She put a finger out to his lips to shut him up, and said, "She's very discreet. She understands all of that. She's married, and her husband has no idea."

"You fuckin' moron. You fuckin'-"

She said, "Hit me, James. In the face. Hard. C'mon, hit me."

He said, "You're nuts."

"I'm a seeker, James." Her face was placid, lit from within. "Hit me."

He slapped her.

"Harder, James."

The second time, he hit her hard. He'd counted on killing her, but that was now an impossibility-impossible, at least, until he had time to better figure out what she'd told the other woman. He hit her with an open hand, hard enough to knock her flat. She looked up at him, blood on her lips, her eyes glittering. "Rape me."

He shook his head: "Listen… I…" He looked down at himself: He was shaking like a Jell-O mold.

"James. C'mon, James, please…"

HE WAS AT home that evening, eating a bowl of Froot Loops, reading the back of the box, when his mother called. She sounded ill: "James, I need to see you."

"Something wrong? You sound… afflicted."

"I am afflicted," she said. "Sorely. I need to talk to you immediately."

"All right, then," he said, "Let me finish my cereal and I'll be over."

She rang off and he sat down again, but rather than go back to the text on the box, he began considering the tone of her voice. She had definitely sounded ill-and there was an unaccustomed urgency in her tone. Maybe she really was ill. Her mother had died of pancreatic cancer at a younger age than she was now…

His mother, he thought, all those years with a good salary; a woman born at the end of the Great Depression, of parents who'd suffered through chronic unemployment and the loss of a house, who had inflicted her with the fear that she'd wind up alone and penniless and too old to help herself. That fear had kept her working beyond the normal retirement age.

And kept her piling money into her Fidelity account and into her 201K plan. She had a half-million in Fidelity, God-only-knew-what in the 201K, and the college provided excellent medical, so the estate wouldn't be soaked up by medical costs or nursing care.

A half-million. His mother, gone. He put his head in his hands and wept, the tears streaming down his face, his chest heaving, a catch in his voice box. After a minute, he gathered himself.

A half-million. A Porsche Boxster S could be had for fifty thousand.

The image of himself in a Boxster, a tan leather jacket-not suede, he thought, suede was passй, but something reflective of the suede idea, with light driving gloves of a darker brown-lifting a hand to a small, blond, admiring coed on a street corner: The image was so real that he nearly experienced the reality itself, sitting in his kitchen chair. A cool clear fall afternoon, leaves scuttling along the street, the smell of yard smoke in the air, a day perfectly fitting for the not-suede jacket, the girl in a plaid skirt and white long-sleeve blouse, a cardigan over her shoulders…

His mother had said she was afflicted. He hurried out to his car.

HE PARKED IN the driveway, climbed the stoop at the side door, and stopped for a second to look at the house-he hadn't even considered the house, but in this neighborhood, in this condition, the house itself had to be worth a quarter-million. And they had done no estate planning: none. The thought of losing it, even a piece of it, to taxes, again brought the welling tears. He squared his shoulders and rang the doorbell.

Helen came to the door, pushed open the storm door, said curtly, "Come in." She didn't sound ill, he thought.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"No." She led the way back to an L-corner where she had her television, and sat in her rocker. Qatar trailed along, and when she sat down, perched on the couch. She took a remote control from her reading table, pointed it at the television, and a moment later Qatar found himself looking, with some puzzlement, at an old movie. The movie ran for two or three seconds, and she paused it. A nice-looking actor was caught full-face.

"The police have come to see me three times," she said. "It has to do with this man who buried all those girls on that hill. They have learned that this man had some training in art; that he spent time at Stout, in Wisconsin; that he has some connection with St. Patrick's and myself; that he probably murdered Charlotte Neumann…"

Qatar had tightened the grip on himself as she began to speak. He was an exceptional liar, always had been, his face loose and observant, questioning, wondering where the speaker was going, ready with the surprise and denial.

"And," his mother concluded, "they have learned that he looked like this man."

"Yes?"

"James. That is you, ten years ago. Even five. That is you," she said.

His chin dropped. Then he said, voice rising, "You think, you think… Mother, you think it's me? My God, this man is a monster. You think it's me?"

Her head bobbed. "I'm afraid that's what I think, James. I want you to convince me that it's not true. But I remember all those poor cats, with their heads twisted."

"That was not me. That was Carl Stevenson, I told you then it was Carl."

She shook her head, "James…"

"What can I tell you?" He was on his feet. "Mother, I did not do this."

"Convince me."

He shook his head. "This is crazy. This is completely crazy. Lord, I hope you haven't told anybody about this. It's my life, my career. I had nothing-nothing-to do with any of this, but just the accusation or even the suggestion would finish me. My God, Mother, how can you think this?"

She looked at him, tears in her eyes now. "I want to believe that, but I don't. I knew about the cats. I hid it even from myself, but I saw you one day, going out in the garage, and I found the cat later."

And suddenly she broke down and began to cry, a series of breath-catching moans-a sense of agony that brought tears to Qatar's eyes, not because of his mother's pain, but because of the injustice and the lack of understanding, that she should betray him by her lack of belief.

"That was not me," he insisted. "Mother, who have you talked to about this?"

"Nobody," she said, shaking her head. "I know the effect this could have on your life. I took care-but now I have something to pray over. My own flesh and blood."

"Ah, man… Mother, I don't want to have to deal with this, but I have to say it: I think you are… afflicted. You've made this up. Created it. The man on the television is not me; I saw the drawings on television. You really think I could draw those things? C'mon, Mother."

But it wasn't going to work. He could see it. "I need something to drink-water," he said. "Don't go away."

He walked past her, through the living room and into the kitchen, opened a cupboard, got a glass, let the water run for a moment as the calculations flew through his mind. With the glass overflowing, he turned the water off, drank a sip, exhaled, poured the rest of the water down the drain.

Well, she knew. He had to act.

SHE WAS STILL sitting in the rocker when he walked back into the room; the actor's face was still frozen on the TV screen, watching them. Helen seemed in despair, but without a touch of fear.

"The best thing to do-" she began.

She didn't finish. He caught her one-handed by the hair and pulled her straight forward onto the carpet. She yelped once and went facedown, and he dropped on top of her, pinning her with his weight. She grunted, desperately, "James," and turned her head, her eyes rolling wildly, looking up at him, unbelieving, and he slipped one hand around her face and cupped her mouth in the palm of his hand and with his thumb and forefinger, pinched her nose. He took care: He didn't pinch tightly enough to bruise, only to stop the flow of air. She struggled, she tried to get a breath-he could feel the suction against the palm of his hand-but it was all over quickly enough. He held her until he knew she was dead, then held her a minute longer.