I fell silent.

“Good. The press will assemble at five. So go change your clothes and do something with your hair and get ready. If you want to bring your FBI guy, that’s fine, but I want you to do the talking. We have to impress upon them the fact that the LVPD is in charge and has the investigation under control.”

“Great. Just great.” I checked my watch. “I’d better-”

He held up a finger. “One more thing.” He turned. “Darcy, can you get me some more coffee?” O’Bannon held out his mug. “I’d really appreciate it.”

Darcy tilted his head. “D-D-Did you know that Americans drink over forty million cups of coffee a year?”

“Fascinating. So refill my mug, will ya?”

Darcy left the office. And O’Bannon gave me the harshest look I’d had since I got out of detox. “Don’t hurt him.”

I was totally flummoxed. “What?”

“You heard me. I don’t want my boy hurt.”

“I wouldn’t dream of hurting him. He’s adorable. And I think he loves working on this case.”

“What he loves is-” He stopped, shook his head.

“I’d think you’d be pleased. You know, in his own weird little way, he has a real aptitude for detective work.”

“There is no way in hell Darcy could cut it as a detective. He can’t even carry on a coherent conversation.”

“He might need help in certain areas, but who doesn’t? Lots of people can’t carry on conversations. I don’t know anyone who can do what Darcy does.”

“How could he interview a suspect? How could he organize his thoughts and come up with a theory? Write a report? It’s ridiculous.”

“I think you’re being too hard on him.”

“I didn’t just stroll into his life last week. I think I know a little something about what he can and cannot do.” He muttered something under his breath. “Look, you can take him around to the crime scenes. Let him talk to the techies. Fine. But I don’t want him hurt. Are we clear?”

I stood quietly at attention. “Yes, sir.”

The door opened again and Darcy entered. “Here’s your coffee, Dad.”

O’Bannon took a deep drag, then winced. “What the hell is this? This isn’t-”

“I got you decaf. Because caffeine is not good for you.”

“Decaf?”

“In controlled studies conducted at Stanford University, caffeine and caffeine withdrawal were linked to headaches, nosebleeds, stomach disorders, irritability, impotence…”

O’Bannon pressed a hand against his forehead. “One more thing to remember about this press conference, Susan. Your psycho killer may be watching.”

“Almost a certainty,” I said. “So I’ll be careful not to make him feel challenged, offended, maligned. No telling what he might do if that happened.”

He was disturbed.

He had done everything according to plan. He had sacrificed the offerings. He had followed the directions in the prophet’s work. But the Golden Age had not come. Ginny had not been returned to him.

Was it possible he was wrong?

It must simply be delayed. A transformation of this magnitude cannot come about overnight. This would give him more time to get the word out. The media coverage had exceeded his most fevered imaginings. It seemed he was everywhere, or his work was-on newspapers and magazines, on the television, on street corners and newsstands and even the giant electronic billboard on the MGM Grand. A condign response to actions of this boldness, of this import. His great commission had been to spread the good news, to tell those who would hear of the coming of Dream-Land. He’d become a sensation.

Such success could only presage greatness. Such acceptance could only validate the rightness of his path. With this degree of exposure, he could be assured that any receptive ears would hear the message. Not everyone would understand it, of course. Some would write it off as just another news story. Another pathetic wretch trying to get his fifteen minutes. But the enlightened would see more. The prophet had known his message would not be heard by everyone: To the few who love me and whom I love-To those who feel rather than to those who think-To the dreamers and those who put their faith in dreams as the only realities-I offer this Book of Truths…

On the television, a popular talk show host was interviewing an English professor about how Poe’s dark and nihilistic visions might inspire an unbalanced personality. The professor appeared delighted to be consulted. Not surprising, in this age in which colleges push professors to become media consultants as much as they push them to publish. An expert in American literature probably receives few calls from the six o’clock news.

“Tell me the truth,” the host said, leaning forward in her swiveling chair. “This Poe stuff is mostly for kids, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” the man replied, straightening the cuff on his tweed jacket. “Poe was an important figure in American literature-indeed, in world literature. He invented, or at least defined, the modern short story as a literary form. He invented detective fiction, wrote the first true science fiction story. He invented symbolist poetry and the New Criticism, which would be fully realized only half a century later, during the Modernist era. He may not be America’s greatest writer, but I would be hard pressed to identify one whose contributions were more widespread. Poe had a huge impact on many great writers. Oscar Wilde. Jules Verne. Thomas Pynchon. Nabokov. Poe has fallen out of favor with my academic colleagues at this time, who tend to favor Faulkner as the chief figure in American literature. But Poe’s influence has been vastly greater.”

“But Dr. Watson… Poe may have been a good writer, but wasn’t he kind of a freak?”

“Much of the Poe persona as we know it today was the creation of his literary executor, Rufus Griswold, who was jealous of Poe’s work and sought to destroy his reputation. He began this stereotype of Poe as a dark, cruel, nasty, abusive alcoholic. In fact, most accounts from contemporaries who knew Poe describe him as charming, witty, intelligent, generous, courteous, even chivalric. Women adored him; toward the end of his life he was seeing several wealthy socialites at once. He had lived in the North, the South, and even England, but always considered himself a southern gentlemen and behaved accordingly. Except when he was drinking, of course.”

“But those stories he wrote-that’s really twisted stuff. Burying people alive-”

“Premature burial was a widespread and much discussed phobia in the nineteenth century. Not just with Poe. There had purportedly been a true incident that got great play in the papers. People began buying coffins with escape hatches that could be activated from the interior or that had a bell the interred could ring if consciousness returned.”

“Okay, and how about that teeth-pulling business?”

The professor held up his hands. “Make no mistake about it-Poe wrote some strange tales. His imagination was given to the macabre and sensationalistic. But he was trailblazing-writing a kind of story that had never been attempted before. And to some extent, all of his work is united by his strange belief system. Poe believed that there was another world, a better one, that we saw glimpses of when we dreamed. Poe even believed it was possible…”

He switched channels to the press conference, which was late in starting. No doubt they had woodshedded Susan, drilling her on what could and could not be revealed. With so many eyes watching, they must be concerned about her somewhat mercurial temperament. Either that or they were pouring coffee down her gullet, sobering her up, poor thing.

How interesting that she should share the prophet’s infirmity. Remarkable-or a sign of shared destiny?

At last, Susan approached the podium, looking elegant in a sleek blue jacket and white slacks. In the background, he spotted Lieutenant Granger and that new companion, the one who looked as if he barely knew where he was. Susan adjusted the microphone and began.