impossible. Frankly, I don't believe it. This child must have been kidnapped or
something. How old, exactly, was he when she got him?"
"I don't know. Just a few weeks, I think."
Her eyes bored in. "This woman, whoever she is, was very, very lucky. If
what she says is true."
"The organization that got the baby for her is called Chil­dren of Light," I
went on. "That's all I know, really. I think it's up the Hudson somewhere, past

the Cloisters. Have you ever heard of them?"
Dr. Hannah Klein, I knew, was pushing three score and ten, had traveled
the world, seen virtually everything worth seeing. In younger years she was
reputed to have had torrid liaisons with every notable European writer on the
West Side. Her list of conquests read like an old New Yorker masthead. If
only I looked half that great at her age. But whatever else, she was
unflappable. Good news or bad, she took it and gave it with grace. Until this
moment. Her eyes registered undis­guised dismay.
"You can't mean it. Not that place. All that so-called New Age . . . are you
really sure you want to get involved in something like that?"
I found myself deeply confused. Were we talking about the same thing?
Then I remembered Carly had said some­thing about an infertility clinic.
"Frankly, nobody knows the first thing about that man," Hannah raged on.
"All you get is hearsay. He's supposedly one of those alternative-medicine
types, and a few people claim he's had some success, but it's all anecdotal. My
own opinion is, it's what real physicians call the 'placebo effect.' If a patient
believes hard enough something will happen, some of the time it actually
might. For God's sake, I'm not even sure he's board-certified. Do yourself a
favor and stay away. Oftentimes, people like that do more harm than good."
Then her look turned inquisitive. "Did you say he's providing children for
adoption now? That's peculiar. When did he start that?"
Was I hearing some kind of professional jealousy slipping out? Hannah
Klein was definitely Old School to the core.
"He who?" I was trying to remember the name of the doctor Carly had
mentioned. "You mean—"
"He says his name is . . . what? Goddard? Yes, Alex Goddard. He's—"
My pager chirped, interrupting her, and she paused, clearly annoyed. I
looked down to see a number I knew well. It had to be Lou Crenshaw, our
aforementioned security guard. He'd been off today, but there was only one
reason he would page me: some kind of news from Lenox Hill.
Maybe it was good news about Sarah! My hopes soared.
Or maybe it was bad. Please, dear God.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Klein. I've got to go. Right now. It could be a medical
emergency."
She nodded, then slid open the top drawer of her desk and handed me a list
of adoption agencies. "All right, here, take this and look it over. I've dealt with
some of them, letters of reference for patients like you." She must have
realized the insensitivity of that last quip, because she took my hand and
squeezed it, the closest we'd ever come to intimacy. "Let me know if I can
help you, Morgan. Really."
Grasping the lifeless paper, I ached for Steve all over again. Times like
this, you need some support. I finally glanced down at the list as I headed out.
Sure enough, Chil­dren of Light was nowhere to be seen.
Why not? I wondered. They'd found Kevin, a lovely blond baby boy, for
Carly, a single woman, in no time at all. They
sounded like miracle-makers, and if there was ever a moment for miracles,
this was it. Shouldn't they at least have been given a footnote?
I wanted to stalk right back and demand to know the real reason she was so
upset, but I truly didn't want to waste a moment.
Lou had paged me from a pay phone—he didn't actually have a cell phone
of his own—and I recognized the number as belonging to the phone next to
the Lenox Hill Hospital's third-floor nurses' station. When I tried it, however,
it was busy, so I decided to just get in my car and drive there as fast as I could.
And as I battled the traffic down Broadway, I realized that by diverting my
mind from my own trivial misery to the genuine tragedy of Sarah, I was
actually getting my perspec­tive back. That was one of the many things Sarah
had done for me over the years.
All right. Sarah and Lou, who figure so largely in this, deserve a full-dress
introduction, so obviously I should start by admitting I'd known them all my
life. Lou was my mother's half brother, three years younger than she was, who
came along after my grandfather widowed my grandmother in a freak tractor
rollover and she remarried a lifelong bache­lor neighbor. (I have old snapshots
of them, and I can tell you they all were cheerless, beady-eyed American
Gothics.) I'd arranged for David to hire Lou eight months earlier, not too long

after I came to Applecore. At that time he'd just taken early retirement from
the FBI, because of an event that shook us all up pretty seriously.
For some time now, Lou's been a rumpled, Willy Loman figure, like a
traveling salesman on the skids, shirts frayed at the collars, face tinted from a
truckload of Early Times. Over the past fifteen years I'd watched his waist
size travel from about thirty-three inches to thirty-seven, and I'd guess it's
been at least a decade since a barber asked him if he needed any off the top.
Natalie Rose, his spirited, wiry wife of thirty-seven years, succumbed to
ovarian cancer seven years ago last Sep­tember, and I know for a fact she was
the one who bought his shirts, provided him with general maintenance.
My first memories of him were when he was a county sheriff in a little
burg called Coleman, smack in the middle of Texas, some fifty-five long,
dusty miles from the ranch where I grew up. When I was about fourteen, I
remember he gave up on that and moved to Dallas, there to enter train­ing for
the FBI. He eventually ended up in New Orleans, and then, after Natalie Rose
passed away and he more or less fell apart, he got transferred to New York,
considered the elephant graveyard of an FBI career.
Probably the reason I saw him as much as I did as a kid was because of my
cousin Sarah, his and Rose's only child. She was six years younger than me, a
lot when you're kids, but we were very special to each other, had a kind of
bonding that I've never really known with anybody since. We spent a lot of
time staying at each other's house, me the almost-grown-up, and truthfully, I
loved her helplessly, like a little sister. I always wanted to think she needed
me, which can be the most affirming feeling in the world. I do know I needed
her.
She was now lying in a coma, and the way she got there was the tragedy of
my life, and Lou's. To begin with, though, let me say Sarah was a pretty
blonde from the start, with sun­shiny hair that defined her as perpetually
optimistic—and who wouldn't be, given the heads she always turned. (I was—
am—blond too, though with eyes more gray than her tur­quoise blues, but for
me blond's always been, on balance, an affliction: Sexist film producers
assume, dammit, that you're a failed showgirl, or worse. I've actually dyed it

brunette from time to time in hopes of being taken more seriously.) Sarah and
I had always had our own special chemistry, like a com­posite of opposites to
make a complete, whole human being. Whereas I was the rational, left-
brained slave of the concrete, she was a right-brained dweller in a world of
what-might-be. For years and years, she seemed to live in a dream universe of
her own making, one of imagination and fanciful states.
Once, when she was five, Lou hid in his woodworking shop for a month
and made an elaborate cutaway dollhouse to give her at Christmas. But when I
offered to help her find little dolls that would fit into it, she declared she only
wanted angels to live there. So we spent the rest of the winter—I dropped
everything—hunting down Christmas tree ornaments that looked like
heavenly creatures. She'd swathe them in tinsel and sit them in balls of cotton
she said were little clouds.
I always felt that just being around her opened my life to new dimensions,
but her dream existence constantly drove Lou and Rose to distraction. I think
it was one of the reasons he never got as close to her as he wanted, and his
feelings about that were deep frustration, and hurt. He loved her so much, but
he could never really find a common wavelength.
Finally she came down to earth enough to start college, and eventually she
graduated from SMU in biology, then enrolled at Columbia for premed. By
then she was interested in the workings of the brain, in altered states. I didn't
know if it was just more pursuit of fantasy, but at least she was going about it
professionally.
Anyway, when Lou got transferred to New York, he was actually delighted,
since it gave him a chance to be closer to her. We all managed to get together
for family reunions pretty often, though Lou and Sarah were talking past each
other half the time.
Then tragedy struck. She was just finishing her master's, and had been
accepted by Cornell Medical—Lou was burst­ing with pride—when he
suggested they use her Christmas break to drive back down to Texas together,
there to visit Rose's grave. (I think he really wanted to show off his bud­ding
doctor-to-be to the family.) Sarah was driving when they crossed the state line

into Louisiana and were side-swiped by a huge Mack eighteen-wheeler, which
was in the process of jackknifing across a frozen patch of interstate. They
were thrown into the path of an oncoming car, and when the blood and snow
were cleared, a six-year-old girl in the other vehicle was dead.
The result was Sarah decided she'd taken a human life. Her own minor
facial cuts—which Lou immediately had re­paired with plastic surgery—
somehow evolved into a major disfigurement of her soul. All her mental
eccentricities, which had been locked up somewhere when she started col­lege,
came back like a rush of demons loosed from some Pandora's box deep in her
psyche. She dropped out of school, and before long she was in the throes of a
full-scale mental meltdown. She disappeared, and in the following two years
Lou got exactly one card from her, postmarked in San Fran­cisco with no
return address. He carried it with him at all times and we both studied it often,
puzzling over the New Age astrological symbol on the front. The brief note
announced she'd acquired "Divine Energy" and was living on a new plane of
consciousness.
Then eight months ago, the State Department notified Lou she was missing
in Guatemala. She'd overstayed her visa and nobody knew where she was.
So how did her "new plane of consciousness" land her in Central America?
Was that part of the fantasy world she'd now returned to? Lou still worked
downtown at 26 Federal Plaza, but he immediately took a leave of absence
and, though he spoke not a syllable of Spanish, plunged down there to look
for her.
He was there a month, following false leads, till he finally
ran into a Reverend Ben Jackson, late of a self-styled Prot­estant ministry in
Mississippi, who was one of the ardent new Evangelicals swarming over
Central America. The man mentioned that some chicle harvesters in the
northwest Peten Department of Guatemala had found a young woman in an
old dugout canoe on the Guatemala side of the wide Usumacinta River, near a
tributary called the Rio Tigre, lodged in amongst overhanging trees. She'd
been struck on the head and presumably set adrift somewhere upriver, left for
dead. She was now in a coma, resting at Jackson's "Jesus es el Hombre"

clinic, also located deep in the northwest Peten rain forest. He had no idea
who she was.
Lou rented a car and drove there, almost a day on unpaved roads. It was
Sarah.
Thus she was no longer missing; she was now the apparent victim of an
attempted murder. However, rather than being helpful, the local policia
appeared annoyed she'd been found, thereby reopening the matter. A blond
gringa was out hiking somewhere she had no business being in the first place
and tripped and hit her head on something. Where's the crime?
Lou brought her back to New York, using a medevac plane supplied by the
State Department, which, wanting no more CIA-type scandals of American
nationals being murdered in Guatemala, cooperated with great dispatch.
After that, he needed a job that would afford him time flexibility, so he
could be at her bedside as much as possible. David was looking for a security
head, and I realized it would be a perfect match. Since we didn't really need a
full-time person, Lou could spend a lot of hours at Lenox Hill, watch­ing over
Sarah.
She was just lying there now, no sign of consciousness, her body being
kept alive with IV I'd go by to visit her as much as I could, and almost as bad
as seeing the comatose Sarah was seeing the grief in Lou's eyes. He would sit
there at the hospital every day, sometimes several hours a day, fingering an
old engraved locket that carried her high-school graduation picture, just
rubbing it through his fingers like a rosary. We always made allowances when
he wanted to take time off during one of our shooting schedules, figuring
maybe he was helping her. . . .
As I turned east, to go crosstown, I thought again about Sarah's condition.
She and I looked a lot alike, dense blond hair for one thing, but to see her now
you'd scarcely know it, since hers had been clipped down to nothing by the
hos­pital. Her cheekbones, however, were still strong, a quality now
exaggerated by her emaciated state, and her eyes, which I had not seen in
years, were a deep languid, turquoise blue. But seeing her lying there inert,
being kept alive with tubes and liquids, wearing pressure pants to help

circulate blood through her legs, you'd scarcely realize she'd been a strik­ingly
beautiful woman before the accident.
What's worse, from what I knew, the horrific brain trau­mas that bring on a
coma don't automatically go away when you regain consciousness. If the
coma is the result of a head injury, and if it lasts more than a few days, the
chances of regaining all your mental functions are up for grabs. Lou once said
there's a scale of eight stages to full recovery. Peo­ple who have short comas
can sometimes come out of them and go through those stages quickly—from
initial eye move­ment to full mental faculties. Others, who've been under for
months or longer can require years to come back. Sometimes they can only
blink their eyes to answer questions; sometimes they babble on incessantly.
They can talk sense, or they can talk nonsense, incoherent fantasies, even
strings of numbers. The brain is a complex, unpredictable thing. . .
I always thought about this as I took the elevator up to Lenox Hill's third
floor. The room where they kept Sarah was painted a pale, sterile blue, and
made even more de­pressing by stark fluorescent lights. Everything was
chrome and baked-on enamel, including the instruments whose CRT screens
reported her bodily functions. None of the instru­ments, however, had ever
shown the brain activity associated with consciousness.
Lou was there when I walked in. He had a kind of wildness in his eyes,
maybe what you get when you mix hope with despair. We hugged each other
and he said, "She had a mo­ment, Morgy. She knew me. I'm sure she did."
Then he told me in detail what had happened. A nurse passing Sarah's room
had happened to notice an unexpected flickering on one of her monitors. She'd
immediately in­formed the nurses' station, where instructions included Lou's
home number.
He'd grabbed a cab and raced there. When he got to her room, he pushed
his way past the Caribbean nurses and bent over her, the first time he had
hoped a conversation with her would be anything but a monologue.
"Honey, can you hear me?"
There was no sign, save the faint flicker of an eyelid.
It was enough. His own pulse rocketed.

"Where's the damned doctor?"
While the physician was being summoned, he had a chance to study her.
Yes, there definitely was some move­ment behind her eyelids. And her regular
breathing had be­come less measured, as though she were fighting to overcome
her autonomic nervous system and challenge life on her own.
Finally an overworked Pakistani intern arrived. He pro­ceeded to fiddle
with the monitors, doing something Lou did not understand. Then without
warning—and certainly attrib­utable to nothing the physician did—Sarah
opened her eyes.
Lou, who had not seen those eyes for several years, caught himself feasting
on their rich, aquatic blue. He looked into them, but they did not look back.
They were focused on infinity, adrift in a lost sea of their own making. They
stared at him a moment, then vanished again behind her eyelids.
He told me all this and then his voice trailed off, his de­spair returning. . . .
"Lou, it's a start. Whatever happens is bound to be slow. But this could be
the beginning. . . ."
We both knew what I was saying was perilously close to wishful thinking,
but nobody in the room was under oath. For the moment, though, she was
back in her coma, as though nothing had changed.
I waited around until eight o'clock, when I finally con­vinced myself that
being there was not doing anybody any good. Lou, I later learned, stayed on
till well past eleven, when they finally had to send security to evict him.
Okay, I've been holding out on the most important detail. The truth is, I
hardly knew what to make of it. At one point when I was bending over Sarah's
seemingly unconscious face, her eyes had clicked open for just a fleeting
moment, startling me the way those horror movies do when the "un-dead"
suddenly come alive. Lou was in his chair and didn't see it, didn't notice me
jump.
The last thing I wanted to do was tell him about it, and I was still shivering
as I shoved my key into the Toyota's ig­nition and headed for home. She'd
looked directly into my eyes, a flicker of recognition, and then came the fear.

She sort of moved her mouth, trying to speak, but all that came was a silent
scream, after which her eyes went blank as death and closed again.
She knew me, I was sure of it, but she had looked through me and seen a
reminder of some horror now locked deep in her soul.

Chapter Four

Lou took the next few days off to spend by Sarah's side, but nothing more
happened. I repeatedly called him at the hospital to check on her, though it
was becoming clear her brush with consciousness had only been an interlude.
Finally, I decided to show Carly's rushes to David (he loved them) and try to
concentrate on postproduction for the rest of the week and the weekend,
anything to make me not have to dwell on Sarah's ghostlike, soundless cry of
anguish.
Postproduction. When you're shooting a picture, you have to make all
kinds of compromises; but in post, with luck and skill, you can transform that
raw footage into art. You mix and cut the takes till the performances are taut;
you loop in rerecorded dialogue where necessary to get just the right reading
of a line; the Foley guys give you clear sound effects where the production
sound is muddy; and you balance the hues of reds and blues, darks and lights
till you get just the right color tone.
All of the polishing that came with post still lay ahead. The first step was
to go through the rough cut and "spot" the film, marking places where the
sound effects or dialogue would need to be replaced with rerecorded studio
sound— which meant several days, maybe weeks, of looping to edit out
background noise and make the dialogue sound rich and crisp. For some of it,
the actors would have to come back in and lip-synch themselves, which they
always hate.
It was daunting, to have to work back and forth between production sound
tracks and loop tracks, blending alternate takes. You had to figure on only
doing about ten minutes of film a day, and then, after all that, you had to get
the "opticals" right, the fade-outs and dissolves and, finally, the credit
sequences.
Normally, once I started post, I would have exactly ten weeks to
accomplish all that before the executive producer, David, got his hands on my
picture. That was the prerogative that was part of the standard director's

contract. Now, though, I figured that was out the window. With the money
going fast, I had to produce a rough cut and get the picture sold to cable in six
weeks, period.
But first things first. I deeply needed at least one more interview—Carly's
was too much of a happy one-note— which was why I needed to shoot Paula
Marks. It was now on for Thursday, today.
The appointment had taken all weekend, including a Sun­day brunch, to set
up, but by that time I was sure this second mother would be perfect. She was a
tall, willowy woman, forty-three, who had let her hair start going to gray.
Honesty, it was right there in her pale brown eyes. She wrote children's books,
had never married—she now believed she never would—and had decided to
adopt a child because she had a lot of extra love she felt was going to waste.
Different from Carly Grove, maybe, but not in the matter of strength, and
fearless independence.
We arrived around ten A.M. to discover her apartment was in one of those
sprawling prewar West Side monoliths, thick plaster walls and a rabbit's
warren of halls and foyers, legacy of an age before "lofts" and open spaces.
Terribly cramped for shooting. But Paula agreed to let the blue-jeaned crew
move her old, overstuffed couch out of the living room, along with the piles of
books that lined the walls.
Another issue was makeup. At first Paula insisted she didn't want any.
Never wore it, it was deceitful, and she didn't want to appear on camera
looking like Barbie. (Small chance of that, I thought. A little war paint now
and then might help your chances of landing a father for this child.)
Eventually Arlene persuaded her that cameras lie and the only way to look
like yourself is to enhance those qualities that make you you. It was a thin
argument, but Arlene came from a long line of apparel proprietors who could
unload sunlamps in the Sahara.
Paula's adopted daughter Rachel, who was a year and a half old, was
running around the apartment, blond tresses flowing, dragging a doll she had
named Angie. Except the name came out "Ann-gee." She was immediately
adopted by the crew, and Erica, the production manager, was soon teaching

her how to play patty-cake. Then Rachel wanted to demonstrate her new skills
at eating spaghetti. In five min­utes she was covered head to toe in Ragu
tomato sauce.
When the Panaflex was finally rolling, the story Paula spun out was almost
identical to the one told by Carly Grove. She'd spent hours with all the legal
services recommended by NYSAC, New York Singles Adopting Children,
listening to them describe a scenario of delays and paperwork and heartache.
It could be done, but it could take years. Look, she'd declared, I'll cash in my
IRA, do anything, just give me some hope. Okay, they'd replied, tighten your
belt, scare up sixty big ones, and go to see Children of Light. We hear stories.
...
Soon after she called them, the skies had opened. A New Age physician
and teacher there, a man with striking eyes named Alex Goddard, had made it
happen. Rachel was hers in just four months, no paperwork.
Sure, she declared, Children of Light was expensive, but Alex Goddard
was a deeply spiritual man who really took the time to get to know you, even
practically begged you to come to his clinic-commune and go through his
course of mind-body fertility treatment. But when she insisted she just wanted
to adopt, he obligingly found Rachel for her. How could she be anything but
grateful? She was so happy, she wanted everybody in the world to know about
him.
As she bubbled on, I found my attention wandering to Rachel, who'd just
escaped from the crew keeping her in the kitchen and was running through the
living room, singing a song from Sesame Street. Something about the way she
moved was very evocative.
Where've I seen her before? Then it dawned on me. Her walk made me
think of Kevin. Actually, everything about her reminded me of Kevin. Were
all kids starting to look the same? God, I wanted them both.
Yeah, I thought, daydreaming of holding her, she's Kevin all over again,
clear as day. She's a dead ringer to be his older sister. It feels very strange.
Or maybe I was just seeing things. To some extent all babies looked alike,
right? That is, until you have one of your own.

I had to swallow hard, to try to collect my thoughts. Carly and Paula
scarcely even knew each other. If Rachel really was Kevin's sister, they'd
never know anything about it.
Incredible . . . it was just too big a coincidence.
But still. . . and what about the film footage? Show close- ups of the kids,
and anybody not legally blind was going to see the similarity. . . .
Why would somebody give up two children for adoption? I found myself
wondering. Giving up one was tragic enough.
"Cut." I waved at everybody. "Take ten. We need to re­charge here, take a
break and stretch."
Paula was caught off guard, in the middle of a sentence, and she let her
voice trail off, puzzled.
"Hey, I'm sorry Rachel came barging in," Paula finally said. "Guess she
broke everybody's concentration, huh?"
"Yeah, well, sometimes we all need to lean back and take a fresh run at
things." I called to Rachel, who came trotting over, spaghetti sauce still on her
face, and picked her up. I felt at a loss about what to do. Tell Paula her
daughter had a younger brother in the Village, and she might fall apart. "I was
actually curious about something. Do you know any­thing about Rachel's birth
mother?"
"I don't want to know. It would disrupt my life. And my peace of mind."
Her eyes acquired a kind of sadness mingled with anxiety. "I'm reconciled to
the fact she probably got into some kind of trouble, may not have exactly been
Nobel Prize material, but I'm a big believer in nurture over nature. That's why
I write books for kids. So I think Rachel's going to end up being a lot more
like me than like her real mother."
Brave words. But I'll bet you anything the story of Ra­chel's mother is a lot
more complicated than you imagine.
I glanced at my watch, the hour pushing four-thirty. Time to call it a wrap.
Besides, if we shot any more today, the crew would end up on overtime, and
David was getting in­creasingly nervous about my extra costs.
I also needed a little downtime to reflect.

"Look, I think I've got enough footage to work with for now. Let me just
get the release signed take this film down­town, and get it processed. Maybe
we can come back for another shoot when I figure out exactly where this is
going."
"Anytime. Just give me some notice and I'll try to have the place cleaned
up more next time."
"Don't worry. I like it to look real. Just sign the release and I'll take it from
there." I was about to set Rachel back on the floor when something caught in
my sweater. Looking down, I realized it was a tiny charm bracelet, with two
little medallions on it. One was a little red plastic likeness of Pocahontas, the
Disney character, and the other was a silver face of a cat, long and stylized.
And on the back, those cu­rious lines and dots again, only these were arranged
differ­ently from those on the one Carly's boy Kevin had.
"Paula, what's this? This cat. Where'd you get it?"
"Oh, that." She smiled. "She was wearing it when I got her, on a little silk
cord around her waist, under her diaper. They told me it was a gift from her
real mother, a keepsake. Sort of breaks your heart, but the way they said it,
you want to keep it forever. . . ."
At that moment Erica was just plugging the phone back in, and the second
she did, the old, black Panasonic cordless began to ring.
"Hang on a sec," Paula said. "Let me get that. My agent is supposed—"
She'd picked up the phone and was plopping back onto the couch. "Hi."
Then her look turned blank. "No, of course not." She fell into an
uncomfortable pause, looking around at everybody. Then she continued.
"Nobody's contacted me." She halted again, her face white, and stared directly
at me. I abruptly sensed that I was the topic of the conversation. "Sure I'm
sure. . . . Yes, I remember signing. . . . Don't worry. I'd have no reason to. . . .
Okay, sure, I'll let you know."
She clicked off the phone and looked up with startled eyes. "It was
somebody who said they worked for Children of Light. She wanted to know if
you'd contacted me." Her face collapsed. "You. She asked me specifically
about you. By name. How did—?"

"I have no idea." My hands were growing cold. Had Carly told them about
me? Why would she do that? "Anyway, you handled it okay."
Which made me wonder. If Children of Light was such a perfect
organization, why was Paula so frightened she immediately felt compelled to
lie, to swear she hadn't broken their rules?
"Right." Her composure was slowly coming back. "Look, now that I think
about it, why should they care? It doesn't make any sense. They got their
money." She turned to me. "Let me have that release."
She seized the paper and endorsed it with a flourish.
My pulse was still in overdrive, but I hugged her, then signaled the crew
that shooting was over for the day.
"Okay, everybody. Time to wrap."
The gang immediately began striking the lights and rolling up electrical
cords. They would take the equipment back downtown and deliver the film to
the lab, while I would head home. It had been a long day and lots of thinking
was needed. Besides, it was starting to rain, a dismal spatter against Paula's
grimy windows, as the gray spring afternoon had begun darkening toward
sullen evening.
"Listen, I enjoyed this." Paula had taken Rachel in her arms and was
stroking her blond hair. "I really love talking about her. She's changed my
life."
I gave her another hug. "You're great. And you're going to be wonderful in
the film." If I used her. The whole thing was getting unnerving. "You have no
idea how much you've helped." Then I said good-bye to Rachel, who
responded with a perfect "Bye, bye" through her haze of spaghetti sauce.
Okay, get the superintendent. Crank up the freight eleva­tor. Get out of here.
Scott Ventri, key grip, took charge of handling the gear, dictating which
equipment got loaded on first. I watched long enough to make sure everything
was going okay, and then I joined Arlene, old friend and queen of outrageous
makeup, on the other elevator.
"You notice it?" she whispered. The door had just closed.
"Notice what?" I knew full well what she was talking about. But it just felt
too bizarre.

"Those kids could almost be twins. That little boy last week, and this girl.
They look just alike. It's spooky."
"Guess their parents couldn't figure out what was causing those
pregnancies. So they just kept having more babies." I decided to try to insert
some humor, deflect the conversation. "Maybe we should tell Paula and
Carly."
"Very dumb." Arlene bit at a long, red, false fingernail, a perennial habit
for as long as I'd known her. "We should mind our own business, that's what
we should do."
"Works for me. But it also proves we were smart not to shoot any footage
of the kids. The whole world would realize something's funny." Then I had an
idea. "Want to come downtown to my place after we unload? Have some deep
thoughts over what all this means?"
First the kids, then the call. What was this guy Alex God­dard, whoever he
was, up to? Definitely time to talk to some­body. . . .
"Gee, I'd love to," Arlene was saying, "but I can't. I gotta go out to Kew
Gardens for my mom and dad's anniversary tonight. Their thirty-fifth, can you
believe? Of course, I was a very late baby." She blinked her dark, languid
eyes, as though rehearsing the line for a downtown club.
"A miracle of modern fertility science, right?" Shit. Ar­lene, I need you.
"Right." She giggled, then seemed to study the flashing lights on the
elevator's control panel. "God, those kids, they're too good to be true. I'd love
to have one like that." She impatiently pounded the number one a couple of
times, perhaps hoping to speed our creaky descent. "I can get bonked every
night of the week, but I can't get a serious boyfriend. New York's clubs aren't
exactly brimming with the vine-covered-cottage-and-picket-fence type. And
as for the pickings at work, given the kind of pictures David makes, forget it.
Last thing I need is some twenty-year-old pothead who thinks with his wang."
"I'm afraid I'm not helping you much with this one." I'd cast Baby Love
mostly with Off-Broadway unknowns. The actress Mary Gregg was a veteran
of Joseph Papp's original Public Theater, the experimental enterprise

downtown. The few male parts all went to guys who were either gay or mar­‐
ried.
"Oy, what can you do, right? If it happens, it happens." Arlene watched the
door begin to stutter open as we bumped onto the lobby level. Then she
zeroed in on me. "You really want a kid too, don't you? I mean, that's why you
did this script, right? Which, by the way, is great. I mean the script."
"I think most women do, down deep."
She smiled. "Well, if I ever have one, it's going to be the old-fashioned
way. It's a heck of a lot cheaper than adopting." She was heading out, into the
front foyer. "Not to mention more fun getting there."
On that I definitely had to agree.
The lobby's prewar look was gray and dismal, and as we emerged onto the
street, the rain had turned into a steady downpour. Lou was off again today,
down at the hospital with Sarah, so I'd engaged a doorman from a new co-op
across the street to keep an eye on our vans. A crisp twenty had extracted his
solemn promise to do just that. At the mo­ment, however, he was nowhere to
be seen. Proving, I sup­pose, David's theory that we needed our own security
guy at all location shoots.
Lou, I thought, I hope you're finally getting through to her.
"No limo, but at least we get first call on the vans," Arlene observed, her
voice not hiding the sarcasm. "Just once I'd
like to work for somebody who had serious VIP transporta­tion."
"David would walk before he'd get a limo."
We were headed down the street, me digging out my keys, when I noticed
the man standing in the rain. He was just behind our lead van, a three-year-old
gray Ford, waiting for us.
My first thought was he must be connected to Nicky Russo, David's
wiseguy banker, here to bust my chops over the Teamster issue. Screw him.
Just my luck he'd send some­body the very day Lou was not on hand. But then
I realized I'd guessed wrong. The man was more Hispanic than Italian. He
also was short, solidly built, late fifties maybe, with in­tense eyes and gray hair
that circled his balding pate like the dirty snow around a volcano's rim. As he

moved toward us, I thought I detected something military in his bearing, not
so much the crispness of a soldier but rather the authoritative swagger of an
officer. Well, maybe a retired officer.
"The paper on your windshield says you are filming a movie," came a
voice with a definite Spanish accent. No greetings, no hiya, how're you doin'?
Just the blunt state­ment. Then, having established what was already clear to
all at hand, he continued. "It says the title is Baby Love. Why are you making
this movie here?"
That was it. I glanced at Arlene, who'd turned white as a sheet. You get a
lot of onlookers around a location shoot, but not too many who challenge your
right to exist, which was exactly what was coming through in his menacing
tone.
I handed Arlene the keys. "Here, go ahead and open up. I'll handle this."
Then I turned back to him. "What you saw in the wind­shield of the vans is
a New York City Film Board permit. That's all the information we are
required to provide. If you read it, you know everything I'm obliged to tell
you." I re­turned his stare. "However, if people ask nicely, I'm happy to answer
their questions."
"Are you making this movie about a person in this build­ing? Your other
films have been documentaries."
God help me, I thought. Is this what my fans are like?
Then it hit me. I don't know how I'd missed the connec­tion, but now it just
leapt out. First the phone call, then this hood. Somebody was tracking me.
"I'm scouting locations," I lied, feeling a chill go through me. "We're
second unit for an action film, shooting some prep footage for the producers.
Does the name Arnold Schwarzenegger mean anything to you?"
"Then why is the film about babies?"
"That's meant to be a joke. Remember the movie Twins? It's a joke title. Do
you understand?"
At that moment, Paul Nulty came barging out the door with a huge klieg
light, followed by several other members of the crew carrying sound gear. Our
cordial tete-a-tete was about to be disrupted.

My new Hispanic friend saw them and abruptly drew up. That was when I
noticed the shoulder holster under his jacket, containing some sort of snub-
nosed pistol.
Jesus, I thought, this must be what some kind of hired killer looks like.
That gun's not a prop.
"I think you are lying." He closed his jacket and, ignoring my crew, bored
in relentlessly on me, his eyes dead and mer­ciless. "That is a big mistake."
It was the first time in my life I'd ever stood next to a man who had a gun
and was deeply ticked at me. He'd wanted me to see his piece, just to make
sure I took him seriously. He wasn't threatening me, per se. Rather he was
letting me know how strongly he cared about what I was doing.
Well, damn him, but I still was scared. I might have man­aged to bluff
Nicky Russo, but he was a guy who operated by an age-old set of Sicilian
rules. This thug didn't strike me as the rule-book type.
Hand shaking, I pulled out my cell phone, flicked it open, and punched in
911.
"Listen, if you're threatening me with a gun, I'm calling the cops. Whatever
problem you have with the New York film industry, you can explain it to
them."
New York's police emergency number was still ringing as he abruptly
turned and strode away.
I clicked the phone shut and moved to get out of the way as a trolley
loaded with more gear was rolled past me down the sidewalk. Unfortunately, I
also took my eyes off him for a second, and when I looked up again, he
seemed to have disappeared into the rain, though I did notice somebody who
could have been him get into a long black car well down the block and speed
off toward Broadway.
"What did that creep want?" Arlene asked, coming back with the keys.
I was only slowly returning to reality, and it took me a few moments to
form a coherent answer through all the adrenaline surging into my brain.
"I . . . I don't know. But I think I'd better warn everybody to keep an eye
out for strangers. He's . . . he's wound a little tight, to put it mildly." I was still

shaking, which she fortu­nately failed to notice. At that point, there seemed no
great reason to spook her with mention of the gun.
"Boy, he wasn't just some homeless junkie," she said. "He looked like a
heavy in one of David's old action pictures. All he needed was a Mack-10."
"Right." Jesus, Arlene, I think he might have had one. "So let's get
moving."
As I watched the vans being loaded, slowly calming down, I kept thinking
about him. He was undoubtedly connected to the phone call, but why would
anybody be so worried about what I was doing? I couldn't think of any serious
rea­son.
Half an hour later we were all headed downtown. Along the rain-swept
streets the "All Beef" hot-dog vendors cow­ered under their red-and-yellow
striped umbrellas, while de­parting office workers, briefcases perched above
their heads as makeshift protection, scurried along the edges of build­ings
searching for cabs. While Arlene continued to chat non­stop, I tried to do a
little mental processing. And my mind kept drifting back to the sight of little
Rachel, and Kevin. What perfect kids. The way she was running. . . .
Hey, wait a minute. How could they be siblings? Brother and sister?
Rachel was almost exactly half a year older than Kevin. Biology didn't work
that way. No way could they be related, but still . . . they looked so alike.
I realized Arlene hadn't put it together about the ages. The brother/sister
theory made absolutely no sense. Those kids were born six months apart.
If that wasn't strange enough, why did they both have those tiny cat
medallions with the lines and dots on the back? Which were actually kind of
creepy, more like sacred amulets than little toys.
Talk to Lou. He might have some insights.
No, better yet, go to the source. Children of Light. Call Alex Goddard's
adoption agency or clinic or whatever it is and make an appointment.

Chapter Five

I was feeling a bit off center that evening, but I explained it away as
mental overload, the rain, and the implied threats. That diagnosis got revised
the next morning when I awoke with a mind-numbing headache, chills
alternating with a mild fever, and my chest feeling like it was caught in a
com­pactor. It was a so-called common cold, but there was nothing common
about my misery, which was truly exceptional.
I made a cup of Echinacea tea and then washed down 2000 mg of Vitamin
C with some aging orange juice from my fridge, after which I took a couple of
Tylenol, put on yesterday's jeans, and headed uptown to work. I also treated
myself to a cab.
When I settled into the cluttered corner room that was my office, I told
myself this was not a day to make any big decisions. Just stick to matters that
required nothing more than autopilot.
The first thing I did was call Lou to check on Sarah (no change), and then I
told him about my Hispanic visitor. He made concerned sounds and promised
to accompany me on any further location shoots.
Next I pulled out my date book and punched in a phone number I'd
scribbled in the back. I'd gotten it when I was winding up my interview with
Carly Grove.
"Children of Light," said an unctuous voice. "This is Ramala."
I hesitated a moment before giving my name. They already knew who I
was; Ramala or somebody had called Paula Marks and asked about me. Me.
What would she do when she heard it was yours truly in the flesh?
I tried to take a deep breath, working around the feeling my lungs were on
fire, and identified myself.
Ramala received the information as though she'd never heard of me.
Maybe she hadn't. Then I asked for an appoint­ment with Alex Goddard. As
soon as it was convenient.

"He leaves his Saturdays open," she said, more of the smiley voice, "so I
could make a special appointment for you tomorrow. Would ten A.M. be all
right?"
Her accent was the kind of Delhi colonial-ruling-class you associate with
expensive silk saris and ruby bracelets, yet at the same time her voice had an
overlay of that melodious, touchy-feely unctuousness you hear on relaxation
tapes. I half expected her to next say, inhale deeply and feel the love flowing
through the universe. In any case, she couldn't have sounded more open and
forthcoming.
I had to remind myself immediately that it wasn't true. Given the
inquisitive phone call to Paula Marks, Children of Light was an organization
that deeply cherished its privacy. Presumably they had a reason, and that
reason didn't neces­sarily have to be sinister, but still, I had every reason to
think they were upset about me and it made me paranoid. And now Alex
Goddard immediately had time for a "special ap­pointment."
"Ten o'clock will be fine," I said, just barely croaking the words out of my
chest.
She gave me directions for reaching the Riverdale clinic, called Quetzal
Manor, and hung up. I felt so miserable I could barely remember afterward
what she'd said, but fortu­nately I'd taken notes.
Quetzal Manor. An odd choice for a name, I'd thought.
Some kind of bird sacred to the Maya Indians of Central America. But then
Paula had mentioned at one point that he was very interested in indigenous
Third World herbs and remedies. So maybe it fit.
But still, one big puzzle kept coming back to haunt: How do you produce
perfectly healthy siblings six months apart? (I actually called Carly and Paula
back to verify the ages.) The more I thought about Kevin and Rachel, the
more I realized they were so unmistakably related.
Puzzling over that, I began to wonder if maybe I was on the verge of
uncovering a blockbuster documentary. Could we be talking something
approaching science fiction here? Making documentaries, you're always on
the lookout for the unexpected, the fresh. So how about an organization that

could obtain beautiful Caucasian babies seemingly at will, including peas-in-
a-pod born a few months apart? I was al­ready framing a pitch to David in my
mind.
Anyway, the rest of the day, while I was busy battling my cold with
antihistamines and lots of hot soup, I mounted a major phone inquiry just to
make sure all the rules on adop­tion hadn't somehow changed when I wasn't
looking. They hadn't. First off, to get a child in three or four months, you'd
almost certainly have to go with foreign adoption. China was everybody's
flavor of the month, because they favored older parents and also because the
one-child-per-family policy there had ended up producing a wide-scale
abandonment of girls (who were all those precious boys going to marry? I
often found myself wondering). However, the shifting poli­tics there made the
process very unreliable. A few months? Don't even think about it.
Pressing on, I satisfied myself that the country-specific organizations that
found babies in the emerging parts of the world all still worked the same.
Cradle of Hope specialized in orphaned Russian kids. Children and Families,
Inc., provided adoptions for Equadorian children. International Adoption
Assistance, Inc., handled Brazilian orphans. But they all were still fussy, and
they could take ages. How about a brand-new healthy baby in just a few
months? I'd ask. Some kind of new fast track? The question was always taken
as a joke. . . .
I would be driving up to Quetzal Manor in my old Toyota, and I dearly
wished Steve could somehow materialize and be with me. In his absence,
however, I convinced Lou to come along. I figured the change of scene would
do him good, and I also wanted the security of having him with me, after the
threatening phone call to Paula and the Hispanic thug who'd accosted me
outside her apartment building. Be­sides, it'd just be a couple of hours.
The next morning, as we trekked up Riverside Drive, then the Henry
Hudson Parkway, the sky was a flawless blue and the wide Hudson seemed
like an ardent highway leading into the heart of America. Still in elevated
spirits over Sarah's momentary brush with consciousness, Lou had noticeably
less of a hangover than was usual most mornings. Maybe he was looking

forward to a little mental R&R. For my own part, I felt my curiosity growing.
I'd gone to a lot of appoint­ments over the years, but rarely did I suspect the
person I was going to see already knew more about me than I knew about
them.
After we crossed the Henry Hudson Bridge, we left the highway and
headed down a service road that led toward the river. Then there was an
imposing gate, open, and a tree- shrouded driveway. Finally the place loomed
in front of us.
The physical appearance of Quetzal Manor was a study in European
grandeur, translated with a few extra frills from the New World. Carly had
told me it had once been a Car­melite convent, dating from sometime in the
middle of the last century, and it was a monument to Church authority, with
endless arches of cut stone, turrets, gargoyles. As we were motoring to the end
of the long cobblestone drive, I felt as if I was approaching some Gothic
movie set. Given its hovering sense of regal authority, the place could easily
have been a castle, but it seemed more like a brooding hom­age to medieval
torture. Let me just say it was truly magis­terial, yet also more than a little
creepy.
As we parked under a huge oak tree in front, I surveyed the facade, trying
to marshal my strength. Enough of my cold still lingered that I didn't feel as if
my mind was working on all cylinders, and for a moment I merely sat
looking, trying to breathe.
"Want me to go in with you?" Lou asked finally. He was examining the
building suspiciously, like a detective survey­ing a crime scene.
I wanted him with me and then again I didn't. I longed for the company, a
protector, but I didn't want the compli­cations, more things to explain inside.
Finally I made a snap decision.
"Why don't you take a stroll around the grounds?" I suggested. "Commune
with nature. The fresh air will do you good. This can't take long. Mainly I just
want to get some literature and try to gain a feeling for the place."
That wasn't entirely, or even partly, true. What I really wanted to find out
was threefold: How did they manage to get beautiful healthy Caucasian babies

for two single women in just a few months; how could those babies be only
six months apart in age and still obviously be siblings; and (this was where
my feelings got complicated) could they get a baby for me the same way,
never mind how they did it. It was the third thing that actually bothered me
the most, since I was far from sure I wanted to be a part of whatever was
going on.
Lou just shrugged and leaned back in his seat. "Take as
long as you like. I'll just wait here in the car. I'm not the nature type."
That was certainly the case.
I walked across the cobblestones to an arched entryway that had no door. I
wondered at this—most convents are like a fortress—and then I realized the
front door had been re­moved, leaving only its ancient hinges still bolted into
the stones. Perhaps it was intended to be a symbol of openness, inviting you
in.
There was no sign of anybody—the saccharine-voiced Ramala was not on
hand to greet me—so I just headed on down a wide hallway, past a table of
brochures. The place had been decorated with expensive good taste: tapestries
all over the stone walls, perfect Persian rugs, classic church statuary—all of it
calling forth powerful feelings from deep in the psyche.
Then I entered a vast interior courtyard, where a central fountain splashed
cheerily in the midday light. The courtyard was circled with a picturesque
gallery of cells, all with mas­sive wooden doors, most likely rooms once
inhabited by chaste sisters.
The place did seem to be a clinic-commune now, just as Paula had said.
Not nuns this time around, but rather New Age acolytes whose tastes ran more
to secular music than to religious chants, as witness the cacophony of sounds
that wafted out from several of the cells. Only it wasn't any kind of
conventional music; it seemed a mixture of Japanese flute, North Indian ragas,
African drumming. I liked the ragas, even recognized my favorite, "Bhairavi."
Then I spotted something that riveted my attention. At the back of the
courtyard, just past a final wooden door, stood a huge South Indian bronze

statue, about five feet high, of the Dancing Shiva. It appeared to be presiding
over the arch­way that led out into a dense natural garden behind the build­ing.
I walked across the cobblestones to examine and admire it. It seemed an
odd item to find here in the courtyard of a once-cloistered convent. I was so
enthralled I failed to hear the door behind me open.
"Do you find my Shiva interesting, Ms. James?" said a soothing voice, just
barely audible above the chirps of birds. I think I caught a breath in my
phlegm-locked chest, but then I turned to see a tall man dressed in casual
chinos and a dark sweater. He was trim, looked to be in his early sixties, with
a mane of salt-and-pepper hair and lean features more craggy than handsome.
But his eyes were everything, telling you he owned the space around him,
owned in fact, the air he breathed. It had to be Alex Goddard.
"Yes," I answered almost before I thought. "It just seems to be a little out
of place here."
I wondered if he was going to introduce himself. Then I realized that when
you're used to being the master of a pri­vate domain, you probably never think
to bother with such trivial formalities. Everybody knows who you are.
"Well," he said, his voice disarmingly benign, "I suppose I must beg to
differ. May I suggest you consider this Shiva for a moment and try to imagine
he's a real god?"
"He is a real god" I said immediately feeling patronized. Nothing makes
me angry faster. "In India, he's—"
"Yes," he said "I know you did a film about India—which I found quite
extraordinary, by the way—but why wouldn't the Shiva fit right in here? You
see, he's a very modern, universal figure. He incorporates everything that
exists in the contemporary world. Space, time, matter, and energy. As well as
all of human psychology and wisdom."
"I'm aware of that," I said sensing my pique increase. We were not getting
off to a great start.
"Yes, well." He seemed not to hear me. Instead he started putting on the
leather jacket he'd had slung over his shoulder. "Notice that Shiva has four
arms, and he's dancing with one foot raised. He's also standing inside that

great circle of flame, a sort of halo encompassing his whole body. That circle
stands for the great, all-embracing material universe, all of it. Dark and light,
good and evil. He knows and controls everything."
Hey, I realized, this guy's got some kind of identity thing going with this
ancient Indian god.
He continued as he zipped up the jacket. "Shiva has four arms because—"
"Let me tell you," I said, interrupting him. He looked star­tled, clearly not
accustomed to a woman meeting him on his own ground. "He has four hands
because he has a lot to do. That little drum in his upper right summons things
into exis­tence. And there in his upper left he holds a fire that de­stroys."
Goddard was examining me curiously, but I just stared back and continued.
"His lower right hand is held up in a kind of benediction, as if to say, 'Find
your peace within,' and the lower left points down at his feet, where one foot
is planted on the back of that repulsive little dwarf there, the human ego.
Crush the ego and be free. The other foot is lifted to signify spiritual
freedom."
"You seem to know the Shiva well." He broke into a grudging smile, as
though we'd just met. Chalk up round one as a draw. "I'm glad you came, Ms.
James. I'm a great admirer of your work and I especially wanted to provide
your orientation personally. It's a genuine pleasure to meet you at last."
At last? I took his proffered hand and stared. All the ques­tions I'd been
brooding over for the past week sort of disap­peared into a memory file
somewhere. Instead all I could do was focus in on him.
Meeting Carly and Paula's miracle worker in the flesh made me recall
something Aldous Huxley once observed. He declared that the kind of man,
and they are almost always men, who can control others with his mind needs
to have certain qualities the rest of us can only envy. Of course he has to be
intelligent and have a range of knowledge that can be used to impress people,
but most of all, he has to have a will of iron, an unswerving tenacity of
purpose, and an un­compromising self-confidence about who he is, what he
wants. This means a slightly remote manner, a glittering eye, and a
sympathetic gaze that bores in deeply on you one min­ute, then seems off in

another realm, focused on infinity, the next. Perhaps most importantly of all,
his voice must be that of a Pied Piper, a soft yet penetrating instrument that
acts directly on the unconscious of his listeners.
Even though he was doing a casual number with me, my first impression of
Alex Goddard was that he perfectly em­bodied all those qualities. I also sensed
a false note. What was it? Maybe he was being just a little too casual.
"If you're here about doing a film," he began, "please be aware we do not
encourage publicity. If you've come because of your infertility, as Ramala said
you mentioned in your call, then I welcome you with open arms."
Well, he knew how to cut to the chase. And after his phone call to try to
intimidate Paula Marks, I was well aware he didn't "encourage publicity." But
now I also realized he wouldn't be overly interested in my new idea of
someday doing a documentary on this place. But then a lot of people say no at
first and then come around.
"I was actually interested in neither," I said, feeling my sinuses about to
close down permanently. "I was actually hoping to find out about your
adoption service, how it works."
"Ah," he said, his eyes shifting from intense scrutiny to somewhere lost in
the ozone, "that's not something I handle personally. In any case, you first
must come and participate in our program. Then, if we fail to achieve your
objectives, we can take the adoption matter under consideration."
"I think I'd like to hear about it anyway." I took a deep breath, again
groping for air. "For instance, where and how you get the children you place."
"I see," he said calmly, as though my question were about the weather.
Then he secured his coat tighter. "I'm thinking, how would you like to take a
short walk? Down to the river. We could get to know each other better."
I just nodded, not looking forward to the harsh wind that would assault my
inflamed sinuses. But maybe I was getting somewhere.
As we started out through the stone archway and into the rear garden,
which seemed to extend for acres, he continued.
"You seem to have a lot of questions about what I'm doing here. So let me
try and put my efforts into perspective. As I like to point out to women when

they first come here, we in the West are making do with only half the world's
medical knowledge. We ignore all of the East. There's also the wis­dom of the
indigenous peoples here in the Western Hemi­sphere, the Native Americans.
Who are we to say they don't have a lot to teach?" He smiled, as though
embarrassed to be passing along such a commonplace. "For example, West­ern
medical practice, virtually until this century, consisted mainly of using leeches
to drain away 'humors' in the blood. At the same time, the indigenous peoples
of this continent knew more about the curative powers of plants, even drugs,
than Europe ever dreamed of. Yet they were deemed savages."
I wasn't sure where he was leading, but the supreme self- confidence with
which he spoke had the effect of sweeping me along. The engaging eyes, the
voice, the well-used de­signer jacket, it all worked. He was good, very good.
"So you see," he went on, "what I've tried to achieve here at Quetzal Manor
is to integrate the knowledge of East and West, ancient and modern."
"So what, exactly, do you—?"
"Well, first let me explain that I studied in the Far East for over a decade,
until I understood how to control the en­ergy flows in the body, your Chi. Then
I moved to Central America, where I learned all that is currently known about
Native American practices and medicines. I still have a spe­cial place there,
where I carry out pharmacological research on the rare plants of that area,
studying their effects on hu­man fertility, on the origins of life. I have no time
to waste on disease and degeneration."
We were well into his Eden-like rear garden now, which had lots of herbs
and was also part orchard. There were apple trees and other fruit trees I
couldn't readily identify, all just starting to show their first buds. When we
came to the end, there was a cobblestone path leading west. In what seemed
only a few moments, we'd reached a line of bluffs overlook­ing the Hudson.
The early spring wind was cutting into my face, causing my nostrils to feel on
fire.
As we stood gazing down at the rippling waters of the Hudson below,
where a lone sailboat was caught in the breeze, the moment took on a
timelessness, feeling as though it could have been any place, any century.

"Incidentally," he went on, turning slightly to me, "are you familiar with
the name Asklepios?"
I had to shake my head no. It sounded vaguely familiar, but …
"He was the ancient Greek god of medicine. The physi­cians who revered
him held that sickness could be cured using drugs and potions that came from
outside the body, since they believed that's where disease originated. Now, of
course, billion-dollar industries thrive by enhancing our ar­senal of
antibiotics."
I listened to this, wondering where he was headed. Then he told me.
"There was, however, another school of healing at that time, those who
honored the daughter of Asklepios. She was Hygeia, their goddess of health.
The Hygeians believed that wellness originated from properly governing your
own body. For them, the greatest service of the physician was to learn how we
can work with our bodies. Their ideal was healing from within rather than
intervention from without."
Again he was studying me, as though trying to determine whether I was
going along with what he was saying.
"Unfortunately," he continued, "the Hygeian school more or less died out
in the West. However, it lives on in other places. For example, primitive
peoples have no manufac­tured, synthetic drugs, so they use natural herbs to
enhance their own immune system and stay healthy."
He turned to study the river, dropping into silence.
"Maybe I'm missing something," I declared finally. His hypnotic voice had
drawn me in, in spite of myself. "How does this relate to infertility?"
He turned back and caught me with his shining eyes. They seemed to be
giving off heat of their own. "Just as the body is intended to heal itself, so is a
woman's womb meant to create life. If she's childless, the reason more often
than not is that her body is out of harmony with itself. What I do here is seek
out each woman's unique energy flows and attempt to restore them, using
Eastern practices and Hygeian herbal therapies."
"Does it always succeed?" I abruptly wondered if his techniques might
work for me. Face it, Western medicine had completely struck out. The

problem was, the guy was just a little too smooth.
"Not always. Some women's bodies are naturally unresponsive, just as all
organisms are subject to random . . . irregularities. In those cases, I try to
provide her a child by other means."
"You mean adoption," I suggested.
"By whatever means seems appropriate," he replied cryptically
"Well, there's something I'd like to understand. Last week I met a woman
who had adopted a baby boy through Children of Light. She got him in three
months. Such a thing is, ac­cording to what I can find out, totally unheard of.
So how did you manage that?"
He stared down at the river. "I thought I'd explained that adoptions are not
what we primarily do here. They're pro­vided only as a last resort, in the few
cases where my regimen of Hygeian therapies fails."
"But in those cases, where do you find—?"
"As I've said before we talk about adoption, first we need to satisfy
ourselves that no other options are possible." Then his eyes clicked into me.
"If you could come back next Sat­urday to begin your tests and receive an
orientation, I could give you an opinion about your chances of bearing a child.
It will require a thorough examination, but I can usually tell with a good
degree of certainty whether my program can help someone or not. It's really
important, though, that you stay at least . . ." He was staring at me. "Mind if I
do some­thing that might relieve some of the symptoms of that cold?"
He reached out and touched my temples with his long, lean fingers. Then
he placed his thumbs just above my eye­brows and pressed very hard. After a
long moment, he slowly moved the pressure down to the bridge of my nose,
then across under my eyes. Finally he put the heel of his hands just above my
ears and pressed again. After a couple of sec­onds he stepped away and
continued talking as though noth­ing had happened.
"After I give you a full examination, we can discuss our next step." With
that he turned, ready to head back. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of
research data to organ­ize."

I guess he assumed his juggernaut of arcane medical the­ory had rolled over
me sufficiently that he could move on to other matters. I sensed he really
wanted me to come back, but he was careful to wind down our mutual
interview with a take-it-or-leave-it air. All the same, I felt intrigued as we
moved back through the gardens and then into the courtyard. A baby. Maybe
he could make it happen for Steve and me. In spite of myself, I felt a moment
of hope.
"Thank you for coming," he said by way of farewell, just brushing my
hand, then turned and disappeared through one of the ancient wooden doors
along the veranda, leaving me alone.
Well, I thought, the calm voice and casual outfit are prob­ably just part of
his bedside manner, but you can't be near Alex Goddard and not feel a definite
sense of carefully con­trolled power. But is his power being used for good?
This was the man whose staff was trying to deny me in­terviews with
mothers who'd adopted through Children of Light. And what about the
Hispanic hood with the gun? Did Alex Goddard send him? If not, his
appearance at Paula's building was one hell of a coincidence. So why should I
trust . . .
That was when I noticed it. My lingering cold had mi­raculously vanished,
inflamed sinuses and all. I was breath­ing normally, and even my chest felt
cleared.
My God, I thought, what did he do? Hypnotize me? It was as though a
week's healing had passed through my body.
I had an epiphany, a moment that galvanizes your resolve. I had to do a
documentary about this man, to find out what he was really up to. He'd
mentioned he had a place in Central America. Was that the source of his
special techniques, some kind of ancient Meso-American medical practices
he'd dis­covered?
He claimed he didn't want any publicity, but that's always just an opening
move. When somebody says that, what they really mean is they don't want
any bad publicity; they just want to have final say about what you produce.
There're ways to handle the problem.

I liberated a brochure from the hall table on my way out, thinking I would
study it soon. Very closely. I had a nose for a good story, and this one felt
right.
When I got back to the car, Lou was nowhere to be seen. He'd given me the
impression he intended merely to sit there and doze while I went inside, but
now he was gone.
Then he appeared emerging from the forest of trees. Ac­tually, there was
another building opposite the stone drive that I hadn't noticed at first. Hmmm,
I thought, I wonder what that's all about. For some reason Alex Goddard
hadn't offered me a tour; he'd taken me for a stroll in the opposite direction. . .
.
"That was fast," Lou said settling into the car. "You get what you came
for?"
The answer to that was both yes and no. In a sense I'd gotten considerably
more than I bargained for.
"He wants me to come back," I said. "And I think I might do it. There's a
lot more going on with Alex Goddard than you'd know from just looking at
this place. The trick is to stay in control when you're around him."
I tossed the brochure into Lou's lap as I started the engine. He took it and
immediately began looking through it.
Lou, I knew, was a man always interested in facts and figures. As we
headed toward the Parkway he was pouring through the brochure with intense
interest, even as I tried to give him a brief reprise of Alex Goddard's medical
philoso­phy.
"It says here his patients come from all over the United States and Europe,"
he noted, finally interrupting me.
I found nothing odd in that, and went back to rambling on about Quetzal
Manor. Give the place its due, it was placid and tranquil and smacked of the
benign spirituality Goddard claimed to put so much stock in. Still, I found it
unsettling.
However, Lou, as usual, chose to see matters his own way. He'd been
studying the fine print at the back of the brochure, mumbling to himself, and

then he emitted a grunt of discov­ery.
"Ah, here's what I was looking for," he declared. "You know, as a
registered New York State adoption agency, this outfit has got to divulge the
number of babies they placed during their last yearly reporting period."
"According to him, he only resorts to adoption if he can't cure your
infertility with his special mind-body regimen," I reminded him. "Your energy
flows—"
"No shit," Lou observed, then went on. "Well, then I guess his mind-body,
energy flows, whatever, bullshit must fail a lot. Because last year the number
was just under two hun­dred. So at sixty thou a pop, like it says here, we're
talking about twelve million smackeroos gross in a year. Not a bad way to
fail, huh?"
I caught myself emitting a soft whistle as he read out the number. There
was definitely a lot more going on with Alex Goddard than met the eye.
"So what's he do with all that dough?" Lou mused. "Bet­ter question still,
where in the hell did he find two hundred fresh, orphaned babies, all listed
here as Caucasian? And get this: The ages reported at final processing are all
just a couple of months, give or take."
Good questions, I thought. Maybe that's the reason he doesn't want
publicity; it sounds a little too commercial for a mind-body guru.
My other thought was, with so many babies somehow available, why was
Alex Goddard so reluctant to even discuss adoption with me?
The answer, I was sure, lay in the fact he already knew more about me than
I knew about him. He knew I was mak­ing a film about adoption (how did he
come by that knowl­edge? I kept wondering) and he was concerned he might
be mentioned in it. I kept asking myself, why?
On our drive back down the Henry Hudson Parkway, I decided I was
definitely looking at a documentary in the making. I just had to decide
whether to do it with or without his cooperation.

Chapter Six

After I dropped off Lou at his space in Soho, where he was house sitting
for an estate now in the courts, I decided to head on home. The more I
thought about Alex Goddard, the more I felt frustrated and even a little
angry that I'd com­pletely failed to find out any of the things I'd wanted to
learn about him. I replayed our interview in my mind, got nowhere, and
then decided to push away thoughts of Quetzal Manor for a while and dwell
on something else: Sarah, my film, anything.
It was Saturday, and unfortunately I had no plans for the evening.
Translation: no Steve. Back to where I started. How many million stories in
the naked city, and I was just so many million plus one. It's not a jungle out
there, it's a desert.
The truth was, after Steve took off, I hadn't really been trying all that
hard to pick myself up off the canvas and look around. Besides, I didn't
want some other guy, I wanted him. Added to that, I somehow felt that
when you're on the short countdown for forty, you shouldn't have to be
going out on blind dates, wondering whether that buttoned-down MBA
sitting across from you in some trendy Italian restaurant thinks you're a
blimp (even though you skipped lunch), tell­ing yourself he's presentable,
doesn't seem like a serial killer, has a job, only mentioned his mother once,
and could qualify as an acceptable life's mate. There's no spark, but he's
prob­ably quite nice. You wanly remember that old Barney's ad jingle,
"Select, don't settle," but at this stage of life you're ready to admit you've
flunked out in Love 101 and should just go with Like.
Which was one of the reasons I missed Steve so deeply. He was a lover,
but he was also a best friend. And I was running low on those.
Every woman needs a best pal. After my former best, Betsy, married Joel
Aimes, Off-Broadway's latest contribu­tion to Dreamworks, and moved to
the Coast with him, I was noticing a lot of empty evenings. In the old days,
we could talk for hours. It was funny, since we were actually very different.

Betsy, who had forgotten more about clothes and makeup than most women
would ever know, hung around the garment-center showrooms and always
came away with samples of next season's couture, usually for a song. I
envied her that, since I usually just pretended not to care and pulled on
another pair of jeans every morning. But she shared my love of Asian
music.
Anyway, now she was gone and I could tell we weren't working hard
enough at staying in touch. She and Joel had just moved to a new apartment
and I didn't even have her latest phone number. . . .
Which brought me back to Steve. I'd often wondered why we were so
alike, and I'd finally decided it was because we both started from the same
place spiritually. In his case, that place was a crummy childhood in New
Haven—which he didn't want to talk about much because, I gathered, it was
as lonely and deprived as my own, or at least as depressing. His father had
owned a small candy store and had wanted all his four children to become
"professionals." The oldest had become a lawyer, the next a teacher. When
Steve's turn came, he was told he should become a doctor, or at the very
least, a dentist.
Didn't happen. He'd managed four years of premed at
Yale, but then he rebelled, cashed in his med-school schol­arship, and went
to Paris to study photography. The result was he'd done what he wanted,
been reasonably successful at it, and his father had never forgiven him. I
think he was still striving for the old man's approval, even after all the
years, but I doubted he'd ever get it. Steve was a guy still coming to grips
with things that couldn't be changed, but in the meantime he lived in worlds
that were as different from his own past as he could find. He deliberately
avoided mid­dle-class comforts, and was never happier than when he was in
some miserable speck on the map where you couldn't drink the water.
Whatever else it was, it wasn't New Ha­ven. . . .
Thinking about him at that moment, I had an almost irresistible desire to
reach for my cell phone and call him. God, I missed him. Did he miss me
the same way? I wanted so much to hear him say it.

I had a contact number for him in Belize City, an old, Brit-like hotel
called the Bellevue, where they still served high tea, but I always seemed to
call when he was out some­where in the rain forest, shooting.
Do it. Don't be a wuss.
But then I got cold feet. Did I want him to think I was chasing after him?
I didn't want to sound needy . . . though that was exactly what I felt like at
the moment.
Finally I decided to just invent a phone conversation, recreating one
from times past, one where we both felt secure enough to be flip. It was
something I did more than I'd like to admit. Usually there'd be eight rings at
his Park Slope loft and then a harried voice. Yes. Steve, talk to me. . . .
"Yo. This is not a recording. I am just in a transcendent plane. And if
that's you, Murray, I'll have the contact sheets there by six. Patience is a
virtue."
"Honey, it's me. Get out of the darkroom. Get a life."
"Oh, hi, baby." Finally tuning in. "I'm working. In a quest for unrelenting
pictorial truth. But mainly I'm thinking of you."
"You're printing, right? Darling, it's lunch hour. Don't you feel guilty,
working all the time?"
The truth was, it was one of the reasons I respected him so much. He
even did his own contacts. His fervor matched my drive. It's what made us
perfect mates.
"I've got tons of guilt. But I'm trying to get past it. Be­come a full human
person. Go back to the dawn of man. Paint my face and dance in a
thunderstorm." He'd pause, as though starting to get oriented. "Hey, look at
the time. Christ. I've got a print shoot on Thirty-eighth Street at three."
He was chasing a bit of fashion work to supplement his on-again, off-
again magazine assignments.
"Love," I said in my reverie, "can you come over tonight? I promise to
make it worth your while. It involves a bubble bath, champagne, roses
everywhere, sensuous ragas on the CD. And maybe some crispy oysters or
something, sent in later on, just to keep us going."

Then I'd listen to the tone of his voice, knowing he'd say yes but putting
more stock in how he said it. Still, he always gave his lines a good read.
"Then why don't we aim for about nine?" I'd go on, bliss­ful. "That ought
to give me a chance to get organized. And don't bring anything except your
luscious self." The fantasy was coming together in my mind. Thinking back,
I realized how much I missed him, all over again. . . .
That was when the phone on the armrest beside me rang for real. For a
moment I was so startled I almost hit the brakes. Then I clicked it on, my
mind still buzzing about Steve, and also, in spite of my resolve, about the
curious runaround I'd just gotten from Alex Goddard.
"Listen, there was a message on my machine when I came
in. I've got to go up to the hospital. Right now." Lou's voice was brimming
with hope and exuberance. "They said Sarah was stirring. She's opened her
eyes and started talking. They said she's not making much sense, but . . . oh,
God."
"That's wonderful." I felt my heart expanding with life. For some reason,
I had a flash of memory of her climbing up into the rickety little tree house
—well, more like a plat­form—I'd helped her build in my thirteenth summer,
no boys invited to assist. A year later that part had seemed terminally dumb.
"I'll meet you there."
I was almost home, but I screeched the car around and headed east.
Racing over, though, I tried not to wish for too much. I kept remembering
all the stages to a complete re­covery and telling myself that whatever had
happened, it was only the first step on a very long, very scary journey. . . .
I hadn't realized how scary till I walked into the room. Lou, who had
gotten there just minutes before I did, was sitting by her side, holding her
hand, his gaze transfixed on her. She was propped up slightly in her bed,
two pillows fluffed behind her head, staring dreamily at the ceiling. Three
attentive middle-aged nurses were standing around the sides of her bed,
their eyes wide, as though Sarah were a ghost. I very quickly realized why.
She was spinning out a fantasy that could only come from a deranged mind.
Had she re­gained consciousness only to talk madness?

"Lou, does she recognize you?" I asked.
He just shook his head sadly, never taking his eyes off her face. She was
weaving in and out of reality, pausing, stut­tering, uncertain of her
incoherent brain. Once, when she'd fallen off a swing and got knocked out
for a brief moment, she came to talking nonsense. Now she seemed exactly
the same way.
"Lights ... so bright," she mumbled, starting up again to recount what
seemed to be a faraway fantasy, ". . . like now.
Why . . . why are there lights here?" Her lips were moving but her eyes
were still fixed in a stare. Then, with that last, odd question, her gaze began
to dart about the room, looking for someone who wasn't present. She settled
on me for a moment, and I felt a chill from her plaintive vulnerability.
When I tried to look back as benignly and lovingly as pos­sible, I couldn't
help noticing how drawn her cheeks were, doubtless from the constant IV
feeding, and again my heart went out. "I'm scared," she went on, "but—"
"I'm here, honey," Lou declared, bending over her, his eyes pained. "Do
you know who I am?"
"The jade face . . . a mask," she babbled on, still ignoring him. "All the
colors. It's so . . . so beautiful."
Her hallucination didn't relate to anything I could under­stand. She
clearly was off in another world, like when she was a kid, weaving the
lights of the room now into some kind of dream. I touched Lou's shoulder
and asked permis­sion to turn off the overhead fluorescents, but he just
shrugged me off, his attention focused entirely on her.
His eyes had grown puzzled, as though he wanted to be­lieve she was
returning to rationality but his common sense was telling him it wasn't true.
I was having a different reaction. What she was saying was random
babblings, all right, but I was beginning to think she was reliving something
she had actually seen.
However, she wasn't through.
"I want to pray, but . . . the white tunnel . . . is coming." She shuddered,
then almost tried to smile. "Take me . . ."

She was gone, her eyelids fluttering uncontrollably.
"Honey, talk to me," Lou pleaded. He was crying, some­thing I'd never
seen him do, something I was not even aware he was capable of. What he
really was trying to say was, "Come back."
It wasn't happening. She stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, then
slowly closed her eyes, a shutter descending over her soul.
"She'll be okay," I whispered to him, almost believing it. Her brain had
undergone a physical trauma, enough to cause a coma, but some kind of
mental trauma must have preceded it. Was she now trying to exorcise that
as part of her path to recovery?
The nurses in the room stirred, perhaps not sure what to do. The
overhead lights were still dazzlingly bright, and I moved to shut them off,
leaving only a night-light behind the bed. Perhaps the lights had brought her
awake, but I was convinced what she'd just gone through had tired her to
the point that she would not revive again that day.
Then one of the Caribbean nurses came over and placed her hand on
Lou's shoulder. She had an experienced face, full of self-confidence.
Something about her inspired trust.
"I wouldn't let this upset you too much," she said, a lovely lilt in her
voice. "What just happened may or may not mean anything. When patients
first come out of a coma, they can sometimes talk just fine, and yet not
make any sense. They ramble on about things they dreamed of like they
were real." Then she smiled. "But it's a good first step. She could wake up
perfectly fine tomorrow. Just don't pay any attention to what she says for a
while. She's dreaming now."
Lou grunted as though he believed her. I nodded in sym­pathy, though no
one seemed to notice.
I also thought that although what Sarah had said was bi­zarre, it sounded
like something more than a dream. Or had she gone back to her child-state
where imaginary worlds were real for her?
Then in the dim glare of her bed light, Lou took a wrinkled blue booklet
out of his inner pocket and stared at it. I had to stare at it a moment before I

realized it was a passport.
"What—?"
"The American consulate in Merida, Mexico, sent it up to 26 Federal
Plaza yesterday, because my name and office address are penciled on the
inside cover as an emergency contact. The police down there said
somebody, some gringo tourist fly-fishing way down on the Usumacinta
River, near where the Rio Tigre comes in from Guatemala, snagged this
floating in a plastic bag. He turned it in to the Mexican authorities there,
and it ended up with our people." He opened the passport and stared at it.
"The photo and ID page is ripped out, but it's definitely Sarah's." He handed
it over. "Guy I know downtown dropped it off last night. I'm not sure if it
has anything to tell us, but now, I was hoping it might help jog her
memory."
I took it, the cover so waterlogged its color was almost gone. However, it
must have been kept dry in the plastic bag for at least some of its trip from
wherever, since much of the damage seemed recent.
Lou shook his head staring wistfully at me. "I still don't know how she
got down there. She was in California. Re­member that postcard? If she'd
come back East, she'd have got in touch. Wouldn't she?" His eyes pleaded
for my agree­ment.
I didn't know what to say, so I just shrugged. I wanted to be sympathetic,
but I refused to lie outright. He took my ambivalence as assent as he pulled
out the locket containing her picture, his talisman. He fingered it for a
moment, staring into space, and then he looked down and opened it, as if
seeing her high school picture, from a time when she was well, would
somehow ease his mind.
"This whole thing doesn't sound like her," he went on. "Know what I
think? She was being held down there against her will."
My heart went out to him, and I reached over and took the locket for a
moment, feeling the strong "SRC" engraved on its heart-shaped face. "Lou,
she's going to come out of it. And when she does, she'll probably explain

everything. She's going to be okay any day now, I've got a hunch. A gut
feeling."
I had a gut feeling, all right, but not that she was going to be fine. My
real fear was she was going to wake up a fantasy-bound child again.
Then I handed the locket back. He'd seemed to turn anx­ious without it.
He took the silver heart and just stared down at it. In the silence that settled
over us, I decided to take a closer look at the passport. I supposed Lou had
already gone through it, but maybe he'd missed something.
As I flipped through the waterlogged pages, I came across a smudgy
imprint, caked with a thin layer of dried river clay, that was almost too dim
to be noticed.
"Lou, did you see this?" I held it under the light and beckoned him over.
"Can you read it?"
"Probably not without my specs." He took it and squinted helplessly.
"My eyes aren't getting any better."
I took it back and rubbed at the page, cleaning it. It was hard to make
out, but it looked like "Delegacion de Migracion, Aeropuerto Internacional,
Guatemala, C.A."
"I think this is a Guatemalan tourist entry visa." I raised the passport up
to backlight the page. "And see that faint bit there in the center? That's
probably her entry date. Written in by hand."
He took it and squinted again. "I can't read the damned thing, but you're
right. There's some numbers, or something, scribbled in."
I took it and rubbed the page till I could read it clearly. "It's March
eleventh. And it was last year."
"Hot damn, let me see that." He seized it back and squinted for a long
moment, lifting the page even closer to the light. "You're right." He held it
for a second more, then turned to me. "This is finally the thing I needed.
Now I'm damned well going to find out what she was doing down there."
"How do you think you can do that?" I just looked at him, my mind not
quite taking in what he'd just said.

"The airlines." He almost grinned. "If they can keep track of everybody's
damned frequent-flyer miles for years and years, they undoubtedly got
flight manifests stored away somewhere too. So my first step is to find out
where she flew from."
"But we don't know which—"
"Doesn't matter." He squinted again at the passport. "Now we know for
sure she showed up at the airport in Guatemala City on that date there. I
know somebody down­town, smooth black guy named John Williams, the
FBI's best computer nerd, who could bend a rule for me and do a little B&E
in cyberspace. He owes me a couple. So, if she was on a manifest for a
scheduled flight into Guatemala City that day, he'll find it. Then we'll know
where she left from, who else was on the plane." He tapped the passport
confidently with his forefinger. "Maybe she was traveling with some
scumbag I ought to look up and get to know better."
"Well, good luck."
In a way I was wondering if we weren't both now grasping for a miracle:
me half-hoping for a baby through some New Age process of "centering,"
Lou trying to reclaim Sarah from her mental abyss with his gruff love. But
then again, miracles have been known to happen.

Chapter Seven

"Quetzal Manor could have the makings of a great documentary," I was
explaining to David Roth. "I just need some more information-gathering
first, to get a better feeling for what Alex Goddard is up to. So going back
up there will be two birds with one stone. I'll learn more about him, and he
might even be able to tell me why I haven't been able to get pregnant."
He was frowning, his usual skeptical self. "How long—?"
"It's just for the weekend, or maybe a little . . . I'm not sure exactly. I
guess it depends on what kinds of tests he's going to run. But the thing is, I
have to do it now, while he and I are still clicking. An 'iron is hot' kind of
moment. The only possible problem might be if I have to push back my
schedule for looping dialogue for Baby Love and then some­body's out of
town."
"You check with the sound studio to warn them about possible
rescheduling?" He wanted to appear to be fuming. But since he'd invited me
down to his Tribeca loft at least once every three months, now that I'd
finally shown up, he also had a small gleam in his eye. What did that mean?
"Yes, but I've already spotted most of the work print, and I've made
tentative dates for people to come in. In a week and a half. Everything's still
on schedule."
He leaned back on his white couch, as though trying to regroup. It was
Saturday morning and I'd already made the
appointment to see Alex Goddard. I was going. I probably should have run
it by David first, but damnit, it was my life.
Truthfully, though, I'd been dreading telling him all week, so to try and
make him as congenial as possible, I'd arranged to see him at home and
relaxed. It seemed to be working, more or less.
"Okay, okay, sometimes I guess it's best to just go with your gut," he
said, beginning to calm down. He'd offered to whip up some brunch when I

first arrived, and now I was feeling sorry I'd turned him down. I really did
like him. But, alas, only as a friend. "Before I cave in totally, though, do me
a favor and tell me some more about this . . . documen­tary? What, exactly,
makes you think it's—"
"Everything." Whereupon I laid on him the full story of Carly and Paula,
the children, and my encounter with Alex Goddard. The only thing I left out
was the story of the His­panic hood since I didn't think he could handle it.
"This Quetzal Manor sounds like a funny operation," he declared
solemnly when I'd finished. "I say the less you have to do with a place like
that, the better. Who knows what's going on."
"But, David that's what makes it so interesting. The fact that it is a
'funny' operation. I really can see a documentary here, after Baby Love is in
the can. But I'll never have a chance if I don't get to know this guy while
I've got a good excuse. That's how my business works."
"So you're going to go back up there and . . . Is this like going
undercover or something?"
"Well . . ." What was I going to say? I was actually half beginning to
believe that Alex Goddard might be able to figure out why Steve and I
couldn't conceive. It was certainly worth a few days of my life,
documentary or no documentary. "Look, I really want to find out what's
going on. For a lot of reasons."
He sighed and sipped at his coffee.
"Morgy, this has got to be quick. Nicky Russo called again. The thing
I've learned about loan sharks, they keep your books better than you do. He
knows exactly how much money we've got left and how long we can last.
He's licking his chops, getting ready to eat us whole."
"What did you tell him?" The very thought of Nicky gave me a chill. If
we missed so much as a week on the juice, he'd have the legal right to just
seize my negative. When you're desperate, you sign those kinds of loans.
"I told him something I haven't even told you yet." He smiled a wicked
grin. "I know you've been schmoozing Life­time about a cable deal, but

before we put the ink to that, I want to finish some new talks I've started
with Orion, their distribution people."
I think I stopped breathing for a second or two. Was there a chance for a
theatrical release for Baby Love, not just a cable deal?
"When . . . You've actually met with them? How—?"
"Late yesterday." He was still grinning. "I ran into Jerry Reiner at
Morton's and pitched the picture. Actually, I heard he was in town, so I
wore a tie and ambushed him at lunch. He wants to see a rough cut as soon
as we've got something ready."
"David, you're an angel." I was ecstatic. It was more than I'd dared hope
for.
"So stay focused, for chrissake, and finish your picture. We're this close
to saving our collective asses, so don't blow it. I've gone over all the
schedules pretty carefully, and I'd guess we can spare a day or two, but if
you drag this out, I'm going to read you your contract, the fine print about
due diligence, and then finish up the final cut myself. I mean it. Don't make
me do that."
"Don't you even think about that." Never! "This is my picture."
"Just business. If it's a choice between doing what I gotta do, or having
Nicky Russo chew me a new asshole and be­come the silent partner in
Applecore, guess what it's gonna be."
"David, you know I would never let that happen." I walked over and
gave him the sweetest hug I knew how, still filled with joy. "And thanks so
much for trying to get us a theat­rical. You don't know how much that means
to me."
"Hey, don't try the charm bit on me. I'm serious. I'll cut you a weekend's
slack, but then it's back to the salt mines. Either this picture's in the can
inside of six weeks, or we're both going to be looking for new employment.
So go the hell up there, do whatever it is you're going to do, and then get
this damned picture finished. There'll be plenty of time after that to worry
about our next project. With luck we might even have the money for it."

With that ultimatum still ringing in my ears, I took my leave of David
Roth and headed north, up the Henry Hud­son Parkway. My life was getting
too roller-coaster for words. . . .
As I drove, I tried not to dwell on the practical aspects of what was
coming. It was hard to imagine what tests Alex Goddard could perform that
hadn't already been done by Hannah Klein. Just thinking back over that
dismal sequence made me feel baby-despondent all over again.
When I first mentioned I was thinking about trying to get pregnant, she
looked me over, perhaps mentally calculating my age and my prospects, and
then made a light suggestion.
"Why don't I give you a prescription for Clomid. Clomiphene citrate
enhances ovulation, and it might be a good idea in your case. You're still
young, Morgan, but you're no longer in the first blush of youth."
I took it for six months, but nothing happened. That was the beginning of
my pregnancy depression.
By that time, she'd decided I definitely had a problem, so she began what
she called an "infertility workup." The main thing was to check my
Fallopian tubes for blockages and look for ovulatory abnormalities. But
everything turned out to be fine. Depression City.
"Well," she said, "maybe your body just thinks you've released an ovum.
We need to do an ultrasound scan to make doubly sure an ovarian follicle
has ruptured when it's sched­uled to and dropped an egg."
It turned out, however, that all those hormonal stop-and-go signals were
working just fine. In the meantime, Steve and I were doing it like bunnies
and still no pregnancy.
Okay, she then declared, the problem may be with your Fallopian tubes
after all. Time to test for abnormalities. "This is not going to be fun. First
we have to dilate your cervix, after which we inject a dye and follow it with
X-rays as it moves through the uterus and is ejected out of your Fallopian
tubes. We'll know right away if there's any kind of blockage. If there is
something, we can go in and fix it."

"Sort of check out my pipes," I said, trying to come to grips with the
procedure. I was increasingly sinking into de­spondency.
She did it all, and for a while she suspected there might be some kind of
anatomical problem. Which brought us to the next escalation of
invasiveness.
"We've got to go in and take a close-up look at every­thing," she said. "It's
a procedure called laparoscopy. I'll have to make a small incision near your
navel and insert a tiny optical device. In your case, I want to combine it
with what's called a hysteroscopy, which will allow me to see directly inside
your uterus for polyps and fibroids."
But again everything looked fine. I began to wonder what had happened
to everybody's mother's warning you could get pregnant just letting some
pimply guy put his hand in your pants.
Prior to all this, I should add, Steve had provided samples of sperm to be
tested for number and vigor. (Both were just fine.) Then, toward the end of
all the indignities, he actually paid to have some kind of test performed
involving a hamster egg, to see if his sperm was lively enough to penetrate
it. No wonder he finally went over the edge.
Now I was reduced to Alex Goddard. I'd brought a com­plete set of my
medical test records, as Ramala had requested on the phone. I'd also
brought a deep curiosity about what exactly he could do that hadn't already
been done. I further wondered how I was going to talk Steve into coming
back long enough to share in the project. As I motored up the driveway to
Quetzal Manor, I told myself he loved me still, wanted a baby as much as I
did . . . Well, let me be safe and say almost as much. The problem was, he
was so demoralized about the whole thing. And then what? What if nothing
hap­pened?
I started to park my car where I had the last time, then noticed the place
actually had a parking lot. It was located off to the left side of the driveway,
near the second, modern building, and was more or less hidden in amongst
the trees. The lot was filled with a lot of late-model but inexpensive cars,

basic working-girl transportation, and it seemed a better bet for long-term
parking.
The front lobby, which had been empty the first time I was there, was
now a minimalist reception area, a long metal desk rolled in from
somewhere. I had the odd feeling it was there just for me. The woman
behind the desk introduced herself as Ramala, the same person I'd talked to
twice on the phone. She looked to be about my age, with long dark hair and
quick Asian eyes, punctuated by a professional smile.
She knew my name, used it the minute she saw me, and then abruptly
handed me a twenty-page "application" to complete.
"It's not just a formality," she explained, businesslike and earnest. "Dr.
Goddard feels it's essential that he come to know you as a person. He'll read
this carefully, believe me."
She ushered me to a chair that had a retractable table for writing, then
gave me a ballpoint pen.
The document turned out to be the most prying, nosy thing I'd ever filled
out. The pages demanded what amounted to a mini life history. One of the
things that struck me as most strange was the part asking for a ten-year
employment and residential history. If you've moved around as much as I
have, worked freelance a lot, you'll understand how difficult it can be to
reconstruct all those dates and places, but I did my best.
There were, of course, plenty of health questions too. One page even
asked whether there was anything out of the or­dinary about my own birth:
Was the delivery difficult, a ce­sarean, a breach baby? It was, as noted, a life
history.
"Why does he need all this information?" I asked finally, feeling the
onset of carpal tunnel syndrome in my right wrist. "I brought all my
medical records."
Ramala gave me a kindly smile, full of sympathy.
"He must know you as a person. Then everything is pos­sible. When I
came here, I had given up on ever having a child, but I surrendered myself
to him and now my husband and I have twin boys, three years old. That's

why I stayed to help him. His program can work miracles, but you must
give him your trust."
Well, I thought, I might as well go with the flow and see where it leads.
When I'd finished the form, she took it back, along with the pen, then
ushered me into the wide central courtyard where I'd met Alex Goddard the
first time. He was nowhere to be seen, but in the bright late-morning
sunshine there was a line of about twenty women, from late twenties to
early forties, all dressed in white pajama-like outfits of the kind you see in
judo classes, doing coordinated, slow-motion Tai Chi-like exercises. They
were intent, their eyes fixed on the fringes of infinity.
These must be some of his acolytes, I thought, the ones I heard in their
nuns' cells the first time I was here. What on earth does all this orientalism
have to do with fertility? I then found myself wondering. I've studied the
Far East enough to do "penetrating" documentaries about it, and I still can't
get pregnant.
I took one look at them—none of them looked at me—and my heart
went out. They were so sincere, so sure of what they were doing. For
somebody who's always questioning everything, like me, it was touching,
and maybe a little daunt­ing too.
Without a word, Ramala led me past them and on to an entryway at the
far end of the courtyard, past the giant Danc­ing Shiva. The door was huge
and ornate, decorated with beaten-copper filigree—much like one I'd seen
in a Mogul palace in Northern India. Definitely awe-inspiring.
She pushed open the door without ceremony and there he was, dressed in
white and looking for all the world like the miracle worker he claimed to
be. He seemed to be meditating in his chair, but the moment I entered, his
deep eyes snapped open.
"Did you bring your records?" he asked, not getting up. While I was
producing them from my briefcase, Ramala dis­creetly disappeared.
"Please have a seat." He gestured me toward a wide chair.
The room was a sterile baby blue, nothing to see. No diplo­mas, no photos,
nothing.

Except for another, smaller bronze statue of the Dancing Shiva, poised
on a silver-inlaid table. I also noticed that his own flowing hair seemed to
match that of the bronze figure.
Yes, I thought, I was right. That's who he thinks he is. And he has
complete power over the people around him. How many chances do you get
to do a documentary about somebody like this? I should have brought a
Betacam for some video.
He studied my test records as a jeweler might examine a diamond, his
serious eyes boring in as he flipped through the pages. The rest of his face,
however, betrayed no particu­lar interest. I finally felt compelled to break the
awkward silence.
"As you can see, I've had every test known to science. And none of them
found anything wrong."
He just nodded, saying nothing, and kept on reading.
After a long, awkward silence, I decided to try and open things up a bit.
"Tell me, do you have any children of your own?"
The question seemed to be one he didn't get asked too often, because he
stopped cold.
"All those who come here are my children," he replied, putting aside my
records, dismissively finished with them.
"Well"—I pointed to them—"what do you think?"
"I haven't examined you yet," he said, looking up and smiling, indeed
beaming with confidence. "Nothing in those records tells me anything about
what may be your problem. I look for different things than do most
physicians."
He fiddled with something beneath his desk, and the room was abruptly
filled with the sound of a hypnotic drone. Per­haps its frequency matched
one in my brain, because I instantly felt relaxed and full of hope. Much
better than Muzak. Then he rose and came over.
Is he going to do my exam right here? I wondered. Where's all the
ob/gyn paraphernalia? The humiliating stirrups?

Standing in front of me, he gently placed his hands on my heart, then
bent over and seemed to be listening to my chest. His touch was warm, then
cold, then warm, but the overall effect was to send a sense of well-being
through my entire body.
"You're not breathing normally," he said after a moment of unnerving
silence. "I feel no harmony."
How did he know that? But he was right. I felt the way I had the first
time I tried to sit in Zen meditation in Kyoto. As then, my body was
relaxing but my wayward brain was still coursing.
"I'll try," I said, attempting to go along. What I really was feeling was the
overwhelming sense of his presence, drawing me to him.
Next he moved around behind me and cradled my head in his hands,
placing his long fingertips on my forehead, sort of the same way he'd done
when I was standing with him on the windy heath, nursing a killer cold. All
the while, the drone seemed to be increasing to a piercing, overwhelming
volume, as though a powerful electrical force were growing in the room,
sending me into an alpha state of relaxation.
"What are you doing? Is this how you do an exam for—?"
"The medical tests you had showed there's nothing wrong with your
uterus or your Fallopian tubes, nothing that should inhibit conception.
There's no need to pursue that any further. But the mind and the body are a
single entity that must be harmonized, must work as one. Although each
individual has different energy flows, I think my regimen here could be
very helpful to you. Already I can tell your problem is a
self-inflicted trauma that has negated the natural condition wherein your
mind and body work in unison."
"What 'trauma'?" I asked.
He didn't answer the question. Instead he began massag­ing my temples.
"Breathe deeply. And do it slowly, very slowly."
As I did, I felt a kind of dizziness gradually coming over me, the
hypnotic drone seeming to take over my conscious­ness. Instead of growing
slower, my breathing was actually becoming more rapid, as though I'd

started to hyperventilate. But I no longer had any control over it. My
autonomic ner­vous system had been handed over to him, as dizziness and a
sense of disorientation settled over me. The room around me began to swirl,
and I felt my conscious mind, my will, slipping out of my grasp. It was the
very thing I'd vowed not to let happen.
The same thing had occurred once before, after I broke my collarbone in
the Pacific surf that slammed a Mexican beach south of Puerto Villarta.
When a kindly Mexican doc­tor was later binding on a harness to
immobilize my shoulder, the pain was such that I momentarily passed out
while sitting on a stool in his office. I didn't fall over or collapse; it just
seemed as though my mind, fleeing the incredible pain, drifted away in a
haze of sensation.
Now the pastel blue walls of the room slowly faded to white, and then I
was somewhere else, a universe away, sur­rounded by blank nothingness. I
tried to focus on the bronze Shiva directly across, but the ring of fire around
him had become actual flames. The only reality left was the powerful touch
of Alex Goddard's hands and a drone that could have been the music of the
spheres.

Chapter Eight

Sometime thereafter, in a reverie, I felt myself in a magical forest whose
lush vines reminded me of Kerala in India. It was a verdant, hazy paradise,
another Eden. A child was with me, a child of my own, and I felt jubilation.
I watched the child as she grew and became a resplendent orchid.
But with childbearing came pain, and I seemed to be feel­ing that pain as
I took up the flower and held it, joy flowing through me.
Then Alex Goddard drifted into my dream, still all in white, and he was
gentle and caring as he again moved his hands over me, leaving numbness
in their wake. I thought I heard his voice talking of the miracle that he
would make for me. A miracle baby, a beautiful flower of a child. I asked
him how such a thing would happen. A miracle, he whispered back. It will
be a miracle, just for you. When he said it, the orchid turned into the silver
face of a cat, a vaguely familiar image, smiling benignly, then transmuted
back into a blos­som.
Then he drifted out of my dream much as he had come, a wisp of white,
leaving me holding the gorgeous flower against my breasts, which had
begun to swell and spill out milk the color of gold. . . .
A wet coolness washed across my face, and—as I faintly heard the
sounds of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, Glenn Gould's piano notes crisp
and clear—I opened my eyes to
see Ramala massaging my brow with a damp cloth. She smiled kindly and
lovingly as she saw my eyes open, then widen with astonishment.
"What—?"
"Hey, how're you doing? Don't be alarmed. He's taking great care of
you."
"What. . . where am I?" I lifted my head off the pillow and tried to look
around. I half expected Steve to be there, but of course he wasn't.

"You're here. At Quetzal Manor." She reached and did something and the
music slowly faded away. "Don't worry. You'll be fine. I think the doctor
was trying to release your Chi, and when he did it was too strong for you."
"What day is it?" I felt completely disoriented my bear­ings gone.
"Sunday. It's Sunday morning." She reached and touched my brow as
though giving me a blessing. Like, it's okay, really.
At that moment, Alex Goddard strolled in, dressed again in white.
Just as in the dream, I thought.
"So, how's the patient?" He walked over—eyes benign and caring—and
lifted my wrist, absently taking my pulse while he inserted a digital
thermometer in my ear. For a flash­back moment he merged into, then
emerged from, my dream. "You're looking fine. I have to say, though, you
had quite a time yesterday."
"All I remember is passing out in your office," I mumbled glancing
around at the gray plastic thermometer. And that strange dream, you telling
me I would have a miracle baby.
"You had an unusual reaction," he went on. "You remem­ber I spoke to
you about mind-body harmony. You see what can happen when I redirect
the flows of energy, Chi, from your body to your mind." He smiled and
settled my wrist back onto the bed. "Don't worry. I have a lot of hope for
you. You're going to do fine."
He looked satisfied as he consulted the thermometer, then jotted down
my temperature on a chart. He's already started a medical record, I thought.
Why?
"I'm . . . I'm wondering if this really is working out," I said. It was
dawning on me that I was getting into Alex God­dard's world a lot deeper
and a lot faster than I'd expected. I'd come planning to be an observer and
now I was the one being observed. That was exactly not how I'd intended it.
Maybe, I thought, if I back off and make a new run, I can keep us on equal
footing. "Perhaps I ought to just go back to the city for a few days and—"
"I'd assumed you came to begin the program." He looked at me, a quick
sadness flooding his eyes. "You struck me as a person who would follow

through."
"I need to think this over" I really feel terrible, I thought, trying to rise
up. What did he do to me? "Maybe I'm just not right for your 'program'?"
The idea of a documentary had momentarily retreated far into the depths of
my mind.
"On the contrary." He smiled. "We've shown that you're very
responsive."
"Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm too responsive." I rose and slipped my feet
off the bed. The motion brought a piercing pain in my abdomen. "OUCH!
What's . . ." I felt my pelvis, only to find it was very sensitive.
Pulling aside my bed shift, I gazed in disbelief at my lower abdomen.
There were red spots just above my pale blue pant­ies.
Alex Goddard modestly averted his eyes. "I didn't want to say anything,"
he explained to the wall above my head, "but you were in pretty delicate
shape there for a while. Mild convulsions, and I think your digestive system
had gone into shock. The stomach is a center of energy, because it's
constantly active. So I gave you some shots of muscle relaxant. Nothing
serious. It's an unusual treatment, but I've found it works. It . . . modulates
the energy flows. I also took a blood sample for some tests, but the results
were all normal."
He then asked me about my menstrual cycle, exact days, saying he
wanted to make sure it wasn't just routine cramps. "The seizure you had
passed almost as soon as it came, but you might actually have been
hallucinating a bit. You had a slight fever all night."
"Well . . ." Something like that had happened to me years ago in rural
Japan, when I stupidly ate some unwashed greens and my stomach went
into shock. At one point a local doctor, Chinese, was trying acupuncture,
which also left me sore.
"Nothing to be worried about," he continued. "But if you're the least bit
concerned, maybe we ought to do a quick sonogram, take a sound picture.
Ease your mind that every­thing's okay."

"That doesn't really seem necessary," I said. For a clinic specializing in
"energy flows" and "mind-body" programs, there was a lot of modern
equipment. Odd.
"Won't do a bit of harm." He nodded at Ramala, who also seemed to
think it was a good idea. "Come on, help me walk her down to the lab." He
turned back. "It's totally noninva­sive. You'll see for yourself that you're
fine."
Before I could protest, I found myself walking, with some dizziness,
down the hallway. This part of Quetzal Manor, which I had not seen before,
was a sterile, high-tech clinic. I realized I was in a different building from
the old convent, probably the new one I'd noticed across the parking lot, the
one he hadn't bothered to mention that first day. But all I could focus on
were the blue walls and the new white tiles of the floor.
The sonogram was as he described it, quick and noninvasive. He rubbed
the ultrasound wand over my abdomen, watching the picture on a CRT
screen, which showed my insides, a jumble of organs that he seemed to find
extremely informative.
"Look." He pointed. "Those lines there are your Fallopian tubes, and
that's your uterus." He pushed a button to record a digital image. "Seems
like whatever was upsetting your stomach is gone. Obviously nothing's
wrong here."
"Good," I said, "because I really need to take a few days and think this
over."
"You should stay," he said, reaching to touch my hand. "I think the worst
is well behind us. From here on, we can work together. In fact, what I
actually wish you would do is come with me to my clinic in Central
America. It's truly a place of miracles."
I assumed he was referring to the "special place" he'd mentioned during
our first interview. If Quetzal Manor was on the exotic side, I thought, what
must that place be like? A documentary that took in the totality of who and
what he was could be—

"In fact," he went on, "I just learned I have to be going there later today.
A quick trip to catch up on some things. So this would be an ideal time for
you to come. We could go together."
Well, I thought, I'd love to see what else he's up to, but this whole scene
is getting out of control. When I first met Alex Goddard, we had a power
balance, but now he's defi­nitely calling the shots.
"I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment yet."
"As you wish." He smiled with understanding. "But let me just say this.
It's not going to be easy, but nothing I've seen so far suggests there's any
physical reason why you can't have a child. We just need to get you in touch
with the energy centers in your body. Rightness flows from that."
"You really think so?" In spite of myself I felt my hopes rising, even
though I had definite mixed feelings about his kind of "holistic" medicine.
"I'm virtually certain. But whether you want to continue with the
program or not is a decision you'll have to make for yourself."
"Well, maybe when I'm feeling better we can talk some more about it." I
definitely needed to reconsider my game plan. "For now, I think I'd better
just get my things and—"
"As you wish." He sighed. "Your clothes are in your room. There's a
closet in the corner by the window."
I shot a glance at him. "Does my Blue Cross cover this?"
“On the house." A dismissive wave of his hand, and an­other kindly
smile.
I was still feeling shaky as I moved back down the vacant hallway, but I
refused to let either of them help me. Instead I left him to oversee Ramala
as she shut down the equipment.
Oddly, the place still seemed vacant except for me, though there was a
large white door that appeared to lead to another wing. What was in there? I
wondered. The questions kept piling up.
It soon turned out I was wrong about the clinic being empty. When I
reached the door to the room where I'd been, I thought I heard a shuffling
sound inside. I pushed it open gingerly and saw the room was dark. It hadn't

been when I left. The shuffling noise—I realized it was somebody closing
the Venetian blinds—immediately stopped.
I began feeling along the wall for the light switch.
"Please leave it off," said a spacey female voice. "It's nice when it's
dark."
As my eyes became accustomed to the eerie half-light, I finally made out
a figure. It was a short woman, childlike but probably mid-twenties.
"What are you doing in here?"
"I just wanted to, like, be with you." She'd done her dark hair in multiple
braids, with a red glass bead at the end of each. "You're special. We all
know it. That's why he brought you over here, to this building. To be near
them."
"What do you mean, 'special'?" I asked, heading for the closet and my
black jeans. Then I wondered. Near who?
Now she was reaching into a fanny pack she had around her waist and
taking out a baggie filled with plastic vials. "These are herbs I've started
growing here. I picked them for you. If you'll—"
"Slow down," I said, lifting my jeans off the hanger and starting to
struggle into them. Finally I took the baggie, moved to the window, and
tilted up the blind. Inside it were clear plastic medicine bottles containing
various gray and green powders and flakes.
My God, what's she trying to give me? And why?
"Listen," she went on, insistent. "Take those. Put two teaspoons of each
in water you've boiled and drink it. Every day for a week. They'll make you
strong. Then you'll be—"
"Hey, I'm going to be just fine, really." I set them aside and studied her,
still a ghostlike figure in the semi dark. There was a wildness in her eyes
that was very disturbing.
At that moment, Alex Goddard appeared in the doorway. He clicked on
the light, looking puzzled.
"Couldn't find the switch?" Then he glanced around. "Tara, did you get
lost? I thought you were doing your medi­tation. It's Sunday. Afterwards,

though, you can weed the north herb boxes if you want."
She nodded silently, then grabbed the baggie and glided out, her brown
eyes filled with both reverence and what seemed like fear.
"Who was that?" I asked, staring after her, feeling unset­tled by the whole
experience. "She seemed pretty intense."
"Tara's been pretty intense for some time, perhaps for much of her life,"
he declared with a note of sadness as he closed the door behind her. "I've
not been able to do anything for her, but I've let her stay on here since she
has nowhere else to go. She loves the gardens, so I've let her work out there.
It seems to improve her self-esteem, a kind of benign therapy, her own
natural path toward centering."
Well, I thought, she certainly could use some "centering."
"Look, Dr. Goddard, let me get my things, and then I've got to be going.
I can't start on anything right now. Not the way I'm feeling. And visiting
your other clinic is completely out of the question, at least for the moment."
"I have great hopes for you," he said again, placing a gentle hand on my
shoulder. "I'm sorry we can't begin to work together immediately. But do
promise me you'll recon­sider and come back soon."
"Maybe when I'm feeling better." Keep the option open, I told myself.
For a lot of reasons.
"In that case, Ramala can show you out. I've arranged for her to give you
some herbal extracts from the rain forest that could well start you on the
road to motherhood. Whether you decide to come back or not, I know
they'll help you."
And he was gone, a wisp of white moving out the doorway. It was only
then that I realized I'd again been too preoccupied to ask him about Kevin
and Rachel, the beautiful siblings born six months apart. Instead all I had
left was a memory of those penetrating eyes. And the power, the absolute
power.

Chapter Nine

After giving me a small bag with two bottles, Ramala led me out, and I
discovered I really had been in a different building, the one situated across
the long-term parking lot and all but hidden in the trees. It was new, one-
story, and probably larger than it appeared from the front. Again I won­dered
what went on in there, since it seemed so empty.
Check it out and soon, I told myself as I slipped my key into the ignition.
You've got to find out a lot more about this place.
On the drive back to the city, my main thought was that I'd lost a day of
my life. It'd just sort of slipped away. But that wasn't all. I also began to
meditate on the fact that Alex Goddard could have an immense influence
over my body (or was it my mind?) with a simple touch. Give him his due,
he could definitely make things happen. First my cold and now this.
Perhaps he could give me a child, if I got "centered," whatever that meant.
But why should I trust him?
And there was another problem. For a baby I'd need Steve, the man I
loved, the guy who'd promised to be with me through thick and thin. Did he
really mean it? He'd have to fly in, which meant a serious piece of change
for the airfare. Finally, could he face another chance of failure? My spirits
sank at the prospect of having to ask him. Were we both just going to be
humiliated one more time?
He'd made his home base in Belize, that little Rhode Island of a country
abutting big, bad Guatemala. He liked the fact they used English, more or
less, as the official language and they hadn't gotten around to murdering
two hundred thou­sand Maya, the way Guatemala had. In a romantic
moment, I'd programmed his Belize hotel number into the memory of my
cell phone—the telephones down there are amazingly good, maybe the Brit
legacy—though I'd never actually tried it. (I'd called him from home about
half a dozen times, but he was rarely there.) Well, I thought, the time has
come. Maybe it was the sensual feelings released by all the Chi flowing

around, but for some reason I found myself feeling very lonely. He hadn't
called recently, though. . . .
It took ten rings, but eventually the hotel answered. A moment later, they
were trying his room. I guess I was half afraid a woman might pick up, but
it was him and there were no hushed tones or cryptic monosyllables. I
heaved a minor sigh of reassurance.
"Baby, I can't believe it's you," he declared. "I've actually been trying to
reach you for a day now."
"You finally get around to missing me?" It was so good to hear his voice,
full of life and energy.
"All the time. Never didn't. You've just got to understand it's crazy down
here. All last week I was in Honduras, hag­gling over permits. Don't ask."
He paused. "So, when are you coming down? They've got a national park
here that's a pure chunk of rain forest, jaguars everywhere." He laughed.
"But forget that. If you come down, we'll never get out of the hotel. Just
room service all day."
"No immediate plans," I said, immediately wondering how I could swing
it. "But you never know."
I wasn't entirely sure how to approach Steve anymore. There was
something about the abrupt way he took off that left things up in the air. A
tiny sliver of uneasiness was slipping into my head-over-heels trust, the
camel's nose under the tent.
"First the good news," I declared. "David's talking to Orion about a
theatrical release for Baby Love."
Steve knew how deeply I longed for a theatrical—it would be my first—
and he enthused appropriately. But he also knew I wouldn't call him early
Sunday morning just to tell him that. There was only one other thing that
would inspire such an unsocialized act.
"Uh, should I be asking how the other baby project is going?" he said.
For a moment I wasn't sure what to say, since I didn't really even know
myself.

"Still a work in progress," I said finally. Then; "Honey, I've just been to
see a doctor who's . . . well, he's a little unconventional. And nervous-
making. But everything else has failed."
Whereupon I gave him a quick, cell-phone summary of what I'd just
been through at Quetzal Manor.
"So are you going to go back eventually?" He sounded uneasy. "For the
full 'program'?"
He had a way of zeroing in on essentials. The truth was, my baby hopes
and my sense of self-preservation were at war with each other. . . .
"Morgy, are you there?"
"I'm here. And I guess the answer is, I'm still trying to decide. Like I
said, he's into Eastern medicine and Native American . . . I'm not sure what.
But if I need you, are you still in the project?"
"What do you mean?"
"Darlin', don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean. Could you
come back if I needed you? Really needed you?"
There was a long pause, wherein the milliseconds dragged by like hours.
Trees were gliding past, throwing shadows on
my windshield, and I still felt vaguely dizzy. I also had a residual ache in
my abdomen where Alex Goddard had given me those damned muscle-
relaxant shots. Why was I even considering going back?
Finally: "You're not making this easy, you know. Down here, without our
. . . project on the front burner every day, I've been reassessing . . . well, a
lot of things. If we had a baby, it would turn our lives upside down. I mean,
it's not like we just bought a sheepdog and chipped in on the groom­ing. This
is a human life we're talking about. Are we really prepared to do justice to a
child?"
There it was. I didn't know whether I wanted to burst into tears, or
strangle the man.
"Well, why don't you just think about it," I told him. "This doesn't sound
like a conversation we should be having on a cell phone." Blast him. "If
that's the way you feel now, then I might just have a baby on my own."

How, I wasn't sure. I'd been so certain we were a couple, I'd not given it any
real thought. "Or then again, I might just go ahead and adopt, with or
without you."
"Look, I'm not saying I won't do it. I'm just saying it's not a trivial thing."
He paused. "So where does that leave us?"
Translation: second thoughts.
"I don't know where that leaves us, Steve. In the shit, I guess. But I'd still
like to know if I can count on you, or am I going to have to go to a sperm
bank or something?"
"Jesus. Let me think about this, okay? Do I have to answer you now?"
"No. But I'm not going to wait forever either."
"All right." Then he paused. "Morgy, I miss you. I really do. I just need
some time to think about our next step. Are you sure you're okay? You
sound a little out of it."
"Thanks for asking. I've just got a lot on my mind."
Turmoil, dismay, and hope, all tossed together, that was what I had on
my mind. I really didn't need mixed signals from Steve at the moment.
A few more awkward pleasantries and I clicked off the phone, wiped the
streaks from my cheeks, and abruptly sensed Alex Goddard's face floating
through my psyche. Why was that? Then I looked down at the bottles on the
seat beside me, the "herbal extracts" Ramala had given me on the way out.
What, I wondered, should I do about them? For that matter, what were they
anyway? And what did they have to do with "centering"? If I started on his
homeopathic treat­ments, what would I be getting into? Then I lectured
myself: Never take something when you don't know what it is.
Hannah Klein. That's who I should ask.
I was so focused, I pushed the number I had stored for her in my phone
memory before I remembered it was Sunday. Instead of getting her office, I
got an answering service.
"Do you want to leave the doctor a message?" a south­ern-sounding voice
enquired.
Without thinking, I heard myself declaring, "No, this is an emergency."

What am I saying? I asked myself. But before I could take it back,
Hannah was on the line.
I know how intruded on I feel when an actor calls me at home on Sunday
to bitch. Better make this good, I told my­self.
"I was at an infertility clinic yesterday and passed out," I began. "And
now I have some herbs to take, but I'm . . . well, I'm not sure about them."
"What 'clinic'?" she asked. There was no reprimand for calling her on
Sunday morning.
When I told her about Alex Goddard, she said little, but she did not
sound impressed. Looming there between us like the dead elephant on the
living room floor was the fact that she'd specifically warned me not to go
near him. And after what had just happened, there was a good case she
might be right.
"Can I buy you brunch?" I finally asked, hoping to lure her back onto my
case. "I'd really like to show you these herbs he gave me and get your
opinion."
"I was just headed out to Zabar's to get something," she said, somewhat
icily. Well, I suppose she thought she had good reason. "I'll get some bagels
and meet you at my of­fice."
Sunday traffic on upper Broadway was light, and I lucked out and found
a parking space roughly two blocks from her building. It was one of the
low-overhead "professional" types with a single small elevator and no
doorman. When I got there, the lobby was empty.
Her suite was on the third floor, and I rang the bell before I realized the
door was open. She was back in her office, behind the reception area, taking
off her coat, when I marched in.
While she was unwrapping her sesame bagels, smoked sturgeon, and
cream cheese with chives, she got an earful. My feeling was I'd better talk
fast, and I did. I told her ev­erything I could think of about what had
happened to me at Quetzal Manor. I didn't expect her to make sense of it
from my secondhand account, but I wanted to set the background for my
next move.

"When I was leaving, his assistant gave me these two bottles of gel-caps.
She said they're special herbal extracts he makes from plants in the rain
forest. Do you think I ought to take them?"
I suspected I already knew the answer. Given her pre­viously voiced
views on Alex Goddard, I doubted she would endorse any potions he might
dispense. But plant medicine has a long history. At least she might know if
they presented any real danger.
She was schmearing cream cheese on the bagels, but she put down the
plastic knife, took the two bottles, and exam­ined them skeptically.
"These are not 'herbal extracts,' " she declared giving her first analysis
before even opening them. "They're both manufactured drugs. The gel-caps
have names on them. It's a Latin American pharmaceutical company."
Then she opened the first bottle, took out one of the caps, crushed it
between her fingers, and sniffed.
"Uh-huh, just what I thought." Then she touched a pinch of the white
powder to her tongue. "Right." She made a face and wiped her tongue with
a tissue. "Except it's much stronger than the usual version. I can tell you
right now that this drug, in this potency, is illegal in the U.S."
What was it? I wondered. Cocaine? And how could she tell its potency
with just a taste? Then I reminded myself why I'd come to her in the first
place: She'd been around the track many, many times.
"It's gonadotropin," she said glaring at me. Like, you damned fool. "I'm
virtually certain. The trade name here in the U.S. is Pergonal, though that's
not what this is. This is a much stronger concoction, and I can see some
impurities." She settled the bottle onto her desk with what seemed almost a
shudder. "This is the pharmaceutical equivalent of hundred-and-ninety-
proof moonshine."
"What is it? What's it supposed it do?" Jesus, I thought, what's he giving
me?
"It's a hormone extracted from the urine of menopausal women. It
triggers a greater than normal egg production and release. It's sometimes
prescribed together with Lupron, which causes your body to release a

similar hormone. Look, if you want to try Pergonal, the real version, I'll
write you a prescription, though I honestly don't think it's going to do you
the slightest bit of good."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I'd almost been considering giving
Alex Goddard the benefit of the doubt, at least till I found out more about
him, and now he hands me this.
Now we both were looking at the other bottle.
"What do you think that is?" I asked, pointing.
She broke the plastic seal, opened it, and looked in. It too was a white
powder sealed in gel-caps, and she gave one a sniff, then the taste test.
"I have no idea."
She set the bottle back on her desk, and I stared at it, terrified of what it
might be. Finally I got up my courage and reached for it. A white sticker
had been wrapped around it, with directions for taking . . . whatever it was .
. . written on it. Then I happened to notice that one corner showed the edge
of another label, one beneath the hand-applied first one. I lifted a letter
opener off her desk and managed to get it under the outer label. With a little
scraping and tugging, I got it off.
"Does this mean anything to you?" I asked her, handing it back. "It's in
Spanish, but the contents seem to be HMG Massone."
"I don't believe it," she said, taking the bottle as though lifting a cobra. I
even got the distinct feeling she didn't want to leave any fingerprints on it.
"That's an even more powerful drug to stimulate ovarian follicles and
induce superovulation. It's highly illegal in this country. Anybody who
gives these drugs in combination to a patient is flirting with an ethics
charge, or worse."
I think I gasped. What was he trying to put into my body?
She settled the bottle back on the desk, her eyes growing narrow. "Since
you say his 'nurse' or assistant or whatever she was gave you this, I suppose
there's always the chance she made an innocent mistake. But still, what's he
doing with this stuff at all? They manufacture it down in Mexico, and also,
I've heard, somewhere in Central America, but it's not approved in the U.S.

Anybody who dispenses this to a patient is putting their license at risk." She
paused to give me one of those looks. "Assuming Alex Goddard even has a
medical license. These 'alternative medicine' types sometimes claim they
answer to a higher power, they're board-certified by God."
"I don't for a minute think it was an 'innocent mistake.' " I was beginning
to feel terribly betrayed and violated. I also was getting mad as hell, my
fingertips tingling. "But why would he give me these drugs at all? Did he
somehow—?"
"I think you'd better ask him," she said passing me a bagel piled high
with cream cheese and sturgeon.
She bit into her own bagel and for a while we both just chewed in
silence. I, however, had just lost all my appetite. Alex Goddard who might
well be my last chance for a baby, had just dispensed massive doses of
illegal drugs to me. Which, my longtime ob/gyn was warning me, were both
un­necessary and unethical.
"What do you think I should do?" I asked finally, breaking the silence
but barely able to get my voice out.
She didn't say anything. She'd finished her bagel, and now she'd begun
wrapping up the container of cream cheese, fold­ing the wax paper back
over the remaining sturgeon. I thought her silent treatment was her way of
telling me my brunch consultation was over. She clearly was exasperated
with me.
"Let me tell you a story," she said finally, as she carefully began putting
the leftover sturgeon back into the Zabar's bag. "When I was eight years old
all the Jews in our Polish ghetto were starving because the Nazis refused to
give us food stamps. So my father bribed a Nazi officer to let him go out
into the countryside to try to buy some eggs and flour, any­thing, just so we
could eat. The farmer came that Saturday morning in a horse-drawn wagon
to pick up my father. At the last minute, I asked to go with him and he let
me. That night the Nazis liquidated our entire ghetto, almost five thou­sand
people. No one else in my family survived. Not my mother, not my two
sisters, not anyone."

Her voice had become totally dispassionate, matter-of- fact, as though
repression of the horror was the only way a sane person could deal with it.
She could just as easily have been describing a country outing as she
continued. I did no­tice, however, that her East European accent had
suddenly become very prominent, as though she was returning there in her
thoughts.
"When we learned what had happened, my father asked the farmer we
were visiting to go to a certain rural doctor we knew and beg him to give us
some poison, so we could commit suicide before the Nazis got us too. The
doctor, how­ever, told him he had only enough poison for his own family.
He did, however, give him a prescription for us. But when my father begged
that farmer to go to a pharmacy and get the poison, he and his entire family
refused. Instead, they hid us in their barn for over a year, even though they
knew it meant a firing squad if the Nazis found us." She glared at me. "Do
you understand what I'm saying? They told us that if we wanted to do
something foolish because we were des­perate, we would have to do it
without their help."
It was the first time I ever knew her real story. I was stunned.
"What, exactly, are you driving at?" I think I already knew. The long,
trusting relationship we'd shared was now teetering on the brink. By going
to see Alex Goddard—even if it was partly a research trip to check him out
—I had disappointed her terribly. She'd lost respect for me. She thought I
was desperate and about to embark on something foolish.
"I'm saying do whatever you want." She got up and lifted her coat off the
corner rack. "But get those drugs out of here. I don't want them anywhere
near this office. I tried everything legal there was to get you pregnant. If
that wasn't good enough for you and now you want to go to some quack,
that's your affair. Let me just warn you that combining go­nadotropin and
HMG Massone at these dosages is like put­ting your ovaries on steroids; you
get massive egg production for a couple of cycles, but the long-term
damage could be severe. I strongly advise you against it, but if you insist

and then start having complications, I would appreciate not being
involved."
Translation: If you start fooling around with Alex God­dard, don't ever
come back.
It felt like a dagger in my chest. What was I going to do? One thought:
Okay, so these drugs aren't the way, but you couldn't help me get pregnant.
All I did was spend twenty thousand dollars on futile procedures. Not to
mention the heartbreak.
"You know," I said finally, maybe a little sharply, "I think we ought to be
working together, not at cross-purposes."
"You're welcome to think what you like," she bristled. "But I have to tell
you I don't appreciate your tone."
I guess I'd really ticked her off, and it hurt to do it. Then, finally, her own
rejection of me was sinking in.
"So that's it? You're telling me if I try anything except exactly what you
want me to, then just don't ever come back."
"I've said all I intend to." She was resolutely ushering me toward the
door, her eyes abruptly blank.
Well, I told myself, going from anger to despair, then back to anger,
whatever else I might think about Alex Goddard, at least he doesn't kick
people out because of their problems, even a sad soul like Tara.
Still, what about these illegal drugs? There I was, caught in the middle—
between an honorable woman who had failed, and Alex Goddard, who'd
just lived up to my worst suspi­cions. Heading down in the elevator, alone, I
could still hear Hannah Klein's rejection, and warning, ringing in my ears.
Maybe she had just confirmed that still, small voice of ra­tionality lecturing
me from the back of my mind.
I marched out onto the empty Sunday streets of upper Broadway, and
when I got to the corner, I stood for a long moment looking up at the
pitiless blue of the sky. The sun was there, but in my soul I felt all the light
was gone.

Finally I opened the first bottle and then, one by one, I began taking out
the gel-caps and dropping them into the rainwater grate there at my feet,
watching them bounce like the metal sphere in an old pinball machine
before disappear­ing into the darkness below. When both bottles were empty,
I tossed them into the wire trash basket I'd been standing next to.
The next time I saw Alex Goddard, he was going to have a hell of a lot
of explaining to do. Beginning with why he'd given me a glimmer of hope,
only to then cruelly snatch it back. I found myself hating him with all my
being.

Chapter Ten

I headed on back downtown, planning to take a bath, change clothes,
and then recalibrate my game plan. Maybe, I thought, I ought to just go up
to the editing room at Applecore, try some rote work to help tranquilize my
thoughts.
But first things first. About halfway there, at Thirty-eighth Street, I
pulled over and double-parked by a Korean deli, and surveyed the flowers
they had out front, an array of mul­ticolored blooms that virtually blocked
entry to the doorway of the tiny grocery. Azaleas, chrysanthemums, birds-
of-paradise, but I wanted the pink roses. At ten dollars a bunch, they
seemed the right touch. I dug out a twenty and picked two.
Still standing on the street, I pulled them to me and inhaled deeply. As
far back as I could remember, I'd always loved the scent of roses. I'd never
really thought myself pretty, the natural-blond often-dyed-brown hair
notwithstanding, but just having roses around somehow made me feel that
way. I wanted to be engulfed in them, especially any time confusion
threatened to get the upper hand.
Five minutes later and I was at Twenty-first Street. I'd arrived. My
refuge, my one-bedroom cocoon. Time to col­lapse into a hot bath, wonder
why Alex Goddard had given me illegal drugs, and contemplate roses. I
was looking for a parking space when my cell phone rang. No, don't bother,
I told myself. Enough intrusion for one day. Then I remembered I'd sprung
for the caller-ID feature, and I glanced down at the little liquid crystal slot.
It was a number I happened to know, Lou's place downtown. One eye still
on the street, I reached over and picked it up.
"Finally got you," he boomed. "Where the heck are you?"
"I just got home from—"
"Yeah, I know where you been. Dave told me." He paused, as though he
was holding off on some important announce­ment. "Hang on a sec. There's

somebody here might like to speak to you."
I thought about Lou's makeshift digs, lots of "heir­loom"—worn-out—
family furniture he'd lugged along with him. Sarah and I used to play on the
couch, and it still had a dim mauve stain where I'd once dumped a glass of
"grape" Kool-Aid on her head when she was six. Whatever else, defi­nitely
not a Soho look.
Then I heard a whispery voice.
"Hi, Morgy."
It was a tentative utterance I'd heard only once before, when she was
waking up after falling off a playground swing. She'd been knocked out
cold for a moment and I'd been frantic, wetting a handkerchief in the nearby
fountain and desperately rubbing it over her face. When she came to, she'd
gazed up into my eyes and greeted me as though we'd just met.
My God!
Before I could recover and say anything, Lou came back on. "We're
practicing eating chicken-noodle soup. And we're trying to do a little
talking. Why don't you come on down? She asked about you earlier this
morning, said, 'Where's Morgy?' "
"Lou! This is incredible!"
"You gotta believe in miracles, right? Just come on down."
"Is she . . . God, you've got it." My hopes went into orbit as I clicked off
the phone and revved my engine.
I could have swamped him with a lot of questions then and there, but I
immediately decided I wanted to see her first, with my own eyes. I still
couldn't quite believe it was true. On the other hand, a weekend partial
recovery was not totally beyond the realm of medical possibility. With a
coma, so little is understood that anything's possible. Lou was right. This
was definitely a weekend of the unexpected.
I'd been close to the deaths of people near to me, both my parents for
starters, but I'd never been close to the restoration of life. It's hard to explain
the rush of joy when you think somebody is gone for good and then they
pop up again, like they'd never been lost. And with Sarah that feeling was

es­pecially jarring. It was almost as though some part of me had come back
alive.
The fact is, since Sarah and I were both only children, we'd identified a
lot with each other. True, we'd traveled our separate paths, each looking,
perhaps, for something to fill the lonely void in our lives that a sibling
might have taken. As a child of the dusty, empty plains of West Texas, I
didn't see other kids very much during the summer, and I made up reasons
why she and I should visit each other as often as possible.
Once, when I was plowing, turning over oat stubble—yes, my dad warily
let me do that if I asked—I unearthed a rabbit nest full of little baby
cottontails. Sarah was coming to visit the next day, and I rescued the infants
so we could play nurs­ery. We fed them milk with little eyedroppers, and
before long Sarah decided she was actually a reincarnated mother rabbit.
That was when she became a vegetarian, and she re­mained so—by her
account—till she finished college. It was just another of those magic
moments of childhood I ended up sharing with her.
I also sometimes wondered, as you might have guessed, what it would've
been like to be born a boy. I was definitely a tomboy, had a real collie (my
own version of Lassie), liked to climb trees and dig holes in the
hardscrabble West Texas earth. Maybe that was why I felt so at home—free
associat­ing now—when I filmed my documentary of the Maya vil­lage in
Mexico's Yucatan. It was hot and dry and lay under a pitiless sun, a blazing
white bone in the sky that seared the spare landscape. None of my crew
could understand how anybody could bear to live in such a place, but to me
it seemed perfectly natural, almost like home.
Thoughts of which now made me sad. I only wish my parents had lived
long enough to see that documentary. Maybe then they'd have understood
how terribly lonely I'd been as a child, a loneliness I shared so deeply with
Sarah. Would we ever be together again?
On my hurried trip downtown, I kept wondering what I was about to
encounter. Was it going to be the fantasy-bound Sarah of her girlhood,
perhaps the same Sarah who'd spun out some stuttering vision of a jade

mask? Or would all that be past and would she again be the ambitious,
sparkling pre- med student she'd become when she was in college?
Getting to Soho took only about ten minutes, scant time to think. Lou's
place was in what had once been a garment factory sweatshop. He'd rented
it from another agent at the bureau, who had inherited it from a cousin, a
well-known downtown artist, lately dead of AIDS. Lou paid virtually no
rent, was there mainly to keep out squatters, and couldn't care less that he
was living in one of New York's trendier sections. All he knew was that
there was plenty of room, and free parking on the street for his old Buick.
I'd been down many times before. Inside, the space was still inhabited
spiritually by the dead artist, with acrylic paint spattered on walls and
graffiti I didn't fully understand in the bathroom. The place seemed to be a
broom-free area, with layers of the past littered on the floor like an archae­‐
ological excavation. And the old Kool-Aid-stained furniture, fitting right in.
What always struck me, though, was the number of photos of Sarah.
They were everywhere in the open space, on tables, the desk, several on the
walls. Mostly they were old, several blown up and cropped from snapshots,
grainy. The space felt like a shrine to her memory.
When Lou let me in, I was greeted by a spectral face, a wheelchair, and a
valiant attempt at smiling normalcy. Maybe Lou thought it was real, was
progress, but I was immediately on guard.
It was Sarah's eyes that caught me. They pierced into my soul and we
seemed to click, just like always, only this time it was as though all our life
together passed between us. I had the sense she was trying to tell me
something with her eyes that went beyond words, that she was trying to
reach out to me, perhaps to recapture that shared understanding we'd had
years ago.
Lou introduced me to a Mrs. Reilly, a kindly, Irish-looking practical
nurse who was part of the outpatient package the hospital provided. She
wore a white uniform and was around sixty, with short-bobbed gray hair
and an air of total author­ity. She'd just finished feeding Sarah a bowl of
soup, and was brushing out her cropped blond hair, what there was of it.

Mrs. Reilly glanced at me, but never broke the rhythm of her strokes.
"She's tired now, but she's already stronger than she was."
Then Lou spoke up. "They called me early yesterday morning. But by
the time I got around to trying to reach you, you'd vanished. So I rang Dave
and he told me where you were, up there with that crackpot." He was
grinning. No, make that beaming like the famous cat. "By last night, she
was walking with some help, so they said she might as well be here. Like I
said, it's a miracle."
"You brought her home just this morning?" I couldn't believe the hospital
would discharge her so soon, but this was the HMO Age of medical cost-
cutting.
"Only been here a couple of hours." He pointed to a shiny set of parallel
steel railings in the corner. "That's for physical therapy. Right now she can
only walk with somebody on either side holding her, but in a few days, I
figure . . ." His voice trailed off, as though he didn't want to tempt fortune.
Then he turned toward Sarah. "In a few days, right, honey?"
She nodded, then finally spoke directly to me. "Morgy, I want some
clothes. Please. I hate these horrible hospital things. I never want to see
them again."
I noticed that she'd started crying, a line of tears down each emaciated
cheek. Was it something to do with seeing me? I wondered. Then she began
trying to struggle out of the blue bed shift she was wearing, though she
didn't have the strength.
"I'll get you something great, Sar, don't worry." I reached to stay her
hand. It was, I thought, extraordinarily cold, even though the loft itself was
warm as toast. What kind of clothes should I buy for her? I found myself
wondering. Blouses with buttons? Pullovers? What could she manage?
Maybe I'd bring some items from home first and let her try them out. We
used to be about the same size, though now she was all skin and bones.
I moved a chair next to her, took her other hand, and leaned as close as I
dared. I desperately wanted to put my arms around her, but I wasn't sure
how she would respond to my touch. Her eyes, however, were clear and had

never looked a deeper blue. "Sar, what's the matter? Why're you crying?
You should be happy. Your dad's right here and he loves you and we're
going to take wonderful care of you."
"Who? Him?" she asked, looking straight at Lou, her blue eyes like an
unblinking camera's lens.
The plaintive question took my breath away. Hadn't they been talking for
two days?
"Don't pay any attention when she says things like that," Mrs. Reilly
declared, her voice just above a whisper. "She's still not quite herself. She
drifts in and out."
She seemed to be drifting in and out at the moment, though it was mostly
out.
Then she looked directly at me, only now her eyes were losing their
laser-like focus, were starting to seem glazed. "Who're you?" She reached
out and touched my unwashed hair, running her hands through the tangled
strands.
Next she stared off, terrified, her eyes full of fear.
"The smoke," she whispered. "The knife. I'm next."
Abruptly she was off again in the reverie that had enfolded her that first
time in the hospital. Or at least that was what I guessed.
"What are you talking about?" I felt like shaking her, except I was too
shook-up myself.
She turned back, and for a moment she just stared glassy- eyed, first at
me, next at Lou, and finally at Mrs. Reilly. Then she reached for a glass of
orange juice on the table beside her. She looked at it as though it were some
potion, then slowly drank it off, not pausing once. Outside, a faint police
siren could be heard, and I was afraid it was distracting her. Anyway,
something told me her momentary séance was played out. Her face had
grown calm and rested, though I could barely repress a tremble.
"Whatever you think," I said finally, slipping an arm around her
shoulder, "we're both right here. And we love you and we want to help you
get better."

She didn't say anything more, just closed her eyes and drifted away. But
it wasn't back into a coma, since her breath­ing was growing heavier. I
wanted to grab her and yell at her and demand that she come back to us, but
I was fearful of what effect it might have.
"What the hell was she talking about?" Lou asked finally, his voice
quavering.
"I don't know," I said, as puzzled as he was.
That was when Mrs. Reilly spoke up. She was the only one not upset.
"When they come out of a coma, sometimes they're not right for a
while." She patted Sarah's hand then gave it a solicitous squeeze. "I once
had a man wake up and start talking about magic trips through the air, about
how he was a dual citizen of the earth and the sea. He was talking like a
lunatic. One day he would know his family, and the next he would look at
them and start screaming they'd come to kill him. You just never know how
these things will go at first. But she'll be herself before long." She lifted
Sarah's limp hand up to her cheek, then kissed it. "You're going to be all
right, dear. I've seen enough like you to know."
"Then what do you make of what she just said?" Lou asked her, having
given up on me. "Earlier this morning she was fine. Knew who I was,
everything. Then the minute Mor­gan comes in, she starts making up that
loony jabber."
The sanguine Mrs. Reilly just shrugged as if it didn't re­ally matter.
For my own part, I didn't necessarily like him implying my arrival had
caused her to relapse into her dream world of terror. It seemed to me that
whenever I showed up, she started trying to tell me what was really eating
away at her soul.
Well, I told myself finally, maybe she's regressed back to when we were
kids, when we only had each other to share our secrets with. What if we've
rebonded in some new, spe­
cial way? It would be natural, actually. She's trying to reach out to me, like
long ago.

Now she appeared to be dozing off, exhausted, her head tipping
downward toward her blue hospital shift. Mrs. Reilly took that as a hint,
and slowly began wheeling her toward the bedroom, leaving me alone with
Lou.
I glanced over at him, thinking more and more that I had to do
something, track down what had happened to her. I wanted to do it for me,
but even more for him. I'd never seen him so despondent. Maybe it was the
thing scholars call the curse of rising expectations. Back when she was
hardly more than a vegetable, he was overjoyed by a flickering eyelid. Now
that she was talking, he wanted all of her back. Instead, though, it seemed
as if she had returned to us for a moment, only to be snatched away again. I
could tell it was killing him.
"Look, I'm sorry that when I showed up, she started going off the deep
end." I wanted desperately to help, but at that moment I felt powerless.
"Maybe I should just stay away for a while."
"Nah, she loves having you here. Don't worry. But any­way, Dave said
something about you taking a couple of days off. Maybe I can use that time
to be here with her and settle her down." Then he grimly took out her locket
and rubbed its worn silver in his fingers, his eyes brimming with his
heartache. "This is all just so damned confusing."
Was he telling me, indirectly, that I should go away and leave them
alone? First Hannah Klein rejects me, and now et tu, Lou? Maybe, I
thought, he's taking out his despair on me, blaming me for her relapse.
Truthfully, I guess I was blaming myself a bit too.
"Listen, I'm going to go home now and leave you two alone," I said.
"But why don't you see if you can get her to talk some more? Without me
around, maybe she'll make more sense."
"If she wants to say something, I'll listen." He gave me a strong, absent
embrace, his eyes still despondent. "But no way am I gonna start pushing
her."
I edged into the bedroom, unsure if I really should, to say good-bye to
Sarah and to give her one last hug. Her eyes were open again and she just

stared at me for a second, then whispered a word I couldn't quite make out.
It might have sounded like "Babylon," but that made no sense at all. Fi­nally
she covered her eyes with her hands and turned away, gone from me,
leaving me more alone than I'd ever felt.

Chapter Eleven

Heading home, finally, I told myself to try to calm down. I was
determined to help Sarah get over her trauma, though truthfully I was too
tired to really think straight at that mo­ment. So instead I decided to let
everything rest for a few hours and try for some distance. In fact, I began
imagining myself in a hot bath, gazing at my now-wilting roses. Home
Sweet Home.
Mine was a standard one-bedroom in a building that had been turned into
a co-op five years earlier, the owner offering the individual apartments to
the tenants. I'd stayed a renter, however, passing up the "low" insider price,
$138,000, be­cause I didn't really have the money, and when I did have it
someday I would want something bigger. I wished I had more space—a real
dining room and a bigger bathroom would do for starters, along with some
place for more bookcases. And if a baby should someday miraculously
come along . . .
I'd often thought you could tell a lot about somebody from where and
how they lived; it's revealing as a Rorschach test. What, I often wondered,
did my apartment say about me?
A decorator might conclude I'd done up the place with love, then lazily
let it go. They'd decide I cared about nice things, but once those nice things
were there, I neglected them. It would be true.
I'd covered the walls of the living room with pale blue cloth, then hung a
lot of framed pictures and old movie post­ers. Okay, I like movies. For me
even the posters are art. My couch was an off-white, more like dirt-colored
actually, and covered with pillows for the "feminine" touch. I'd hoped you'd
have to look twice to realize it was actually a storage cabinet in disguise,
with drawers along the bottom of the front. The floor was polished
hardwood, rugs from India here and there, in sore need of a vacuuming, and

even a couple of deceased insects that'd been there for over a week. That
sort of said it, I thought glumly. I'm a workaholic slob.
The bedroom revealed even more about me. The bed was a brass four-
poster, queen-size, partly covered by an heirloom quilt. It hadn't been made
in a week. (Who has the time?) The room itself was long and divided into
areas for work and sleep. Opposite the bed itself was an antique English
desk, on which sat my old Macintosh, and next to that was my file cabinet,
the indispensable part of the "home office" the IRS loves to hate. On top of
it was a stack of marked-up scripts, notes scribbled all over them in six
different colors. You never re­alize movies are so complicated till you see a
breakdown sheet. Camera angles and voice-overs and . . .
Next to the bed was a violin case and three books about Indian ragas.
What was that about? somebody might wonder. Some kind of Indian music
nut? I was, albeit a very mini­mally talented nut.
The kitchen was the New York efficiency kind painted a glossy tan, the
color of aerosol olive oil. The cabinets con­tained mostly packages of pasta,
instant soup, and coffee filters. Not even any real food. I live on deli takeout
these days. An inventory of my fridge at this moment would clock two
cartons of "fresh squeezed" orange juice, a half quart of spoiling milk, a bag
of coffee beans, plastic containers of wilting veggies from the corner salad
bar, and three bottles of New York seltzer. That was it.
God help me, I thought, my mind-state turning even more
morose. This is my life. I had become that retrograde Woman of the
Nineties: works ninety hours a week, makes ninety thou a year, weighs
ninety pounds, and thinks (pardon my French) Cooking and Fucking are
provinces in northern China. Well, the ninety-pounds part of that obscene
quip didn't fit—and it wasn't the nineties anymore, anyway.
In any case, was my apartment a place to raise a child? No earthly way.
Like Carly, I'd have to spring for some decent space, preferably with a
washing machine. . . .
A parking slot was open right in front of my building, a minor miracle on
this day of uncertain events. As I was pull­ing in, I glanced over to see a man

walking past, not catching the face but sensing something familiar in the
walk. He was in the process of unbuttoning a Federal Express uniform,
peeling away the top to reveal a dark suit. He certainly seemed to be in a
big hurry, carrying an unmarked shopping bag. Maybe, I thought, his shift
was over and he was meeting his wife, or a friend.
I wondered if he'd left a package for me, and told myself to check with
the super. Not the usual delivery guy—did they come on Sunday now?—
and also . . .
Where was the truck? They always parked right here by the building.
I was still so upset over Sarah, I couldn't immediately process those
illogical observations, so I just grabbed my pink roses, dripping from the
bottom of their paper wrapping, and opened the car door. It was definitely
good to be home. I loved my Chelsea neighborhood, where you got to know
the locals, running into them in the delis, the little restau­rants, the dry
cleaners. Just like a small town. If you worked at home, the way I
sometimes did, you even got to know the mailman and the delivery guys for
UPS and FedEx. . . .
Hey! That guy. I finally placed the walk, a kind of a strut. He was the
slimeball who'd been outside Paula Marks' building last week, carrying a
gun and threatening me. What's he doing here?
My pulse went off the charts. Was he one of Nicky Russo's wiseguy crew
after all? Had he come back, with his pistol, to pay me a return
engagement?
My God.
Chill out, I told myself, take a deep breath. He's leaving. Just try and find
out who he is.
Roses in one hand held up awkwardly around my face, I slowly ambled
down the street after him. I didn't have to go far. Within about a hundred
feet, he unlocked a long black Lincoln Towncar, stepped out of the FedEx
camouflage, tossed it onto the seat along with the bag he was carrying,
pulled the cap off his bald head got in, and sped away.

The license plate looked different from the usual, but I got what I
needed: DL and a string of numbers.
Uh-oh, I thought. Was he leaving a package bomb for me?
I turned back and let myself into the outer lobby, glancing around as I
did. There were no parcels anywhere, just blank, brown tile.
My apartment was 3A. The name on the bell was M. James. As I stepped
through the inner lobby—still no pack­age—a rumpled face appeared in the
doorway just to my left. The sign on it, flaking, said SUPER.
"Oh, hi." The voice was Patrick Mooney, our superinten­dent, who did
not normally emerge to greet those arriving. But there had been complaints
from the building's managing agent that he could never be found for
emergencies, so he probably wanted to appear available, even on Sundays.
His voice was slurred from some midday medicinal Irish whisky. "Thought
you were home. FedEx guy was here earlier look­ing for you."
Oh, boy. "Did he leave a package?"
"He had something with him, if that's what you mean. Like a bag of
some kind."
"And you let him go up?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I felt a
rush of dismay.
"Said he had to. Needed a signature." Patrick Mooney then shrugged and
reached for the dooijamb to steady himself, his whisky breath wafting
across the hall. Great security.
I stepped into the elevator as the door was clanking shut, and watched as
he rubbed his eyes and eased his own door closed.
Now I was really puzzled. If the FedEx guy came "earlier," why was he
just now leaving? A lot of scary theories went through my mind as I pushed
the button for the third floor.
I took a deep breath as the elevator opened, but again I saw no packages.
So far so good. Getting off, I set down my roses on the hall carpet and
fumbled for my key. When I inserted it, the lock felt a little rough, causing
me to think for an instant I'd used the wrong key, but then it responded.

What had caused that? I wondered. Had the guy been fid­dling with my
door, wiring a bomb? Using one hand I pushed it open, again holding my
breath and standing aside, but it opened okay. I exhaled, then reached back
to drag in the flow­ers.
But if he didn't leave a package, what was he doing here? Casing out
where I lived? Planting a bug in the elevator? And why was he here so
long?
The place was dark when I stepped in, the drapes drawn. I relocked the
door, then surveyed the gloom. No explosions, so I guessed he didn't plan to
kill me. Yet. Here I was, home, safe and sound. I just stood a minute, still
uneasy.
Then I remembered the flowers, my dripping bouquet, and headed for
the kitchen. Deal with them, and then maybe get a bottle of white wine out
of the fridge and sip some in the bath.
After my unnerving sequence with Sarah, thoughts of going to the office
had zero appeal. Time to lighten up, way up.
Preoccupied, not looking around, I stuffed the roses into a vase by the
sink, and then I thought again about the white wine and opened the
refrigerator. I'd still not bothered to turn on any lights, but the kitchen and
its ancient fridge were dimly illuminated by the tiny window just across. I
wasn't sure where I'd put the bottle, since I'd had to rearrange things to
make room for the dup of Carly's interview. (I was also planning to take
home a safety dup of Paula's interview sometime later in the week.)
Why was I doing that? Taking home copies? It was a sign of deep
compulsion. You couldn't really make a professional- quality second
negative from a first positive—by that time it would be third-generation—
but I'd brought it anyway. Now and then I just have a raw instinct that
keeping a safety backup around is a good idea. But the canister had ended
up devouring the entire lower shelf of the fridge.
I opened the white door and peered in. The light was out, and for a
moment I stared numbly at the dark, half-filled shelves. The only thing that

struck me as odd was that I could see the pure white of the empty bottom
shelf.
For a second I could only stand and stare, but then I backed away, trying
to figure out what was wrong, and stumbled over something. I regained my
balance and flipped on the overhead light.
"What!"
The floor around me was littered with bottles, my old toaster, my tiny
microwave. It was a total shambles.
I recoiled stumbling again, this time over cans strewn across the
linoleum. My kitchen, it was slowly sinking in, had been completely
trashed.
I felt a visceral wave of nausea. It's the scariest thing in the world having
your space invaded like a form of psychic rape. I sagged against the
refrigerator as I gazed around. The cabinets had been emptied out, a hasty
and haphazard search. Quick and extremely dirty, as glass containers of
condiments, including an old bottle of dill pickles, were shattered and their
contents smeared into the floor.
"I don't believe this." I marched back into the living room and reached
for the lights. This room too had been turned upside down. The TV, stereo,
VCR, all had been swept onto the rug. But they were still there. That guy,
that animal, who did this wasn't a thief. He'd been looking for something.
My breath now coming in pulses, I edged into the bedroom and switched
on the light. The bed was the way I'd left it, the covers thrown back and the
pillows in a pile. The clock radio was there, and so was the old Mac, still on
the table in the far corner, my "workstation." Again nothing seemed to be
missing.
I headed back to the kitchen, where the refrigerator door was still open. I
gazed at the interior a moment, still puzzled, trying to figure out what
wasn't right. . . .
Shit! Shit! Shit! That's what was wrong. The field of white bottom shelf
was empty. Totally empty. The film canister of Paula's interview was gone.

For a moment I just leaned against the kitchen counter, barely pushing
aside an impulse to throw up in the sink. Think, I told myself, get a grip and
think. . . .
It was the film he'd wanted. And he'd wanted it badly enough to pick the
lock, then rip my home apart looking for it.
I pulled at a tangle of hair, feeling my mind in chaos, and tried to reason
out the situation. Why? Why would he steal a positive that couldn't be used
for anything?
Finally the real truth of what had happened hit me like a fist in the chest.
My Home Sweet Home had been violated.
Seething, I went into the living room and reached for the phone, the only
thing not on the floor.
My first instinct was to call David, but then I decided he'd just go into a
tizzy of hysteria and be no support at all. So instead I called Lou, praying I
wouldn't wake Sarah. In an unsteady voice, I tried to tell him what had
happened.
He seemed puzzled to hear from me again so soon, but then he quickly
turned FBI, concerned for my safety.
"Guy sounds like a professional," he declared. "Probably got in with an
electric picker, like the Edge. Any asshole can buy one for a hundred and
thirty bucks. It'll rake cylinders at a hundred times a second. Pro like that,
you can be sure there'll be no prints."
"But why would . . . ?" My voice was still a croak. "I mean, my God, all
for a lousy reel of film?"
"Fucker wants you to know he's in town. So how he did it's as important
as what he did. It's a time-proven scare tac­tic." He paused. "Morgan, I don't
like this one bit. There could be more before this is over."
"Think I should call the cops?"
"Damned right you should," he said, slowly and sadly, "but to tell you
the truth, they ain't gonna do all that much. Somebody messed up your
apartment and lifted a third-hand copy of a woman talking. They'll say it

sounds more like malicious mischief than a crime. Then they'll write it up
and that'll be the last you'll hear from them."
"Well," I said, my anger welling up, "maybe I don't feel quite so laissez-
faire. Tell me, you know anybody who can run a plate for you on a
Sunday?"
"You got the prick's license number?" he exclaimed. "Why the hell didn't
you say so?"
"Honestly, it sort of slipped my mind. I'm having a little trouble thinking
straight right now."
Fortunately my short-term memory is pretty good, even when I'm
stressed, so I spewed it out.
"Don't go anywhere," he declared. "I'll get back to you in five minutes."
I hung up the phone and lay down, flat out on the carpet, trying a
breathing exercise to calm down. The problem was, it wasn't working.
Having had some experience with being robbed—I once got completely
cleaned out when I had a ground-floor apartment down in the Village—I
know you go through certain Kubler-Ross-like stages of anger, denial, de­‐
pression, acceptance. You also go through a predictable series of
recriminations: I should have had window bars and gates; I should have had
a different lock; I should have had two different locks. In the instance just
recalled, I'm virtually certain an apartment painter duplicated a set of my
keys on his lunch break and then passed them on to a second-story artist.
No way to prove that, mind you, but it had to be what happened. I also
suspect he checked my appointments cal­endar to see when I was going to
be out of town.
But in this case the lock was definitely picked. Nobody had a set of my
keys except the super, and Steve. So the guy with the Spanish accent knew
how to slip through doors and he had no financial interest in my old VCR.
He only had an interest in my film. What had he said there on the sidewalk
outside Paula Marks's apartment? Something about how making this picture
was a big mistake?
I jumped as the phone erupted by my ear.

"The name Colonel Jose Alvino Ramos Grijalva mean anything to you?"
Lou asked.
"How could it? I'm not sure I can even pronounce it."
"Well, Colonel Ramos declares himself to be a military attaché at the
Guatemalan Consulate here. You've got a big shot in the Guatemalan Army
rummaging through your apartment. This is even worse than I thought.
Those guys are killers."
"Jesus." I was still coming to grips with the horrifying fact he'd been in
my apartment, in my only refuge. "Think I could bring charges against
him?"
"Well, let's consider this a minute. Probably no prints, no credible
witness. You'd have a damned hard time proving anything." He sighed.
"Truth is, I doubt you could even get a restraining order, given what little
you've got to work with."
"The bastard." I sat a moment, feeling the logical, left side of my brain
just shut down. My mind went back to its most primitive level, running on
adrenaline. "Look, I need to check out something. I'll call you in the
morning."
"Well, be careful," he said warily. "And for God's sake don't go running
off anyplace alone. I'm telling you you're not safe. Always be around
people."
"I'll keep it in mind." With that I gently hung up the phone and exhaled.
Think. Some colonel from Guatemala just broke into my apartment
looking for what I might know about Children of Light, where I've been
going to see about having a baby. So why is he so interested in what I'm
doing?
I remembered Alex Goddard wanted me to go to a "clinic" he had
somewhere in Central America. Ten to one that clinic was in Guatemala.
That was what this whole thing was about. And now he'd just gone back
there; at least that was what he'd said.
Guatemala was a long way off, but his other operation was right up the
river. I hadn't seen all of it this morning, but that was about to change. A lot

of things were about to change. It was time to start getting the playing field
level again.

Chapter Twelve

I arranged with Patrick Mooney to have his sister in Queens, a full-
figured woman named Rosalyn, come in and finish the job of reconstructing
my wrecked home. She ar­rived an hour and a half later, and was hard at
work when I left. I also agonized over the police-report issue, but finally
decided to forgo the bother. Lou was right: It would be a two-hour ordeal of
futility. Besides, I had better things to do with my time. I was going to
return the favor of an infor­mation-gathering expedition.
Alex Goddard had said he'd be absent from Quetzal Manor—who knows
for how long—and this time around I was going to do the place right, the
next step in my under­cover research. The first, and main, thing I wanted to
do was explore the new high-tech clinic that sat nestled in the woods across
from the old building. Everything about it was the exact opposite of a
"Manor." Not a shred of New Age "spiri­tuality," just a lot of digital
equipment and ultrasound and . . . what else? Chief among my questions:
What was behind that big, white door?
Maybe I was being impulsive, but I was completely wired and the truth
was, I wasn't going to sleep till I knew a lot more than I did. And if I went
late tonight, Sunday, I probably wouldn't have to deal with Ramala.
I called Roger Drexel, my unshaven cameraman, and asked him to come
up and meet me at Applecore. It was Sunday and he was watching the third
quarter of a Knicks game and into his second six-pack, but he agreed. After
all, I was his current boss.
All I really wanted was his Betacam and some metal tape, which would
be broadcast quality. (I'd wanted to do it yes­terday, but now the time had
definitely come.) We met at the office, and he unlocked the room with the
camera gear and loaded in a fresh tape. With any luck, he made it home for
the end of the game.

I then had a sinful cheeseburger and fries at a Greek diner two blocks
down the avenue. It was my idea of a courage- bolstering indulgence.
My watch read six thirty-five and daylight was waning when I revved
my old Toyota and started my northbound trek back to Quetzal Manor.
When I was passing the George Washington Bridge, the first drifting flakes
of a freak late-season snowstorm began pelting my windshield. Good I
thought, turning on my wipers, the less visibility, the better. At least I
believed that till the road started getting slippery and I had to throttle back.
It was only then I realized I'd been pushing eighty on the speedometer,
passing a lot of cars. Lou's warning not to go anywhere alone was still filed
in the back of my mind but I kept trying not to think about it. Sometimes
there are things you've just got to do.
The highway grew more treacherous the farther north I went, but the
traffic was thinning out and by the time I reached the turnoff to Quetzal
Manor, total darkness had set in, in addition to which the paving was
covered with at least an inch of sparkling-new pristine snow.
As I eased up the roadway, my headlights made the trees around me
glisten with their light dusting of white, like frost­ing on the tips of a buzz
cut. I switched off my lights as I made the last turn in the road but not
before catching a glimpse of Quetzal Manor, and I must confess to feeling a
shudder, of both anger and apprehension, run through me as I watched its
magisterial turrets disappear into the snowy dark.
I parked my car at the back of the lot and retrieved the flashlight I'd
brought, a yellow plastic two-battery model. I hadn't realized there'd be
snow when I left home, so I was just wearing some old sneakers, but they'd
do. I then sat there in the dark for a long minute, listening to the silence and
thinking. The first thing was to find out if anybody was guarding the place.
The next was to get some video of the new building.
I grabbed the bag carrying the Betacam, tested my flash­light against the
floorboard, and then headed up the snowy driveway. I marched straight
through the open arch that was the front door, and I was again in the drafty
hallway where I'd met Ramala Saturday morning. It was empty and dark

now, no lights anywhere, not even out in the courtyard be­yond. The stony
quiet—no music, no chants—felt unnatural, but it also suggested that Alex
Goddard's adoring acolytes were safely tucked away. Early to bed . . . you
know the rest. So maybe I really had come at the right time.
A chilly wind was blowing in from the far end of the hallway, and I felt
like I'd just entered a dank tomb, but I tightened my coat and pressed on.
When I got to the end and looked out, the snowy courtyard was like a
picture postcard. And completely empty.
All right, I thought, move on to what you came for.
But when I turned and headed back down the hallway, toward the entry
arch, I caught a glimpse of a furtive form, dark and shadowy, lurking just
outside. Shit! I froze in my tracks, but then the figure stepped inside,
wearing something that made me think of Little Red Riding Hood, like a
tiny ghost in a cowl.
It was Tara, Alex Goddard's spacey waif, who was moving so oddly, I
thought for a moment she might be sleepwalking.
She wasn't, of course. She'd just been out strolling around the driveway
in the snow. I soon realized she lived her life in something resembling a
trance, as though she were a per­manent denizen of the spirit world. For her
it was a natural condition.
"It's so beautiful like this," she mumbled dreamily, as though we'd been
in the middle of a lifelong conversation. "I just love it." Her voice was
barely above a whisper, but in the silence it seemed to ricochet off the stone
walls. "I want to take them out, show them God's paintbrush. Will you help
me?"
"Take who out?" I asked, immediately deciding to go with the moment.
Finally she looked directly at me and realized whom she'd been talking
to.
"You were here before. I tried to give you herbs to help you, but then he
came and . . ." Her voice trailed off as she walked back through the portico
and out again into the drift­ing snow. Then she held up her hands, as though
attempting to capture the flakes as keepsakes. "I so want to show them.

They've never seen it before." She glanced back at me. "Come on. Let's do
it."
As I followed her out into the drifting white and across the parking lot,
the accumulation of snow was growing denser, enough now to start
covering the cars, but still, some­thing told me the flurry was going to be
short-lived. I took a long, misty breath of the moist air and clicked open the
case holding the Betacam, readying myself to take it out the minute we got
inside.
Well, I thought, maybe I've gotten lucky. She was headed for the new
clinic, which was exactly where I wanted to go. It was nestled in the trees,
up a winding pathway, and as I slogged along I could feel the snow melting
through my sneakers.
When we got to the front door, large and made of glass, she just pushed
it open.
"We never lock anything," she declared, glancing back. "It's one of our
rules."
The hallway was dark, silent, and empty except for the two of us. Still, I
felt a tinge of caution as we entered. At some level this was trespassing.
"Come on," she said, casually flipping a switch on the right-hand wall
and causing the overhead fluorescents to blink on. "He's away now, and
everybody's in bed. But I'll bet they're still awake in here. It's a perfect
time."
I didn't feel anything was perfect, but I did know I wanted to learn what
was behind the door I'd seen when I was leav­ing. It was at the end of the
hallway, wide and steel and painted hospital white. And, sure enough, that
was exactly where Tara was heading.
She just kept talking nonstop, in her dreamy, little-girl voice. "We've got
to try and make them understand it's okay. That it'll be just for a minute."
She shoved open the door without knocking, and my ears were greeted
by the faint strains of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata," one of my favorites.
For an instant I was caught up in the music, a poignant moment drawing me
in.

The room itself was spacious, with a row of white bassi­nets along one
side and subdued lighting provided by small fluorescent bulbs along the
walls. It was, I immediately re­alized, a no-frills nursery. Alongside the
bassinets were tables with formula and boxes of Pampers and Handi-Wipes.
Two short women of indefinable nationality—they looked vaguely Asian—
were in attendance, and at the moment one was facing away and bouncing a
baby on her shoulder. Her infant looked like a boy—or was that just my
imagination?—and I felt my heart go out. The light was dim, but I could tell
he was a gorgeous sandy-haired kid plump and peachy, so sublime in his
tender vulnerability as he gazed around with eyes full of trust. He was
staring directly back at me and before I could stop myself, I gave him a
little wave and wrinkled my nose. He stared at me a second then responded
with a tiny smile. Hey, I thought, I've got the touch.
"Come on," Tara said ignoring the women, "let me show you. They're all
so beautiful."
By then my eyes were adjusting to the subdued light, and as we walked
down the middle of the long room, I confirmed my assumption that the
bassinets next to the tables all con­tained infants. I'm no expert on babies,
but I'd guess they were all around six weeks old maybe a couple of months
at most.
This is the nest, I thought. Ground zero. Kevin and Rachel were both
probably in this room at one time too. . . .
"Aren't they wonderful?" Tara was saying, still in her squeaky, spaced-
out voice.
I was opening the Betacam bag when the first woman, the one holding
and lightly bouncing her little boy, absently put her hand under his quilt,
then spoke to the other in deeply accented English.
"He's wet again."
It was the first words either of them had uttered. Then she turned to me
in exasperation, assuming, I suppose, that I was one of Alex Goddard's
flock. "And I just changed him." Again the accent, but I still couldn't

identify it. She made a face, then carried him over to a plywood changing
table in the center of the room.
I felt a great baby-yearning as I moved over beside her, but she was
behaving like a typical hourly wage-earner, glumly going about her job, and
I just stood there a moment, vainly wanting to hold him, then turned back to
Tara.
"Where do all these children come from?"
"Ramala says they're orphans or abandoned or something. From overseas
or wherever." She sighed. "They're so per­fect."
She was completely zombied-out. It felt like talking to a marshmallow
on downers.
"But how, exactly, do—?"
"People bring them here." She seemed uninterested in the question, just
plunging on as she wandered on down the line of bassinets.
I'd finally come to my senses enough to take out the Betacam, though the
light wasn't actually enough to really work with, certainly not broadcast
quality.
She stopped and picked up one of the infants out of its bassinet, then
turned back to me, her eyes turning soft as she hugged it the way she might
a small puppy. "Isn't this one cute? I'd so love to have him."
Was she on some kind of drug that suppressed curiosity? I found myself
wondering as I panned the camera around the room. There must have been
at least twenty bassinets, all just alike, wicker with a white lace hood. A
couple of the babies were sniffling, and the one Tara had picked up now
began crying outright, much to her annoyance. The room itself smelled like
baby powder.
"And then what happens?" I asked finally, zooming in on one of the
women.
"What happens when?" Now Tara was twirling in a circle, humming
futilely to the shrieking child. "You mean, after they come here?"
"Right." God, getting answers from her was making me crazy.

"The girls here take them to their new mothers." Her eyes had turned
even more dreamy as she lightly bounced the bawling bundle she was
holding one last time, after which she returned it to its bassinet. Then she
gazed around the room. "It's so sad to see them leave."
Did Paula and Carly get their babies that way? I found myself
wondering. Probably, but it was one more thing I'd neglected to ask.
"Come on," Tara continued. "Let's take some of them out. He makes the
nurses try and speak English around the chil­dren, but they don't really know
much. Maybe you could figure out a way to, like, explain—"
"Tara, I don't think taking any of these babies out into the snow is a very
hot idea. Not tonight. Maybe in the morn­ing." Stall her, I thought. She's
completely out of it. Then I looked at the woman changing the baby. Sure
enough, I was right. It was a boy.
"But I want to." Tara turned crestfallen. "To show them how beautiful—"
"Well, I don't speak whatever language they're speaking," I said, cutting
cut her off. "I'm not even sure I could make it sound reasonable in English.
So you'll have to do it without my help."
Then I turned to the woman who'd been changing the baby.
"Do you know where this child came from?" Why not take a shot?
She just stared at me, alarmed, then turned away. Nothing. She clearly
wasn't going to tell me anything, even if she could. She and the others were
just cheap hired help, prob­ably illegal immigrants without a green card and
scared to death for their jobs. They weren't going to be doing an in-depth
tell-all to anybody.
I thought about the situation for a moment, and decided I'd seen what I
came to see. This was pay dirt. Alex Goddard was running a full-scale
adoption mill, just as Lou had sus­pected. He was collecting beautiful white
babies from "overseas or wherever," and selling them here at sixty thousand
a pop.
Which went a long way toward explaining why he didn't want Children
of Light to be featured in my film. And the Guatemalan colonel who'd just
trashed my home was almost certainly in on the operation. Alex Goddard

might be a New Age miracle worker rediscovering ancient Native American
herbal cures, but he also was running a very efficient money machine.
Still, the big question kept coming back: Where did he get all the babies?
To extract any more information about that from Quetzal Manor, I'd have to
break into an office somewhere, and I wasn't quite up to that yet. I didn't
have the nerve of Colonel Jose Alvino Ramos.
"Tell you what, Tara, I think I'm out of here." I was re­turning the
Betacam to its bag. Nothing I'd shot was remotely broadcast quality, but I
did have proof of what was going on. My "undercover" investigation was
making some head­way.
"Okay." She sighed her expression increasingly glazed.
I took one last look around the room, at the row of bas­sinets, then gave
her a parting pat and headed for the exit.
"Look," I said turning back as I reached the door. "Don't say anything to
anybody about me being here tonight, okay? Can we just let it be our
secret?"
"Sure, whatever." She shrugged absently. Like, why not.
"And Tara, do yourself a favor. Get out of this place."
"But there's nowhere else I can go," she said sadness in her eyes. As I
slowly closed the door, the last thing I heard was the sound of the
Beethoven sonata dying away.
What a day . . . and night. As I walked down the hallway carrying the
camera bag, I tried to process my new informa­tion. I'd just seen some of the
most incredibly lovable babies ever. That part of it was a beautiful
experience, one that pulled at my heartstrings more strongly than I'd ever
imag­ined something like that could. The part that troubled me was, the
babies were so alike, so fair, and . . . they all could have been perfect
siblings for Kevin and Rachel.
No, I told myself, surely that was my imagination. Though they did look
amazingly related. . . .
As I moved across the parking lot, I thought I saw a movement in the
shadows just inside the entry archway, a quick change in the pattern of dark.

Was it Ramala or one of the girls, I wondered, or was it just my paranoia?
Keep walking, I told myself. Lose yourself in the snow. The only way
they can stop you from exposing this racket now is to kill you.
When I got back to my car, I gazed up at the imposing turrets of Quetzal
Manor one last time, wishing there was enough light to film them, and
collected my thoughts. Was the story about the babies being orphans or
abandoned chil­dren or "whatever" really true? I didn't believe it, not for a
minute.
But as Carly Grove said, Alex Goddard could "make it happen." The
problem for me was, he wouldn't tell me where he got the children, and
nobody I'd talked to so far seemed to want to know, not really.
I wanted to know.

Chapter Thirteen

In moments I was heading down the snowy drive, south toward my
home (which had been hopefully put back to­gether). I pushed the pace,
mesmerized by the snow, and tried to decide what to do next. The thug
Ramos had stolen some second-generation interview footage from me, but
now I had a tape of something a lot more interesting.
When I pulled into my street, the time was just past eleven and I was
thinking about calling Lou, or Steve, or both. But then I saw something odd.
A woman was walking down the steps from the lobby of my building, a
woman I recognized from somewhere.
Her hair was tangled and she was wearing black jeans and a black
sweater. It took a second before I finally processed the fact it was Carly
Grove. And she seemed frantic. I as­sumed she’d come in a cab, but she had
my home phone number, so why would she come over if I didn't answer?
New Yorkers don't just drop in. A social no-no.
Maybe the reason had something to do with how she looked. I felt like I
was seeing a specter.
"Thank God you're here," she blurted out, striding up. She was actually
shaking, and I could tell she'd been crying. Nothing like the gutsy woman
I'd seen a few days earlier. "I kept getting your machine, but I thought
maybe you were hiding."
I looked at her, and forgot all about my own issues. It was hard to
remember ever seeing a human being in such distress, except for Sarah.
"Why would I be hiding?" I was taking out the Betacam bag and closing
my car door, hoping to seem normal and professional.
"They called me about six o'clock tonight. Children of Light." She could
barely get the words out. "They'd seen my interview with you. How did
they get it?"

I looked down at the snowy—make that slushy—street and felt a chill go
through me, followed immediately by an­ger. Ramos, that bastard.
"They . . . Somebody took a copy this morning." Stated like that, it
sounded pretty lame. "I'm so sorry—"
"He threatened Kevin. He actually said if I signed a re­lease to let you use
the film, my child would 'meet with an accident.' And then he said
something about you, that your own—"
"Who? Who called you? Did he tell you his—?"
"He wouldn't give a name. Just some man. He had a for­eign accent." She
threw her arms around me, and I hugged her back as best I could.
"Where's Kevin now?" I was so concerned about Carly that I'd repressed
the information that he'd also mentioned me.
"Marcy was there, so I told her to take him with her. To her mother's
place in the Bronx, where she lives." Carly was still trembling as she
loosened her grip on me. "I called a car service to drive them up."
"Well, come on in. Let's talk." Truthfully, I wasn't sure how much I
wanted to tell her about what I'd just seen at Quetzal Manor. It would
probably just distress her more. Where had Kevin come from? Did I really
want to de-legitimize him in her eyes?
As I led her through the lobby, hoping to appear com­posed, Patrick
Mooney greeted us, announcing that his sister, Rosalyn, had been gone for
an hour and that she appreciated my memorable tip.
The place looked like nothing had happened, and Carly immediately
collapsed onto my "earth-tone" couch. I hadn't told her my apartment had
been tossed along with the rob­bery and, thanks to Rosalyn, I didn't need to.
In fact, it ac­tually looked cleaner than it had in months. Maybe, I thought, I
should reprioritize my life and hire her more often.
Then I got a glass of water for Carly and sat down next to her.
"I'm really sorry," I began, deeply meaning it. "If I'd known all this was
going to happen, I'd never—"
"It's not your fault." She took a long drink. I hadn't both­ered with ice,
and I immediately felt I'd been inhospitable. Kind of a vagrant, minor

concern, considering. Then she went on. "I guess I knew down deep I
shouldn't have given you that interview. But I wanted the world to know
about Kevin. Now, though . . . should I call the police or some­thing?"
The short answer to that was yes, but my mind was already skipping on
to a different topic.
"Carly, do you know where Kevin came from? Really came from? Did
you ever actually try to find out?"
She sighed and took another sip.
"I told you I don't care. When they brought him, all pink and helpless, I
just—"
"Who brought him?" I interrupted.
"Well, I'd been up there the day before, signing all the papers. I was
supposed to go up that day, but then somebody called and said one of the
girls who was staying in the clinic or whatever it is was bringing him to me.
So don't come."
"You're saying one of the girls—?"
"Yeah." She looked wistful for a moment, as though re­membering.
"Then she just showed up, looked like some blond college dropout. I guess
a little more fanfare would've been nice, but Marcy was there to help me
and that was it. That's the last contact I ever had with Children of Light."
She shuddered involuntarily. "Till now."
Well, I thought, the last thing I'm going to do is tell her about what I just
saw. She's the ideal customer for Alex God­dard: She truly doesn't want to
know details.
"Carly, there's not much I can do about what's already happened, but I
can try to keep you from getting into any more trouble. Why don't you call
them in the morning and tell them you've yelled at me and rescinded your
permission for Applecore to use the film? And say I've promised I won't.
You've threatened to sue me or something. That should get you off the
hook."
"You really think so?" Her look brightened slightly.

"Yes, it's me they're worried about, not you. I represent some threat to
them, because of the film I'm making. Just bail out and you'll be okay."
"Thanks. I did get the feeling that's all they really want." She took
another drink of water. "But if they wanted to scare me, they're doing a hell
of a good job."
"Well, then, why not take Kevin and go away for a couple of weeks? On
a vacation someplace? And while you're doing that, I'm going to have a
one-on-one with Alex Goddard. I've got a little leverage now."
She looked at me. "What . . . what are you going to do?"
I couldn't tell her about my videotape of his baby cache without
explaining a lot more about Children of Light than I thought she wanted to
hear.
"Don't you think the less you know the better?" I said, taking her hand.
"I've caused you enough trouble already."
"No, I caused myself trouble." She was getting up. "Can I use your
bathroom?"
"Sure." I pointed the way.
While she was gone, I went to the kitchen and surveyed it, checking the
cabinets. Again, the place was cleaner than it had been in ages. The look of
it momentarily bucked me up.
When Carly came back, she hugged me and then an­nounced she wanted
to go check on Kevin.
"I'll do what you said about calling them," she concluded, reaching for
her bag. "I think you're right. That ought to get them off my case. At least
for the moment. As for the long run—“
"Carly," I said, taking her hand again, "we'll get through this. Just trust
me."
We hugged one more time and then she was gone. I took the moment to
double-lock the door, and then collapsed on the couch. What should be my
next move? I closed my eyes and tried to review all the insidious things that
had happened in the last twenty-four hours. The illegal drugs, the break-in

and theft of my film, the suspicious nursery of Children of Light, the threats
to Carly . . .
Then it finally came back that she'd mentioned Ramos saying something
about me. By now I was getting used to being threatened by the man, so one
more time was hardly news. But I wished I'd asked her the specifics.
That was when I roused myself and reached for the phone. The time was
pushing eleven, but I still wanted to check in on Sarah, see how she was
doing. Had she come back to reality after I left?
I was listening to the phone ring, my mind drifting to thoughts of how to
gently ask Lou about her, when I realized nobody was picking up.
What's going on? I wondered, immediately coming alert. Mrs. Reilly had
probably gone home for the day, but no way would Lou be in bed before
midnight. He always had trouble settling into sleep.
Maybe, I then hoped, I'd just dialed the wrong number. But when I tried
again, still no answer.
I clicked off the phone and felt a wave of concern. If Colonel Jose
Alvino Ramos could find out I was making a movie, and then find out
where I lived, he sure as hell could locate my extended family. Was that
what he'd meant when he mentioned me to Carly?
I grabbed the set of Lou's keys I had stored in my bedroom's desk drawer
and flew out the door.
The streets were plastered with a grimy veneer of city snow, melting fast,
but I pushed the limits of safety and ran a couple of lights since the traffic
was spotty. There was a parking space just across the street from Lou's
building, and as I pulled in I looked over at his windows.
Through the curtains I could tell a dim light was on, probably coming
from Sarah's bedroom. The front room, how­ever, was dark.
My pulse was pounding as I raced up the steps to the street door. I
thought about pushing his bell, but I didn't have the patience. Instead I just
fumbled with the key set till I found the biggest one and shoved it into the
lock.

The building had no lobby, just a row of stairs leading up to the next
floor, with Lou's own door set off to the left. I shoved his Medeco key into
the deadlock and pushed it open. The room was pitch-dark.
"Who . . ." said a startled voice, and I knew it was Lou, somewhere in
the direction of the couch.
I clicked on the light switch and saw him lying on the floor, leaning
against the couch, blood everywhere, his eyes in shock.
"My God! What happened?"
"I'm afraid to move. The phone was ringing and I figured it was you, but
I didn't dare get up. Knowing you, you'd come over if I didn't answer." He
was holding his side as he looked at me. "Morgy, she's gone."
At first what he said didn't sink in as I bent over him. The right side of
his shirt, just above his belt, was soaked in blood. Taking care, I unbuttoned
it and saw an open cut that looked as though he'd been stabbed with a knife.
It also appeared to be reasonably superficial, as though a thin blade had
pierced through a couple of layers of tread on his ample spare tire. But it
was bleeding still, enough to make it look worse than it probably was.
However, if it'd happened to me, I'd doubtless be in shock too.
I got up, went to the bathroom, and pulled two towels off the rack, then
doused water over one and came back.
"Don't move. I'm going to pull your shirt away and try to clean you up,
see how bad it is."
He just groaned and stared at the ceiling.
As I was swabbing his side, what he'd said finally regis­tered.
"Did you say . . . Sarah!"
I dropped the towels and ran into the bedroom.
It was empty, the bed rumpled and beige sheets on the floor.
"No." I turned and feeling a hit of nausea, hurried back to his side.
"What happened? Did—?"
"Fat Hispanic guy. Spic bastard. He had a couple of young punks with
him. Mrs. Reilly had just left and I went to the door, thinking it was
probably you ringing my bell. He flashed a knife and they shoved their way

in. Then one of his thugs went into the bedroom and carried her out. When I
tried to stop them, the SOB knifed me. I guess I . . . swooned cause the next
thing I remember is waking up here on the floor."
It sounded garbled and probably didn't occur as quickly
as he thought. But I knew immediately what had happened Ramos—of
course that's who it was—had come to take Sarah. It was his one sure way
to stop me from mentioning Children of Light in my film. She was a
hostage. My first instinct was to kill him.
"What else can you remember?" I was already dialing 911. Time to get
an ambulance. And after that, the cops.
After about ten rings I got somebody and, following an explanation that
was longer than it needed to be, a woman with a southern accent told me
the medics would be there in fifteen minutes. I took another look at Lou and
ordered them to hurry, then hung up. I was going to call the police next, but
first I needed to hear exactly what had happened before he got quarantined
in some emergency room.
His eyes were glazing over again, as shock and blood loss started to
catch up with him. Clearly he would pull through, but right now, sitting
there in a pool of blood, he could have been at death's door.
"Look . . . at that." He was pointing, his rationality be­ginning to fail. For
a second I didn't realize what he meant, but then I saw a fax lying beside the
phone. I picked it up. The time on it was 9:08 P.M. and it was from
somebody named John Williams. Then I remembered. Wasn't that the FBI
computer whiz he'd talked about the other day at the hospital, after we'd
deconstructed Sarah's waterlogged pass­port?
There was no message, just a sheet with a date—two years old—and a
list of names accompanied by numbers and a capital letter. Then I noticed
the letterhead of Aviateca, the Guatemalan national airline, and it dawned
on me I was look­ing at a flight manifest.
I scanned down the page, and then I saw it.
Sarah Crenshaw, 3B.
Williams found her, I thought. And she was traveling First Class.

What caught my eye next was the name of the person sitting in 3A, the
seat right next to hers. A. Godford. Probably a computer misprint. Or
maybe it was the name he used when he traveled. So if it was him, which it
surely was, the bastard didn't even try to hide it.
I just stood there, thinking. Maybe you get one big-time coincidence in
life, and if so, this must be mine. Sarah and I had both found Alex Goddard.
Or he'd found us. Other women came and went through Quetzal Manor, but
we were different. She'd escaped from him, half dead but now he'd sent
Ramos to bring her back. It was the one way he could be sure to keep me
under his control. But again, why? Was it just to stop my film, or was there
more to the story?
"Morgy," Lou groaned "that son of a bitch took her to­night. I just know
it."
That was my conclusion precisely, though I hadn't been planning to say
it to him, at least not yet.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Something they said. I didn't quite catch it, but it sounded like, 'He
wants you back.' Then some word. It sounded like 'Babylon' or something."
I stared at him a second trying to remember where I'd heard that before.
Then it clicked in. That was the last thing Sarah had said she'd whispered
that word when I was putting her to bed. What could she have been talking
about?
He wheezed and I went back to him and pressed the towel against his
side. The bleeding was about stemmed but he was definitely due for a
hospital stay. A siren was sounding down the street. Probably the
ambulance. Thank God I thought. Now it's time to call the police.
Then I noticed he was crying. What was that about?
"Morgy, they didn't actually kidnap her. You see, she—"
"What?" I guess I was trying to take it in. "What do you mean?"
"Know what she said? Sarah?" He choked for a second, then continued.
"She said, 'Yes, I want to go back.' "

Chapter Fourteen

Before I could ask him what the hell he was talking about, the medics
were ringing the doorbell. They strode in with a gurney, also rolling a
portable plasma IV, young guys who looked like they'd be more at home at
a Garden hockey game, followed immediately by two uniformed
policemen, actually policewomen, one short and heavy, with reddish hair,
the other a wiry young Hispanic. (I found out that ambulances called out for
stabbing or gunshot wounds automatically get a cop escort.) In less than
three minutes, Lou was in the blue-and-white ambulance and on his way to
St. Vincent's emergency room.
I rode in the backseat of the squad car as we followed them and tried to
explain what little I knew of what had happened. It turned out to be an
education in the mindless sticking points of the law.
Long story short: The fact that I hadn't reported the bur­glary of my
apartment that very same day immediately cast doubt on my seriousness as
a truth-seeking citizen; I had no proof the unreported burglary of my
apartment (if, indeed, such had actually occurred) was by some Guatemalan
mili­tary attache named Jose Alvino Ramos; since Lou had never seen
Colonel Ramos before tonight, he couldn't possibly identify him as that
burglar either; accusing diplomats of a crime without ironclad proof was
frowned on downtown; and when I stupidly repeated what Lou had said
about Sarah's last words (well, he was going to tell them sooner or later, it
would just come bubbling out at some point), the whole case that she was
kidnapped went into revision mode.
By the time we got to the hospital, I was getting questions that seemed to
imply that maybe it was all a domestic af­fair—like most of their calls: some
spaced-out chick who’d run away once and got brought back and then, still
unstable and crazy, decided to knife her own dad and disappear again. Now
he was understandably covering for her. Happened more than you’d think.

I kept stressing that Lou was former FBI and not the sort to invent such a
whopper, but this was listened to in skeptical silence. If it was a kidnapping,
they then wondered aloud what was the motive and where were the
demands of the perpetrators? I was ready to start yelling at them by the time
we parked in the Seventh Avenue driveway of the emergency room at St.
Vincent's.
They next made me cool my heels in the waiting room while they went
back to interrogate Lou. They were with him for almost an hour, then came
back to where I was and asked me to read and sign the report they'd written.
A troubled girl, who had emerged from a coma and ap­parently was
suffering bouts of non-rationality, had disap­peared and her father had been
stabbed but not seriously. He was the only witness to the incident and
claimed she'd been kidnapped. However, the girl had run away once pre­‐
viously, and there was no physical evidence she'd been taken against her
will; in fact, her father admitted she had declared just the opposite. The
whole incident would be investigated further after he came downtown and
made a complete state­ment.
"I'm not going to sign this." I handed it back, fuming.
"Is there anything here that's not factually correct?" The
Hispanic cop was looking me straight in the eye, her expres­sion cold as
Alaska.
The question made me seethe. Sarah was probably already on her way
out of the country, and here I was trying to reason with two women who
practically thought she was the crimi­nal. But I knew a lost cause when I
saw one.
"Forget about it. I want to see Lou."
An intern was coming out and I snagged him, announced I was next of
kin to a patient, and demanded to be taken through the official door and into
the back. At that moment, the stout cop's radio crackled. They were being
summoned to a Christopher Street gay bar where somebody had just been
knifed in a back room. She looked at me, as though to say, "This sounds
like a real crime," and then they hurried out for their squad car. Christ!

The intern, a young black guy, led me past a row of gurneys and into a
private room at the rear of the huge space. Lou was bandaged all around his
chest and hooked up to an IV and a monitor. He looked better, but I wasn't
sure he'd be ready for what I was about to tell him.
"Hey, how're you feeling?" I asked as I walked in, trying to seem upbeat.
"Fucking cops." He was boiling, his face actually red. "Where do they
get them these days? McDonald's rejects?"
"Easy, don't get your blood pressure up." I reached over and touched his
brow. It felt like he had a mild temperature. "Let's all just calm down and
try to think rationally."
"Yeah, I'm thinking rationally. You saw that fax I got from Williams."
"You think that was Alex Goddard seated next to her, right?"
"Who else? When she was in her moonbeam phase, she must have heard
about him and gone up there and ended up in his clutches. But why did she
let him take her down to—?"
"He told me he has a clinic in Central America. He called it 'a place of
miracles.' And then Colonel Ramos shows up, part of the Guatemalan
diplomatic corps. Put two and two together. That's got to be where they're
taking her."
"Who knows, but I'm going to get the boys downtown to put out a
missing-persons APB nationwide. Gerry'll do it for me if I ask. Fuck New
York's Finest. They ain't gonna do crap anyway."
I listened wondering how to impress my bright idea upon him. The
chances were Ramos was taking Sarah back to Guatemala. Probably right
this minute. For some kind of un­finished business. Or just to hold her there
as an insurance policy that Children of Light would never be mentioned in
my picture.
"I seriously doubt a missing-persons alert is going to do any good Lou,
because I seriously doubt she's going to be walking the streets of this
country. That bastard Ramos is taking her where he knows he can hide her."
"You mean . . . Jesus." He stared at me as though the idea had never
crossed his mind. I think he'd just repressed it. "What are we going to—?"

"The only thing we can do. I'm going down there. I'm going to go
straight down there and locate Alex Goddard."
"That's an exceptionally lousy thought process." His voice seemed to be
coming from a great distance.
"Why? Give me one good reason why. You think the police down there
are going to bring charges against a colonel?" I really could have used some
encouragement. "It's the only way—"
"Morgan, you've always been high-strung." He sighed and then winced.
"Ever since you were a kid. I worried about you then and I'm worried about
you now. I don't want you to go down there and get into trouble. Because
believe me, that's a seriously wrong place to get crossways with the pricks
who make the rules. You don't know your way around that Third World
craphole. Wouldn't be that hard to end up a statistic. We can alert the
embassy. Have them start looking for her."
"Listen, there's a lot more going on between Alex God­dard and me than
you know." This was definitely not the time to tell him about the babies, or
about Carly and the threats. "Trust me. I'm going down there. In the
morning, if I can. Who knows? Sarah and Ramos might even be on the
same plane."
As I was finishing that pronouncement, two nurses came in rolling a
gurney and announced that his room was ready. Then they gave him a
sedative.
Was I being irrational? The thing was, though, what would you do? I was
absolutely sure Ramos had taken her. So it was obvious that was where he
would go next. He was a "diplomat," apparently, so he could easily fudge
the passport formalities.
As the nurses were helping Lou onto the gurney, I stood there holding
his hand and thinking about what lay ahead. Steve was in Belize and maybe
not even reachable, but I decided to start by giving him a call the minute I
got home.
Then a middle-aged WASP, with dark hair, slightly bal­ding, strode in the
room. The photo ID on his chest read "Dr. M. Summers."

"So, how's the patient?" he enquired cheerily, ignoring me as he
immediately began checking the chart at the foot of Lou's bed.
"Felt better," Lou said, not being taken in by his pro forma cheer.
"Well, we're going to make sure you get a good night's rest." Dr.
Summers finished with the chart and started taking his pulse. "What's left of
it."
"How long am I going to be in here, Doc?" Lou asked, flinching as the
nurses removed the IV stuck in his arm.
"A couple of days. For observation. To make sure there're no
complications." He smiled again. "You're a lucky man, Mr. . . . Crenshaw.
Just a superficial cut. But we don't want you out playing handball for a few
days." He turned and gave me a conspiratorial wink, then glanced back.
"Okay, up we go."
"Can I come with him?" I asked, not optimistic but hop­ing.
The doctor looked genuinely contrite. "I'm really sorry, but he's going to
be fine and visiting hours are long past. You can call in the morning. And
you can come up anytime after two P.M. tomorrow. Let's let him get some
rest now."
I walked around and took Lou's hand, hot and fevered, feeling so
agitated.
"Don't think about anything tonight, okay? Worrying won't help. Just get
some sleep. I'm going to find her, I promise you."
"Don't—" He mumbled some words, but I think the seda­tive the nurses
had given him was seriously starting to kick
"Look, you can call down to 26 Federal Plaza tomorrow. See what they
can do. In the meantime, let me follow my nose."
He tried to answer, but he was too far gone. I then watched wistfully as
he disappeared down the sterile alley of beds.
After I stopped by the desk and helped them fill out the insurance forms,
I caught a cab downtown to retrieve my Toyota. The time was now two-
fifteen in the morning, but I still had plenty to do. When I got home, the
first thing I did after I walked in the door was grab a phone book and call

American Airlines. They had a flight, in the morning at nine-thirty. I gave
them my credit card specifics and made a res­ervation.
I no longer thought that Alex Goddard's Children of Light and its
Guatemalan accomplices were merely doing some­thing shady. My hunch
now was that it was completely ille­gal. They were getting hundreds of
white babies in some way that couldn't bear the light of day, and they were
prepared to do whatever it took to prevent me from highlighting them in my
film. And with the Army involved, and now Sarah taken, their game was
beginning to feel more and more like kidnapping. They certainly knew how.
Sarah had become a pawn, and all because of me. I almost wondered if
I'd been unconsciously led to him by her, though that was impossible.
Whatever had happened, the remorse I now felt was overpowering. It was,
in fact, an intensified version of the guilt that had dogged me for the past
fifteen years, the horrible feeling I'd somehow let her down, not done
enough for her. I could have flown back for her high school graduation, but
I was cramming for grad school finals and didn't take the time. Things like
that, which, looking back, seemed terribly selfish. And now I'd brought this
on her. God.
Okay, I thought, glancing at the clock, time to start making it up to her.
Screw up your courage and wake Steve.
The problem was, Lou had been right about one thing. It'd been years
since I'd been to Guatemala, and I wasn't sure I knew beans about how
things operated down there these days. I was high on motivation and only
so-so in the area of modus operandi. I needed Steve's help in plying the
tricky waters of that part of the planet. He was busy, but this was definitely
"us against the world" time, so maybe he could drive over to Guatemala
City and help.
I picked up the phone again and punched in the number of his hotel in
Belize City, which seemed to be embedded permanently in my brain. That
wonderful accent at the desk mon, and then they were ringing his room. I
had no reason on earth to assume he would be there, but . . .
The click, the voice, it was him.

"Sorry to call so late, love. You said you missed me, so I've decided to
find out if it's true. Your coming attraction is about to arrive."
I guess I was trying to keep it flip. After our talk that morning, I wasn't
entirely sure where we stood anymore.
"Who . . . Morgy, is that you? God it's two . . . Are you okay?" Then he
started coming around, processing what I said. "You're coming . . . Honey,
that's great."
As I noted before, he always knew how to give a good reading, sound
sincere, no matter what the occasion.
"Actually, I've just made a plane reservation, and I'm going to be in
Guatemala City tomorrow, just after noon." I hesitated then thought, why
beat around the bush? "Care to meet me there?"
"That's terrific," he declared coming fully awake. "But why don't you
just come to Belize City? Can't you get flight? It's actually not nearly as
wild here as the travel books—"
"Well, I've . . . Look, I'd rather not talk about this on the phone. But do
you think you could get free and drive over I really could use your help. I've
got a situation."
"Well . . ." He paused. "I could be there by late tomorrow assuming my
rented Jeep still operates after last week and the roads haven't totally
disintegrated. Where're you going to be staying?"
"I don't know. Got any suggestions? I want to keep out of the limelight."
"Then try the Camino Real. It's like a Holiday Inn with plastic palm
trees. Definitely low maintenance and low profile. Hang on, I'll get you the
number."
Which he did, though I could hear him stumbling around the room in the
dark. Then he continued.
"But listen, here's the bad news. I've got to be back here day after
tomorrow. I just got a special permit to do some night shooting in the jaguar
preserve down by Victoria Peak—you remember the rain forest I told you
about?—but it's only good for one night, and I hear rumors there's an off-

season hurricane forming in the Caribbean, which means I've got to stick to
schedule. After that, though, I'm free again."
"We'll work it out." I was thrilled he would just drop everything and
come. Maybe we were over the rough spot about the baby.
He didn't bring that up and I didn't either. Instead we killed a few
minutes, and then I let him go back to sleep. I wanted to say I love you, but
I didn't want to push my luck.
After that I called the hotel he'd recommended. The ex­change was more
Spanish than English, but they had a room. Apparently lots of rooms.
Next I rang Paula Marks, even though it was terribly late. She must have
had the phones off, but I left a message telling her to be careful, with a
postscript that I'd explain everything later. Just stick close to home.
Finally I called David's voice mail up at Applecore. I told him I had a
personal crisis and was going to Guatemala City. I'd try to be back by the
end of the week, hell or high water, but no guarantees. And if he touched so
much as a frame of my work print while I was gone, I'd personally strangle
him.
I don't remember much of what happened next. I basically went on
autopilot. It's as though I dropped into a trance, totally focused. I packed my
passport, a good business suit, the tailored blue one, and also a set of mix-
and-match sepa­rates, easy to roll and cram in. Finally a couple of pairs of
good (clean) jeans, a few toiletries, and then, thinking ahead, I also threw in
my yellow plastic flashlight. I almost always over pack, but not this time.
Oh, and one other thing. For airplane reading I grabbed a Lonely Planet
guide to Central America that Steve had left behind—I guess he figured he
was at the stage of life to start writing them, not reading them—that turned
out to be very helpful, particularly the map of Guatemala City and the
northern Peten rain forest. I then collapsed and—images of Sarah's
emaciated face haunting my consciousness—caught a couple of hours'
sleep.
The next thing I knew, it was 9:20 A.M. and I was settling into window
seat 29F on American Airlines Flight 377—next to a two-hundred-pound

executive busy ripping articles out of the business section of El Diario—
headed for Guatemala City.

Chapter Fifteen

For once in my life, I took my time getting off an airplane. But the
instant I felt that first burst of humid tropical air against my face, like a
gush from a sauna, I found myself wondering what Sarah had felt the
moment her feet first touched the ground of Guatemala. In fact, I'd decided
to try to think like her, to better understand why she might want to come
back. Truthfully I didn't have a clue.
But first things first. Not knowing whether I was being stalked by Ramos
or his proxies, I decided the idea was to see and not be seen—which
actually was easier than I'd ex­pected, at least during the initial pell-mell
stages. Turned out the self-centeredness of Homo sapiens blossoms under
those circumstances. Ignore thy neighbor, goes the credo. I just buried
myself in the crush.
When I got to "Inmigracion," I labored through the "for­malities" (as all
countries love to call the suspicious looks you get from their airport
bureaucrats) along with all the other gringo passengers on AA Flight 377,
paranoid I might be arrested on the spot for some spurious reason. The pur­‐
pose of my visit, I declared, was tourism. Just a nod at my passport and a
stamp, which looked exactly like the one in Sarah's. I stared at it and felt a
renewed sense of purpose. In fact, the photo in my passport looked more
than a little like her. Maybe, I thought, I'm getting carried away with the
identity issue, but there it was.
As I emerged through the wide glass doors of the arrival area, which
fronted out onto the steps leading down to the parking lots and the
humidity, I spotted a black Land Rover with tinted windows right in front.
Uh-oh. That was, Steve once told me, a vehicle much favored by the
notorious Guatemalan G-2 military secret police, who had retired the cup
for murderous human-rights abuses over the past two decades.

Then two middle-aged men with Latin mustaches and nondescript brown
shirts began getting out through the door on the far side. They next walked
around to the terminal side of the car and glanced up the steps in my
direction, as though looking for somebody. It was a quick survey, after
which they turned back and nodded to the vehicle before it sped away.
What's that about? Am I imagining things already?
By the time I reached the bottom of the steps, I was being besieged by
clamoring cabbies, so it was difficult to keep an eye on the two men, who
were now walking off to the side of the main commotion, toward a shady
grove of palms at the end of the arrival drive, lighting cigarettes.
Get out of here. Whether you're fantasizing or not, the thing to do is grab
an unsuspecting cab and get going.
I strolled toward the other end of the long row of concrete steps till I
reached an area where cabs were parked, more drivers lurking in wait. They
all looked the same way most cabbies in Third World lands look: shabby
clothes, with beat-up cars, an expression in their eyes somewhere between
ag­gression and desperation.
Just pick one whose car looks like it might actually make it to
downtown.
I spotted a dark blue Chevy that seemed clean and well maintained, its
driver young and full of male hormones as he beckoned me to his vehicle,
all the while undressing me with his eyes. Yep, he was definitely my guy.
I ambled by his car, acting as though I was ignoring the innuendos of his
pitch. Then I bolted for the back door, opened it myself since he was too
startled to help, threw in my carry-ons, piled in behind them, and yelled,
"Let's go. Rapido."
As we sped away, I realized his greatest surprise was that I hadn't raised
the subject of price. At that point, it was the last thing on my mind. I looked
back to see the two guys from the black Land Rover, together with two
others, heading for a car that had been double-parked right in front.
Had I been right after all?

We made a high-speed turn onto the highway, and I immediately ordered
the driver to take a service road that led off toward a cluster of gas stations
and parking lots with falling-down barbed-wire fences. I figured I had about
half a minute of lead time, whatever was going on.
We dodged massive potholes and the loose gravel flew, but then we
reached a ramshackle gas station and I ordered him to pull in. Then I
watched the line of traffic speeding by on the main highway for several
minutes. Nobody pulled off. Good.
My driver finally got around to asking where I wanted to go, and as
calmly as I could, I told him.
"The Palacio Nacional."
"Si."
With that he gunned his engine and spun out. Jesus!
"Mas despacio, por favor."
"Okay," he said, showing off his English as he donned his sunglasses. "I
go more slow. No problem."
The initial destination was part of my new plan, hatched while I was on
the plane. When I was reading my guidebook and filling out my entry card
I'd had a bright idea. I knew exactly how I wanted to begin.
Heading into town, the time now the middle of the after­noon, I leaned
back in the seat and tried to absorb the view, to get a feeling for where I
was. We first traveled through the suburban fringes, the heavily guarded
luxurious man­sions of the landholding and military elite, the one percent of
Guatemala who own ninety-nine percent of the country. Iron fences and
wide expanses of lawn, protected by Uzi-toting security, guarded whimsical
architectural con­ceits topped by silver satellite dishes. A twenty-foot wall
shielded their delicate eyes from the city's largest shanty-town, makeshift
hovels of bamboo and rusted tin, with no signs of water or drains or toilets.
Guatemala City: as Steve had put it once, a million doomed citizens, the
rich and the poor, trapped together side by side in the most "modern" capital
in Central America.

Why on earth had Sarah decided to come here? Even if she did travel
with the mesmerizing Alex Goddard it was hard to imagine a place less
spiritual. Couldn't she feel that this was all wrong? One of us had to be
missing something major.
Fifteen minutes later I was passing through the fetid atmosphere of
downtown, which seemed to be another world, Guatemala City's twin soul.
It was an urban hodgepodge of Burger King, McDonald's, discount
electronics emporia, an eye-numbing profusion of plastic signs, filthy
parking lots, rattletrap buses and taxis, stalled traffic. Exhaust fumes
thickened the air, and everywhere you looked teenage "guards" in uniforms
loitered in front of stores and banks with sawed-off shotguns, boys so green
and scared-looking you'd think twice about letting one of them park your
car. But there they were, weapons at the ready, nervously moni­toring
passersby. Who were they defending all the wealth from? The ragged street
children, with swollen bellies and skin disease, vending single cigarettes
from open packs? Or the hordes of widows and orphans, beneficiaries of the
Army's Mayan "pacification" program, who now begged for centavos or
plaintively hawked half-rotten fruit from the safety of the shadows?
My bright-idea destination was a government office in the Palacio
Nacional, right in the center of town, where I hoped I could find Sarah's old
landing card, the record of when tourists arrived and departed. When I'd
filled mine out on the plane, I'd realized you were supposed to put down
where you'd be staying in Guatemala. I figured the best way to locate her
this time was to find out where she went last time. . . .
As my cab pulled up in front, a black Land Rover was parked in a
"Prohibido Estacionarse" zone by the front steps. To my eyes it looked like
the same one I'd seen at the airport. Shit.
But nobody was around, so I decided maybe I was just being paranoid
again.
The Palacio turned out to be a mixture of Moorish and faux Greek
architecture, with a facade of light green imita­tion stone that gave off the
impression of a large, rococo wedding cake. I took a long look, paid off the

driver—who had turned out to be very nice—and headed in. It was, after
all, a public building, open to tourist gringos.
Nobody in the lobby appeared to take any particular notice of me, so
after going through their very serious security, uniforms and guns
everywhere, I checked the directory.
It turned out the president, cabinet ministers, and high military officers
all kept offices there, but it didn't take long to find the bureau I was looking
for. Going down the mar­ble-floored hallway on the third floor, I passed by
the Sala de Recepcion, a vast wood-paneled room of enormous chandeliers,
stained-glass windows, and a massive coat of arms. Quite a place, but not
my destination. At the far end of the hallway, I found the door I wanted,
went in, and tried out the Spanish question I'd been practicing in the cab.
Not neces­sary: English worked fine.
"Senora, the records for that time were only kept on pa­per," a Ladino
woman declared shrugging, her nails colored a brash mauve, her hair a
burst of red, "but you are welcome to look." She'd been on the phone,
chatting in rapid-fire Spanish, but she quickly hung up and got out her
glasses.
"Thanks."
The welcome mat was obviously a little thin. The woman was trying to
be friendly, but very quickly her nervousness began to come through.
"We're always glad to accommodate Americans searching for friends or
relatives," she went on, attempting a smile. "Some of your American press
has been printing distortions, that the Guatemalan Army conspired with the
CIA to cover up murders. It's a total lie."
Right. Maybe you ought to see some of the photos Steve has of the
"Army-pacified" Maya villages up in the moun­tains.
The search took an hour and a half of leafing through dusty boxes, which
chafed my hands raw, but then . . . voila.
There it was. The crucial piece of information Lou had missed. A hastily
scribbled-in landing card for an American, with the name Sarah Crenshaw. I
stared at it a moment, feel­ing a glow of success. Was it an omen?

It was definitely her. She'd even dotted an "i" with a smiley face, one of
her personal trademarks.
Then I looked down the form. What I wanted was the address she'd put
down as a destination in Guatemala.
The answer: "Ninos del Mundo, Peten Department."
My hopes sank. Great. That was like saying your address
is Children of the World, lost somewhere in the state of Mon­tana.
The home address was equally vague. Just "New York." So much for the
high level of curiosity at "Inmigracion."
However, the carbon copy of the landing card, which you're supposed to
surrender when you leave, was not sta­pled to it, the way it was on all the
others in the box. Natu­rally, since she'd left in a medevac plane, half dead.
"What does this mean?" I got up and walked over to the woman's desk,
carrying the card. Mainly I just wanted to get a rise out of her. "The carbon
copy is missing. Does that mean she could still be here?"
Red alert. She glanced at the arrival date a moment and her eyes froze.
Then, doubtless with visions of another CIA scandal looming in her
consciousness, she brusquely an­nounced that the office was getting ready to
close for the day.
"You'll have to pursue any further inquiries through the American
embassy, Mrs. James, which handles all matters concerning U.S. nationals."
"Well, thanks for all your help." I was finally getting the police-state
runaround I'd expected all along. I guess I needed her to care, and it was
obvious she didn't.
Okay . . . I'd planned to go to the embassy anyway. Maybe they could
tell me about this place she'd put on her landing card. Could it be the local
name for Alex Goddard's clinic?
As I picked up my things, I thought again about the pros­pect of showing
my face on the streets of Guatemala City. Would there be more loitering
men in grungy brown shirts waiting to watch my every move? More black
Land Rovers? As I marched back out through the ornate lobby, I decided
not to let my imagination get too active. It was now late afternoon, but I

was making progress. I also was thinking about Steve, wondering if he'd
gotten into town yet. Probably not for another couple of hours, but just
thinking about see­ing him again, and having him for support, was boosting
my energy.
A short cab ride later I arrived at the embassy of the all- powerful United
States of America, a two-block-long con­crete fortress on Reforma Avenue
guarded by Yank Marines with heavy automatic weapons. When I explained
myself to the PR people manning the reception desk, including my brush
with Guatemalan bureaucracy, they told me to check with the Internal
Security section.
"In fact, if you're looking for an American national, this is where you
should have come in the first place," said a very efficient-appearing young
woman, with a business suit and dark, close-cropped hair. "A phone call
from here works wonders at the Palacio Nacional."
I had no proof Sarah was in Guatemala yet, and if she was, it would
doubtless be under a different name. What's more, telling them my
suspicion that she'd been kidnapped by a high official and brought here
would definitely brand me as a conspiracy theorist. So for now, all I could
really hope to get from them was an address for Alex Goddard's clinic,
someplace to start. Where and what was "Ninos del Mundo"? Apparently
the woman hadn't fully understood that.
Moments later a thirtyish male attache showed up, looking very harried.
He also could have been president of the local Young Republicans, with a
cute haircut and preppie tie, knot­ted perfectly.
"Hi, I'm Mel Olberg. How can I . . .?"
I told him I wanted to see someone who was responsible for the records
of missing American tourists. I also sensed he was edgy and trying to get it
over with fast; all the while he kept checking his watch, only half listening.
"Gee, I really wish you'd come earlier," he said. "Monday
afternoons are a little nuts around here, weekly reports due and all, and it's
getting late." When he glanced at his watch again, making sure I noticed, I
found myself wanting to yell at the guy. "I mean it's been two years since

this woman you're looking for filled out a landing card. We might have
something in the files, but. . . would it be possible for you to come back
tomorrow?"
"No, it will not be possible," I lied. "I've got a plane back to New York
tomorrow." I felt my frustration rising. I wanted to just grab him and shake
him.
My first thought was to tell him I make documentary films and maybe
he'd like to end up in one about how my country's Guatemala City embassy
didn't care about its citizens. But then I decided to go in a different,
probably more productive, direction.
"Just for five minutes," I declared, reaching for feigned helplessness.
"Well, let me call upstairs," he muttered, realizing, I sup­pose, that the
best way to get rid of me was to kick me up the chain of command, "and see
if Mr. Morton can take a moment to meet with you."
It worked. The next thing I knew, I was in the office of a good-looking
diplomat named Barry Morton—gray temples, tailored suit, rugged face of
a sixty-year-old soap-opera heartthrob who plays tennis and keeps a
mistress. Chief In­formation Officer.
"Actually, I do remember her, vaguely," Morton declared, flashing me
his professional smile. "The Crenshaw girl was an unfortunate case. To
begin with, anybody who overstays their visa that long gets us in a lot of
hot water with the locals. They always tend to blame us, Ms. . . ."
"James. My name's Morgan James."
"Ms. James." Another of those smiles. "Frankly, I don't know what to tell
you, though." He shrugged, exuding helplessness. "It's hard to keep track of
every American tourist who comes and goes through this country. Some of
the hippie types end up in a mountain village somewhere, gone native. In
this instance, as I recall, we got her out on a medevac."
"Her landing card gave her destination as someplace called 'Ninos del
Mundo,' up to the Peten. That ring a bell? Any idea how I could find it?"
"Niiios del Mundo?" He glanced up quickly. "That's a new one on me."
He'd been fiddling with a stack of papers on his desk, giving me only half

his attention, but he abruptly stopped. "You try the phone book?"
"Like I said, it's in the Peten." I was getting the definite sense he wanted
to get rid of me as soon as possible. The whole scene was feeling tense and
off. "My understanding is that's mostly rain forest. Do they even have
phones up there?"
"Not many," he said, his tone starting to definitely acquire an "I have
better things to do" edge.
That was when he focused in on me, his look turning protective.
"Let me speak candidly, Ms. James, strictly off the record. Down here
people have been known to 'disappear' just for asking too many questions.
Curiosity killed the cat, and all that. Between us, this place is still a police
state in many regards. You want my advice, let sleeping dogs lie. Just forget
about this Crenshaw girl. She's out of the country now, so . . . Let me put it
like this: People who go poking around here are just asking for trouble."
I felt a ring of sincerity in his voice. Maybe a little too much sincerity.
Why was he so worried for me?
"That may be true, but I'm still going to see what I can find out. My heart
is pure. Why should anybody care?"
"Do what you think best," he said with a sigh, "but I've told you
everything we know. Which, I'm afraid, is actually very little."
"By the way." Try one more thing on him, I thought, see what he'll say.
"Since you're so concerned about Sarah, you'll be relieved to know she's
regained consciousness and started to talk." There seemed no point in
telling him any more. The rest was all still speculation.
That stopped him cold. "What . . . what has she said?" His eyes appeared
startled in the glaring light of the office fluorescents. At long last I had his
undivided attention.
"You're busy." I smiled at him. "I don't want to bore you with details. But
it's just going to be a matter of time before she remembers exactly what
happened down here."
"She hasn't talked about it yet?" He was fiddling with an ornate letter
opener, an onyx jaguar head on the handle.

"She's getting there." I stared back at him, trying to read his mood. "We
may soon find out who was behind whatever happened to her." Then I tried
a long shot. "Maybe official­dom here had something to do with it."
"Let me tell you something." He sighed again, seeming to regain his
composure. "The sovereign state of Guatemala definitely plays by its own
rules. Whenever foreigners down here meet with foul play, lower-level
officials have developed a consensus over the years that sometimes it's
better not be too industrious. Nobody's ever sure of what, or who, they
might turn up."
The meeting was definitely ending, and once again I had more questions
than answers. Something about Barry Mor­ton felt wrong, but I couldn't
quite get a grip on what it was. One thing I was certain of: He knew more
than he was telling me. Why was that?
As I was exiting through his outer office, headed for the swarming
streets below, I waved good-bye to his secretary, a stout, fiftyish Ladino
matron with defiantly black-dyed hair, a hard look mitigated somewhat by
the Zircon trim on her thick glasses and a small silver pendant nestled on
her ample, low-cut sweater. It was the pendant that caught my eye, being
the silver face of a cat, most likely the local jaguar. Looked just like the
ones I'd seen you-know-where. I was staring so hard I almost stumbled over
a chair. Yes. It was definitely like those I remembered from Kevin and
Rachel.
The only difference was, when she bent over to reach for her stapler, the
medallion twisted around and the back, I could see, flashed blank silver, no
engraving of lines and dots.
So where did she get it? I started to ask her, but decided I'd just get more
BS runaround. Then I had another thought: Maybe she handled a lot of
things that never made it to Barry Morton's desk, the "don't waste the boss's
valuable time" kind of secretary. Maybe she s the one I really should have
been talking to, the kind of woman who takes care of every­thing while the
high-paid senior supervisor is at long lunches.

She looked at me, and our eyes met and held for a second. Had she been
listening in on my chat with Morton? Did she know something I ought to
know?
By then, however, thoughts of Steve were weighing in. I hadn't seen him
in three and a half months and I was realizing that was about my limit. I
wanted to recapture the lost time. Our being together was going to make
everything turn out right.
Clinging to that thought, I grabbed a cab and headed for my hotel and a
much-overdue hot bath.

Chapter Sixteen

"Come here," he said.
Whoosh. There he was. He strode through the door, tan safari shirt,
smelling like a man who’d just driven hundreds of miles through Central
America in an open Jeep. I wanted to undress him with my teeth and lick
off the sweat. Brown eyes, skin tan as leather, he threw his arms around me
and I felt the weight of the world slip away. He was here. I was wearing a
robe, fresh from the tub, but it was gone in a second. Steve, I gotta say,
knew a thing or two about the bedroom.
As we wound ourselves together for the next two hours, I had a refresher
course in how much Id missed him, soul and body. His taste, his skin, his
touch. Finally, we were both so exhausted we just lay there bathed in sweat,
spooned to­gether on the sagging bed. I hadn't felt so good in years. It was
like another world.
"God I've missed you," I said again, holding him closer. The air-
conditioning was beginning to lose ground against the late sun, but I didn't
care. After my solo nightmare of the last two days, I was remembering what
it was like to be a couple again.
The Camino Real, by the way, turned out to be an American-style
hideaway with budget shag carpeting and flaking blue walls. In a way,
though, the downtrodden decor actually made it more romantic, like we'd
sneaked off to a garish hot-sheet motel for a twilight rendezvous.
I finally dragged myself up and got us a bottle of water. Then, leaning
against the rickety headboard, I recounted an abbreviated version of what
had happened yesterday after we'd first talked—the theft of my film, and
then Lou being assaulted and Sarah taken, apparently willingly, to be
brought (I strongly suspected) back here. What I held out on were the
details about a certain Colonel Jose Alvino Ramos, my belief that he was

behind the crimes and in league with Alex Goddard and stalking me. I was
afraid our room was bugged.
"Morgy, we'll get through this," he said, reaching over to stroke my hair.
"If somebody brought her back down here, we'll find her. And I apologize
for being such a shit on the phone, about the baby. I'd just had a local lab
lose three rolls of high-speed Kodachrome and I was seriously frosted at the
world. We can keep trying if you want to."
"Just hold me." I put down my glass and I reached around and ran my
finger across his chest. It was so lovely to be this close to somebody you
wanted so much. I loved his earnest brown eyes and his soft skin. I loved
him. Just having him with me made such a difference.
The unexpected part was, I'd asked him to come and help me, but now
that he was here, I was starting to feel uneasy about luring him into my
personal nightmare. Was that really fair?
Also, I was getting hints he had problems of his own. The photo book, I
gathered, was not coming together the way he'd hoped. He'd mumbled
something about finding himself torn between a heartstrings essay about the
children (his spe­cialty; you've probably seen his work, whether you know it
or not), a devastating portrayal of the latest crop of sleazy politicos, or a
nature valentine to the vanishing rain forest. But whenever he agonized
about his work, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut and just listen. He
didn't want bright ideas; he just wanted me to clam up and be there for him.
Anyway, I knew he'd think his way through the problem. He had a
deceptive air of vulnerability that always disappeared in a crunch. He was
the master of ad hoc solutions. . . .
At that moment, he reached for his watch, studied it, and abruptly bolted
straight up. "Hey, I almost forgot my surprise. I hope you're still up for it.
Did you know this is our anniver­sary? It was on this very day I first
watched you dive into that grungy swimming pool at the Oloffson in Port-
au-Prince."
"My God you're right. I'm humiliated." I hugged him contritely, feeling
like a self-centered twit. I guess I was too focused on Sarah. (I screw up a

lot on birthdays too, always with an excuse.) "I don't even have a present
for you. I've been so—"
"That's okay." He grinned then stood up and headed for the shower. "Not
the first time. But I've got one for both of us. We'll make it a gift to each
other. It'll help start you thinking like a guatemalteco insider."
"What? You sneak. What did you get?"
"A trip back into the void of prehistoric time," he yelled over his
shoulder. "I am the possessor of a little-known secret about this town. I
called from Belize City this morning and made dinner reservations for us
downtown. You'll see."
God I loved this man. But the last thing on my mind at that moment was
food.
"Honey, I don't know if I'm really—"
"Hey, don't wimp out on me. If we're going to do this place, at least we
can do it in style. Besides, you can't live on smog alone. You gotta eat."
He had a point. Starving myself wasn't going to help find Sarah any
sooner. And there were details I wanted to tell him that I didn't want to
broadcast in the room. What if Colonel Ramos had long ears to match his
long arm?
"Come on," he pressed. "Just put on the slinkiest thing
you've got and get ready to go native. It'll help you put this part of the world
into perspective."
Alas, I had nothing particularly "slinky," though fortu­nately I'd packed a
silk blouse I could loosen and tie with a scarf around the waist. Don't laugh,
it worked. I even brushed on some serious eye shadow, which normally I
don't bother with much.
I tried not to let him know how concerned I was as we walked down the
driveway of the hotel and hailed a cab, while I furtively searched the
shadows. Seeing the streets after dark made me sad all over again for Sarah.
I still wanted to see and feel Guatemala the way she had, but when I got
close to the realities of the place, it made me uneasy.

It turned out the marvel he'd discovered was called Siriaco's, a wonderful
old place with a patio and garden in back—both roofed by glittering
tropical stars—which were down a stone pathway from the main dining
room and bar. It appeared to be where a lot of VIPs, the ruling oligarchy,
dined. It was romantic and perfect.
When we arrived, his special anniversary surprise was already being laid
out on a low stone table, attended by Mayan women all in traditional dress:
the colorful huipil blouses of their villages, red and blue skirts, immense
jade earrings.
"They've reconstructed a kingly feast from old docu­ments," he
explained, beaming at my amazement. "Cuisine of the ancient rain forest.
We're going to have a banquet of authentic guatemalteco chow from eons
ago."
And the meal was definitely fit for royalty. Soon we were working our
way through a long-forgotten medley of piquant flavors that swept through
my senses as though I were in another world. There was pit-roasted deer,
steamed fish, baked wild turkey. One calabash bowl set forth coriander-
flavored kidney beans; another had half a dozen varieties of green legumes
all in a rich turtle broth; a third offered va­nilla-seasoned sweet potatoes;
others had various forest tu­bers steamed with chiles. We even had a
delicious honey wine, like heavenly nectar, served in red clay bowls, that
made me want to have sex right on the table. There with Steve, the
unexpected juxtaposition of spices and flavors made every bite, every
aroma, a new sensual experience. (Let me say right here he's a cooking
fanatic, whereas I've been known to burn water. I think it's the new division
of labor in post-feminist America.) Finally the Mayan waitresses brought
out cups of a chocolate dessert drink from ancient times, cocoa beans
roasted, ground, and boiled with sugarcane. The whole event was pure
heaven.
Except for the occasional unwanted intrusions. Various dark-eyed low-
cut Ladino divorcees, about half a dozen in all, hanging out at the bar with
heavy perfume and too much jewelry, kept coming over purportedly to
marvel over our private feast (or was it Steve's big brown eyes). He

returned their attentions with his polite and perfect Spanish, but I despised
them. In any case, they were shameless. Not re­membering quite enough
Espanol, however, the best I could do was just to put my hand on his and
give them the evil eye. It seemed to work, though what I really wanted to do
was hold up a cross the way you do to ward off vampires. . . .
"Hey, check out Orion," he said finally leaning back, an easy, delicious
finger aimed at that sprawling constellation. I looked up at the canopy of
stars, and sure enough, the hunter and his sword dominated the starry sky
above like a stalwart centurion, guarding us. "I always know I'm in the
tropics when it's right overhead."
"Honey, this has been wonderful," I declared. "Thank you so much." I
moved around and kissed him. "It's exactly the attitude adjustment I
needed."
"Well"—he smiled back—"now I guess we've got some
organizing to do. So tell me everything you left out back there at the hotel. I
know you were holding off."
I was feeling increasingly hyper, probably from the high- octane
chocolate, but I proceeded to recount all my findings about Alex Goddard
and Quetzal Manor. Then I moved on to Colonel Ramos and how he'd
threatened Carly and me about my film. Finally, I told him my deep belief
that Colonel Ramos and a couple of his goons were obviously the ones
who'd roughed up Lou and taken Sarah.
"Bad scene," he said when I finally paused for breath. He was toying
with his cup and running his fingers through his sandy hair, in that "deep
thought" mode of his. "Way I see it, this just sounds like a classic case of
selling kids. To me, that's right up there with murder and grand larceny."
"Well, I also firmly believe it's all tied in with Alex God­dard's clinic
here, or whatever it is. The place Sarah called Ninos del Mundo on her
landing card. I'll bet you anything that's where Ramos has taken her."
"You know," he said, his brow a perfect furrow, eyes nar­rowed, "about
the babies you saw, there've been press stories over the last few years about
Americans being attacked in Guatemala on suspicion of trying to kidnap

Maya children out in the villages, to put up for adoption. But I've never
seen any proof of it. I've always thought it just might have been dumb
gringos who don't know the culture. They go poking around out in the
countryside and stupidly say the wrong thing. Maybe using schoolbook
Spanish nobody out there re­ally understands. But now this makes me
wonder if—"
"Love, those babies I saw up at Quetzal Manor are not kidnapped Indian
children, trust me. They're Caucasian as vanilla snow cones. Try again."
"I get your point," he said quickly. "But let me relate the facts of life
down here. When you've got some Guatemalan colonel behind something,
you'd better think twice about how many rocks you turn over."
"Funny, but that's exactly what some guy at the embassy named Barry
Morton said to me."
"And you'd better listen. This is the country that turned the word
'disappear' into a new kind of verb. People get 'disappeared.' I actually knew
some of them, back in the late eighties. One dark night an Army truck rolls
into a village, and when the torture and . . . other things are over with, a few
Maya are never heard from again." He looked at me. "You saw my pictures
of that village in the Huehuetenango Department, Tzalala, where the Army
mutilated and mur­dered half the—"
"I know all about that." It was chilling to recall his grue­some photos.
"But I'm going to track down Alex Goddard's clinic, no matter what. That's
where they've taken Sarah, I'm sure of it. I just may need some help finding
it."
He grimaced. "Damn, I've got to head back to Belize by noon
tomorrow." Then his look brightened. "But, hey, I fin­ish my shoot
Wednesday, so I can drive back here on Thurs­day. Then on Friday maybe
we could—"
"Come on, love, I can't just sit around till the end of the week. What am I
going to do till then?" The very thought made me itchy. "I need to find out
if Ninos del Mundo, the place Sarah put on her original landing card is for

real. Her card said it's somewhere in the Peten, the rain forest. If I could
find somebody who—"
"Okay, look." He was thinking aloud. "How about this? There's a guy
here in town who owes me a favor. A big one. He screwed me out of twenty
grand in the U.S. We were going to start a travel magazine—I think I told
you about that—but then he took my money and split the country. He ended
up down here and went to work for the CIA—till they sacked him. After
that he leased a helicopter and started some kind of bullshit tourist hustle.
He sure as hell knows what's going on. Name's Alan Dupre. The prick.
Maybe I could give him a call and we could get together for a late drink.
He's got an easy number these days: 4-MAYAN."
"How's he going to help?"
"Trust me. He's our guy."
I leaned back and closed my eyes, my imagination drifting. In that brief
moment, my mind floated back to yesterday afternoon at Lou's loft, and
Sarah. Her hallucinations still haunted me. What had happened to her in the
rain forest? And why would she say she wanted to go back?
Then I snapped back. "All right. Try and ring him if you think he can
help. Right now I need all I can get."
He got up and worked his way to the phone, past the crowded bar, while
I tried to contemplate the night sky. I looked up again, hoping to see Orion,
but now a dark cloud had moved in, leaving nothing but deepening
blackness. He'd said there was a storm brewing, part of an out-of-season
hurricane developing in the Caribbean, so I guessed this was the first
harbinger.
"Tonight's out, but tomorrow's okay." He was striding back. "Crack of
dawn. Which for him is roughly about noon. We'll have a quick get-together
and then I've got to run. Re­ally. But if this guy doesn't know what's going
on down here, nobody does. He's probably laid half those hot tomatillos
there at the bar. The man has his sources, if you get my meaning."
"Then let's go back to the glorious Camino Real." I took his hand. "We'll
split the check. At the moment, even that seems romantic."

"I'm still thinking about—"
"Don't. Don't think." I touched his lips, soft and moist, then kissed him.
An impulsive but deeply felt act. "We've all had enough thinking for one
day."

Chapter Seventeen

Alan Dupre didn't ring till almost ten-thirty the next morn­ing, and I had
the feeling even that was a stretch. He then offered to meet us in the Parque
Concordia, right downtown. As I watched him ambling toward our bench,
my first im­pression was: Why'd we bother?
The man appeared to be in his early forties, puffy-eyed and pink-cheeked
with discount aviator shades, looking like a glad-handing tourist just down
to Central America for a weekend of unchaperoned bacchanals. The
flowered sport shirt, worn outside the belt, gave him the aura of a tout in­‐
sufficiently attired without a can of Coors in hand.
How can this be progress? I'm down here hoping to find Sarah, and I end
up in a trash-filled park meeting some expat operator.
Steve had explained that the main benefit of Alan Dupre's CIA gig was
that he did learn how to fly a helicopter. With that skill he'd ended up
starting a tourist agency in Guatemala City using an old Bell he leased:
"Mayan Pyramids from the Air." Mainly, though, he was a self-styled bon
vivant who knew people.
"Steve the brave." On came Dupre's mirthless smile as he approached a
jaunty spring entering his step.
"Alan, any friend of yours has got to be brave." Steve just stared at him.
Dupre had the kind of empty grin that looked like it'd been rehearsed in
his high school bathroom mirror. It was thin, kind of forked and dangerous,
and this morning its plas­ter quality undermined any attempts at honesty.
Maybe deal­ing with complaining tourists every day of your life did that to
you.
"You called, I came." He was now shifting from foot to foot. "Guess it
finally had to happen. What's the phrase? You can run but you can't hide?
Surprise us both and pretend you're happy to see me."

Steve looked like he was not entirely prepared for this moment. He used
the awkward pause that followed to intro­duce me. Dupre shook hands like
he was fearful of germs, then turned back.
"Jesus, man, I'm still working on the money, honest to God. But do I get
a last cigarette before the firing squad?"
"Hey, Alan, ease up." Steve was deadpan. "Good to see you again. I
mean it. Love that Waikiki shirt, by the way. Never knew you had such
progressive taste."
"This is actually my incognito attire. For secret missions. It's my
objective today to look like some cruise-ship jerk." He glanced around
nervously. "So how'm I doing?"
"I'd say your years of training in undercover work have paid off."
I listened, remembering Steve had explained that Alan Dupre's career as
a CIA information-gatherer was hampered by his propensity to drink too
much tequila and then brag about his occupation, hoping to impress
whatever woman he had in his sights at the moment.
"So bring me up to date." Steve was trying to hide his total contempt.
"Why'd you get out of the spook business? Langley couldn't find a 'new
mission' for you after the Evil Empire dissolved?"
Dupre's face turned pensive. "Man, you don't get it, do you? Langley's
still got plenty on its mind. Nothing has changed. Most people don't realize
the U.S. isn't run by the folks they vote for. There's a permanent
government that doesn't appear on Larry King, and I was part of it. The
Cen­tral Intelligence Agency of the U.S. of A. will go on doing exactly what
it's always done, guiding events in Third World toilets like this through
whatever means are necessary to pro­tect America's strategic concerns.
Keeping the world safe for Microsoft and Ronald McDonald." He paused
and glanced at me, as though slightly embarrassed. Then he continued.
"What I'm saying is, all those Beltway turkeys with the briar pipes and
gigabyte computers, sitting around wringing their hands, worried the
Company needs a new mission, never really grasped its old mission."

"You're right," Steve said going along with the shtick, the applause lines
Dupre had doubtless used in a thousand bars. "I'm getting slow. What
Langley needs nowadays is a new cover story."
"Couldn't have phrased it better." Dupre smiled again too easily. "They're
—"
"Actually," Steve said cutting him off impatiently, all the while gazing
up at the gathering dark clouds as though they were a hovering adversary,
"the truth of the matter is, we called you to discuss a favor. A small helping
hand." He seemed to be searching for a sales point. "For old times' sake."
"For old times' sake?" Dupre appeared to be having trouble with the
concept.
"Yeah. All we want is to hear a little talk of the town." He gazed out over
the square, Uzi-toting police still strolling by. "You know, local information
of the kind that doesn't make the papers."
"Right," I said. "For starters, how could a gringa sort of melt into the
Peten rain forest, disappear for months and months, and then end up in a
coma?" I'd decided to feel him out before going for the bigger questions.
"People disappear down here all the time, and nobody in their right mind
goes around inquiring why." Dupre seemed genuinely astonished that
anyone would find such a thing unusual. He also was fingering a cigarette
pack in his breast pocket, clearly nervous about the quick turn our
conversation had taken. "Whatever's your problem in Guatemala, just for­get
about it. Drink some cerveza, take a few snapshots of the picturesque
natives, and then move on to a civilized place. This is a land of mystery,
lady, and the people who matter like it that way. There are those here who
take their privacy very seriously."
Just like Alex Goddard's Children of Light, I thought. Or Ninos del
Mundo, or whatever it's called. It was chilling to hear Alan Dupre backing
away so quickly from my question. The guy seemed truly scared under all
the bluster. I also observed that his eyes were curiously small, out of
propor­tion to his face. I hadn't noticed it at first.

"Well," I went on, determined to push him, "an old land­ing card for the
person I'm looking for said her destination was a place called Ninos del
Mundo, up in the Peten. I as­sume that's somewhere in the northern rain
forest, right? So I guess what I want to know is, does that name stir up any
connections?"
He looked around, then extracted a Gauloise from a blue pack and lit it
with a wooden match, flicking the tip with his fingernail. He inhaled, taking
his time. "Well, maybe I've heard a little something about a place some
people call by that name." He drew again on the cigarette. "And the story
might include a female American tourista or two—about one a year,
actually—who've sort of melted into the forest never to be seen more. I'm
not exactly sure where it is, though. Or even if what you hear is true. But
who cares? Come on, guys, this is Guatemala, for chrissake. Shit happens.
Get a life."
"The embassy, or the CIA, or anybody ever carry out an inquiry?" I felt
my energy rising. "A woman every year or so? I went by Reforma Avenue
yesterday and nobody there seems to have ever heard of any of this."
"No kidding." He snorted. "Whatever happened that place, our caring
embassy, ain't gonna do zip—don't faint at the news—and there's no way
the Company's going to pull their old-time Yankee number, roll in with the
beige sunglasses, and yell, 'Okay, you peons, we're here to take names and
kick butt. What happened to our national?' They've recently acquired a habit
of taking local situations at face value. Makes for a lot better tables at the
tony supper clubs in town."
This guy liked to talk, I realized but he had no interest in going beyond
glib one-liners. I glanced at Steve, and I could tell he was having the same
thoughts.
"Tell you what," Steve said finally, "how about this? Tell us whatever
you know about how to find this place, and maybe we can adjust the terms
on the money you screwed me out of. I might settle for something less on
the dollar and let bygones be bygones."

"Hey, man, you'll get your money. I'm good for it." Dupre sighed and
drew on his Gauloise. "It's just that things are a little tight right now, you
know." He paused. "Matter of fact, I was hoping you might be able to spare
a couple of bills for a week or so. But I guess . . ." His voice trailed off.
Alan Dupre knew something I needed to know, or might know it. Steve
had definitely found the right guy in that regard. But he clearly was
cautious to the point of paralysis as he kept furtively glancing around. What
was he so fearful of, and what could I do to convince him to help me?
I stood gazing at the dark sky for a long moment, and
then I had an off-the-wall idea, a long shot, the all-or-nothing take you go
for when the sun is dying and the unions are looking at overtime.
"You do tourist flights, right?" I started, still working on the idea. "So
how about pretending I'm an eco nut? A lover of the rain forest. You can tell
whoever you're so afraid of that you're taking me up into the wilds to show
me jaguars or something. A regular tour. Just cruising around, taking in the
sights. Totally innocent. And then if we accidentally scouted a little, maybe
we could find the place."
"Jesus, you're serious about this, aren't you?" Dupre nervously crushed
out his cigarette, staring at me glassy-eyed.
"Never been more."
He extracted another Gauloise.
"Okay, a counteroffer, Miss . . ."
"James. Morgan James."
"Right, Miss James. I'm beginning to think you've got no realistic sense
of proportion about this part of the world. You—"
"Fools rush in, right?"
"My point precisely. But if Steve here means what he says, well, maybe
there's a little room to negotiate. Maybe I could take you on a quick
sightseeing trip. And just for laughs I could kind of inadvertently stray over
the area I think you might find productive. Assuming we can locate it. But
here're my terms. I do it and Steverino and me are square. Consider it a
twenty-thousand-dollar cruise."

"Fine with me." Steve didn't even blink, and I loved him all over again,
right on the spot. Though the truth was, I knew he'd never planned on
seeing a penny of the money again anyway.
"And you think this place is Ninos del Mundo?" I was trying not to get
my hopes up too much, but still . . .
Dupre lit his new cigarette. "You didn't hear this from me, okay? You
heard it from the embassy or some other damned place. But that's one name
for it. Another is 'Jungle Disneyland.' Actually, I think the local name is
Baalum, the old Maya word for jaguar. But everybody acts like it's a state
secret, so all you get are rumors."
"Well, assuming we find it, then how could I get in? I mean actually in."
I was squinting at him, feeling my body tense. What was it Lou had said
about a word he'd heard when they were taking Sarah? It sounded like
"Babylon"? I also thought that was what she'd whispered to me. Could it be
the word was actually Baalum? The gloomy morning skies abruptly flooded
with the brilliant white light of hope. I glanced back at Steve, and our eyes
locked for a long mo­ment.
"Morgy, for chrissake, what are you saying?" Steve took my hand.
"Don't you realize this is Guatemala? Don't even think about it."
"We're just talking now, okay?" I squeezed his hand then looked back at
Dupre. "I was just wondering. Once we've found it, could I get a sneak
look-see? Assuming I wanted to?"
"Well, I'll tell you one thing, Miss Morgan James." Dupre was fingering
his new cigarette, oblivious to my reaction. "Give no serious thought to just
driving up. The Army'd be all over your butt in the time it takes to cock an
AK-47." He glanced up at the sky again, though now a dense bank of dark
clouds had swallowed what remained of the sun. A pre-rain gloom was
enveloping the park, which was starting to empty out, the hawkers and
loiterers headed home to wait out the weather. "But if we do find it, then as
long as we're there, I might be able to drop you off for a quick glance
somehow, say, if we did it around twilight time . . . that is, if that's what you
want. But it's ten minutes tops, and that's my final offer. Frankly, I think

you'd be ill-advised in the extreme to do it, but . . . in any case, it's got to be
a low-profile enterprise all the way. We screw this up and we could easily
swell the ranks of the 'disappeared.' "
"But you think you could actually locate it?"
"What I hear, the place is on a tributary of the Usumacinta River, a
latrine they call the Rio Tigre. Way up in the north­west. Low-level Army
types, you meet them in bars from time to time, like to BS about it. I've got
a rough idea where it might be, though you don't know whether to believe a
bunch of kid recruits after half-a-dozen beers."
Then my mind clicked. The Rio Tigre? Didn't that have something to do
with where Lou said Sarah was found? That was definitely where I wanted
to go.
"Morgy, have you lost your senses?" Steve had placed his hand on my
shoulder. "If the Army's involved in something down here, you don't want
to know about it. Don't lose sight of the fact those goons knocked off two
hundred thousand villagers since the freedom-loving days of the Gipper, for
fear they might be Commies, with the CIA practically flying in the ammo.
This whole damned country's just one big mass grave. Yet another
unclaimed corpse or two won't make a hell of a lot of difference."
"Steve, I'll bet you anything that's where she is." Saying it, I had a vision
of all the things that had happened to me, and to Sarah, because of Alex
Goddard. I couldn't wait to confront the bastard. "He's brought her back."
Steve just glared at me for a long moment, despairing.
"Christ, you make me nuts. Okay, look, how about this? At least let me
come with you. That way we'll face the un­known together."
Though I had a lump-in-the-throat moment, I didn't say anything, just
stood there glorying in the feeling of being together. It was so wonderful to
have him with me and so difficult to think about pressing on without him.
There was a long, awkward pause, and then he glanced at his watch.
"Blast, I've got to hit the road if I'm going to get back in time to set up for
tonight's shoot. I just pray I can beat the rain." Then he pulled me around
and circled me fully in his arms. "Please, Morgy, I really don't like the

sound of this. I'll move heaven and earth to get back here by Friday night,
and if you still want to check out this 'Baalum' place, then we'll figure out a
way to do it together."
"Just you stay safe." I hugged him back. "Nothing I do is going to mean
much if I don't have you. Don't worry. I'll be okay."
Alan Dupre had abruptly taken an even deeper interest in the darkening
sky. I got the feeling he was uncomfortable being around two people
capable of caring.
"It's only for a couple of days," Steve went on. "We'll both be okay if we
just stick together."
"Right," I said, and kissed him harder than I ever had.
Five minutes later, my heart and my head still at war with each other, I
was alone in the virtually empty park with my brand-new best friend.
Watching Steve's Jeep blend into the smoggy haze of the avenue made me
feel like half of me had just disappeared into another dimension.
"So that's that," I declared finally, turning back and taking a deep breath.
I had to find Sarah before something else truly horrible happened to her.
And the one thing I was de­termined to do was keep Steve as safely distant
from my search as I could, even though it meant I was going to be terribly
lonely for the next few days. "When can we leave?"
"Hey, get real." Dupre choked, whirling around. "We can't go today.
Case you hadn't noticed, there's a storm coming. If you really want to go . . .
and I mean really want to, then maybe in a day or so. Preferably when Steve
—"
"I don't want to drag him into this," I said evenly. Truth­fully, I was
sounding braver than I felt. But then I remem­bered once going down into
the four-hundred-year-old sub­terranean harem quarters of the Red Fort in
Agra, seemingly miles underground and pitch black, with nothing but a
flash­light, surrounded by screaming bats and knee-deep in guano, for no
better reason than I was determined to see how the women there once lived.
So how much scarier could this be?

"Well, I say no way," Dupre told me. "Not today. Correc­tion, make that
no fucking way." He had removed his aviator shades and was cleaning them
with a dirty hanky. "Besides, I don't think you have any business going up
there in the first place. If you're not scared shitless, you ought to be."
"Alan, I think you 're the one who's afraid to go."
He almost reached for another cigarette, but then stopped himself. "I will
definitely plead guilty to a deep-seated dis­quiet about the people who rule
this placid paradise. But if it'll square things with Steve, then I'll take you
up to have a quick look, for my sins. But it's got to be after the weather
clears."
I finally realized he was already thinking about his next loan. Steve,
beware.
"Tomorrow then?" I wasn't going to blink, because the Peten was where
Sarah had ended up the first time and I was sure that was where Ramos had
taken her now. Baalum.
Dupre stared at the sky a moment longer, then caved. "Maybe we can
shoot for tomorrow late. If I can convince myself this storm has done its
worst." He looked back at me. "But I gotta tell you one thing, Ms. Morgan
James. We blun­der in up there and end up getting ourselves 'disappeared,'
we won't even get our pictures in the papers. You'd better tell your
immediate loved ones where you're going, and it wouldn't be the worst time
in the world to think about making a will."
The way he said it, I was sure for once he meant every word.

Chapter Eighteen

When I got back to the Camino Real, the time was early afternoon and
the bed was freshly made, with all signs and scents of my and Steve's torrid
reunion long gone. I tried to push aside thoughts of how much I was already
missing him and focus on what I was getting myself into. I must admit I
was having serious qualms about going up to the Peten, the part of
Guatemala where Sarah had been left for dead, with my brand-new tour
director, the flaky Alan Dupre. I'd never been in a helicopter before, much
less one flying over a stormy rain forest. On the other hand, if that was
where they'd taken Sarah, the sooner I got there, the better.
Sitting there in the room, I found myself feeling right at home:
Everything about it was so familiar to an expert on budget travel like me.
Off-brand carpet the color of decaying vegetation, the usual two double
beds (one totally unused, except as a suitcase shelf), the TV suspended over
the dresser and bolted to the wall. Funny, but it was the first time I'd noticed
half the things in the room.
Okay, I told myself, the thing to do first is call St. Vincent's and check on
Lou. Also, I wanted to tell him what was hap­pening. I just hoped he
wouldn't launch into a lecture about the recklessness of what I was
planning. I needed support, not male advice.
I got the desk to give me the local AT&T contact number,
then rang right through to St. Vincent's. The next thing I knew, they were
calling his room.
"Hi. How's the patient?"
"Morgan, what the hell are you up to? I've been trying to reach you. I
finally called David and he said you'd left a mes­sage; something about
Central America. Why the hell—?"
"I was trying to explain that to you Sunday night, but you were pretty far
gone."

"Well, I ain't that far gone now, so I'm telling you to—"
"By the way," I interrupted, hoping to change the subject, "how're you
feeling?"
"I guess I'll live. They let me get up and go to the bath­room now. They're
saying I can probably go home tomor­row."
"That's encouraging." Thank God he was going to be okay.
"I also had a talk with Gerry, downtown. He believes Sarah was
kidnapped, even if New York's Finest don't, so that means the FBI has
jurisdiction. We're gonna get some action. They're trying to get a photo of
that colonel, so maybe I can ID the bastard. But the consulate's giving us a
lot of shit about it."
"Well, I'm tracking something down here. Between the two of us, I think
we'll find her."
"So, what the hell are you doing?"
I told him about finding the name of a destination on Sarah's old landing
card, and about meeting a guy who was going to take me there as soon as
the weather cleared.
"And you think she could be there now?" He didn't sound hopeful.
"There're reasons to check it out." I didn't want to elabo­rate. "Maybe
we'll get lucky."
I was attempting to say as little as possible, fearing the phone was
tapped. In that spirit, I decided to get off the line as quickly as possible.
"Lou, you get lots of rest, and I'll try and call you tomor­row."
With a final warning to watch out for myself, he took down my hotel
number and hung up. Truthfully, he was sounding pretty tired and weak, not
nearly his old self.
Well, he had a right to be. But at least there were no complications.
My next call was going to be to David Roth, to check in on things at
Applecore, but first I wanted to order up some huevos rancheros, get some
breakfast protein. I was becom­ing energized by the prospect of progress,
and being that way always makes me ravenous. It's probably a primal
female response that has a Latin name.

I checked out the number for room service, and was lit­erally reaching for
the black phone when it rang of its own accord. Startled I picked up the
receiver, wondering who had my number.
"Hello." It was a man's voice that sounded vaguely fa­miliar. "Thought I'd
check in and see how things are going with your search."
"Hi," I answered back after a pause, trying to place his intonation.
"Oh, sorry. Barry Morton. Remember me? Fortress Amer­ica. You came
by the office yesterday."
"How . . . ?" Why was he calling me? "How did you get this—?"
"You must have accidentally put the wrong hotel on your landing card as
your address in Guatemala City." He hesi­tated a second then said "But I had
my secretary call around and . . . well, it happens all the time."
"I see." It did have the ring of logic. And I had put down a different
hotel. A safety measure. "Do you always take this much . . . interest in your
fellow citizens?"
"Only when they come to see me personally." He chuck­led. "So how's it
going?"
"Well, thanks for calling," I said. "Everything's moving along."
"Good, good." There was another pause, then, "Inciden­tally, you having
any luck finding that Ninos del Mundo place you were looking for?"
I hesitated, wondering why he would ask and also unsure what to say.
"Not yet," I volunteered. My God, it finally dawned on me. The guy was
tracking me. He wanted to know what I knew. "You come up with anything
at your end?"
"I've been busy, a string of meetings, but I still think you might want to
check out the phone book." It was the second time he'd made the
suggestion. He was practically ordering me to do it. Why? "You never
know. I'm afraid that's about the best I can do."
"Maybe I will," I said. "I've been a little busy too."
The phone call was feeling stranger and stranger. He was sending me to
see something, probably in hopes it would make me go away. It was
actually more unnerving than if he'd done nothing at all.

"Well, in any case, I hope you have a good visit," he declared
diplomatically. Another pause. "Planning to be here long?"
"I'm not sure yet." Why did he want to know that?
"I see. Whatever happens, I hope you find what you're looking for. Best
of luck."
He hung up, leaving me with the feeling he already knew the answer to
every question he'd asked. The guys at the airport, and now the embassy—I
was the best-known tourist in the country.
Okay, maybe I should just play along and see what hap­pens. In any case,
I'd just lost my appetite for fried eggs with hot sauce, but I had a definite
interest in the phone book.
And there they were. Ninos del Mundo. Complete with an address, way
out the Boulevar R. Aguilar Batres.
Well, why not see where it leads you? Sarah's card said the place was in
the Peten, but who knows?
I got up off the bed and went into the bathroom for a shampoo and
shower. Despite the fact that Barry Morton wanted me to see this Ninos del
Mundo place, whatever it was, I didn't want to show up looking and
smelling like some bedraggled tourist. I'd wear my tailored blue suit, which,
along with the dark blue heels, ought to make me look ade­quately
businesslike.
The shower was wonderful, purging away the soot of the park, and I was
wrapping my hair in a large beige towel when the phone jangled again. I
tucked in the edge to secure it and walked over. Maybe it was Lou ringing
back.
No such luck. The caller was none other than my brand-new partner Alan
Dupre. I was not thrilled to hear his voice. Was he about to get cold feet and
back out?
"Morgan, listen," he said, not wasting time on niceties, "there's been a
small change of plans. I've—"
"Alan, don't do this to me." You shit. "You agreed— "

"No, why I'm calling is, we've got to go ahead and go up today, storm or
no, God help us. You happy now?"
What? After that neurotic song-and-dance he'd just given me in the park?
I should have been overjoyed, but something about the whole thing
immediately felt synthetic. I paused a long moment, trying to think the
situation through. What was going on?
The answer to that was clear as day. I was being set up. Somebody
wanted me out of town, and they'd just found a way.
Or was I being paranoid again? Had the weather cleared? I reached over
and pushed aside a curtain. Nope, it looked as threatening as ever.
No question. This was definitely a setup.
On the other hand why not use whoever had put him up to this? This told
me for sure I was on the trail of Sarah, and the sooner I got going, the
better. Aside from calling New York and then checking out the local Ninos
del Mundo that Barry Morton wanted me to see so badly, I had no other
pressing plans. . . .
"Alan, I thought you declared no 'effing' way were you going to go
today," I said testing him. "Why the sudden revision in scheduling?"
"Yeah, well, something heavy's come up for tomorrow. I'm afraid it's
gotta be now or forget it for at least a week."
Unrefined bullshit. But somebody knew how badly I wanted to go.
"Look, there's something I need to check out first. I just learned about a
place here in town I want to at least see. It's also called Ninos del Mundo."
"No shit." He paused. "Okay, we'll talk about it. Get the address and
maybe we can cruise by if there's time. Thing is, we don't have all that
much leeway here."
"One last question." I thought I'd give him a final shot at the truth. "Just
tell me honestly why it has to be today. The real story."
"Like I said everything's changed." He wasn't budging. "So if we're
doing this, I've got to pick you up now and get us on our merry way."
He was too cheerful by half, which definitely told me he was lying.

"All right, but I really need to make at least one phone call first." I
wanted Steve to know where I was. "And if I walk out of here with a bag,
I've got to let the desk know I'm not skipping on the bill."
"Forget the phone call. No time. Do it after we get back. Just be out front
in exactly nineteen minutes. This is not a dry run. The train is leaving. I'm
outta here now."
There was a click and he was gone.
I sat there a moment staring at the floor. What was I getting into?
Well, there's one way to find out. Play their game and beat them. There's
no better way to get inside what's going on.
The first thing I did was call Steve's hotel in Belize City. Of course he
wasn't there, but I left a long message to the effect that I was taking a
"sightseeing" trip up to the Peten with Alan Dupre today because of
unforeseen new circum­stances. The reasons were complicated, but I'd watch
out for myself and therefore he shouldn't worry.
That out of the way, I looked around the room. It was a disaster, but I
quickly began cramming things into the small folding backpack I always
took on trips. Then I rang the kitchen and told them to make up a quadruple
egg sandwich (quatro huevos, por favor) to go, along with a large bottle of
distilled water.
By the time I got to the reception desk and explained I wasn't actually
checking out for good, Alan Dupre was al­ready waiting outside in his
battered green Jeep, cleaning his scratchy shades and leaning on the horn.
Let him wait. I wrote out a long note to Steve, on the chance he might
come looking for me. Then with deliberate slowness, I wandered out to
where Alan's Jeep was parked and tossed my backpack behind the seat.
"First things first." I climbed in and handed him the ad­dress of Ninos del
Mundo I'd copied onto some hotel sta­tionery. "This is where we've got to
go."
He stared at it a moment, puzzling, and then seemed to figure out where
it was.

"Upscale part of this beautiful oasis." He shifted into gear. "But it's more
or less on the way." He glanced up nervously at the sky. "We just don't have
all day."
Off we headed toward the suburbs, through a ganglia of downtown
streets laced with pizza joints and frying-meat vendors, till we eventually
ended up on a tree-lined avenue that looked as genteel as Oyster Bay. When
we got to the address, I told him to park across the way, and just sat a
moment staring.
The building itself was a windowless compound sur­rounded by trees and
a high wall of white stucco, with a guardhouse and wide iron gate (not
unusual for Guatemala) protecting a long walkway. The whole thing looked
like a fortress, except the view through the gate was a pastoral vista of neat
flower beds and a pristine lawn. The guardhouse itself had a dozing
teenager, undoubtedly with an Uzi resting across his lap.
"Okay, Alan," I said "time to get with the program. How's your
Spanish?"
"Depends on who I'm trying to BS." He shrugged and began cleaning his
sunglasses again.
"Well, why don't you see if you can talk us past that guard."
He stared at the entrance a moment. "Be a waste of our precious time.
Tell you right now, kids like that only answer to one boss, the jefe, the big
guy, whoever he is. That's how they retain their employment. A joint locked
down this tight don't give Sunday tours."
"Well, I think he's asleep. So I'm going to be creative and see if there's a
back entrance of some kind. Maybe a service area that'll give me some idea
of what's going on here."
"Do what you want, but make it fast," he said, leaning back in the seat.
"And try not to get shot."
I carefully got out and walked down the empty street a way, then
followed the stucco wall/fence—the building cov­ered an entire city block—
until I came across an alley en­trance, with another large iron gate,
padlocked shut.

I peered up the driveway, shrouded in overhanging trees, but there was
nothing in the parking lot except a couple of Army Jeeps. And a black Land
Rover.
Well, Barry Morton really wanted me to see this. But why? Is there a
connection to the place in the Peten? And what are the Army vehicles all
about?
I sighed and made my way back to the street. When I reached the Jeep,
Alan was gone, but then I realized he was over talking to the young guard,
offering him a cigarette. A few moments later he waved good-bye and
casually ambled back.
"Okay." He settled in and hit the ignition. "Here's the official deal. This
place is some kind of hospice for unwed mothers. They also take in
orphans, or so he thinks. Accord­ing to him, no American women have ever
had anything to do with the place, which is probably why I'd never heard of
it." He glanced at me as we sped off. "You happy now? Debriefing young
Army dudes is a specialty of mine, so I think that's probably the straight
scoop."
"Did you ask if it's connected with something in the Pe­ten?" I was still
hoping. In any case, whatever it was, I was collecting more pieces of the
puzzle.
"Hey, give me a break." He shifted up, gaining speed. "I know when to
push, and this wasn't the precise moment. The kid was itchy enough as it
was. Like, who the fuck are you, gringo, and what are you doing here? I got
all I could get without a cold cerveza." He glanced over. "You ask me, a
little gratitude wouldn't be entirely out of place."
"Okay. Muchas gracias, amigo. Happy now?"
"Ecstatic."
The Jeep was open and I checked out the sky, which was growing darker
and more threatening by the minute. The promised foul weather still seemed
to be just that, promised but it was definitely on the way. Alan Dupre must
really be scared. Finally I leaned back in the torn plastic seat and closed my
eyes.

Was this Ninos del Mundo the Latin branch of Children of Light? The
place where Alex Goddard's babies came from? Considering the interest
Colonel Ramos had in my movie, the Army Jeeps could be a tip-off. Also,
there seemed to be an even chance that Barry Morton was involved some­‐
how. But it was all still guesswork. And anyway, this wasn't the place Sarah
had put on her landing card. That Ninos del Mundo was somewhere up
north, hidden in the rain forest.
Ready or not, Sar, hang on.

Chapter Nineteen

"What did he say?" I asked, not quite catching the burst of rapid-fire
Spanish from the cockpit. The explosion of ex­pletives had included the
word navegacion. Something about malfunction.
God help us.
Alan Dupre's helicopter reminded me of the disintegrating taxis on
Guatemala City's potholed streets. The vibration in the passenger
compartment was so violent it made my teeth chatter. My stomach felt like
it was in a cocktail shaker, and the deafening roar could have been the voice
of Hell.
I was staring out the smudgy plastic window, where less than three
hundred meters below I could just make out the top of the Peten rain forest
of northwest Guatemala sweeping by beneath us. So this was what it looked
like. Dense and impenetrable, it was a yawning, deciduous carpet
enveloping the earth as far as the eye could see—if something ten stories
high could be called carpet. I'd been in the forests of India's Kerala and seen
some of the denser growth in southern Mex­ico, but this was like another
planet.
The main problem was, a violent downpour, the leading edge of the
hurricane, was now sweeping across the Yucatan, stirring up the treetops of
the jungles below. The rain, which had begun in earnest about ten minutes
after we got airborne, had been steadily increasing to the point it was now
almost blinding.
This was the risk I'd chosen to take, but let me admit right here: The
weather had me seriously scared, my fingernails digging into the armrests
and my pulse erratic. And now was there something else? We'd only been in
the air for thirty-five minutes, and already we had some kind of mechanical
issue looming? What was left to go wrong?

"Some of the lights went out or something." Dupre tried a shrug. "I'm not
sure. No big deal, though. This old bird always gets the job done." His pilot,
Lieutenant Villatoro, formerly of the Guatemalan Army, had just shouted
the new development back to the cabin. "Probably nothing. Don't worry
about it."
Don't worry about it! His "tourist" helicopter was a Guatemalan
candidate for the Air & Space Museum, an old Bell UH-1D patched
together with chicle and corn masa. Surely the storm was pushing it far
beyond its stress limits.
"Right, but what exactly—?"
"Sounds like the nav station." He clicked open his seat belt. "Something .
. . Who knows? If you'd be happier, I'll go up and look."
I felt my palms go cold. "Doesn't seem too much to ask, considering."
The world down below us was a hostile mélange of tow­ering trees, all
straining for the sky, while the ground itself was a dark tangle of ferns,
lianas, strangler vines, creepers—among which lurked Olympic scorpions
and some of the Earth's most poisonous snakes. If we had to set down here
—I didn't even want to think about it. To lower a helicopter into the waves
of flickering green below us would be to confront the hereafter.
"It's just the lights, like he said." Dupre yelled back from the cockpit's
door, letting a tone of "I told you to chill out" seep through. He was peering
past the opening, at the long line of instruments. He followed his
announcement with a sigh as he moved back into the main cabin. "Relax."
I wasn't relaxed and from the way his eyes were shifting and his
Gauloise cigarettes were being chain-smoked he was on the verge of a
nervous breakdown. In his case it wasn't just the weather. He was fidgeting
like a trapped animal, giving me the distinct sense he was doing someone's
invisible bidding and was terrified he might fail.
"Well, why don't you try and fix it?" Was he trying to act calm just to
impress me? "Can't you bang on the panel or something?"
"Okay, okay, let me see what I can do. Jesus!" He edged back into the
cockpit, next to Villatoro. The wind was shak­ing us so badly that, even bent

over, he was having trouble keeping his balance. Then he halfheartedly
slammed the dark instrument readouts with the heel of his open hand. When
the effort produced no immediate electronic miracle, he set­tled into the
copilot's seat.
"Que pasa? " he yelled at Villatoro, his voice barely audi­ble over the
roar of the engine and the plastering of rain on the fuselage. Then he looked
out the windscreen, at the tor­rent slamming against it, and rubbed at his
chin.
"No se, mi comandante," the Guatemalan shouted back. I sensed he was
hoping to sound efficient and unperturbed. Dupre claimed his pilot had
personally checked out the Bell and prepped it. Now, though . . . "Mira.
Like I said the lights. On the nav station. Maybe the electrical—"
"How about the backup battery?" Dupre was just barely keeping his
cool.
Villatoro scratched his chin. "I'll tell you the truth. The backup is muerto.
I tested it before we left, but I couldn't find any replacements in
Provisiones. I figure, no problem, but now, amigo . . ."
I felt another wave of dismay, right into my churning stom­ach.
"Well, keep your heading north." Dupre's voice was com­ing from a place
of extreme pain. "And if you sight the Rio Tigre, then Baalum or whatever
should be more or less due west, according to what I'm assuming. Just keep
your eyes open." He paused. "Problem is, with all this rain, the river's going
to be tough to make out."
I redoubled my efforts to peer out the window, searching, my breath
coming in bursts. Still nothing. Dear God, what now?
Finally Dupre headed back, bracing himself against the firewall as he
crouched and passed through the door into the main cabin. When he settled
into the seat across from me, he was glaring at me as though everything was
my fault. "You know." He was yelling again. "I'm beginning to think maybe
we ought to try to find a clearing and just sit out this crap till morning." He
leaned over and peered down through the Bell's spattered side windows at
the dense tangle of growth below. After a moment he got up and once more

moved the toward the cockpit, still with the same troubled look. This time,
how­ever, he was beaming as he shouted back.
"There may be a God after all. I think we just intersected the Rio Tigre.
We can bear due west now, along the river. We could be getting close, if it's
where I think it is."
I turned and stared down again, barely making out the thread of the
stream through the rain. Yes! Maybe there's hope. Still, below us the
windblown treetops were a solid mass of pastel sparkles, a dancing sea of
hungry green . . . But then I thought I saw something. Hey! It might even be
a clearing. I quickly unbuckled and made my way up to the cockpit,
hanging on to anything I could grasp.
"Alan, look," I yelled, and pointed off to the side, out
through the rain-obscured windscreen. "I think we just passed over
something. Back there. See?"
"Where?" He squinted.
"You can still just make it out." I twisted and kept pointing. I was biting
my lip, trying to hold together. "There . . . it looks like some kind of
clearing. Maybe . . . I don't know, but what if we just set down there and let
this storm blow over?"
He ordered Villatoro to bank and go back for a look. A few moments
later it was obvious there was an opening in the trees.
"Yeah, let's check it out." He then said something to Vil­latoro and we
started easing toward it, definitely a wide open­ing. The billowing ocean of
trees below us seemed to be parting like the Red Sea as we settled in. There
had to be solid ground down there somewhere. Had to be.
"What's . . ." I was pointing. "There, over to the side, it's a kind of hill or
something. It's—"
"Where?" Dupre squinted again, his voice starting to crack. Then he
focused in. "Yeah, maybe there's something there. Hard to tell what it is,
though. But I guess we're about to find out."
He gestured to the lieutenant, barking an order in quick Spanish. While
the Bell kept moving lower through the open­ing, Dupre flicked on the

landing lights, and appeared to be muttering a prayer of thanks.
I was staring out, growing ever more puzzled. A "hill" was there, all
right. The problem was, it was definitely man-made, topped by a stone
building. I could just make it out in the glare of the lights.
"What do you think that is?"
"What do I think?" Dupre studied the scene for a moment longer, and
then his face melted into the first smile I'd seen since we left. "I think we
are lucky beyond belief. God help us, we may have found it. That could be
the damned pyramid or whatever's supposed to be up here." He leaned back.
"Yeah, congratulations. Look at that damned thing. Either this is the place,
or we're about to become the archaeologists of the year. Cover of Time. The
Nobel frigging Prize."
At that moment I almost wanted to hug Alan Dupre, but not quite.
Instead I moved farther into the cockpit, trying to get a look out the
windscreen. By then we had lowered well through the opening in the trees,
the helicopter's controls fighting against the blowing rain, and it felt as
though we'd begun descending into the ocean's depths in a diving bell,
surrounded by thrashing, wind-whipped branches.
Now, though, I was staring at the ghostly rise of the pyra­mid emerging
out of the rain.
"It looks brand new."
"Yeah, the whole place is 'Jungle Disneyland' remember? Except this
deal ain't about Mickey Mouse, believe me. There's plenty of Army hanging
out around here."
Lieutenant Villatoro took us ever lower, gently guiding the chopper's
descent, and now we were only a few feet above the ground. There certainly
was no mistaking what was around us, even with the blowing rain. The
pyramid loomed over one side of a large plaza, a big paved area that was
mostly obscured from the skies since the swaying trees arched over and
covered it from aerial view.
"Okay, we're about to touch down." Dupre was clawing at his pocket,
yearning for a cigarette. "So if you still want to get out, move over by the

door. I'll disengage the main rotor once we're on the ground."
As we settled in, the rotor began to cause surface effect, throwing a spray
off the paving stones, which now glistened under the cold beam of the
landing lights. And looming above us, off to the right, was a stepped
pyramid in the classic Mayan style. We all lapsed into silence as the Bell's
skids thumped onto the stones. The ex-Army pilot, Villatoro, kept glancing
over at the pyramid as though he didn't want to admit even seeing it. Did he
know something Alan and I didn't?
This was the moment I'd been bracing for. I was increas­ingly convinced
somebody wanted me to see this place, whatever it was, but now what
should I do?
Well, the first thing was to dip my toe in the water, do a quick
reconnoiter on the ground. If this really was Baalum, Dupre's Maya
Disneyland, could it also be part of Alex Goddard's clinic of "miracles," the
location Sarah called Ninos del Mundo? If I knew that for sure, then I could
start figuring how to find out if she was here—as I suspected—and get her
out of his clutches. Maybe the see-no-evil embassy might even be prodded
into helping an American citizen for a change.
"I'm getting out, to look around a little, but not till you turn off the
engine. I want to be able to use my ears."
"All right, but don't take all day. This kind of weather, I want to keep it
warm." He turned to Villatoro and shouted the order. In the sheets of
pounding rain, I figured that no one could have heard us come in. That, at
least, was positive.
When the rpm's of the engine had died away, I clicked open the Bell's
wide door, slid it back, and looked around. In the glare of the landing lights
I realized at once that the stones were old, weathered, and worn, but the
grout that sealed them was white and brand new. The plaza was free of
moss, clean as the day it was done—which did not appear to be all that long
ago. Above me, the pyramid, continuous recessed tiers of glistening stones,
towered into the dim sky­line of trees.

I stepped out onto the pavement, holding my breath. The plaza was
almost football-field in size, reminding me of an Italian piazza. Around me
the rain was lessening slightly, and as my eyes adjusted . . . my God. There
wasn't just a pyramid here; through the sparkle of raindrops at the edge of
the helicopter's lights I could see what looked like a wide cobblestone
walkway leading into the dense growth just off the edge of the square,
probably toward the south, away from the river, connecting the plaza with
distant groups of small, thatch-roofed houses, set in clusters. . . .
Could Alex Goddard's "miracle" clinic be in some col­lection of primitive
huts? It made no sense.
But I decided to try to get a closer look. I'd walked about thirty feet away
from the helicopter, across the slippery pav­ing, when I saw a flash of
lightning in the southeast, followed by a boom of thunder that echoed over
the square.
At least I thought it was thunder. Or maybe the Army was holding heavy
artillery practice somewhere nearby. Abruptly the rain turned into a
renewed torrent, and the next thing I heard was the helicopter's engine start
up again. Then I sensed the main rotor engage, a sudden "whoom, whoom,
whoom" quickly spiraling upward in frequency.
Hey! I told him not to—!
When I looked back at the Bell's open door, Dupre was standing there,
frantically searching the dark as he heaved out my tan backback and what
looked like a rolled-up sleep­ing bag, both splashing down onto the rain-
soaked paving.
What! For a moment I thought the thunder, or whatever it was, must
have completely freaked him. Then what was actually happening hit me
with a horrifying impact.
"Alan, wait!"
I started dashing back, but now the main rotor was creating a powerful
downdraft, throwing the rain into me like a mon­soon. By the time I
managed to fight my way through the spray, the rotor was on full power and
Alan Dupre and his Bell were already lifting off. I reached up, and just

managed to brush one greasy skid as he churned away straight upward into
the rainy night.
"You shit!" I yelled up, but my final farewell was lost in the whine of the
engine. My God, I thought, watching him disappear, I've just been
abandoned hundreds of miles deep in a Central American rain forest.
Then it all sank in. Whoever had gotten to him was playing a rough
game. They didn't want me just to see Baalum, they wanted me delivered
here. Probably to secure me in the same place Sarah was. Colonel Ramos,
or whoever had frightened Dupre into bringing me, had wanted us both. So
what now? Were we both going to be "disappeared"? Staring around at the
pyra­mid and the empty square, I could feel my heart pounding.
Then I tripped over the rolled sleeping bag and sank to my knees there in
the middle of the rain-swept plaza, soaked to the skin and so angry I was
actually trembling. Up above me, Alan Dupre, king of two-timers, had
switched off his landing lights, and a few moments later the hum of the Bell
was swallowed by the night sounds of the forest—the high-pitched din of
crickets, the piercing call of night birds, the basso groan of frogs celebrating
the storm.
And something else, an eerie sense of the unnatural. I can't explain it.
Even the night songs of the birds felt omi­nous, the primeval forest
reasserting its will. It was haunting, like nature's mockery of my desolation.
I pounded the sleep­ing bag and felt . . . shit, how did I let this happen?
Get a grip. I finally stood up and looked around. Maybe when God wants
to do you up right, She gives you what you want. You used Alan Dupre just
like you intended: He got you here. But there's more to the plan of
whoever's holding his puppet strings. So the thing now is, don't let yourself
be manipulated any more. Get off your soggy butt and start taking control
of the situation. . . .
That was when I sighted a white form at the south, forested edge of the
plaza. What! I ducked down, sure it was somebody lurking there, waiting to
try to beat me to death as they had Sarah. Did Ramos intend to just murder
me immediately?

But there was no getting away. If I could see them, they surely could see
me. And where would I escape to anyway?
I dug my yellow plastic flashlight out of my backpack and my hand
shaking, flicked it on. The beam, however, was just swallowed up in the
rain. All right. I strapped on the pack and taking a deep breath, threw the
rolled sleeping bag over my shoulder and headed across the slippery paving
to­ward the white, which now glistened in the periodic sheets of distant
lightning.
Meet them straight on. Try and bluff.
When I got closer, though, I realized what I was seeing was actually just
the skin of a jaguar, bleached white, the head still on, fearsome teeth bared
which had been hung beside the paved pathway. Thank God.
But then, playing my light over it, I thought, Bad sign. My first
encounter at Baalum is with a spooky, dead cat. It felt like a chilling omen
of . . . I wasn't sure what.
I studied it a moment longer with my flashlight, shivering, then turned
and headed quickly across the plaza toward the pyramid now barely visible
in the rain. If there were jaguars, or God knows what else, around I figured
I'd be safer up at the top.
When I reached the base and shined my light up the steps, I saw they
were steeper than I'd thought, but they also looked to be part of some
meticulous restoration and brand-new, probably safe to climb. And there at
the top was a stone hut, complete with what appeared to be a roof. Good. If
there hadn't been anything taller than it around I think I might have just
climbed a tree.
On the way up I began trying to digest what the place really was. The
pyramid was "fake". . . or was it? A hundred years ago the eccentric Brit
archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans whimsically "reconstructed" the Palace of
Minos on Crete with his own money, and it's still a tourist highlight. So why
couldn't somebody do the same with a reclaimed Mayan pyramid in Central
America? Still, this was different, had the feel of being somebody's crazed
obsession.

As I topped the steps, I realized the building that crowned the pyramid
was also a "restoration" like everything else, including a decorated wooden
lintel above the door that looked to be newly lacquered. Bizarre.
I moved through the door and unloaded my gear, then extracted my
water bottle, now half-empty, for a pull. Finally I unrolled Alan Dupre's
sleeping bag on the (dry) stone floor, removed and spread out my wet
clothes, peed off the edge, then took a new pair of underpants, jeans, and
shirt out of my backpack, donned them, and uneasily crawled in. I was
shivering—whether from the soaking rain or from fright, I didn't know—
and my teeth were trying to chatter. Was I hidden away enough to be safe? I
didn't know. All I did know was, I was in something deeper than I'd ever
been in my life, and I had no idea how I was going to get out. And I was
both scared to death and angry as hell.
Sarah was here, though, I was certain. Like a sixth sense, I could feel her
presence, out there somewhere in the rain. For a moment I was tempted to
just plunge into the storm looking for her, but a split second's reflection told
me that was the stupidest thing I could do. Instead, I should try and get
some rest, till the storm cleared, and keep periodic watch on the plaza in
case somebody showed up. Then, the minute there was light, I'd hit the
ground and go find her.
I suppose nothing ever happens the way you plan. My mind was racing
and my nerves were in the red, but I was so exhausted from the teeth-
rattling trip in the Bell I couldn't really stay alert very long. In spite of
myself, I eventually drifted off into a dreamless doze, a victim of the
narcotic song of wind in the giant Cebia trees and the insistent drum­ming of
forest rain on the roof.

Chapter Twenty

I awoke as a sliver of sun flashed through the stone door­way of the room
and forest birds erupted around me in cele­bration. As I pulled myself up and
moved over to the opening, a quick tropical glare burned into my face. My
God, the dawn was electric; it was the purest blue I'd ever seen, a swath of
artist's cobalt. An azure radiance from the sky glis­tened off the rain forest
leaves around me. Had I dreamed the stormy, haunted world of the night
before?
When I looked down, everywhere below me was a bank of dense, pastel
mist. Was the plaza really there or had I imagined it? I felt like the top of
the pyramid was floating on a cloud.
"Babylon." That was what Sarah had called this place. Ancient and
mysterious. I took a breath of the morning air and wondered what would
draw her back here. Was Baalum the ultimate escape from her other life?
Even so . . . why would she want to return after somebody had tried to
murder her? What was waiting down there in the fog?
Turning back, I noticed that the room's inside walls were embossed with
rows and rows of classic Mayan glyphs, like little cartoon faces, all molded
in newly set plaster. To my groggy sight they seemed playful, harmless little
caricatures, though next to them were raised bas-reliefs of warriors in battle
dress. It was both sublimely austere and eerie, even creepy.
I knelt down and rolled my sleeping bag, trying to clear my head. Then I
stuffed my still-moist clothes into my back­pack and thought about the river,
the Rio Tigre, down some­where at the back of the pyramid. And I felt my
pulse rate edging up. The first thing I wanted to do was see it in the light of
day. It had been Sarah's way out, the only thing I knew for sure she'd
touched.
Get going and do it.

I headed through the rear door and down the back steps. When I reached
the ground, the dense forest closed in around me, but I was certain the river
lay dead ahead, through the tangle of trees. As I moved down a path that
grew ever steeper, the canopy up above thickened, arching over me till it
blotted out the pure blue of the sky. And the air was filled with nature
sounds—birdcalls, trills, songs, and clacks, all mingled with the hum and
buzz of insects. Then suddenly, from somewhere up in the canopy, a pack of
screeching spi­der monkeys began flinging rotten mangos down in my di­‐
rection. I also thought I heard the asthmatic, territorial roar of a giant
howler monkey, the lord of the upper jungle. And what about snakes? I kept
an eye on the vines and tendrils alongside the path, expecting any moment
to stumble across a deadly fer-de-lance, a little red-and-black operator
whose poison heads straight for your nervous system.
On the other hand, the birds, the forest birds, were everywhere, scarlet
macaws and keel-billed toucans and darting flocks of Amazon parrots,
brilliant and iridescent, their sweeping tails a psychedelic rainbow of green,
yellow, red. Then the next thing I knew, the path I was on abruptly opened
onto a mossy expanse of pea-soup green, surely the Rio Ti­gre, and . . .
My God, those dark-brown bumps scattered every­where . . . they're the
eyes and snouts of . . . yes, crocodiles, lurking there in wait, hoping I'm
dumb enough to wade in. Forget what Alan Dupre said. This is definitely
not "Dis­neyland."
Then I glanced upstream and caught sight of a string of mahogany
dugout canoes tied along the shore. They were huge, about fifteen feet long
and three feet wide, and clearly designed to be crocodile-resistant. They . . .
Wait a minute. Lou said Sarah was found in a dugout canoe that had
drifted all the way down the Rio Tigre to where it joins the Usumacinta.
One more clue she might have been here. Maybe I was closing in. Yes!
I glared back at the crocodiles' unblinking reptile eyes and tried to get
my mind around the fact Sarah could have stood right where I was standing,
or been set adrift from here in a coma, to float downstream. Seeing that
vision, I felt un­bidden tears trailing down my cheeks. And the questions I

had kept piling up. Was this the location of Alex Goddard's "miracle"
clinic? Why was Baalum such a high-security se­cret? What was the
connection between this place and Sarah's ravaged mind and body? I
wanted to know all of it, and by God I would.
This was the farthest I'd ever been from "civilization," though I was
trying not to let that fact sink in too deeply. The water was green and full of
small aquatic creations, but I managed to find a reasonably un-mossy spot
and—still keeping an eye on the leering crocodiles—splashed my face. It
felt good, even if it was filthy. . . .
Okay, I'd seen enough of the river. I raised up and stretched. Time to go.
My hopes at war with my nerves, I turned my back on the scummy, fetid
Rio Tigre and headed back up the jungle trail toward the plaza.
When I got there, I was struck all over again by the vision of the
pyramid. Something like it might have been here origi­nally, but in any case
it had been completely redone, with newly cut yellowish stones and white
lime plaster, an exotic castle nestled in the green lap of the rain forest, rising
above the square like a haunting presence. It must have been well over a
hundred feet high, a stone wedding cake with a dozen steep tiers between
the ground and the platform at the top, which also was square and roughly
fifteen feet on the side.
Standing there gazing at it, I think I'd never felt more disoriented. Sarah,
Sarah, how could we both end up here, at the last outpost of the known
world? But seeing is believ­ing. I took a deep breath, then turned down the
pathway toward the thatch-roofed huts.
Through the mist it was gradually becoming clear that Baalum actually
was a village, and a sizable one. The walk­way led past a string of clearings,
each with clusters of one-room huts built in the ancient, classical style, with
walls of mud over rows of vertical saplings, their roofs and porches peaked
with yellow-green thatch weathering to browns and grays. The structures,
outlined starkly against the towering green arbor of the forest above, were
grouped around paved patios. It all was neat and meticulous, like a jungle
Brigadoon. Although the effects of the storm were every­where—blown

thatch and bamboo—I still felt as if I'd fallen into a time warp where clocks
had gone backward. What . . . ?
Then I began to catch the outlines of people, as though they had
materialized out of the pale fog. All pure Maya, short and brown, shiny
black hair, they appeared to be just going about their daily lives. I was
approaching a workshop area where, under a wide thatch shade, men with
chipped-flint adzes were carving bowls, plows, various implements from
mahogany and other rain forest woods. Next to them, potters were
fashioning brown clay jugs. They all were wear­ing white loincloths and a
large square cotton cloth knotted around their shoulders, their hair tied back
in dense ponytails. It must have been how the Maya looked a thousand
years ago.
Their earnestness reminded me of the villagers I once filmed in the
Yucatan for the Discovery Channel—with one big difference: There I was
the big-shot gringo; here I felt like a powerless time traveler. The sense of
being lost in another age was as compelling as the "colonial" mock-up at
Williamsburg, but this was real and it was decidedly spooky.
Finally one of the men looked up and noticed me. Our eyes locked for an
instant—it seemed like forever—and then he reached over and, in a way
that seemed breathless, shook the man next to him, gesturing toward me.
Together they gazed back as though viewing a phantom, their brown faces
intent, and then they turned and called out to the others, alerting them.
What are they going to do with me? I wondered with a sudden chill. A
stranger here in their hideaway midst. Would they just turn on me?
Find some women. Get off the street.
I turned and headed as fast as I could down the cobble­stone central path,
till I saw a cluster of females on a white­washed stone porch, long hair
falling over their shoulders as they bent to their tasks beneath the thatch
overhangs. Some were stirring rugged clay pots of corn soaking in lime;
others were grinding the softened maize to tortilla thinness on wide granite
platters. Behind them was another group that ap­peared to be part of a
sewing commune, young wives busy at their back-strap looms, layering

thread after thread of dyed cotton. None of them was wearing a huipil—the
traditional multicolored blouse I'd remembered from the waitresses in the
restaurant. Instead, they all had on a kind of handloom-woven white shift
I'd never seen before.
Talk to them. Let them know you're no threat to anybody.
As I moved down the hard clay pathway toward them, two looked up
and took notice. Their first reaction seemed to be alarm, as they tensed and
stared. But then I tried a smile and it seemed to work. Their looks turned to
puzzlement, then embarrassed grins, as though they wanted to be friendly
but weren't sure how to acknowledge my presence.
When I reached the porch, several reached out to touch me. One older
woman, short and wizened and extremely brown, even tried to stroke my
hair.
What was going on? I was taken aback, but I also was determined to get
through to them. Why not just ask them point-blank if Sarah's here? Is there
any chance they under­stand Spanish?
"Buenos dias." I smiled and nodded. "Dispenseme. Quiero descubrir . . .
esta una gringa de los Estados Unidos aqui? "
They all returned uncomprehending looks, then glanced quickly at each
other in confusion. Or at least that was how I read their faces.
"Sarah," I said, pronouncing the name slowly. "Sarah Crenshaw."
"Sara," one voiced, then others. They backed away and immediately
began a heated dispute, which eventually in­volved all the women. Well, one
thing was for sure: They damned well knew who I was asking about. But
why were they so upset? Next, several of them grew testy, pointing at me as
they continued to argue.
Finally the two I'd first approached turned and began urg­ing me to leave,
gesturing at me with their hands as though sweeping me out of the
compound. Yes, there was no mis­taking. I was being dismissed. And I
detected an odd ner­vousness as they glanced around, seemingly worried
somebody might catch me there with them. I got the feeling they'd finally

decided they didn't want me anywhere near them, since they kept pointing
down the thoroughfare in the direction of the pyramid.
I've blown it, I thought. They must have figured out I'm here to get her
and decided they no longer want to have anything to do with me. What did
that mean?
And now what do I do? As I retreated back out to the main walkway, I
felt a growing sense of defeat. Then, looking down it, I realized I'd literally
been going in a circle. It was actually a large oval that curved back to the
main square and the pyramid, where I'd started from.
God, what a nightmare. I obviously had to rethink my game plan, find a
way to communicate. And on top of that, I was dying of thirst.
I fished out the almost-empty plastic container from my backpack, then
walked across the square and settled myself on the first step leading up the
steep front. As I drew on the bottle, my mind still swirling, I happened to
notice an upright stone slab off to the side, like a tall, thin tombstone, with a
bas-relief of a Maya warrior on it, next to some kind of two-headed serpent
god—probably Kukulkan, one of the few Maya deities I knew. And then,
down the side, were rows of lines and dots. I studied them a minute before
realizing it was the classical Mayan number system, telling precisely when
things happened to the ruler shown there: born on such and such a date,
assumed the kingship, won great battles, etc., all carefully dated as career
high-points. I knew that dots represented single years, horizontal lines the
number five. The Maya loved numbers and numerology, so . . .
That was when I glanced up to see a group of women approaching
slowly across the square, with a bunch of the men watching from the forest
arbors beyond, and they were huddled around something they were
carrying. Whatever it was, they seemed to be delivering it to me. Then I
realized they were the same ones who'd just kicked me out of their
compound. What next? Are they coming to drive me from the plaza too?
Should I try and forcibly search all the huts?
But then they set down their load—it turned out to be a crude bamboo-
and-thatch palanquin—and stepped aside as they beckoned me forward.

For a moment I just stared, disbelieving. I felt like I was seeing someone
I didn't want to recognize, perhaps because that someone looked so much
like me.
"Morgy, they told me a new one was here, and I hoped it was you."
Sarah was swinging her skinny legs off the side, her voice bright. Her face
was drawn, but her hair was neat and her eyes were radiant. "Isn't Baalum
the most wonderful place you've ever seen?"
She was wearing a white shift that reminded me of the blue hospital
smock she'd had on the last time I saw her, except here it seemed more like
something that had a special significance, like the robes of an acolyte. Her
shoes were soft brown slippers that looked brand-new, and around her waist
was a braided leather band. As I stared at her, I won­dered if she was really
as transformed as she looked. She was undeniably stronger than two days
ago, in spite of what that bastard Alex Goddard and his Guatemalan Army
cronies had done to her to get her here. But still, she had to be half dead.
Thank God Lou couldn't see her now.
"Sar, oh, Sar." I rushed over and threw my arms around her. She'd been
freshly bathed and perfumed—a fragrance like chocolate—but she felt like
a bag of bones. "Are you okay?"
"I was afraid Baalum was all just a dream." She hugged me back, then
started rising to her feet. God, could she walk? "But now I remember
everything."
"Sar, I've come to take you home." I grasped her hand, warm and soft, to
help her stand—though it wasn't necessary. "You're not safe—"
"No, it's wonderful now" Then she turned and said some­thing to one of
the women. It took me a moment to realize she was speaking their
language; I guessed it was Kekchi Maya.
I was stunned. How did she learn it? Finally she looked back at me and
switched to English again. "I didn't under­stand before. I was . . . sick so
much."
"Sar, come on." I slipped my arm around her. "We're going to get you out
of here."

I'd never felt so helpless. Alan Dupre had said there was a road, but it
was controlled by the Army. Right now, I didn't even know where it was.
Maybe I could find a phone, or radio. Call the embassy. There must be
something. Alex God­dard has to be here somewhere, but he's not going to
stop me. I'll strangle him if he tries.
I hugged her again, the feel of her skin-and-bones frame making my soul
ache. But most hurtful of all, I wasn't sure she would want to leave.
"Sar, can you understand me?" I tried to catch her deep blue eyes. "I'm
taking you home. Your father's very worried about you."
Mention of Lou seemed to finally get through to her. She turned and
examined me with a quizzical look, and then her eyes hardened.
"Morgy, he was never there for me." Her voice was filled with certainty,
and pain. "But when I went to see Dr. God­dard he let me come here for the
ceremony. It's so spiritual. After—"
"Sar, come on." What did she mean by "ceremony"? Whatever it was, I
had to get her out of this place. Immedi­ately. "We've—"
"Are you here for the ceremony?" Her face flooded with renewed joy.
"It's two days from now. Maybe he'll let you—"
"She should be resting." It was a harsh voice, directly behind us.
I recoiled, then whirled around. Three men were standing there, two of
them young privates in uniforms of the Gua­temalan Army and carrying AK-
47 assault rifles, the ones with the long, ominous curved clip Steve called
cuerno de cabrio, the "horn of the goat."
The third was in a black sweatshirt and black jeans, his long salt-and-
pepper hair tied back in a ponytail.
"They should have known better than to bring her out here," Alex
Goddard said. "Not in her condition."
The bastard. It was all coming together in my mind. He'd tried to kill her
once before, and now he was going to finish the job. But he'd have to kill
me first.
"I'm here to take her home." I marched up to him. "You're not about to
get away with kidnapping. I'm going to get the embassy to—"

"She's here for important medical reasons." He met my eyes. "I hope
you'll allow me the opportunity to help her."
"What do you mean, 'help'?"
"I'll explain if you'll give me a chance." He revolved and delivered some
brusque orders in Kekchi Maya to the women, who nodded apologetically
and began helping Sarah back onto the palanquin. After he admonished her
in the same language, he then said something in quick Spanish to the two
young Army privates, who gave him a firm salute, turned, and walked over
to pick the palanquin up, to carry it for the women. The sense of authority
he exuded reminded me of that first morning we met at Quetzal Manor. His
eyes flashed from benign to demanding to benign in an instant.
"No, damn it, alto!" I strode over, shoved the soldiers aside, and took her
hand. "Sar, honey, don't you understand what's going on? Something
terrible happened to you when you were here before. I'm so worried—"
"But he says I need to stay, Morgy." She drew back. "It's best. He's
helping me."
As I watched the two privates carry her away, down the cobblestone
pathway, AK-47's swung over their shoulders, I felt my helplessness
become complete. The Army here was under his control, just like
everything else.
How was I going to tell Lou about this, that Sarah had been
brainwashed? Whatever Alex Goddard had done to her had turned her into
some kind of "Moonie," ready to de­nounce her own father. So now did I
have two battles to wage: one with Alex Goddard and one with her?
Then he walked over to me.
"I'm not going to ask how you got here, though I assume it wasn't easy."
He smiled, like a kindly priest, and put his hand on my shoulder. "But
however you did it, I'm glad you decided to come. It's important for you to
be here. She needs you now."

Chapter Twenty-one

"Cut the crap." I pulled away, still in shock from seeing Sarah so addled.
I wanted more than anything else in the world just to slug him. "Why did
you bring her here? Think about your answer. Kidnapping is a serious crime
in the States."
"I've been very concerned about her." He looked up at the groves of
Cebia trees around the square, a quiet glance, as though to inhale the misty
morning air. My legal threat had gone right past him—probably because
here he was the only law. "But now she's receiving the treatment she needs.
I expect she'll be fine before long."
"Treatment?" I was caught off guard. Okay, let's start get­ting things
straight. "When she was here before, somebody tried to beat her to death.
How—?"
"What happened then was beyond my control." He mo­tioned me to join
him as he settled onto the first step of the pyramid sadness in his eyes. We
were alone in the square now, and I felt like I'd become his personal
prisoner, trapped. "Sarah was . . . is very dear to me. I care for her deeply."
"You cared so much for her she ended up in a coma, over on the
Mexican border." I didn't sit. Instead I just bored in, hoping to stare him
down, but his eyes had grown distant, that little trick he had of alternating
between intimacy and remoteness. Again it reminded me of that first
morning we'd met, looking out over the bluffs of the Hudson.
"If you'll let me, I'd like to try and tell you something of the
circumstances surrounding that tragedy." He was gazing off in the direction
the women had gone. "You see, when Sarah first appeared at Quetzal Manor
in New York, she was a very troubled young woman. She declared she was
a person of pure spirit and she wanted to have a baby without so much as
touching a man, some procedure that would produce a divine child created
of cosmic energy."

Cosmic energy. I had a flashback, hearing the words, to the time when
she'd just turned six and we'd been sent by my mother to the hayloft to track
down nests secreted there by rogue chicken hens. When we came across a
cache of eggs, she asked if baby chicks came out of them. I assured her they
did, and then she asked if human babies came from eggs too. My biology
was pretty thin, but I told her I sup­posed they did, sort of, but then the eggs
were probably hatched, or something, before babies were born. She thought
about that a moment, scrunching up her face, then declared "No!" and
bitterly began smashing the eggs. Babies and all living things came from
another world, she declared, a spe­cial place we could not see. They came
directly from God. . . .
That was why she would seek out someone like Alex Goddard. For her,
he must have seemed a messenger of the Unseen. Who better to create a
child for her? The ironic part was, I'd found him for almost the same reason,
seeking a miracle when all else had failed. Were Sarah and I even more
alike than I'd realized?
"So I began trying to work with her." He was turning back to me. "But
then I discovered she'd been born with an abnormality of the uterus. It has a
medical name, but suffice to say it's very rare, and afflicts only about one
woman in twenty thousand. Even after my diagnosis, though, she re­fused to
give up. She was a person of enormous tenacity."
God, I thought. Why didn't she come home to us, to Lou
and me? We loved her. I felt my guilt go out to her all over again.
"She next declared she wanted to come here to Baalum, to the place of
miracles. I told her that, yes, miracles can sometimes transpire here, but
only at a great price. We would need to have an agreement and she would
have to keep it no matter what."
"What do you mean, an agree—?"
"Truthfully, though," he went on, ignoring me, "I imme­diately regretted
the offer, since I realized she was far too unstable for this . . . environment.
Finally I forbade her to come, but just before my next scheduled trip she

found out and booked herself on the same flight. There was literally nothing
I could do to stop her."
"She put Ninos del Mundo on her landing card." I was growing sick to
my stomach at the rehearsed way he was recounting her story. "That's this
place, right? Baalum."
"My clinic here is known by that name. The village itself is called
Baalum." He was easily meeting my eye, holding his own in our battle of
wills. "Sarah was, I have to say, a very impressionable young person. Once
here, she forgot all about her purpose for coming. She should have stayed
up the hill there"—he was pointing off to the south—"where I could care
for her, but instead she moved down here, into the compounds. Then she
discovered a hallucinogenic sub­stance they have here, began using it
heavily, and I think it tipped her into a form of dementia."
So, she was doing drugs, something I'd always secretly feared. Well,
maybe she was still having flashbacks of some kind; maybe that explained
why she was off in another world when she came out of her coma.
"What . . . kind of 'hallucinogenic substance'?"
He sighed then shrugged and answered. "Here in the rain forest there's an
ugly three-pound toad the Bufo marinus—you'll see them around, near
sunset—that has glands down its back that excrete a milky white poison."
I knew about them. They were migrating north now, even into Florida.
They were huge and looked like Jabba the Hutt in Star Wars. I hate toads of
all varieties, but the thought of those monsters made me shudder.
"My God, isn't their toxin lethal?" Was Sarah trying to destroy herself?
Was that why her mind was so blitzed? "I've heard—"
"Yes, it can kill you, but it can also—if processed cor­rectly, with
fermented honey—give you truly supernatural visions. The classical Maya
used it for ceremonial purposes. I'd managed to reconstruct how they
prepared it, and—some­thing I now deeply regret—I showed the shamans
here how to replicate the procedure. At the time it was just a minor part of
my research into traditional pharmacology, but she heard about it and
persuaded them to give her a vial. Then more and more."

That did sound like Sarah. Always out on the edge, testing new realities.
But then I thought a moment about what he'd actually said. Some of the
people here in his "place of mir­acles" were doing heavy drugs, and she'd
got caught up in it.
"But why didn't you stop her?" You unfeeling bastard.
"I tried, believe me. But I'm afraid she was far past lis­tening to me. By
then she was learning the Kekchi Maya dialect, becoming totally immersed
in their world. She began having episodes of complete non-rationality, and
then one day she told the women in her compound she was going over to
Palenque, the Maya ruins in Mexico. It's where the classical Maya held
their last kingship ceremony. Before anyone re­alized she was serious, she
stole one of their cayucos, their mahogany dugout canoes, and headed down
the Rio Tigre." His eyes had turned completely dark, the way he used to
blank them out. "She just went missing. Everyone here was devastated. We
all loved her."
I stood there weighing his story. It didn't ring true. I sup­posed she was
capable of something that crazy, but would she have actually done it? I
didn't think so.
Then I remembered something else he'd said.
"You said you proposed an 'agreement.' What was that about?"
He stared at me. "It's nothing that need concern us. Suf­fice to say I kept
my part. Anyway, it's over and past now."
Why wouldn't he tell me? Did she make some bargain with the Devil?
"But regarding Sarah," he went on, "I only just learned she'd been found
and brought to New York in a coma. Want­ing to do what I could, I
immediately called the hospital and, out of professional courtesy, they told
me she'd shown early stages of coming out of it, but she appeared to be
halluci­nating. It was exactly what I'd feared. . . ." His voice trailed off. "I
hope I did the right thing, but when I learned she'd been released, I arranged
for her to be brought back here, where perhaps I can do something for her."
"What?"

"In rare cases, the hallucinogen she took permanently al­ters critical
synapses in the brain. I'm fearful she may have abused it to the extent
something like that could have oc­curred. No one in the U.S. would have the
slightest idea what to do, but I think I may know of an herbal antidote they
turned to in ancient times that can repair at least part of the damage. I also
knew that getting her back here through nor­mal channels would be
impossible."
"So you had Colonel Ramos and a bunch of his Guate­malan thugs just
break in and take her?" I didn't know which part of the story horrified, and
angered, me the most.
"I have the misfortune to know him reasonably well, and
I explained it was very important to me, and he agreed to assist. I honestly
didn't know where else to turn. I understand there may have been some
violence, for which I apologize, but these people have their own way of
doing things." He rose and came over and put his hand on my shoulder. "I
hope you'll understand."
The son of a bitch was coming on oily and contrite, when he'd just
subcontracted an outright kidnapping. I wanted to kill him.
Finally I walked away, trying to get a grip on my anger.
"You know, that bastard also broke into my apartment and stole a reel of
a picture I'm shooting." I turned back. "I've also got a strong feeling he's the
one who just threatened one of the women I filmed."
"Well, if that happened, then let me say welcome to the paranoid
harassment of the Guatemalan high command." He sighed against the
morning sound of birds chirping all around us. "Unfortunately, I gather
they've assumed you're documenting the operations of Children of Light in
some way, doing a movie." His eyes drifted off into space, as though
seeking a refuge. "You see, my project up here in the Peten is to carry out
pharmaceutical research with as few distractions as possible. But in
Guatemala City, I have what is, in effect, a hospice for girls in trouble—
which is also called Niiios del Mundo, by the way—that's connected with
my U.S. adoption service, Children of Light. However, any time Niiios del

Mundo takes in an orphaned or abandoned infant and tries to provide it with
a loving home through adoption in the States, the government here always
threatens to hold up the paperwork if I don't give a bribe, what they call an
'expediting fee.' So if you were to probe too deeply . . . Let me just say it's
not something they'd care to see lead off 60 Minutes."
It sounded like more BS, but I couldn't prove that. Yet.
"Well, why don't you just clear that up, and then I'll take Sarah and—"
"But I've only now initiated her treatment. Surely you want to give it a
chance."
I looked out at the rain forest. This was the place she'd come to once, and
—though I'd never admit it to Alex God­dard—it was the place she'd
announced she wanted to return to. But something devastating had
happened to her mind here. What should I do?
The fact was, I didn't trust Alex Goddard any farther than I could throw
him. I had to get Sarah and get us both out of here as soon as possible,
though that meant I'd have to neu­tralize him and the Army, and then use my
limited American dollars to try to buy our way back to Guatemala City.
"But come." He turned his gaze toward the south. "Let me show you the
thing I'm proudest of here. It's just up there." He was pointing toward a
dense section of the rain forest, in the opposite direction from the river and
up a steep incline.
I couldn't see anything but trees, but then I still had the feeling I'd
stepped through the looking glass and found Sarah trapped there. The next
thing I knew, we were on an uphill forest trail, headed due south.
"I think it's time you told me what's going on back there in the village," I
said. What was it about this place that had seized such a claim on Sarah's
mind?
"Baalum is difficult to explain to someone encountering it for the first
time." He paused. "Much of it is so—"
"I think I can handle it."
"You have every right to know, but I don't really know where to start."
"How about the beginning?" Why was he being so ambiguous?

"Very well." He was taking out a pair of gray sunglasses,
as though to gain time. "It actually goes back about ten years ago, when I
was prospecting for rainforest plants up here in the Peten and accidentally
stumbled across this isolated village, which clearly had been here since
classical times. I immediately noticed a huge mound of dirt everybody said
was haunted by 'the Old Ones,' and I knew right away it had to be a buried
pyramid. They're more common down here than you'd think. So I struck a
bargain with the village elders and acquired the site. But after I unearthed it
and began the restoration, I became inspired with a vision. One day I found
myself offering to restore anything else they could find—which eventually
included, by the way, a magnificent old steam bath—in exchange for which
they would help me by undertaking a grand experiment, a return to their
traditional way of life."
"So you deliberately closed them off to the modern world?" It told me
Alex Goddard could control a Mayan village just as he controlled
everything else he touched. It also confirmed he had a weakness for the
grandiose gesture. Would a time come when I could exploit that?
"I told them that together we would try to recreate the time of their glory,
and perhaps in so doing we could also rediscover its long-lost spirit, and
wisdom. On the practical side, they would help me by bringing me the rare
plants I needed to try and rediscover the lost Native American phar­‐
macologies, and in return I would build them a clinic where families can
come for modern pediatric and public-health services. So Baalum became a
project we share together. I call it a miracle."
That still didn't begin to explain why it felt so eerie. Some­thing else was
going on just under the surface. What was he really doing here?
Then the path uphill abruptly opened onto a clearing in which sat a large
two-story building, its color a dazzling white, most likely plaster over
cinder block, with a thatch roof and a wide, ornate mahogany door at the
front. The building was nestled in a grove of trees whose vines and tendrils
had embraced it so thoroughly, there was no telling how far it extended

back into the forest. There also was a parking lot, paved and fed by a well-
maintained gravel road leading south.
Seeing it, I felt an immediate wave of relief. Even better, the lot itself
contained half-a-dozen well-worn pickup trucks, while sunburned Maya
men were lounging in the shade of a nearby tree and smoking cigarettes.
They were not from Baalum. They wore machine-made clothes and they
were speaking Spanish, unlike the men in loincloths down in the village.
Yes! That's how I can get us out of here. A few dollars . . .
Parked there also was a tan Humvee, the ultimate all-road vehicle, which
I assumed belonged to Alex Goddard. Maybe I should just try to steal it.
As we passed through the door and into the vestibule of the building, I
glimpsed a cluster of Maya women and chil­dren crowded into a brilliantly
lit reception area. Goddard smiled and waved at them, and several nodded
back, timor­ously and with enormous reverence. They were being at­tended
by a dark-eyed, attractive Maya woman in a blue uniform—the name
lettered on her blouse was Marcelina— who was holding a tray of vials and
hypodermic needles. She was pure indigena, all of five feet tall, with broad
cheek­bones and deep-set penetrating eyes. Unlike the other women in the
room, however, there was no air of resignation about her. She was full of
authority, a palpable inner fire.
"One of my most successful programs here"—he nodded a greeting to
her—"is to provide free vaccinations and gen­eral health resources for the
villages in this part of the Peten Department."
"I thought USAID already had public-health projects in Guatemala." The
sight deeply depressed me. They all looked so poignant, the women with
their shabby huipils and lined faces, the children even more disheartening,
sad waifs with runny noses and watery eyes.
Which confirmed again that they'd come in the pickups parked outside,
driven here by the men.
I had six hundred cash in dollars. I could just buy one of those worn-out
junkers for that.

Alex Goddard glanced around, as though reluctant to re­spond in the
presence of all the Maya.
"You saw those 'security guards' down there just now. They're nothing
but boys with guns, 'recruits' kidnapped by the government on market day
and pressed into the Army. They're all around here. The powers that be in
Guatemala City are very threatened by what I'm achieving, so they've got
these Army kids hanging around, keeping an eye on me. They also hate the
fact I can provide health services better than they can. But to answer your
question, most of the AID money gets soaked up by the bureaucracy in
Guatemala City, so the people up here have learned to rely on me. The
Army, however, despises me and everything I'm doing."
What a load of BS. You just admitted you had an inside track with
Colonel Alvino Ramos. Anybody can see Children of Light or Ninos del
Mundo, or whatever the hell other aliases you use, is thick as thieves with
the Guatemalan Armed Forces. Don't insult my intelligence. It just makes
me furious.
I turned to Marcelina. She'd begun passing out hard-sugar candies to the
mesmerized children, showing them how to remove the cellophane before
putting them into their mouths. Though she was pure Maya, she looked
educated. I instinc­tively liked her. Maybe she could tell me what was really
going on here.
"Do you speak English?"
"Yes." She was gazing at me with a blend of curiosity and concern. "If
—"
"I've got a procedure scheduled shortly," Goddard inter­jected, urging me
on down the tiled hallway. "But I need to take a moment and recharge.
Come with me and we can talk some more."
Near the end of the hall, we entered a spacious, country-style kitchen. He
walked over and opened the refrigerator.
"Care for a little something to eat?" He looked back, speckled white hair
swinging across his shoulders as his ponytail came loose. "I had Marcelina

whip up some gazpacho last night and I see there's some left. It's my own
secret rec­ipe, special herbs from around here. It's good and good for you."
"I'm not hungry." It wasn't true. I was growing ravenous. But I was
repressing the feeling because of everything else that was going on. His
"village" was holding back its secrets, and now his clinic of "miracles" also
felt suspiciously wrong. I'd seen plenty of rural public-health operations in
developing countries, and this setup was far too big and fancy. The whole
thing didn't begin to compute.
"As you like." He gave an absent shrug.
I looked around and noticed that just off the kitchen was another space,
which was, I realized, his private dining room. There was a rustic table in
the center that looked like it had been carved from the trunk of a large
Cebia tree. I walked in, and moments later he followed carrying a tray with
two calabash bowls of gazpacho and some crusty bread.
"In case you change your mind and decide to join me." He placed a bowl
opposite where he was planning to sit. "Like I said, there're unusual herbs
around here with flavors you've never dreamed of."
He began eating, while behind him I glimpsed Marcelina
moving down the hall, carrying more trays of vaccine and headed out
toward the vestibule again. I had to find a way to talk to her.
As I settled into the rickety chair that faced my plate, I glanced down
and saw a red lumpy mixture with a spray of indefinable green specks
across the top like a scattering of jungle stars. No way.
When I looked up again, he was swabbing his lips with a white napkin,
his penetrating eyes boring in.
"Now," he said, "it's time we started concentrating on you. Got you
going with your program."

Chapter Twenty-two

"My program?" I stared back at him, feeling a jolt. With my thoughts
completely focused on Sarah, the last thing on my mind was my own baby.
"Now that you're here"—he smiled—"there's no reason we shouldn't
proceed. This is, after all, a place of miracles."
Right. You let Sarah destroy her mind and now you want me to . . .
Don't even think about it.
"I have to tell you, I'm not overly impressed thus far with your 'program,'
" I said. "First I passed out in your clinic, and then my doctor in New York
told me those drugs Ramala gave me are highly illegal, and for good
reason."
"What is 'legal' is more often than not the judgment of medical
reactionaries." He dismissed the issue with a wave of his hand. "My work
has moved far beyond anything the FDA has ever dreamed of." Then his
look turned grave. "I hope you'll give me a chance to try to help you. I've
been giving your case a lot of thought since our first examination, about
what we should do. But first let me ask you . . . do you have a partner who
could come here soon?"
Okay, maybe the thing to do was appear to play along for a while, move
under his radar, and then get Sarah and split.
"It's a possibility."
He smiled again. "Excellent. If this person can come here
to the clinic for a . . . deposit, then we could put you on a fast-track
schedule."
"One thing at a time. First I'd like to know exactly what it is you have in
mind." Would his "program" include string­ing me out on the toad drug, the
way he'd done with Sarah?
"Of course." He leaned forward in his chair. "I believe that, given your
history, an in-vitro procedure would have the highest chance of success.

You undoubtedly know how it works. We remove a number of eggs by
aspiration and grade them for maturity and viability, after which we fertilize
them to begin embryos growing. Then we pick the most promising for
implantation."
"In vitro is invasive and dangerous and there's a lot that can go wrong." I
genuinely hated the idea.
"To some extent." He examined his watch for a moment, then looked up.
"But let me just say this. Since any repro­ductive therapy, particularly in
vitro, is strongly dependent on the factor of timing, I've developed
experimental com­pounds down here that can regulate egg maturities very
pre­cisely. It minimizes a lot of uncertainties, which is why we're so lucky
you're . . ." He paused. "Look, the first thing we need to do is put you on a
strict regimen of diet and spiritual discipline, using my system for
regulating your Chi, your energy flows. Then, if you respond we can start
thinking about the procedure. And should you eventually decide you want
to go ahead and you can have your partner come here, we could possibly
have everything done in just a few days."
"Well, you can forget about me taking any 'experimental compounds.' "
How long could I stall him?
"Morgan, there's more to this." His look grew pained. "It's awkward to
bring it up, but your presence here creates no small difficulty for me. I told
you certain people in the military high command have concerns about the
film you're making. And then the next thing they know, you show up here.
It's just going to heighten their paranoia. But if I can convince them you're
here for fertility treatment . . . In any case, it's important that nothing you,
or I, do is at odds with that presumption. I hope it's true, but even if you
chose to forgo it, I still need to put you on my normal regimen. You
understand."
That's baloney. Somebody had me brought to Baalum. Whoever did it
knows full well why I'm here. The problem is, I still don't know what they
really want.

"Well, you can say I've come to take Sarah home," I told him. "That
seems reason enough."
"The other story is simpler to explain." He took a last bite of gazpacho,
then rested his pewter spoon on the table. "Take my word for it."
"And what if I don't choose to go along with this cha­rade?"
"We would both be in jeopardy. They're entirely capable of . . . things I'd
rather not have to elaborate on."
I sat there, feeling a chill envelop the room. How was I going to get out
of this place?
"By the way, a while ago Sarah mentioned something about a 'ceremony.'
What's that—?"
"It's a special time here." His gaze shifted to the ceiling. "In fact, it's
supposed to take place in three days, but the Army has informed me it has
to be two days from now. That's the day they rotate the troops here, so
there'll be double strength."
"But why do they need—"
"Things can get a bit frenzied." He smiled, though he seemed to be
embarrassed. "However, the people will love the fact you're here to share it
with them."
Did he say "frenzied"? My mind immediately flashed on the Aztec
rituals of ripping out beating hearts. But the Maya didn't go to that extreme,
at least so far as I knew. Once again, though, I had the feeling I was only
hearing what he wanted me to know, not the whole truth. It felt like a chess
game where I didn't know the location of all the pieces or how they could
move.
"Tell you what." He was getting up, turning toward the hall. "Why don't
you let me show you around the clinic? In fact, I'm scheduled to perform an
in vitro this morning for a childless couple here. You're free to see it.
Perhaps that could help you make your own decision."
"Well . . . do you have a phone? I need to make some calls." Would he let
me call out? That would be a first test of what his intentions were. It was all
getting so insidious. I had Sarah to worry about, and the Army, and now

some kind of "ceremony" that he'd managed to stay cannily vague about. I
only knew I wanted the whole world to know where I was.
"Of course," he said. "You're welcome to use my office." He was
pointing down the hall. "It's right this way."
Yes! Maybe I'm not completely his prisoner yet. I still have privileges.
But I'd damned well better use them while I can.
I walked out and felt a breeze, and then I studied the far end of the
hallway, at the opposite end from the entrance, and noticed huge slatted
windows. As we walked in their direction, I realized there was a stairway on
one side, at the end of the hall, leading up to the second story of the
building.
"What's up there?"
"Hygenic nursery rooms." He glanced at the stairs. "Un­like U.S.
practice, new mothers here aren't sent home after a day or two. Women and
their newborns are encouraged to stay here at the clinic for at least a week.
It's actually very much a part of their tradition, a period of bonding. You're
welcome to visit with them later if you like."
I intended to. In fact, I found myself looking around and trying to
memorize everything about the place. A two-story building, a marble stair, a
nursery upstairs, downstairs rooms along either side of the hallway (what
was in them?), and an office I was about to see. Could the clinic be locked
down? What were the escape routes? How closely was the Army watching?
The time would come, I was sure, when I'd need every scrap of intelligence
I could collect.
When we reached the end of the hall, the fresh cool wind still blowing
against my face, he stopped in front of a large, ornate wooden door with a
brass knob in the very center. There was no sign of a lock, just a sense of
great gravity about its purpose.
"The phone's in here." He pushed the door and it slowly swung inward
on hinges that must have required ball bear­ings.
It was indeed an office, dimly lighted by the moving screen-savers of
two computers, each on a separate desk. He flicked on the overhead lights

and I noticed that one com­puter was hooked to a fax machine, the other to a
separate printer. An impressive assembly of data-management tech­nology
for out here in the rain forest.
Then I focused on the central desk, on which sat an open, briefcase-
looking box containing a mini-console labeled Magellan World Phone. A
small satellite dish was bolted down next to it.
"It uplinks to the Inmarsat Series 3 geostationary satel­lites." He indicated
the dish. "But it works like a regular phone. The international codes all
apply." Then he turned to leave. "I should be ready for the procedure in a
few min­utes."
I picked up the handset and flicked it on. Three green diodes flashed,
then two yellow ones, after which a white light came on and I heard a
continuous hum, a dial tone.
Hooray. But was his satellite phone tapped? Why would he let me just
call out? Was this a feint in our game of cat-and-mouse, just to lull me into
believing everything here was safe and benign? Remembering Sarah's drug
experience, I already knew that couldn't be true. For now, though, I had to
get an SOS out while I had the chance.
I'd long since memorized the number of Steve's hotel in Belize City, and
if I could reach him, he could go the em­bassy in Guatemala City and . . . I
wasn't sure what. I still hoped to get out of here on my own, but if that
failed . . . maybe some of those sturdy Marines . . .
When I dialed the Belize number, however, the phone just rang and rang.
Come on. Somebody please pick up.
Then they did. Thank goodness. But when I asked for Steve—
"So sorry, mon," came the proud Caribbean voice, "but Mr. Abrams
check out Monday. Early in the morning."
"Right, I know that. But he came back last night, didn't he?"
"No, mon. He say he be coming back, to hold his room, but—"
"He didn't come back?" I felt my palms go icy. Who was going to know
where Sarah and I were? "What do you mean?"

"He not coming back here, mon." The man paused and mumbled
something to another clerk, then came back on. "Nobody seen him since.
You want leave a message, that's okay. But I don't know when—"
"No." I didn't know what to say. The implication was only gradually
sinking in. "No message. Thanks anyway. I'll try back later."
"Any time, mon. No problem."
I hung up, trying to stay calm. Steve, where are you?
Okay, I told myself, you don't actually know something's wrong. It could
be anything. Still, it was very worrying. Steve, my one and only . . .
I was staring at the phone, wondering what my next move should be.
Whatever else, I've got to try to reach Lou, tell him I've found Sarah. But
then what? He certainly wasn't going to be any help in getting us out. If he
blundered his way down here, there was a real chance he'd misread the
delicacy of the situation and end up getting us all "disappeared" by the
Army. But still, I had to tell him about her.
I picked up the handset again, keyed in the U.S. country code, and tried
the number for his place in Soho. He'd said he was going to be released
from St. Vincent's today, so maybe he was home by now.
The familiar ring jangled half a dozen times and then . . .
"Crenshaw residence." It was the Irish tones of Mrs. Reilly, Sarah's day
nurse. Hallelujah. I guessed she was there now taking care of Lou.
"Uh, this is Morgan James. Mr. Crenshaw's niece. Remember? I came
by. Is he home yet? I need to talk to him."
"He's resting, dear. I was just about to go out and get some things, milk
and soup and the like."
"So . . . dare I ask? How is he?"
"He's weak, but I think he's going to be fine. If people will just let him
be."
"Look, I hate to bother him, but it's really an emergency. I'm calling from
Guatemala."
"Oh. I truly don't know if he's awake, dear. He was nap­ping a while
ago."

"Could you . . . could you go and see? Please. And take the phone?"
"Just a minute." She sounded reluctant, but I could hear her movements
as she shuffled across the loft. I listened, wondering how long Alex
Goddard was going to be away, and then a moment later . . .
"Yeah." There was a rustle as Lou got a grip on his cord­less. "Morgan, is
that you? Where the hell are you now?"
It took me a second to even find my voice, I was so thrilled to hear him.
He sounded just like always.
"Hey, how's it going, champ?" I said. Come on, Lou. Get well. Fight.
"I started having these migraines, but they gave me some medicine—"
"Listen." I cut him off, and immediately felt guilty I'd been so impatient.
"I'm up in northern Guatemala and I've found Sarah."
"Oh, my God." That was followed by a long silence, prob­ably an
emotional meltdown. "Is she all right?"
What was I going to say? That she'd been brainwashed or worse by Alex
Goddard? That we were both in his clutches, cut off from the world, and in
deep, deep trouble?
"She's able to stand," I said.
I don't remember what white lies I eventually managed to tell him. I
think it was something like, "She's being treated for a post-coma syndrome
by a medical specialist. I've found out that when she was in Guatemala
before, she was given some very bad drugs, and someone here who knows
about them is trying to reverse some of the damage."
"Alex Goddard, right?" There was no BS-ing Lou for very long. "That
bastard."
"Lou, I'm going to get her out of here and back home as soon as possible.
Everything's going to be all right. Don't worry. It's really too complicated to
try and explain over the phone."
"Yeah, well, I'm coming. Soon as I'm up. I'm gonna take that son of a
bitch by the—"
"Don't. Don't you go anywhere. I'm handling it, okay?"

I heard him grunt, whether from pain or frustration I couldn't be sure. "Lou,
listen, I'm going to try and phone you every day. If I miss a day, then you
should call the embassy down here. Tell them you're FBI. That might get
their attention. The place where I am, where Sarah is, is named Baalum. It's
a . . . kind of village. In the northern Peten Department. I don't know if the
U.S. has any clout up here, but that's where they should come looking."
I got him to write it down, and then eased him off the line as gently as I
could and hung up. I would have loved for him to be here, but I wanted to
try to get Sarah out by stealth if I could. And stealth was scarcely Lou's
style.
My calls were one for two, and there still wasn't anybody to help me.
The time had come to try David. I was having the glimmerings of a new
strategy.
It was lunchtime in New York, but on Wednesdays he usu­ally just had a
sandwich at his desk. Maybe I could catch him.
"Hello," declared the British female voice he'd put on his machine,
hoping it would sound like he had a classy secre­tary. "You've reached the
office of David Roth, president of Applecore Productions. We're sorry Mr.
Roth is not available at this time to—"
"David," I barked into the phone. "If you're there, pick up. This is
Morgan. I've got to talk to you."
While the announcement kept running, noises erupted out­side in the hall,
voices and a clicking sound, as though some­thing was being rolled along
the tile floor. Shit. Was Alex Goddard about to walk in? My mouth went
dry. Come on, David, I know you're there, hiding—Variety with a tuna
salad on rye, extra pickle. Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda.
"David damnit, pick up." I said it quieter this time, but I could feel my
heart pounding. "This is an emergency."
"Morgy, don't!" He yelled as I heard the receiver being
lifted. "Jesus, I just walked in from the deli. Listen, thank God it's you.
Drop whatever the hell you're not doing and get your butt in here. Jerry
Reiner called, you know, the Orion distribution deal—and he wants a rough

cut of Baby Love yesterday so he can pitch it to the suits on the fifth floor.
We could be staring at financial success here. I hope you can handle the
vulgarity of that."
"David, you're not going to believe where I am," I began, working out
my game plan as I went along, trying to sound cool and control my racing
pulse. "I'm in northern Guate­mala, at a place that would make a terrific
feature. It's like a Maya theme park, deep in the rain forest. But it's real. I
want you to contact the embassy and get them to grease the way for my
crew to come here. This is too good to pass up." I thought about the costs
and then added, "At least one cam­era and sound."
One sure way to get Sarah out was to blow the place open to the world.
"What's . . . where are you again?"
I gave him a glowing trailer of the Williamsburg-like qualities of Baalum
—a beautiful, exciting recreation of times gone by that out-Disneyed
Disney. The cable channels would be bidding for the footage.
"Hey, look, all things in time." He wasn't buying. "I'm talking an actual
deal here. You know, money? Fuck the jun­gle wonderland. You've got
exactly one more day down there on the Tarzan set, or wherever the hell it
is, and then I'm gonna start finishing final cut on this damned picture
myself. Don't make me have to do that, Morgy. This is not a drill. Nicky
Russo came by again yesterday. He's fully prepared to call our note and
impound your original negative. It's here, under lock and key, but we've got
to get this project in the can and sold."
"You touch a frame of my movie and I won't be responsible for my
actions." God, he was missing my SOS. "David do one thing for me, please.
I can't tell you how important it is. I haven't explained everything. This
situation is . . . It's very threatening. I need you to at least call the embassy
down here and see if they'll send somebody. The Army's all over the place
and—"
A loud noise intervened followed by complete, absolute silence. The
diodes on the panel all began flashing yellow.

"Shit!" Had Alex Goddard been listening in and decided to cut me off
before I could get word to the embassy?
I slammed the box and went for the usual maneuver: I cut the connection
and tried again, but nothing. Again, and still nothing.
My hands were trembling. I'd just lost contact with the outside world. I
was completely isolated in the middle of nowhere.
How convenient. Alex Goddard let me tell a couple of people I was
physically okay, and then he blocked the line.
I exhaled settled into the padded chair next to the com­puters, and tried to
think. David, David why wouldn't you listen? He was so excited he'd
completely ignored my dis­tress signal. Nobody was going to come and help
me get out of here.
I gazed around the room, wondering what to do next. Was there another
phone, a radio, a box of flares, for godsake?
That was when I spotted the outlines of another door— why hadn't I
noticed it sooner?—this one steel, there on the left. Alex Goddard might
walk in any second now, but I had to try to learn everything I could as fast
as I could. What was going on besides what was going on?
Alert for any new sounds from outside, I quickly went over and tried the
knob.
It was locked tight.
Figured. Now I really wanted to know what was in there.
When I glanced around the office, I noticed a ring of keys on the desk.
Could he have forgotten them?
More important, would I blow everything if he caught me snooping? In
spite of his attempt at a cool veneer, he might go ballistic.
I made a snap decision. Take the chance and give them a try.
My hands were so moist I had trouble holding the slippery keys, but
finally I managed to shove in the first one. It went in, but nothing would
turn.
Come on. I managed to wiggle the next one in, my hand trembling now,
but again the knob wouldn't budge. Footsteps outside marched up to the

door and I stopped breathing, but then they moved on.
Hurry. I was rapidly losing hope when the fifth one slipped in and the
knob turned. Yes!
Taking a deep breath and working on a story in case Alex Goddard
walked in, I clicked the lock and eased the door inward just enough to look
inside.
Hello, what's this? The space was a fully equipped medical research lab.
The lights were off, but like the office, it was illuminated by the glow of
several CRT screens stationed above a long lab bench. There also was a
large machine, probably a gas chromatograph, with its own screen, flanked
by rows of test tubes. Finally, there was a large electronic microscope
complete with video screen.
One non-medical thing stood out, though: There in the mid­dle of the
workbench was a two-foot-high bronze Dancing Shiva presiding over
whatever was going on. It was breath-takingly beautiful.
So . . . what was The Lord of the Dance giving his bless­ing to? Time to
try and find out.
Now clanking noises were filtering in from out in the hall, along with the
pounding of heavy boots, and my pulse jumped again. Was the Army
coming to drag me away?
Just go in. Do it.
The CRT screens were attached to black metal containers, their doors
closed, that all were connected to a power supply, doubtless to maintain
some temperature. It looked like God­dard was incubating something in a
carefully controlled en­vironment. The whole arrangement was very
carefully organized and laid out.
Finally I noticed a row of large steel jugs, six in all, near the back and
covered with a sheet of black plastic, thin like a wrap. What could they be?
Some kind of special gas for use in the lab?
Voices in Spanish drifted in from the hallway. A woman and a man were
arguing about something.

Okay, get out of here. Come back and check this out when nobody's
around.
I stepped back into the office, clicked off the thumb latch on the door so
it wouldn't lock, and closed it. I realized I was pouring sweat.
What next? Well, see if the phone's working again and try calling the
Camino Real and see if Steve's come back there for some reason, maybe a
change in plans. It would be a long shot, but still . . .
My hand was shaking as I opened up the phone case. Thank God, the
diodes were all quiet. Maybe . . .
The steel door I'd closed only moments before swung open and Alex
Goddard walked through. Did he realize I'd left it unlocked? How did he get
in there? Was there another door?
He'd changed clothes and was wearing a pale blue surgical gown. I shut
the phone case, as though just finishing with it. Could he tell I'd turned
myself into a nervous wreck? I tried to smile and look normal, but my shirt
was soaking.
"Ah, I see you're finished," he said, not seeming to notice.
"Good. As I said, I've got an in-vitro procedure scheduled now for one of
the couples here in the village. You're wel­come to observe. It might help
you decide what you want to do in your own case." He was moving across
the room. "You can watch on the closed circuit."
He reached up and snapped on a monitor bolted to the wall in the corner.
"Oh, just one small word of forewarning." He was turning back. "Down
here I've made certain . . . cosmetic changes in the procedure to keep
patients' anxiety levels as low as possible. It wouldn't be appropriate in your
case, but . . . well, you'll see."
Before I had time to wonder what he meant, he disap­peared back
through the steel door with a reassuring smile.

Chapter Twenty-three

The monitor's picture was in color, but the predominant hue was brown.
Where was this? The OR had to be some­where in the clinic, but still . . .
The space looked flawlessly sterile, obviously an operat­ing theater, but it
was certainly like none other on earth. The walls were not white or pale
blue; they had the shade of stone and were decorated with Maya picture
writing and bas-reliefs. It was as though a sacred chapel had been converted
into a surgery. I guessed this was what he meant by "cos­metic changes." A
door was visible on the right side of the screen, and moments later Alex
Goddard strode through, coming in from the hallway.
So, it must be right next door. God, the place looked an­cient and
haunted.
I watched as he walked over to a basin and scrubbed his hands, then
donned a white surgical mask. Next he flipped various switches on the
walls. Finally he put on a second mask that glistened like some green
crystalline material.
What was that for? Then it hit me. A "jade" mask . . .
That was something Sarah had mentioned in her ramblings. So she must
have seen this too. Which meant. . . not everything she described was just
some drug-induced hallu­cination. The mask part was very real. . . .
Now Marcelina was rolling a steel operating table, bearing a dark-haired
Maya woman, through the doorway. The pa­tient looked like all the others
down in Baalum, except that she had a strange expression on her face. She
appeared to be tense and very afraid, as her eyes kept darting around the
room, then to the "jade" mask Alex Goddard was wearing— most likely
papier-mache covered with shiny green granules.
When she was in position, he walked to the corner and flipped another
switch, whereupon there started the deep droning of a chant, probably from
speakers in the walls, that sounded like Kekchi Maya.

He bent over her and said something in the same language, after which
Marcelina placed a rubber mask over her nose and mouth. Her eyes still
frightened, the patient uttered a few words, perhaps a final prayer, then
inhaled deeply. As her eyelids fluttered, he turned and opened what
appeared to be some kind of stone tableau, covered by its own bas-relief. It
was, I finally realized, merely painted fiberglass—that was what the whole
room was—and inside were CRT monitors designed to display various vital
life functions. As Marcelina helped him, he began attaching sensors to the
patient's body.
When the woman's eyes had fully closed, he removed his green mask
and tossed it into a box.
It's all fake. The room, everything. Just like Baalum. But now he's got
Sarah's mind caught in his thrall. I've got to make her understand nothing
here is real.
Marcelina was carefully watching the screens, her apprehension obvious
as she fiddled uncertainly with the knobs.
"Oxygen steady." Her voice was small and uneasy. "EKG stable."
He immediately stripped away the sheet that had been covering the
patient. Beneath it was an open-sided gown colored in brilliant stripes of
red and blue. He pulled it back with absent precision, then turned to
Marcelina.
"Shave her and scrub her."
With the woman now under sedation, Marcelina put on her own surgical
garb: She pulled a blue plastic cap over her hair, then secured a white OR
mask over her face. While she was finishing the preparations, he turned and
walked to the far side of the room, where he abruptly seemed to disappear
through the wall.
What . . . There must be a panel there, a camouflaged door.
He was gone for a moment, then reappeared carrying a long metal tube
that looked to be emitting white vapor. He next opened yet another ersatz
stone cabinet to reveal a mi­croscope with a CRT screen above it. He took
out three glass ampules from the tube—frozen embryos, undoubtedly—and

placed them in a container. When he switched on the micro­scope, its CRT
screen showed him whatever he needed to know. Interesting. In surgery, he
was coldly efficient, no "hu­man touch." Here he was the "scientist" Alex
Goddard.
Next, Marcelina activated an ultrasound scanner and be­gan running the
wand over the woman's stomach. The screen above the table showed her
uterus and her Fallopian tubes with flickering clarity.
He'd been readying the embryos, and now he walked over and carefully
inserted a needle into the woman's abdomen— ouch—his eyes on the
ultrasound scan, which indicated the precise location of the needle's tip.
I watched as the screen showed the needle on its way to its destination, a
thin, hard line amidst the pulsing gray mass of her uterus. Seconds later all
three embryos had been im­planted with such flawless precision it was scary.
Did I want to undergo this deeply invasive procedure at the hands of
Alex Goddard? The very thought left a dull ache in my stomach.
While Marcelina bandaged her and began preparing her for return to
wherever she'd been, he turned off the systems, then closed their "stone"
cabinets.
I thought back to some of the "hallucinations" Sarah had poured out.
She'd mentioned the green mask, and she'd also relived some sinister event
that seemed to her like disappear­ing down a long white tunnel. Was that her
own anesthesia? Did he perform an in vitro on her too?
I jumped as I heard the "bump, thump, bump" sound of the operating
table being rolled out of the OR and back down the hall. For some reason I
thought of the sound of fate knocking on the door, like death coming to take
Don Giovanni. Did Alex Goddard have plans to take me, only with drugs
and medical sleight of hand? It wasn't going to happen.
I switched off the monitor and turned to stare at the computers. Why
were they here in this "place of miracles"? What did they hold? Maybe that
was where I should be. . . .
That was the moment when the heavy office door swung open and
Marcelina appeared.

"Your room is ready now." Her English was heavily ac­cented but sure.
"He sent me to show you. And I can wash any of your things if you like."
My room? Whoa! Since when had I checked in?
"Marcelina, we need to talk. What happened to Sarah the last time she
was here? Was she operated on like that woman just now?"
I also planned to ask her about all the bizarre trappings surrounding the
procedure. Why was the woman so sucked in by his phony Mardi Gras
mysticism? Had Sarah fallen for it too?
"Sara was one of the special ones. You are surely blessed too. You
resemble her a lot." She looked at me, affection in her dark eyes, then
turned and headed out the door. "But come, let me take you up."
Of course I resembled her; she was my cousin. But so what? I didn't like
the odd way she'd said it. And what about my question?
Watching her walk away, clearly nervous, I realized this was the moment
I'd been dreading—when I had to make a decision about how far to play
along with Alex Goddard. Steve couldn't be reached, yet, but I still might be
able to handle the situation on my own. The first thing to do was to get
down to Sarah and talk some sense into her. Then I had to arrange for a way
to get us both out.
So . . . probably the best way to accomplish that was to go along with my
own medical charade for a few more hours, to give me time to scout the
scene and come up with a plan. A room would be a base to operate from.
Still, I was feeling plenty of trepidation as we ascended the marble steps
to the second floor, which had a long, car­peted hallway with doors along
each side. Then, when we started down the hall, I caught the sound of a
baby crying.
"What's this floor for?" I remembered Alex Goddard had claimed it was
to provide a postpartum bonding period, but I wanted to confirm that with
my own eyes.
"This is the recovery ward and nursery. Here, let me show you." She
paused and pushed open the door nearest us. I looked in to see a Mayan

woman resting on a high hospital bed and wearing a white shift, with an
ornate wicker cradle, wide and deep, next to her.
Marcelina smiled and said something to her that sounded like an apology
for the intrusion. The room was lit only by candles, but I did make out how
oddly the woman stared at me, as though she was seeing a spirit. Why was
that? Because I was a gringa here in the middle of the forest? But it seemed
something more.
"The birth of a child is a sacred thing for us." Marcelina was discreetly
closing the door again. "When a woman car­ries a child she will take walks
to the milpas, to the river, to the orchards, just so her little one can be in its
world. Then, after her baby is born, our tradition holds that she should be
alone with it for a week and a day. So their life's breath can become one."
I could sense her heart was deeply entwined with the peo­ple here at
Baalum.
"Marcelina, how long have—?"
"Well, what do you think?" said a voice. I looked around to see Alex
Goddard coming up the stairs behind us. And my anger welled up again.
Everything about him was just too . . . manipulating.
He'd changed back to his black sweatshirt and jeans and was carrying a
tray. The costume event was over. In an instant Marcelina slipped quietly
around him and headed back down the stairs, almost like a rabbit startled by
a fox. He smiled and moved past me.
"All those trappings just now, the fake green mask." I decided to
challenge him head-on. Start forcing him to show his hand. "What's—?"
"Merely a little harmless theater." He looked back. "The forest Maya like
to think they're being ministered to by a shaman." Then he indicated I
should follow him. "By the way, in case you do get hungry, I brought you
something you can have in your room if you like. Then you can make
yourself at home and rest a bit."
Hold on. I was being given the illusion of freedom, but in reality I was
nothing more than his prisoner.
"That room next to your office. The steel door. What's in—?"

"That's the heart of Baalum." Pride in his voice. "The real reason I'm
here."
"You mean drug research?"
He nodded. "Did you know the Central American rain forest easily
contains a hundred thousand plant species? Over half of all pharmaceutical
drugs are derived from plants, yet less than one percent of those here have
been tested for phar­macological potential. Still, the old shamans and
midwives all know of herbs they claim can cure everything from men­strual
cramps to cancer." He smiled. "They also know which ones have powerful
contraceptive properties, which is par­ticularly helpful in my primary study,
fertility and fetal vi­ability. I take the specimens they bring and perform a
rough screening in the lab to determine if they're actually pharma­‐
cologically active. If they do test positive, I then examine their effect on the
blastocyst, the early form of embryonic cell formed just after fertilization,
to see whether they affect cell division and viability and . . . the miscarriage
rate here is very low, so some of these plants . . ." His voice trailed off as he
pushed open the door of a suite at the end of the hall. It had a stone floor, a
simple bed, and through the slatted windows the light of midday filtered
through, along with the birdcalls of the rain forest. Any other time and
place, I'd have felt like I was staying at a rustic nature retreat.
But this wasn't some other time and place. And what about Steve? Where
was he? Maybe he was somewhere worse. Thinking about him, I was
startled to hear myself say . . .
"Incidentally, I found out the man I've been trying to have a baby with
didn't show up at his hotel in Belize last night. He was driving there from
Guatemala City. I'm very worried. I keep hearing about how people get
'disappeared' in this country. He's—"
"Could his name be Steve Abrams?" Goddard turned back, still holding
the tray.
It was a moment that stopped my heart. For a second I wasn't even able
to speak.

"How . . . did you know?" I finally managed to say. "I never mentioned
—"
"That's the name they gave me. I received a call this morn­ing from
Guatemala City. From Colonel Ramos's office, in fact. As you might
suppose, he's well aware you're here, and he said you were seen dining
night before last at a downtown restaurant with a man by that name. They
think he's in the country because of you, and they're trying to locate him."
I felt the life go entirely out of me. My God what was going on? Steve
was now the subject of a manhunt in a police state. Did he even know?
"I told them you were here for purely medical reasons." He sighed with
frustration. "And that they were being irra­tionally paranoid but . . ."
"So they don't actually know where he is, right?" I was still trying to
breathe.
"As of this morning. If they did they wouldn't have called up here." He
walked over and set the tray down on a rustic table next to the bed. "I
wouldn't worry too much about it. He's committed no crime. They just want
to make sure you realize your presence has not gone unnoticed."
Dear God. What had I dragged Steve into? If they found him, what
would they do? I could only pray he was deft enough to elude them. If
anybody could . . .
Then I looked at the tray. An empty syringe was there. Also, there was a
large bowl containing some kind of soup. I was finally growing ravenous,
but still . . .
"What's this for?" I indicated the syringe.
"I just need to take a little blood for some tests. Don't worry, it won't hurt
a bit."
Hold on. How far do I have to play along to stay in his chess game?
Then I glanced down again at the tray. "And what's in that bowl?"
"Right now diet is crucial, so I've had Marcelina prepare you a healthy
broth of soy extract and buckwheat and rainforest herbs that—"
"What kind of rainforest herbs exactly?" I was starving, but no way in
hell—

"Medicinal ones. Part of your program of wholeness." He turned, with
that faraway look of his, and opened the window slats. Beyond them I could
see foliage, now alive with flocks of multicolored birds. The forest was in
full cry. "You know, so many drugs are waiting to be discovered up here."
He was gazing out. "Beyond this window is a giant pharmacy, but if it goes
like the rest of the Peten, it'll soon be bulldozed to make way for more cattle
ranches."
He came back and picked up the syringe. That was when I noticed it
didn't seem to be entirely empty. It appeared to contain traces of a yellow
substance, though maybe I was imagining. . . .
"Look, about the blood test. I don't think—"
"Consider it a free medical screening." He firmly gripped my arm as he
plunged the needle into a vein. Seconds later he was capping off the
syringe, red with my blood. "I'm running a batch of tests this afternoon, so
one more sample won't make any difference."
While he swabbed my arm with alcohol, I looked down again at the bowl
of broth he'd brought. Forget about it. I'd find something in the kitchen later.
"I want to go down and see Sarah." Get started immedi­ately. Push and
maybe I could catch him off guard. "I'm very worried about her."
"Of course." He nodded. "Whenever you wish."
"I was thinking, as soon as possible."
"Then I'll send Marcelina to take you, the minute she's finished
downstairs. But I assumed you might want to at least unpack first."
With that he disappeared as quietly as he'd come.
I walked over and stared out at the birds flitting past the slatted window,
feeling my hopes go up. The colors and the
freedom. I wanted to be one of them, to take Sarah and just fly away. . . .
Then, feeling vaguely drowsy, I settled myself down on the edge of the
bed. The next thing I knew, though, the cha­otic music of the birds had
begun to sound amplified as though they were swirling down a long,
echoing hallway. In spite of myself, I felt my consciousness begin to drift.

Shit, that needle he just slammed into my arm. It wasn't to take blood
you idiot. You suspected that, but he was too fast. Shit. Shit. Shit. Don't let
him do it. Stay awake.
But now the tunnel was growing. I pulled myself up and staggered in
slow motion to the door and tried it, but it seemed to be locked. I couldn't
really tell, though, because the tunnel was swallowing me.
No! I banged my head against the door, hoping the pain would bring me
back, but the room just swirled even more.
The tunnel. Now it was all around me, shadowy and dim. I thought I
glimpsed Sarah at the end of it, wearing a white shift, beckoning me, but
when I reached out for her, to take us away, all I could touch was empty
mist.

Chapter Twenty-four

I'm on a bed, in a dreamscape room enveloped in pastel fog, watching a
Melania butterfly the size of a man pump his massive orange and black
wings above me. His voice is mellifluous, hypnotic, and I feel the soft wind
of his wings against my face, cooling, scented, enveloping. It is the soft­ness
of eternal peace.
"Your body is a realm of fertility," he is saying, his tones echoing in the
shadowy haze around me, sonorous and car­ing. "You are special." Then,
iridescent blues and purples shimmering off his wings, his face evolves into
the orange and black mask of a jaguar. "You are one of the special ones.
Together we will create life."
Did he say "special"? Marcelina said I was . . . like Sarah . . .
Now his eyes are boring in and I'm thinking of the Chi­nese . . . Am I
human, dreaming I'm a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming I'm human?
As he moves over me, the rest of his butterfly form dis­appears and he's
become a lithe jaguar whose lips are touch­ing mine. The sheet over me
melts into my skin as the soft spotted fur of his underbelly presses onto me.
And his face has turned even more feline and sensuous, with dark eyes that
look directly through me. I can feel his whiskers against me as he sniffs
down my body, then explores my groin with his probing tongue.
Before I realize what's happening, his thighs press against mine and he
knowingly insinuates himself into me. It all happens so naturally and
effortlessly I scarcely . . . I see only an intense twitch of his animal ears,
erect and directed toward me, as he enfolds me completely, his hot male
breath urgent. As he grinds his thighs against mine, he emits growls, low in
his throat, then nips lightly and lovingly at my cheek, his pale fangs benign
and delicious.
I cling to him, bathed in sweat, falling into him, wanting him, but now . .
.

He's changing. . . . My God. No! He's . . .
His face is becoming a jade mask with eyes that burn a fiery red, a spirit
of evil. He's plunging something deep into me, metal, cold and cutting. Far
inside, reaching, while my mind fights through the waves of pain that
course down my lower body. I struggle back, but my arms just pass through
empty air. Stop. The eyes, the hard metal . . . Time turns fluid, minutes are
hours, lost, and I don't know . . .
Finally-—it could be years later—he growls one last time and the room
begins fading to darkness. Then a blessed numbness washes over me. He's
gone. . . .
And I dream I am dead.
Sometime, probably hours later, I sensed my conscious­ness gradually
returning. Around me the room was still dark and, remembering the
"dream," I came fully awake with a start, my heart pounding. What had . . .
it done to me? I was shivering, with a piercing, pointed ache in my groin. I
needed air.
I rose up unsteadily and reached out, and realized I was in a hospital bed
with metal bars along one side.
What! How did I come to be in this? Then I began remembering. I was at
Baalum, in Alex Goddard's Ninos del Mundo clinic. And I'd been trying to
get Sarah and take her home.
Instead, I'd passed out and then . . . an attack, some unspeakably evil . . .
Get out of here. Now.
I settled my feet onto the floor with a surge of determi­nation, and that
was when I sensed I was in a different place from where I'd . . . Where—!
I gazed around in the dark, then reached out and felt something on a
table beside the bed. It was a clay bowl full of wax. What . . . a candle. And
next to it I touched a plain book of matches. My hand was trembling from
the pain in my groin, but I managed to light the candle, a flickering glow.
My wristwatch was lying nearby on the table. Someone must have taken
it off and placed it there. I picked it up and held it by the candle, and for a

moment I was confused by the seconds ticking off. Then I realized the time
was . . . How could that be! It read 4:57 A.M. Had I been out for hours?
I gasped, then raised the candle and gazed around. The walls were brown
stone—or maybe they just looked like stone. Yes, now I recognized it. I was
in the fiberglass-walled operating room I'd seen on Alex Goddard's closed-
circuit monitor.
What was I doing in here?
My arm brushed against the table and I felt an odd sen­sation. Glancing
down, I realized there was a Band-Aid on the inside of my left wrist. What
was that about? Earlier he'd taken blood from my right arm, but then he'd
just swabbed it, so why this bandage? And what in hell was I doing in an
operating room? I hadn't agreed to any procedures. Did he come back for a
second—?
Or . . . that was what he'd done. He'd injected me with an IV drug. The
bizarre vision I'd had was his cover for some perverse invasion of my body.
My God, I'd been unconscious since yesterday afternoon. During all that
time, what could he have done to me?
I was fist-clenching furious. Looking around the "oper­ating room," I
wanted to rip the place apart.
When I tried to stand, I realized my groin was tender and sore as hell, all
across my panty-line, only somewhere deep, deep inside, in my
reproductive . . . It was like after he'd given me those shots up at Quetzal
Manor. I checked and saw no red needle-punctures this time, but the pain
was much worse. That sick butterfly-jaguar dream was no dream. I'd been
raped by . . . The bastard.
I pushed aside the pain, edged across to the door, and tested it. Unlocked.
Good. Go find the SOB right now. Tear his head off.
I pulled back the door, took a deep breath, and checked out the hallway.
Whoa! How did they get here? In the dim light I made out two
uniformed Army privates down at the end near the slatted windows, dozing
in folding metal chairs, their AK- 47's propped against the plaster wall.

Why were they here? Just a cool, breezy place to hang out? Or were they
in place to guard me?
The breeze was causing the candle's flame to cast flick­ering shadows
across the hall, so I quickly re-closed the door.
Now what? I was trembling as I returned the candle bowl to the table and
sat down on the bed. Soldiers with guns were outside my room at five in the
morning. In the farthest end of Guatemala. What was I going to do?
I gazed around at the "stone" walls and tried to think. My mind still felt
clouded from whatever drug he'd given me, but it was beginning to . . .
Wait. I saw Alex Goddard come into this very room with embryos from
the lab, which is connected by the steel door to his office. . . .
Where there was a phone.
Time to call the embassy, get some help to get the hell out of here.
I sat there thinking. All right. I'd need to wait an hour or so—now I'd get
some low-level flunkie stuck with the grave­yard shift—but there was
something I was damned well go­ing to do immediately. With the lab right
next door, I could try to find out why Goddard had just performed medical
rape on me. There had to be some connection. According to him, the lab
was for "plant research." But if that was all he was doing, why was the
Army here? Right outside my door? I felt a pump of adrenaline that made
me forget all about my pain. Before I got the hell out of Baalum, I was
going to know what he was really up to here.
God, I feel miserable. I really hurt. All the more reason . . .
I took the candle, stood up, and moved to the opposite wall to begin
looking for an opening in the fiberglass "stone." It appeared to have been
made from impressions from the room atop the pyramid, rows and rows of
those little cartoon-face glyphs, mixed in with bas-reliefs, but there had to
be a door somewhere. I'd seen him walk right through it. As I ran my hand
along the surface, I was struck by how their hardness felt like stone. But it
couldn't be.
What was I looking for? There certainly were no door­knobs. I came
across a hard crack, next to the bas-relief of a feather-festooned warrior, but

as I slid my hand down, it ended and again there was more rough "stone."
Solid.
Damn. I stood back and studied the wall with my candle. He'd come in
from the left, which would be about . . .
I moved over and started again. This time my fingernail caught in a
crevice that ran directly down to the floor. Then I discovered another, about
two and a half feet farther along. It had to be the door.
I felt along the side, wondering how to open it, till I noticed that one of
the little "stone" glyphs gave way when I pressed it. When I put my hand
against it harder and rotated it, the panel clicked backward, then swung
inward. Yes!
And there it was: the lab, CRT screens above the incuba­tors, gas
chromatograph in the corner. This, according to him, was where he tested
the rainforest plants the shamans and midwives brought in. But what about
what he'd just done to me?
I was still worried about the Army guys outside, but I walked in, trying
to be as quiet as I could. The first thing I did was head for the row of black
boxes above the bench. Those, I assumed, were being used to maintain a
micro-en­vironment for incubating plant specimens. And sure enough, the
dimly lit windows revealed rows and rows of petri dishes. They were clear,
with circular indentations in the center. . . .
But wait a minute. Those weren't just any old lab dishes. And no plant
extracts were in them either, just clear liquid. That was odd, very fishy.
I stood there puzzling, and then I remembered seeing pic­tures of lab
dishes like these being used for artificially fer­tilized embryos. At the
beginning, freshly extracted human ova are placed in an incubator for
several hours, afloat in a medium that replicates the inside of a female
Fallopian tube, to mature them in preparation for fertilization. Goddard had
said something about tests on the blastocyst, the first cellular material
created after fertilization. So was he using actual fetuses? My God. I felt
like I was starting to know, or guess, a lot more than he wanted me to.

My thoughts were churning as I looked up and studied the video screens
above the boxes. It took a moment, but then I figured out the petri dishes
and their chemicals had been placed in the incubators between 4:00 P.M.
and 7:30 P.M. Last evening. What—?
I started counting. They were in racks, stacked, in sets of
four by four. Let's see. Five in this incubator, five in the next, five in the . . .
There were over two hundred dishes in all!
Impossible. I looked down at them again, feeling a chill. Nothing seemed
to be in them yet, at least as far as I could tell, but then human eggs are
microscopic. So if ova were . . .
When he supposedly was doing that in vitro on the Mayan woman, was
he actually extracting eggs?
Get serious. That was not where they came from.
By then I was well along the Kubler-Ross scale, past de­nial and closing
in on anger, but still . . . so many! How could they all—
I turned and examined the row of plastic-covered jugs at the back of the
lab, lined up, six in all. Now I had to know what was in them.
I was still shaky, but I steadied myself, walked over, pulled back the
plastic, and touched one. It was deathly cold, sweat­ing in the moist air.
When I flipped open its Frisbee-sized top, I saw a faint wisp of vapor
emerge into the twilight of the room . . .
Then it dawned on me. Of course. They were cryo-storage containers.
He'd need them to preserve fertilized eggs, em­bryos.
I lifted off the inside cover and placed it carefully onto the bench, where
it immediately turned white, steaming with mist. Then I noticed a tiny metal
rod hooked over the side of the opening. When I pulled it up, it turned out
to be at­tached to a porous metal cylinder containing rows of glass tubes.
What's . . .?
Feeling like I was deep in a medical fourth dimension, I took out one of
the freezing tubes. It was notched and marked with a code labeled along the
side: "BL -1 la," "BL -1 lb," "BL-1 lc," and so it went, all the way to "g."
But noth­ing was there.

I began checking the other tubes. They all were empty too. So why was
he freezing empty containers?
Go with the simple answer. He's getting them ready for new embryos.
I slid the rod back into the cryo-tank, then walked over and hoisted
myself onto the lab bench next to the Dancing Shiva, creator and destroyer.
And when I did, I again felt a stab of pain in my groin. The bastard. I was
shaking, in the early stages of shock. More than anything, I just wanted to
find him and kill him. . . .
I thought I heard a scraping noise somewhere outside, in the hall, and I
froze. Was he about to come in and check on his "experiments"? Then I
realized it was just the building, his house of horrors, creaking from the
wind.
I took one final look at the incubators, and all the pain came back. The
whole thing was too much for my body to take in. I sat there trying to
muster my strength.
Don't stop now. Keep going.
I got back onto my feet. The phone. Use the telephone. Find Steve, alert
the embassy, then get Sarah. Do it now, while you still can.
I was holding my breath as I walked over and pushed open the door to
the office and looked in. It was empty and dark. Good. I headed straight for
the black case of the Magellan World Phone.
When I picked up the handset and switched it on, the diodes went
through their techno-dance of greens and yel­lows and then stabilized giving
me a dial tone. Thank you, merciful God.
I decided to start off by calling the hotel in Belize again, on the long shot
that Steve had managed to get the hell out of Guatemala. Baby, please be
there. My watch said the time was five-twenty in the morning, but he once
told me they manned the desk around the clock. No problem getting
through, though the connection had a lot of static. But then came the news
I'd been dreading: no Steve Abrams.
"He still not come back, mon."
Where was he? I wanted to scream, but I was determined to keep a grip.

All right, try the Camino Real and hope you can get some­body awake
who speaks English. Maybe he went back. Please, God.
I had the number memorized, so I plugged it in, and I recognized the
voice of the guy who picked up, the owner's son, who was trying his best to
learn English.
"Hi, this is Morgan James. Remember me? I'm just call­ing to see if
there's a Steve Abrams staying there now?"
"Hey, que pasa, Senora James. Very early, yes? Momento." There was a
pause as he checked. Come on, Steve, be there. Please, please be
somewhere.
Then the voice came back: "No, nobody by that name stays here."
"Okay . . . gracias." Shit. It was like a pit had opened somewhere deep in
my stomach.
I replaced the handset, feeling grateful that at least the phone still
worked, my last link to sanity. My next call was going to be to the embassy,
but I couldn't risk using up my opening shot with the graveyard shift.
Maybe by 6 A.M. some­body with authority to do something would be there.
Just a few more minutes.
Now what? I felt the aching soreness in my groin again, along with a
wave of nausea. I had to do something, anything, just to keep going, to beat
back an anxiety attack.
That was when I turned and stared at the computers, the little ducks
drifting across the screens.
All right, you know what he's doing; now it's time to try and find out
why. The real why. There must be records of what he's up to stored there.
What else would he have them for?
"Clang, clang, clang." A noise erupted from somewhere outside the
window. In spite of myself, I jumped.
Then I realized it was just the odd call of some forest bird. God, I wasn't
cut out for this. Now my head was hurting, stabs of pain, but I rubbed at my
temples and sat down at the first terminal.

I'm a Mac fan, hate Windows, so I had to start out by experimenting. In
the movies people always know how to do this, but I had to go with trial
and error, error compounding error.
After endless false starts that elicited utility screens I couldn't get rid of,
I finally brought up an index of files, which included a long list of names.

ALKALOIDS
CARDIAC GLYCOSIDES
PHENOLICS
SAPONINS
TERPENOIDS

Biology 103—which I hated—was coming back. Plant-extract
categories. Looks like he actually is doing research on the flora here. But . .
. still, what does he need my ova for?
I scrolled on. Scientific terms that meant nothing. Then, toward the end
of the alphabetical list, I came to the word QUETZAL.
What was that? I clicked on it and—lo and behold—up came a short list
of names. Six in all, organized by dates about a year apart, and each a
woman.
My God. First I assumed they were patients from Quetzal Manor who'd
come here for fertility treatment, though each was indicated "terminated" at
the end, whatever that meant. But as I scanned down, I didn't want to see
what I was seeing. The name next to the last was S. Crenshaw. She'd been
"ter­minated" too.
The bottom was M. James. But I hadn't been "termi­nated." Not yet.
I slumped back in the chair, trying to breathe. How much more of this
horror could I handle? Finally I leaned forward again and with a trembling
hand clicked on S. Crenshaw.
A lot of data popped up, including three important dates. The first was
exactly three weeks after the one in her pass­port, the Guatemalan entry visa.

The second was ten months ago, the third eight months ago. After each was
a number: 268, followed by 153, and finally 31.
The count of her extracted ova. Kill him. Just kill him.
A lot of medical terminology I couldn't interpret followed each number,
but the note at the end required no degree.
"Blastocyst material from embryos after third extraction shows 84%
decrease in cellular viability. No longer usable."
My God, had he made her permanently sterile?
While that obscenity was sinking in, I went back and clicked on my own
name. The date was today, the number was 233. He'd just taken 233 of my
ova. I stared at the screen and felt faint.
No medical analysis had yet been entered, but it didn't matter. I stared at
the screen, feeling numb, for a full minute before clicking back to Sarah's
page. Yes, I was right. The last date was just six weeks before she was
found in a coma, down the river from here. . . .
No more mystery. He'd been using her eggs to create embryos, and
they'd finally stopped working. Not "special" anymore. So her "program"
had been "terminated." In the river.
My stomach was churning, bile in my throat, and I thought
I was going to throw up. I took a deep breath, slowly, and stopped myself.
Before I got Sarah and we got the hell out of Baalum, I was going to smash
everything in this lab.
It all had just come together. Those shots of "muscle re­laxant" he gave
me up at Quetzal Manor, they had to be a cocktail of his "proprietary"
ovulation drugs. Then, with my ovaries ripening, he'd lured me here using
Sarah. He knew I'd come after her. Next he'd "arranged" with Alan Dupre to
fly me here. Finally, a sedative, and he'd harvested 233 of my ova, which he
now had out there in those incubators. . . .
But what about proof? To show the world. Morning sounds were
building up outside, so I was less worried whether the two soldiers in the
hallway were still asleep or not. Truthfully, I was so wired I no longer

cared. I clicked on a printer and began zipping off the files of each woman
he'd violated, all six.
Disgust flowed through me like a torrent. Heart of Dark­ness. "The
horror, the horror." Alex Goddard had used Sarah in the most unspeakable
way possible, then tried to have her murdered. Probably he'd just turned her
over to Colonel Ra­mos.
The same thing must have happened to those other women. All
"disappeared" somewhere in Guatemala. But who would know?
One thing I knew. I was next. . . .
The printer was old and loud, but thankfully it was fast. Four minutes
later I had what I'd need to nail the criminal. When I got out of here,
somebody would have to believe me.
While I was stacking the printouts, I resolved to call the embassy right
then, the hour be damned. I was sweating like a gazelle when the lion is
closing in. Alex Goddard had just performed primal, surgical rape on me,
and now the Army was right outside. I had to get the embassy.
And that was when I realized I didn't have the number. But it had to be in
a phone book somewhere.
A quick look around the office didn't turn up one. I con­sidered ringing
the Camino Real again, to ask them to look up the number, but then I had an
inspired thought. Steve had said Alan Dupre's number was easy to
remember because it promoted his business. What was it? I couldn't
remember.
Then it came back: 4-MAYAN, the six-digit number they used in
Guatemala City. Call the sleazebag and ask him who can get me out of here.
He's supposed to know everybody.
Dawn was bringing more and more forest-morning songs through the
thin slats of the windows. I walked over and pushed them open, running my
fingers out into the air. It felt cool, the touch of freedom, and I thought for a
moment about bursting through to escape. Just get Sarah now.
Instead, I walked back to the phone, clenching my fists, and dialed Alan
Dupre's number, praying and hoping it was where he lived. Steve had called

him late in the evening, so it probably was. I'd thought I never wanted to
speak to him again, but now . . . God, let him be there.
The phone, however, just rang and rang and rang.
Come on. Damn.
It rang and rang some more. Then finally—
"Who the fuck is this? We don't open till nine."
The first sound of his voice brought a wave of relief, but then his cocky
attitude made me livid all over again.
"It's Morgan James, you shit. Why did you leave me stranded up here?
You have no idea what—"
"Oh, you . . ." He paused for a cigarette cough. "You made me walk all
the way downstairs just to bust my chops. What the—?"
"Talk to me, you prick." I still intended to strangle him. "I need your
help. You owe me. You have no idea what—"
"Hey, lady, you didn't possibly believe taking off in that fucking
hurricane was my . . . Let's just say I was acting under duress. I all but
didn't get back."
"Well, you can start making up for that right now by springing me the
hell out of here." So, somebody had put him up to it, just like I'd thought all
along. But who? "I want you to look up the number for the American
embassy. And tell me the name of somebody there who—"
"Jesus, you truly don't get the picture, do you?" He paused for another
early-morning reefer hack.
"I 'get' that you—"
"Missy, it was a high official at that very establishment 'suggested' I fly
you up there. Why the hell else would I do it, for chrissake? You know I'm
not a citizen of this fun house. Said party noted that if I didn't, he could
make a few phone calls about my residency status, my pilot's license . . .
Let's just say it was an offer I didn't see fit to take issue with."
"Oh, my God." I felt like a knife had just plunged into my back. "Was his
name Barry Morton? Please tell me."

"Taking the Fifth on that one," he said coughing again. "But you've got
primal instincts."
I heard a noise outside and sank lower in the chair. What was I going to
do now?
"Listen, do you have any idea where Steve is? They're looking—"
"No shit, Madame Sherlock. I had a long, deeply unin­spiring
interrogation by a couple of upscale assholes who showed up here in an
Army Jeep. They wanted to know where the fuck he was, when I'd supped
with him last. Let me inform you, love, you got my old heartstrings buddy
in some decided doo-doo."
"I feel guilty enough about that as is, so stop." In spite of all Alex
Goddard had done, I felt horrible about Steve, like a self-involved witch.
"But do you know where he is now?"
"Haven't the foggiest fucking idea, never heard of the jerk. Shit, hang
on." The line went silent, and I could feel my pulse pounding.
Outside the office door, I heard footsteps approaching down the hall.
Please, God, please. But then they passed by, terminating where the two
soldiers had been dozing. Next I heard the tones of a solid dressing-down in
profane Spanish.
"Tu heres un pedaso de mierda!"
Then came a familiar voice from the receiver. I couldn't believe it.
"Morgy, why in hell did you let Alan take you up there by yourself?" His
tone had a sadness, and a deserved pique, that cut me to the core.
I think I stopped breathing.
"Oh, baby, thank God you're . . ." I was expecting the door to burst open
any moment. Men with AK-47's. "Do you know the Army's looking for—?"
"You're completely nuts. I got halfway to Belize and called the motel to
see how you were doing, and they told me you'd taken off with this asshole.
So I turned around and drove back here. It was after midnight and the Army
thugs had just left. Morgy, I'm coming to get you. Soon as the gas stations
open. I know a back road to Mexico. We've got to get out of this fucking
country immediately."

"Don't try to drive up. It's too dangerous. Can you get Alan to fly you?
Sarah's here and she's been turned into a space cadet. I don't know how I'm
going to pry her away." I stopped to try to assemble my thoughts. "He's got
soldiers watching me. I've got to smuggle her out somehow."
I couldn't bring myself to tell him what was really going on.
"Let me talk to Dupre a second. The fucker. I can't believe he did this to
you. But maybe we can come up with some­thing. Otherwise, I may just kill
him with my bare hands."
I heard a cough, which told me Alan had been listening in on an
extension. It teed me off, but then—he did have to be in on this. Shit. The
idea of relying on Alan Dupre for anything . . .
"Well, do it fast. I broke into Alex Goddard's office to use this phone and
. . . just hurry."
"You got it."
Now the sound of firm, officer-like boot steps stormed past the door,
headed out this time, after which the two young soldiers began berating
each other in high-pitched Spanish.
"Hace falta tener cojones!"
"Hijo de tu chingada madre!"
More and more light was creeping through the slatted windows. A glance
at my watch showed the time to be six sharp, but the embassy was no
longer an option.
"Listen," Steve said coming back on, "there's some rain due for tonight,
but he says he thinks we can try. He claims there's a clearing about a quarter
of a mile down a gravel road that goes south. With the rain as cover, maybe
we can put down just after dark. Think you can find a way to get Sarah and
meet us?"
"I'm not even sure she can walk, at least not far, but we'll be there." I was
flashing on her back in the square, proclaim­ing her happiness. Would I have
to drag her out, carry her on my back? Well, I would. "There's some kind of
'cere­mony' on for tomorrow morning. The Army's going to be here in