about giving her baby away. Her guilt became overpowering on each anniversary of the 
child's birth. On that black day, Carol sank into a deep depression and became 
uncharacteristically uncommunicative. The excessive anguish that she suffered on that one 
day was evidence of the deep-seated, abiding guilt that she carried with her, to a lesser 
degree, during the rest of the year. Grace wished she had foreseen this reaction, wished 
she had done more to assuage Carol's guilt.
  I'm a psychologist, after all, she thought. I should have anticipated it.
  Perhaps when Carol and Paul adopted someone else's child, Carol would feel that the 
scales had at last been balanced. The adoption might relieve some of her guilt, in time.
  Grace hoped it would. She loved Carol like a daughter and wanted only the best for her.
  And of course she couldn't bear the thought of losing Carol. Therefore, Carol's 
appearance in a nightmare wasn't the least bit mysterious. It was certainly not an omen.
  Clammy with stale sweat, Grace turned to the study window again, seeking warmth and 
light, but the day was ashen, chilly, forbidding. Wind pressed on the glass, soughed 
softly under the eaves one floor above.
  In the city, near the river, a roiling column of smoke rose into the rain and mist. She 
had not noticed it a minute ago, but it must have been there; it was too much smoke to 
have appeared in only a few seconds. Even from this distance, she could see a glint of 
fire at the base of the dark column.
  She wondered if lightning had done the dirty work. She recalled the storm flashing and 
roaring with extraordinary power in those first seconds after she had awakened. At the 
time, groggy and bleary-eyed, she had thought her sleep-dulled senses were misleading her 
and that the extreme violence of the lightning was largely illusory or even imaginary. 
Could that incredible, destructive barrage have been real after all?
  She glanced at her wristwatch.
  Her favorite radio station would carry its hourly newscast in less than ten minutes. 
Maybe there would be a story about the fire and the lightning.
  After she'd straightened the throw pillows on the sofa, she stepped out of the study 
and spotted Aristophanes at the far end of the downstairs hall, near the front door. He 
was sitting up straight and tall, his tail curled forward and across his front paws, his 
head held high, as if he were saying, "A Siamese cat is the very best thing on earth, and 
I am an exceedingly handsome example of the species, and don't you dare forget it."
  Grace held one hand toward him, rapidly rubbing her thumb against her forefinger. 
"Kitty-kitty-kitty."
  Aristophanes didn't move.
  "Kitty-kitty-kitty. Come here, Ari. Come on, baby."
  Aristophanes got up and went through the archway on his left, into the dark living room.
  "Stubborn damn cat," she said affectionately.
  She went into the downstairs bathroom and washed her face and combed her hair. The 
mundane task of grooming herself took her mind off the nightmare. Gradually, she began to 
relax. Her eyes were watery and bloodshot. She rinsed them out with a few drops of Murine.
  When she came out of the bathroom, Aristophanes was sitting in the hallway again, 
watching her.
  "Kitty-kitty-kitty," she coaxed.
  He stared unblinkingly.
  "Kitty-kitty-kitty."
  Aristophanes rose to his feet, cocked his head, and examined her with curious, shining 
eyes. When she took a step toward him, he turned and quickly slunk away, casting one 
backward glance, then disappearing into the living room again.
  "Okay," Grace said. "Okay, buster. Have it your way. Snub me if you want. But just see 
if there's any Meow Mix in your bowl tonight."
  In the kitchen she snapped on the lights, then the radio. The station came in clearly 
enough, though there was a continuous crackle of storm-generated static.
  While she listened to tales of economic crises and breathless accounts of airplane 
hijackings and rumors of war, Grace put a clean paper filter in the coffee machine, 
filled the brewing basket with drip-ground Colombian, and added half a spoonful of 
chicory. The story of the fire came at the end of the newscast, and it was only a sketchy 
bulletin. The reporter knew nothing more than that lightning had struck a couple of 
buildings in the heart of the city and that one of them, a church, was afire. He promised 
more details on the half hour.
  When the coffee was ready, Grace poured some for herself. She took her mug to the small 
table by the kitchen's only window, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
  In the backyard, the myriad roses-red, pink, orange, white, yellow-looked 
preternaturally bright, almost phosphorescent, against the cinereous backdrop of the rain.
  Two psychology journals had arrived in the morning mail. Grace opened one of them with 
pleasant anticipation.
  Halfway through an article about new findings in criminal psychology, as she finished 
her first mug of coffee, there was a pause between songs on the radio, a few seconds of 
dead air, and in that brief quietude, she heard furtive movement behind her. She turned 
in her chair and saw Aristophanes.
  "Come to apologize?" she asked.
  Then she realized that he appeared to have been sneaking up on her, and that now, 
confronted, he was frozen; every lithe muscle in his small body was spring-taut, and the 
fur bristled along his arched back.
  "Ari? What's wrong, you silly cat?"
  He whirled and ran out of the kitchen.
  3
  CAROL sat in a chrome chair with shiny black vinyl cushions, and she slowly sipped 
whiskey from a paper cup.
  Paul slumped in the chair next to hers. He didn't sip his whiskey; he gulped the stuff. 
It was an excellent bourbon, Jack Daniel's Black Label, thoughtfully provided by an 
attorney named Marvin Kwicker, who had offices down the hail from Alfred O'Brian and Who 
realized that a restorative was urgently needed. Pouring bourbon for Carol, Marvin had 
said, "Kwicker With liquor," which he had probably said ten thousand times before, but he 
still enjoyed his own joke. "Kwicker with liquor," he repeated when dispensing a double 
shot to Paul. Although Paul wasn't much of a drinker, he needed every drop that the 
attorney gave him. His hands were still shaking.
  The reception lounge that served O'Brian's office was not large, but most of the people 
who worked on the same floor had congregated here to talk about the lightning that had 
shaken the building, to marvel that the place hadn't caught fire, to express surprise 
that the electric power had been restored so quickly, and to wait their turns for a peek 
at the nibble and ruin in O'Brian's inner sanctum. The resultant roar of conversation did 
nothing to soothe Paul's nerves.
  Every thirty seconds or so, a bleached blonde with a shrill voice repeated the same 
words of amazement:
  "I can't believe nobody got killed in all that! I can't believe nobody got killed." 
Each time she spoke, regardless of where she was in the room, her voice carried over the 
din and made Paul wince. "I can't believe nobody got killed." She sounded somewhat 
disappointed.
  Alfred O'Brian was sitting at the reception desk. His secretary, a prim-looking woman