The Extremes

No matter.

Now then. She had to think.

She was faced with two explanations of her present dilemma, both based on impossibility.

All the evidence was that she was now living eight months in the past. Even as she stared blankly at the monitor, yet another piece of evidence for this swam into her awareness: the program always displayed the day's date in a tiny box at the bottom right of the display, and according to this the date now was June 3. The day of Grove's massacre.

To accept this would mean accepting that she had moved back through time. There were the dates on her credit card, the change in weather, the many small differences at the ExEx building. In the February of her real life, Paula Willson had told her that membership of the Bulverton ExEx facility was almost at capacity, and that they were planning to close the place to new members. A few minutes ago, the same Paula had pressed on her all the paraphernalia of a sales or membership drive.

But the whole concept of travelling back through time was, for Teresa, almost impossible to accept. She had never understood it on a philosophical level, and anyway she felt that all around her was practical disproof

If entering the Grove scenario, then leaving it, had taken her eight months into the past via the medium of Gerry Grove's disgusting consciousness, how come she had turned up here in the same clothes she was wearing when she left

the hotel this morning? How come she had the same shoulder-bag? Carried the same credit cards? Had the same tissue in her pocket when she needed to mop her face, the first time to wipe away the rain of a freezing day, the second time the perspiration of a heatwave?

More to the point, how had she lost her ExEx identification card, if Grove had not taken it when he needed to?

That wasn't consistent, though. The cards were electronically coded: when Grove gave his (or hers) to Paula, the receptionist had found records of Grove on her computer.

Teresa gave up that line of thought.

Her rental car had also disappeared, and she gave up on that too. All scenarios had inconsistencies, brick walls where you expected an Underground station to be.

lt must mean she was in extreme experience, not living this as part of her own life. But it was no longer the scenario of Grove's day of murder: that was the scenario she had consciously entered, the one that had placed her within his mind, behind his eyes, as a witness to his crimes. She was herself, not Grove in any form.

Although the hyperreality of a scenario no longer surprised her, she had never been able to take for granted the sheer wealth of detail, the tiny plausible details, the irrelevancies, the unexpected and the accidental. All these underlined the sense of a heightened reality.

She could feel it now: looking around, she sought evidence of unexpected detail, and instantly found it.

The nail of her left index finger was broken: she had snagged it the night before when opening a drawer in her bedroom at the White Dragon, and had only had time to smooth down the break with an emery board. lt was the same now as it had been this morning.

Outside the cubicle in which she was sitting was a Swiss cheese plant in a pot, and it clearly needed watering or a spell in direct daylight.

Three of the leaves were turning yellow, and about to fall off. On the far side of the openplan office, barely visible above the partition walls, was a fluorescent light with a strip that needed replacing: at odd moments it flickered quickly, a constant minor distraction at the edge of vision. A dropped or discarded ballpoint pen lay on the floor behind her chair; she had not dropped it, it was not hers, and until this moment she had not even noticed it.

(But moments later she realized that the complimentary pen Paula had given her was no longer where she had placed it, that she must have knocked it off the desk, that the pen was after all hers. Details were maddening.)

Of course, such evidence would also underline the condition of reality, but Teresa had advanced beyond that.

Wherever she was, it was no longer the objectively real world.

But if it was a scenario, why had she been unable to abort it?

'Do you need a hand with running the software?'

A technician, a young man Teresa had never seen before. had paused while he passed the cubicle.

'No ... I'm just trying to make up my mind what 1'd like to do.'

'I'm here to help you, if you require it,' he said. 'You looked as if you were having trouble running the program.'

'It's fine. Thanks.' He could have no conception of the trouble she was having.

She waited until he had gone, then narrowed her eyes and again tried to think.

The rules had changed. When Grove entered the Shandy scenario, all the standard procedures for going into and out of extreme experience had been left behind. This, presumably, was what Ken Mitchell had meant by crossover: he described it as false memory syndrome, post hoc invention, interpretative spin. When she aborted the scenario she had imagined herself into existence here: there had been no corporeal body called Teresa Simons in a simulation cubicle, here, in the ExEx facility, on June 3. Yet she had returned from the Shandy scenario, and still was here.

The logic of the scenarios had been destroyed by Grove. The linearity Ken Mitchell held to be so essential had been given a third dimension, made matrical.

She began to browse as she had done so often before, but whereas previously she had been impelled mostly by curiosity now she had a purpose. She was looking for the area of the database called Memorative Principals, and recalled that when she had been searching for the extra information about Shandy it had not been accessible from any of the main option menus. She tried to remember how she had done it then, but saw nothing that reminded her.

Back at the main screen of options, she finally noticed a small box in the bottom corner: Run Macro. She clicked on this, and to her relief saw yet another huge menu of options. One of these was Connect Memorative Principals.

She typed in 'Teresa Ann Simons', added 'Woodbridge' and 'Bulverton' as defining physical locations, and clicked to see what would happen. Nothing happened. Not even the first scenario she had ever used, the target practice, was on file. But that, of course, was then. Back then, some time in the future, next February.

She typed in 'Gerry Grove', added 'Bulverton' as a location, and then as an afterthought put in 'Gerald Dean Grove' as an alternative name. After a perceptible pause, the computer said that Grove appeared in three scenarios. Teresa ran the list of them. Two were shown as having no

hyperlinks; there was a similarity to their code numbers that made them look as if they were the same kind of thing. The third looked different, and Teresa clicked on the video icon.

lt was in a car, parked on the seafront at Bulverton. Sunlight poured in from the direction of the sea. Hands were tightening a hotwire connection beneath the dash. A figure stopped beside the car, shading the flood of sunlight.

The video preview ended.

A familiar sensation rose in Teresa: that of imminent overload, constantly diverting her to new matters. The program was showing her more information than she could take in. The sequence she had just watched was the opening of the scenario she experienced with Grove: the drug deal, the theft of the car, the taking of the guns from his house ...

This was the scenario she had been in, and had eventually aborted, the one that had trapped her within its time frame. Yet this scenario could not possibly exist today, the day on which the events actually occurred!

Meanwhile, what of the other two scenarios? She hadn't seen them in connection with Grove, in earlier searches of the program.

She clicked on one, and immediately recognized it. Grove had used the range for target practice; the video preview reminded her of the one occasion she had used the same facility.

She let the preview run to its end, then clicked on the other and watched that as well. lt was much the same. She looked at the back view of Grove's stocky figure with dislike.

The range itself did look slightly different, though, from the one where she had recorded her own target practice. Noticing an information button marked ]Location Code, she clicked on it and saw a narrative breakdown of part of the reference number. This identified the range in use as being the GunHo Licensed Extreme Experience facility, in Whitechapel Street, Maidstone, Kent.

She thought, I'm losing my grip on this. There's too much information conning at me.

Grove had said to Paula, as he checked into this ExEx facility, inside the scenario, folded back somewhere in her memory, Grove had said to Paula that he had used the Maidstone range, presumably implying that he did not normally come to this place.

Why had he said Maidstone? During her researches Teresa had read every available scrap of information about Grove, and she didn't recall a single mention of that Kentish town in his context.

She knew he had said Maidstone because she had prompted him to. She had been wondering how he was going to he his way past Paula. He had reached into his back pocket and found a plastic ID card that had satisfied the girl, and whose identifying number was acceptable to the computer. Teresa must have inspired the offthecuff reference to Maidstone herself, perhaps dredging it up from the memory of Paula telling her about the waiting period for membership.

She looked away from the screen, with its burden of unexpected information. She stared at the keyboard, lightly running her fingers round the edge of the plastic case, trying to clear her mind. She thought, Any more of this and 1 really will be lost.

In the end, the information about Maidstone was irrelevant. lt led up a blind alley, or at least into an alley into which she didn't want to venture.

She clicked back through the screens, to the one where she could search for links between principals. Once again she entered ' her own name and the defining locations, and the two versions of Grove's name, and waited to see what would happen.

There are 4 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'. Display? Yes/No.

Four links had come into being, where none had existed a few moments earlier. Again with the feeling that her ability to un erstan was s ipping away rom er, eresa c c e on Yes.

The first new link between her and Grove neither surprised nor worried her: it was to Shandy and Willem in their lustful clinch under the glare of the film lights. Neither did the second: this was Grove's deadly ramble around Bulverton.

lt was the last two links that frightened her.

She now appeared to be connected with his target practice sessions in the Maidstone range.

The list gave the dates and the code identified the location; the tiny video frames repeated what she had watched for herself only a few minutes earlier.

Had the act of briefly previewing those two scenarios somehow activated them, and linked her to them? But she had not actually entered the scenarios; she had merely viewed the video clips! In earlier sessions with the program she had previewed videos, without creating a hyperlink. lt was only a computer program, a glorified card index system.

She clicked on the video icon of the Shandy scenario, saw the young woman go yet again through her awkward movements as she tried to ease her uncomfortable clothes. When it finished, a new message was on the screen:

There are 72 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'. Display? Yes/No.

Seventytwo, when only a few moments ago there had been four? Dreading what might be happening, while still not comprehending it, Teresa again clicked on Yes.

The list unfolded slowly before her: she was hyperlinked to Grove's target practice sessions in Maidstone, and he to hers in Bulverton. In addition they were both hyperlinked to Shandy and Willem, Elsa Jane Durdle, Williarn Cook ...

moved the mouse pointer rapidly to Cancel, and clicked. The listing ceased at once and the screen cleared. A feeling gripped her that Grove was insinuating himself into her life. She had a bleak, vivid impression of his consciousness, somewhere in virtual reality, moving through every experience she had ever had, linking himself with her, crossing over from his blighted life to hers.

After a long pause, the screen once again showed the message in which the links were declared. lt now said:

There are 658 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'. Display? Yes/No.

Where would this end? With every minute, more links were being added and at what felt like an exponential rate of growth. Once again, she clicked on Yes, and stared at the screen with dread.

The list scrolled sedately up the screen, with some of the items taking longer to appear than others.

Many of them were familiar: Grove's two target practice recordings in Maidstone, and the one of herself in Bulverton. Shandy and Willem were there again (five in total, but freshly linked to another one hundred and sixtyfive unlisted scenarios). Some scenarios were new, but unsurprising: the Mercer family had thirteen scenarios linked to the shooting of Shelly.

Others did surprise her. Who for instance was Kathenine Denise Devore (ten links), and what was her connection either with Teresa or with Grove? Dave Hartland's name unexpectedly appeared

(twentyseven times), and there were sixteen others, in which Amy Lorraine Hartland, nee Colwyn, and Nicholas Anthony Surtees were named as memorative principals. Rosalind Williams appeared on the list (four), then Elsa Jane Durdle (fifteen; why had some been added since she was last here?).

To Teresa it seemed as if a patchwork version of her life was being assembled inside the computer.

She clicked on the first of Elsa Durdle's video icons, and saw the swaying palm trees, the glowing sunlight, the shining parked cars. So much had that simple scenario meant to her, because it had first given her the idea that she was free to explore, that like a child returning to an old toy for comfort she was tempted to select it once again. She wanted to drive through Southern California in Elsa's big comfortable car, listening to Duke Ellington and Artie Shaw on the radio, watching the town move away and reform around her as she travelled the endless highways of memory and mind.

Continue with 658 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'? Yes/No.

Teresa clicked on No. She scrolled back through the list, and paused on the name Katherine Denise Devore. Who the hell was this woman, that she was suddenly sigmificant to her?

She thought hard: Katherine, Kath, Kathy, Kathie, Kate, Katie? Had she ever known anyone with these names? Or Denise? Anyone at school, for instance? Teresa had repeatedly changed schools as her father was moved around from base to base. Most people grow up with a few old friends from their schooldays, but Teresa had hundreds of acquaintances and almost none she remembered as friends. Surely, somewhere, there would be a Katherine? Or maybe at one of her early jobs, at university, or at the Bureau? There had been a trainee on the ExEx course with her at the Quantico Academy, called Cathy Grenidge, whose full name was presumably Catherine ... but now she thought about it she had never seen her name written down. She might easily have been Kathenine or Kathy. What had happened to her?

Something shadowed the memory of Cathy Grenidge. Teresa thought hard, consciously using a memory technique she had been taught long ago. Federal agents have to be able to retain a lot of names and faces out of the hundreds they encounter, and there were ways of recalling them. What was the mnemonic for doing that? She cleared her mind, concentrated on the face, and then she had it. Agent Grenidge; she had graduated at the same time as Teresa, then was posted to Delaware, someplace like that? They'd lost contact, swept away to their own careers in the Bureau. No, Cathy married, then left the Bureau after a few years?

No, she hadn't quit. Teresa remembered that she and Cathy had married at about the same time, but Cathy was posted to somewhere in the Midwest soon afterwards. What had happened to her? She'd died in an accident, hadn't she? Or was it on an assignment? Who married her? Somewhere far away, a mental glimpse: Cathy and the guy she married, another agent, a practical joke at the wedding, something to do with a pack of cards and a trick, a brilliant piece of card manipulation that made everyone roar with laughter; a guy with large hands and a heavy body. Cal! Calvin Devore; Andy's friend Cal, the big guy with the large hands and the dainty movements that always amused and impressed her. Oh Jesus, Cal! His wife had been shot, trying to arrest a suspect in Dubuque, Iowa, hit in the head by a bullet, lay in a coma for a week, then died. Kathy Devore.

Continue with 658 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'? Yes/No.

Teresa clicked on No, irritated with the program for seeming irritated with her.

Was she involved in Kathy's death? Was Grove? What was the link? She tried to think, clear her thoughts of all the sidetracks, all the extra information.

If she let this go on, if she went back again, there would be even more hyperlinks, hundreds more connections. How many more could there be? The sidetracks were endless. The crossover with Grove was growing as if alive: it was spreading through virtuality, dragging in more connections between them, perhaps creating them.

lt was that endlessness again, the lack of an edge or a boundary, only extremes.

She thought, It's enough. 1 don't want to know about Kathy Devore. Not now. It's too late for that. 1 have to concentrate on one thing. What 1 want, what 1 need. Hyperreality has broken down, and 1 can go to the extremes.

Continue with 658 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'? Yes/No.

Teresa clicked on Yes. The seemingly endless listing resumed.

William Cook (one hundred and eleven main items, but with hundreds of others hyperlinked elsewhere), Charles Whitman (two hundred and twentyseven main items, but with thousands of others ad . acent), James and Michaela Surtees (two), Jason Hartland (thirtythree items), Sam Wilkins McLeod (fifteen), Deke Cannigan (who? anyway thirty), Charles Dayton Hunter (eightyone items), Joseph L. McLaughlin (twentyfour), Jose Porteiro (eighteen) ...

After the six hundred and thirtyfourth numbered scenario, the program paused, but Teresa could sense it working, searching the database, assembling, sorting. Then the screen shifted one more time, and the last twentyfour scenarios were listed.

They were all for Andy/Andrew Wellman Simons.

The video frame of the first scenario of the twentyfour showed Andy's bulky figure standing alert beside a car. He was holding a gun in both hands, looking back over one shoulder into the distance. He had on his FBI bulletproof vest, the Bureau's famous initials clearly inscribed.

The hierarchical information for this item was:

Participatory/ Operativeenabled/Noninteractive

State

or

County

PD/State

PD/Texas/Kingwood

City/Multiple

Murder/Spree/Guns/john Luther Aronwitz/Federal Agent Andrew Wellman Simons.

Andy was what she wanted, all she wanted.

Tears were welling in her eyes as Teresa moved the pointer to the ExEx box. She clicked on it, and a few seconds later the equipment delivered her phial of nanochips.

Holding in her hand the life and death of her husband, Teresa walked through to the simulator area of the building, and found a technician to set the scenario in motion.

CHAPTER 37

Federal Agent Andy Simons parked his car outside police lines, pulled on his bulletproof vest with the FBI initials displayed prominently at front and back, jerked his cap down over his forehead and went to find Captain jack Tremmins, officer in charge. According to protocol, Andy offered any assistance that might be required.

Teresa had forgotten how hot a Texas summer afternoon could be: a sticky, spreading heat, which made everything seem to burn around you, whether in shade or not. The concrete of the parking lot scorched through the soles of Andy's shoes, and the almost vertical sunlight battered down on the crown of his head through the thin plastic of his cap. There was a smell of ragweed, stinging his sinuses.

Andy had always suffered pollen allergies.

Teresa stared through Andy's eyes around the immense parking lot, trying to orient herself She had been in Britain long enough to forget the scale on which Texan shopping malls were built. Most of Bulverton's Old Town would fit into this lot and she knew there would be further acres of parking spaces on the other sides of the massive mall. The great dome of the Texan sky stretched overhead, its vastness emphasized by the flat horizons in all directions.

Only buildings stood up against the sky to lend a sense of scale.

Texas was a place of extremes, a place without limits.

Away beyond police lines the normal business of the North Cross shopping mall continued: the gunman had been cornered in the service bay in the rear of the building, and after hurried consultations with the mall administrator, the police had allowed the stores inside the building to resume trading normally. The only restraint on movement was in this area, around the loading and unloading bays. Although the gunman had already killed several people, he was thought to present no further danger to the public.

Andy found Captain Tremmins, who quickly and efficiently briefed him on all this. He took him over to meet Lieutenant Frank Hanson, in charge of the SWAT team. Andy said to Hanson he would like to go through and talk with the mall administration, but if he was required to render any assistance ...

Andy had to walk round the long way, past the service bays, to get inside the huge building.

As he stepped under the police tape, sweating in the terrible heat, Teresa said, 'Andy?'

There was no response.

'Andy, can you hear me? It's me, Tess.'

He kept striding on, looking from side to side watchfully. He rounded a corner and came to a huge entrance vestibule built of steel and glass: overhead there was a sign intended to be read from a mile away. lt said: NORTH CROSS CENTER West Entrance. A group of armed police let him through, and at once he was in the airconditioned chin inside.

'Andy? Can you give me a sign you know I'm here?'

He walked on without responding. There was a doughnut counter, a book store, a furniture shop, a leathergoods store; they came into a broad atrium with mature trees, a series of rolling waterfalls, a fountain playing under coloured lights ...

Teresa remembered how she had learned to shift position when she was in Grove's mind: while she stayed at the back of his mind she could not communicate with him, but she influenced his decisions and movements; when she moved forward she felt as if he had taken control of himself again but she was exposed to all his thoughts and instincts. She tried to shift position in Andy's mind, but either the scenario was written differently or Andy was of sterner mentality. She could make no impact on his thoughts or movements.

'Andy! Listen to me! This is Tess, your wife. Don't go on with this, g et back to your car. Wait until Danny Schneider joins up with you, consult with him, don't do this alone, you're going to be killed if you go on.'

She stopped, thinking how English she sounded, how polite and reasonable. In the old days Andy had sometimes teased her when a Liverpool phrase or a bit of slang from childhood crept into her speech. She'd always been able to imitate Ringo Starr better than anyone else around them; Andy had liked that.

'I don't think you should be doing this, Andrew,' she said, trying to capture Ringo's nasal tones.

But Andy went on, disregarding everything she said. Three more uniformed police directed him to the admin block, and one of them travelled up in the elevator with him. Andy made polite smalltalk with the cop: he had a family, lived in Abilene, his wife was expecting another baby. He had a rolling Texas accent, most words given an extra syllable, and he called Andy

'sir' with every reply.

What it was to hear Andy's voice again! Slightly gruff, with a trick in some of the sounds, like he needed to clear his throat, but it was always there, just the noise he made when he spoke.

'I love you, Andy!' she cried desperately. 'Stop this! please ... leave with me! You're not needed here! Let's wait in the car until the cops have caught the man!'

There followed a short interview between Andy and the mall administrator, a woman called Betty Nolanski. Mrs

Nolanski's main concern was the fact that the mall had only been fully open for three months. Last year two of the major chains had cancelled their leases at the eleventh hour, and she thought this incident might scare away more. She told Andy there were still fourteen major units standing empty. She wanted the gunman removed immediately, and with no more publicity.

Andy and Mrs Nolanski walked down together to the main floor while this was being said.

Teresa said, 'Tell her she's in a boom town, Andy. She wants to see a place with economic problems, she should go to Bulverton.'

A t ground level the news was that Aronwitz had still not been apprehended. Andy asked Mrs Nolanski if there were any utility ducts or tunnels by which the service bay could be reached, and at once a buildings manager was instructed to show him where the entrances were. Andy had to explain that his role here was advisory only, and that Lieutenant Hanson should be given the plans of the utility area of the building.

Teresa felt panic rising in her as time went on ticking by. She knew that this incident was approaching its bloody end, and that she could not influence it in any way.

Noninteractive, it had said in the index heading.

Trying again, she said urgently, 'Andy, can you hear me? Andy! Listen to me! You're going to get hurt! Leave this to the police. This is their problem, not yours!'

She thought about aborting from the scenario, trying one of the others that dealt with Aronwitz, but she knew from her training that interdiction scenarios were mastered only by repeated attempts to get them right.

Andy left the administrator, and headed back towards the police lines. Once outside, in the broiling heat once more, he went straight to Captain Tremmins to be given a status update.

Some of Hanson's men had entered the service area through utility tunnels under the bays, but Aronwitz had shot his second hostage a few minutes ago and then disappeared.

Treminins was presently out of contact not only with the SWAT team but also with his own men who were supposed to be keeping Aronwitz under surveillance.

Andy said, 'Then he's gone underground too. You think your SWAT guys can take him out?

They done this kind of thing before?'

Some,' said Tremmins.

'Let's get round to the utility area. If he's going to break out, that's where it will have to be.'

'Yes, Andy,' Teresa said fervently, in his mind. 'That's where he'll be. Stop doing this! My God! Stop doing this, Andy!'

It was an area beneath the shadow of the service area of the mall: a large concrete yard, with waste silos, batteries of extractor fans, an electricity substation, and several huge fuel tanks.

Suddenly, word came through on the radio that the SWAT team had located Aronwitz, who had fired some shots, eluded them, and was heading this way.

Tremmins ordered his men to take cover, and around twenty police officers circled the area with their guns.

Aronwitz burst into view, gun in hand. When he saw the police he halted, almost overbalancing from the loading platform he was on.

'Freeze, Aronwitz! Throw down your weapon!'

Instead, Aronwitz stood erect, and made a circling motion with his gun, a deliberate, wide swinging of the arm. He cocked the weapon, the click audible in every part of the yard.

Teresa stared in disbelief. The gunman was Gerry Grove.

Andy stood up, reacting to her shocked realization. Grove/Aronwitz saw the movement and turned towards

him. Teresa watched, frozen in terror, as Grove levelled the gun at Andy, steadied his hand by gripping his wrist, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

just as she had shown him.

Teresa desperately recalled LIVER, and managed to withdraw an instant before Grove shot Andy in the head, smashing away most of the top of his skull.

Copyright C GunHo Corporation in all territories

Teresa stared in horror at the image of the GunHo corporate logo as she heard the roar of the bullets of Captain Tremmins' men blowing away the gunman. Darkness fell.

Sharon was still on duty in the simulators, and as soon as Teresa was sitting up the technician came into the recovery cubicle and removed the nanochips. Teresa's mind was swirling with images of Andy: his voice, his large strong body, his way of walking, the calm and professional manner in which he had set up the circumstances that led to his own death.

Entering that scenario had been everything she had once dreaded such an experience would be: a terrible closeness to Andy, a more terrible distance, and a total inability to save his life.

That she had at last learned how he died was small recompense. None, in fact. She sat in morbid silence, going through an echoing reminder of her distress of the previous year, trying to cope, trying not to be overwhelmed by her feelings.

Sharon seemed equally preoccupied, but the business with the credit card went ahead smoothly, and Teresa slipped the paperwork into a zipped pocket of her new tote bag. She checked the time: less than an hour had elapsed while she had been in the Aronwitz scenario.

The date was still June 3.

Sharon was uncommunicative, and seemed anxious to move on to her next task. Teresa asked her what the matter was.

'There's something happening in the town,' Sharon said. 'It's been on the radio. The staff have been told we can't leave the building until the police say it's safe.'

'I thought 1 heard sirens earlier.'

'They say that someone's going around with a gun. There are police outside the building now.

They think the gunman was seen up here earlier.'

Teresa nodded, but said nothing. Sharon left her, so Teresa walked back to the computer cubicles, and found a terminal that was not in use. She put down her bags on the chair, and went into the Ladies' restroom.

Alone, she sagged. She could not help herself. she locked herself in one of the toilet cubicles and gave way to the grief. The tears flooded out. Someone else came into the restroom, used another toilet, and left again. Teresa managed to stem her tears until she was alone, then once more allowed her feelings to pour out.

They were but a reminder of the real anguish, and after the flood she regained her composure with remarkable speed. Drying her eyes, she realized that what had upset her was nothing new, that she had been through all that.

She wondered if she was merely suppressing the grief again. But no, the situation was different now: she was in a position actually to do something. Grove had changed the rules.

Most of the natural light in the room came through the sloping window in the halfroof, but there was another small frosted window in the wall at the far end. Teresa eased this open, to find a restricted view. An extension of the main building was opposite the window, so it was possible to see only a narrow angle to one side. By leaning out and craning her neck, Teresa could see a short section of Welton Road. A cordon of brightorange police tape ran alongside the row of parked cars; one of these was Grove's stolen Montego. No one was close to the cars, and all the doors and windows of the Montego were closed. An armed policeman wearing a bulletproof vest was standing with his back to her, looking about him systematically. There was no other sign of activity. She knew the police here would act the same as federal agents in the same circumstances: don't touch a vehicle known or thought to carry arms or explosives.

Teresa closed the window, left the restroom and returned to the computer cubicle.

She entered her new membership number, and after a pause the program went into its startup routine.

Teresa watched the display screens flick past, and come to a rest on the screenful of main options. She rested her hand on the mouse, stared blankly at the screen, and tried to decide what to do.

Teresa recalled that she had made one decision early on: she wanted to know as little as possible about Aronwitz. He had come out of obscurity to take from her the only person who truly mattered in her life, and it had seemed to her from the outset that obscurity was where he should properly stay. Her work in the Bureau had shown her how criminals often became minor celebrities, because of media attention: some of the perpetrators she had had to deal with herself, who she knew were equipped only with viciousness, meanness, cruelty and a stunning mediocrity, briefly became notorious or perversely celebrated when they were arrested or their cases came to court. Being on the Bureau's Ten Most Wanted list, still in permanent use, was seen by many criminals as a status symbol.

She wanted Aronwitz to have no such celebrity, even in death. Her way of trying to ensure that, or at least making a start, was to close him off from her. She made a point of not finding out anything about him, of not knowing more than the barest outline of his life, of not trying to understand or forgive what he had done. She even went to great lengths to avoid finding out what he had looked like.

For a few days, while the story ran, an old Arkansas State Police mugshot of Aronwitz appeared regularly on TV and in the newspapers. Teresa never looked. If she realized it was about to be shown, she would look away, and if she opened a newspaper or magazine to find his face pictured there, she instantly blurred her vision, shied away from looking at him.

Inevitably, she could not make him disappear, and soon she had halfglimpsed him often enough to have gained an impression of him. She knew he was young or youngish, that he had fair hair, a broad forehead, eyes that were too small. But she felt she would never recognize him, or be able to describe him.

Would she ever have known that he looked like Gerry Grove?

Or, worse, that he was Gerry Grove?

How could this be? Grove was in Bulverton on the day, this day, of the shootings. Historical certainty again. lt was a fact, beyond question, in a way a scenario could never be. Scenarios were constructs, artificial recreations by programmers of events remembered or experienced or described by other people. They were full of flaws, designed to be reactive to the people who went in as participants, they were subject to crossover, had extra bits, sometimes illogical extra bits, bolted on. That Gerry Grove appeared in Andy's scenario, taking the place of Aronwitz, was a product of the scenarios, not a statement of what had really happened.

Teresa was sure of that. Completely sure.

She thought back, wishing she had not denied Aronwitz to herself She wished she had kept a file on him, brought it with her, could now look at the face she had., never seen properly.

On the Connect Memorative Principals screen, she typed in her own name and Gerry Grove's and waited to see what would happen. The computer took several minutes to produce its response. It said:

There are 16,794 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'. Display? Yes/No.

Teresa found some Postit notes in a desktidy behind the monitor. She scribbled on one of them, This computer is in use please do not touch, and stuck it in the centre of the screen ...

over the words 'Gerald Dean Grove', and not entirely by accident.

She went through to the reception area, and found Paula standing by the glass door, looking out into the road. There were now five police cars outside the building, and a cordon of officers in front of the main door.

Teresa told Paula what she would like to do, and with an air of preoccupation the young woman typed on her keyboard, and produced a creditcard slip and an access number. Teresa deliberately did not ask what was going on outside; the less she knew about Grove's movements, on this day of virtuality June 3, the better.

Paula had returned to staring through the glass door as Teresa walked through into Cyberville UK, next to reception.

The place was empty, the rows of computer screens all idle.

She went to sit at one of the terminals, and typed in the access code Paula had just given her.

After a moment, a welcome screen appeared.

Teresa logged on to the website for the Abilene Lone Star News, and within a few seconds the newspaper's home page appeared. She glanced through it, then clicked on the icon for the archive.

She typed in the date: June 4, the day after this, the day after this one eight months ago. lt was illogical: how could she look into the archived files of a newspaper that would not be published until the next day? lt was another test of historical certainty against virtuality. If she was here, really here, timetravelled back to Bulverton on June 3, then of course what she was trying would not be allowed. But Teresa was certain that nothing any more was real, not real in the way she used to mean it. just real enough.

Realenough reality was confirmed: the facsimile front page of the Abilene Lone Star News of June 4 came into view, the graphic image scanning slowly from the top.

First came the title of the newspaper. Then the black headline, inchhigh capitals, spreading over two lines: MASS SHOOTING AT KINGWOOD'S NORTH CROSS MALL. Text started appearing with three bylines: the terse, excited words put together by the team of reporters assigned to the story. A few inches down, set into the text in an outlined block, was the Arkansas mugshot of Aronwitz.

The image scanned quickly into view.

lt was the face of Gerry Grove.

Back at the online database terminal, Teresa removed her Postit note, clicked on No to the question about displaying the 16,794 hyperlinks, and cleared the screen. Then she connected her name with Grove's once more, interested to see how the exponential growth had proceeded. A few more minutes went by. Then it said:

There are 73,788 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa

Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'. Display? Yes/No.

She clicked on No. She typed in her name and Andy's instead, and in almost instant response the computer said:

There are 1 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Andy/Andrew Wellman Simons'. Display? Yes/No.

She clicked on Yes, and the name of the scenario in Kingwood City came into view. She cancelled it, knowing that that was not the one she wanted.

She now knew what she had to do. She typed in Andy's name again, and her own. This time, though, she called herself 'Teresa Ann Gravatt/ Simons'. The computer said: There are 23 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Gravatt/Simons' to 'Andy/Andrew Wellman Simons'. Display? Yes/No.

Teresa clicked on Yes, and with the list in front of her began constructing the remainder of her life.

CHAPTER 38

Theresa came in at night: she had always remembered it

happening during the day. Her memories were exact,

but

apparently in error. The discovery frightened her

because it made her think, inevitably, that what she was

doing had gone wrong from the outset. She paused in the

street, trying to decide whether to abort the scenario before it went any further, go back and check the preparations she had

made, or to go on with it, and see what transpired.

While she stood there undecided, a door opened in the large building behind her, and a shaft of electric light played across the concrete. A young man stepped out, pulling a thick leather jacket round his shoulders. With his fists in his pockets, and his elbows sticking out, he strode past her.

'Good evening, ma'am,' he said, noncommittally, not really looking at her.

'Hi,' Teresa replied, then turned in shock and surprise to stare at him as he walked off into the night. lt was her father, Bob Gravatt.

He passed under a streetlight, and she saw his closeshaved head, his round ears, his thickening neck, the roll of fleece visible at the neck of his Jacket. He walked to a pickup truck, climbed in and drove away.

Teresa went into the barracks building, and climbed a flight of concrete steps. lt was a communal staircase, with doors leading off landings to individual apartments. On the top floor she came to a brownpainted door that faced into the stairwell. A piece of card ' inscribed in her father's square

lettering, carried his name: S/S R.D. Gravatt. Cautiously, she pushed the door open. A short corridor ran towards the kitchen at the far end. Music from a radio could be heard from this, and the sound of kitchen utensils in use.

The temptation to walk down and see her mother was almost impossible to resist, but Teresa knew that it would lead necessarily to her aborting the scenario and having to start again.

She had set up a chain of contiguity, and she was reluctant to break it so early. Instead, then, she turned into the first room on the right of the corridor, which she knew was her parents'

bedroom.

A small girl stood there, next to a plain wooden chair in the centre of the room. An automatic handgun, instantly recognized by Teresa as a .32calibre Smith & Wesson, lay on the chair.

The child was facing a large mirror, the size of a door, attached to the wall opposite the double bed.

A mirror, a real mirror!

The little girl's reflection stared back at hersel£

'Look what I've got,' said sevenyearold Teresa, and she picked up the handgun in both hands, straining to lift it.

Teresa gasped in horror at the speed with which this happened. She had no time to speak, only to make a futile grabbing action towards the gun. The movement distracted the little girl, who jerked around in surprise, and somehow those tiny hands managed to pull the sensitized trigger. Teresa ducked as the gun went off-a shattering explosion in the confines of the room and saw the mirror on the wall smash into a dozen crazed pieces. The gun flew out of the child's hands, crashing on the floor. The pieces of broken mirror slid heavily to the floor, revealing the dirty wooden board that had been behind the glass.

'Tess?!'

From the other end of the apartment there came the sound of something heavy and metallic being dropped, then

footsteps rushing down the corridor towards her.

Little Teresa was staring in disbelief at the shattered mirror, holding her hurting wrist, her face rigid with shock and fear and pain.

The door burst open, but before her mother appeared Teresa recalled the LIVER mnemonic.

She was in Cleveland, 1962. East 55th Street, outside a bank. She knew what was coming, and there was no need to allow it to happen. Six seconds went by, and the door she was standing next to began to open quickly. LIVER. Two hours' wait for Charles Dayton Hunter in the dimly lit interior of a San Antonio bar had no more attraction. LIVER.

She was hiding behind a tollbooth at the northern end of a suspension bridge thrown high across a river. She was wearing a bulletproof vest, a hardened helmet and silvered shades.

Around her were twenty or thirty other cops dressed

Identically. They were all carrying rifles of a make she could not identify. A helicopter was moving snappily overhead.

'Who we waitin' for?' Teresa gritted to the man next to her.

'It's Gerry Grove,' the man snarled, spitting a jet of orange tobacco Juice. 'He's on the rampage in Bulverton, England, and we gotta stop him, and stop him now! There he is, boys!

He's comm' our way!'

With several of the others, Teresa took up position in the narrow roadway that ran between two of the tollbooths. The other cops disposed themselves similarly. A man was running down the centre of the carriageway towards them. At intervals he loosed off a stream of bullets at passing vehicles, causing them to skid and crash. One caught fire, and rolled slowly backwards down the incline towards the booths, leaving a trail of burning oil.

From the helicopter came a loudly amplified voice, screeching down at the gunman from above:

'We know you're in there, Grove! Throw down your weapon or weapons, and come out with your hands up! Let the hostage '

Gerry Grove rolled on his back, took aim, and pumped a dozen bullets into the belly of the helicopter. There was a mighty explosion, and shattered glass, engine housing and rotor blades flew in all directions.

'Let's get him, boys!' yelled the police captain.

With the others, Teresa raised her rifle and started to fire. A deafening fusillade roared out.

Grove stood his ground with a calm expression on his face, firing back with deadly effect. In quick succession, policemen were thrown violently backwards by the impact of his bullets.

Teresa, staring at the man, said aloud, 'That's not Grove!'

She took off her shades to see better, then removed her helmet and shook out her long black tresses. She stepped forward. The man they had called Gerry Grove stared at her in amazement.

He was not Grove but Dave Hartland, Amy's brotherinlaw.

Shit, thought Teresa. I'm wasting a lot of time on this!

LIVER.

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'What?' said Teresa, as darkness abruptly fell.

She was in Bulverton Old Town on a cold winter's morning. It was her first full day in England, and she had gone for a walk to see the place. A frisson of recognition ran through her; recognition not from now, as she returned via the hyperlinked scenario, but from then. Why had she felt so at home here? lt could hardly matter now. She was impatient to get on. LIVER.

She was in a hotel room, late one afternoon, daylight fading. A woman sat at a laptop computer that rested on a small working surface jutting out from one wall. She was typing slowly, and she looked tired. Her shoulders sagged. Teresa thought, This is how my life slipped away, trying to figure out the problems created by others, trying to investi gate, detect, make sense of chaos. The woman stopped typing, pressed her hands down on the work surface, beginning to stand up; she looked ill and exhausted. She was about to turn, and would see herself there, so Teresa recalled the LIVER mnemonic and slipped away.

She was in AI's Happy Burgabar, standing by the brightly lit salad bar. The restaurant was full of families, and a cheerful noise filled the huge room. Teresa remembered the fruitless hours she had spent trying to thwart Sam Wilkins McLeod. She thought, And this is how the rest of my life slipped away, drifting in extreme reality. A movement in the parking lot, glimpsed through the plate-glass window, caught her eye, and she saw a pickup truck parking in a row of cars. The driver took down a rifle from the gun rack. Teresa remembered the LIVER mnemonic.

She was in Bulverton, June 3, a hot day, brilliant sunshine. On the sidewalk outside the White Dragon. A car had collided with a bollard on the traffic island, while the driver slumped over his steering wheel with blood flooding out of a head wound. Gerry Grove was on the other side of the road, carrying a rifle in both hands at chest height. He kept working the action, firing at anyone he saw. Teresa could see three people lying in the road. Grove saw her, turned the rifle towards her. Teresa stepped back in horror, but at that moment an elderly man rushed out of the door of the hotel, and yelled something at the gunman. Grove immediately fired several shots at the man, who fell back with blood spurting from his face. A stray bullet slammed into one of the large windows of the bar, shattering it and throwing the broken pieces inside. Again, Grove was turning towards her, so Teresa ducked away, hurrying towards the open door of the hotel. An elderly woman, covered in blood, was standing there, half blocking the way. 'Is Jim ... ?' she said softly. Teresa pushed past her as Grove opened fire, throwing the woman to the floor, shrieking and dying. Teresa recalled LIVER.

A bank in Camden, New jersey; a university campus in Austin, Texas. Both filled her with remembered horrors. Sao Paulo, Brazil, a knife fight in a salsa club; Sydney, Australia, a young drug addict running amok; Kansas City, Missouri, the McLaughlin siege ... 1 should have realized that not all these would be relevant. My life is slipping away from me, as before it did, while 1 never saw how pointless it was. LIVER.

lt was a blisteringly hot day, and the Duke ElIington Orchestra was on the radio playing

'Newport Up'. Teresa backed the Chevy station wagon away from the sidewalk, did a Uturn, and drove south along 30th Street. She eased herself more comfortably on the wide bench seat, and glanced up into the rearview mirror, straining to see herself Along the soft old bench seat, on the passenger side, was an elderly black woman. Her face was full of mild concern.

'Hi, Elsa!' Teresa said aloud, smiling across at her. 'What's doing?'

' 1 do what you want to do, honey.'

'Do you know where we're going?'

'I do what you want to do, honey.'

'Well, 1 want to tell you, I'm trying to find my husband. I've got to work towards him. 1 call it contiguity, where these stones overlap. lt was you who showed me that, out there on the highway, when we drove towards the mountains and the landscape flattened out and we never reached the edge. Do you want to do that again, Elsa?'

11 do what you want to do, honey.'

'You don't know anything about this, do you, Elsa?'

'I do what . . .'

They rounded a corner between two hills, and as the road straightened out again they saw that a police roadblock lay ahead, with cops crouching down behind their cars. They were pointing their guns into the distance. Teresa said, 'It was along this road! Not the other! I've been going the wrong way!'

She slowed a little, and glanced again at the old lady sitting across from her. She was grinning, beating her fingers lightly against the dash in time with the music.

Teresa slowed even more, then steered carefully between the two police units. One of the cops shouted at them, and waved his arms. Ahead, a blue Pontiac had come into sight.

'You know what to do here, Elsa?'

'I do what you want to do, honey.'

'I'm going to leave you now. 1 love you, Elsa. Take care!'

She was in Eastbourne Road, Bulverton, June 3. Hot day of blood and broken glass, and Gerry Grove still on the loose. A kid screaming in a car, with his parents lying dead or wounded in the front seats. The engine was still running. The kid was pointing upwards, towards the roof of one of the buildings beside the road. There were scaffolding poles up there, surrounding the chimney stack and the tiles by the roof's ridge. A man's foot had been caught in a joint of the scaffolding as he tumbled backwards from his work. His leg was bare where his trouserleg had ridden up towards his knee, but no more of him was visible. The child kept shouting, 'On the roof! There's a man on the roof' A middleaged woman with greying hair stood in the entrance to an enclosed alleyway that ran between two of the buildings, half shadowed. The child was screaming to her, imploring her to help, or at least just to look at the man on the roof Grove was somewhere close at hand, firing at random.

Teresa recalled the LIVER mnemonic.

She was following a gendarme on night patrol in the immigrant quarter of the city of Lyon; it was January 10, 1959. No time for this. LIVER. She was with Sergeant Geoffrey Verrick, a uniformed traffic policeman, passenger in a patrol car LIVER. She was in the cramped rear seat of an opentop car, steering through the curves of Highway 2, north of Los Angeles, through the mountains ... Teresa was impatient to get on, she should have researched this better, she had been in such a damned hurry to get to Andy-LIVER.

She was standing in a long room, unused but for a small film set at one end. lt had been made to look like a western saloon bar. A young woman, dressed as a cowgirl, wriggled uncomfortably in clothes that were obviously too tight.

A woman carrying a powder puff stepped through the ring of lights.

Teresa walked past the set and out through the door that led to the showers. At the far end of a narrow passageway was one of those emergency exits with a steel bar that had to be pushed down. Teresa pressed hard on the bar, but the door seemed to be stuck. She put her weight on it, and in a moment it grated open.

A small enclosed yard was outside, piled with black plastic garbage sacks, crates of brown bottles, and bales of paper bound up with wire. Traffic roared by somewhere close at hand, but out of sight.

Teresa retraced her steps along the passageway, opening every door that she passed, finding only small unused offices or closets. She saw a flight of steps leading down, and at the bottom there was another barred emergency exit. When she pushed this open, she emerged into the dry blazing heat of Arizona. The immense sky exploded into being.

* * * SENSH * * *

She looked back. Behind her was no trace of the door she had just walked through. She was in untamed scrubland, the gravelly ground littered with rocks of all sizes. A giant saguaro cactus stood a few feet away, looming over her; Teresa had never been so close to one before, and stared up at it in awe. The dry heat made her throat hurt, and the sun made the top of her head burn.

There was a paved road a short distance away, and parked on the side was a white opentop Lincoln Continental. The driver was leaning across the front seat, waving and beckoning to her. Teresa walked quickly towards the car, wary of turning her ankle on the loose rocks.

'Hello!' said the driver, in a British accent. 'You want to go and look at Monument Valley with me?'

lt was the young woman she had seen on the set, still dressed in her cowgirl costume.

'You're Shandy, aren't you,' Teresa said, realizing that they had never been face to face before.

'Yes. How do you know that?'

'I'm Teresa Simons, and I'm glad to meet you.'

* * * SENSH * * *

'Get in the car, Teresa. Let's get to know each other.

Hey, isn't it hot? You want to loosen some of those clothes?

Me, I'm just crazy about the heat. Phew!' She pulled at the top of her shirt, and with the sound of ripping velcro she opened it all the way down. Her barely restrained breasts popped into sight. 'Let's go somewhere, and'

'Listen, this isn't going to work, Shandy,' Teresa said.

She looked ahead, and saw the road leading in a more or less straight line across the desert floor, the stunning, magnificent rocky buttes rising on each side.

'Is this your first time?'

'I got to go. I'm sorry.'

'I've got a friend called Luke. He'd love to meet you.'

'No, Shan. Maybe we can do this some other time.'

'Whatever you want,' Shandy said, pouting and looking straight ahead down the desert road.

'Yeah, 1 got to go,' said Teresa. She recalled the LIVER mnemonic.

You have been flying SENSH Y'ALL

Fantasys from the Old West

Copyroody everywhere doan even THINK about it!!

She kept forgetting about that, but didn't have the energy to kill the music. She heard it through, until at last it faded.

A young woman was sitting at one of the tables in the picnic area, with plastic cups and plates, scraps of food, and several toys spread all about. She was laughing, and her child was running around on the grass, wrapped up in his game.

Teresa was standing at the edge of the clearing, but she stepped back quickly behind a tree.

Gerry Grove lurched into view, the gun in his hand. He raised it with a deliberate, wide swinging motion of his hand, then cocked it, working the mechanism three or four more times, relishing the sound.

The noise made the woman turn towards him. She saw

the gun levelled at her, and panicked. She shouted in terror to her child, trying to twist round on the heavy log, to get across to the little boy, but she seemed paralysed by her fear. The boy, thinking it was still a game, dashed away from her. The woman's voice became a hoarse roar, then, after she had sucked in her breath, she was incapable of further sound.

Teresa saw that Grove still didn't know how to hold or alm a gun. He held it at arm's length, pointing at the terrified woman, the weapon wavering slightly in his grasp.

This time, Teresa thought, I'm not going to show him how to do it properly.

Grove fired! The gun recoiled back in his hand, and Rosalind Williams screamed in terror.

She ducked down, rushing across the clearing floor towards her child. Grove fired at her again. The gun bucked in his hand, this time apparently twisting his wrist. While Rosalind Williams scooped up her little boy in her arms, Grove held his gunarm against his stomach and leaned over it in pain. Crouching low, holding her screaming boy at an awkward angle, Mrs Williams scrambled past him, heading for the road.

Grove tried firing again, but his gun arm was obviously hurting and the weapon did not discharge. He transferred it to his left hand, took hurried alm at Mrs Williams, fired again.

Once more, the recoil made the gun jerk in his hand. The woman escaped through the trees, clutching her child.

Giddy with relief, Teresa breathed in deeply, letting it out with a sob. Grove heard the noise and turned towards her. She was not making any more effort to hide.

'Who the fuck are you?' he said.

She began to laugh; she felt the madness of relief rising in her, and she spluttered and coughed, doubling up.

'I'll fucking kin you, you stupid bitch!' Grove shouted.

'You couldn't plug the side of a barn!' she yelled at him, thinking of a moment, centuries before, on a shooting trip

with her dad, him yelling at her when for once she missed the target. Hi, she had said to her dad as he passed her on his way out of the living quarters. The last word she ever spoke to him? Hi Dad, you got me into all this, you gunhappy old bastard. She wished she'd said more while she'd had the chance. She was getting hysterical.

'Shut the fuck up!' Grove screamed at her, and let off a wild shot with his left hand.

'Don't ever say that to me, you creep,' she said, then recalled the LIVER mnemonic.

She was in a utility yard, in stifling heat, surrounded by cops. The tall side of the mall building loomed over them, casting little shade. One of the cops noticed her.

'Stand back, ma'am!' he said at once, raising his arms. 'You're in danger there! Please leave this area at once!'

'FBI,' Teresa said simply, and flicked her ID at him.

'Sorry, ma'am,' said the cop, evidently startled. 'But we have an armed suspect in there, and'

'That's OK. Get back under cover. Is Agent Simons here with you?'

' You best speak with the Captain, ma'am.'

Teresa backed off quickly. She was trying to remember which way Andy had gone, after leaving the mall administrator. She hurried away, following the side of the building. Ahead of her, Andy let himself out of a small service door. He was carrying his gun. Before continuing he quickly cased all directions. He saw her at once, and raised his gun.

'Andy!' she shouted.

'Tess! What in hell are you doing here?'

'For God's sake, Andy!' She rushed towards him, wanting to hold him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

' I'm on a case, Tess,' he said, touching her arm with

quick affection, but brushing her aside. 'You want to hang around here for a while, and we'll talk later?'

'Andy, you're in danger! Don't go on with this!'

He looked sharply at her. He said, 'Shit, how the devil you get down here to Texas?'

He strode on in sudden rage at her, heading back towards the utility yard.

Teresa said, 'Andy, this isn't your case. You're just liaising with the police. Let them finish it.

That's their job.'

'I'm on assignment. Wait here!'

He thrust her back and away from him, and stepped round the corner into the yard. At that moment, someone shouted through a bullhorn:

'Freeze, Aronwitz! Throw down your weapon!'

Teresa darted round behind Andy, and collided with his back. He lurched slightly, and Aronwitz/Grove noticed the movement. He was standing on a slightly raised shelf of concrete, one of the outlet ducts where service trucks collected their loads. His gun hung loosely in his right hand. He saw the huge encirclement of armed police, crouching down, ready with their guns. Looking at Andy, he made a circling motion with his gun, a deliberate, wide swinging of the arm. He cocked the weapon, the click audible in every part of the yard.

Andy stood frozen. Teresa watched in terror as Grove levelled the gun at Andy, holding it onehanded at full extent.

He fired, and the gun bucked back in his hand. The bullet went past, missing Andy by several feet.

Grove died instantly in the explosion of police bullets that followed.

'Tess, don't you ever follow me on an assignment agai n. Why in hell did you do that? You know what we agreed. We never work together.'

'Andy, you were going to die.'

'No way! You saw how that hairball handled a gun. He was just a kid.'

'Just a kid who'd killed a lot of people.'

'He was no threat to me.'

Andy Andy Andy. How do 1 tell you? How will you ever know? What's the point?

She wanted to hold him, have him, roll him on the ground, but instead he was justifiably furious, this big angry man, humiliated by her presence, not knowing what he had missed, never ever going to know.

They got to his car and were about to drive off when Andy's partner, Danny Schneider, turned up in the parking lot.

"Scuse me, 1 gotta work,' Andy said grimly and left the car to go over to talk with Danny.

Danny, seeing her there, nodded politely to her. Andy stood with Danny a long time, over by the car, talking in the sun, pointing this way and that, a lot of nodding. Danny wrote something in his notebook.

Andy, 1 had to do this. Andy, how do 1 tell you? Fuck it, Andy! 1 saved your goddamn life!

But she loved to see him, loved his big old body and the way he held his funny head, resting a hand loosely against his side, sometimes making amusing gestures when he spoke. He and Danny had worked together for fifteen years, knew each other as well as any two straight men ever could. Andy and Teresa sometimes made jokes about Danny: he'd go and live with Danny and his wife, if Teresa ever left him.

Maybe he should do that now, Teresa thought, looking at the man she loved in the bleaching glare of the sun.

Andy Andy Andy ... stop this. Come here!

In the end he did, and he climbed into the car and started the engine.

'I'll drop you off where you want to be,' he said, not looking at her. 'We'll talk about this tomorrow. I'm going back to Abilene, and I'll have to put in a report. Too many country cops saw what you did, and I've got a project to defend.'

'Andy, don't do this by the goddamn book. 1 saved your life.'

'Hell, you didn't.'

'Hell, 1 did. That wacko was going to kill you.'

'Get real, Tess.'

She laughed, a short sardonic noise. 'Get real, you say!'

'Yeah, we'll do all this later. 1 got to get back to Abilene, right now. This mess isn't over yet.'

'No it isn't.'

He swung the car round and drove off, squealing his tyres on the hot tarmac of the parking lot. The car bounced and bottomed out with a noisy underside scrape on the steep exit to the road, and as they headed down towards the freeway Teresa stared around, glorying in the endless detail of this boring Texas town: the supermarkets, the steak restaurants, the plazas, the multiplex movie houses, the office stationery warehouses, the malls, the car rental offices, the filling stations, the flower sellers at every main intersection, the shacklike houses, the bug exterminators, the hamburger joints, the thinning trees, the broken soil of plots cleared for development, the scrubby grassland, the unending road. Finally they hit Interstate 20 and joined the unknowing traffic, cruising sedately into the west, the sun beating down on them.

They drove along through the unchanging scenery. Andy turned on the radio, and there was country music. All you can pick up around here, he said. He always said that when he was away from base. He liked country music, really. The first track finished; another segued in, a song about love and betrayal and men with guns; Andy muttered about country music all sounding alike, goddamn steel guitars, and switched to another station; Stevie Wonder came on with one of his old hits. Remembering a drive years ago, Andy and she when first in love, Philadelphia to Atlantic City, listening to Stevie singing in the night, Teresa reached across and gripped Andy's hand, wanting to cry, wanting to hold him.

Andy pulled his hand away.

'Where do you want me to drop you?' he said brusquely.

'Anywhere you like. 1 guess it doesn't matter.'

'You want me to leave you here? On the side of the highway?'

'As good a place as any.'

'Then what do you plan to do?'

Andy, you're going with me. None of this is real. I can't tell you that, and you'd never believe it, but we are at the edge, where reality ends. Where's Abilene? You're going to ask me that in a minute. We've been driving for half an hour, and those cars in front haven't changed, or those behind, and Abilene is no nearer. We'll never get there, because Abilene isn't in the scenario. Not even bolted on by a computer geek. The road goes on and on, to the edge, to where it runs out of memory. We can't go there, because at the edge there is nothing more.

He braked the car, still angry with her. It hauled over to the side of the road, swirling dust around them. The Stevie Wonder track died away; three quiet chords then silence. The rest of the traffic continued to sweep by on the interstate. There was no noise from the tyres or engines.

'This the place you want to be?' he said.

'No, Andy.'

'Then what? What do you want? Where do you want to be?'

Andy Andy Andy.

'Finland,' she said, and recalled the LIVER mnemonic.

She was naked, and Andy was on top of her. His strong hairy body touched and embraced her everywher e, leg sliding between hers, pressing gently into her cleft, caressing her with great weight and a wonderful deftness. His hand rested on her breast, and his fingers lovingly teased her nipple. His mouth lingered on hers, and their tongues played lightly against each other. She could smell his hair, his body. Stretched fulllength they just about filled the row of three cushioned seats, but whenever they shifted position their elbows and hips and knees knocked roughly against the hard undersides of the armrests, which were raised erect to make this temporary couch.

As Andy slipped into *her, pushing and thrusting, she craned back and started to turn, moving over so that Andy rolled to her side, facing her. She braced herself against the wall of the aircraft. The oval window was by her head, and she moved around, turning her face a little more with every thrust he made. Soon she could see through the strengthened glass, down towards the ground, where the trees and lakes were moving deliriously by. The great turbine engines roared, and the low evening sun glinted off the wing. The aircraft banked, turning to and fro, swooping low over the lakes, following the winding courses of rivers, its nose lifting to take them across the ridges of mountains, round and round, endlessly on, nothing but trees and water, green and silver, reflecting the light, soaring through the placid air, out to the extremes where all memory ends and life begins anew.