Mr. Sarotzini nodded, and sat in silence. Verity rolled her head and opened her eyes. He touched the baby's hand with his finger, then stood over her and made faces at her, trying to get her to smile. Just watching this intimacy made Susan angry and possessive.

  Then, lowering his voice, as if he didn't want the baby to hear, Mr. Sarotzini said, "I can ruin your life, Susan. It will take just one phone call."

  It wasn't the words he'd said, or the way he said them. It was something in his face as he spoke that truly frightened Susan. She saw, for the first time, the power, an immense, dark power. And it stripped away all her new-found confidence. Mesmerised, she said, "I - I don't understand?" "You have been told that your sister, Casey, is dead?"

  She stared at him in disbelief, as if convinced he was playing a game and had said this to shok her. "What? What did you -?"

  Her voice fell away. "Casey?" she said, her scalp tightening. He was not playing a game. Black, icy water swirled in her guts. Mr. Sarotzini went out of focus. "Casey. Dead?" There was a mistake here, there had to be. Please God let there be.

  "You have not been told?"

  She looked for some sign in his blur of a face, something she could reach out to that could give her hope, that would tell her perhaps that he had made a mistake. Her voice came out as a squeak. "Dead?" It wasn't possible, "Casey was fine, she was alive, she -"

  "I am aware how much you loved her, Susan."

  He was so calm, so matter-of-fact. Casey was dead and Mr. Sarotzini was being calm. She wanted to lash out at him, scream at him. Instead she spoke quietly, her voice stretched tight, at its outer limits, on the verge of breaking up altogether. "What - what do you mean, Casey's dead?."

  He returned her stare, saying nothing.

  Something was all wrong. about this. Casey wasn't dead, she'd been in her room, the air line - something - disconnected - Her grip on reality seemed to be shrinking away from her. She sniffed, her eyes filling with tears. "The nurse said - she said Casey was OK, she -"

  "She's dead, Susan," he said, with a sudden coldness. "Would you like to see her corpse?"

  She covered her mouth with her hand, closed her eyes, shaking terribly.

  "It isn't true, please tell me it isn't true."

  "She's dead."

  "Wh - when? When did - did she - die?"

  "You know the answer to that, Susan. You were in her room at four o'clock yesterday morning, holding her severed air line."

  And as she looked at him she saw what he was implying. Tears streaming down, she shook her head, barely able to believe this. "Oh no," she said. "No, no, no, no, you've got this wrong."

  He stared resolutely back at her.

  "I loved Casey." She broke down, sobbing, and it was some moments before she was composed enough to speak again. "I loved her so much. I agreed to have Verity to help Casey, to pay for Casey to stay here, that's why I agreed." She fumbled for a tissue to staunch the tears. "I loved her, Mr. Sarotzini, I couldn't harm - her, I -" Now she was crying too much to talk.

  Verity, picking up on her distress, began to cry too. Mr. Sarotzini lifted her from the cot and placed her in Susan's arms. Almost instantly Verity quietened, and the effect of holding her baby calmed Susan a little also. She looked at him imploringly. "Please tell me it isn't true?"

  Mr. Sarotzini said, "Susan, I believe you did not intend to harm her, that what you did was caused by the emotional state you were in, and I am sure that in your mind at the time you did it with the best intentions."

  "I didn't - I didn't do it, I did not kill her. The air line was broken when I got there. Nurse - the nurse - Caulk, Nurse Caulk, ask her -"

  Mr. Sarotzini looked at her with an expression of deep compassion. "Susan, do you think I would entrust you with my child if I thought you had really intended to harm Casey? I believe it was a temporary state of mind, a moment of madness borne from despair. But would a judge and jury believe you?" Suddenly, his tone hardened again. "All I have to do is pick up the phone and call the police and give them the affidavit I have from Nurse Caulk, and you'll be spending the next ten years of your life in and out of prison, fighting court battles."

  Susan was unable to believe what she was hearing, and barely able, through her grief, to comprehend. "You think I did it? You really think I did it?"

  "Do you recall what you did yesterday afternoon, Susan? It was hardly the behaviour of someone in their normal frame of mind."

  Running. She remembered running. Lunging out. Miles Van Rhoe sinking to the ground with a cellular phone jammed in his eye. Was that what he meant? Yesterday afternoon?

  It wasn't a dream?

  "And please think about this, Susan. If I make that call, you will never see Verity again. I will be given immediate custody, no argument. And, Susan, this is important for the future. There is no statute of limitations for murder in the state of California. I can pick up the phone right now, or in ten years" time, or in twenty years" time. Perhaps at the end of it you'll get the death penalty, perhaps you'll get life, perhaps you'll be committed to an institute for the criminally insane. possibly you'll go free."

  "Please, please stop." She was shivering terribly, trying to think straight, to think back to when she arrived, to reconstruct those moments. Could she have done it?

  Casey is dead.

  Could she have done it? Could she? Could Mr. Sarotzini be right?

  Had she hurt Miles Van Rhoe, too? Why hadn't he been in to see her? Had she killed him, too?

  Van Rhoe hadn't been in to see her because he'd gone back to England, that was why... if he had ever really been here at all... yesterday afternoon... Reality was slipping away... Do you recall what you did yesterday afternoon, Susan?

  A tremor rocked through her. She hugged Verity even harder, as if the baby was all the reality left to her in the world. Her brain was screaming at her no, no way did she harm Casey.

  But it was also reminding her of all the discussions she'd had with her parents and the doctors over the years, about not giving Casey medication if she got sick and letting her slip away. It was her mother who had fought for the ventilator. Susan had studied all the literature available on people in persistent vegetative states, and believed that Casey shouldn't have been given a ventilator. If she could breathe on her own, fine, but with almost zero brain activity, if she couldn't breathe on her own, then was there any point in keeping her alive?

  Oh, God, how she'd wanted her to slip away, wanted it so much. In those early days, she and her father had even talked about finding a way to do it themselves. Except neither of them ever could have done, they loved her too much. Didn't they?

  Hadn't she?

  And they had been hoping for a miracle, or a breakthrough in neurosurgery. It was possible: so long as Casey was still alive, it was possible that one day she might smile and laugh again, and stand on the stage at the Red Rocks and sing her heart out.

  Do you recall what you did yesterday afternoon, Susan?

  Mr. Sarotzini leant forward and stroked Verity's head lightly with his index finger. "Susan, I can't tell you how much it would hurt me to put you through all this. Not, of course, to mention the trouble I would have in finding another mother as wonderful as yourself, but you must believe that if you make me, I will do it, you will leave me no alternative." "Then go ahead, do it." She nodded at the phone. "Do it."

  He looked at her seriously. "You need to think this through, Susan." "Do it," she said, bitterly.

  "They will come here and arrest you, Susan. I have the legal documentation with me, establishing myself to be Verity's father. I will fly to Switzerland with her today and you will never see her again." He continued to stroke Verity's head; she was fast asleep now.

  Casey was dead. Nothing mattered any more. She didn't care what happened any more. She felt drained, her batteries were flat. They could kill her too. As if in protest, Verity suddenly opened her eyes, stared, blinking at Susan, then went back to sleep. Me, she seemed to be saying. Me, I matter.

  Susan held her closer, tighter, suddenly jolted back to sense, and lowered her voice. "I won't bring her up under your terms, Mr. Sarotzini. I will not bring up my child to be a devil worshipper, or any other loony things you might want her to do, I won't, so you'd better make that call, just do it, do it now."

  He lifted the receiver and calmly asked the operator to put him through to the Orange County Police Headquarters. Susan watched him, as if he were some figure in a distant landscape, her thoughts in turmoil, see-sawing wildly. Casey was dead. Verity was connected to that, somehow. Casey, the air line, the dark room, the broken air line - she could picture it so vividly.

  Or could she?

  Mr. Sarotzini said into the phone, "Homicide division, please."

  She closed her eyes and heard him say, "Yes, good morning. I am a director of the Cypress Palisades Clinic, and I wish to report the suspected murder of one of our patients." There was a pause, and then Mr. Sarotzini said, "Of course, certainly." There was another pause. "Yes, of course... the patient's name... it is Casey Corrigan." He started to spell it out.

  Something snapped inside her and Susan screamed at him, "Stop! Please, no, no, no."

  Verity's eyes opened in alarm. Susan was sobbing uncontrollably. "Please don't, please, please, I didn't do it, I didn't, please. Please don't take Verity, too." She held her even more tightly. "Please, please, let me keep her, I'll be a good mother, I promise I will!" She closed her eyes again, sobbing and hugging her baby.

  There was silence.

  The silence continued. She opened her eyes. Mr. Sarotzini was holding out the receiver to her. She took it and listened, unsure what she was expected to say. And then she realised.

  There was no connection.

  Mr. Sarotzini had an icy smile. He took back the receiver and hung up. "I think it is so wise that this was only a rehearsal, Susan. Don't you?" She said nothing.

  And Mr. Sarotzini said, more kindly now, "It is the Nineteenth Truth that tells us that only in the vortex of our deepest fear can we see with true clarity."

  Chapter Sixty-four

  John slowed for a sleeping policeman, then accelerated on down the drive. As he came round to the front of the clinic, he saw that the visitors" car park was almost empty, which was normal. The clinic had never seemed busy - he could barely remember seeing anyone other than staff on all the previous occasions that he'd been here.

  Maybe that feeling of privacy and seclusion was the reason for its success, he speculated, as he locked the Chevrolet and walked, under the watchful eye of a closed-circuit camera, through the automatic doors of the main entrance, into the plush cool of the wood-panelled lobby. Today the quietness made him uneasy.

  "Help you, sir?" The man on duty at the desk was black, about forty, and an honours graduate in courtesy.

  "I've come to see my wife, Susan Carter."

  "And your first name, Mr. Carter?"

  John told him, he entered it on his keyboard and, seconds later, the computer printed out his name, time of entry and pass number. The guard tore it off, slipped it into a plastic lapel holder and handed it to John. Then he picked up his telephone, stabbed a button, and said, breezily, "I have Mr. John Carter to see Mrs. Susan Carter, two zero one, Monterey Wing."

  He replaced the receiver and gave John a beamer of a smile. "Someone'll be right with you to take you up." He pointed towards the cluster of low chairs. "Have yourself a seat."

  "It's OK, I know my way around. Tell me where she is and I'll find her."

  The guard gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, everybody has to be accompanied - security policy."

  "Wasn't last time I was here," John said, testily, and remained standing, pacing around distractedly. He picked up a brochure on the clinic and flicked through it, glancing at pictures of the rooms, operating theatres, views, the grounds. But he could find no mention of the new owners.

  "Mr. John Carter?"

  The voice was tinged with a guttural mid-European accent. John turned to see a tall, unsmiling man with close-cropped hair and massive shoulders, staring at him. Dressed in a dark, shiny suit, plain black tie and shiny black loafers, he didn't fit here. He looked like a minder, not a medical orderly.

  Guardedly, John said, "Yes."

  "This way, please, you will follow me."

  In contrast to his powerful appearance, the man walked lamely, in a hobbling gait, as if he were in pain. John followed him across to the elevator, and as they stood waiting for it to arrive, he was aware that the man was studying him intently.

  "How is my wife?" he asked, awkwardly, feeling as if he was undergoing some physical inspection.

  The man bristled, as if John had asked a forbidden question, then replied, stiffly, "She is satisfactory."

  The double doors opened and John stepped into the car, which was wide enough to accommodate a gurney. Continuing to stare at him, the man pressed a button for the third floor.

  The doors closed slowly and a little jerkily, then the elevator began to ascend. Satisfactory. Susan was satisfactory. Whatever that meant. Was Susan under guard? Presumably. To protect other patients from her? Or, more likely, to prevent her from going anywhere.

  "Slow elevator," John said, disconcerted by the scrutiny what was still going on, and trying to break the awkward silence. But the response was a narrowing of the man's eyes and an even more intense stare. Then John noticed that the man's fists were clenched tight, his knuckles white. His whole face was taut and he was quivering, as if struggling to contain some private rage.

  Alarmed, John eased himself back, away from him, but within a few inches he was pressing against the wall. The light on the panel indicated 3 and the car stopped with a jerk. But the doors remained closed.

  The man looked at them, glanced at the panel, then stabbed a button. Nothing happened. He tried again, with the same result. Then, with a sudden burst of fury, he punched one of the doors with his fist Then he punched the door again, even harder.

  John watched the display of temper, saying nothing. He had a feeling that if he opened his mouth, the man might switch his aggression to him - he looked nuts, a psycho, well on the edge of losing it.

  Without uttering a sound, the man took another swing, and this time he struck the door with such force that John could see it bulge and light appeared down the centre. He hit it again, then again, then again, then again, setting up a reverberating metallic drumming sound, and shaking the car so violently that John became apprehensive that they were in danger of plummeting downwards.

  Then he stopped, and again tried a button on the panel. The car jerked up a couple of inches, halted, and the doors, mercifully, opened.

  With the drumming sound still in his ears, and his temper worsening, John followed the man out, down a corridor and into a small room occupied by a secretary, who was concentrating on her keyboard and barely glanced at them. There was an open door behind her and the man gestured for him to go through.

  John entered a large, well-furnished office that smelled faintly of cigar smoke, then stopped in his tracks. Seated behind the desk, framed by Venetian blinds behind him and a workstation to his right, was Emil Sarotzini.

  John stared at the banker, surprised. It had not occurred to him that he might be here. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

  The banker stood up, smiling courteously, and extended a rigid hand. "Mr. Carter, how very pleasant to see you here in the United States. Please sit down."

  John shook his hand coldly, and remained standing. "I asked to be taken to Susan, not to you."

  "In good time," the banker said.

  "I want to see her now. How is she?"

  "I have just been with her. She is fine."

  "That's not what I've heard."

  "She is fine, Mr. Carter, I can assure you."

  "I'm not interested in your assurances."

  Remaining calm, Mr. Sarotzini replied, "Perhaps I should remind you that you were interested a year ago, Mr. Carter, when I was all you had."

  "Yes. I must have been a bloody fool. I had no idea quite how ubiquitous you were."

  The banker looked at him quizzically.

  "What a coincidence that your bank should acquire the one clinic in the world in which Susan's sister is a patient," he said sarcastically. Then, digging in his jacket pocket, he produced a tiny dome-shaped video camera, and thrust it across the desk. "I think this belongs to you."

  Mr. Sarotzini cradled it in his bony fingers, examining it for some moments. "No, Mr. Carter, I regret I am not familiar with this object. It is a lamp of some kind, perhaps?"

  "Let's cut the crap. I found twelve of these concealed in the ceilings of my house and a satellite transmitter. You've been bugging Susan and me. You've been spying on us. Is this how you get your rocks off?. Watching us in bed? This is outrageous, grotesque."

  The banker sat down and made a gesture for John to sit also, which he ignored. After studying John solemnly for some moments, seemingly deep in thought, he said, "Events have proven the surveillance to have been a wise precaution, Mr. Carter, would you not agree?"

  "I didn't think voyeurism was your style, Mr. Sarotzini. For some foolish reason, I thought you were a gentleman. You're not even going to apologise?"

  "On the contrary, Mr. Carter, you should thank my colleague, Mr. Klindz, for his foresight." Mr. Sarotzini inclined his head, and John suddenly realised that someone else was in the room. He spun round and saw that it was the man who had brought him up here. He was standing behind him, squarely blocking the door, and acknowledged John's glance with a hint of mockery in his eyes.

  Mr. Sarotzini's tone became icy; "Perhaps you would care to explain, Mr. Carter, why your wife disobeyed Mr. Van Rhoe's explicit instructions not to leave London and instead, recklessly, with no thought of the baby's well-being, flew out here?"

  Angrily, John replied, "I'd have thought you knew the reason, since you've been able to hear everything in our house for God knows how long. She was scared, OK? Zak Danziger died, then Harvey Addison, then Fergus Donleavy. The one connection between all three was you. And she was informed that her wonderful obstetrician, whom you insisted on, Mr. Miles Van Rhoe, has a Scotland Yard file as a devil worshipper. And now my friend Archie Warren's in a coma, and guess what? He was trying to find out information about you when it happened. Then I find that the V6rn Bank has bought this Clinic - and suddenly Susan's sister is dead. And -" John checked himself from saying something about Emil Sarotzini the war criminal, who had died in 1947.