The calls had just been posted on the Visa billing computer. And the phone numbers I had called were also part of the billing record. In five minutes I had copied all the numbers I had called on the plane into my notebook, thanked the operator and hung up.

Once again I plugged the phone line into my computer. I opened the terminal window, typed in the phone number that had been called from Thorson's room and ran the program. I looked at the bedside clock. It was three here, six in Florida. There was one ring and then a connection. I heard the familiar squeal of computers meeting and then mating. My screen went blank and then a template printed across it.

____________________

WELCOME TO THE PTL CLUB

____________________

I exhaled, leaned back and felt a surge of electricity go through me. After a few seconds the screen moved up and there was a coded prompt for a user's password. I typed in EDGAR, noticing that my good hand was shaking as I did this. Edgar was approved and followed by a prompt for a second password. I typed in EDGAR PERRY. In a moment this, too, was approved and followed by a warning template.

____________________

PRAISE THE LORD!

____________________

RULES OF THE ROAD

1. NEVER EVER USE A REAL NAME

2. NEVER PROVIDE SYSTEMS NUMBERS TO ACQUAINTANCES

3. NEVER AGREE TO MEET ANOTHER USER

4. BE AWARE THAT OTHER USERS MAY BE FOREIGN BODIES

5. SYSOP RESERVES THE RIGHT TO DELETE ANY USER

6. MESSAGE BOARDS MAY NOT BE USED FOR DISCUSSION OF ANY ILLEGAL ACTIVITIES-THIS IS FORBIDDEN!

7. PTL NETWORK IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT

8. PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE

____________________

I hit RETURN and got a table of contents for the various message boards available to users. These were, as Clearmountain had said, a cornucopia of subjects catering to the modern pedophile. I hit the escape key and the computer asked if I wanted to exit PLT. I hit the yes prompt and disconnected. I wasn't interested in exploring the PTL Network at the moment. I was more interested in the fact that Thorson, or whoever had made that call early Sunday morning, knew about the PTL Network and even had access to it at least four days ago.

The call to the PTL board had been placed from Thorson's room so it seemed obvious that he had made the call. But I carefully considered other factors. The call to the PTL board had been made, as I recalled, within minutes of the call from the same room to Warren in Los Angeles. Thorson had vehemently denied being Warren's source on at least three occasions. Warren twice denied it as well, including after Thorson was dead and it didn't matter anymore if he had been the source. The seed planted by Warren during that second denial just a few hours before weighed on me now. It was blossoming in my mind into a flower of doubt I could not put aside.

If Warren and Thorson were to be believed, who had made the calls from Thorson's room? As the possibilities played through my mind they invariably came back with a dull thud in my chest to one person. Rachel.

It was the fermentation of various and unrelated facts that led me down this path.

First, Rachel had a laptop computer. This, of course, was the weakest piece. Thorson, Backus, everyone possessed or had access to a computer that would have allowed them to make the linkage to the PTL board. But second, Rachel was not in her room late Saturday night when I called and then even knocked. So where was she? Could she have gone to Thorson's room?

I considered the things Thorson had said to me about Rachel. He had called her the Painted Desert. But he had said something else. She can play with you… like a toy. One minute she wants to share it, the next she doesn't. She disappears on you.

And last, I thought of seeing Thorson in the hallway that night. I knew it had been after midnight by then and roughly near the times of the long distance calls placed from his room. As he had passed me in the hall I noticed he carried something. A small bag or a box. I now remembered the sound of the little zippered pocket opening in Rachel's purse and the condom-the one she carried for emergencies-being placed in my palm. And I thought of a way Rachel could have gotten Thorson out of his own room so that she could use the phone.

A feeling of pure dread began to descend on me now. Warren's flower was in full bloom and was choking me. I stood up to pace a little but felt light-headed. I blamed it on the painkiller and sat back down on the bed. After a few moments' rest, I reconnected the phone and called the hotel in Phoenix, asking for the billing office. A young woman took the call.

"Yes, hello, I stayed at your hotel over the weekend and didn't really look at my bill until I got back. I had a question about a few phone calls I was billed for. I've been meaning to call but keep forgetting. Is there someone I could talk to about that?"

"Yes, sir, I would be glad to help. If you give me your name I can call up your statement."

"Thanks. It's Gordon Thorson."

She didn't reply and I froze, thinking maybe she recognized the name from the TV or a newspaper as the agent slain in L.A., but then I heard her begin tapping on a keyboard.

"Yes, Mr. Thorson. That was room three twenty-five for two nights. What seems to be the problem?"

I wrote the room number down in my notebook, just to be doing something. Following the journalist's routine of making a record of facts helped calm me.

"You know what? I can't-I'm looking around my desk here for my copy and I seem to have misplaced… Darn it! I can't find it now. Uh, I'll have to call you back. But in the meantime maybe you can look it up and have it ready. What I was concerned about was that there were three calls made after midnight on Saturday that I just don't remember making. I have the numbers written down here some-here they are."

I quickly gave her the three numbers I had gotten from the Visa operator, hoping I'd be able to finesse my way through this.

"Yes, they are on your billing. Are you sure you-"

"What time were they made? See, that's the problem. I don't conduct business in the middle of the night."

She gave me the times. The call to Quantico was logged at 12:37 A.M., followed by the call to Warren at 12:41 A.M. and then the call to the PTL Network line at 12:56 A.M. I stared at the numbers after writing them down.

"You don't believe you made these?"

"What?"

"I said you don't believe you made these?"

"That's right."

"Was there anyone else in the room with you?"

That was the point, wasn't it, I thought but didn't say.

"Uh, no," I said, and then quickly added, "Can you just double-check those for me and if there is nothing wrong with your machines, I'll be glad to pay. Thank you."

I hung up and looked at the times I had written in my notebook. They fit. Rachel had stayed in my room until almost midnight. The next morning she told me she had bumped into Thorson while in the hall after leaving. Maybe she had lied to me. Maybe she had done more than bump into him. Maybe she had gone to his room.

With Thorson dead, there was only one way of pursuing this theory outside of going to Rachel, which I couldn't do yet. I picked up the phone up once again and called the FBI office in the federal building. The operator, under strict orders to screen calls to Backus, especially from the media, was not going to put me through until I told her I was the one who had killed the Poet and that I had an urgent need to speak to the special agent. Finally, I was put through and Backus picked up.

"Jack, what's the problem?"

"Bob, listen to me, I'm very serious. Are you alone?"

"Jack, what-"

"Just answer the question! Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell. I've just got-Look, just tell me, are you alone?"