 
## Oooeelie

### Kenneth C. Crowe

Copyright 2010 Kenneth C. Crowe

Smashwords Edition

Books by Kenneth C. Crowe

America for Sale

Collision

The Jynx

The Dream Dancer

Oooeelie

This book is dedicated to

Ginger & Willie

CHAPTER ONE

Gil didn't kiss Joanna goodbye when he left on the morning of the last foreclosure. She understood his mind was on money, but was stung by the loss of that glancing moment of intimacy, the daily parting kiss.

The house was empty when Gil got home at nine o'clock. Nothing on the stove for supper. That irritated him. No note on the kitchen table. That wasn't like Joanna. No dog either. Then Oooeelie barked at the back door.

Gil sat down to await Joanna's entrance. He had a hard time composing the cutting remark that he would deliver to her as she came into the house. His mind was swirling in the aftermath of six double Jack Daniels on the rocks.

Oooeelie kept barking.

Gil waited with building irritation until he couldn't endure the sound of the dog any longer. He went to the door, and was drawn after the dog, down the back lawn, lit softly by the half moon, to the beach. Joanna was there, leaning against the big rock beside the dying embers of a fire, watching the lap of the harbor waters high on the beach.

"What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?" he asked.

"Having a weenie roast," she said. "Hot dogs, beans, cole slaw, beer, and a roaring fire. Toasted marshmallows too." When they were first married, when money was scarce and love was new, weenie roasts were their family feasts.

"Should have invited me," he said.

"You have an open invitation. All you had to do was be here."

He stood above her, rocking uncertainly, his acid feelings drained away. Feeling blue. "Had a rough day. They wouldn't renegotiate the mortgage on the Melville factory. I lost it."

"That's why I had the weenie roast, to put a bright edge on the end of a sad day." A dog on a passing cabin cruiser barked, and Oooeelie dropped in the crouch of the alert warrior. He watched silently with Gil and Joanna until the lights of the boat disappeared into the innards of Huntington Harbor.

"I was waiting here to comfort you," she said, looking at the last glowing bit of driftwood, aware of the chill that had replaced the warmth of the fire.

Gil walked the few feet to the edge of the water, looking after the disappeared boat.

"You could get some wood and rekindle the fire," she said.

"I'm not in the mood. It's too late," he said sighing. "And besides, the fire is out." He walked alone back to the empty house without kissing her good night.

Oooeelie came over, to sit beside her, pressing himself against her. Joanna put her arm around him, squeezing with a consoling love they both felt.

Oooeelie raised his eyes, as he often did when they came down to the beach at night, searching the star speckled sky for his star. He looked longingly into the eastern sky beyond the moon, knowing the star was there, out of sight, just below the horizon.

CHAPTER TWO

Oooeelie trotted down the stairs ahead of Joanna to the kitchen. She let him out into the enclosed front yard, dappled by the shade of a dozen oaks, cherry and dogwood trees, for his morning quickie. They would go for their run along the beach after she had her first cup of coffee. Joanna was slim and solid from a daily routine of walking, jogging, calisthenics and light weight training. She was 42 but at first glance appeared more like a girl. Her face was unlined, her small breasts were still pleasantly firm, her belly was just slightly rounded. That's what she looked at in other women. Their bellies. Most women at her age were moving irresistibly into square-bodies and bulging bellies.

She wore her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that emphasized her high cheekbones and the sharp line of her chin, drawing the focus away from her rather large nose with a peculiar knob of bone. Joanna hated her nose, but couldn't bring herself to have it bobbed into a prettier face.

As she sipped her coffee, she read a paper on T.S. Elliot, one of the leftovers from the English poetry course she taught at New York University. The student, a sophomore, had been in a car accident so the paper was very late and the incomplete would stand on the student's record until Joanna graded it.

Joanna sensed that Oooeelie was ready to come in. She went to the back door and he was sitting there, patiently. She gave him some dog bones and fresh water, rubbing her hand along his side as he drank. Her favorite lines from Elliot's Four Quartets spun into her mind:

"What might have been and what has been

"Point to one end, which is always present."

The morning was her melancholy time. She had learned to deal away the gloom of might-have-beens with that recitation from Elliot. "He was a wise man, Oooeelie boy," she said at last taking the leash from the hook in the utility closet. Oooeelie danced across the kitchen to the back door, leaping and twisting and barking. "Sit!" she commanded. Oooeelie sat at the door, his short tail wagging. She hooked the leash onto his collar and they went out into the sultry June morning, the air cottony with pollution. They had hardly started down Sullivan Lane when a woman stopped her car beside them.

"Oh," she said. "That's an Airedale. How cute he is. I used to have an Airedale."

"Thank you," Joanna said. Oooeelie, ever vigilant, sat watching the woman.

"They're such wonderful dogs, but I could never get mine trained. Airedales have minds of their own."

"I can attest to that," Joanna said.

At Dandelion Drive, exactly a half mile from her front gate, Joanna unhooked Oooeelie for their morning run, three miles in a loop through shady, tree-lined streets with large, comfortable houses set on broad lawns with towering oaks and sculpted shrubbery. The tranquility was disturbed only by the cars driven by commuters en route to the parking lot at the Cold Spring Harbor Long Island Rail Road station and the flashes of unhappiness that moved across Joanna's mind. She flicked those thoughts away with her mantra from the Four Quartets.

An occasional driver waved or tooted in recognition of this tall woman, her unbound breasts bobbing beneath her T-shirt. Running was hard this morning in this thick air, especially moving up the rise to Beach Street. She reached the crest of the hill and glanced towards Huntington Bay where the sails of several large boats were riding what little wind was available.

Oooeelie moved past her, bounding with renewed energy, down the hill towards the beach and the waters of Huntington Harbor. He ran onto the beach barking, chasing the seagulls into flight. He waded into the water up to his chest, barking at a huge swan riding the rise and fall of the water about 30 feet from shore.

Joanna moved into a walk when she reached the sand. Elliot surging again into her mind. Sweat blossomed all over her body. A slight breeze cooled her as she walked until her heavy breathing eased to normal. Oooeelie frolicked in and out of the water.

Usually, Joanna would do her tai chi forms on the beach, a moving meditation that enveloped her in peace. This morning, she felt the pull of the water. She sat on the big rock on the beach below her house, undid the laces on her running shoes, pulled off the white athletic socks, and ran into the water. Then plunged under the surface, swimming underwater for 20 yards, coming up to move into a graceful crawl. She swam parallel to the shore free for a while of plaguing thoughts. She would have liked to have swum in the nude, but was too constrained to do it where she could be seen by passing boaters, or even a neighbor. The only traffic on the water in this early hour was an occasional clammer enroute to the passageway linking the harbor to the bay.

After a hundred strokes in each direction, she returned to the shore. Oooeelie raced over to her, shaking the water from his body in a spray that made her laugh. "At least I have a friend I can always turn to," she said, hugging him, thinking that she was so tired of Gil. Her husband. Tired of his whining. Tired of looking at his fat body getting fatter. Tired of being horny. The last time they had sex was Christmas and now June was coming to an end.

CHAPTER THREE

Joanna was conscious of being nude, walking towards the cave across a broad shelf of rock, the warmth of an early morning sun playing on her back. She was enveloped in a delicious coolness as she moved into the long, dark tunnel leading into the cave. In the distance, deep in the earth, she could see the faintest glow. She went forward with a confidence that surprised her, the fingertips of her left hand sliding along the wall, her only guide in the darkness. After the longest time, the glow grew brighter. She knew it was coming from a passageway into a large chamber with a high ceiling and an almost perfectly flat floor.

She went into the passage. At the first turning point, a wick set in a pool of animal oil in a depression scooped out of the rock burned brightly. She walked more easily now, the twists and turns lighted by a series of the crude lamps of wick and oil.

Finally she reached the chamber. Oooeelie was there, pacing up and down behind a Shaman, an older woman with thick, gray, unkempt hair and heavy, pendulous bare breasts. Her attention was riveted on the wall into which she was carefully etching another figure: a kneeling man with long black hair and a wild beard, equally black; he too was nude with a slender powerful body covered with more hair than she had ever seen on a human, his penis hung from a thick bush of pubic hair. She studied the man, experiencing a tingle of excitement.

A movement broke her gaze. The Shaman's assistant, a much younger woman, crouching beside the artist, handed her a tiny vessel containing the coloring element.

Brought back to the moment, Joanna called: "Oooeelie." The Airedale turned to look at her. Neither the Shaman nor her assistant gave any sign of being aware of her presence.

Joanna came awake in her own bed, the first light of morning starting through the bedroom window. She was naked. So why shouldn't she be naked in her dream. The other side of the bed, where Gil should have been, was empty. He had a hard time getting through the night and rarely was there when she awoke. Money and failure haunted him. He was unable to escape even in sleep. "God, life has become awful," she thought. Joanna looked down past the foot of the bed. Oooeelie was sitting, staring her. When their eyes met, he turned and trotted from the room.

She rolled out of bed, slipped on a pair of red shorts and a sweatshirt, a souvenir of a New York Philharmonic concert, and went through the sliding door onto the porch. Gil was there drinking coffee.

"The Times come?" he asked.

"I just got up," she said. "That same dream knocked me awake. The painter is almost finished with the wall. I've been watching her for seven months now."

"You look in the dream book?"

'He doesn't want to hear about it again,' she thought, irritated because she had to listen to his endless, repetitious whining about being caught in the crash of the real estate market when instinct told him to get out. "Always listen to your instinct," he told her twelve times a day, and she couldn't count the number of times he told her the story of how he learned never to ignore his instinct: He was playing left linebacker against North Tarrytown High. He had made three tackles in a row by moving parallel to the line of scrimmage and making the tackle on the right side of the line. They should have kicked on the fourth down. His instinct told him they were coming through the left side of the line, through his position. They were in kick formation, the quarterback took a long snap, then began running towards the right. Something told Gil to linger on his own side of the line, but instead he slid across the defensive backfield then realized the quarterback was faking. A halfback was moving towards the place Gil should have been. The ball carrier sailed through the hole, downfield for a touchdown.

"Don't tell me your football story again," she said snappishly holding up her hand. "I'm going down to get a cup of coffee. You want some more?" She had said that instinctively. Too late to pull it back. The well-trained housewife, the girl ready to serve her male master. She was relieved when he shook his head no.

Gil leaned on the porch railing, coughing a little between drags on his cigaret. He picked up his binoculars to watch a clammer in his boat moving toward the mouth of Huntington Harbor and the open bay beyond. A dog, a big Lab, was standing in the bow, which was riding high out of the calm water. The clammer was sitting midway in the boat, his hand on a small steering wheel. He was dressed in a windbreaker, boots, and a long-billed cap. The clammer was clean-shaven. In winter they grew beards to protect their faces against the cutting winds on the open water.

"You don't know how lucky you are buddy," Gil said aloud. He wished he were a clammer. Leading a simple life on the water with no worries and a good dog. All day in the sunshine, working when he felt like it. They had camaraderie too. On occasion, Gil stumbled into a bar where the clammers hung out, collected together, drinking and laughing. Dark faces from the sun, hard muscles from the work. But they were clannish. They didn't want to talk to people outside their little subculture. He had heard that, and experienced it himself when he tried to strike up a conversation. "You a clammer?" Gil asked. "Right," said the clammer and turned away from him. Gil was left dangling, rejected by this man who wouldn't earn as much in his lifetime as he had made from a single real estate deal. He swallowed a temptation to say something nasty, realistically that wouldn't have been wise. Clammers had a reputation for being strong, silent, and violent.

As he watched the clammer and his dog disappear into the bay, three more clammers in their little boats, Sharpies they were called, moved across the harbor towards the opening that would lead them onto the bay and their day's work. He sighed, pushing away from the railing. He felt an urge for some donuts and more coffee. He would spend a couple of hours reading the New York Times, watch a little television, then go into Huntington Village for lunch, probably, and his first drink of the day. A beer to go with the hamburger and a couple of Jack Daniels. Joanna was going into school today, so she would be out of the way.

CHAPTER FOUR

Michael Collins came awake drenched in the memory of the muggy summer day almost 60 years ago when he turned ten. Not only did he envision his grandfather coming towards him across the lawn him carrying Sunday, but he could smell the fresh grass and the birds chirping and calling in the cool of early morning. "Happy birthday, Little Mike," Grandfather said handing him Sunday, a scrawny black and white, mixed-breed mutt, mostly Fox Terrier, with a big red bow around his neck.

Michael's mother had brought him to the family farm in central Pennsylvania for his birthday celebration as she always did. His father and two sisters and grandmother and several cousins were at the big outdoor table, piled high with presents and crowded with the remnants of breakfast and pastries yet to be eaten, on the east side of the house under the huge crab apple tree. Sunday was the best birthday gift of all. Michael relived the exhilaration all over again in the darkness of the New York hotel room where he lay waiting for the time to pass until he could go out in search of a restaurant for coffee and breakfast.

He recalled his mother was furious. She hated dogs. They were dirty, bothersome, noisy animals who would bite your nose as quickly as they would lick your hand, she said. She had a reason for banning of dogs from their house in Philadelphia. A pretty girl, Mother had known growing up, had come away scarred for life when she pressed her face lovingly into the muzzle of a fierce, old dog, who suddenly lashed out at her. "She never married," Mother said after delivering that awful anecdote again.

"Let the boy enjoy his puppy," Grandfather said with absolute authority. Rebuked, his daughter fell silent, a pinched expression on her face.

For the next two weeks, Sunday never left Michael, sleeping at the foot of his bed, sitting beside him at mealtimes, and following him through the woods to the swimming hole every morning.

Michael remembered that idyllic summer with a pleasure that brought a smile to his face. When they returned to Philadelphia, Sunday stayed behind. Mother said, "It'll be here when we come back in October."

"It." What an ugly pronoun for so sweet an animal, Michael thought as he lay in bed. His seventieth birthday was coming, a marker on the trail of life making him ever more conscious of endings and failures and regrets. Sunday wasn't waiting when he returned to the farm. "He ran off," Grandfather said.

"Maybe he was looking for me," ten-year-old Michael said tearfully.

"Dogs are like that," Grandfather said. "Fiercely loyal. You keep hoping. Maybe he'll turn up again when you least expect it, wanting a fresh bowl of milk and the love of his best friend."

Michael smiled at the ceiling of his hotel room. Grandfather was right after all. Sunday had come back to him these many years later as a full-blown memory, as real in Michael's mind as if he had come scratching at the door.

But he never had another dog. First there was Mother with her ban, then the war, and after the war a career track whose price included a purposeful distancing from dogs. He grimaced. He had to ban them from his house too. He denied his children's hunger for dogs, which irritated his wife, because she grew up in a house filled with pets of every variety.

She couldn't understand Michael's purported aversion for dogs, especially since he had devoted his life for a hunt for a mythical dog called Oooeelie.

\---

Michael Collins came into Georges Ortega's office at the foundation carrying a package wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with heavy twine. "Guess who I ran into in Germany?" Michael said holding the package aloft.

"Oooeelie himself," Ortega replied with a touch of irony. At one level he knew Michael should command his respect, but often he considered him a buffoon. Someone on whose work a fortune had been spent without tangible results.

"Close," Michael replied. "Open it. A gift for the archives."

"What have we here?" Ortega said, holding the formal portrait of a nineteenth century Turkish army officer at arm's length.

"That is the legendary Timur Shehin, who accompanied your great-grandfather on his trek into the mountains of Kurdistan. I got it from Shehin's great grandson. He's with the Turkish embassy in Germany. A fine fellow. I primed him with stories about my treks through the mountains of Kurdistan in search of cave paintings and such, and he responded with tales told around the family table of Timur Shehin's quest with the American millionaire in those same mountains for the devil dog and his worshippers.

"Its," Ortega corrected Michael. "Its worshippers."

"Oh yes. It, the appropriate pronoun for a dog."

"What did you tell him?" Ortega asked, quelling his annoyance. He distrusted Michael and was easily offended by him. He couldn't explain why. Instinct, he supposed.

"Nothing of any substance. He wasn't curious. He was a great talker who loved to hear himself speak and found great pleasure in a Westerner who could speak Turkish and the mountain dialects fluently. He allowed me to have copies made of the portrait. He was rather flattered that a distinguished professor from the University of Pennsylvania would be so interested in his family."

"The foundation archives thank you," Ortega said. "Come on. Let's get the meeting underway and out of the way."

Michael followed Ortega into the boardroom where three staffers waited anxiously. "Well how did our team make out this year?" Michael asked with mock joviality rubbing his hands together. "Any points scored, any touchdowns. The nice thing about this game is that we always win."

"That's an assumption, Michael," Ortega said.

"Georges, there is nothing in the historical record to contradict that assumption."

"Let's begin. Gentlemen, as you know we'll be offering a course at the farm this summer based on your research called `the dog as Master.' Dr. Maye had the role of researching "the dog as a public menace?" He wanted to expand that to wild dogs, coyotes, wolves, etcetera, but I restricted his efforts to domestic animals in the United States as a base to build upon in future years. May I congratulate you Dr. Maye for producing a report that is impressive both in size," Ortega held up the three-inch thick report, "and stats, and is rich with anecdotal material and analysis."

Michael applauded. "Bravo, John," he said to Dr. Maye. "An extraordinary job."

Ortega told the beaming Dr. Maye that he shivered again and again as he read the vivid accounts of the 125-pound Rottweiler tearing apart the four-year girl in Cincinnati, Ohio, and the pair of Akitas that ripped the face off a two-year-old in front of his mother in Austin, Texas. "The child died. Better off dead, I think," Ortega said solemnly. "The statistics are overwhelming. I couldn't believe there are 52 million dogs in the United States, two million bites a year, and probably another million unreported. Six hundred thousand are serious attacks and 20 human beings are killed by these beasts every year. Data like this reinforces my determination to eliminate as many dogs as possible and to curtail the activities of those who survive. We have a duty to warn the public about the menace of dogs. And I agree with your suggestion, Dr. Maye, that we should establish an award for the most heroic efforts to stave off dog attacks. I particularly like your idea of starting a fund to provide every letter carrier in the nation an electronic device emitting an ultrasonic sound that would take the fight out of dogs. Twenty-eight-hundred letter carriers bitten every year. We've got to put a stop to that."

He told Dr. Maye that he would like him to make a two-hour presentation of his findings at the conference `the dog as Master.' "A heavy dose of visuals would be nice. In color, if possible, for the drama. And a rich salting of anecdotes. I'm sure you'll do a wonderful presentation." They stood, shook hands, and bowed just a bit to one another.

"Liborio, Liborio," Ortega said to a heavy-set man with a pockmarked face. "I gave you what an ordinary researcher could pass off as a mundane assignment, `the dog and Public Health,' and you did a yeoman's job. I never imagined the plethora of potential diseases that dog feces expose innocent children to."

"Very nice job," Michael interjected. "If only you could have made the ties to AIDs or cancer or TB."

Dr. Liborio's face reddened under Michael's sarcastic praise.

Ortega went on as if Michael hadn't spoken. "I want to fit you into a mid-afternoon session. Well after lunch and well before dinner. I don't want any stomachs turned or appetites lost because of the distressful subject matter. Nice job."

He stood. "I have a dream that this conference will be the seed from which an organization will grow to raise the public consciousness about the danger of these animals that are taken into one out of three American homes and treated like members of the family. I envision a grassroots organization that will pursue dog control with the fervor of MADD in the campaign against drunk drivers. The public has to be made to realize that these things we shower billions of dollars a year on are just as dangerous to the public safety and health as tobacco."

Sunday danced across Michael Collins' mind as Ortega spoke.

"Thank you gentlemen," Ortega said. "Further information will be sent to you by Mrs. Ryan within the week on the minutiae of the conference." he nodded to Mrs. Ryan who had sat silently through the brief meeting taking notes. "I'll see you at the farm this summer." They shook hands all around.

After Mrs. Ryan led them out, Ortega sat silently for a while. "Michael, I saw the skeptical expression on your face as I spoke."

"I'll have to learn how to control my countenance. I'll focus on wearing an expression of respect whenever you speak."

"Now let's hear your report," Ortega said. He was very tired of this man's snickering attitude.

"I had a run covering the last five years made through Lexis, Nexis etcetera, every major information service, news, academic and otherwise in the United States, South America, the Mideast, Asia, and Australia. Nothing came up on the name, Oooeelie. We arrived at 125 different phonetic spellings of the name. Nothing."

CHAPTER FIVE

Oooeelie leapt at the fence when Joanna's car pulled into the driveway. His tail was wagging so hard that his entire back moved from side to side. "Okay, okay," she said getting out of the car reaching over to pet him. He jumped high in the air over and over. "I'll be right out to get you." She stopped, knowing suddenly that he was very thirsty. Instead of going into the house, Joanna let herself into the enclosed front yard to fill Oooeelie's dry water bowl from the tap. She felt herself seething as she watched the dog furiously lapping the water. She wondered angrily if he had been out the entire day without water. Something told her that he had.

Joanna went back to the car and fetched the big flat box containing tonight's supper, a pizza, from the trunk. She deposited the box on the kitchen table, then went into the family room, where Gil slept soundly, his head rolled forward, snoring. There was a bowl of pretzels, half empty, and a couple of empty beer cans on the coffee table. "Dinner time," she said snapping off the TV.

They ate in silence. Pizza with mushrooms on paper plates and ice water for her, beer for him. She would have enjoyed a beer, but she didn't want to encourage him to drink any more. She had two slices; he had six. "I thought Oooeelie might get a piece out of this pie," she said as he bit into the last slice.

"He's got dog food."

`Let it go,' she said to herself, remembering what Dolores Astair told her this afternoon, managing with some effort to contain the anger she felt. "What were you watching?"

"Marco Chang," he said.

"He's on at 4 o'clock. It was after 7 when I walked in the door. No wonder you can't sleep at night."

He banged his glass on the table. "I can't sleep at night, because I've got too much on my goddamn mind." He wanted to tell her everything, but he couldn't. The lawyer told him he had to remain silent, confiding in no one.

Joanna felt a chill of fear. He looked furious enough to throw the glass at her. Oooeelie rose, silent, intense, ready to attack the man if his anger bubbled into violence. Gil had never hit Joanna, but the way their life together had disintegrated since his investments and life went sour, she couldn't be sure he wouldn't take out his feelings of despair on her. And, Oooeelie sensed how barely Gil controlled himself.

"We've got to talk," she said trembling a little. "I know you don't believe in psychiatrists or psychologists."

"No kidding," he said, softening in the face of her obvious fear. He wasn't by nature a bully or a wife beater. The Airedale sat down again, not taking his eyes off Gil. His interest had shifted from food to protecting Joanna.

"If you won't get someone else to help you then you've got to help yourself. I ran into Dolores Astair today," Joanna said. "She's a PhD and a nurse, who teaches holistic health in the graduate school of education."

"You told a stranger about me?"

He was on the verge of an explosion again. "No," she said, lying. "I said I had a neighbor I was very good friends with, who was half out of his mind, first because of the stock market crash, then because of the real estate crash. I told her he was so torn up by his frustrations and failures and the money he lost that he couldn't really function any more. He was drinking and he was wasting his life sitting in front of the TV feeling sorry for himself, feeling his life was over."

"That's what you think of me?"

"Dolores said he's probably so caught up in talking to himself, his mind is probably churning the same dreadful stuff over and over. She says it's not unusual. We're all caught up in mind babble or the internal dialogue, whatever you want to call it. You know, I realized I am myself. I was trying to get you help and I came away from my conversation with her with an Aha! about myself."

"Tell her about your repetitious dream?" he asked contemptuously.

Joanna felt stung by that, but was very proud of herself. She was in control, carefully listening to him, as Dolores instructed. "I told Dolores that this neighbor refused to go to anyone for help. And she said, then he'll have to help himself. How? She said he needs something to relax him, she suggested meditation and exercise. She told me that there's a great book, Mindfulness Meditation by Hanh. H-A-N-H. She says it's all about focusing on living in the moment. That it made her life better. Hanh says when you wake up in the morning, you should put on a half smile. It helps set the tone for the day. Dolores says she has a sign in her bedroom, `Put on a half smile' as a reminder."

"Oh Jesus," he said, "You've got to be kidding. Do you think I would see the sign when I wake up in the middle of the night?"

Tears started down her face. She licked her lips unconsciously. He softened. She had reacted the same way when her mother died. He felt like taking her in his arms, to tell her everything would be all right. Everything passes. But he was riveted to his seat. Her tears had quelled his mounting anger. He set himself to hear her out.

Joanna swallowed her tears, determined to finish. "Dolores suggested another book, Herbert Benson's The Relaxation Response. She said, he's depressed. She can understand why, but he's got to get ahold of himself, he's got to get involved, to sit down and decide what he wants to do with the rest of his life. He can't just sit and talk to himself. He's got to get moving, maybe volunteer to help some group out. Most of the time when you help others you help yourself at the same time. She said it's not unusual for people to be distracted by their internal dialogue. She said Carlos Castaneda wrote about it. Dolores said they talk about it all the time at the School for Practical Philosophy where she goes. They call it the discursive mind and they tell you to say, `Not this.' when it happens. Just try it Gil. Please."

"Is this group therapy session over? Can I leave the table now?"

"Sure," she said. "But just try it. For me."

He swallowed a nasty retort and went upstairs to the porch overlooking Huntington Harbor. The water at dusk soothed him. The smartest thing he had ever done was buy this house with this porch. The scenes that played over and over in his mind were of Gordon Anderson telling him FBI agents had questioned him, then of Sid Wannack telling him the bank wouldn't extend his loans. Those ugly thoughts stopped when he focused on the beauty of water and the changing sky.

Gil sat on the porch for a long time, feeling better with the passage of dusk into night. The moon was almost full, standing sharply in the darkened sky. There was a planet. They didn't blink. Then an array of stars. He realized hours had passed and he was a touch sleepy. He went into the bedroom. Joanna was sleeping soundly. Oooeelie was at the foot of the bed. The dog jumped off when Gil got in.

It was one o'clock. Gil lay there staring at the ceiling, realizing that he had to do something to catch hold of himself. But he didn't feel like doing anything. He couldn't imagine himself sitting with his legs crossed mumbling a mantra or whatever they called it. That seemed boring and wasteful. He had a little money left, but he didn't want to go back into real estate or stocks or even to think about a business that would make money. He had made money. He had lost money. And what did it all mean? His life meant nothing. And maybe he was facing prison for what Gordon had done. At the very least, public embarrassment. He felt empty.

CHAPTER SIX

Gil trailed begrudgingly behind Joanna as she ran up the steps to the Huntington Library. He knew without her saying why she insisted the he come along to the library. She was hoping he would get one of the books on meditation her friend had suggested. She had tacked the titles and the authors on the refrigerator door with a magnet.

Coming to the library was another way to fill the empty space in another long day. He would look at some magazines, although he doubted any would interest him.

As they passed the service desk, the librarian lit up. "Dr. Tyrling!" she said brightly.

"Mrs. Maher," Joanna responded with just as much warmth, waving her long fingers in hello.

"You remember Sean MacGahan," Mrs. Maher said nodding to a tall, young man in a white t-shirt and jeans standing beside her. "He was just asking if you were going to be the facilitator for the Writers from the Huntington Community this summer. I told I couldn't say, because you filled in for the Novels in Discussion course last winter as personal favor for me."

"That's a wonderful program, Sean," Joanna said. "I would recommend it to anyone aspiring to be a writer." Before he could respond, she said, "I'd like you to meet my husband, Gil Tyrling."

They shook hands. Gil was immediately conscious of the strength in the hand and arm of the young man in front of him. His skin was dark from the sun, his muscles hard from working a clam rake in the deep waters of the North Shore.

Sean nodded, whispering, hello.

"Sean had a wonderful grasp of the novel. He was one of my favorite students," Joanna said to Gil.

"I majored in English," Sean said softly.

"That's the root of your affinity. Dr. Tyrling teaches English at NYU and is quite a poet as well," Mrs. Maher said.

"You're a clammer aren't you?" Gil asked in a rush to change the direction of the conversation.

"Yes."

"Got a yellow Lab, don't you?"

Sean nodded.

"I see you going out in the morning all the time. How long have you been clamming?"

"Twenty years or so."

"My God," Gil said. "You don't look old enough to have been doing anything for 20 years. How do you like clamming?"

"No bosses. No one to tell you what to do. I work when I want to and I don't when I don't. I couldn't live any other way."

"I had a job with no bosses and no one to tell me what to do. I made lots of money, and I lost lots of money. And it ended up being sheer hell."

Sean didn't respond. The silent clammer, a little embarrassed for Dr. Tyrling. He kept his reaction of distaste for Gil's whining to himself.

Joanna was surprised by Gil's candor. That was the first time she had ever heard him tell an outsider about his current state of agony. She started to say let's look for our books, but Gil held up his hand silencing her.

"Could a guy like me, fat and fifty and out of shape become a clammer?"

Sean paused. He looked at Gil hard, not wanting to answer, but feeling an obligation to Dr. Tyrling. She was a woman he admired. He knew all about her poetry and her academic credentials. The librarian didn't have to list them for him. He had decided to try writing again, because of her. He had asked her, could he be a writer? And she had responded honestly that it took dedication and discipline. Everyone talks about writing, only writers do it. Sean told Gil: "A lot of people try clamming, but most don't last long. There's a spiritual element to clamming that few people grasp. If you put your mind to it, your body will follow. You'll get in shape. You may not catch many clams for a long while, but you'll get in shape if you have the perseverance to stick it out. Don't get the idea it's easy. In effect, you lift weights all day long, every time you pull up the rake. And, you're in the sun, in the cold, you never know what or who you're going to face out there on the water. I've had huge sharks swim around my boat, and gotten hit by sudden storms with wind and waves that put the fear of nature in me. The cops, the conservation officers, the bay constables, and the tourists are always ready to harass the clammers."

"What would I need to get started?" Gil asked oblivious to the fascination of his wife and Mrs. Maher, the librarian.

"I use a 40 horse on a 17-foot Sharpie. Some clammers use a 200 horsepower engine on a 22-foot boat. They're in a hurry. I'm not. Hell, you could get by with ten and a half horse. It would just take you a while to get out there."

"I know you need a boat and motor, I mean what kind of equipment would I need?"

"At a minimum, three sections of pole, one a T-section; a rake head, a cull box to sort the clams, and state and town permits. The boat and everything else would cost you about 2,000 bucks."

"I can handle that. Can you teach me to clam? I'd be glad to pay for the lessons."

"No," replied Sean without hesitation. His friendship for Dr. Tyrling didn't extend beyond the limits of the subculture in which he lived, in which he found his place. "I have to go now," he said to cut off any further conversation. "Nice seeing you again Dr. Tyrling. Thank you, Mrs. Maher."

Mrs. Maher waited for him to move through the front door. "I've heard that he's the best clammer on the water. He catches when no one else can, and catches more when everyone else is catching."

"He has a college degree and he's a clammer? Seems like a wasted life," Gil said looking at the door.

"He's happy in what he does. That's obvious. Isn't that what life's all about?" the librarian asked.

"Have you ever seen a clammer with real money? A nice house, a good car?"

"Sean's got a nice little house, not a big fancy one on the water. He's got three kids. They don't seem to be going hungry. And he's got a lively mind," she said.

'Not a big fancy one on the water.' That confirmed she was comparing him to Sean. Gil felt lashed by her words. Anger surged in him. He was down, but not open to criticism by an insignificant librarian. He turned away from her walking over to the periodicals. 'Fuck you,' he said in his mind.

Joanna chatted with the librarian for a few minutes to cover the discomfort she felt over Gil's ugly manner, relieved when a youngster in search of a book interrupted. She went to the card catalogue to look for a book on Airedales. Or perhaps the history of dogs. Seeing Oooeelie in her dream made her wonder whether Airedales or dogs like them spanned the tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of years of the history of man. She wasn't sure how long men had been around.

Scanning the section on dogs, a heavily-bound book in a dark blue binding caught her eye. The Long Friendship--Canines and Men. She glanced through it, then paused in shock at the black and white photograph of wall painting in a cave in Kurdistan. It was the picture of her dreams, but this one had four more figures. She took the book out to a chair in the periodicals section so she could sit down to study it carefully. The dog, a huge, shaggy animal with long legs and a long nose and piercing eyes, was on a platform. Kneeling below him was the Shaman, poised as if speaking to the dog, who extended a paw with toes as long as fingers barely touching the outstretched fingers of the hand of the old woman around whose neck a small, three-fingered flute dangled from a chord. On a level below her were four men on their knees, their heads bowed, their hands open on either side of their ears. Next on the floor of the scene were three kneeling women, bare breasted, with two small naked children. The dog was looking past the kneeling humans to a large seven-pointed star on the high on the wall beyond them, and three smaller stars at the end of an elongated curling line that she immediately knew represented a serpent.

In her last dream, the Shaman was still working on the figure of the woman closest to the men. The other women and children and the stars had not been etched into the wall. It was a painstakingly slow process. She had been dreaming it sporadically. Sometimes coming into the cave to find a figure completed.

Her heart pounded in the excitement of her discovery. And she was afraid. She looked in front of the book: Copyright 1922. Privately printed, London. Limited Edition. Number 23.

Stamped in the book in a circle:

Ex Libris

Francis X. Ehrwright

Huntington, NY

The book had never been read. Some of the pages were still uncut. Yet there was a smudge on the page with the wall painting.

Joanna wondered whether Francis X. Ehrwright had studied the print of the wall painting with the same intensity as she some 70 years ago with a cup of tea and some preserves and biscuits at his side. The smudge might have been a drop of jam closed in the book like a dried flower to be discovered decades later by someone like her.

Oh, how she loved the cards they used to have in the backs of library books with the name of a person next to the written or stamped dates telling you when the book was borrowed and returned. The history of a book and those attracted to it could be discerned from those little cards. But no more. Another casualty of the computer age.

Gil was coming towards her. He was carrying two books: North Shore Baymen and The Relaxation Response. She smiled. "I found a book too," she said holding up The Long Friendship--Canines and Men. Then she remembered something important. She turned to the photo credits. Print/page 125/Courtesy of Wesos Foundation.

CHAPTER SEVEN

On 83rd Street just off Fifth Avenue, Joanna had found the address listed in the New York Telephone Book. There was a little bronze plaque, Wesos Foundation. Beside the name, in bas-relief, was a circle enclosing a triangle in the form of nine dots with a tenth dot in the center. She walked up the five marble steps, feeling fatigued in the sultry heat. The 100-degree temperatures torturing the city had penetrated even this tree-lined, normally cool street with its old mansions transformed into offices for foundations, high-priced doctors, and foreign missions.

She pulled open the heavy glass door enclosed in an intricate wrought iron design. A young Latino woman, dressed in a very nice suit with pearls and matching earrings in her pierced ears, sitting at a long, marble-topped table in front of a pair of staircases that rose behind her, looked up from a book. A little fan played a breeze on her. She placed the crystal goblet filled with ice and tea and a slice of lemon on the table. She looked at Joanna expectantly.

The air in the foyer was cool, but still and hard to breath. "Murderous out there. I really expected to walk into air conditioning."

"This is an old building," the young woman said evenly.

"Beautiful," Joanna said.

"Can I help you?"

"Could you direct me to your library or archives?"

"Not unless you are a member."

"Perhaps I can have access. I'm doing some research."

She smiled. "Not unless you are a member."

"I'm in the academic world. I've never heard of a foundation that didn't extend the courtesy of its library to professionals."

"It's easy enough to join," she said. "It's open to anyone interested in what we do." She shoved a little brochure across the table. "There is a $100 per quarter membership fee, but there are all kinds of wonderful courses and discussion groups. And of course, the use of our library."

Joanna insisted on seeing someone with a little more authority. After some resistance, the young woman called Mrs. Ryan, a short, fat, black woman, equally well dressed, equally polite. Mrs. Ryan smilingly told Joanna that only members could use the facilities, and she was welcome to join.

"Perhaps I'm economically disadvantaged and don't have $100 to spend as the entrance fee to your library, which should be open to academic investigators and perhaps the public at large."

Mrs. Ryan breathed deeply, suppressing her obvious irritation with a forced smile. "The decision to join and gain access is yours. If you are economically disadvantaged then admission to this institution is beyond your means."

"That's a rather elitist attitude."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ryan, losing her smile. "Have a nice day," she said and walked up the stairs. The Latino woman turned back to her book and iced tea.

After suppressing a surge of rage, Joanna sat down on a cold marble bench to read the brochure and to consider her options. The Wesos Foundation was the American branch of a worldwide organization that gathered the interested few together to examine the nature of man, to discuss and study man as the image of God and man's triumph over the animals. In summer months, weekend seminars were conducted at the foundation's farm in the Berkshires. The weekends in the summer of 1993 included prehistoric art, Plato, Virgil's Aeneid, Yeats and the Upanishads, a series of weekends centering on an intensive course in Greek through right-brain-learning techniques, mindfulness meditation, telepathy in men and animals, and "The dog as Master." There was an asterisk next to the last course with a note on the bottom of the page saying that weekend was limited to selected members and guests. The Fall discussion groups at the East 83rd Street building would be announced at the Labor Day weekend picnic at the farm on Sunday, Sept. 6.

The smorgasbord of weekends didn't stir any particular interest within Joanna although she taught a course on Yeats. She was torn between getting some more information on the wall painting and having to pay an extortionate price to join an organization in which she had no interest just to make an inquiry about a print in a 70-year-old book. Then the full-length portrait on the opposite wall caught her attention: A smug-faced, balding man with a fringe of grey hair, dressed in a business suit. She walked across the foyer to be certain. The nameplate said: "Francis X. Ehrwright."

"Who was Francis X. Ehrwright?" Joanna asked.

After a pause, the young woman replied: "I don't want to sound impolite or anything like that, but if you are one of the interested few, you'll join. The library upstairs has a little biography of Mr. Ehrwright."

Joanna paused. She didn't want to go through the members only routine again. Now her $100 would provide information on two subjects, not that she was really interested in Francis X. Ehrwright, but the coincidence of his linkage to the book containing the wall painting from her dream and this obscure foundation stirred her curiosity enough to make her willing to part with the money. She and Gil never hesitated to spend that much on dinner in a nice restaurant or for theater tickets or a donation to the Red Cross when some great tragedy occurred. She sat down opposite the young woman at the desk, filled out the membership form, and fished the blank check she carried for emergencies from her pocketbook.

The young woman smiled, her teeth seeming extra white, framed by her olive skin and dark hair. She pressed several buttons on her phone. "I have a new member," she said into the phone.

With a broad smile, Mrs. Ryan returned to fetch her. "I'm so glad you're one of the interested few. I'll take you up to the library, where Ms. Berke will help you, but I want you to know that there is still time to sign up for the summer weekends. And, they are marvelous. It's worth going to the farm just for the food, the wonderful company."

The library on the third floor was air-conditioned, much to Joanna's relief. She filled out a request form, mentioning to Ms. Berke, who was wearing a white cotton cardigan over a plain blue summer dress that she was drawn to the Wesos Foundation by the credit line in the book that came from Francis X. Ehrwright's personal collection. While the librarian did a computer search for the original of the wall painting--and any related or relevant material about it, Joanna sat for a while looking out on the street below, then examined a wall in the reading room of the library displaying books for sale: Plato's Republic, The Ten Principal Upanishads, The Aeneid in Latin & English with explanatory notes, The Outsider, The Secret History of Magic...when she was interrupted.

"Welcome to the circle of the interested few Mrs. Tyrling," said a tall, solidly-built, slender man in his late thirties with a deep, receding hairline, "My name is Georges Ortega. I understand a book from my grandfather's collection drew you to us." He extended his hand in greeting.

The touch of his hand tingled through her body. "I really came to get some more information on a wall painting reproduced in the book."

"Well, well this sultry summer day is turning into something very interesting. Ms. Berke is fetching the file from the archives. She knew I would be interested in meeting you so she called. Shall we examine the file together? I am as fascinated as you, obviously because of my family connection."

Ms. Berke appeared carrying a large red portfolio tied with ribbon and a copy of The Long Friendship--Canines and Men. Joanna picked up the book, opening to the title page: Limited Edition. Number 1. Stamped in a circle superimposed on an engraving of a Greek runner passing the torch to a younger man was:

Ex Libris

Juan Ortega y O'Hara

Santiago, Chile

"My grandfather on my father's side," Georges Ortega said.

"The copy I saw was in the Huntington Library," Joanna said, thinking 'what a lovely voice,' and impressed by the richness of the man's heritage.

"Out on Long Island. Yes. My grandfather on my mother's side grew up out there. His family had an estate, a farm really on something or other Neck."

"Lloyd's Neck."

"That sounds like it." He undid the ribbon opening the portfolio of prints. There were nine, each dated 1873 with the artist's signature: Daniel P. O'Hara. Starting with sketches of the exterior of the cave, a black and white drawing of the wall painting, several watercolors of the same wall painting with the stars in red and gold, the line-serpent in green. Joanna recognized the figures in her dream including the long-legged dog with his blue fur and piercing red eyes. There were three line drawings and colored drawings of the figure of the dog. The ninth sketch was a detail of the interior of the cave, showing its dimensions, the wall painting, and on the floor of the cave about two feet from the wall directly below the figure of the dog was a flat, rectangular stone. Joanna gasped. Someone had penciled onto the surface of the stone in the print in tiny, but clear letters: "Oooeelie's grave."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Joanna rushed from the foundation building without a word to the others. She went right into a taxi to Penn Station. At the train station, she brushed past a black junkie in a torn skirt and a filthy orange blouse holding out an outstretched paper coffee cup pleading for change. She hurried down the steps, haunted by the refrain in her mind, 'A coincidence. A coincidence.' She moved on automatic to the newsstand to buy a New York Newsday for the ride on the Long Island Rail Road.

The waiting room level was thick with sweating commuters, holding their suit jackets, shopping bags, briefcases. Joanna checked the console. The train to Huntington would be on Track 18. She had a 20-minute wait. To distract herself she went to one of the pizza stands.

"Come on, come on, lady. Who's next?" a little bald-headed man in a striped short-sleeved shirt behind the counter chattered at her as soon as the customer in front of her stepped aside with his slice of pizza and cup of root beer.

The spilled soft drinks on the floor and tomato stains on the counter combined with the heat from the oven almost turned her stomach. She spun away, feeling dazed, hearing in her mind, 'A coincidence. A coincidence.'

The commuters were moving in erratic patterns across the space between the gallery of stores with food and trinkets, the newsstand, the ticket sellers, the console that told of tracks and trains, and the steps down to the platforms.

At a quarter to, the gate for Track 18 opened, and Joanna joined the throng rushing down the steps. The train wasn't there. She walked to the spot on the platform that would put her in a car whose doors would open at Cold Spring Harbor almost in line with the stairs to the parking lot.

Joanna tried reading Newsday, but she couldn't focus on the latest sordid account of Joey and Amy or the rapes in Bosnia. She glanced at Doonesbury, The Wizard of Id, and The Far Side. She was checking the cable movie schedule when the train arrived. The doors opened almost in front of her, and she hurried for one of the prime seats facing in the direction the train would travel.

The sound system announced a 10-minute delay due to a signal problem. The car theoretically was air conditioned, but the body temperatures of the overheated commuters and the seething anger of so many of them created an oppressive atmosphere. Sullen men in shirtsleeves, their jackets on their laps, and women commuters with briefcases and white blouses sticking wetly to their skins, stared blankly ahead or tried to read their papers.

The doors finally closed and the train started with a series of jerks. They moved a short distance into the tunnel and stopped. "Ladies and gentlemen," the conductor said in the voice of a sideshow barker, "Stay cool, be patient and we'll be underway as soon as the track ahead is cleared."

"Jesus Christ," a fat man, his dress shirt stained with sweat, his tie decorated with blue and yellow butterflies, sitting across from Joanna in the four-seater shouted. "This goddamn railroad."

His profanity pulled Joanna out of a daydream of envisioning the sketch with Oooeelie's name. She stared at the man until their eyes locked; she looked away, fearful of provoking him. He seemed crazy and she couldn't shake the mantra, 'A coincidence. A coincidence.'

After what seemed an interminable delay, the train got underway. As they rushed past Woodside, the conductor came through chanting, "tickets, tickets."

The fat man caught Joanna's eye. "The son of a bitch was hiding when we were stuck in the tunnel. Stayed in his little box where we couldn't get at him."

The conductor moved quickly punching commuter passes, pausing to sell a day hopper a ticket. The fat man docilely flashed his monthly pass, as did Joanna and the two passengers sitting with them. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," the conductor said pleasantly, moving to the next foursome.

"Son of a bitch," the fat man murmured.

The conductor, who had thick muscular arms and an Italian-looking face, whirled around. "If you're feeling rambunctious, sir, just step into the aisle and we'll discuss your problems with our service."

"You'd like me to do that then you'd get me arrested at the next stop."

"No, I wouldn't get you arrested, sir. I'm just suggesting it would be wise to keep your snide remarks to yourself, sir." The conductor touched his hat, and the fat man sat in silence and humiliation. Joanna opened her paper, pretending to read.

Joanna arrived home still shaken by the experience of seeing her Airedale's unusual name printed on a sketch made in 1873. Oooeelie was in the front yard to greet her with his usual enthusiasm, jumping high in the air, dancing across the yard. He needed water again. She knew that instinctively. His water bowl was bone dry. As she filled it from the garden hose, she thought angrily of Gil's selfish laziness that turned into cruelty denying Oooeelie water in this heat. It was 100 degrees in the city. At least 10 degrees cooler on Long Island, still searingly hot.

But the dog didn't rush for the water. He snuffled her hand, snorting unpleasantly, then circling her with an unease that intensified her upset. He studied her. Oooeelie was confused. There were so many memories stored in his mind. He had detected in her hand the barest scent of something distasteful.

She stroked him. "What's it all about Oooeelie? I wish you could tell me."

Oooeelie had been trying to do just that, to ask her who had touched her hand, but the barriers were too great and his skills, though growing, were still too limited. He rubbed against her like a cat, and she hugged him filling him with love. His thirst was intense. When he started drinking the water, Joanna went in search of Gil.

She found her husband passed out in the hammock in the back yard. An empty beer can lying on the ground where it had dropped from his hand. Revulsion swept through her. He looked so much like the fouled-mouthed, cowardly fat man on the train.

"Gil," she said loudly.

"Leave me alone," he mumbled. "I can't talk." His arms and neck were beet red from his first day on the water, clamming. He had bought a second hand rig--including a motor, Sharpie, rake, five sections of pole, and a cull box for $1,100 from an ad in Newsday. The next day he got his licenses and was out early this morning at first light, planning to be finished long before the heat of the day.

Gil had fumbled through the first day, bending a section of pole so badly it couldn't be used again and suffering under the strain of working the cumbersome rake through the bottom of the harbor. He was soaked with sweat, exhausted within an hour, and in agony from the blisters on his hands. He spent three hours on the water pulling up rocks, bottom mud, seaweed, and a few huge chowder clams. By the end of the ordeal he was so tired he was moving in slow motion. He barely made it home. Taking a shower was a major effort, and after a beer that was the best beer he had ever tasted, he collapsed on the hammock. His whole being ached until he slipped into a restless sleep.

Then Joanna appeared in a fury.

"What good are you," she screamed at him. "You're a pig. A drunk. All you do is whine. I'm tired of you. I'm tired of having a man who's not interested in me. Where are you when I need someone to talk to." Realizing that she was in a frenzy, she stopped and in her frustration punched his sleeping form. Not even that penetrated his exhaustion.

After a shower, she slipped on her short silk robe and poured herself a glass of iced tea. She sat in her bed in the air-conditioned house, feeling comforted by Oooeelie at her side. "Who are you?" she asked him a number of times. Oooeelie stared at her, still trying to comprehend the haunting scent. "I saw a strange picture with your name on it. Could you tell me about that, Oooeelie boy?" she asked, distractedly petting him until she dozed, slipping into a deep sleep.

Joanna was conscious of being cold, pulling the blue silk robe tighter around her as she walked with Oooeelie trotting at her side into the mouth of the cave. That was different. Oooeelie, through the months of this dream, had never been beside her. The wall painting was complete. The bare-breasted women and children had been etched and colored into the scene since Joanna's last trek into the cave.

The Shaman struggling under the weight of a dog with bluish fur, limp in death, walked past her. Two bearded men in loin clothes with capes of animal skin round their shoulders took the body from her, easing it into a narrow pit cut into the floor of the cave. They lifted the edge of the flat heavy stone and with a fierce effort pushed it over to cover the pit. They stood bent over, panting, their heads bowed from the strain. Tears streamed down the face of the Shaman. Oooeelie, at Joanna's side, lifted his head to howl, as she had never heard him howl. Behind them in the distance, howls rose from dogs and wolves and coyotes, penetrating the deep recesses of the cave.

A clanging sound snapped her awake. The telephone. The ringing stopped. Gil must have answered it. He appeared in the bedroom. He handed her the portable phone. "Some man from some foundation," he said.

"Dr. Tyrling," Georges Ortega said, "I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I had to call to find out why you left so suddenly? I must admit I felt a bit concerned. You seemed startled by something you saw in one of the prints."

Joanna's body ached from being dragged from a deep sleep. "There was something in the prints."

"Could you tell me about it? What you saw that was so disturbing?"

Gil was sitting on the bed watching her. She looked into his eyes as she answered Ortega. "This sounds crazy, even to me, but my dog has an unusual name and I saw it on one of the prints. I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

"What is your dog's name?"

"Oooeelie," Joanna said. After a long pause, she asked to be certain he was still on the line, "Mr. Ortega?"

"Could you tell me how your dog got the name Oooeelie?"

"I feel very uncomfortable telling you because it sounds so weird. When we got him, I named him Randy. I've never told anyone this, other than my husband. I was dreaming and realized he wanted to be called Oooeelie. It all sounds so nutty doesn't it?"

"Why are you telling him that?" Gil asked drowning out Ortega's response.

She held up her hand to silence Gil. "Please Gil, I'm talking to the director of the Wesos Foundation, and I can't hear him."

"Fuck you," Gil said and walked out of the bedroom slamming the door behind him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ortega, could you please repeat what you said," she said feeling her face flushed with embarrassment, wondering whether he had heard Gil's crudity.

Ortega, barely able to speak, said with some difficulty. "I said that I'm going to have to call you back, Dr. Tyrling. I'm sorry I have to say goodbye."

Ortega gently put the phone on it cradle. The pulse in his right temple throbbed like a hammer. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. He had never before felt dread. There had to be a logical explanation. The intelligent approach was to avoid being overwhelmed by fear, as he now was, and to find that explanation. He went to the liquor cabinet in the oak-paneled boardroom. He felt eerily alone, a little scared. He moved as though something were going to spring at him from a dark corner. This sense of foreboding clashed with his image of himself as sophisticated and self-controlled. He poured himself a scotch. He sipped the liquor, the taste floating across his tongue, warming his insides. He thought about Oooeelie, this mythically evil figure, who had always been a disembodied presence in his life and the lives of his ancestors as the devil was in the lives of the religious. There was plenty of circumstantial evidence of Oooeelie's existence. Right there in the manuscripts in the closed archives. He had read them with interest after he was inducted into the Circle of Man, an honor that included access to those writings. What if Joanna's animal was really the Oooeelie? A theoretical enemy rendered into flesh and blood? It would be like the devil appearing on earth. What would the Pope do? Would he confront Lucifer head on? What would the holly rollers, the true believers in the ranks of the religious, do? Obviously, ask God to help them in the battle. Before he turned to God, he would first have to find out a lot more about this woman and her dog. He smiled the whole thing might be a ruse? His self-confidence returned.

He punched Dr. Tyrling's number into the phone.

She answered on the second ring. "Are you alright?" she asked.

"Of course. I must admit I was a little taken aback when you told me you had a dog named Oooeelie. That's an ancient name you know. I've never heard of a dog in modern times having that name."

Joanna's heart was pounding. "I am so glad I have someone to talk to about this. My husband is useless on this subject. I've been having this repetitious dream about the cave and the wall painting in the portfolio we looked at this afternoon. In fact, I just awoke from the same dream. I was in the cave and the dog with blue fur was being laid in a tomb by the Shaman who did the picture on the wall."

The hackles on the back of Ortega's neck rose. Fear flooded him again. "My God! Dr. Tyrling, you must write down every detail of that dream while it is still fresh in your mind. And everything about your dog. How you got it? How it behaves? How it communicates with you? I'd like to sit down with you tomorrow or the next day and go over the whole thing. Will you do it?

"Of course," she said.

CHAPTER NINE

Joanna had a bourbon and sat locked in inertia at the desk in her office off the kitchen on the first floor of the house. Writing was an act of exposure of the mind and a revelation of skill. It was hard to do. She didn't know how to begin. She remembered telling her students in a writing course to just begin at the beginning. Make out you were writing a note to yourself so you wouldn't get up tight.

So she began at the beginning:

My husband, Gil, and I, were driving back from a vacation in Northern Vermont about three years ago with our daughter, Amy, when I saw the sign:

Airedales for Sale

Purebred puppies

w/papers

I had been wanting a dog since our wire-haired terrier, Manny, had died more than a year ago. Dogs are dirty and demanding and sometimes a pain, but they are company, and loveable, and protection for the house. They are fun to have around. And a husband might cheat on you, but a dog never would. Besides, Amy wanted a puppy as much as I did.

Gil was just going along with the program. His mind was locked into his latest real estate deal so he wasn't paying much attention to what I wanted or was doing or saying. He came out of his fog to say: I'm not walking the dog. I'm not cleaning up after the dog. The dog is gonna be yours. Amy said, I'll take care of him.

Let's look, I said.

The place selling them was a working farm. The farmer said, Come on out back. I got some beauties left, but at $300 for an Airedale they're going fast. You look in the newspapers when you get home and call me if you can find an Airedale on Long Island for less than $500. The Airedale is the finest dog bred. Great around children. Sweet and loving and gentle as hell, but don't worry about anybody breaking into the house or attacking you. They was bred to hunt bear and they never back down once they start a fight. The Airedale is one tough puppy. But loveable.

He opened the door to the kennel and this little bundle of fur came running right at me, licking me, rolling over. I didn't even look at the others. We'll take him, I said.

Gil became the businessman. Will you take a check? What about the papers? Does he need any shots?

Amy and I just took turns hugging and kissing him. Let's call him Randy, Mommy, Amy said. Can he sleep with me?

Randy slept with Amy until she went back to college in the fall, but just a couple of weeks into that semester, the start of her junior year, she dropped out to get married, which was upsetting. But she is living in Oregon with her husband who is the same age. He has a good job in his family's business and they have two children and seem very happy. We hear from Amy on birthdays and holidays and try to visit her at least once a year. Needless to say, Randy became my dog. I walked him every morning, and he ran on the beach with me every day. I fed him. I made sure he had water. I was the food lady with the leftovers from the table for him after every meal. He loved Amy, but he became my dog.

The joke in the family was that Randy spoke to me. I seemed to know what he wanted whether it was water or an emergency trip out the door. Randy attached himself to me in the house, lying at my feet when I worked in my office at home reading papers or writing poetry. When I came home from work, he would be waiting to greet me with a frenzy of barking and licking and leaping, as if I had been away for a year. You can't help but love someone who puts on displays of affection like that.

Randy became Oooeelie last October. I remember clearly that it was a very nice night and I had fallen asleep watching Rumpole of the Bailey. Gil was out to dinner with one of his real estate associates discussing problems with an empty factory they owned off Route 110 in Farmingdale.

In the dream, Randy was sitting across the room. I felt like petting him so I called: Randy. He just sat there staring at me. Randy, I said. He was like a statue. Come here, I said. I began to get irritated. Randy come here! Then like an Aha! it occurred to me that his name was really Oooeelie. I felt awkward saying it, but I said Oooeelie. And his eyes brightened and he wagged his tail and came right to me, licking my hand, as happy as he could be. I felt a love between us, a bonding that was indescribable.

It took me a while, but I began calling the Airedale Oooeelie in my waking life, because he simply wouldn't respond to Randy anymore. Gil thought the name change, particularly the strange name, was wildly funny. Especially when I told him it came from a dream. If you see a good piece of property in a dream at a low price let me know, Gil said.

The dreams and daydreams began last Christmas. I was reading term papers on Bacon and his poetry in front of a nice fire in the living room a few days before Christmas. I look back upon it as the end to an idyllic stage of my life. Gil's real estate operations and his disposition had been going sour for a couple of years and his focus shifted from making money to eating and drinking with abandon right after the first of that year. Going back to my Christmas story, my mind drifted off. As usual, Oooeelie was sleeping in front of the fire. Then I became conscious of him sitting up, staring at me intently. All of a sudden a vivid story flashed through my mind of a large, long-haired dog with green fur, awakening in a strange land in agony from burns, a broken leg, and a body covered with bruises and lacerations.

The dog, whose name I knew was Oooeelie, scanned the area flashing through a series of senses: hearing, smell, and mind. Yes mind. He could sense thoughts the way we see or hear or feel. And what Oooeelie found was frightening. Creeping through the night was a pack of wild dogs, ugly and fierce, in search of a kill. The pack was drawn by the burning the craft lighting the night.

Oooeelie overcame his initial reaction of dread and did a quick mind-focusing exercise. His fur changed to a snow-white color. He sent a flash of stinging energy into the brain of the first beast he spotted creeping silently toward him. The wild dog screamed, rolling over and over until the pain passed, looked at Oooeelie, turned and ran. Four other wild dogs rushed from the blackness of the night at Oooeelie. He flashed stingers into each of them with a well-ordered calm, stopping the last one just short lashing into him with its bared fangs. He slammed another stinger into that animal knocking it unconscious. Then he fired piercing stingers at each of the others before they could recover, sending them reeling back into the darkness. He would have preferred to communicate, but they were not in the mood to receive anything but force.

As exhausted as he was by his wounds and the strain of battle, Oooeelie didn't dare go to sleep. When the wild dog on the ground recovered, he slunk away without threatening Oooeelie again.

Oooeelie found a large piece of the craft's metal skin lying on the ground. He dug a small hollow under it, slipped into it and pushed the earth behind, leaving a small opening for air. He could hear and mind several different types of predators prowling around the spacecraft in the night. It was horrifying, and frightening. What kind of a world had he fallen into?

He calmed himself again with a focusing exercise. He relaxed, then dozed as the sounds outside his burrow grew fainter, finally falling into silence.

Suddenly Oooeelie awoke just before the first light of morning, adrenaline seared his body, in the realization that in being overcome by sleep, the wild dogs could have closed on him before he could react. These were beasts with minds so limited they understood only the instinct to fight, to kill, and to eat. He had sensed the cunning of experienced warriors in the minds of the wild dogs in the flashing encounter last night. They were puzzled by his calmness, expecting to flush him into a run. But they adjusted and rushed right at him. Obviously, they could read his emotions and smell him, but hadn't developed any telepathic skills. Thank God.

The Earth's sun rose fast, burning off the morning mist, and making the unshaded savanna and his hiding place uncomfortably hot. He crawled out and did a 360-degree scan. The savanna was alive with small animals, reptiles, and birds, but nothing aware of him or threatening. With some effort, Oooeelie did his morning mind-focusing exercise. He brought the pain in his body under control enough to be able to begin a search of the remains of the wrecked space ship. He should have emerged from the interstellar corridor in open space within the Sirius system and arrived home in triumph. He had reached further than anyone in the history of his race, traveling towards the mythical horizon of the universe in stages over a span of five years until he grew so lonely that he had to return home. He did so in a hurry. He assumed that was his mistake. He didn't know what he did wrong, but as he cleared the corridor crossing from deep space into the Sirius system, just after he sent a signal that he would be home within a week, everything went blank. He awoke in the survival capsule in another interstellar corridor. The main ship was gone. And, he was propelled onto this grim planet in this strange solar system. The chance of this happening was one in 3.4 billion, according to calculations by the home planet's best space mathematicians. The outer skin of the main ship, meant to withstand any impact, was somehow shattered. The inner emergency cushion, he never expected to use, had activated and saved him. Thank God.

Survival was the question now. His fur turned to a light blue in his joy of spotting two complete survival crates, each containing food, drink, weapons, a signaling device, visioning equipment, and a defensive shelter large enough for three with built-in cooling and heating systems. He tapped his personal code into the lock, which slid open. The designers knew their business. He armed a weapon, his fur turning a deeper blue in the added confidence that gave him. He didn't dare soften his pain with drugs that would take the fighting edge off his mind. He had to endure the pain long enough to set up a shelter in which he would be safe from primitive beasts. He followed the directions, spreading the thin metal shelter out on the ground. It inflated with a thump. That turned his fur green again, fearing the sound would alert the predators wherever they were. He hurriedly relocked the survival crate, dragged food, water, and himself into the shelter, his heart pounding, instinct telling him that trouble was rushing towards him. Once inside, he didn't care. He flicked the switch creating a highly-charged electronic barrier around the circumference of the shelter and knew he was safe from all, but most scientifically-advanced enemies. There didn't seem to be any such beings on this primitive planet. He gratefully swallowed a drug that dulled the tortures of his broken leg and the burns. He fell into a relaxed sleep, thinking as he floated off that he would deal with his injuries when he awoke.

Oooeelie slept for days, waking to repair his wounds as best he could, putting a splint on his leg and injected a bone-building substance. He spread a healing lotion on the burns along his left side, realizing sadly he wouldn't have hair there until he reached home where cosmetic surgeons would repair the damage. His fur changed to green in the sadness of wondering whether he would ever be home again. None of the lectures at the School of The Frontiers had prepared him for this. He had committed himself to an adventure from which he might never return, but in reality he anticipated being away from home a few years at most. He had expected to return from the triumph of discovery to praise, certainly fame, and perhaps wealth. Instead, he was alone in an unknown, hostile world.

He saw the dogs from time to time; herds of horses and bison and deer with immense antlers thundering by; and the guttural growls of leopards. He studied the animals through a port, telepathically examing their minds. Their intelligence and potential for development was chillingly limited. Only the wild dogs and leopards displayed even a curiosity at his domed shelter, which obviously was an oddity on the terrain of this desolate savanna. The dogs and the leopards circled, but the electronic shield kept them at bay. They were highly-attuned, hunting machines, but so narrow of mind capacity that they were untrainable beyond a few basic behavior patterns--if one could overcome their predatory natures. They were beings of which he must be wary, and be prepared to defeat them or be eaten by them. They thought of him as just another meal, more interesting than most animals because of his unfathomable defenses.

The herd animals were less threatening, but so dull. Oooeelie started to turn green with depression, but caught himself and did a deep meditation of the senses, moving through each in their turn. After an hour, he looked with pleasure at the blue hue his fur had assumed. That was better.

Drinking water was no problem after his emergency container was drained. The extractor took liquid out of the air. Not a lot, but enough to get by on. Oooeelie longed for a bath. Approaching the planet, the geographical data indicated substantial oceans, lakes, and rivers. There could even be one nearby, but he was pinned to his shelter by his injuries.

He passed his days resting, reading the literature of survival at the frontier, listening to harmonies that soothed him, and dreaming of home. Others had been lost in the vast frontiers of the universe--and had been found years later. In the famous "Survivors" case, a couple had been found four centuries after they had departed the home port. The Survivors were surrounded by their children on a tiny planet rich with food and a happy environment when the rescue ship arrived.

But Oooeelie was alone. He longed for his mate, Yyyram. She had wanted to come, and he should have taken her. Tears poured from his eyes. He allowed them to flow. Mourning was an appropriate response.

A month after his landing, Oooeelie ventured tentatively out of his shelter. He scanned the countryside with his mind and a mechanical sensor that picked up a herd of some sort a mile away in the high grass. He set up interconnected trip alarms in a quarter mile radius around his tent to expand the perimeter of his world to give himself more space to set up the signaling device to reach across the boundless distances of space with his electronic cry for help and to create an exercise yard to rebuild his physical strength. The literature preached effort invested reaped the reward of survival. He was green in trepidation the entire time, a condition he hated because he knew the predators could sense fear.

An alarm went off as he was completing the circle. Oooeelie's heart beat rapidly. "I am the warrior," he said aloud, assuming the attitude of a soldier whose goal was to kill and maim the enemy without quarter. He assessed the situation. Leopards! The pair of leopards who moved around the camp several times over the past weeks. One was cutting off his escape route, ready to pounce on him if he panicked. The other was somewhere near, within striking range.

Oooeelie did a spin. A quick scan of the grassland around him. He picked up the leopard moving swiftly, close to the ground, towards him. He crouched in the ever-alert position taught in military training. The leopard rose up to rush, Oooeelie seared it with a flash from his weapon. The beast's face turned into jellied mass, stopping it dead. Not even a sound.

He did another spin, picking up the dead leopard's mate coming at a full run. He zapped its left paw, breaking the attack, as the animal howled in surprise and pain. Oooeelie slammed another shot into its body, cutting through the rib cage into a lung. The leopard whipped from side to side in agony, still trying to reach Oooeelie, then died with a sigh.

He did another spin, picking up nothing. He completed the alarm circle, adjusting it to create an unseen canopy above his little world. He knew the system worked; the leopards had tested it for him. Oooeelie cautiously returned to his shelter. Within a short time, the alarms were sounding as great vultures descended onto the carcasses, battling with wild dogs over the carrion. He watched them eat the leopards down to their bones, stripping the flesh with great ripping beaks.

What a place this was to be alone.

In the morning, he surveyed the setting. His camp was on an open plain. Against the horizon, to the northwest, were snow-covered mountains. The visioning equipment indicated a distance of 100 miles. A scan of the countryside showed savanna stretching endlessly on all the other sides, but the southwest. There he picked up a crest of green that could be the tops of tall trees. The visioning equipment indicated eight miles. An easy walk under ordinary circumstances, but he had a bum leg. He could walk but gingerly. It ached on a short distance. He knew eight miles would be agony.

But he had to do it. He needed a piece of terrain easily defended, rather than this plain filled with enemies. And, he needed some companionship. He could either wait to see if the right type of being moved past his camp, or he could go in search of whatever this planet had to offer. Over the next few weeks, he exercised in the protected space within the electronic perimeter, swallowing the throbbing ache in his leg, saving the pain medicine for the more excruciating wounds that could be his fate in this dangerous world. When he was confident he could cover the eight miles, he fashioned a sled from the thin metal casing of the survival crate with an electronic cutting tool. He loaded it with food and equipment, including the shelter unit, from the other survival crate. He sealed the crate, knowing the beasts were incapable of opening it although the huge cattle he saw probably could pierce the metal with their great horns. That was unlikely. They had little taste for anything other than food, wandering, and procreating.

The trek across the open country, begun at first light, was as painful and tiring as he anticipated. He dropped on all fours to increase his pulling power. The heat rising from the baking earth reflecting onto the length of his body, close to the ground and hidden from the cooling breeze by the tall, thick grass, made that unbearable. He rose on his rear legs to tug the sled with more difficulty, but to breath more easily, refreshed by a gentle, steady wind.

A herd of buffalo with their fearsome horns moved across the path he was following towards the river. He knelt waiting for them to pass, relieved that he was unseen. As he continued his march, he felt an uncanny nervousness that raised the hair on his back. Instinctively, he spun looking into the sky towards the searing sun across which a deep black storm cloud was moving. Suddenly the cloud curtained the sun, revealing a massive eagle hurtling towards him. In a fluid motion, taught on the training fields of his home planet, he fired a burst from his weapon without preliminary thought. The eagle with a monstrously large beak had just turned its talons to hook into him when it was shattered to pieces by the blow sent from the weapon.

Oooeelie hit the ground on a roll, expecting to rise for a second shot at the destroyed eagle's mate or whatever. Instead he became entangled in the line of the sled, sending his next shot harmlessly into the empty air. Had there been a second eagle, he would have been had. God had spared him, allowing him the luxury of unwrapping the cords that gripped him.

He pressed on with growing tension and a determination to reach his goal by darkness. He scanned the sky, seeing in the far distance a speck. The other eagle?

From a rise, he looked with pleasure at a corridor of trees less than 100 yards away marking the course of a small, rather placid river. Oooeelie smiled for the first time since he had landed on this forbidding planet.

He scanned the area with his visioning equipment, feeling a surge of excitement as he spotted squat, hairy beings that stood on their hind legs. Oooeelie was startled to see these humans walking upright, realizing that unlike the other animals he had seen who depended on scent, these humans could use their eyes to see across the expanse of the savanna. They were beings somewhat similar to the servants at home. Male sentinels stood on either flank of the river, while children splashed at play in the water. Their camp must be within the trees, he thought.

Oooeelie rested for a while, then moved downstream below the camp, where he set up his shelter. He took a welcome bath in the cool, refreshing water. Life felt like it was worth living again.

Over the next several days, he examined these beings, with so many similarities to the servants, but these humans had long hair on their heads and lumps of it in the pubic areas. The males of the species had facial hair too. They were lean, tough-looking animals with long sharpened sticks and clubs for weapons. They had fire, but no cooking utensils other than spits or flat stones.

Oooeelie watched a girl of seven or eight years with particular interest. He crept close enough to examine her mind, finding her perceptive and intelligent. He was impressed by the girl's skill at fishing. Especially the way she used her hands. He had never seen another being, not even the servants at home, use hands with such precision and strength, picking up and grasping even the smallest objects. Every one in the band had marvelous hands, but only at the end of their forearms. Their feet were as limited as the paws of other animals with short toes unable to perform like the long fingers on their hands. Oooeelie's hands and feet had four long, dexterous fingers.

He wondered with a feeling of revulsion if he could mate with these humans and what kind of being would be produced. Or would he be forced to intercourse with those wild dogs? Sadly, he knew that would be the case and his vast intelligence, his love of culture could very well be swallowed by the dominant genes of the dog or wolf. He would be driven by the force of nature to preserve and extend whatever he was. He would have to accept the outcome. That was the law of consciousness.

One night, he moved after darkness to the edge of their camp and hid himself in the dry hollow of an ancient spillway thick with a covering of grass and bush in an attempt to examine their communications among themselves. He was disappointed to hear only guttural grunts and see them use signs with their wonderful hands rather than using a spoken language code that could be memorized, repeated with accuracy, used to express ideas, and expanded as intelligence grew. Their minds were at low stage of development. While they had the potential, they were far from exercising the telepathic, the healing, and hurting powers of the focused mind. These men were no match for his intellectual talents.

He watched hunters go out early in the day, and the children and women digging for edible tubers in the savanna, always with a fan of sentinels, armed with spears and clubs, on watch for the predators.

He had to choose one of them as a bridge to communicate with the other primitive men. He finally selected the girl of 7 or 8 years to be his first servant on the new planet. He had to prepare for the future, to create a more friendly environment. The energy supply that powered his shelter and even that of his weapons some day, in years to be sure, but some day, would run down. For the time being, he had no shortage of food. He consumed what he killed, whatever animals intruded on him or his camp, He stored their flesh in a retainer box, which kept it fresh: a leopard, a steer. He couldn't bring himself to eat a wild dog he killed. It was too much in form, if not in mind, like him. But he would need to subject this band of humans to serve him. He would start with the girl and like a pebble tossed in a pool his power and influence would ripple to the very edge of the band. There would be resentment and resistance. Those who objected would be eliminated.

He spent a week sending images into the dreams of the sleeping child, gently shaping her mind to be aware of Oooeelie and the relationship they would share of master and human--then his shelter, despite its camouflage of earth and brush was discovered by one of their hunting parties.

Coming up the river, the hunters dragging the quickly butchered parts of a fresh-killed buffalo, a warrior, flanking the inland side of the party to frighten the wild dogs with a gourd rattle, backed by his club, spotted the disturbed ground, Oooeelie's foot prints and broken grass and branches. He howled and the others who were free of the burden of the meat came running.

Oooeelie was awakened by the scrape of a spear point against the metal skin of the shelter--and the screech of pain as electronic shock hit the man. Oooeelie slid back the cover on a window. He could see them gathered in a mixture of fear, and curiosity. A warrior moved in tentatively pushing away some of the soft earth covering and then bounding back pulling with him one of the bushes that camouflaged the shelter.

This was the crisis point for which the literature on the frontiers prepared Oooeelie. He called the Shaman, the little girl of his choosing, sensing that she was moving closer to the site of his camp. She was probably rushing with all of her people to see the strange thing that had been discovered.

Oooeelie chose to be the warrior for the moment of confrontation, turning white in the process of setting his mind for battle. He opened the door, stepping outside with a blast of harmonious sound, as awesome an entrance as possible in the circumstances. The humans fell back in dread.

She was there in their midst. He looked into her mind, urging her performance.

The first word he put into the girl's mind and shaped on her lips was a difficult one, a test of her abilities and intelligence. It was Oooeelie. It meant the superior being. There was only one on earth, a superior being longing to return to his home and his own kind.

Oooeelie had named the girl Shaman, the word used by servants in his world for the bridges who pleaded with the superior beings on their behalf.

Oooeelie knew he had a long lifetime ahead of him, and expected he would pass it training this girl in language and in the skills of the perfect servant.

The music stopped. "Shaman!" he shouted.

She responded, speaking the only word she knew, the first fully formed word to fly aloud from the lips of a human:

"Oooeelie!"

CHAPTER TEN

Gil rolled out of bed at 5:30. He could barely stand up, the stiffness in his lower back prompting an excruciating pain with every movement. The muscles in his legs and arms ached. The bed was empty. Joanna must still be downstairs. She had been writing when he returned to bed last night.

He went out on the porch. The air was beautifully cool. What a relief, he thought, remembering yesterday's burning sun as he bumbled around the Sharpie. He watched a pair of clam boats, one behind the other moving towards the mouth of the harbor. Like knights on a quest in shorts and t-shirts with sunglasses and baseball caps. Their dogs standing high in the bows, facing whatever was to come. Nature and the art of catching clams.

Gil had never considered raking clams as a particular skill. Now, he knew differently. The fellow who had sold him the boat had given him a simple lesson and he had tried the rake a few times. That was his preparation for his first day on the water. He had come home with a searing headache from the glare. The sun beating on his head made his body feel like a furnace. This morning, he realized all the clammers wore hats and sunglasses, and he understood why.

This had been a crazy idea. An aging fat man taking up clamming. He had never thought of himself as growing old until yesterday when he realized how soft his arms were, how little strength he had. He felt embarrassed by what he had become.

He leaned on the railing and thought about the big empty factory building just east of Route 110 on the south side of the Expressway. The 15-year lease that had been paying off the property suddenly was worthless when the company, a defense subcontractor, went bankrupt. Such was the price of peace. The end of the Cold War. It didn't feel like such a good idea to people out of work and manufacturers who couldn't pay the rent and investors like him who got burned by other people's decisions. He had never felt helpless before, but when that disaster struck at the end of a long string of deals gone bad and when one of his former partners was indicted for paying off a Republican town political leader for a few zonings, he was seized with fear that he too would be caught in the mess.

The picture in Newsday of Howie being led away in handcuffs stunned him. He prayed for the first time in ages: for God to give him a break and for Howie to keep his big mouth shut. He overate and over drank until Howie pleaded out to a misdemeanor and was given a month of community service, a whopping fine, and probation. He hadn't spoken to Howie since. He shunned him in case he had become some kind of a turncoat. That was how justice was pursued in America today. You got caught, copped a plea, and betrayed your old partners. He needed a cup of coffee.

Gil felt his life was in a spin. His mind was a blur of unpleasant memories of bad investments and missed opportunities. He felt depressed by the meaninglessness of the life he had lived. Joanna bored him. He didn't care about essays and poets and faculty politics. She had a PhD, but he knew how to cut a deal and make big money. He still had the knowledge, but not the desire. He didn't have a zest for her or the deals.

He didn't understand what drew him to clamming. This morning, he was torn between the comfort of the porch and testing himself on the boat. His hands were lumpy with water-filled blisters. The effort of going out again weighed on him. Raking with these hands would be painful. They would be raw by the end of the day.

Before he went downstairs, Gil stripped off his shorts and stepped on the scale. He found it hard to believe: 247 pounds. Eight pounds lighter than yesterday morning. He had drunk a six-pack of beer on the water. He stepped off and back on the scale. It dipped to almost 246. He would leave it at that.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror with his big tits and the belly that had hung in front of him for years now and considered how it felt to carry the 255 pounds of fat on his five foot, ten inch frame. The hard climbs up stairs. Wheezing. The squeeze into a shuttle seat to Washington. He thought about the lean clammers with their dogs in the bows of their boats. Silent men, no one messed with, who relied on themselves and their comrades on the water.

What if he endured the agony? What would he weigh in a month? His clothes wouldn't fit him that was for sure. He might even develop some muscles for the first time in his life.

He decided to have a quick breakfast and go back out onto the water.

Joanna was scrambling eggs in the kitchen. "What can you put on your hands for blisters?" he asked, showing her his hands.

"Nothing. Maybe you should wrap them in gauze or something to keep them clean when the blisters break."

They had the eggs and Canadian bacon and raisin toast with coffee and orange juice. "I was up all night writing about my dreams and imaginings of Oooeelie."

"Yeah," Gil said. He was thinking about the clamming. He would stay out for four hours. Today was supposed to be cooler in the mid-80s. That would make the ordeal easier.

She stopped talking when she realized he wasn't listening. She had been on the verge of telling him the story of the first Oooeelie and how she wondered if her Oooeelie were talking to her telepathically. Anger surged through her at his indifference. She fell silent not wanting to share her precious thoughts with him.

Gil poured ice cubes into an Igloo satchel cooler. He put in ham, bread, and mustard, and a bottle of iced tea. There was no beer left and he couldn't waste time going down to the store or he'd be caught in the heat of the day. He got a roll of gauze from the medicine cabinet and some adhesive tape to hold it in place. He found a purple NYU cap that belonged to Joanna in the basement. He widened the band to fit his head. It would do. He got his sunglasses from the glove compartment of his car.

She was back in her office when he was ready. "I'm going!" he yelled. She didn't reply.

With Oooeelie trotting at his side, Gil walked down to the beach. He unlocked the chain and pushed the dinghy into the water. Oooeelie whimpered, wanting to come along. "Not this time, fella," Gil said. He and the dog had never paid much attention to one another and Gil was pleased that Oooeelie wanted to join him on the water. "God, what makes me think that?" he said aloud.

Gil rowed out to his Sharpie alone, gritting his teeth at the unpleasant feeling of pressure on his blisters. His second day as a clammer was underway.

\---

Joanna put the breakfast with Gil behind her and resumed her account of her dreams and day dreams:

I thought about that first Oooeelie for months. I was scrubbing the porch outside our bedroom when it occurred to me: Oooeelie taught man to talk! My discursive mind broadcast that sentence in my head day and night for a week: Oooeelie taught man to talk! I refused to accept the concept of a dog teaching man to speak. If they were so superior 10,000 or 100,000 or a million years ago, why were they so inferior to man now? A dog couldn't teach a man to speak. Dogs don't talk. The realization came to me as Gil and I were having sex that Oooeelie wasn't a dog. It wasn't a dog that taught man to speak it was Oooeelie. Gil was pumping away when the sentence popped into my consciousness again: Oooeelie taught man to talk! Oooeelie was a superior being.

As I knelt there on the porch, I remembered observing Oooeelie carve a three-hole flute from a reindeer antler, modeling it after a beautiful instrument he had brought across the universe to this backwater, Earth. He presented the flute to the girl, who was his protégé.

That night, I sensed that many, many years had gone by, since the long process of the wall painting began. In the dream, I was walking naked along a mountain path behind the Shaman—not the young girl first chosen by Oooeelie, but one of a long line of her successors--and her assistant. At the mouth of the cave, the assistant lit a lamp, a wick in a lump of tallow on a small flat stone. I followed them into the cave to the chamber where the assistant lit several lamps. The Shaman marked a box on the ground, measuring the perimeter carefully. She dug into the earth. Her assistant kneeling on one side of the box, my Oooeelie, looking very solemn, sat rigidly on the opposite side. The dream went on for weeks, night after night of digging a slowly deepening hole.

Then the etching and painting began. Oooeelie was shown with a bright blue fur, piercing eyes, and a shower of sparks flying from his head into the open palm of the Shaman's right hand. The Shaman's left hand was stretched behind her, the sparks falling from that hand onto a pair of men kneeling with heads bowed.

What I found puzzling was that while I sensed my Oooeelie's wishes and wants, they were the simple messages any dog owner would expect. He wanted to go out, to play ball, he was thirsty, he was hungry, he wanted scraps from the table. I never could tell if he understood me clearly when I spoke to him or I sent him mental messages. He acted just like another dog. But I knew he wasn't. I knew he wanted to mate with as many dogs as he could. He didn't care if they were Airedales or not. That's when I felt the greatest pressures, when he wanted to go into the night after some bitch in heat.

So on the surface Oooeelie appears to be a wonderfully cute Airedale with all of the qualities that make dogs so loveable and worth the dirt they bring into the house and the expense of the vet and the time they demand of you.

Joanna had finished her tale of Oooeelie and her eerie dreams. She edited out the embarrassing references to sex with Gil. Now it was time to call Georges Ortega at the Wesos Foundation.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Georges Ortega read Joanna's account of her dreams about Oooeelie slowly, while she fidgeted with an iced tea in her hand and watched him. Several times he shook his head almost imperceptibly. He had read the translations of three similar accounts, interrogations of witches, one from a girl caught up in the Inquisition 500 years ago, the other two from ancient Greece and at least a thousand years before in middle Asia. His initial fright moved to anger, a determination to stop this thing for mankind. The gall, a dog claiming to have taught man to speak. He clenched his teeth realizing that this was no dog. More likely an evil spirit of some sort. And he and his predecessors in the Inner Circle had been chosen to stand against this evil. His occasional doubts, when he even thought about it, that the Circle of Man and the Inner Circle was based on myth or imagination was erased as he read. His soul soared. He felt like a hero on a quest to save mankind from the beast. The endless fight between good and evil was to be joined again. He looked at Joanna. He had to handle her delicately. She was the bridge to the dog.

"Yes?" she said.

Ortega smiled broadly. "Your relationship with Oooeelie has refined your telepathic sense. You probably know what I was thinking?"

"No. I have no idea. My relationship with Oooeelie. That's an unusual way of putting it. Sounds like something sexual." She felt excited having said that to him.

He wrinkled his brow and bit his lower lip, looking at Joanna with an intensity she could feel. If she could read his mind she would have found he had picked up a signal of her hunger. She wasn't a bad looking woman, he decided. Not much style. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, easy to do. Her nose was a little too big and she had a thin face. A little flat chested, but sometimes clothing was deceiving. "I'd love to meet this Airedale of yours," he said.

"Perhaps you can come out to the house for lunch or dinner or something."

"I was thinking more in terms of having him as a guest at our farm in the Berkshires." He searched through the papers on his desk. Calculating in his mind the time needed to gather the members of the Inner Circle of the Circle of Man to discuss how to handle Oooeelie. "We're having a workshop on `the dog as master' on August 7, 8, and 9. The weekend begins with dinner on Friday night. We wrap it up early enough on Sunday to get over to Tanglewood for a bit of culture. Oooeelie and you would be our guests for the weekend. He could play around the farm while we were at Tanglewood and we'd pick him up on our way back to the city. What say?" He smiled.

"Sounds nice, but I'll be in Ireland for the first three weeks in August. I'm delivering a paper on William Butler Yeats in Sligo and I'm spending a few days in Dublin walking in Bloom's steps."

Ortega hid his disappointment behind a pleasant expression. He was accomplished at that. "I've read half of Ulysses three times. And never made it to the end, but I saw the movie and I visited Joyce's tower when I was in Dublin a few years ago. 'The breathe is breathed upon the glass. The world that was not has come to pass,' but that's from Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man isn't it? " Ortega said. "That's the extent of my Joyce. I took a course on him in college. I never expected him to interfere in my life, now he's taking you and Oooeelie out of our reach. We have a great weekend planned, and it could have been so much better with you. The two of you."

He had a way of smiling that implied something hidden. He was a handsome man. Tall with thinning hair. Lean and powerfully built. Joanna wondered for a moment how it would be with a man with a body like his. Ortega sensed her interest. "Well," she said, "Maybe next summer. Don't blame Joyce alone. Don't forget William Butler Yeats. He's my main draw to Ireland. If it weren't for Yeats, Aer Lingus and the Irish Tourist Board wouldn't be picking up the tab." She rose.

"I guess we'll be forced to fit Oooeelie into our Fall schedule."

"I really don't know if I want to broadcast my dreams. I thought this would be kept confidential. I don't want a bunch of strangers to read that and say `Wow. What a crazy lady.'"

"You misjudged my intent. The workshop is for professionals in the field. Your name would have been deleted."

"Professionals? The dog as master? I didn't know people had problems of domination by a dog." She laughed.

He looked her up and down, a slightly superior expression playing on his face. "Very few people who own dogs aren't dominated by them. Have you ever considered how silly is the scene of all of those people walking around connected to their dogs by leashes? The dog dirt that litters the streets, the way dogs menace people and even attack children. The little treats the humans buy dogs, the little toys. Billions, yes billions spent every year on dog food and grooming and visits to the vet. And what about those silly people who pay thousands of dollars to bury their dogs and put up monuments to them." He watched her face, a bit concerned that he had gone too far, sounded too shrill. He said with a forced smile: "A form of dog worship wouldn't you say?"

Joanna laughed and he really smiled in response. She said, "Put in those terms, you're right. I guess some people get carried away, but I never realized anyone needed to deal with their relationship to their dog. We're all so screwed up in so many ways, aren't we?"

"Listen," he said, "I'm starved. I'd really like to talk to you some more, so how about lunch at a place that serves the best hamburgers in New York City, and that's no mean achievement. Of course, there's lots of other things on the menu. You could have a tuna fish sandwich or a salad. Anything your heart desires. What say?"

"I'd love to," she said, wanting to hang onto his company for as long as possible. She was flattered by his invitation and was having fun after a long drought at home with Gil.

Ortega hailed a cab outside the foundation. He directed the driver to an address on the West Side. Joanna assumed they were going to a restaurant, and was surprised when the taxi stopped in front of a brownstone on a quiet, tree-shaded street. She felt a little nervous.

He smiled broadly as he paid the driver, asking for a receipt. "Official foundation business," he said to her helping her out of the cab with the grin still playing on his face.

"What's going on? "The best hamburger in town?" she smirked.

"Guaranteed," he replied, "and besides while you're waiting you can have a great glass of Chilean red wine and there is something I want you to read that will blow your mind. Material that will put your experience with Oooeelie in context. Rather strange stuff you are going to have to admit. Come on."

She followed him up the steps. She was torn between, reluctance and excitement as he unlocked the door.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The floors of the apartment struck Joanna. Beautiful oak with the feeling of a hundred years of careful care and use. Two long, low-back couches in a soft creamy blue faced one another centering on an exquisite oriental rug. The focus of the room was a large, modern fireplace. Hanging over it was an abstract oil done in long strokes of red.

"Contemplate the painting for a few minutes while I whip up a drink in the kitchen."

"Your wife's not home?"

He gave the answer she expected. "I have yet to meet my soul mate. She's out there somewhere. Maybe married to another man, maybe looking for me. Maybe she's a nun."

"Maybe she's a priest," Joanna replied.

"Touché. Maybe she's a priest. Or a buyer for Bloomingdale's. The essence of the soliloquy is that we haven't found one another yet."

Joanna studied the painting. She was smiling just a little when Georges Ortega returned with two glasses of red wine and a small tray of cheeses.

"What's the verdict? Your interpretation? That's the joy of the abstract. It's open to interpretation."

"I'd rather not say," she said looking into his eyes and smiling guiltily or embarrassedly. She wasn't even sure herself. She had no intention of telling him that the painting impressed her as a vision of her own pussy, on fire with desire.

He laughed, suspecting what she was thinking. "Then I won't tell you my version." He handed her the wine and cheese, fetching a small stack table to hold them. He went to a floor to ceiling bookcase, selecting a large, leather-bound volume imprinted with the title in gold:

Oooeelie

"You look at this while I put the hamburgers on and whip up a salad. House dressing okay?"

"What is this?" she said, opening the book.

"Look it over and you'll know why I brought you to this particular restaurant. Skip the introduction and go right to the accounts of Oooeelie. Then you'll know why I'm so interested in your story."

She examined the table of contents:
Introduction

Historical perspective of Oooeelie, the self-proclaimed superior being

In India, China, and Afghanistan

In Ancient Greece

In France in the Middle Ages

In Spain in 1493

The Oooeelie Sect in Southeastern Turkey in the mid-Nineteenth Century with illustrations

Imprinted on the top right-hand corner of the cover was the number seven in gold. "Numbered copies?" she called through the rooms.

"There are ten copies," he called back. "Private printing for our inner circle. I put it together a couple of years ago. I never realized how significant a work it was until I met you and heard about your experience with a dog named Oooeelie."

The introduction by Georges Ortega was 120 pages long. She skipped to Ancient Greece. On the facing pages were the original Greek on one side and the English translation on the other. She read quickly through the English version. Aside from a few variations, it was the essentially the same story she had written, but it was told to some sort of a scribe. She checked the French account. This one was by a Nun told to a monk. The Spanish version was a confession of a woman, a Moor, accused of being in league with Satan and using a dog, she called Oooeelie, as a familiar. She was burned with the dog in the walled city of Avila on Oct. 16, 1493 in the presence of Tomas de Torquemada. Oct. 16 was Joanna's birthday. She was flabbergasted and frightened. Her lower lip trembled until she placed her right hand over her mouth.

Ortega returned with the wine bottle to pour her another glass. "Hamburgers are ready," he said.

"Georges, this is so weird."

"Yes. It is stunning to find out that we are part of an ongoing historical continuum."

"But what is this all about? Why me?"

"You'll have to ask your Oooeelie that."

She was irritated. "He doesn't speak. I've told you all of this comes in dreams and daydreams. We don't have conversations if that's what you think. Aside from this, Oooeelie is just like any other Airedale."

"Aside from the fact that it's exceptionally intelligent. It communicates with you telepathically. It is anxious to spread its seed to another generation. And since you've let it out in the night, who knows which bitch is carrying its pup."

"Please don't call Oooeelie it. That makes him sound like a thing or a machine. He's a warm, loving dog."

"I apologize. When one does research, one tends to objectify the subject matter. I have a little bit of difficulty calling a dog he or she like it was a human being. You must understand, I'm not trying to offend you. We have a different points of view on the matter." Ortega took the book from her, closing it and putting it back onto a bookcase filled with a variety of equally large and leather-bound volumes. "The account in this book doesn't include the deposition of my great-great-however many greats grandfather, Juan Ortega. He was there in the square in front of the church, where they burned the beast and that poor woman. In every case the dog started out with a different name. In every case the person used was a woman."

Ortega explained that one of the central functions of the Wesos Foundation was research into the relationship between man and dogs through the centuries, the role of dogs in modern society, and mental telepathy in man and animals. There were all kind of theories for the communications in different centuries by dogs that came to be called Oooeelie"Maybe it has to do with tapping into the universal consciousness. If you're a religious fanatic you might believe the Devil is speaking through a dog, wanting man to worship Oooeelie as God. That pitch might have worked in pre-historic times, and indeed there was an Oooeelie Sect in Turkestan for centuries. It died out only about 100 or 150 years ago. In fact, I have the theory that the unfortunate woman who got herself burned along with her Oooeelie by the Inquisition probably had her roots in Turkestan."

"I'm German and French and when I had a religion I was a Lutheran."

"And your Oooeelie is an Airedale. That's a breed that's only a hundred years old. So how does this connection from early man cross tens of thousands of years to the Twentieth Century? That's a question a small circle of us have been pondering for a long time."

"So, I'm a real find."

"You're a gem in more ways than one," he said, kissing the open palm of her hand with a just flicker of his tongue.

A tickling sensation surged through her body arousing her sex. She was frozen in surprise and wet with desire.

He led her to the kitchen, where they sat at a small kitchen table ate, drank more wine, and a euphoric Ortega ate his hamburger. Joanna couldn't get beyond the first bite. She was so confused, feeling suspended from reality, at the edge of a precipice.

Ortega looked into her eyes then came round the small table, guided her to her feet and kissed her gently on the lips. When she responded, just as gently, he moved closer, his hand tracing the lines of her back and his tongue probing, touching her tongue. Joanna's legs felt weak. She was light-headed in excitement. He led her upstairs, a long, walk to the bedroom. Neither spoke. She considered saying that this wasn't a good time. Her mind was in a muddle on information overload. But didn't. He kissed her deeply again just inside the bedroom door. And lightly as he undid the belt and buttons holding the linen summer slacks to her body. He ran his hands the length of her hips and legs, slipping off her slacks and shoes in the process. They didn't speak as she pressed her groin against his. As he gripped her haunches, she leaned back and undid the buttons of his shirt. His flesh was so exquisitely firm, his arms so strong. In the process of stripping away the clothes all caution fell with them. She didn't want to break this spell with mention of a condom. And he said nothing.

She had no history of ecstasy like this, enflamed by his expert tongue and taking his penis willingly and deeply into her mouth, sucking and licking it without the sense of revulsion provoked by Gil's.

He entered her, a rock hard piece of fire. She howled in pleasure as they moved together. She couldn't contain herself, lunging and withdrawing with a novel fierceness until she exploded in orgasm.

"Now I know the meaning of heaven," she said breathing hard, her heart pounding when they rolled apart and she lay back on a pillow looking up the ceiling. "It was so wonderful, but over so quickly."

"Then let's do it again. Slowly," he said fondling her right breast, kissing her lightly.

"Oh yes," she said.

Afterwards slipping into a cozy sleep, she wondered how many women had been so pleasured by him. No matter, none could have been as enthralled as she.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gil was in the side yard steaming the 100 little necks he had raked out of Lloyd Harbor. He was very proud of his catch and his growing strength. After almost a month on the water, he had lost 30 pounds and the exhausted feeling that overwhelms novices at hard physical work. He was sipping an iced tea. Heavy drinking was behind him and he was filled with stories from the water: bunkers leaping into the air to escape feasting big blues, the ominous shark's fin that appeared near his Sharpie. He was amused by his own mistakes, quickly learning not to openly study the techniques of the veteran clammers. He did it from a distance now with his binoculars. And never to clam the space just vacated by one of the veterans. He did that the first week and the clammer, muscles bulging from a torn dark blue shirt, came up behind his boat, threw a rake in the water, and snarled, "You're in my wake Mr. Gilbert." He laughed when he told that story. He loved being called Mr. Gilbert. He didn't realize anyone knew he existed, no less had applied a nickname to him. "Mr. Gilbert."

The phone rang. Joanna picked it up. "Must be mental telepathy. I was just thinking about you," Joanna said.

"Thought I'd call and wish you bon voyage," Georges Ortega said. "Maybe it hasn't occurred to you, but instead of going to Ireland tomorrow, you could come stay with me for the next three weeks. Gil wouldn't know the difference and what a trip we could have together. Split our time between the city and the Berkshires. I have my own bungalow on the farm. A really nice place. You know it can get cold enough at night up there for a fire in August. On a nice hot day, we can get in a little skinny dipping."

"You're really tempting me. I've always wanted to go skinny dipping."

"I've got some other kind of dipping in mind too."

She laughed, enjoying the verbal sex play. "Now you're being unfair. That's almost too good an offer to pass up."

"Then don't. You can even bring Oooeelie. Instead of putting him in a kennel. Just bring him along. I'm dying to meet this famous connection to the past."

"Even if I could make it, and I can't, we couldn't be a ménage a trois. No one, but you would understand this, but Oooeelie senses that I've had a life-transforming experience. He hasn't come near me since you and I fucked."

The glow went out of Ortega's voice. "I'm looking forward to another interlude with you."

"You say that with such enthusiasm. Do you want me or my dog."

"Both." He was warm again. "I want to poke around his mind, and your body."

Joanna laughed. She hadn't seen Ortega since they made love two weeks ago. She had longed for this phone call and reveled in his invitation. Perhaps, she could slip into the city, bags and all tomorrow, for another afternoon of love before the plane left. Gil wouldn't know the difference. He would be gone in the morning clamming and she had made arrangements for a limo to take her to the airport. She said, "Oooeelie's tied up tomorrow, but maybe you and I could see each other in bed tomorrow before I catch the plane?"

"Oh damn," he said, "I'm locked up in planning meetings from nine until three tomorrow, then I have a dinner engagement I can't break."

Bullshit, she felt like saying, but didn't. "Okay. I have to get going. Dinner's almost ready."

"It's going to be a long three weeks."

"Yes," she said coldly. Rejection made her feel ugly.

Gil came into the house grinning. "Clams are ready. I'm gonna have a beer. You want one?"

"Shoot," she said, knowing it was a word that irritated Gil, "I was going up to finish packing."

"Go ahead," he said curtly.

"No. I guess I have to eat. But I'm exhausted. I've got to get this packing finished." He followed her into the yard. She had accomplished what she wanted, passing her nasty feeling to Gil so it would kill any last minute visions of getting together in bed tonight. She could see the visible signs of his renewed interest in sex with his reconditioned body. She might have welcomed it before her encounter with Georges Ortega, which was a revelation of what had been missing from her life even when she and Gil made love regularly. She mused over whether Georges Ortega possessed unique skills or there were other men who might arouse her as much. She had decided to take her diaphragm to Ireland just in case.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Georges Ortega drove slowly watching for the address. On top of the mailbox in large red letters was the name: TYRLING. He turned into the driveway, half expecting the dog to come roaring at the car. He was nervous, but had decided a direct approach was the easiest and probably the most likely to lead to success.

He parked outside the garage. A nice house with a beautiful lawn shaded by a trio of towering oaks. He got out of the car, listening. No bark. He rang the doorbell. No bark. He walked round the house to the waterside. He could see the tips of sails on Huntington Bay and a large yacht motoring through the opening from the harbor to the bay. He strolled down to the beach.

The air was fresh and clean, and in the shade the breeze was better than air conditioning. It was 10 o'clock. The city was an inferno by now. The dog should have been in the yard or in the house. He saw the dinghy, anchored about 20 feet offshore, rolling on the swells in the afterwash of the yacht. Damn. It was either in a kennel or on the clam boat.

Ortega drove through the maze of back roads linking West Neck to Cold Spring Harbor to Woodbury and onto the Long Island Expressway. The traffic moved nicely in the late morning. With luck he would be back in his house by noon. Michael Collins was coming in from Philadelphia this evening. He had hoped to surprise and embarrass him with Oooeelie. The best-laid plans, he said, not finishing the aphorism. Maybe next time.

Michael was a retired professor of anthropology at the University of Pennsylvania, who specialized in the Kurds and other mountain peoples of Asia Minor. He had spent the good part of 30 years trekking through the often dangerous mountains ostensibly gathering data on the mountain people and surreptitiously searching for remnants of the sect of dog worshippers discovered in the 1870s by two members of the Circle, Georges Ortega's great-grandfather, Daniel P. O'Hara, and Timur Shehin, a retired Turkish army colonel. His frustration was that neither had left precise maps, but simply narratives of their adventure in tracing members of the sect to an unnamed hamlet in the mountains. Timur had died in 1880 and his priceless papers burned when his house was consumed in one of the innumerable conflagrations that swept through the ancient and primarily wooden tinderbox city of Istanbul. Michael had always suspected that members of the Oooeelie sect had crept out of their hiding place in the mountains to murder him. That was a romantic theory without evidence to support it. Daniel P. O'Hara had left a memoir with significant details, but still short of a concise map showing where these dog worshippers lived and had their temple.

Michael had mastered the skill of mental telepathy to give him an added tool in his search for descendants of Oooeelie in the mountains. Dogs of every sort would react to his silent commands making him a celebrity among the Kurds and amusing his peers. But he failed in this direction too. The dogs listened and obeyed, but never responded.

At 70, Michael had become a tired, cautious man, who carefully considered every move, a by-product of dealing with suspicious Turks and ambitious academics at Penn.

They shook hands. Michael, who was grossly overweight with his neck hidden behind a broad expanse of double chin, was sweating profusely. "I parked the car on Madison on an hour meter so we'll have to put another quarter in before we go to dinner."

"Why didn't you just park in a garage and make life simple?"

"And pay what those thieves charge. Not on your life. Coming to New York from Philadelphia is bad enough, but I was up in our place in the Endless Mountains. In other words I came from paradise to a place as hot as hell. So this had better be good."

"It's good, but not as good as I wanted it to be." Ortega shoved a copy of Joanna's account of her dreams and daydreams across the desk. "Drink some iced tea and read this."

"I'd rather have a gin and tonic."

"Whatever." Ortega mixed two gin and tonics with a touch of bitters and fresh lime slices.

Michael sipped his drink and read and reread the narrative. He looked up. "This is incredible. Do you think this is really the Oooeelie?"

"That's what I went out there to find."

"Alone? You have the dog?"

"Unfortunately, no. Joanna went to Ireland for a few weeks and left the dog behind with her husband. I went out there today hoping to just pick it out of her yard, but it wasn't there."

"Georges, I don't want to criticize you, but that was stupid. If this were really the Oooeelie, who knows what he could have done to you."

"I was taking a chance, living audaciously. Remember Errol Flynn told us to ride to the sound of firing in They Died With Their Boots On."

"How long have you known about this dog?"

"A little more than two weeks."

Collins was trembling, trying to overcome his jealousy, disappointed in himself for feeling this way. Too long in the academic world. "Maybe you've made an historic discovery. Something that I spent my life searching and it just drops into your lap. But I really don't believe this is Oooeelie. I think we have to be careful that this isn't a con game, some sophisticated scheme to trade the dog for a lot of money."

"That thought occurred to me too. Maybe someone making me the butt of a joke. I still don't know what to think?

"You've spoken to Paul Castaneda of course."

"No. He'll learn all about it at dinner tonight. We're meeting him at 8 in the Trustees Dining Room down the street at the Met. While we're having a drink before dinner, I'm going to hand you each a copy of Joanna's account. I expect you to act as surprised as he, then he'll say, 'This is so important, we'll have to gather the Circle.'"

"So you're using me and manipulating the old man."

"I would rather say that I'm checking off another box, another possibility. I couldn't imagine Castaneda doing anything lighthearted, but if his reaction is genuine, we'll both know this wasn't a vicious little practical joke on his part."

Collins laughed. "Give me another drink. I have to admit this is making an old man's life exciting. It's like a mystery story. Is it a con or a big joke?"

"What if the Oooeelie really exists?"

"Come on," Collins said with exasperation.

"What a cynic you are. You don't believe in Oooeelie, but you took all that money from the Wesos Foundation for the expeditions into Kurdistan."

Collins flared with anger. "I have never doubted the existence of the cave and the wall drawings. If you think for a moment that a career spent in pursuit of a goal always beyond your reach despite sacrifice and extraordinary effort has been a lark then you're an empty fool."

Ortega felt a flush burn across his face. Fool. That was the cutting word. He was offended although he knew he shouldn't be. Collins had softened his attack by putting it in a conditional sentence so that in effect he would be calling himself a fool if he thought Collins was exploiting the foundation's treasury, in effect dipping into the Ortega fortune, because the foundation existed only because of his family's money. He brought himself under control, thinking, 'He is human. I am human.'

Collins smiled. In an attempt to diffuse Ortega's displeasure, he said, "Paul is such an arrogant old bastard that he thinks he is going to live forever. You and I know that he'll never willingly surrender the Centre. So someday, he'll die and it will come to a vote."

"And I can be sure of your vote."

"Damn right. Especially if its an open ballot." Collins laughed uproariously. "Fix me another drink. I need extra fortification whenever I have to deal with the Centre of our circle."

Just before 8, Michael Collins and Georges Ortega walked the short distance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The broad stone steps, on this warm summer evening, were still filled with tourists in shorts and muscle shirts. Ortega and Collins looked oddly out of place in their conservative sports jackets and ties. They made their way past the Grand Staircase to the Medieval Grill where the Christmas Tree is displayed in December. The elevator was crowded with lightly-clad tourists.

"Fourth floor," Collins said.

"Fourth floor. Trustees Dining Room," the elevator operator announced. Everyone on the packed, steaming elevator surged off with Ortega and Michael. The elevator operator called after them, "No. No. This is only for the trustees private dining room." The tourists were herded back to the elevator for the trip upstairs to the Roof Garden.

Collins was greatly amused. "Cattle to the roof garden. That makes eating here even better."

The maitre d' led them to a table by the window where Paul Castaneda, dressed in a pinstripe suit, was waiting.

"Thank you for coming, Paul," Ortega said, shaking the old man's hand. He felt nervous in his presence as usual. His sports jacket made him feel self conscious, a sign of his more relaxed life and life style. Castaneda had spent his career really making money among the independents of the international oil markets. After ordering drinks, Ortega handed each of his companions a folder containing Joanna's tale. Castaneda had to be pressed to read it. Then reacted with grunts of mild astonishment as he absorbed the material.

"My God," Michael said, acting his part with a touch of corn. "I spent a lifetime searching for Oooeelie and this young whippersnapper gets handed this. There's too much detail for it to be a phony."

"This is just raw intelligence. Where's your analysis Georges?"

The old bastard. Right on the mark. He sensed that Castaneda's reaction to the report was unrehearsed. Now he was back in form playing the commander in the field. Ortega's mouth was dry. He didn't dare be anything but honest with this man. "Frankly, I haven't reached a conclusion. I surmised that this could be a con game or an elaborate practical joke. Or real."

"Real. The real Oooeelie. The last time we heard from him was 500 years ago. And we don't know if an enthusiastic interrogator with some prompting from someone in the Inner Circle of the time helped put the testimony about Oooeelie in her mouth?"

Ortega studied the old man. So confidant. So poised. He had just raised a question about the integrity of one of Ortega's most revered ancestors, and he did it in a tone of voice that conveyed a legitimate questioning of history.

Castaneda tired of waiting for Ortega to respond. He filled the silence. "Maybe she had access to the foundation's files or someone fed her the information. I can't call the Members of the Circle together if this is a fraud."

"There's a simple solution to the problem. Georges and I will drive out the to Tyrling place. It's just out on Long Island and we'll take a look at the dog. There are all kinds of excuses we can use to get to it. I'll test it. If it's authentic, the Circle can be called together. This is rather exciting," Collins said rubbing his hands. "I think I'm going to start with the Maryland Crab Cake, then the white fish, and a nice bottle of Italian."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Georges Ortega turned his five speed onto Flynn's Way and stopped to wait for Michael Collins to catch up. Collins was a clumsy cyclist. He hadn't been on a bicycle in years and his weight made this outing an ordeal.

"Almost there," he said when Collins reached him, then he pushed on. He glided silently, stopping in front of Joanna's odd-shaped, modern house. He scanned the yard. He could see the dog towards the rear of the property. A heavy-set man, Joanna's husband, he assumed, was feeding it something. He held up his hand when Michael joined him. He pointed to his chest, signaling that he would send the message.

Ortega said in his mind drawing out the name: "Oooeelie."

The Airedale's head snapped around, his eyes locked onto Ortega in a stare of such intensity that the man could feel it. Oooeelie straightened his body, never taking his eyes off Ortega, standing like a statue, tail high, feet planted solidly, rooted into the ground.

"Let me," Collins said. He issued a silent command: "Sit!" The dog's eyes shifted, a flickering movement, imperceptible at the distance to the road, but Collins sensed it. "It's not obeying, but it heard me. I feel it," he said.

Oooeelie shifted. Stepping a little to his left, his attention locked onto Collins.

"Oh my God," Collins said suddenly and pushed on down the road racing away from the property.

Ortega caught up to him quickly. "What's the matter?"

Collins kept moving, not stopping for several blocks until he reached Southdown Road. He was out of breath, gasping at the words: "Did you hear? Jesus Christ, it said, 'Oooeelie taught man to speak.'"

Ortega was grim. "I knew without even hearing that what it is. What it said to you is absolute proof."

"I've been at this for years, but I've never experienced anything like it. That dog refused my command and had the gall to put me down. Not even a bark. Just cool, calm, and arrogant. I could feel it's contempt."

"That's what this is all about, Michael. After all these centuries, we've got another chance to destroy it."

"I never expected such intelligence. This isn't going to be easy Georges. It knows us now."

"And we know it. We now have prima facie evidence that this dog is the Oooeelie. Castaneda will have to call an extraordinary session of the Circle. Then we'll come to a consensus on how to handle this." They rode back to Collins' station wagon, locked the bikes onto the roof rack, and headed to a bar on New York Avenue in Huntington Village.

They sat in at a small wooden table in the narrow room with a long bar and three big television sets. Banners advertised beers and Buffalo wings and Monday Night Football. Behind the bar were rows of liquors framing an Irish leprechaun with a stubbly beard on a prominent chin in green hat and jacket. Collins took a gulp of his Irish whiskey, letting the spirits burn through his body, before finally broaching the question haunting him: "Why do you think it's here?"

"Here? In Huntington?" Ortega said seizing the moment to needle him.

"On earth," Collins said angrily.

"I think it's always been here. In one form, or I should say in one dog body or another. The question is how do we go about destroying it forever. Expunging this beast from earth."

"You really think this is the same Oooeelie that the Circle of Man has been pursuing for centuries?"

"Forever. I know somehow that I have been fighting this thing since the beginning of time."

Collins raised his glass to the bartender signaling the need for another scotch.

"Another round?"

"Right," Collins said. "You haven't answered my question. Why is it here? On earth?"

"I would have to say part of the endless struggle between good and evil."

"What have we gotten ourselves into?" Collins asked.

"This is what the Circle is all about, Michael! That's what we've gotten ourselves into. Fulfilling our destinies. That's what we've gotten ourselves into."

On the drive back to the city, Ortega suddenly announced, "I'm going to Ireland. I can't take a chance on Joanna slipping away from me." He took his car phone, pressing the speed dial for Mrs. Ryan at the foundation. "Mrs. Ryan. Book me on Aer Lingus to Shannon on the next available flight. I assume there is one tomorrow morning. Have the limo service pick me up at my place to take me to Kennedy. Book me a room in a decent hotel in Sligo. Oh, arrange for a driver and a car to meet me in Shannon to take me to Sligo. Put everything on foundation credit cards. This is a business trip."

\---

Gil sat on the back lawn with Oooeelie beside him watching the changing light of dusk gently moving the hot summer day into the cool of evening. He felt, content, tired by the hard work on the water, but reveling in the resiliency of his body and the calmness of his soul. He sipped a beer, languorously stroking the Airedale. Gil was glad he had decided to take Oooeelie with him onto the water. A bond was forming between them, an enjoyment of each other's company.

Oooeelie was distracted by the sudden appearance of his antagonist today. After so many centuries of living beyond his grasp, he was back. Now he understood the strange, unnerving scent on Joanna. Faint and then intense. Obviously from him. The face was different, but the soul was the same. In their last encounter, he stood with an expression of barely-suppressed glee by the side of Tomas de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor, in the city square of Avila watching as the flames melted the flesh from the bodies of Oooeelie and Teresa, his Shaman. The memory brought back the sound of the beating of the kettledrums and the blare of the trumpets that preceded the extraordinary pain of the fire. After 500 years, his nemesis had found him again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Georges Ortega watched with amusement and the vaguest tremor of jealousy as Joanna strolled down the main street of Sligo with a tall distinguished-looking man with a full head of white hair in a well-worn Donegal tweed jacket. He came up behind them as they browsed in the shop window of a wood carver.

"Joanna," Ortega said, startling her.

"Why are you here?" she blurted out.

"Because I want to be," Ortega said brightly.

She blushed, loving his answer, then stepped forward and kissed him gently on the lips. She took his hand, squeezing it and said. "Georges Ortega from the Wesos Foundation in New York, I'd like you to meet Bill Butler from the University of Chicago."

"Ah," said Ortega, "another Yates aficionado." He noticed that Joanna's wedding ring was missing. Butler was wearing one, a simple silver band.

"Hardly. I'm an economist, but I've always wanted to come to the Yeats Summer School, and here I am. I took a course on Yeats in college and sadly didn't pay attention. So here I am, open to education now, ready to appreciate the great man."

Ortega, who sensed with pleasure that Butler was miffed, turned to Joanna: "I'm so sorry I missed your lecture on Yeats and the Upanishads this morning. I'm very interested in Vedic literature. The plane was late getting into Shannon and we literally drove through the night."

"Is your wife with you?" Joanna asked with an impish smile.

He smirked in response. "Perhaps I should say I dozed as best I could in the back of the car while this crazy Irishman drove crazily through the night to get me here. He actually drove on the wrong side of the road," he said to their laughter.

"And you missed my lecture despite all that."

Butler, realizing the electricity between the pair, said, "Remember there's a poetry reading at the Hawk's Well Theatre at 9, Joni. Perhaps your friend might enjoy it." Ortega smiled at him. Butler shook hands with Ortega, then excused himself.

He had hardly stepped away when Ortega kissed Joanna lightly on her cheek. He whispered, "Let's go in and buy you the Brian Boru in the window, then we'll have a get reacquainted drink, then I'll show you the view from my room. Then we'll have dinner. Then we'll go back to my room and look at the view again. And before the poetry reading is over tonight at the Hawk's Well, we'll have enjoyed the view two or three times at least."

"That sounds like fun," she said, "A room with a view and a view and a view and a view." She was intoxicated with anticipating of what lay ahead. He took her hand and led her into the wood carver's shop.

A clean-shaven man with thick sideburns, a long craftsman's apron with pockets for small tools, put down a partially-cut figure as they entered to the sound of a set of tinkling bells. "Remember," the wood carver said pointing at the bell.

"Remember?" Joanna asked.

"The bells ring to remind us not to forget."

"A philosopher as well as a wood carver," Ortega said. He waved his hand around the room whose floor was covered with tiny white octagon tiles and whose walls were paneled in white. A heavy door appeared to lead into a walk-in cooler. "This place looks like a butcher shop."

"Indeed it was," the carver said. "My father was a butcher and I followed him into the trade. But I was more interested in carving wood than cutting beef. People liked what I carved. So I sold a few carvings and a little beef together. Then one day I found myself selling more carvings than beef. Now I just carve."

"A man who has found his calling and fulfilled himself," Ortega said.

"The only way to live. I just wanted to greet you. If you see something you like let me know."

"I like it all," Joanna said.

"Wonderful. It's all for sale."

"We were thinking of the Brian Boru," Ortega said.

"I made him this morning. When the Yanks are in town, I can't keep up with the demand for Boru. I'm doing his brother right now."

"Brian will do," Ortega said.

They walked back to the hotel arm in arm. Joanna nodding to an occasional lecturer or student from the Yeats School, feeling a mixture of exaltation and embarrassment. Georges Ortega had a stately handsomeness. He could be a model, Joanna thought. The kind without a shirt, with a solid body and hair perfectly in place, in the New York Times Sunday Magazine. In her mind, she flashed through the list of those at the Yeats school to cull out anyone who might know she was married and knew what Gil looked like. "I hope we don't have a tacky scene at the hotel. The Irish aren't like you and I."

"Yes they are. But I registered my wife, Joanna, when I checked in. That way the inn keeper can relax knowing he's getting his full due for the room." They laughed happily as couples do when a courtship is new and they are crossing the frontier of intimacy.

Ortega's room was long and wide with a king-sized bed, a full couch and an armchair with a reading table. "Wow," Joanna said. "I should make you spend three nights in the bed and board I'm staying at, then you would really appreciate the luxury of this room. I have my own shower, but it's down the hall and doesn't work very well."

"Please enjoy the hospitality of the house. The bathroom awaits with a full tub and an excellent shower," Ortega said.

"I need a bath."

"I want one too. The only disappointment is that we'll have to take turns. We could share a shower, but the tub is too narrow. Ireland has made progress, but not that much."

"I think we'll take a shower," she said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Joanna came down to breakfast holding Ortega's arm, happily whispering to him and kissing him lightly on the cheek. They had spent two nights together in more and varied couplings than she and Gil had had in the previous year. She was still in the afterglow of ecstasy when someone called her name.

"Dr. Tyrling!"

As she turned towards the sound Jennifer Siciliano, an NYU student who lived in Huntington, wrapped her arms around her in an enthusiastic hug. Jennifer, who had been to her house for a tea where she met Gil, kissed her on the cheek, and excitedly introduced her new husband, Tony Amato. There was a pause as Jennifer and her husband waited expectantly.

"This," said Joanna after moment that seemed like an hour and half to her, "is Mr. Ortega, president of the Wesos Foundation."

Tony stuck out his hand. Jennifer smiled briefly at Ortega, then asked Joanna, "Is Mr. Tyrling with you?"

Joanna felt herself stiffen and flush. "I came to the summer school to speak and ran into Mr. Ortega. He's an acquaintance from New York."

"Oh how nice," Jennifer said.

"Please join us for breakfast and please call me Georges," Ortega said pleasantly.

Joanna seethed inside. She just wanted this radiant girl and her new husband to go far away. Jennifer, so pretty and so perky, accepted the offer happily. The big breakfast of Irish bacon, sausage, eggs, a touch of pudding, potatoes and hot rolls tasted like sawdust to Joanna, who tried to participate in the conversation that flowed so readily among the others.

"Are you here for the Yeats school?" Jennifer asked Ortega.

"I had hoped to hear a lecture or two, particularly Joanna's, but things didn't work out."

"Oh that's too bad. Tony and I didn't realize the summer school existed. We stopped in Sligo because I fell in love with Yeats in Dr. Tyrling's course. There's a marvelous museum devoted to Yeats and his brother, Jack, who was an artist. There's a wonderful display of Jack Yeats' sketches and paintings at the Sligo municipal library. Tony and I saw it yesterday."

"Perhaps I'll be able to fit it in today," Ortega said smiling broadly at Joanna, who was furious, assuming that the young couple caught his double entendre.

Jennifer and Tony lost their liveliness in the darkness of Joanna's expression. Ortega turned the conversation to Tony asking him about his internship in Mount Sinai Medical Center. He was soon telling them funny stories about some of the research projects his foundation had financed in mental telepathy and the relationship between humans and dogs.

The agony of the breakfast ended with Ortega rising to say that he so enjoyed meeting them. He said he had to pack his bags and be on his way for a meeting in Donegal.

"We're catching a flight to London from Shannon this evening and then on to Paris and Rome," Jennifer said standing to shake Ortega's hand.

"Thank you for joining me for breakfast, Joanna. I'm so sorry I missed your lecture. I'll see you in New York at the foundation. Nice meeting you, Tony." Ortega strode out of the dining room.

Jennifer grinned at Joanna. "That wasn't necessary, Dr. Tyrling. Tony and I won't say anything when we return home. I'm just surprised at you. I always thought of you in spiritual terms. The William Butler Yeats and T.S. Elliott courses, I guess." Tony joined his wife in grinning.

Joanna blushed, anger surging through her at this little girl's condescending acceptance of an old lady's misbehavior. She had learned in dealing with students to restrain her reactions for a moment, to let the tendency to rage simmer while she constructed a cutting response or a soothing reply. She got up. Tony and Jennifer rose with her in instinctive respect. "It was lovely having breakfast with the two of you even under the circumstances. I guess Tony has learned a lesson for life here. Modern women fuck around just like their husbands." She turned and was out of the hotel before responses could jell.

She took a short walk trying to calm her mind that flashed unhappy scenes of Gil hearing about his new role as cuckold while pursuing his new life as a clammer; of the dean calling her in to say `We have a morals complaint about you.' That was silly. She couldn't shake the feeling of having surrendered her peace of mind to Jennifer. No worry about being pressured by Jennifer for an A. She was an A student anyhow. Joanna felt terribly guilty, as she walked, about planting a seed of doubt in Tony's mind. When their marriage broke up, Jennifer could look back and blame her. "Oh God, please don't let that happen. Let them live happily ever after." She wondered if she had committed one of the unpardonable sins, not of adultery, but of purposely trying to hurt another.

When Joanna returned to the hotel, she hurried through the lobby, not wanting to see Jennifer and Tony again, and trotted up the stairs to Georges' third-floor room. She knocked. He had the key. `His room,' she reminded herself angrily.

"Door's open," he called.

She entered. He was lying in bed wearing her flowered silk robe, which emphasized his nakedness, particularly the bush of black hair framing his limp, but still large lob. He grinned. Joanna slammed the door behind her. "Suppose I was the maid?"

"Ah, what a lucky maid you would have been."

"What you did down stairs wasn't funny. Inviting them to sit with us. Then prancing out."

"Prancing." He laughed.

She realized he was wearing lipstick. "What the hell are you? A transvestite? Take off my robe."

His amusement faded. "I was dressing to please you. I thought you might find it funny, or even exciting."

"Disgusting. Try disgusting."

"Okay." He slipped off the robe letting it drop to the floor. He went into the bathroom, took a shower, and returning began packing his bag. In his fury he decided he would dump the bitch and take the harsh approach to acquiring Oooeelie. He'd rip the damn dog out of her hands instead being subtle and gentle, as he would have preferred.

"What's this?" Joanna asked weakly, sorry now that she had turned the atmosphere between them ugly. She had so much experience with this in her marriage. An angry Gil provoking her and passing his anger to her, or vice versa. She put her arms around Ortega as he pulled his clothes from the wardrobe. He pushed her away. She was overcome by the fear of having driven him away, having ended a relationship so beautiful that it seemed to have acquired immortality. She felt tears coming into her eyes.

Ortega softened when he saw the sadness in her face. He still felt affronted by what she had said, but found himself saying: "I change places when things get nasty. I'm going down to Killala you can come or stay. You make the choice."

"The Year of the French?"

"A well read woman. What a saving grace," he said turning back to his packing.

"I'm coming," she said trying to put cheeriness in her voice. She kissed him, a wooden joining of lips. She was on the defensive now.

\---

Joanna and Ortega drove in silence. She was surprised by the fierceness of his response, his readiness to leave her behind. In the melancholy mood that gripped her she was sorry she hadn't apologized explicitly. But he seemed so sensitive a man that he should have understood the anguish she felt at meeting not only a student from classes at NYU, but someone who lived near her and her husband in Huntington. She fought the tears that flowed down her cheeks stirred by the fear that the magic of their relationship had been shattered by her prudery over his cross-dressing.

They had lunch in a pub in Ballina. Afterwards took the road to Killala. Ortega got directions at a small general store in the center of the tiny village to the place where the French troops landed in 1798 to join with the Irish peasants in a campaign to push the English out of Ireland. A road wide enough only for a single car led to the isolated spot where the French came ashore. The day was overcast and chilly for August. They parked at the head of a small quay in the iron gray light of the sunless afternoon. Neither spoke as they got out of the car to walk the area. The water was choppy and forbidding. The only life in sight were a few seagulls riding the wind. A plaque placed there in 1898 by an Irishwoman celebrated the doomed adventure of men willing to die to be free. The Irish had expected a French army and instead got only a few hundred soldiers along with a flash of glory ending at the point of British bayonets and hangmen's ropes. "She must have been a brave woman to plant this memento in the midst of British rule," Ortega said.

Joanna who had her arms wrapped tightly around her body against the cold replied, "I'm surprised a Latino is so interested in Irish history."

"Don't forget I have the blood of the O'Haras in me," he said still studying the memorial. "If this were the states, the National Park Service would have a guide here to give us a lecture on the landing and the campaign, and there'd be a snack bar, where we could at least get a cup of coffee."

As they returned to the car through a chilling mist, Ortega announced, "All is not lost. I see a pub." He pointed to a low-slung building on the hillside above them. "A bit of Irish civilization."

A small truck and car were the only vehicles parked outside the whitewashed pub. Ortega and Joanna stepped into a large gloomy barroom where three men were gathered at a small table over glasses of stout. They turned to watch the intruders. Ortega went to the bar, while Joanna seated herself at a table near a huge fireplace surrounded with elaborate script and drawings of French soldiers in fancy uniforms and peasants armed with pikes.

One of the men arose and came round the bar. He looked into Ortega's eyes, waiting for the customer to speak.

"Beautiful fireplace you have there. Feels piercing enough for a fire today," Ortega said.

"In August?" the barkeep responded his short temper showing in his voice, irritated by the interruption and the wasteful extravagance of this Yank.

"Two Bushmill on ice, if you have it," Ortega said trying to meet the man's hostility with lightness in his voice.

"I have ice, but no Bushmill."

"Jameson's?"

"Paddy's"

"That would be wonderful. Two Paddy's with ice," Ortega said, substituting wonderful for lovely for fear this already offended man would consider him condescending. Ortega took the drinks to the table.

"Do they have any food?" Joanna asked.

Ortega smiled for the first time since Sligo. "I was afraid to ask. I think we're lucky to have gotten these drinks. I don't know what they're planning over there, but I can tell we're not welcome. No Bushmill. I had to take Paddy's."

Joanna responded gratefully with a smile. She wanted to return to the glow of romance they had experienced until breakfast. "An Irish toast," she said, raising her glass: "Here's to you, and here's to me. And here's to love and laughter."

Ortega his glass to hers and responded: "I'll be true as long as you and not a moment after."

Joanna laughed happily, surprised that he knew the full wording of the toast. "You have Irish in you that runs deep."

He sipped his whiskey. "I always went to the St. Patrick's Day Parade."

"That's a nice whiskey," Joanna said appreciatively. "When I was a little girl, I never imagined I would sitting by Killala Bay drinking a whiskey named Paddy's with so handsome a man, eight years my junior, with an Hispanic name who grew up in New York going to the St. Patrick's Day Parade and who was such a marvelous lover."

"I'm told that's the best combination. Younger man, older woman. The joining of passion and skill."

"The same old story, Eve sampling the forbidden, but delicious fruit," she said. She reached across the table, placing her hand on his. "I'm in lust with you."

"I'll drink to that. And all the satiating mornings, afternoons and nights to come."

Ortega and Joanna read the account, in the script on the wall, of the French landing nearby in 1798, then she took his arm and they returned to the car to resume their trip. They decided to press on to Doolin on the coast and to visit the Aran Islands in the morning.

On the recommendation of the landlady at the bed and breakfast they found in Doolin, they reserved a table for dinner at the Branach na h Aille, a small restaurant about a half-mile away. The evening had turned forbidding, with a frosty wind off the Atlantic driving a hard rain that chilled them through.

When they entered the restaurant, they were pleased to be seated in front a small fireplace burning peat and coal. The owner fetched them two more Paddy's, while they examined the menu and their table was prepared in another room, a gracious practice in many Irish restaurants. Joanna decided on carrot soup and monkfish. Ortega had the same, ordering a bottle of chilled Chablis.

Eventually they were led into the dining room where another small fire was burning, creating an atmosphere of warmth. Outside the rain was beating against the building and the wind was blowing hard. The soup was delicious and the sauce on the fish spectacular. "This is one of the best meals, I've ever had," Joanna said, feeling tipsy from the mixture of wine and whiskey and anticipation of love.

They returned to their B&B a little before 10. The landlady told them that Doolin attracted some of the finest musicians in Ireland. O'Connor's, the pub a few hundred yards away, was one of the best places to listen to a drummer and a fiddler and if you were lucky, a master of the penny whistle. That sounded inviting, Ortega said, but they had been driving all day and were exhausted.

They went up to their room and came together blissfully hungry for one another, a gentle encounter that turned fierce at the very last moment. Still locked to Joanna, Ortega whispered, "I love you."

"Please don't say that unless you mean it," she said. "Right now, I'm in heaven. It couldn't get any better than this. Yet, I'll probably wake up in the middle of the night feeling guilty. I'm cheating on my husband. I'm an adulterer."

"I love you," he responded. "I want to be with you."

She paused, lost in thought. "I think I'd like to spend the rest of my life with you. I am trying to envision life after Gil, maybe living in the city with you. And you and I and Oooeelie walking together in Central Park."

The mention of Oooeelie jolted him, a feeling of revulsion for the dog.

She sensed his change. "You spoke too soon, huh?"

"Maybe," he said distantly.

They lay silently for a while. Then he said, "We'll work something out."

"What does that mean?"

"Life is complicated, but I really love you." And he meant it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The airport limo dropped Joanna at the front door of the house at 5:30. Oooeelie obviously wasn't in the yard or he would have been going crazy. Nor when she let herself into the house was he inside. The ache of jet lag was dragging at her, putting her on edge. She pulled her bags into the house and shouted "Gil" through the rooms, fuming at the thought of poor Oooeelie being locked up in a kennel. If he did that, this could be the end. There wasn't much holding their marriage together anyhow. She had had a wonderful time in Ireland filled with passion and romance, sex at an unparalleled pace. Vacations with Gil were notched with arguments and silences. Georges Ortega could perform in bed at any time in the 24-hour cycle. And, he was thoughtful and generous.

In Donegal, he bought her a tweed jacket, telling her every college professor should have one. He bought one for himself too. Then they drove to a little hotel in Malinmore overlooking the Atlantic before returning to Dublin to walk together in Bloom's footsteps. On James Joyce's Tower, he again told her he loved her and she repeated her utopian fantasy of being together with him forever. She wanted to ask, "What are we going to do about it?" But didn't. That question went unspoken and unanswered. She wanted Georges to bring it up, but he didn't.

So she arrived home, irritated with jet lag, but feeling swollen with life and self-confidence. She imagined herself and Georges as characters in a film. The world was watching with fascination as their love story unfolded.

Joanna went through the house, her anger building. There were dirty dishes on the kitchen table, the stove was filthy with spills and grease, and the bedroom was a mess with the quilt thrown onto the floor. She went out onto the porch. Gil's dinghy was chained to the buoy off the beach. She looked for his binoculars and couldn't find them. He must have taken them. She scanned the bay and the harbor, and saw his Sharpie with Oooeelie standing on the bow moving towards the house. She smiled, relieved, her anger sliding away. She stretched her arm high above her head to wave. Joanna felt guilty now for jumping to the conclusion that Gil would treat the dog cruelly. He had never taken Oooeelie anywhere before, not even for a walk, insisting that she wanted the Airedale so she got him with all the pleasures and problems that went with him.

Gil was tying his Sharpie to the buoy when she got to the beach. She shouted, "Hey, I'm home."

Gil waved and Oooeelie leapt into the water with an exited bark, swimming quickly to the beach. He almost knocked her down in his fury of love, crying in the joy of her return. Then backed off. She was steeped in the scent of his nemesis.

"You're getting me all wet," she said. Gil followed in the dinghy. When he got out, he surprised Joanna by pulling her into his arms, kissing her deeply.

"Wow. You must have missed me," she said.

"Come on upstairs and I'll show you how much."

That surprised her too.

He was bubbling with happiness. "I became a mythological figure today. I turned in a full count of little necks. Five hundred littlenecks. They're going for $87.50, but Sam, the buyer, gave me an extra 50 cents as a bonus. Sean MacGahan said he had never seen a novice with less than two months on the water do that. He figured it takes the first year to learn the rake and maybe if everything goes right you start getting counts in the second year. I'm a natural. I ran into a mountain range of clams in Lloyd Harbor today. It was like Sean said, the Zen of clamming. I wasn't conscious of how many I was raking in, just that everything was perfect. There was no effort. I didn't even count the clams until I knew it was over. There wasn't a single chowder or cherry in the box. All littlenecks." He kissed her again. "Sean wanted to take me out for a beer, but I said I couldn't. You were coming home. I can't tell you how much I hated passing up that beer. Would have given me a chance to meet some of the clammers who won't even look at me because I'm new on the water. They call me Mr. Gilbert. Did I tell you that?"

As they walked up to the house with Gil's arm around her, Oooeelie kept nudging her with his nose, sniffing deeply of the scent. She pushed his nose away, laughing, assuming he was nuzzling with love, but the Airedale was reaffirming again and again the smell of the enemy that hung on her clothing and skin. The dog was bewildered.

Gil poured them each a beer and told her how he decided to try Oooeelie on the water and he loved it. Every afternoon when they came in, Oooeelie jumped off the boat and swam ashore.

"I never saw him do anything more than wade," Joanna said, smiling at the dog, who sat watching her, trying to fathom the mystery of the scent.

Gil was oblivious of Oooeelie's mood. "I've got to tell you about the ogre of the deep, Cowboy Herd. He's a bay constable and a first-class prick. I've only been on the water a couple of months and he's stopped me twice to check out my licenses and safety equipment. Stuff like a life jacket, flares, and a whistle. You got to have a whistle to warn people out of your way. Sean says Cowboy is a lifetime bully and fuckup who got the job because his grandfather was a committeeman years ago when the Republicans controlled the town. Sean sure hates Cowboy. That tells you something about the man, because Sean likes everybody. The Suffolk water cops and the state conservation officers can be pains in the ass too, because anyone of them is capable of enforcing dumb rules and restrictions, throwing their weight around, but Cowboy is in a class by himself. He carries a shotgun. Out there on the water, you better be able to take of yourself. You just can't let thugs like Cowboy think you're weak or you're in trouble. "

"He sounds like an ogre," Joanna said feigning an interest in what seemed to be grown men engaged in schoolboy posturing.

"And he's a hypocrite. Sean told me that anyone who makes the mistake of coming in after dark can have their catch seized on the theory they could have been poaching. Cowboy doesn't give anyone a break. And everyone knows he's a poacher himself. Digs in closed waters. Willing to poison a clam eater for a few bucks."

"I hope he leaves you alone."

"I hope you don't." Gil pulled her onto his lap and kissed and fondled her.

She couldn't remember the last time he was so alive and wanted to tell her about his day. She decided as tired as she felt, she would endure a quick fuck to keep him sparkling. "I'll take a shower," she said, "but I can't promise you a great time. The jet lag has wiped me out. I might pass out the moment I hit the bed, no matter what I'm doing"

"Then I'll make out I'm a necrophiliac," he said.

She showered and perfumed her body, putting on her short silk robe that Georges donned in Ireland. She was amused by that wicked memory.

When Gil came into the room, toweling himself off, Joanna was astonished to see that much of the fat had been stripped from his body. He had clammer's deep tan on his face, neck, arms, and legs while his body was sharply white. And that wasn't all. "Wow! Daddy! Is that for me?" she said with laughter and anticipation..

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Georges Ortega grasped Jack Jones in a hug before he was barely out of the taxi in front of the Wesos Foundation on the Sunday of Labor Day Week End. They hadn't seen one another for three years, since the last regular meeting of the Circle of Man. Ortega had arranged Jack's transportation from Glasgow, flying him from London on the Concorde. He must have felt so out of place on that quick, luxurious voyage across the Atlantic.

Jack Jones was an anomaly. He was a truck driver in Glasgow. The others members of the Circle were successful lawyers or businessmen or heirs like Georges Ortega, whose wealth gave them the freedom to pursue their interests.

This was an exciting moment, the first ad hoc meeting of the Circle since 1922 when they discovered that the Wesos Foundation librarian had given the author of an esoteric book on animals and the occult permission to use a print of the wall painting of Oooeelie that appeared in the book, The Long Friendship--Canines and Men. His grandfather, Francis X. Ehrwright, had written an account of that meeting in his diary. He had served a breakfast of steak, eggs, home-fried potatoes, tomatoes, orange juice, hard rolls, coffee, tea, and champagne.

Grandfather Ehrwright had been the Centre of the Circle. He listened to the range of opinions. One of the nine members of the Circle, an obvious extremist, wanted to assassinate the librarian. Several said she should be dismissed for incompetence. Others said the wisest course was the softest--to quietly reprimand the librarian ordering her never to release any materials from the foundation library without the specific permission of the executive director, who was always one of them, and just as quietly to pursue the purchase of every copy they could get their hands on.

As the Centre of the Circle, Grandfather Ehrwright made the decision. He chose the soft course. The librarian had been with the foundation for many years and was a rather naive woman who suffered from the usual affliction of librarians in wanting to be overly helpful. He would limit that tendency by imposing a new rule that only members were allowed above the first floor. No exceptions. To deal with the central problem, Grandfather Ehrwright decided to buy the publishing house and to block the offensive book from further distribution. Not even the author would get another copy. "Here, here!" the members of the circle exclaimed in unison showing their unanimous approval of his decision.

While Ortega had called and was hosting this extraordinary gathering, Paul Castaneda, his predecessor as executive director of the Wesos Foundation, would still be the dominant figure at the meeting since he was the Centre of the Circle. Moving into his eightieth year, Castaneda had survived a series of destructive illnesses, a heart attack, prostate cancer, an infection that almost cost him his right leg. He was fragile and could be forgetful, but most often was lucid, sophisticated, and controlling. The Centre was his until he passed it on or died and the members of the Circle chose one of their own.

The discovery of Oooeelie would assure Ortega of his ascension to the Centre. He had no doubts about that. Even in his dotage, Castaneda would recognize his achievement. And if he passed on too soon, how could the others deny him? The appearance of Joanna in his life with her account of her Oooeelie was as though a mystical judge had decided in his favor.

The breakfast, the menu an exact replica of the ad hoc meeting of 70 years ago, was catered by a French restaurant on East 84th Street in the boardroom on the top floor of the foundation building. The ten men chatted about international politics, the fall of the Soviet state, the opportunities for business ventures in Eastern Europe, inflation in Brazil, the impossible situation in Peru, the and the endless world-wide depression. The food was delicious; the service on the foundation's china and crystal impeccable. They sipped brandy patiently waiting for the servers to clear away the debris of the meal. Mrs. Ryan saw the caterer's staff and the dirty dishes out of the building before calling the boardroom to announce she was leaving. Georges Ortega asked her to wait a moment. He came down to thank her for giving up the holiday weekend and working so hard for the success of this special meeting. He gave her an envelope containing a bonus of five one-hundred dollar bills. She thanked him profusely as he let her out of the building, locking the door behind her.

He returned to the fifth floor, where the others had moved the long dining room table and the Persian rug that covered the floor into the anteroom. Nine chairs had been placed in a circle around a chair on rollers so the Centre could face the person who was addressing him.

Castaneda had donned the small cape signifying his office. He faced north, telling the direction from picturesque design carved and colored into the oak floor.

They seated themselves and after they fell quiet he signaled the beginning. He nodded coming in eye contact with each one as they spoke their names and cities: Mark Levine, Santa Fe; Michael Collins, Philadelphia; Roberto Inglesia, Santiago; Humberto Carrera, Madrid; Albert Noon, London; Alexandre Perle, Paris; Georges Ortega, New York; Jack Jones, Glasgow; Vincenzo Alto, Buenos Aires.

"At the center of the Circle dear God is Paul Castaneda," Castaneda intoned.

He rose and so did the others joining hands in a closed circle around him. Castaneda continued:

"Man was made in the image of God.

"Man was made to rule the earth.

"The earth, the air, the oceans, the animals, the fish, the birds, the reptiles, the insects. Everything that walks, crawls, flies or swims. Every being on earth

is subservient to man.

"God is the first and ultimate being

"Man is the superior being. All other beings on Earth are inferior. They exist to be used by Man."

Castaneda faced Mark Levine, the most senior member of the Circle. Levine offered the response:

"The Circle is joined to the earliest of men. We have tracked the Oooeelie from time beyond memory. Man--not Dog--is the Chosen. Man is not meant to worship Dog. The fight is endless, but we will never falter, we are fighting for the supremacy of Man over the beast."

They sat down and Castaneda faced Georges Ortega, who rose to explain why the meeting had been called. "We have found a dog called Oooeelie," he said. The room was electric with their reaction. Chairs scraped as several leapt to their feet in excitement. "What?" poured from several lips.

Castaneda raised his hands to signal them to silence, to return to their seats.

Ortega continued. He described how Joanna had made the startling discovery of the wall painting in the book in the Huntington Library and had come to the foundation in search of further information. He told them that the morning after he learned of the book's existence, he drove to Long Island, checked the card catalogue in the Huntington Public Library--and boldly pulled the card listing the book from the metal rod holding it in the long wooden card catalogue drawer. He looked on the shelf and found it. In an isolated corner of the library, out of sight, he sliced from the book those pages containing the prints of the cave paintings, the photo credits, and his grandfather's ex libris imprint. He didn't dare to try to steal the book for fear that an electronic signaler might be implanted in the cover against theft. He placed the excised pages from The Long Friendship--Canines and Men in the foundation's sealed archives. He had the only key.

Next, he distributed copies of Joanna's account of her communications with Oooeelie in her dreams and daydreams. "After Joanna left for Ireland, I called in Michael Collins to tap his expertise in telepathy."

Collins took over. "Georges and I drove out to Huntington a few weeks ago. We used bicycles to get close to the house. That's something you all should have seen. Me on a bicycle." The men in the room roared with laughter imagining dumpy Michael Collins struggling along a country road, pretending he was having fun on a bicycle. He held up his hand, "I have to admit I'm still a little shaken by this experience. I've spent a lifetime at `silent training' teaching people to direct their dogs through mental telepathy, and as you know, I've had some great successes and there isn't an animal that doesn't react to me. For the first time in my long life, gentlemen, I had one respond in kind. It sent me back a message and it was frightening: Oooeelie taught man to speak.'"

"My God!" someone said.

"Perhaps you expected it and imagined it. It's in the literature," said Alexandre Perle.

"I heard it. No question about that."

Ortega said, "I was impressed too by the indomitable spirit of the animal. It didn't rush us barking as you'd expect an aggressive dog like an Airedale to behave. It stood there silently, waiting for us to make a move. Can you imagine how surprised it must have been to receive a telepathic message from us and to react with such self control?"

"Do you have the dog?" Perle asked.

"No, but obviously we'll get it," Ortega responded.

"How do you anticipate doing that?"

"This meeting was called because of the historic significance of this happening. This is so important, I felt the entire Circle should be included in the decision of how to proceed."

"Capture it and kill it. Or just kill it," said Mark Levine.

"I intend to do just that. First capture it as surreptitiously as possible. We don't want a story in the newspapers or on TV, God forbid. Then the question will be how to dispose of Oooeelie. The last time the Circle found an Oooeelie and a woman, they both were burned."

"And here he is back again if your evidence is valid," Castaneda said.

"Exactly. Paul and I agree that destroying the flesh is not enough. How do we send this thing back to hell or wherever it came from, forever? That is the real issue," Ortega said.

"The soul is immortal. None of us believe dogs have souls, but this isn't just a dog. For want of a better description, I'll just say it is the Oooeelie," Castaneda said.

Ortega took this cue to say, "Gentlemen, I have no doubt that we are God's instruments in the fight between good and evil. I know your first reaction could be a numbing fear. Michael and I experienced that. Paul, because he is Paul, remains coolly half skeptical so not as emotionally involved as Michael and I. We have seen it so we believe. Paul accepts our evidence as circumstantial and is willing to let us proceed against the dog as long as we avoid publicity or any serious entanglements with the law."

"How dangerous is this dog?" Perle asked tentatively.

"In its first confrontation with members of the Circle, he sat there and I am told issued a statement," Castaneda said filling the room with laughter from everyone. "So we have to assume, it is as dangerous as any dog."

Ortega flushed. He sensed that Castaneda was intent on embarrassing him. "We're dealing with the unknown. Historically, we are told by our predecessors, and it is contained within the Circle's rite that 'we are fighting for the supremacy of Man over the beast.' So here we have this wonderful opportunity to fulfill our destinies. Killing a body is easy. Destroying an evil spirit, note I don't say soul, is our quandary. One tradition, and you've all read it in Dracula or have seen the movie, is to drive a wooden stake into the thing's heart. I've discussed exorcism with a Jesuit priest at Fordham. Being a Jesuit, he pointed out the subtle point that exorcism expels an evil spirit, it doesn't destroy it. So it can occupy another body."

"And in the movies when the stake gets pulled out of the heart, the vampire returns to life," Perle said.

"Exactly. This meeting was called in search of a solution for a monumental problem."

Jack Jones, a quiet man whose natural modesty was reinforced by his awareness of the success and power of his companions in the Circle, said, "Perhaps it could be shot into outer space on one of the American rocket ships?" That drew condescending smiles from the group.

Collins came to his rescue: "A very modern solution that is not as far fetched as one might imagine. I've read that NASA's Pioneer space craft is headed for a star, a trip that's going to take three or four million years."

Castaneda held up his hand, a signal that as the Centre of the Circle he was about to deliver an impeachable decision: "Georges Ortega, I direct you to capture the animal. Then to call together the Circle for another extraordinary meeting to confront the thing and decide its fate."

CHAPTER TWENTY

After the others had left and the door was locked behind them, Georges Ortega took the lift to his office on the fifth floor. He fetched In Search of the Dog Worshippers by Daniel P. O'Hara from the sealed archives, poured himself a scotch and water, and sat down in the big, leather chair that was as old as the foundation to reread his great grandfather's report on his trek into the Turkey of the Ottoman Empire 120 years ago.

He felt suspended in time in the empty, old building as he began to read:

I arrived in Constantinople on April 28, 1873 after a leisurely six-week trip by steamer from London, touching at Gibraltar, Malta, Syria and finally the city of my destination. Rather than my final goal, it was a stepping off point from Europe to Asia. Arrangements had been made for me by Timur Shehin, a former officer in the Sultan's army and a member of the Circle, to stay for several days at the Hotel d' Angleterre, which offers the best accommodations in the city and is clean. Travelers to Asia learn to relish cleanliness.

Timur and I had met only once before in a rare gathering of the full Circle in Paris in 1866, a year after the end of the Civil War. We immediately became fast friends, sharing the bond of soldiers and a fascination with a brief unsigned letter that had appeared in the London Daily News brought to the Paris meeting by another member of the Circle, telling of a sect of dog worshippers which somehow had survived amidst the religion of Mohammed. The writer had wandered into an isolated village in the mountains of Southeastern Turkey and through his skills as a conversationalist had won the confidence of his hosts and heard their story of worshipping a dog-god named Oooeelie in a cave temple as ancient as time--although they kept up the pretense of being Christians.

I went to the offices of the London Daily News seeking the identity of the letter writer, but the editors were uncooperative. I must confess that I plied several with dinner, hinting at how generous I could be to the man who cooperated with me. One told me that the writer had been involved in some sort of scandal involving a female member of the Royal Family and had fled to Argentina. He didn't know his identity. The editor who did was unmovable.

Timur enjoyed better hunting. Through discrete inquiries of soldiers and travelers who passed through Constantinople from the mountainous areas of Asia Minor, he was able to pinpoint an area south of Lake Van, which he suspected was the sect's headquarters.

After three days of touring the bazaars and mosques and royal buildings of Constantinople, which the Turks call Stamboul, and learning such essentials of the language as Kach (how much?) and Hayer (no) and nerdeh (where is?), and en yakun yol nerde (where is the nearest road to?), I turned my mind to the mission that drew me half way around the world to the edge of Asia.

Timur was a somewhat corpulent figure, but in that strange Asiatic country, girth as well as position commands respect. How radically different is the temperament of the Turk as opposed to we Yankees. Timur could enjoy an exchange with me, his whole body shaking with laughter and within a moment turn to a servant with a snarl and the threat of kick. Democracy and equality are not characteristics of the Turks.

We crossed the Bosphorus to Scutari at first light of a cold, beautiful morning in May. Awaiting us was a "talika," which is a covered four-wheel carriage, and an escort of four well-armed ex-soldiers mounted on sturdy horses to serve as our guides, protectors, and servants. I might have preferred to go on horseback from the outset, but Timur, who had endured the rigors of campaign under dangerous and difficult circumstances, was afflicted with a self-indulgence that would always select luxury over austerity--given the choice.

I had heard so many stories in London and Paris of the stresses and terrors of venturing into Asia Minor, the dishonest guides, the robbers along the road, the terrible accommodations, and the corrupt officialdom that I thanked the Lord that I could travel under the protection of a man of some standing. Our bodyguard of experienced ex-troopers dissuaded anyone from even considering cheating or attacking me. A European Christian in this land traveling alone would be at a very serious disadvantage.

As it was we obtained the best food and accommodations available in the towns, which weren't always wonderful, and slept under skies ablaze with shooting stars in the countryside in our comfortable tents. The interior of Turkey is both beautiful and harsh. At the end of a hard day on the road, first in the "talika", and later on horseback in the mountains, I relished whatever food was put before me and fell into a deep sleep each night.

I found the people of Turkey, in all of their varieties, ostensibly friendly and intrinsically interesting. An occasional official spoke French, of which I have a command, and many of the Jews had a knowledge of Italian, a relic of past ages when adventurous traders from Venice and Genoa penetrated this wild land. My Italian was as limited as my Turkish at the outset. Timur was a master of many languages, including English. There were always shouts and laughter as troops of Bashy Bazooks, as the irregular cavalry is called, passed us on the roads. We were heading East on our private adventure, while they were heading West to deal with an uprising in Bulgaria. God help the Bulgarian Christians they would be visiting.

For a businessman in his forties used to the good restaurants and parlors of New York and the daily routine of an office, the early days of the trip were exhausting, but instead of wearing down, my body hardened, helped, I am sure, by the absence of wine, whiskey and sweets. The weather at times was fierce, with sudden drenching storms and wild winds, nature humbling man, and at other times glorious. The sunrises and sunsets were breathtaking. The nights, particularly in the mountains, cold and sometimes bitter cold, yet the sun during the day could be broiling. We found it best to travel early in the morning for six or seven hours; to rest for several hours at midday, and to resume our march for several more hours in late afternoon before planting our tents and spreading our rugs for the night.

A cup of hot tea, taken at rest, as soon as the camp was set and fire built was a joy that made life worth living at the end of a long, strenuous day in the saddle. Good fresh food, when it was to be gotten along the way from peasants or storekeepers, was more a delight to the palate than any meal produced by the finest restaurants of New York, Paris, or London. And the depths of the sleep into which I plunged on my bearskin mattress have no parallel at home in New York with my head filled with money and numbers and the minor confrontations of a crowded, dirty city.

At the outset the route across Turkey was almost a holiday outing. The first day of the journey took us to Gaibisch, a pleasant little walled town with a splendid mosque, took us across paving stones laid down in antiquity by Roman soldiers. I could imagine that other empire's legionnaires marching in good order through this barren, hilly country.

The following day, the march continued taking us onto a plain commanded by a chain of mountains in the distant east. Over the next five weeks, our hard, but invigorating life took us across rivers along the heights of mountains with magnificent views, through forests of pine, past ancient temples in ruins. The way was surprisingly well populated and well cultivated, valleys sown with rice, the way bordered with luxuriant gardens and vineyards. There were some pleasant surprises: the neat marble fountains marking our road across the extensive plain in the area of Merzeefoon.

Towards the end of the second week, we reached a substantial village of 1,000 homes, Neeksar, which was once called Neo-Caesarea, and still had the remains of a Roman wall and fort. The carriage was abandoned there in favor of saddle horses to carry us through and over the lofty range of mountains that lay ahead, whose peaks rose above the treelines.

In the mountains where the sun burns hot and the cold winds can kill an exposed man in winter, the houses, many populated by Armenians, were dug into earth with the earthen roofs on which sheep and cattle roam round the chimneys, feeding on the grass. In the wild, wolves, mountain sheep, and black bear crossed our path. Descending into a bandit-infested region, appropriately named the Devil's Valley, even the usually jocular Timur was silent and watchful. We picked up our pace after one of our escort saw a glint of sun reflected off a glass or some such surface in the rocks above the trail. Anyone who has soldiered can understand our distaste for a battle in this lonely place so far from help and civilization. We hurried on, not panicked, but ready for trouble. None came.

After crossing the Euphrates, a seven-hour trek brought us to what seemed like a metropolis, Erzeroom, at the foot of Deveh Dagh or the Camel Mountain. This town of 40,000, contained a mixed population of Turks, Armenians, Greeks, Jews, Persians, Russians and Georgians along with a British consulate, where I enjoyed some welcome European company, a good dinner and several delightful brandies.

Turning south, we forded the Araxes River, moved across a beautiful mountain range, and crossed the broad eastern branch of the Euphrates on a raft. The water was deep, cloudy, and very cold.

After six weeks in carriage and on horseback, we arrived at Lake Van, a huge body of water, about 25 miles long and 12 miles across, bringing us within sight of our goal: the majestic mountains of Kurdistan. The trail skirting the lake, leading to the City of Van, was an easy one. Now the real adventure was to begin.

Timur told the curious that I was an American naturalist and artist who had traveled to Kurdistan to record and sketch the fowl and fauna of the mountains. We conducted a cautious and leisurely search. Timur had grown leaner on the simple diet of the trail and had acquired a fierceness of visage that reflected his determination to succeed in our quest no matter how formidable the barrier

Early in August deep in the mountains, we arrived at a narrow, well-worn trail leading upward past a flat rock. Timur, who was leading his mount on foot, suddenly stopped. "Danny!" he called with some urgency. "Look!"

Cut into the surface of rock, facing the sky was a seven-pointed star with a curved line extending above it to three smaller stars, one a seven-pointed star, the second a five-pointed star, and the third a three-pointed star. The sign of Oooeelie. We looked knowingly at one another. "We've found them," Timur whispered. He started forward.

"Wait," I said, and did something that my inner nature demanded, but in retrospect was foolish. I tethered my horse and took my oils from a saddlebag. While our four retainers watched in puzzlement and Timur with a smile playing on his face, I painted a white circle enclosing the sign of Oooeelie. Within the circle, I put nine blue dots in the form of a triangle, covering sections of the star and the curved lines above it. A large blob of red paint, representing the centre, completed my symbolic destruction of this obeisance to the dog. I realize now I was seen by the dog worshippers and that my very act planted the seeds of fear within our four simple guards, who without understanding sensed they were being drawn into a timeless conflict.

We struggled along that steep path for another hour before coming onto a small plateau to find the kiahaya, or village chief, and a dozen men, all armed with muskets and knives, were waiting along with five full-grown, fierce-looking male dogs. The dogs were as silent as the men. It was strange and frightening.

Timur hailed the chief with what I can only describe as an oily smile. He and I stepped forward, while one of our ex-soldiers took the leads of our horses. Fortunately, and obviously, we were armed with modern repeating rifles. A battle might have been a slaughter, but the mountaineers of Turkey are capable and brave warriors and the outcome would have been uncertain.

Timur told the chief we had come in peace, that I was an American traveler intent on exploring the innards of the Ottoman Empire and since I had many influential friends in government, he was sure this village as all others we passed through would accommodate us willingly.

The chief responded meekly that they were a poor people, that there wasn't a house in the village worthy of so important a person. No problem, said Timur, we would find a place to pitch our tents. We only expected friendship and fresh water, and to buy bread, yogurt, and meat from the villagers. Surprisingly, I felt uncomfortable posing as someone I was not.

Those are well-trained dogs, I said to chief in my primitive Turkish. He simply said yes. Obviously a man who used his words cautiously and sparingly. This was a poor place, a hamlet rather than a village, of five families living in austerity. Their little collection of hovels dug into the earth in the Armenian style, was perched amidst towering mountains. Their wealth consisted of a few, tiny terraced fields and their goats. The men looked as fierce as any of the Bashy Bazooks we had encountered. The chief's humbleness was as much a pose as mine. He had a scar on one cheek and was missing two fingers from his left hand. I could sense his suspicion. But I smiled and passed a gift to him of boxed sweets and a length of fine cloth. He smiled gratefully and invited us to share a meal with him and the men of the village.

While the women prepared a feast of fresh-baked flatbread and chunks of goat meat cooked on skewers with onions, I strolled through the hamlet. At prayer time, Timur and our guards knelt, bowing towards Mecca. The people in the hamlet went on about their business, the children playing, the women busy with their baking and cooking. The men sat on their haunches, weapons clutched in their hands, watching us. We weren't welcome visitors.

At the appointed time of the feast, all of us, including our bodyguards, gathered in a small clearing in front of the chief's house. A young man played a small three-fingered flute of a type I had never seen. The chief gave a brief welcoming speech, saying we had entered the circle of their friendship and had nothing to fear from them. "May God's blessing over the earth bringing peace and abundance to superior beings, to lesser beings, to believers and nonbelievers." He took the first piece of meat. I expected him to offer it to me as the honored guest. "Oooeelie," he said, handing the morsel to an older, unveiled woman. She mumbled, "We remember," and cast the meat to a huge dog with black fur and a mouth lined with fearsome-looking teeth.

I felt a chill go through me. Timur touched my arm to convey his own reaction of awe.

"That's an unusual name for a dog," Timur said.

"Yes," the chief responded, "but unfortunately this animal is not the Oooeelie."

Timur translated for me as he spoke to the chief. At my urging, Timur questioned the strange behavior of feeding a dog before the honored guest.

"A tradition of our people, a reminder of the importance of the Oooeelie in our lives," the chief responded.

I could see the anger on Timur's face. "No dog is so important that it should be given the first cut and before the honored guest. You insult us."

"You have entered our house," the chief said trembling, fearful. "We extend a welcome to you. We accept your ways without complaint, even the defiling of the rock that marks the specialness of this place. Please accept our ways and understand that we are an ancient people following the custom of our fathers and their fathers who knows how many generations to the beginning of time."

"You act strangely for good Muslims. Not praying at the given time, feeding a dog before a guest."

"We are called to a different faith, one we have suffered for despite the admonition of Mohammed to be tolerant of other beliefs."

"I heard there were dog worshippers in these mountains, but I didn't believe until what I saw today." Timur's voice dripped with hatred.

"We don't worship the dog. We are Christians. We remember the Oooeelie, the superior being, and the gifts he bestowed upon man."

"Don't lie to me you filthy infidel," Timur screamed his face contorted in rage. He drew his pistol, a Colt, a gift from me, and fired three rapid shots into the dog that had enjoyed the first piece of meat in the name of Oooeelie, then turned the weapon on the chief, killing him as he rose. I was plunged into unconsciousness for a few moments, coming awake to discover I had been smashed on the head and stabbed. Timur and the only surviving member of our bodyguard had dragged me behind a small wall behind which they were making a stand. The repeating rifles had devastated the dog worshippers and held them at a distance.

They got me on my feet and we managed a fighting withdrawal from the hamlet, leaving our horses behind. We kept moving for the next two days until we reached the safety of a Muslim village. Given the chance to rest I slept for days while Timur and the remaining guard hurried to Lata, a substantial village that was the headquarters of a bey in command of a garrison of a thousand Turkish soldiers.

Timur returned with a hundred well-armed soldiers. The military commander said that for as long as anyone knew, there had been friction between good Muslims and the dog worshippers, whose numbers had dwindled under the periodic raids of restless young men irritated by the strange religion which they considered an affront to God.

Timur arranged too to have a contingent of Bashy Bazooks, who had been recruited for service in Bulgaria and were gathered in a large village a day's ride away, to be placed under his control. He had decided to settle the problem of these dog worshippers once and for all. "It will be good practice for the Bulgarian campaign," the military commander said.

The Bashy Bazooks arrived a few days later. A wild bunch, they weren't interested in a coordinated, well-planned attack on the hamlet. They just wanted at the enemy, willing to take their chances with fate.

Three weeks after we first arrived at the hamlet, we returned in force on a bitter cold September morning. Only one family had remained. We were fortunate because we were upon them before they could react. The father of the family and one of his three sons were slaughtered in the frontal assault by the Kurds accompanying us.

From a remaining son, persuaded to talk under fearful pain inflicted with awful expertise, Timur extracted the location of the sacred place where Oooeelie was worshipped and was said to have been buried.

The Bashy Bozooks dragged the broken man, his mother, her surviving son, a boy of 11 or so, and three pretty young daughters to the cave intending to rape them on the dog-God's altar.

The sun, high in the sky was searingly hot. But entering the cave, we were met with a freshing coolness that became cold as we moved deeper into the mountain. The frightened family, moaning in their sorrow of what was to come and of their betrayal led us to a chamber containing the wall painting. The surprise of seeing the Oooeelie and its followers depicted so vividly was stunning. The soldiers and the Kurds who had come with us fell silent. The fever that had burned in their groins for the unfortunate widow and her children was displaced by the wonder of what they saw.

The family was hurried out of the cave into the sunlight where their throats were cut without their bodies being defiled. I couldn't have prevented their murders, but felt relieved that the women, and perhaps the boy and man, knowing the Turks and the Kurds, had escaped worse fates than dying, which we must all deal with. Timur rewarded the Bashi Bazooks with silver and, happy to be rid of them, dispatched them to their destination in Bulgaria. There would be rape enough for them there.

I fetched my pads and pencils and colors to sketch the walls as best I could, keeping with me a heavy guard and feeling within me a preternatural uneasiness. I worked in the cave for a week, never getting used to the place.

When I finished my sketches, several common soldiers were brought in to dig up the grave, while their commander, Timur and I watched. The slab of rock covering the grave had barely been lifted by a crude lever fashioned from a heavy log and a thick, long pole when I was overcome with a primeval fear. I crossed myself, saying God protect me.

When after a great effort, they had shoved aside the stone covering the grave, which was eight feet long and four feet wide, a large rear paw was uncovered from a fine, dust like soil. The flesh was still flexible, cold but not frozen in rigor mortis. The soldiers refused to go on. Timur and I had to take up the shovel, to continue the dig. A forepaw at the end of a shaggy leg was uncovered. Timur took that paw into his hand, opening its long fingers, just like a human hand. We were frightened, and the men standing round the grave were transfixed. We kept digging, one of the most courageous acts of my life. We came to the head, digging around it, dusting it off. It was huge. We brought the lantern into the depths of the grave, and we screamed simultaneously in the horror of realizing that the fur on this thing was soft to the touch and blue, an azure blue of a clear summer sky. We leapt from that hole; the men who had been watching were gone. We tumbled and scrambled out of the chamber, following the guidelines we had wisely laid, knocking one another over in the darkness, but never breaking the silence of our fear.

We fell into the sunlight, exhausted. The soldiers and their commander were gone. Only our remaining bodyguard, whose payment wouldn't be due until we returned safely to Stanboul, remained.

Timur and I discussed the situation when we pulled ourselves together. Could it have been alive? Could we have uncovered a monster waiting these thousands or millions of years to be brought back to life? We knew we should dynamite the chamber to erase all traces of this thing and its altar/wall painting, but our fear was so enormous, we couldn't bring ourselves even to go back into the cave.

I set the dynamite charges with slow fuses above and below the mouth of the cave, intending to erase the entrance so no other man would have to experience what we did.

The three of us reached the hamlet as the blasts occurred. The explosions set off a landslide that roared down the mountainside, engulfing the cave, consuming the little plateau and houses on it, and almost swallowing me. My companions dug me from my own half grave as I screamed in agony. My right leg had been crushed, broken in numerous places. Timur stayed with me, while our bodyguard set out to find the runaway soldiers and the army surgeon who had accompanied them. I begged Timur not to let the surgeon take my leg. I had gone through the Civil War unscathed, now this, in this most Godforsaken of places.

Oooeelie had his revenge. The surgeon amputated my leg, and the pain of that missing limb and the fear of that thing in the cave has been with me ever since. I can never forget that huge head and those hands. They were not just paws, they were hands with four long fingers.

I suspect, no I believe, this was the original Oooeelie whose body never decayed. There are stories of saints whose holiness was proven because their flesh never decayed. Was there something in the soil, in the coldness of the cave, or in Oooeelie? Perhaps the opposite of holiness—absolute evil!

Georges Ortega sat for a while remembering that a few weeks after his grandfather completed his account of his trek into the mountains of Kurdistan in search of Oooeelie, he laid out the mementos of his service in the Grand Old Army on one side of his study and of his trip to Turkey on the other. Then he blew out his brains with his revolver.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Monday after Labor Day, Joanna went to her first class at the Wesos Foundation, a required introductory course called "In Truth." She joined eight other students at a circular table on the second floor in a room with a beautifully-polished oak floor, whose walls were intricately decorated with a bas-relief in white plaster of nude men and women, mythical figures: the men slender with muscular arms and the women with well-formed breasts, heavy buttocks and full bellies, surrounded by animals, domestic and wild, kneeling in obeisance and a vast array of fruits. The class was a mix of men and women. Joanna's attention was drawn to a truck driver with muscular tattooed arms, who reminded her of Anthony Quinn as Zorba the Greek, and an elderly, rather plump man in a tweed sports jacket and bow tie, who listened in rapt attention to the truck driver describing the many books of philosophy he had read.

Joanna chatted with a round-faced balding man from Queens, whose eyes kept glancing across the chest of a harried-looking young woman whose dark hair was in disarray, whose nipples pressed revealingly against a light cotton shirt. She seemed overwrought from the heat of the close room.

The class fell silent when a tall, slender grey-haired man in a three-piece suit entered. He went directly to the windows, opening two of them, and turned on an oscillating fan on the floor. "There that's a lot better," he said. "I am Mr. Klein. I am to be your guide over the next twelve Mondays as we all search for the Holy Grail. Does anyone aside from Professor Collins want to suggest another word or phrase for the Holy Grail?"

"The truth," said the truck driver.

"Very, very good," Klein said, "Let's hold that in mind as we get the mechanics of the class out of the way. We want you to know and understand from the outset, I am not your teacher. The members of the class will teach one another with their insights. We have always been impressed with the gems of wisdom a gathering of the select few can offer one another when they commit themselves to the search for the truth without prejudice and with accepting and open minds. And by accepting, we want you to know, that we mean accepting without contradiction, without argument, without judgment whatever anyone has to say in this forum as another step in our search for the Holy Grail. Keep your minds and hearts open and we promise you, we guarantee you, you will come away a more understanding and a more knowledgeable person." He paused. "Or your money back!" The class laughed merrily.

Klein, smiling, waited for the noise to die down, then went on: "We are not very dogmatic here, but we want you to start out by memorizing our simple mantra: `I am human. You are human.' Whenever the temptation grips you to judge another human being, to be angry with another, to reject another without hearing them out, just repeat that mantra. Mark how often those very human tendencies pop to the surface in the coming week, and try to react by saying: `I am human. You are human.' Then focus on how you feel inside and how this simple mantra of ours changes the environment, your life and the lives of those around you."

He asked them to call one another by their last names with the appropriate or preferred title: mister or miss or missus, perhaps doctor. "I always call Dr. Collins professor. How else could you address so distinguished a person, who has devoted his life to a search for the truth, for wisdom? Whatever reason drew you here, that is what we will be doing here. Setting you on the trail in search of the Holy Grail. And we have another promise. You won't have to journey very far to find that truth. It lies, no that's not a good word, it rests or resides within us. Each and every one of us."

Klein asked them to link hands with the partner on either side, to close their eyes, and to listen to his voice, following his instructions, ignoring the inner voices that normally fill the head. He led them through a mindfulness meditation lasting three minutes.

"The first step," he said cheerfully. Then asked each person to recount the experience of that meditation. The harried woman described how the events of the morning when she had broken up with the fourth love of her life, telling him to pack his bag and get his miserable ass out of her life. That scene had filled her head to overflowing, making her feel like she was going to go crazy. When the meditation started she didn't think she could sit still, but she did and she felt enveloped in a cocoon of serenity. She was so sorry when it ended. "Thank you for sharing that," Mr. Klein said. The truck driver said he didn't feel anything. "Thank you for sharing that," Mr. Klein said. The balding man from Queens said he had been in therapy for three years and had never gotten such insights as these three minutes brought him. He preferred not to reveal those insights. They were too embarrassing. "Thank you for sharing that," Mr. Klein said. Professor Collins said that he had been meditating for decades, spending as much as an hour a day at it, but this brief meditation, led so effectively, by Mr. Klein, centered him. A little smile broke across Mr. Klein's face. He nodded to Joanna. Her turn.

"It just felt so good," Joanna said. "I felt like I had stepped out of the usual stresses of my day and I was just here."

"Bravo. Thank you for sharing that with us," said Mr. Klein. Joanna felt as though a star had been pasted in her book. She had given the answer Mr. Klein had been searching for. After the ninth student had spoken, it was time for a half hour break. They went to a room on the first floor overlooking the garden at the rear of the building. Three tables had been set with china cups and plates and real silver. A tray of small sandwiches, a dish of fruits, and a dish of petit fours was at the center of each table. Professor Collins joined Joanna at a table for four. "Looks like there's more to eat here than at any of the other tables," Collins said. "I'm famished." He filled his plate with several sandwiches, an apple, and a sweet. An older woman arrived with pots of coffee and tea. "I love the tea here. They make it the way you should. Rinse the pot with boiling water and real tea leaves."

"Do you mind if I ask why you are in a beginner's class professor?" Joanna asked.

"Not at all."

She waited, but he didn't go on. She felt a little irritated, but decided not to be put off by his little game of answering only her question. "Well, why are you taking this course for novices and please go beyond telling me because you want to."

Collins grinned. "Touché! Very good. I'm renewing myself. Starting from the beginning, trying to feel the wonderful freshness of these classes that I felt in my youth."

"How long has this been going on?"

"At least a hundred years. Of course I didn't take the first course." Everyone chuckled. "When Mr. Klein offered the mantra, I had to restrain myself from not reciting the full offering: "I am human. You are human.

"Man was made in the image of God.

"Man was made to rule the earth.

"The earth, the air, the oceans, the animals, the fish, the birds, the reptiles, the insects. Everything that walks, crawls, flies or swims. Every being on earth

is subservient to man.

"God is the first and ultimate being

"Man is the superior being. All other beings on Earth are inferior. They exist to be used by Man."

The truck driver pushed his food into the side of his mouth and said, "Hey, I'm glad Mr. Klein didn't ask us to repeat that 27 times a day. That's some mantra."

"Never fear my boy. Just say I am human. You are human," Collins said. He held his two hands together forming a circle by touching the thumbs and middle fingers of each hand, then a triangle creating a straight line with the touching thumbs and a pyramid with the index fingers. "That has been the symbol of the Wesos Foundation and the organizations that preceded it in this country and abroad for untold years. The teachings here are so obvious and so simple that one would think that you could learn them on your own, but that is not the nature of man. The reason we call ourselves the `select few' is not out of any arrogance, but in accepting the reality that only a select few are drawn to the foundation with its fellowship, its teachings of the supremacy of man in the context of being creatures of God with the role of ruling the planet and enjoying its fruits."

"Hard to argue with that philosophy professor," the truck driver said. "I've got to admit I was making a delivery up the street and I got pulled to this building like a magnet."

Collins' eyes caught Joanna's. He continued speaking: "There are other forces at work that question the supremacy of man and the right of each man to be free. There are evil forces, other men and even animals, who would enslave men."

How can an animal enslave a man? Joanna wondered.

"You talking about women enslaving men, professor?" the truck driver asked.

"That would be a welcome slavery, especially at this stage in my life. But I use man as a generic, meaning men and women. Forgive me ladies if I am outdated in my language. I certainly try. I have no desire to offend anyone purposely or accidentally."

The harried woman, who was an editor of a suburban section at the New York Times and whose name was Elizabeth Roma, said she knew exactly what the professor meant by domination of an animal. She had a little white dog, a mixed breed, which was very demanding. "It seemed like he spoke to me. I'd be finishing a nice dinner, and I'd hear this voice in my mind saying `What about me?' Even If didn't want to, I'd be giving a portion of what I was eating. Not scraps, but a share of my dish. I lost my third boyfriend because of him. I wanted to put him to sleep, but I was too embarrassed. I felt like it would be murder. I was so relieved when he died. Then I felt so guilty. I can't describe the pain he put me through."

"Lesson one. Always call the animal it," Collins said.

Joanna said, "I have a dog who talks to me too. His name is Oooeelie, and I could never call him it. He is so special I can't describe how deeply I feel for him."

"Oooeelie. That is a special name in the history of dogs. Have you ever been to Turkey?"

"No."

"That is where the name comes from. At least, I've traced it there. There was a cult that worshipped a dog named Oooeelie in the mountains of what is now Turkey. I must meet your dog Mrs. Tyrling. Promise me you'll bring it to a session some Monday night."

Joanna was noncommittal. The second half of the class flew by. She felt exhilarated. Pleasantly at peace when they ended with another brief meditation. She lingered while the others walked downstairs, then she hurried to Georges Ortega's office on the fifth floor. They embraced. After a lingering kiss, she whispered, "I have to catch the 10:15."

"I'll drive you to the station."

"But we still don't have much time."

"All the scientific studies show it only takes seven minutes." He locked the office door, and began stripping. She felt a twinge of guilt. She had made love to Gil for the last three days in a row. This would be a fourth for her. Before Ireland, she hadn't done it four days in a row since her honeymoon, and never with two different men.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Cowboy Herd walked into the Green Isle Saloon on 47th Street in Woodside a half an hour late. Georges Ortega, who was a student of inner peace, had passed the time watching the amusing array of clients, occasional and regular, being served by the matronly Irish waitress. She called all of them dear, kissing a regular who had been away visiting his children in California. "We missed you dear." There was a big mirror behind the bar with Shamrocks engraved on its border. By the cash register was a chart, decorated with a blue-helmeted football player, listing the entrants in a Giants scoring pool with their guesses stamped in large red letters.

This Queens neighborhood bar was a foreign land to Ortega. He felt like a tourist among a strange breed of people with habits so radically different from his that he was fascinated as he sat among them.

Ortega raised his hand, signaling Herd that he was the unknown man he had come to meet. Herd, lanky and muscular, wearing his usual worn, greasy red cap with a faded Marine Corps emblem over his long, brown curly hair, strutted the short distance to the table by the fireplace with his arms swinging out from his side. Resentment marked his face. Joanna's description of him was apt: he looked the bully.

As the good host, Ortega almost rose to greet this surly brute, but cancelled that polite reflex. Cowboy was the type of a man who would misinterpret graciousness as weakness. Ortega remained seated. They shook hands. No apology for being late. Ortega studied him, thinking `That will cost you, my boy.'

"I hate coming in to the fucken city," Cowboy said without preamble.

The waitress hurried over with menus. "Ah you're finally here, dear. Can I get you something?"

"Gimmee a Bud," Cowboy said.

"May I have another Black Bush, dear," Ortega said.

"Certainly, dear," she replied, beaming.

"Well, you called this meeting," Cowboy said. "What's it all about? How'd you get my name."

"You have a reputation, Mr. Herd. Bay Constable. Ex-Marine. A stand up guy who can get a tough job done."

Cowboy smiled a small smile. "Yeah," he said uncommittedly, but relishing the litany of his characteristics as praise.

"In sum, I've heard Cowboy Herd is a nasty son of a bitch, and that's just what I need at the moment."

"What?" Cowboy said out of the side of his mouth.

The waitress was back with the drinks. "Are you ready to order or should I give you a minute. We got blackened catfish, Cajun style, on the special today. Pastrami on rye with French fries is the sandwich. Pea with ham is the soup of the day. Homemade. I really recommend it. I have it whenever Charlie puts it on the menu."

"The pea soup by all means," Ortega said, smiling at her. "And the catfish."

"That comes with a baked potato and Spanish beans with red and green peppers."

"Sounds wonderful," Ortega said. "I won't be able to eat dinner tonight." He laughed.

"Gimmee a hamburger," Cowboy said.

"The Green Isle Burger? With Cole Slaw, Onion Rings, and Steak Fries?"

"Yeah."

When she left for the kitchen, Ortega took an envelope out of his inner pocket. He took three twenty dollar bills from the envelope, slipping them into an inside jacket pocket. He pushed the envelope across the table. "There's $140 in there."

"For what?" He looked at the envelope, not touching it.

"Something I think you might enjoy doing. Think of it as a reward for coming into the dreadful city to hear my offer."

"I'm listening," Cowboy said, "And I'd like to know who gave you my name."

"An acquaintance mentioned to me that you're the bully of the bay. I think those were her exact words. She told me you have a reputation in Huntington as a poacher when you're supposed to be enforcing the law. You think you own the bay."

"Hey what kind of shit is this?" Cowboy said, half rising out of his chair.

"Please sit down and listen to my offer that will make you a little money."

"Illegal?" Cowboy stated.

"I'm not going to define the mission. But I want you to snatch an Airedale belonging to a clammer named Gil Tyrling. Mr. Gilbert I believe they call him. I'm willing to pay you a $5,000 bonus for delivering the animal to me."

"You are one fucking strange character. You want to me to steal a man's dog. What kind of a fucking animal are you?"

Ortega smiled. "That's a lot of money tax free."

"What are you a cop? Some state conservation undercover cop? Or Suffolk cop?" I don't do illegal things. Whoever told you I did didn't know what they were talking about. And I'll tell you something, I should push your wiseass face through the wall for saying I'm a poacher. You'd probably like me to do that so you hit me for an assaulting an officer charge."

"I really don't want you pushing my face through any walls. I'm not trying to entrap you. I'm here to hire you for a little job that could take you half an hour. When's the last time you made $5,000 in a half an hour? In fact when's the last time you made $5,000?"

"Why do you want the dog?"

"Oooeelie. That's his name. That dog comes from a championship line. I offered a $500 stud fee to Tyrling's wife, she owns the dog, but she wouldn't hear of it. She's a strange woman who doesn't think dogs should have sex."

"The cops would catch you in two minutes."

"I have it all figured out. I owned another male from the same brood as Oooeelie. I just use the same papers to cover both dogs."

"Five-thousand dollars?"

"Don't worry, I'll make it back and then some. You don't know Airedale lovers. And money is not my motive. That animal has the perfect face. Perfect forelegs. That's worth a lot to me. And, now that I realize how distasteful you find the city, not that I would call Queens, the city, I will add another $2,500 to the deal as a delivery charge. So that's $7,500. No questions asked by either side. I've told you more than I should have already."

"I don't even know your name."

"Mister O'Hara is good enough."

"How did you decide on $140? That's an odd figure."

"I could say that I'm an odd man. But I fined you $2 dollars for every minute you kept me waiting. I don't tolerate rudeness from anyone, especially an employee. You would have gotten $200 had you been on time."

Cowboy laughed.

The food came. Ortega ordered another round of drinks.

They ate, chatting about Huntington Bay and Long Island Sound. Ortega said he often visited Huntington in his sailboat, a 30-footer that he had once sailed in winter to the Caribbean. He described that harrowing experience of an unforecast Atlantic storm with 40-foot seas popping the boat around like a cork.

"Not too bright to go out in that kind of weather," Cowboy said.

"I didn't go out in it. The weatherman didn't predict it. When we started out the sky was sunny and the seas were calm."

"When was that?"

"December, a couple of years ago."

"You got to be out of your fucken mind to sail out of New York in December in a 30 footer. How much of a crew."

"Two of us, a woman friend and me. But she was an experienced sailor."

"In other words if anything went wrong, you're fucked. I'll bet you didn't have survival suits."

"You got me," Ortega said. "But I'm happy to report it all worked out nicely. We had a wonderful time in the islands. Sailed all over the place."

"Sounds like you lead a nice life, Mr. O'Hara. Sun, sand, and athletic pussy."

`This man is almost too much to bear,' Ortega thought, pursing his lips in distaste.

"I'll get the dog. But it'll cost you $10,060."

"That's an incredible sum of money. Why the odd figure ten-thousand-sixty?"

"A. You can afford it. B. I figure you can figure out what the extra sixty is for. If you could do it yourself, you wouldn't be talking to me."

"Then it's a deal. I have your number. I'll call you every other night starting next Wednesday at 10 PM."

"I don't like to be pushed, mister."

"That's the deal. You've jerked me up a lot higher than I intended to go. I thought I was generous at $5,000, overly generous at $7,500, and I've crossed the line beyond which I wanted to go at $10,000. Plus the $60 equalizer. I'll pay the money, but no more bullshit. That's a word you understand. Right?"

"Right," Cowboy said. They reached across the table and shook hands.

The waitress came. "Are you ready for coffee and dessert dear?" she asked Ortega.

"But of course," he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

In late October, there was a four-hour "opening" in Duck Island Harbor. Gil was up before dawn and Joanna rose with him to make breakfast and put together his sandwiches. A new warmth had blossomed in their relationship with Gil's resurrected prowess in bed, a by-product of the growing strength of his body. He reveled in the muscles on his arms and the calluses that had hardened and darkened the palms of his hands. Joanna's willingness to be sweet to him was motivated by the pleasure he provided and her guilt over her encounters at least once and often twice a week with Georges Ortega. She reasoned that Gil would have done the same had a woman as beautiful as Georges come on to him.

She packed two big chicken breasts and a loaf of Italian bread cut in half into his cooler with a couple of oranges. No cake, no beer, no wine. Not even soda. Just plain water. Enough for him and the dog in a big container. Oooeelie, who remained distant from her, was as anxious as Gil to be on the water.

This would be Gil's first "opening." The restriction on the area, where clams had been seeded under a special state conservation department program, had been lifted for just four hours, from 8 AM until noon. Gil was determined to dig a count of 500 clams, repeating his feat of the summer. Sean MacGahan and other friendly clammers assured him that he would pull in two or three counts.

"Be careful," Joanna had called after them.

Gil waved, feeling the excitement of anticipation.

With the sun rising against a deep red sky, Gil rowed out to his seventeen-foot Sharpie. Oooeelie waited until Gil swung the boat near the shore. He bounded into the water and was lifted in. The Airedale took his post on the bow and they headed through the mouth of the harbor into Huntington Bay. He moved past the squarish Huntington Lighthouse on which half a dozen cormorants, long black fishing birds, were perched. He could see waves, looking like ripples in the distance, on Long Island Sound. As he turned east, he looked over his shoulder and in the distance, just breaking the horizon, about eight miles across the Sound, were the high rises of Stamford, Connecticut. He laughed in the pleasure of the open water. Gil pointed the Sharpie towards the four towering LILCO smoke stacks to the east in Northport. Wherever he went on the bay, the towers were there, a constant reminder of the dirty political past of the Huntington Republicans. Gil had always given to the party, not understanding what they had done to the environment until he got on the water.

Not even a clammer was in sight. A black figure loomed in the distance. As it moved closer, Gil saw it was a dragger coming out of Price's Bend in Sand City probably going into the Sound for flounder. He picked up his binoculars: "Wolf Larsen" in large red letters against a field of white on the bow. He smiled remembering Jack London's The Sea Wolf.

He and Oooeelie would have to cross almost five miles of open water until reaching the protected confines of Duck Island Harbor.

The morning was cold and clear, the wind and the spray were bitter, so much so that Oooeelie climbed down into the boat to escape it. Gil was standing at the wheel in the winter cabin that he made under Sean's guidance from pine boards with a Plexiglas window so that he could steer across the water in relative comfort. He was out of the weather and warmed by the sun. Starting tomorrow, he wouldn't shave until spring. He now understood why clammers grew beards in winter. He smiled. "How's Joanna gonna like me in a beard old timer," he called to Oooeelie.

A couple of boats with big motors, coming out of nowhere, blazed past, the clammers waving. Sean's friendship had won him acceptance by some of the clammers. Only in time would he prove himself to the diehards. Looking back he saw another boat closing fast cutting a huge wake. As Gil reached the mouth of Duck Island Harbor, the boat, propelled by a 90 horse and piloted by Cowboy Herd, the bay constable, reached him. "You got your licenses, boy?" Cowboy called to him, irritating Gil. He knew he had the right licenses. Cowboy had checked out his boat three times in the past month for licenses and the required safety equipment, the emergency flares, the life jacket, and the whistle.

Gil moved among the familiar faces of Sean and other Huntington clammers. There were a lot of strangers in the harbor. Many from Northport, whom the Huntington clammers despised, telling stories of thieves and barroom bullies among them. Diving ducks swept across the surface of the water, where some Canadian geese were bobbing on the small swells. The seagulls were hovering about looking for handouts.

At 8, Gil began putting his gear together for the clamming. He slipped the cull box from under the wooden lip in the front of the boat. He positioned it to hang over the left side of the Sharpie. He put the cull rack on top of the box. There wasn't much space in the boat so every piece of equipment was carefully stored. He laid a 12-foot clam pole across the width of the boat, then slipped the clam basket with its dangerously sharp teeth on one end, tightening the hose clamps with a nut driver. Finally, he pulled the T-top of the pole, telescoping another section of pole from the innards of the main pole. That gave him almost 24 foot of pole. Usually he worked at a 3-1 ratio. The water was only about five feet deep where his boat was rolling gently on the swells.

He the dropped his rake into the water, focusing his attention on the feel vibrating from the rake head dragging through the underwater bottom up the poles into his hands. He pushed the T-bar back and forth, digging into the soft bottom, feeling clams and rocks. He lodged his knee against the side for leverage and pulled the rake up, hand over hand, shaking the mud and debris from basket. In a twisting motion, he hauled it out of the water and dumped the take onto the cull rack. He sorted the catch, tossing a couple of calico crabs, a few cherry stones and some rocks back into the water. Nineteen littlenecks sat on the surface of the rack. The undersize clams, which were the tenderest, but illegal, fell with the detritus of the bottom through the bars into the cull box, to be shoved back into the water. Gil tossed the littlenecks into a wire basket. He repeated the process over and over, taking more clams in each pass than ever before. On his ninth pass, he pulled up an ancient bottle of thick green glass from a soda company. He could make out the name Gold in a circle and an address in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. On the bottom was the date: 1893.

As he placed the bottle in the cloth bag containing some odds and ends, including a well-greased knife, Gil felt someone watching him, a violation of the clammers' code. He looked up into the eyes of Cowboy, who was staring at him across the span of a few yards. The lanky, muscular bay constable was in a short khaki jacket with the arms cut out to display the Marine Corp emblem tattooed on his right shoulder. He was wearing his worn, greasy red cap with the corps emblem over his long, brown curly hair. There was a chilling sullenness in Cowboy's expression. Gil found him intimidating. He could feel the hatred and couldn't understand why?

As the clock moved toward 10, the experienced clammers began pulling out, having reached the four-count limit imposed by the authorities. This was easy raking for them. Sean racked up two or three counts a day from the regular waters. He called to Gil as he left: "There's a heavy north wind blowing up. It's getting on time to get back." Gil waved a hand in acknowledgement, but he had a count and a half and was determined to reach three. He paused only to quench his thirst and to give Oooeelie a drink once an hour. When the horn sounded at noon only a few boats were left. Some cops and city firemen picking up an extra buck and a few kids who had taken the day off from school. Cowboy was still there too. Gil lifted his rake high in the air, turning over the basket and dumping the contents back into the water. He had three counts plus. No reason to be greedy and risk a ticket from Cowboy.

Gil was suddenly hungry. He ate half the chicken and bread, giving the rest to Oooeelie. He was feeling good. Thinking about a hot bath and a Jack Daniels, followed by a nap. If Joanna were willing to skip her class tonight, he would celebrate his fabulous catch with dinner out.

A soft rain began falling as Gil nosed his Sharpie out of the safe waters of the harbor into the bay. The wind, driving from the north off Long Island Sound, was picking up white caps. The tide was going out. A bad combination. Even Gil knew that. He felt a moment of regret for staying a count too long. The sea was into a serious chop and he knew once he passed Sand City into the stretch of open water exposed to the fury of the Sound, there could be three or even four-foot waves.

Oooeelie crowded under the deck in the prow to escape the onslaught of the weather. The rain and spray were hitting the cabin's little window with a fury that was beyond the capacity the windshield wiper to clear. Gil was driving almost blind through the pounding waves when Cowboy came along the port side. "Show me those goddamn licenses," he screamed.

"You've got to be fucking kidding."

"Don't give me any shit," Cowboy shouted back.

Gil's heart was thumping with fear. Cowboy threw a grapple hooking the Sharpie, lashing the end of the line to a ring on the deck of his boat. He's out of his fucking mind, Gil thought. Cowboy leapt into the Sharpie, drawing a barking Oooeelie from his nesting place. "Jesus Christ you're going to swamp me!" Gil screamed.

"Gimme the dog. Dogs are illegal in a clam boat."

Everybody had dogs. Gil was so confused by the threat of the thrashing water and the unbelievable invasion of his boat that he froze. A spectator in the struggle between Oooeelie and the bay constable.

The Airedale snarled, baring his teeth with a fierceness that was frightening. His dog nature filled him with a blinding anger at this intruder. Cowboy made a feint then snatched the dog, grabbing Oooeelie by the back of the neck and tail. In a smooth swinging motion, he heaved the dog through the air into his boat. Oooeelie barely hit the deck before he came bounding back at his tormentor oblivious to the danger of the heaving boats. Cowboy caught the snarling dog lifting him high above his head. Before he could smash the dog down onto the edge of the boat, Gil came alive. He picked up a bag of clams, slamming it into Cowboy's back, pitching the bay constable headlong into the bottom of the boat and Oooeelie into the black water. "Oooeelie," he yelled. The dog disappeared into the sea. The fury of the storm had picked up; the waves were bucking the linked boats.

Cowboy turned on his knees. "You son of a bitch." He stood up, looking into the sea. "Goddamn it. He's gone." He disengaged the grapple, stepped on the edge of the Sharpie, and jumped into his boat. "We'll meet again, mother fucker," he shouted to Gil and was gone.

Gil swung his boat in an arc, screaming "Oooeelie." He thought he saw the Airedale and drove the boat towards the spot, but he wasn't there. "Oooeelie," Gil screamed. Tears streamed down his face. The Sharpie was diving into the troughs of the four-foot waves, driven by a howling north wind straight off the Sound. Oooeelie was gone. Gil wondered whether he himself would survive. The water would reach the edge of bow, seeming as though it would pour in to swamp the boat, then the Sharpie would rise high on the crest of the wave.Gil rode the roller coaster of waves in two broad circles of the bay despite an anxiety burning through his chest all the while over the prospect that the Sharpie would come apart in the fierce sea. Sadly, he accepted the loss of the dog and headed across the treacherous opening where the bay merged into the Sound. Gil moved instinctively, shouting Oooeelie's name once in a while, but focused on getting out of the raging hell.

After the longest time, he passed the Huntington Light House, and slid through the mouth of the harbor into the safety of calmer waters. He drove the boat onto the beach. Jumping ashore he tied a line to a tree. He slumped down on the beach, overcome by the ordeal and the loss of Oooeelie. The rain and wind lashed him in his inertia of sorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Oooeelie swam as hard as he could towards the sound of his name. Riding high on the waves, dropping into the troughs, he pushed blindly through the surging and receding water. Gil's voice grew distant, and disappeared. Still he swam on.

As he rose with a four-foot swell, Oooeelie could see the outline of the old concrete factory, a stark, uninviting box. He pointed himself toward it, moving steadily through the cold water, swimming in the troughs, rising high into the day turned into night by the storm. There was no other thought than reaching what he saw, despite the distance that didn't seem to close in the driving rain as the sea tossed him up and down.

Hours after he had been pitched into the water, Oooeelie struggled past the old concrete factory into the shallows off Sand City. He crawled onto the narrow peninsula, barely 20 feet wide, and collapsed, the momentum of survival exhausted. He lay there for the longest time on a spit of sand and patches of salt grass barely above sea level, listening to the wind howling across the bay. He fell into a deep sleep undisturbed by the rain or cold.

When Oooeelie awoke, the storm had cleared showing a sky of bright stars, but the moon had set early deepening the darkness of the night. He rose, shaking himself mightily, shedding water and sand. He walked across the narrow strip of beach. Over a wide expanse of water, where the bay opened into Long Island Sound, Oooeelie barely could see the low-slung landfall of Clam Diggers Beach. He plunged into the black water, paddling fiercely, moving with the rhythm of the rise and fall of the swells. The cold sucked his energy, but he overcame the temptation to rest, sensing that he would go under. The mile and a half swim emptied him of strength. He managed to wade out of the water onto the beach. He lay there, unable to move for an hour or more.

Oooeelie rose after a while and followed the beach onto the point of land that enclosed the north end of the opening into Lloyd Harbor. He knew where he was. The mouth of the harbor, just a half mile of relatively calm water, separated him from home, from Joanna and Gil, food and the comfort. Without hesitation, he moved into the water, swimming steadily through the still choppy sea until he reached the shore of West Neck. He rested there long enough for the exhaustion to recede. He forced himself to his feet, following the gravel beach on a long, hard walk with every step a test of the remnants of his stamina to the place where Gil's dinghy was moored. He dropped, unable to go any further.

Gil, who had lain awake through the night mourning the loss of Oooeelie, praying for a miracle, flung the covers off the bed.

"Are you okay?" Joanna asked.

"I'm going down to the mooring. I just feel that Oooeelie is there." He pulled on his underwear and dressed in his clamming clothes, knowing that the dog would be on the beach. He trotted down the stairs and out into the first light of day.

Joanna, wrapped in a robe, hurried down to the living room to start a fire. She put some beef broth on the stove to heat. She fetched an old quilt, her mother had given her 25 years before, from the linen closet. "Please God," she said aloud, standing with the quilt at the side door. Tears welled out of her eyes when she heard Gil's shout: "Oooeelie!"

Oooeelie struggled to his feet. He wagged his tail through a determined effort, never realizing until this moment that even that seemingly automatic gesture required strength and energy.

Gil wept as he carried the Oooeelie up the steep incline to the house to Joanna who wrapped her arms around both of them. Gil and Joanna were transformed, their despair replaced by boundless joy. She cried and hugged the dog, kissing him, and thanking the God who listened to her prayers.

Gil wrapped the sodden dog in the quilt, laying him in front of the fireplace. Joanna brought the broth, but Oooeelie was too feeble to eat. He slept, barely moving, for the next three days.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Oooeelie lay in front of the fireplace in the living room for three days before returning to the bow of Gil's Sharpie. Throughout the day, he kept a careful watch for Cowboy Herd. Oooeelie was disappointed in himself for reacting to Cowboy Herd's attack as a dog instead of as a superior being. So often, he automatically barked or wagged his tail before he could catch himself, applying his mind instead of allowing his canine nature to dominate. He hungered for his next encounter with the bay constable. He would make him cower in submission.

Gil was feeling expansive as he swung his bags of clams onto the beach at the edge of West Shore Road. He hopped from the boat and tied it securely to a metal ring. Sean was there finishing his transactions with the buyer. "What's the price today?"

"Seventy-five," the buyer said to Gil. "Whatta you got?"

"Four hundred littleneck and 100 cherries."

The buyer did a quick calculation in his head and peeled the bills off a thick role. "Getting to be an old timer, Mr. Gilbert," he said.

Sean and the others smiled.

"I've got a great bay story to tell," Gil said to Sean, words that made everyone perk up. "That son of a bitch, Cowboy, tried to take my dog away from me on the water Monday. Oooeelie went in the drink and I thought he was lost. I couldn't find him in the weather."

"Where did he go in."

"Between Duck Harbor and Sand City in the height of the storm. I didn't think I was going to make it back alive."

"Where did you find him?"

"I didn't find him. I figured he was gone, and the next morning, there he is lying on the beach next to my dinghy. He was so tired he couldn't walk." Gil pulled a map of the North Shore from an inner pocket in his windbreaker. "I figured he either swam due south to Crescent Beach and walked home, or swam across the bay to Clam Diggers Beach, walked down to the Old Tower and went back in the water and swam over to West Neck. The swim would be longer, but the walk would be shorter that way."

"Goddamn," Sean said. "That's the stuff legends are made of. That's some dog. The waves must have been six-feet high Monday."

Munsey, who had been clamming for 56 years since he was 14 years and who had an unwritten rule about never speaking to novices until they had been on the water at least five years, couldn't contain himself: "Hold it there Mr. Gilbert. What was this about Cowboy taking your dog away?" Touching a clammer's dog was worse than invading his space especially to a traditionalist like Munsey to whom the water was a frontier where the clammer was the law.

Gil felt embarrassed remembering the fear that surged through him. "He said clammers aren't supposed to have dogs in the boat. It's against the law."

"What kind of shit is that? He wouldn't take my dog, Mr. Gilbert." He looked at Gil knowing that this novice wasn't capable of taking down Cowboy or anybody else who decided to move on him. He was still fleshy and hadn't been leathered by the challenge of years on the water enduring the cold winter winds when the spray froze on you and the brutally hot summer suns. You said you took the pain to feed your family, but the unspoken reasons ran deeper. This guy was soft. He decided to give him some advice anyhow: "Get yourself a shotgun and the next time you're out there alone with the son of a bitch even the score."

There was general assent to Munsey's advice.

Gil walked down to his Sharpie. He reached into an oilskin-covered holster. "I got myself a shotgun," he said holding the weapon in the air.

Sean followed Gil to his boat. He leaned close to Gil. "Munsey's full of shit. You got a flare gun?" Of course Gil had one. Coast Guard regulations required a flare gun. The request puzzled Gil, but he started to reach for it. "Keep it where it is," Sean said. "Forget the shotgun. If that motherfucker comes at you again use the flare gun. You won't miss and you can say it was an accident. If you don't blow him away, you'll give him a dose he'll never forget. The phosphorous will burn right through him."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Georges Ortega greeted Joanna with a friendly kiss on her cheek outside NYU's Loeb Library on Washington Square in Greenwich Village. The street was filled with students and neighborhood people enjoying a gorgeous October evening. Ortega had been bursting to ask her about Oooeelie since Cowboy Herd had called last Tuesday to say the dog went overboard and probably drowned. Those things happen Ortega said, stifling his fury. He sent him $1,000 for his trouble. He slipped his arm into hers, squeezing it just a little. Ortega smiled at her. "Let's have dinner, then some dessert at my place," he said.

"That sounds very nice, especially the dessert." She hoped her voice didn't sound hollow. She would have preferred to skip the trip to his apartment. The anguish she shared with Gil over the near loss of Oooeelie and the resurrected desire he offered in their bedroom made her feel uncomfortable, actually dirty about going to bed with Ortega. But she couldn't bring herself to say `It's over.' He had been so loving and kind to her. He had given her a sexual pleasure she had assumed would no longer be a part of her life. And now Gil returned with a surprising fervor that was exciting and wonderful.

"I've missed you," Ortega said.

Joanna started to respond, but was cutoff by a young black woman with a leaking nose who stepped in front of Ortega, her palm extended. "Got some change?" He gave her a dollar bill.

"The city didn't have beggars like that before Reagan," Joanna said.

"The poor are always with us. Are you going to class at the foundation this Monday? I sit my office after class every Monday feeling so frustrated, asking why hasn't she shown up? Why doesn't she answer my phone calls?"

Desire welled through her. She stopped and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I love you," she said, contradicting herself. Kissing him, when she would rather be rid of him. "I am human. You are human," she said to herself in explanation, realizing that while she wanted to put him behind her, she did relish the romance and the sex. She wondered if she could love two different men at the same time.

Ortega tried to hide his irritation with a smile. He sensed her inner conflict. He felt an irrepressible anger, a jealousy that he didn't enjoy experiencing, but there it was. He told himself that if she confirmed Oooeelie was gone, he would excuse himself from the table and leave her in the restaurant and put her behind him. He was drawn to her, and wanted her, but life had endowed him with the mission of destroying Oooeelie--and she loved the animal. She had unconsciously served as Oooeelie's bridge to mankind. He couldn't assume the role of Centre of the Circle if he continued as her lover. Yet he hungered for her. He had an understanding now of the decision forced on so many royals of having to choose between a woman and a throne. He was enthralled by her, but he was mature enough to realize the throne would last, while his infatuation would fade. And yet, the fear gnawed at him that he would never meet another woman like this again.

They walked to the Paris Commune, a narrow, little restaurant with a touch of atmosphere on Bleecker Street in the West Village. They were the first patrons of the evening. They chose the table across from the fireplace near the front door. Ortega ordered a bottle of red wine as soon as the menus arrived. He looked at his watch. Six o'clock. "The clearest memory I have of Paris is being starved one night and going to this little restaurant on the Left Bank. It was a quarter to eight, and the French never dine before 8. I felt rather gauche, but I went in and they seated me. As I was sitting there drinking my wine and eating my bread, I could see people outside, looking in, looking at the menu in the window. Walking around. The place was empty except for me and the waiters. At 8 on the dot, the door opens, the people come scrabbling in and the owner was bowing and scraping, greeting them, taking them to tables. By 8:05 every table in the place was filled."

She decided that since she wasn't able to make the break, she would play the game of a woman in love: "I so want to go to Paris with you," she said, placing her hand on his. "You know the city so well. You can show it to me. I want to go to the wall where the last of the Communards were executed. I want see Louise Michel's grave."

"Sitting in the Paris Commune makes you think of the Red Virgin," Ortega said amused. "I assume you're aware that the wall is at Pere LaChaise, but Louise is all the way across the city at a cemetery in the west end of Paris. I went there in my student days. I walked around the cemetery and couldn't find her tomb. I went back out to the gate and the wife of the caretaker told her little boy and girl to show me where Louise was buried. They were such happy kids. I swear they danced all the way to the grave. It was a nice experience."

"Is that why we're here tonight?"

"I must admit the name of the restaurant attracted me here the first time. The food has kept me coming back."

She rubbed her knee against his, and smiled. "I think of you in terms of food. Delicious is what comes to mind."

"Speaking of food," he said. "Professor Collins asked me to pass along an invitation. He was going to approach you himself on Monday, but you didn't show up. Next Wednesday, the good professor is going to have a little gathering at the foundation. There would just be four of us, including you and me. We would talk for about an hour about communications between men and animals. Telepathy. If you can manage to bring Oooeelie into the city, it would make for a great experience."

"You told him about my dream?" she said, feeling an instant distance from him. He had promised her confidentiality.

"My sweetness, the professor is the foremost authority on the subject of Oooeelie or Oooeelies. Whether they are a chain of dogs with the same name, or the same dog in different bodies. Of course I told him. He is an absolutely trustworthy man."

"Oooeelie's been through a harrowing experience. I don't know how Gil would feel about me bringing him into the city so soon."

"What happened?" he asked, trying to convey his concern with the expression on his face and the tone of his voice.

"Cowboy Herd, the bully, the bay constable I told you about, tried to take Oooeelie away from Gil when he was out clamming and Oooeelie ended up in the water. He had to swim two or three miles through a storm in big waves and ice cold water. It was awful, but he got home somehow."

"I hope you reported this bay constable to the police."

Joanna explained that Gil was entranced with the subculture of the clammers. None of them would dream of calling the police. They settled scores themselves. Gil told her that the next time Cowboy Herd would wind up in the water, not Oooeelie.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Oooeelie sat in the passenger seat of the Volvo wagon all the way to the city. Joanna chattered to him as though he were a girlfriend, telling him all about the confusion of her life. Finding Georges Ortega at a time when she considered her marriage to Gil finished, herself a drab, uninteresting woman who was hungry for sex, and then to be blessed with so romantic and handsome and penile a man.

She preferred not to talk about the professor she became involved with briefly in Ireland, not even to so intimate friend as Oooeelie. That was a moment in life without any real meaning other than a nice roll in bed. She was startled to find that the professor could press all the right buttons and not have any significant meaning to her. She always thought she had to love a man to fuck him. "Maybe women aren't becoming like men. Maybe we always were the same," she said to Oooeelie.

The traffic jammed up a little on Grand Central Parkway near LaGuardia Airport, but opened up as they approached the Triboro Bridge.

"I'm telling you all this," Joanna said to Oooeelie, moving across two lanes of traffic to the right corridor of the bridge, "because I'm using you tonight as a sort of thank you and goodbye offering to Georges. We'll sit with him and his friends for an hour. I'll say, goodbye. I'll say, I can't see you any more, but I'll always love you. We'll always be friends and I'll never forget you."

Oooeelie looked at her curiously, sensing the mix of nervous excitement and dread that was boiling in her. He was enjoying the ride, sticking his nose out the window occasionally to feel the rush of air, exhilarated by flashing scenes of trees, cars, buildings, people, walls, and sky. He would see another dog and bark furiously, always drawing a plea from Joanna to calm down and be quiet. Her words were a meaningless jumble to him, although he savored the feeling of her hand, reached to touch his side and run down his back. Oooeelie's vocabulary of spoken words and simple phrases was beyond a less intelligent dog, but still limited. He understood, leash, park, walk, sit, run, come on, fetch, breakfast, dinner, lunch, hamburger, hot dog, food, be quiet, take it easy. When he focused on her, he knew what she was thinking. He was a little tired. He had been on the water all day. Almost as soon as he and Gil returned to the house, Joanna had brushed him and loaded him into the Volvo for the trip into the city. He overcame his desire for a nap to watch the scenery. He would sleep when they got to where she was taking him. But her edginess made him edgy. Moods were contagious. He enjoyed being with Gil in the boat because of his aura that mixed a feeling of adventure with accomplishment and courage in the face of some of the unexpected happenings on the water. He shared the glow of Gil's pleasure in the changing pattern of clouds and the light on the water in the different parts of the day.

Gil had grown to love him, and the confrontation with that evil man in the boat had created the bond of combat between them. He rolled over the plaintive sound of Gil's voice calling "Oooeelie" in the night, remembering how that voice moved round him in the raging, cold water that almost swallowed him.

On East 97th Street and First Avenue, a young black man in a blue windbreaker approached the car with a spray bottle and rag. Joanna waved her left hand, no. "Come on," the black man said. He started to spray the window. Oooeelie could feel her fear. He leapt at the window, snarling. The man backed off. "Good boy," Joanna said, relieved to have the traffic moving forward. She turned down Second Avenue and made a right onto 81st Street. Just short of Fifth Avenue, she found a parking place.

Oooeelie urinated on a tree as soon as he got out of the car. He trotted along enjoying the new smells, dominated by the markings of dogs who had preceded him on these streets. Cars and taxis moved quickly along Fifth Avenue in the light traffic that came with night. Only a couple of people passed by, the usual joggers and men and women coming home or out to visit.

They walked the three short blocks to 78th Street, turned off Fifth and were at the steps of the Wesos Foundation when Oooeelie picked up the scent of danger. He stopped short, surprising Joanna. "Come on," she said, but he pulled back. "Come!" she said angrily. Oooeelie dug in, refusing to move. Slowly, she forced him up each step, tugging on the leash. Oooeelie was shaking in fear. When she paused, turning to ring the bell, he jerked away from her and raced down the street, the leash trailing behind. She called after him, but Oooeelie ignored her.

Georges Ortega opened the door behind her. Realizing the dog was on the run, he raced after Oooeelie, catching sight of him on Fifth Avenue and seeing him turn into 81st Street. When Ortega reached the corner, breathing hard from the effort, the dog was nowhere in sight. He asked a handyman lounging at the service entrance of a small hotel if he had seen an Airedale. No, the man said.

Ortega walked the length of the block, crossed the street and returned to Fifth Avenue, looking between and under cars. Joanna was waiting on the steps when he returned to the foundation. "It got away," Ortega said. "Let me get Michael Collins and we'll look around the neighborhood for it. But tell me what happened?"

"He just wouldn't go into the building. He acted as though he were terrified." She started to cry. "This is the second time he's been lost in the last two weeks."

Ortega asked Joanna to wait on the steps in hope that the dog might come back looking for her. He went into the building and returned in a few minutes with Michael Collins and two Latinos, who had been hired to spirit the dog out of the building after the one-hour meeting while Joanna accompanied the others to a late dinner. The damned animal had screwed everything up. Ortega could barely contain his anger. He told her that Dr. Collins and Roberto would search the five blocks south of the foundation between Fifth Avenue and Park Avenue, and he and Luis would cover the five blocks north of the foundation. He asked Joanna to walk the area between the place where she parked her car and the foundation on the chance Oooeelie would appear.

"Try calling it in your head, dear," Michael Collins said. "You know, mental telepathy. This could be an interesting experiment in itself. You must tell me at the end of all this whether you heard it in your mind or sensed its presence. I'm almost positive that Oooeelie will find you even if you don't find it."

They began their trek through the streets. Ortega would have preferred to have each man search separately, but the two Latinos said they didn't know what an Airedale looked like. The way his luck was going, Ortega decided they might haul in a stray by mistake. So he used them as auxiliaries to Collins and himself in the hunt.

Walking in the quiet streets soothed Ortega. He realized that Michael Collins was right. The dog would find Joanna. He was too smart to be lost.

As Joanna walked back towards her parking space on 81st Street, she called in her mind, "Oooeelie come here!" She stood at the car, "Oooeelie, honey, come here. Please come here." She turned and was startled to find the dog standing behind her. She wrapped her arms around him. "Don't worry," she said. "You don't have to go into that building if you don't want to." Oooeelie got right into the car, taking his usual place on the front passenger seat.

She drove the few blocks to the foundation, double-parking with the flashing lights on. Oooeelie pressed his nose against her, telling her in his mind, to drive home. She petted him. He pulled back, his Airedale nature overcoming his patience and he barked at her. "Quiet," she said, wagging a finger at his nose. He barked louder. "Quiet," she ordered again. This time the signal worked. Oooeelie slid onto the seat laying his head on her lap, whimpering, in anguish over his predicament.

Joanna slipped a Michael Crawford tape into the stereo player and put her seat back to listen in comfort. "Please stop whining," she said to the dog, relieved when at last he fell silent. She knew it would take a while. Almost 35 minutes passed before Michael Collins appeared with Roberto. He tapped on the window. Oooeelie jumped suddenly into the back seat, setting his feet wide, ready for battle. Joanna smiled, rolling down the window. She turned off the stereo. "You were right. He found me at the car."

"This is so wonderful. It's such an intelligent animal. How are you, Oooeelie? I've been very anxious to meet you." The dog stared at him, returning his greeting with a guttural growl, the tips of his hair turning white reflecting the fury he felt. Why had Joanna brought him to his enemies?

"Let me try this..." Michael Collins said, holding up his hand in a signal of silence to Joanna. "Oooeelie," Collins said in his mind. "Speak to me with your mind." The dog's growl grew louder, the whiteness became more pronounced. He could feel Collins react with uneasiness. "Lie down, Oooeelie!" Collins said sternly.

The dog leapt snarling past Joanna at the window, climbing onto her lap and scratching her in the process, snapping at Collins. The man jumped back, and Joanna struck the dog with the palm of her hand again and again. Oooeelie jumped into the back seat, subdued, confused by her alliance with this enemy.

"What did you say to him?"

Michael Collins tried to smile. "I guess we're not communicating tonight," he lied, knowing that the dog heard him in his mind. "I asked it to lie down. I'm glad I didn't ask it to attack me."

"I'm sorry he went after you doctor. He's stressed out, and I feel the same way too. Let's call it a night, shall we. Please tell Georges that I found Oooeelie. I'll call him."

"Please Dr. Tyrling don't leave until Georges returns. He will be so angry and embarrassed if you're not here. The international chairman of the Wesos Foundation is upstairs waiting very impatiently I'm sure. Georges promised him that Oooeelie would be here tonight and he is a man who doesn't take broken promises lightly. Georges career could be at stake." That was the right approach. Joanna agreed to wait, feeling irritated when Roberto leaned on the front right fender of the car.

Oooeelie watched the men flanking the car. Roberto was standing on the passenger side, and Michael Collins next to the driver's door. Oooeelie was back in control now, waiting the next move, ready to react. Ortega came along shortly, conferring with Michael Collins before he spoke to Joanna through the narrow opening of a partially-rolled down window.

"Paul Castaneda has been waiting upstairs all evening," Ortega said without preliminary. "We had a very nice program planned with a bite of dinner afterwards. Is that all gone by the board just because it got uptight?"

Oooeelie seethed at Ortega's presence, his ancient enemy's scent drifted into the car.

"Please don't call Oooeelie it," Joanna said, a dislike for Ortega welling up.

"I don't want to offend you Joanna. You know how I feel about you," he whispered. "Could we just go upstairs for a few minutes. That will solve my problem. Please."

"I don't think Oooeelie is willing to go inside."

"He can be persuaded Joanna. Let Luis into the car. He'll take him upstairs."

She looked back at Oooeelie. He was watching Ortega. Luis opened the passenger door. Oooeelie turned to focus on Luis, who chose the strategy of filling the doorway with his body so the dog couldn't slip past him. Roberto came up behind him.

As Luis reached into the back seat intending to grasp his collar, Oooeelie looked hard at him. Suddenly a leopard from a plateau in central Africa millenniums ago snarled into Luis' face throwing him screaming back across Roberto. The two fell onto the ground and Oooeelie flashed out of the car down the street, across Fifth Avenue with cars and taxis slamming on their brakes. He could hear Luis still howling in horror behind him and sensed that someone was in pursuit. Oooeelie didn't look back. He ran hard, with Ortega just a short distance behind. He went several blocks, then bounded onto a park bench, leapt to the top of the stone wall, paused for a moment and disappeared into Central Park.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Oooeelie ran hard through the darkness of the park until he reached the Great Lawn. He slowed to a trot, panting noisily, his tongue hanging out from the effort of escape. He lay down in the middle of the vast field to rest and to scan the park around him for pursuers.

He felt strangely relaxed in the center of the park surrounded by distant, but towering apartment buildings. His head suddenly snapped in the direction of a sound. A pack of young men came running onto the lawn from the West Side, giggling and shouting as they moved towards Oooeelie. The Airedale assumed a readiness stance; his body pressed close the ground, his legs, relaxed, but poised to spring into action. He watched in silence as the human pack passed fifty feet away and moved towards the East Side--and were gone.

The ratcheting noise of police motor scooters exploded onto the field, headlights bouncing, in pursuit of the pack. Oooeelie, still poised for battle, watched curiously as the scooters raced past him.

Quiet fell again.

The dog waited for a while then rose to move in a direction that put distance between him and the point at which he entered the park. He felt lonely, and confused by Joanna's decision to deliver him to his enemies. He didn't know where he was going, other than away from those men who tried to grab him.

He changed his route of march several times to avoid humans or other animals wandering the park in the dark. He was loping through a field when he leapt over what he thought was a log, but the supposedly inanimate object moved. Oooeelie twisted as he landed to face whatever it was. An odorous sleeping man, buried under a mound of dirty clothing, slept on, undisturbed by the presence of the dog. Beside him was a collapsed shopping cart and cardboard boxes filled with his possessions. Oooeelie turned to continue his trek.

The Airedale came out of the park into a confusing rush of traffic on Central Park North. A car swerved trying and almost hitting him, one of the passengers screaming with laughter. Oooeelie pulled back in fear, not daring to move onto the road, which had emptied.

"Hey pooch," a man's voice called from behind him. "What's a homedog like you doing out alone?"

Oooeelie turned dropping into his fighting crouch.

"Whoa. I'm not messing with you dog. I was just asking a friendly question."

Oooeelie sensed the surge of fear that laced the man. He also felt the innate friendliness of the man. In this strange place filled with the unknown and danger, lost from Joanna and Gil, with no place of safety to go, and far from home, Oooeelie welcomed a sociable man. He rose, wagging his tail.

"What a change. You trying to con me? I'm one of Natchez's children and I ain't easily fooled, homedog," the man said with renewed confidence.

Oooeelie took a few tentative steps forward. Sat and held up his right paw.

"Man! I mean dog. You want to shake hands now." The man stepped forward. He shook Oooeelie's hand. "The name's Natchez. The real name's Billy Brown, but everybody calls me Natchez." He smiled displaying a set of sparkling white teeth including a crooked left incisor that was too high in the gum and pressed slightly across the tooth next to it. "I'm gonna call you, Homedog."

`The tag,' Oooeelie projected.

Natchez petted the dog, then slid his hand onto the collar. "Come on over here in the light. Let's see what your tags say, Homedog?" There were three tags, two bell-shaped and the third a bone. The bells were eroded by time and the salt air. Natchez could barely make out part of a number on the bottom of one. The door shaped tag contained the name, Joanna M. Ty...The last name was illegible. So was the address. All he could decipher was the 516. The Long Island area code. "Looks like you're a long way from home, Homedog. You visiting someone in Harlem?"

`Home,' Oooeelie projected. `Home.'

"I'm heading home, Homeboy. I suggest you do the same. Just watch yourself crossing streets and look out for the Man. They pick up strays when they ain't go nothing else to do." Natchez started walking, and Oooeelie walked with him, staying at his side. Natchez thought it was hilarious. "You are some well-trained dog." He shooed the dog away from him when he reached the crosswalk for Lenox Avenue. "I'm going this way, Homedog. You got to hang out here for Miss Joanna."

Oooeelie barked in recognition of the name.

"Stay there," Natchez ordered.

Oooeelie sat.

The man walked away. Oooeelie trotted behind his reluctant benefactor as he crossed the street. Natchez turned to look back and jumped. "Man," he screamed. "Go home!"

Oooeelie sat down. Again, he followed Natchez when he walked down the street. Sitting down each time the young man turned to shout and threaten, knowing that an essential decency governed Natchez.

Finally they arrived at a tall building, Natchez considered slipping through the door and slamming it behind him. Oooeelie whimpered. "No tears," Natchez said. "I can't stand to see a grown dog cry." He held the door and Oooeelie entered with him. "My grandmother's gonna blow a tit when she sees you," he said, pressing the button for the 12th floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Instead of clamming, Gil went into the city with Joanna every day that week to walk through Central Park and the streets bordering it in a fruitless search for Oooeelie. She cancelled two classes. Oooeelie was more important than her undergraduates.

They put in long exhausting hours, but Joanna couldn't sleep through the night. She would open her eyes around 4 o'clock to stare at the ceiling until dawn when Gil came awake. On the first morning, he asked her why she took the dog into the city? Joanna told him about the Wesos Foundation and its decades of research into the relationship between humans and dogs. The foundation was particularly interested in Oooeelie because of the dog's strange name. He irritated her by asking how the foundation discovered their Airedale was named Oooeelie? "You never listen to me," she said with exasperation, reminding him that the book, The Long Friendship--Canines and Men, that she found in the Huntington Library led her to the foundation. He lay silent for a long time. With an obvious effort, he apologized. That didn't abate her anger. She wept as she told him she had tried to tell him several times about her repetitious dreams of Oooeelie and the cave drawings, giving up in frustration when she realized his indifference. He tried to comfort her with a kiss, whispering that he loved her, but she pushed him away telling herself that he deserved to be cuckolded, his disinterest had aroused her hunger for a caring man.

Each morning, they dressed, ate breakfast in silence, and went into the city to resume their hunt for Oooeelie.

Each evening, Georges Ortega called to inquire about Oooeelie, to express his concern. He told her that he spent a couple of hours a day driving the neighborhood and walking through Central Park.

In one of her wakings in the middle of the night, Gil told her about his problems, not only the financial setbacks that were byproducts of the crash of the real estate market and the recession, but his fear of being indicted, which lingered. Didn't she see the stories about Howie being sentenced to community service and being fined? No, she said. He smirked at that. She was matching his insensitivity with her own. He told her that he had lost his taste for business. Clamming provided little more than a subsistence income even for the masters of the craft, like Sean, but physically and spiritually he was on a peak. He still had a decent investment portfolio and a wife with a job and health insurance.

"So you need me for my insurance if nothing else," she said.

"I would say I need you for your pussy, but I don't think you're in the mood for that."

"Let me brush my teeth," she said.

On the fourth morning, Gil designed a flyer:

BIG REWARD

for

an Airedale

named Oooeelie

Brown and Black

Weighs about 65 lbs.

He drove to the copy shop on Main Street and had 500 copies made with in red letters on green and pink paper. Fortunately, the woman at the shop suggested it might be a good idea to include his phone number. Gil wrote it on the bottom, mumbling that he was so overwrought he had missed that little detail. He and Joanna spent that afternoon taping the flyers to lampposts and community bulletin boards in the neighborhoods along Central Park. He came across two black teenagers outside the Museum of the City of New York, giving them $25 each to spread 200 of the flyers in the black and Latino neighborhoods north of the park.

A couple of days later the phone rang.

"How big is the big reward?" Natchez asked.

"Five hundred dollars," Gil said.

"I got Oooeelie."

"That's great. I'll give you directions to the house."

"Hey, I'm not coming out to Long Island. You want the dog you come to me."

"Whereabouts?"

"Lenox Avenue and 127th Street."

Gil wasn't enthusiastic about going into Harlem. "We'll compromise," he said. "I'll meet you on the northeast corner of 96th Street and Fifth Avenue. That's the corner across the street from the park."

"What time man?"

"First read me what it says on the dog tags on the collar."

"You're cutting the deck, man."

Gil was silent.

"I like that when I deal. I cut the deck too. I don't remember what the tags on the collar says. You want the dog, you be on that corner in an hour."

"Two hours is more like it, but I'm not coming into the city until you tell me what's on that collar. You want an easy $500 just read me the collar."

The caller hung up.

Joanna was upset that Gil hadn't rushed into the city. "Suppose he doesn't call back?" she screamed.

Gil had been through too many business deals with sleazy operators to jump at bait. He wanted Oooeelie, but he was certain that whoever found the dog would want $500 even more. "Suppose he had a gun and doesn't have the dog. I'm not going to meet a black man on a street corner in New York with $500 unless I'm sure he's got Oooeelie," he told her angrily.

She threw Newsday down on the coffee table and went into the kitchen slamming a cupboard door and the refrigerator door. The noise made Gil jumpy and fed the anger he blamed on her. He knew he had done the right thing. She came back with an Irish whiskey in her hand.

"Is that the solution?" he asked.

"I need a drink."

"Thanks for offering me one."

"Get your own," she said nastily.

He didn't respond. They sat silently for the next three hours. Joanna drank two more whiskeys. The phone rang at seven o'clock. The caller read Gil the only number he could decipher from Oooeelie's tags: the digits 516 and the partial name, "Joanna M. Ty..."

"There should be more," Gil said.

"Lots of things in life should be but they ain't, man," Natchez replied.

"That's true," Gil said. "Alright, we'll meet in two hours on the northeast corner of 96th Street and Fifth?"

Despite his grandmother's bitching and his hunger for the $500, Natchez felt a reluctance to let Homeboy go. He had become attached to the Airedale in their two weeks together. He had dogs before, but none that seemed to know what he was thinking, none so enthusiastic about life. He was reluctant to let him go, but he sensed the dog wanted to go home. That did more to drive his decision than the money or his grandmother. But he hung back. "You know how far that is from my house?" he said, hoping to anger the man into hanging up. An excuse to keep Homedog.

"Take a taxi. I'll throw in an extra ten for a cab."

"Okay," Natchez said, deciding he would pocket the cab fare and take one last long walk with Homedog to the rendezvous on Fifth Avenue. He hung up the phone. "We're going out," he yelled to his grandmother.

While Joanna sobbed with relief, Gil called Sean MacGahan to ask him to accompany him into the city, telling him he felt he needed backup. Aside from the enormous strength that clamming gave him, Sean was into the martial arts.

"I'm not taking you," Gil said to Joanna. "I have a feeling there might be trouble, and I don't need a half bagged woman on my hands."

"I'll take my own car."

"You get stopped by a cop and you'll get hit with a drunk driving charge."

She knew he was right, and tearfully hugged him, saying she was sorry. "I'll be waiting," she said.

Gil had barely cleared the driveway before she called Georges Ortega to tell him the good news. "Honey," she said. "You were right. Oooeelie's turned up. Gil is on his way into the city right now to pick him up." Ortega, expressing his delight, skillfully drew all the details from her: where the meeting was, that a black man was expecting a $500 reward.

Ortega had prepared for the return of Oooeelie. He unlocked a cupboard in his study, where he had secreted a 9-mm. automatic pistol and a box of shells. Ortega had spent most of his three years in the Army on the pistol teams of Third Infantry and 82nd Airborne Divisions. He handled the weapon with reverence and pleasure. He loaded it, made sure the safety was on. He drove to a money machine on Broadway to withdraw $500. He headed for the East Side, finding a parking place in the perfect spot along the park side of Fifth Avenue with a clear view of the corner where the exchange of the dog for the money was to take place.

Ortega got out of his car, the hood of the khaki jacket, he used for outdoor expeditions, pulled tight around his head. His hands sunk in the deep pockets. One hand gripped the 9-mm., the other the lump of $20 bills. He crossed Fifth Avenue and turned onto 96th Street--and was startled to find the young man sitting against the wall talking to Oooeelie, who sat in front of him.

The Airedale's head snapped around. Oooeelie stepped backwards in surprise. Ortega closed the distance between them, shouting, "I've got the money."

Oooeelie shook, his mind clouded for a moment by this incredible betrayal.

"What's the matter, Homedog," Natchez said. The dog jerked away from him slamming into Ortega, knocking him down. Ortega came up gripping the dog by the collar. Oooeelie snapped at his face and as Ortega fell backwards to escape the mouth of teeth and fangs, the collar slid over the animal's head. Oooeelie ran over Ortega straight across Fifth Avenue, barely being missed by a taxi.

Ortega was on his feet just as quickly, drawing his pistol smoothly from the shoulder holster, leading with his aim.

The slug grazed Oooeelie's upper right leg, tumbling him wailing onto the sidewalk. He rolled and kept going. Ortega was about to fire the killing shot when Natchez slammed into his back as he squeezed off the round, sending the bullet high into the night-blackened trees of Central Park. Oooeelie disappeared behind the line of parked cars. Ortega shook off Natchez and ran across Fifth Avenue, looking for another shot, but the dog was gone.

Oooeelie went deep into the park. He was weak from pain and the shock of being touched by the bullet. Burning with thirst, he paused to lap some water from a puddle left by a morning shower. Moments later, he crawled into a tangle of bushes to hide from any pursuer.

Ortega was stopped by the park wall. He knew he would never find the dog in the dark. He turned back to his car and drove away, glancing across the street to see Natchez speaking to a doorman of an apartment building, pointing in his direction. He tossed the collar and leash out of the window as he drove. He sped into the park at 85th Street, disappearing into the night.

Gil and Sean arrived shortly before 9 PM to find an excited doorman talking to a police officer, who was holding Oooeelie's collar.

"My name is Gil Tyrling and that's my dog's collar." He told the cop about arranging to meet unknown black man to exchange the reward money for the dog.

The cop told him, "Some nutcase popped a shot at your dog and hit him. He drove away in a Jaguar. Mr. McCarthy here didn't get the license or see his face. He says a black kid threw his aim off or else you'd have a dead dog on the sidewalk. "The dog took off and the kid's gone. So what's going on?"

"How badly was he hurt?" Gil asked fearfully.

The cop said he didn't find any blood and that Mr. McCarthy said the dog managed to jump the wall into the park. "I told ya the dog's not dead. So what's going on?" he repeated.

Gil said he had no idea why anyone would want to kill his dog. Oooeelie was a wonderful animal.

"Let me see your driver's license," the cop said looking at Gil, wondering if this were some sort of a drug deal gone bad. He noted Gil's name and address, and asked for his phone number. "What do you do for a living, buddy?" he asked.

"I'm a clammer."

The cop couldn't help smiling. "A clammer. You mean clams on the half shell clammer?"

"Yeah, in Huntington."

He handed Gil a card with the precinct's number. "You can check in with the desk sergeant. If we hear anything about your dog or the shooter, you'll probably hear from a detective."

When the cop drove off, the doorman said, "I wouldn't count on hearing from any detective. In a city where crack heads machine gun kids on streets corners, the cops don't put too much effort into finding dogs.

A sad Gil pressed a $20 bill into the doorman's hand along with his telephone number. "If you see the dog, he's an Airedale, or hear anything at all. Please call me."

"You can be sure I will, but I don't take money from hard-working people with troubles." He pushed the twenty into Gil's pocket.

Gil and Sean drove around the neighborhood for a while, then gave up and went home.

Joanna came rushing out of the house as soon as Gil arrived. She wailed when she saw Oooeelie wasn't in the car. She told him through her tears that a man, yelling motherfucker into the phone and complaining that he delivered the dog and didn't get his money, had telephoned. She hung up on him. "What happened?" she screamed at Gil.

She fell into a silent shame as Gil recounted what he knew, that a man in a Jaguar shot at Oooeelie. They sat quietly for a while. Finally, Joanna said, "Georges Ortega, the head of the Wesos Foundation, has a Jaguar. "

"What color?"

"Dark. Blue, I think."

"That sounds like the car. How did Ortega know that the man was bringing Oooeelie to that street corner?"

"We don't know if it was Ortega," she said lamely, adding sadly, "I called him. He seemed so concerned that Oooeelie was missing. I thought he should know."

Gil almost asked her if there were more to her relationship with Ortega than a common interest in Oooeelie. He decided against it. The answer to that question might shatter their marriage just when it was coming together again. "I'll call the police and tell them Ortega could be their man." He saw the pained expression on her face. "Unless you don't want me to," he said.

"Please Gil don't. I can't believe Georges Ortega would do something like that."

"Okay. I think we'll go into the city tomorrow and walk around Central Park. We might get lucky.

She came over and kissed him, tears pouring from her eyes. "Thank you, Gil," she whispered. "I don't deserve you."

\----

Oooeelie lay hidden in the brush through the night, expecting the enemy to leap unexpectedly from the darkness at any time. He trembled as he waited, his mind a jumble of anger and betrayal. He had sensed Natchez as a friend. He couldn't understand what had happened tonight. Natchez had been telling him that he didn't want to let him go. There was magic between them. He was mulling that thought over as he drifted into sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Oooeelie rose at first light, thirsty and still in pain. He crawled out of the bush and despite the aching stiffness of his body, he went through his usual morning routine of stretching. He limped in search of food and water.

A pair of joggers passed him on a blacktopped path. "Get back you filthy beast," one of them yelled in mock fear to the amusement of the woman running with him. In a moment they were gone. Oooeelie slouched on, his head down in pain and discouragement. He avoided eye contact with the procession of joggers in their sweats and tights and shorts.

Oooeelie emerged from the park to near empty streets with only an occasional car or taxi on Central Park West at this early hour. A woman in running shorts crossed the street to avoid him. He moved listlessly, his mind too fogged to develop a plan. The scents were all strange. Nothing looked familiar. He lay down every once in a while to rest, before moving on, searching for what he could find.

Shortly before 8 o'clock on a street that was a mixture of brownstones and big pre-war apartment buildings, Sam Ruden double-parked his truck outside a service entrance. Mandy, his little girl, was holding the two bags with his two containers of coffee and a half dozen poppy bagels, still hot from the oven, cream cheese, and a container of lox. His mouth was watering. As much as he abhorred New York, where else could you get a real bagel and lox?

He scratched the forever-itchy spot inside his right nostril with his left thumb, turned off the motor, and got out of the truck. He went to the rear to drop the back. He spread a thick furniture cover where they could sit in comfort enjoying the morning sun, the bagels, the lox, and the coffee. This Bagel Place made great bagels with crisp crusts and chewy innards and fresh-ground vanilla almond coffee. In all of the Catskills there was nothing like this. He could have hired a trucker to deliver his furniture, but that would have cut him off from the treat of noshing in the city. He had a neighbor who did make good soft pretzels. In truth, Sam, who had a passion for pretzels dipped in mustard Philadelphia style, and for hard rolls served hot, and for a good California wine, hadn't tasted a good pretzel on the streets of New York since he was a kid. In the old days, there was an old woman who sold pretzels outside the Woolworth's on 34th Street near the Empire State Building, whose wares had achieved a mythical taste still crystal on Sam's tongue.

Sam took the two bags from Mandy, placed them carefully on the truck bed, and hoisted her up beside them. He figured they would have fifteen minutes for the pleasure of eating and talking before the apartment dweller who had ordered the dining room table and matching sideboard appeared with the super from the building and the demanding job of hauling the furniture upstairs would begin. Sam either helped carry the furniture himself or hovered, almost unbearably, around the men assigned to move it into a house or an apartment. He created the pieces with his own hands in his workshop in the barn on his farm. What he made he loved and didn't detach himself from his creations even after he sold them.

Sam's discursive mind would pop different pieces of his furniture into his head, and he would savor the images. He had been a pharmacist working in Mount Sinai Hospital when he made his first outstanding piece, a rocking chair for Magnolia's father. Sam called his wife Magnolia. Her given name was Gloria. His chosen name for her came to him on their first date and he never let it go. Magnolia's father loved the rocking chair. It gave him a comfortable place to sit every Sunday and Monday in his crowded apartment in Queens watching football. He hated Sam at the outset, the idea of a Jew marrying a nice Catholic girl in front of a justice of the peace instead of a priest, almost ate the old man in half. The rocking chair helped and the grandchildren, Mandy and Marty, completed the transformation of their relationship. The hostility softened to friendly acceptance.

Sam and Magnolia had met because of a mistake he made in a prescription that could have killed the patient. But Magnolia, the ever-alert nurse, had caught the error, called Sam, and saved him from spending the rest of his life thinking about ending the life of a breadwinner and plunging a family into poverty. Sam got ill just over that close call. He had no taste for being a pharmacist. That was what his mother wanted and he, like a schmuck, had gone along with the program.

Their first date was dinner in an Italian restaurant on Broadway in Astoria. The veal parmigian was good, the bread from a bakery in Brooklyn was great, and they fell in love. Magnolia was intelligent, feisty, slender, and had blonde hair. Sam was the same then as he was now: He wore a mustache and a beard and a potbelly. He worked hard at being a character, wearing green suspenders with shamrocks on their first date in celebration of Magnolia's ethnic background.

The glory of that evening returned again and again to Sam. They never mentioned the hospital, or nursing, or drugs, or the cost of health care once that night. He talked about his love of wood, his passion for furniture. His dream of being a cabinet-maker. "So live your dream," she said.

"My life just didn't take that shape," Sam said.

"So reshape it," she said.

At the door to her apartment in Sunnyside, Magnolia gave Sam the first French kiss ever bestowed on him voluntarily. He was 27 and hungry for a willing woman.

Sam, who had been through a couple of adult ed woodworking courses, found a retired cabinetmaker on the West Side of Manhattan who led him through the creation of the rocking chair. He had found the meaning of his life.

He spent three years with the cabinetmaker, almost every night after work. Ready to start making furniture, Sam married Magnolia. They pooled their savings and bought an old dairy farm on the far side of the Catskills. Sam grew some vegetables, learned to tap the maple trees on his property, and made his furniture in the barn. Magnolia provided the money they needed to survive, which really wasn't much, working in the local hospital. She loved being a nurse. That was all she ever talked about after the first date, but that was okay with Sam. She had given him so much more than he ever expected from life.

Mandy paused in eating her bagel on the back flap of the truck. "Oh Daddy," she said. "Look at that poor dog."

Oooeelie, his right leg crusted with blood, sat on the sidewalk staring at them, at their food. He was famished. He whimpered, focusing on the girl.

"He's hungry," Mandy said.

"He's a scavenger."

"Here Scavenger," Mandy said. She threw half a bagel to the dog. He snapped it out of the air and gobbled it down. Mandy was delighted. She reached into the bag for one of the remaining bagels. Sam grasped her arm.

"No," he said.

"He's hungry," Mandy said.

"Dogs are always hungry. They are always ready to eat," Sam replied, still holding onto her arm.

"Daddy, let go. I know he's really hungry." Sam let go. Mandy tossed the remaining bagels one after the other to Oooeelie.

"What can I put water in?" she asked.

"I suppose he's really thirsty," Sam said.

"Yes he is. I can tell."

Sam had to laugh. He got an old pie tin out of the back of the truck and filled it to the brim with spring water from a thermos. "The best water in New York State, and maybe the entire East Coast for Scavenger."

Oooeelie lapped up the water. He pressed his nose against the delighted Mandy to show his gratitude. He purred almost like a cat as she stroked him. It felt so good. A memory flashed into his mind of a time long ago staring beyond the stars from whence he came and his Shaman, a little girl like Mandy, eased the pain of his homesickness by wrapping her arms around him and hugging him. He felt so close to her, so warm, and so loved.

The buyer and the super showed up. Sam forgot the dog. He turned to the delicate operation of getting the pieces moved through narrow doorways, in and out of elevators, and up steps without scratches. The process took over an hour.

He came back to the truck tired and thirsty. The water was gone. Oooeelie was in the back of the truck, lying on a blanket next to Mandy. "What's this?" Sam asked.

"Scavenger wants to come with us," she said.

"Come on get him out of there. His owner is probably looking for him."

"He doesn't have a collar. He's lost, he's hurt, and he told me he needs help. You're always telling us, the most important thing is being kind. He's coming home with us."

"He told you huh?" He had to smile at her rich imagination, her innocence. Sam was in a quandary. He didn't want to take someone else's dog, especially an Airedale, which is an expensive dog, but the animal did look like he needed help. He didn't want to look like a hypocrite to Mandy. "So why not?" he said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

They turned off onto the dirt road leading into their property just after one o'clock. Sam had a couple of pounds of pastrami, a long loaf of rye bread, a pound of coleslaw, and a pound of potato salad from one of their favorite New York delis. Magnolia would be expecting that. His surprise was a bunch of cut flowers. Mandy's surprise was Scavenger. He thought the situation funny. That was how he responded to much of life. "Laugh and you won't be sad," was one of his favorite aphorisms. Magnolia would be unhappy to see Scavenger and furious if Sam laughed.

"Don't let me laugh whatever you do," he said to Mandy and they both laughed uproariously.

They drove across the wood plank bridge over Cardigan Creek, passed the Rooster weather vane high on a pole that marked the beginning of home. "We're home," Mandy said.

"There's no place like our home," Sam replied, his ritual response.

Magnolia and Marty were waving from the porch. Marty was standing on the wide railing. Ryan, the Golden Retriever, and David, a mixed hound, came racing at the truck barking. Mandy leaned out yelling that they were home and what a surprise they had. She was out of the truck the moment Sam turned off the motor. She ran into Magnolia's arms as she came down the steps, excitingly telling her about Scavenger.

"Not another dog, Sam?" Magnolia said.

"A great way to greet your husband just returned from Gomorrah with food and flowers."

She kissed him and repeated, "Not another dog, Sam?"

"Talk to Mandy. I'm just an innocent bystander." Mandy had brought home both Ryan and David over the past three years. Ryan as a puppy from another farm down the road. David, she found abandoned at the general store.

"Mommy. We couldn't leave him. He's hurt and he's hungry and he wanted to come home with us."

Ryan was in a frenzy, leaping at the back of the truck, falling back and leaping again. The hound stayed put, watching. Sam carried the food into the kitchen, while Magnolia caught Ryan. She dragged him to a long chain at the side of the house. David was harmless. Ryan was the dog in charge of the farm.

When Oooeelie leaped out of the truck, Magnolia saw his balls. "Oh Sam, not another male dog?"

"Speak to Mandy. She's attracted to male dogs. Ask Ryan and David."

"What happened?" Magnolia asked, her hostility slipping away in the realization that the dog was wounded. "Bring him into the kitchen and we'll look at that." She sent Mandy for a clean, white washcloth. When the girl returned with the cloth, Magnolia wiped the wound clean with peroxide. Sam held the dog, a little nervous because of his large teeth and powerful body, but Oooeelie stayed still, aware that he was being helped. "It's only a gash. He's one lucky dog, because a few inches lower and whatever did this would have damaged a muscle and a little deeper and it would have bitten into the bone. Scavenger got one of those million dollar wounds. I'm going to put a little anti-bacterial ointment on this and he's going to have to be kept as quiet as possible and certainly clean for about a week. I guess we'll keep him on the front porch in the daytime during his convalescence and he'll have to sleep in the house. I guess in your room Mandy. Another thing, you will walk him every morning before school, in the afternoon after school, and in the evening after dinner. No running around with him. Just a nice easy walk so he can do what dogs do."

Mandy hugged and kissed her mother.

In the morning, around 6:30, after Magnolia had left for the hospital, Sam came into his daughter's room. She was in a deep sleep, her head under the covers. Oooeelie was lying across the foot of the bed, his head hanging down. As Sam approached, he growled a little. "Hey," Sam said. "Mandy's your friend. I'm the master of the house. Don't ever forget it and we'll get along." He reached over to pet the dog, and Oooeelie put his mouth around his wrist. Sam's heart jumped with fear until he realized the dog was just being affectionate. He relaxed and roused Mandy with his usual routine:

"A birdie with a yellow bill, hopped upon my window sill. Cocked his tiny head and said, Get up! Get up! You sleepy head."

He pulled off the blanket and sheet.

"No," she screamed, pulling at the blanket.

Sam whipped it off the bed. "Time for little Catholic girls to walk their dogs and to go to Mass. What do you want for breakfast?" He always asked, she never answered, and she ate Rice Krispies and raisins every morning.

At the breakfast table, Sam had two English muffins with his coffee. "I'd have a toasted bagel if it wasn't for your new friend."

Marty was pouting and refusing to eat, because he didn't want to go along to church. He had decided to be a Jew like his father and was annoyed at having to ride to the Catholic Church every Sunday and wait outside. His father read the paper, but Marty was bored and usually irritated by the time Mass was over and Mandy had returned to the car for the trip home.

"We're going to the nine o'clock, so walk the dog and be back here by 8:30 at the latest."

"I have to get dressed too," she said.

"Think about that next time you force me to bring home another dog."

Mandy put a makeshift rope collar around Oooeelie's neck and took him out into the crisp cold air of the November morning.

Ryan, his tail high, rushed barking at them before they got down the steps. Oooeelie had anticipated the attack. "Stop!" he commanded Ryan telepathically. The startled Golden Retriever stopped short. "Sit," Oooeelie commanded. Ryan sat. Still puzzled.

"Daddy," Mandy called, "I think Ryan likes Scavenger."

Ryan rose, barking loudly again.

Oooeelie sent a cold, green wave rolling across Ryan's mind. His bark turned into a frightened yip. He shook himself, gasping for air. He raced around in a circle, five, six times.

"What's the matter with you crazy dog?" Mandy asked Ryan who slunk away.

Mandy took Oooeelie a short distance into the west field. "When you're better," she said. "We'll go into the woods and you'll have a wild time. You're gonna love it here, Scavenger. Mommy says this is a dog's paradise."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A dusting of snow was on the ground in late November when Oooeelie emerged from his comfortable confinement in the house to take up his life on the Green Suspenders Farm. He was hungry with curiosity.

He trotted around the side yard sniffing and marking territory. Ryan's was the dominant scent, but he picked up the hound's odors too. He walked into the West Field wishing that Mandy were with him at her end of the rope leash that had linked them so comfortably. He went deep into the field for his morning do.

Hearing the side porch door open, Oooeelie bounded back to the yard, joining Ryan and David in seeing Magnolia, the white pants of her nurse's uniform showing under a warm jacket, getting into her car. Her main concern was keeping the three barking dogs at a distance to avoid dirtying the white of her uniform. She swept her arm in their direction. "Sit," she commanded. Ryan and David sat immediately, still barking, their wagging tails sweeping the snow behind them. Oooeelie paused then sat quietly. "Good boy, Scavenger. I think we can become friends."

The cold November air flamed Oooeelie's being with energy. He started off on a run with Ryan close behind and David at a growing distance. He crossed the West Field, finding the path into the dark woods. He moved swiftly along the worn, rocky trail, pausing with Ryan to sniff the fresh droppings of a deer, then plunged on. He came out onto the series of three cliffs that dropped in 10-foot intervals into the old, water-filled quarry. He looked at the mountains in the distance, dark forms in the dim light of the late Fall morning. Grey clouds, laden with snow, blanketed the sky.

Oooeelie stood like a statue on the highest cliff, his legs straight, planted firmly, his tail erect. Joy sang in his soul. Ryan lay watching. Turning to him, Oooeelie sent a telepathic message command: "Sit!" Ryan sat up, cowed by the word he knew so well, sounding in his head. The Airedale turned back to his contemplation of the weather and the landscape. He reveled in the cold. This was his environment.

The three dogs trotted back to the house. The lights were on in the upstairs bedrooms and the kitchen. Oooeelie went to the porch door, barking to get in.

Sam, wearing his seasoned green suspenders, came out on the porch, pushing him back. "You're a farm dog now Scavenger. No more soft living in the house. You sleep in the workhouse with Ryan and David. I declare you a full-fledged member of the family."

The three dogs followed the children on the long walk to the main highway, where two different buses picked them up. Mandy turned as she got onto her bus: "Go home," she ordered. They did what they were told.

An old pick up truck tooted behind them as they were returning to the old barn that Sam had transformed into his workhouse. Evvy, a 16-year-old, who had dropped out of high school that September, got out of the truck. He had apprenticed himself to Sam, who disapproved of the boy's decision to abort his education and was even more horrified by the acceptance of Evvy's parents.

Sam had agreed to introduce Evvy to the art of furniture making, but was determined to mix a broader education into a hard apprenticeship. He started by giving Evvy a block of cherry wood and a sketch of an open umbrella with instructions to sand it by hand to the design on the paper. "This is a joke," Evvy said.

"No, young man, I want you to learn to feel the wood. I'm not paying you so I don't care how long it takes to do the job, but I am teaching you a high skill so I demand you do it right." Sam stood rocking back and forth on his feet, his thumbs in his green suspenders, waiting for a response.

"Okay," said the boy.

At the end of each day, Sam checked his progress. In two weeks, the lump of wood had been transformed into a delicate umbrella, whose ribs showed through the wood as realistically as fabric. "You're a real talent," Sam said with wonder. "You belong in school. You should get a high school diploma and a degree in fine arts. You've really got something."

"Isn't this school? I'm learning. I want to make furniture," the farm boy said.

Sam studied him. "I'm going to be honest with you. I'm not running a factory here. I consider my furniture an art form. I don't want other people to make my furniture. Every piece is mine. It doesn't make any difference that someone buys it and takes it away. In 500 years, my pieces will be in a museum and experts will say that's a Twentieth Century Sam Ruden from Green Suspenders Farm. The workmanship, the beautiful technique is unmistakable."

"Then why do you carve your symbol into the work?" Evvy asked with the skepticism of youth.

"That's so people, who aren't experts, can tell it's my product. Now to answer the question I raised for you. I'm not paying you, but I'm not charging you either. When you figure you've learned everything you can from me, you go out on your own or you go to the next step. To tell you the truth, I could never do a carving like that. Maybe your art form is carving, or wood sculpture. Or whatever. Here I am talking to a 16-year-old high school drop out about art forms. Go back to school, go to college, then become a furniture maker or an artist."

"I know what I want to do," Evvy said.

"Well you're lucky. So let's begin making furniture."

Oooeelie went through the dog door into the reconstructed barn. Evvy and Sam were in the half set aside for furniture making. They were studying the design for a combined liquor cabinet and china closet to fit an odd space in a house in Saratoga Springs. The dog moved toward them. "Stop!" Sam shouted. "No dogs cross the threshold." He pointed to a raised lip running the width of the room. Oooeelie started forward again. "No," Sam said, pointing to the other side of the barn. The dog turned and lay down in a far corner watching the pair at their work.

"Why do you let the dogs in here, Sam?" Evvy asked.

"They're my farm animals. Every farm's got to have animals. I can't keep chickens, because I couldn't eat what I kill. I can't keep cows, because I hate cow plop in my fields. Besides, Mandy likes dogs. Marty's into mice."

Oooeelie lazed away the day, sleeping near the wood stove for a while, watching Sam and Evvy at work. Eating some dry dog food, then going down to Cardigan Creek, joined by the other dogs, for a drink of fresh water.

Late in the afternoon, he followed Ryan and David to the plank bridge. In a few minutes, the bus stopped on the main road and Mandy stepped out. The dogs rushed to greet her, leaping at her in the pleasure of having her return despite her orders to stay down. She went straight to the workhouse to let Sam know she was home and to give him a kiss.

Mandy brought Oooeelie into the house to share an after-school snack with him. He was lying next to her on the floor as she watched television when a car door slammed and Oooeelie jumped up, excited. He stood at the door, his tail wagging furiously. Magnolia came into the house. "Down," she said to him in a hard voice. "Mandy what is he doing in the house? You know where he belongs." When Mandy started to protest, her mother said, "That's the contract. If he stays on the farm, he stays where the dogs stay. "He's no longer a house guest." Magnolia opened the door and shooed Oooeelie into the yard.

Mandy was unhappy, but she knew she couldn't manipulate her mother. She stayed in the warmth of the house. Night came early in November and with it a piercing cold.

Oooeelie went back to the workhouse to doze in the pleasant warmth of the wood stove. In this half-waking state, Joanna came into his mind, the slamming of the car door signaling her arrival. He ran out to greet her, and came fully awake with his front paws moving as if he were running. He was confused for a moment, until remembering that he was in another world. He lay there recalling his place on the bow of Gil's Sharpie as it cut through the dark waters of Huntington Bay. The wind blew in his face. "See any clams yet, Oooeelie?" came Gil's voice. He felt good where he was, relishing Mandy, but he yearned for Joanna and Gil. They were his family.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Gil heard the car door slam. Joanna was home. He turned on the lamp next to his chair in the living room. He had been sitting there with a Jack Daniels, watching the fire, thinking of Oooeelie.

Joanna let herself in the front door. "Anybody home?" she called, her voice sounded cheerful. She was really trying, Gil thought. "In here," he shouted through the rooms.

She was wearing her long black coat over a cocktail dress. Dressed up a lot more than usual for the English Department's Thanksgiving Eve lunch at an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village. "I got the wine," she said. "Tell me you made it to the butcher's for the turkey."

"Tom is in the refrigerator awaiting his glorious day. Gil is in the living room sipping sippin' whiskey. You want one?"

"I'd love one," she said.

He went to the bar to measure two shots into a glass for her, and two more for himself. "It's a Jack Daniels kind of an afternoon," he said. The morning on the bay had been beautiful. Cold and grey, billowing dark clouds, a piercing wind. He wished Oooeelie could have shared it with him. He hadn't had much luck catching clams. Two hundred little necks for a full day's work, about $35 worth. A minimum- wage day. Sean had come in with two and a half counts, about $220. "There's a man who speaks to the clams," the wholesaler said of Sean. "You're coming along Mr. Gilbert. People on the water like a man who goes into the winter. It means he's committed to the water."

"This is the very edge of winter," Gil told him. "The question is whether I can stick through February. It's been pretty hairy out there in this weather." Gil was elated by the wholesaler's comment, sure evidence of his growing acceptance by the clamming community.

Gil had driven to the butcher shop on Main Street to fetch the turkey. He bought a pound of link sausage for breakfast, a pound of baked ham and a pound of Swiss cheese for a sandwich when he got home, and a couple of steaks for Friday. He got cole slaw and potato salad from the deli down the street and picked up the chocolate mousse cake Joanna had ordered and two loaves of Semolina bread and a half dozen rolls from the French pastry shop.

He made himself tea when he got home to have with a thick ham and cheese sandwich on one of the rolls. He ate half the potato salad and cole slaw too. That tasted so good he had another sandwich. After washing the few dishes and wiping the table clean, he took a shower, changing into a pair of soft old chinos and a cotton sweater. He put on a pair of cotton socks to keep his feet warm and went into the living room to make a fire and await Joanna. Darkness fell as he sat there sipping his whiskey. He enjoyed feeling the muscles that swelled under the skin of his arms, harder muscles than he had had as a kid. The joy of his accomplishments on the water turned to sadness when Oooeelie came into his mind.

"Too bad Amy couldn't come home with the kids this year," Joanna said.

"Yeah." They sat silently for a while watching the fire. He put another log on. "I really miss Oooeelie," he said. "I was thinking about him when you came in."

Tears slipped down her cheeks. "I think about him every time I get up in the middle of the night, and he doesn't come to check me out. I think about him every morning when I get up. I think about him most when I get home and he isn't here to greet me." She thought about Georges Ortega too. She hadn't called him. She hadn't returned to the Wesos Foundation. Whenever she walked out of NYU's Library, she half expected to look across the street to see Ortega waiting for her, leaning against the iron fence in Washington Square Park. He wasn't there and he never called. The pain of losing Oooeelie and Ortega together was more searing, because she had to keep it bottled within her. She longed to tell someone, but didn't dare. Ortega had used and betrayed her, and perhaps had killed Oooeelie, whom she loved, and Gil had come to love, but she missed him.

"It's really bad not knowing what happened to him," Gil said. "I look for him every morning on the beach. I still hope that some day, he'll come home." He was interrupted by the phone ringing.

"Mister," said a voice with a thick accent. "I saw a sign on a lamppost on Broadway."

"Did you find him?" Gil asked excitedly. Joanna crossed the room to join him at the phone. She pressed her ear to the receiver.

"He is still lost?" the man asked. "Can I ask you how you get the name Oooeelie?"

Gil started to react with anger, but Joanna took the phone from him.

He repeated: "Can I ask you how you get the name Oooeelie?"

"Why do you want to know?" she asked.

"That's a name only a few people know."

"That's right," she said. "I named the dog."

"Missus, pardon me asking, but I have to know where did you get the name?"

"Who are you?" Joanna asked.

"My name is Yakub Rahm."

"Maybe I heard the name Oooeelie somewhere," she said elusively.

"Oh," the caller said with obvious disappointment.

Then the words fell out of her mouth: "Maybe Oooeelie named himself."

The man sucked air and burst into tears. When he had regained his composure, he said, "Can I come to visit you. I must talk to you about the Oooeelie."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Yakub Rahm arrived at the Tyrling's at 10:30 that night in the livery cab he drove for a living in Brooklyn. He greeted Joanna and Gil at their door with an apology for being a half hour late. Driving in the unfamiliar expanse of Long Island after dark was confusing. He got lost.

They settled him with a cup of tea and discovered that Yakub had emigrated to Brooklyn from the mountains of Kurdistan in Northwest Iran, near the borders of Turkey and Iraq.

"This country's exploitation of the Kurds is a disgrace," Joanna said sympathetically.

"My people were in that land before the Kurds. The Kurds have persecuted us for the length of human memory, because we are different," Yakub said. "But we survived through all those centuries. Now, we wonder if the end of our time is in sight. For the first time in history, we are questioning who will carry on the remembering." The stress he was experiencing in speaking was obviously painful.

"The remembering?" Gil asked.

"My people are the last of those who remember the Oooeelie. The Oooeelie who taught man to speak and brought men and dogs together as friends."

Gil turned to Joanna. The color had drained from her face. "You might find this hard to believe, Yakub, because I do and I experienced it. My dog was called Randy when we first got him. But I dreamt that my dog wanted to be called Oooeelie. I had never heard the name before. And in the course of my dreams, I realized that Oooeelie taught man to talk."

Yakub fell on his knees sobbing before Joanna. When he was able to speak again, he said: "In this moment, you've swept away all of the doubts that I harbored about remembering and what remembering has cost my people, has cost me." He told Joanna and Gil that he came from the remnants of a tribe who lived on and around the mountain where the Oooeelie was buried since the beginning of time.

But the Turks with the help of an Englishman had driven them out of their last village on the mountain a hundred years ago and had dynamited the access to the cave in which the Oooeelie was buried. They had been attacked and slaughtered many times through the centuries, but had always held on to their place on the mountain until this attack. The survivors were forced to flee across the border into Iran.

"You worship a dog?" Gil asked incredulously.

"No," Yakub replied. "We are the expression of man's gratitude. We remember that the Oooeelie taught man to speak. We are not animists or idolatrists. Our religion was taught to us by one of the original disciples of Christ who passed through our mountains 2,000 years ago. That didn't stop us from remembering.

"The moment of remembering is at the winter solstice. The entire village would walk behind the Shaman from the rock with seven-pointed star opening on the link to the heavens, the symbol of the Oooeelie joining his fate with man's. The procession would move into the cave, and each of the people would say: "I remember with gratitude the Oooeelie."

"Every year, three men from our village in Iran would accompany the Shaman across the border into Turkey to return to the mountain to where the stone and the cave once were to repeat the ancient ceremony of thanksgiving.

"That mountain was a place of miraculous happenings. Others have come from wherever the Oooeelie came from in the stars, according to the legends, searching for the Oooeelie. They blessed us for never forgetting."

Yakub began weeping quietly while continuing his story, "When the Shah fell from his throne, and the fundamentalists began destroying peoples who had survived every other plague known to man, the Shaman had a dream in which the Oooeelie directed her to send seven young men to different corners of the earth to assure that the ceremony of remembering would survive.

"I came alone to Brooklyn in 1986. I sat in a miserable little room, unable to breathe, barely able to stand the stink of the city. I despaired. I prayed to Christ to rescue me from the hell of Brooklyn and the strange and ugly people. Nothing happened. So I prayed to the Oooeelie. `Come to me in my dreams, Oooeelie,' I said. `Give me a sign that all of this remembering and suffering to remember was not just foolishness. Don't make me live my life in vain without really knowing there was a reason.' There were no dreams. Just loneliness. I lived a life not worth living. A life of deprivation. I saved enough for my car. I went into business. Long hours bring money. I met a girl and got married. I never told her about the Oooeelie. Now I have a daughter. Four years old. I was never going to tell her about the Oooeelie even though tradition demanded it. I had separated from the past.

"On the winter solstice when I first came to this country, I went to the waterfront. The Promenade in Brooklyn Heights. I found the Oooeelie's star in the heavens. I spoke the words of remembrance. I felt foolish doing so. After I got married, I didn't go any more.

"Then I got a fare into Manhattan this afternoon. I cursed my luck because I got a flat tire on Broadway on the West Side. I was changing the tire when I saw the poster with the name Oooeelie. A police officer said to me, `Get that tire changed and move on.' I said, `Officer can you read me that name. My English is not so good.' `Oooeelie,' he says. Tears streamed down my face. I said, `Thank you God.' The police officer ripped the poster off the pole and said, `Take it as a souvenir, but move this car out of here in 10 minutes or you're getting a ticket.' I changed the tire and I was gone in ten minutes.

"I went right to a telephone and I dialed your number. I realized I didn't know what I was going to say. I was so confused. I never expected to find the Oooeelie, the superior being. The dog who names himself. It was my prayers answered. A miracle. I didn't expect a miracle to be so frightening. I kept my head down. I felt ashamed because of my doubts."

Joanna tried to comfort him: "Doubt is part of the human condition, Yakub."

"That's because so many are brought up without being told what the meaning of their life is. The role of my people was to remember. I failed. I asked myself, 'Was I the first of my line to willingly forget?'

"I drove home to Brooklyn and I told my wife 'I am going to tell you something of great importance. Do not interrupt me.' I told her the story of my people and my life. She wrapped her arms around me and cried and cried. She was so relieved I hadn't come home to tell her I was going back to Kurdistan or that I had another woman or that I didn't want her and the girl any more. I said, 'How could you think that of me? I love you and the girl more than anything, but the duty I was born to perform. Nothing can stand in the way of that.'" Yakub paused. "Yesterday, I would have put my woman and child first, but I am a part of the memory of man that stretches back to the beginnings. If I forget what would happen to mankind?" He paused looking at Joanna, then said, "You, missus, you are someone very special. You have been chosen as a bridge, a Shaman."

Joanna couldn't find the words to reply to this simple man who had found himself. She too had been through a period of despair and her enthusiasm for life had been reawakened. Oooeelie had brought her and Gil back together. She realized Yakub's appearance had ended her indecision on whether she still loved Georges Ortega. She felt a shift within her being. Ortega was behind her.

"Oh, Yakub," Joanna said, "I'm so sorry to tell you that Oooeelie is missing. We're not sure whether he's lost or dead. Someone tried to steal him from us and then tried to kill him."

Yakub leaped to his feet in the cold vengeful rage of a mountain warrior, whose people had fought 10,000 battles to survive invasion and hatred. "Tell me the names of who did this, and I will remember Oooeelie with their blood."

Joanna glanced self-consciously at Gil. "We don't know," she lied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Johnny Rappaporte--Investigations was a cubicle on the fourth floor of an ancient office building on Tenth Street in Greenwich Village. Georges Ortega opened the door and there was Johnny Rappaporte at his desk, overweight with a swollen Irish face and a nose that talked of too much drink. Rappaporte was in shirtsleeves, eating his lunch from a plastic take-out tray, chicken chow mein with fried rice and an egg roll. There was a Chinese porcelain teapot and a matching cup at his right hand. Ortega felt an embarrassed surprise at intruding on so intimate a moment as a man at his lonely lunch. "I thought there'd be a secretary," he said in explanation.

"This is my secretary," Rappaporte said pointing his thumb to a computer terminal on his right. "Come on in," Rappaporte said. "What can I do you for?"

Ortega looked around, there was a clipping of a column from New York Newsday in a frame on the left side of the window behind his desk and a framed copy of a feature from the New York Times on the other side of the window. A photo of Rappaporte, looking very much the movie version of a private eye in a trench coat and brown fedora, talking to a hooker on Tenth Avenue illustrated the Times article. The right wall was filled with pictures and plaques: a young Rappaporte in the uniform of a New York City Police officer receiving a medal from Mayor Lindsay; a mature, beefy Rappaporte with a .38 in his hand and a detective's shield hanging out of his breast pocket with his arm around the shoulders of Marco Chang, the TV personality, who had a minicamera balanced on one shoulder. That photo was inscribed: "To Rapper John who gave me a boost when I need it most. From one who will never forget--Marco." The opposite wall was a bank of dark green filing cabinets. The big window offered a view of the street and the equally ancient office building across the way and poured light into the room. The institutional-green paint on the walls, showing above the filing cabinets and around the plaques and pictures, reaffirmed the shabbiness of the building.

"I read about you in the papers, must have been a year or two ago," Ortega said pointing past him to his framed clippings.

"My moment in the sun." The stories recounted Rappaporte's exploits in tracking down four teenage girls over a three-year period in the Times Square area. He had worked Times Square as a detective on the city police force for years. That gave him contacts on the street and in the department. The Newsday columnist wrote that his nickname, Johnny the Rapper, came from his penchant for using his fists in a tight spot, and some said in extracting answers from reluctant street people. Rappaporte knew the columnist from the Lion's Head, his favorite bar. His almost miraculous achievement in reuniting the girls with their families had been celebrated in a TV movie.

"I would like to hire you for a rather different assignment," Ortega said.

"That's a relief. I thought you might be another father from Ohio who would do anything to find his little girl except pay my hourly rate. I have daily and weekly rates too. Don't let the size of the office fool ya. I don't believe in overhead. If you got something big, I can add as many top-notch investigators as are needed. Contract work. It's the big thing now." He reached across the desk to shake Ortega's hand. "Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you, Mr.?"

"Ortega. I want you to find a dog." He smiled, watching the frown that emerged on Johnny the Rapper's face. "I'm willing to pay your going rates."

Rappaporte began eating his food again, dismissively saying, "I'm not a dog catcher."

"Yes, but this search would be so difficult an undertaking, so great a challenge that it should interest you. Beside, I assume I'll be hiring you by the week. And besides your regular fees, I'll pay a $5,000 bonus if you are successful in finding Oooeelie. All payments will be in cash." He put a picture of an Airedale on his desk. "That's not Oooeelie, but it's the same breed."

"Tell me about it, and I'll decide," Rappaporte said, liking the sound of cash. He didn't get many clients who dealt in untraceable cash, the only way to escape the greed of the IRS.

"First, I want your word that this will be an absolutely confidential case. No talking about it to your newspaper friends."

"I have a prime reputation. Think I want to be known as Johnny the Dog Catcher?"

Ortega described where Oooeelie was last seen, running north on Fifth Avenue, after apparently being struck or grazed by a 9-mm. bullet. The dog belonged to a couple on Long Island, acquaintances of his. He wanted to get Oooeelie back for them.

"Okay," Johnny the Rapper said. "I want a one-month minimum for me on the case plus expenses. Sounds like I might want to hire some labor, say high school or college kids to give me a hand on mundane aspects like canvassing the neighborhoods. I'd say a minimum of two at say $10 an hour. One for the East Side, one for the West Side." The Rapper figured he could get away with paying $5 to $6 an hour and he would pocket the difference. If one of the kids popped up with the dog, he'd slip him an extra $100.

"That's fine. Give me weekly reports, but call me the moment you find the dog." He gave the Rapper his office and home numbers.

Ortega had Cowboy Herd watching for the dog on Long Island in case he turned up at home. He had walked Fifth Avenue and some of the side streets, himself, looking for the dog. With the passage of time, the chances of spotting the animal seemed slimmer and slimmer. By hiring the detective and putting Cowboy Herd on the alert, there was nothing more for him to do, but wait. It was so frustrating. He could think of little else: to have had Oooeelie within his grasp and to have lost him! He felt his face flush with anger--at the thought. He did a quick mental exercise, focusing on his breath to calm himself.

The Rapper printed a contract and a confidentiality agreement from the computer. Ortega wrote him a check for his estimated hours for the month ahead and the cost of hiring the two canvassers. They shook hands sealing the deal, and Ortega left.

The Chinese food had grown cold, but the Rapper ate it anyhow. Only in the movies do private eyes leave their food unfinished. He boiled more water and made a pot of Russian Caravan tea. He had a passion for a good cup of tea, hot and brewed to perfection. The Rapper put two tea balls in his small porcelain pot and set his timer for five minutes.

The timer buzzed. He took the tea balls out, flinging them into an olive green waste paper basket beside his worn desk. He dumped the plastic take-out tray too and took a map of Manhattan out of a filing cabinet. He was moving right into the case of the missing dog. He had nothing else on the agenda at the moment. This was manna from heaven just in time for the coming Christmas bills.

The best place was to start at the beginning. He would go the scene of the disappearance on Fifth and 96th Street and walk north, hitting the doormen, bus drivers, the local patrol car, anybody who worked on or watched the street on a regular basis. He'd go the length of the park, then he would do the innards of Central Park, and finally a walk along Central Park West asking the same questions. He'd get some copies of the picture of the Airedale and spread it and his telephone number around.

The Rapper turned to his computer. He tapped into his telephone queue, calling up the number of a professor at John Jay. He was a regular guest lecturer in the prof's class. Once a semester he held the criminal justice students spellbound with his tales of detective work. The professor could send him a couple of bright, aggressive kids who would be overjoyed to make a few bucks doing some drudge work on the case for him. This was a lucky day. The professor picked up the phone on the second ring. Within a few minutes, the deal had been cut. The professor would come up with two students. They would be considered interns and the $5 an hour, the Rapper was paying, would be a stipend, not subject to the complexities of taxes or the minimum wage law. The Rapper would grade their performances based on initiative, persistence and enthusiasm.

"What about success?"

"Give them 100 for that," the professor said.

In his first stop on Fifth Avenue that evening, the Rapper found the doorman who reported the shooting, drawing from him the few details available of a black man on foot and a hooded man, probably a black, in a Jaguar. The doorman showed him a photo of Oooeelie provided by Gil Tyrling and the flyer offering a reward. 'The Long Island couple,' the Rapper said to himself. So, he wasn't the only one looking for the dog. As he moved north on the avenue, the Rapper discovered that he was following in Gil Tyrling's footsteps. He had questioned everyone ahead of him. 'Not bad for an amateur,' the Rapper thought.

That evening, he called the number on the flyer. There was excitement in Gil's voice, hope that Oooeelie had been found. "I wish that were the case, sir," the Rapper said. "My name is John Porter. My doorman told me what happened, about the shooting. Who would do a thing like that?"

"I have my suspicions, but no proof," Gil said.

"It sounds like drug dealers."

"No. I don't believe drugs are involved. I must admit I don't know what's involved. We just feel heart broken over the loss of Oooeelie."

"You've given up the search?"

Gil said he had done all that he could within reason. He had put a second round of flyers all over the East and West Sides and Harlem. There had been a few crank calls, but that was all. Oooeelie had been missing for almost a month. A month tomorrow. He didn't mention the Iranian livery driver from Brooklyn. His voice was sad and the Rapper was sympathetic. "I'll keep my eyes open for Oooeelie," the Rapper said with true sincerity.

After he hung up, he decided to stick to his original plan. Gil Tyrling had called the animal shelters throughout the city and in many of the surrounding suburbs. He had asked them to call him if they found any Airedales. Knowing the inefficiency of the bureaucracy, the Rapper would have his two interns visit the shelters, every one of them, to eyeball the dogs on hand and determine whether an Airedale had been gassed in the intervening weeks. Then the boys would trek up and down every side street from 76th Street to 106th Street on both sides of the park, asking storekeepers and doormen, and even cops if they had spotted the dog. They would be handing out a flyer with the number of an answering service. The Rapper would take the park and Central Park West. Instinct told him that the park was the fertile, unplowed ground.

The next morning, he walked through the park, trying to imagine what he would do if he were a dog, maybe hurting from a bullet wound, but still able to function. This was a country dog from Long Island so the city streets and all the traffic and people would be confusing. The park was a quiet place with trees and water. Lots of places to hide. He questioned the few green-uniformed Parks Department employees he came across, then sat on a bench to ponder the problem. A jogger came by. "Yes!" the Rapper said. Now he knew whom to question.

He made the assumption that the first night Oooeelie went to ground, as any injured animal, man or dog, would do. He walked out of the park to a newsstand, bought a paper, and found a bar where he had a Scotch as he checked out the time for sunrise in the morning.

On a stingingly cold December day just before sunrise, the Rapper was back in the park. Two women dressed in purple and orange stretch suits came floating towards him. "Can I ask you...?" he said. They shook their heads and were gone. The same scene was repeated twice before he developed a new routine. As joggers approached, usually in pairs, but a few alone, the Rapper ran with them, feeling clumsy in his wing tips and weighted down by his trench coat, waving his picture of the Airedale. "See this Airedale in the park couple of weeks ago?" A pair of women, slowed, running in place, as he breathed heavily waiting for their answers. "I used to have an Airedale. They are the most wonderful dogs," a woman with the grey hair of a 50-year-old and a slender, interesting body told him. "I do hope you find him. I know how you must feel." She touched his arm in sympathy and they were gone.

By 8 o'clock, he was exhausted and soaked with sweat. He walked painfully out of the park. His feet were killing him. He found a coffee shop on Madison Avenue. "A large orange juice. Coffee right away. With cream and three sugars. Eggs over light. Sausage and home fries. And an English muffin." He kicked his shoes off under the table. It felt so good to be free of the constricting leather. He wondered if the people around him could smell his sweaty socks? He didn't care. He drank the juice with a consuming pleasure. The coffee was just as good. Before the food arrived, he had devised a new tactic to deal with the fast-moving joggers. In the morning he would be back in the park with a big poster with a picture of the dog with the word LOST! on top. He could stand still waiting for the witness to pause to talk to him. There was always a witness. Nothing escaped unnoticed in this city. That was a given that 25 years as a cop working the streets had taught him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Michael Collins met Joanna on the noon train in Philadelphia's Pennsylvania Station. They shook hands. "Thank you for seeing me," she said.

"I thought we might have lunch at my place?" he looked at her expectantly.

Joanna paused. Collins had impressed her as a fatherly figure until he said, "my place." "Is your wife joining us?" That sounded so lame she thought.

Collins broke into a broad smile. "I'm a widower. But I do have a woman who comes in to cook and clean for me. We won't be alone in the house. She'll be there today."

Joanna felt her face turn red. "I'm so stressed out..."

He interrupted. "That's why I thought a nice quiet lunch in front of the fireplace in my home would be much nicer and more appropriate than a noisy restaurant. You couldn't imagine how many, very attractive female graduate students have lunched with me there without being groped." He roared with laughter. His chin shaking.

"I didn't mean to infer..."

He interrupted again. "Thank you. As a septuagarian, I'll take it as a compliment."

They took a taxi to Collins' house in center city. A young black woman dressed in tight jeans and a sweatshirt met them at the door. "Dr. Tyrling this is Bethany." The woman took their coats and Joanna's umbrella.

"It's a nasty day," Joanna said to Bethany, who didn't respond. She carried the coats to another room.

"I'm going to have a scotch, can I get you something?"

"An Irish whiskey if you have it. On the rocks."

He fished around his liquor cabinet, a large space behind a panel. "Black Bush?"

"Wonderful," she said. Joanna stood in front of the fire, warming her hands and watching the dance of the flame. "Wonderful house too."

"I like it. It's been in the family for a couple of generations. I can sit here on an afternoon like this, sipping a scotch, and feel alive. Present. The answer to Hamlet's question."

"This has been a glorious and an awful year for me," Joanna said. "I need to talk to someone. I can't discuss this with my husband. I can't discuss it with Georges." He handed her whiskey. Tears were streaming down her face.

Michael Collins reached his hand to touch her arm. He was so gripped by empathy for Joanna that a surge of pain shook his being. "My dear Joanna. You can speak to me. I would feel honored if you confided in me. I know, perhaps more than anyone else, how honored you have been to be chosen by your Oooeelie." He gave her his handkerchief to wipe away her tears.

"It is about my Oooeelie..."

He interrupted, "Have you found him?"

"Oh God, how I wish I had. I came to ask you whether Georges has found him. I know it must have been Georges who tried to kill him."

Collins fell silent.

"If Oooeelie is dead, I'm responsible. I was so excited about recovering him, I called Georges to share the good news, and he did what he did."

"Sit down Joanna. We must talk." Collins paused again, feeling the pressure of the knowledge bottled inside him, knowing what a relief it would be to speak the truth. "One always hesitates at the edge of breaking a pledge. I am sworn to silence on this subject, but like you, I have no one I can confide in. You must be a special woman, person. I feel compelled to honor you as Oooeelie did.

"I woke up one day depressed with the realization that I had spent my life in the service of a cult of animosity. I tried to justify myself to myself by saying I turned into a decent man quite by accident. I failed in my ultimate quest, the one the Circle was really financing: The Oooeelie's tomb."

Joanna said, "I saw it in a dream."

Collins went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I was just out of college with my masters from Penn in 1950 when I received my first grant from the Wesos Foundation for research on the Kurds and other mountain peoples of Asia Minor. I took the train to New York and had lunch with Paul Castaneda. He was the executive director. I can't tell you how impressed I was. I came out of the war a captain with three battle stars and a Bronze Star for valor. They gave one to everyone in my unit. Castaneda was a full colonel with every decoration, but the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was poised, intelligent, brave. I was 27, and I had lived a full life. He was 37 and he had lived three full lives. What a man! He was the Centre of the Circle, but I didn't know it at the time."

Joanna held up her hand to stop his ramble. "The Circle, the Centre of the Circle? What are you talking about?"

"The Centre of the Circle of Man. You are born a member of the Circle of Man. I mean you and every human being on this earth. There are nine members of the Inner Circle. And just one Centre. The Centre presides over the Inner Circle, and although they don't know it, all men. He in effect is our leader. A woman has never been admitted to the Inner Circle."

"So you are one of the Inner Circle?" Joanna said with a smile.

"Yes. One of the chosen. Indulge me and listen to my story. Castaneda took me to lunch at one of his clubs. In a private dining room. Just the two of us. He drew a promise of absolute confidentiality from me. 'We were both soldiers,' he said, 'happy to see the end of the war, but it's not over yet. Your country needs you again.' He offered a very attractive tax-free stipend from a special government fund if I would agree to gather intelligence on the Kurds and to provide an assessment of the military situation in the mountains, and to do a little refining of our maps of the area for an intelligence service in Washington. I was happy to do it. I didn't come from a poor family. I wasn't desperate. I was just thrilled and excited.

"Then Castaneda moved me across the line into a career path that I never anticipated. There was an additional assignment that the foundation wanted me to pursue in the course of my field studies in Turkey, Iraq, and Iran. He brought me back to the foundation and sat me in the library to read the documents left behind by Daniel O'Hara and his manuscript: In Search of the Dog Worshippers, the account of O'Hara's discovery in 1873 of the cave with the wall painting of the Oooeelie. Do you understand that? The original Oooeelie from God knows how many thousands or tens of thousands of years ago. Can you imagine the intense excitement I felt, and then the shock at realizing that O'Hara tried to destroy the Oooeelie's tomb and the wall containing that incredible work of art, perhaps the oldest surviving painting by man?

"Castaneda declined to explain the meaning of the Inner Circle. There was reference to it in O'Hara's notes. He told me that in time I might be endowed with that knowledge, but to please keep any mention of it an absolute secret from everyone, even my wife. Castaneda wanted me to find that cave.

"I said, 'Colonel, I would love to uncover the cave and the painting, but I could never bring myself to destroy it. That would be madness. I could never destroy the history of man.' 'I would never ask you to damage any relic of our sacred history,' Castaneda replied. It was years before I realized how subtly he was misleading me. He would have gone personally to Turkey to destroy that wall and that cave with a sense of triumph you could never grasp.

"I'm not going to bore you with the details of our six expeditions to the mountains in Eastern Turkey and along the borders of Iraq and Iran. My wife was with me on two of the trips, enduring the hardships like a good sport. I could spend days talking about our adventures. When our children came, she stayed home. For all that she gave me in my family and in supporting me in my work, I stood firm to my pledge to Castaneda to never share our secrets. My wife went to her grave last year never knowing that part of me, never understanding what drove me."

'Feeling guilty, professor?' Joanna said to herself.

"Yes," Michael Collins said in response to her unspoken question, shaking her. He continued his monologue: "After a time, a long time, I was admitted to the Inner Circle. I know Georges showed you a few accounts of an Oooeelie making contact with a human being. You received just a glimpse of what we have and know, and I realize how little we know. We can trace our hunt for Oooeelie to the earliest days of China, it's probably responsible for the basic formula of gunpowder, and to Ancient Greece, and we realize it reaches beyond those eras to the very beginnings of man as we know him today.

"I suspect that the gods of mythology who appeared suddenly from the skies and the periodic reports through the centuries of flying saucers are connected to the Oooeelie. The dog's own kind who have come from the stars searching for him."

Joanna said, "I don't care about flying saucers. You speak of an Oooeelie, the Oooeelie, and Oooeelies. Before you go on please explain who and what you are hunting?"

"The Oooeelie obviously was the first to appear. It was the subject of the cave paintings. Its remains are buried in that cave. That seems obvious. I suspect that the Oooeelie lived for hundreds of years, perhaps a thousand or more. The other Oooeelies that pop up through the centuries with their high intelligence and powers of telepathy are either reincarnations of that first Oooeelie or physical inheritors of genes that normally are recessive and become dominant at random when the right parents are brought together. I tend to lean towards reincarnation. I have often wondered if we in the Inner Circle are the reincarnated souls of the original Inner Circle created to hunt down and destroy the Oooeelie. Certainly Georges fits in that category.

"Never to our knowledge has the Oooeelie attacked us. It uses its powers to defend itself. Yet when the Inner Circle has been given the opportunity, the Oooeelie of the moment is destroyed. Sometimes horribly.

"I mastered the skill of mental telepathy to give me an added tool in my search for descendants of Oooeelie in the mountains. Dogs of every sort would react to my silent commands. I became somewhat of a mixture of celebrity and mystic in the mountains. All through the years, dogs listened and obeyed, but never responded. You can imagine the excitement I experienced when your Oooeelie communicated with me: `Oooeelie taught man to talk.'"

"He told me that too. In a dream," Joanna said.

Collins laughed. "I'm amused at my own life. I spent the better part of 30 years trekking through remote mountains in Asia ostensibly gathering data on the mountain people and surreptitiously searching for remnants of the sect of dog worshippers. And now at the close of my life, I find Oooeelie on Long Island within a three-hour drive of Philadelphia.

"When even my colleagues in academia became suspicious about the questions I was asking about dog worshippers and cave paintings, I created yet another cover story. I began telling people I had developed the theory that cave paintings must have originated in Asia Minor thousands of years before appearing in France. I became quite an expert on the dog in relation to humans, and wrote a limited-edition book that I was sure would be a best seller postulating the theory that dogs are treated so well by so many humans because of a subtle vein of dog worship extending from Paleolithic times.

"O'Hara's work proved that there was a cult of Oooeelie worshippers. I suspect they are still somewhere in the mountains near that same cave, posing as Muslims. But as I pointed out in my book, dog worship goes on all over the world without being acknowledged. Have you ever stopped to consider how inappropriate it is for men and women to lock their lives into a dirty, voracious animal such as a dog? Spending God knows how many hours walking, feeding, bathing the animal. Putting up with its fleas. Its regular attacks on children. The money spent on licenses and veterinarians. Is there a scene more ridiculous than a man in a pinstriped suit, with a dog at the end of a leash, cleaning up dog shit?

"One of the by-products of our work through the centuries has been the eating of dog flesh. In this century, we have been behind the drives to license dogs, to have as many spayed as possible, and to get the leash laws passed. Who would you guess pressed home the pooper scooper law in New York and other cities requiring the fools who own these animals to clean up after them? Do you know how many millions of dogs get gassed just in the United States every year because of our efforts?

"We are on the verge of solving one of the puzzles of the ages: how many dogs are named Oooeelie? As the use of computers become more widespread and such information is easier to access, we'll be able to track down the Oooeelies through electronic searches. Then the question will be, `Does each dog named Oooeelie have telepathic powers?'"

Joanna said: "You probably can narrow it down by determining how many dogs named themselves Oooeelie. I didn't name Oooeelie. He named himself."

"I am very aware of that. You have to remember something too. Georges Ortega is a true believer. He sees the world in black and white. He doesn't have Oooeelie, but if he gets hold of him, he will kill him."

Joanna interjected. "I know a man in Brooklyn who, I suspect, would kill Georges and perhaps be willing to die himself in the process to protect Oooeelie." Collins looked at her quizzically. She rushed on, "That same man knows where the mountain is containing the cave and the wall painting. They were his people O'Hara slaughtered and drove from their homes a hundred years ago. And they are not dog worshippers. They are Rememberers. They remember that The Oooeelie taught man to speak and they honor his memory."

Collins' heart was pounding. "Joanna, you must put me in touch with this man. Can you just imagine what the discovery of that cave and the wall painting, and perhaps even the remains of the original Oooeelie would mean to science? You owe it to mankind to bring us together."

"I'm going to have to think about it. I don't know if you can be trusted with the information, professor."

Collins sat down. "Oh Jesus," he said aloud. "I suspected my karma was to live a life of failure. Now the salt on the wound is frustration. I beg you Joanna, bring me and this man together."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A half hour into the Rapper's third morning sitting with his poster by the Central Park Reservoir, a slender woman with long, blonde hair and bouncing breasts caught his interest. He smiled contentedly, enjoying her in her thin Vassar T-Shirt on this cold morning.

As she chugged past, he saw she was in her late forties. Not bad. Bleached blonde hair, cigaret wrinkles, but very nice tits. She slowed and turned back to him. Jogging in place. "Maybe it's not the same dog?" she said.

His eyes flickered to her erect nipples, then moved up to meet her eyes. She was annoyed. Her voice became testy, "I was coming into the park two or three weeks ago, and I saw an Airedale on Central Park West.

"That sounds like my dog," the Rapper said, pulling out his notebook.

"It was around 7 in the morning. It must have been between 88th and 89th streets."

"Remember the date?"

"Please," she said, and turned back into her jog.

"Thanks a lot lady. You been very helpful," he called after her. Solid haunches. Nice stuff, he thought. The Rapper liked a firm body. His old lady had gone to flab years ago. Like him.

The Rapper tracked down his John Jay students and put them to work scanning the streets for someone who might have seen the dog. He started one at 76th Street and Central Park West and the other at 96th Street with instructions to go all the way west to West End Avenue, then to work their way back to the park on the next street. He picked 88th Street on a hunch. That was his number in high school, 88.

This was a quiet street. Hardly a person on it this Sunday morning. The Rapper had only been through 15 people, a black nanny pushing a carriage with white twins, a Sanitation Department cop checking for messy garbage cans on the Lord's Day, a couple of women sweeping their steps, when he came across the super. He remembered seeing the dog in the back of the truck of the finicky furniture man. Mr. Straus in 1403 had given him $20 to help get the furniture up to his apartment. His helper should have done the job, but he was off that day. The super didn't know the name of the furniture man, but obviously Mr. or Mrs. Straus would.

The Rapper slipped him a ten.

The super took him up the elevator to 1403. His presence was reassuring to Mrs. Straus, who found Sam Ruden's card with his address and telephone number. She provided abundant details of how to reach the Ruden farm by driving north on Route 17 and crossing the Catskills to the Oneonta area. "He's such an artist," she said insisting that the Rapper see the pieces of furniture Sam Ruden had made especially for her.

The Rapper copied all of the data into his notebook. On the way out, he gave the super another ten. His heart was singing. He would let the college boys keep working the streets, while he checked out the dog. This might be the wrong dog, but instinct told him he was on target.

He would head upstate in the morning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The Rapper left his house in Kew Gardens in the cold gloom of a December morning. He gulped his coffee as he drove, wanting to move out of the city before the rush hour clogged the roads. He was headed in the opposite direction of most of the traffic, but the Whitestone Bridge and the Cross Bronx Expressway could be a bitch under the best of circumstances.

He was across the Whitestone by 6:30. WCBS said there was a tractor-trailer jackknifed on the Long Island Expressway blocking two lanes just east of Cross Island Expressway and a car on fire on the Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel. What a fucking nightmare, the Rapper thought. People who lived in the suburbs and worked in the city deserved what they got. The weather report predicted rain in the city and a chance of snow in the northern suburbs. That wasn't good news.

He pushed a button to move the radio signal to WINS. The weather report was just ending. A high of 50 in the city and 40 in the northern suburbs. The Rapper felt better it didn't snow at 50 degrees. Even if it did, how much snow could fall on December 6? A dusting. The WINS traffic reporter was telling drivers to avoid the 59th Street Bridge and to forget the Williamsburg. What a magical morning this was for drivers, the Rapper thought. The Long Island Railroad was running ten minutes late across the system. The subways were on schedule. "The morning is early, give the subways a little time, they'll be screwed up too," the Rapper said aloud.

"Goddamn it," he shouted. He realized he should have gotten a cage for the dog. Maybe he would spot a pet store along the way. It was too early to stop anywhere now.

A light rain started falling as he crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge over the Hudson River. He took the New York State Thruway to Route 17 going north. He had driven only a short distance on Route 17 before spotting a sign for a diner. The rain was icy cold in the short walk from his car to the diner. The waitress gave him coffee as soon as he sat down. He ordered eggs over light, sausage, home fries and an English muffin. He loved waiting to eat breakfast. It tasted so good in circumstances like these. On the job and on the road. Fully awake. His body glowed as the hot coffee moved into it.

He studied the detailed directions Mrs. Straus had provided: Route 17 north to Route 206 at Roscoe. Route 206 through the mountains, turn onto Route 10 at Walton heading towards Meridale. There was a sign. Take Route 10 to the sign for Meredith, turn right on the road to Meredith. Where the road forks to East Meredith, turn right again. The farm is just south of there. Watch for a big wooden sign with three big flowers: one white, one pink, one purple and the word Magnolias underneath. On the other side of the entrance, another sign: Green Suspenders Farm. That is Sam Ruden's place. As you turn onto the dirt road leading to the farm, there's a smaller sign: Sam Ruden Furniture Maker.

"How far is Roscoe?" Sam asked the waitress when she brought his food.

"Haven't the slightest," she said. She turned to the owner by the cash register. "Nicky," she yelled. "How far up the road is Roscoe?"

"A good two hours," he yelled back.

The rain had turned to sleet when the Rapper returned to the car. He put on his headlights and windshield wipers. Once he passed Middletown, there was hardly any other traffic going north. The sleet had turned into snow. He tried to pick up a local station on the Buick's radio, but the static was so bad, he couldn't endure it. He drove up the steep mountainside just past the Wurtsboro exit on a highway all to himself. He felt eerily alone in the steadily falling snow, unable to see much beyond a hundred yards in front of him and the white-covered trees and fields and houses bordering 17.

The Rapper locked onto a big tractor-trailer truck near Monticello letting its rear lights guide him through the storm. Several inches of snow had piled up on the road. They passed a highway crew plowing. When the truck pulled into the parking lot of the Roscoe Diner so did the Rapper. Six inches of snow was on the ground. He tiptoed uncomfortably through the snow in his black wingtips. His feet were cold and wet by the time he got inside the diner. A toasted bagel with cream cheese and more coffee made him feel a lot better.

The Rapper's growing panic eased when he turned onto Route 206, which has been plowed almost to the blacktop. These farmers know how to move snow, he thought, feeling even better as the sun broke through the grey clouds and the snow stopped falling.

The fresh snow had transformed the countryside. The Rapper felt good again, driving cautiously and slower than usual, but euphoric at surviving the storm so well. He had expected to reach Green Suspenders Farm in four hours. He had lost about an hour and a half because of the snow, but that wasn't so bad. He was counting on the dog being at the farm. If he weren't that would be bad news.

As the car climbed a mountain, the blacktop disappeared into fresh, unrutted snow. A stiff wind was blowing the snow straight into the windshield. The Rapper could feel his heart pounding. He skidded on a curve, almost going off the road, but a build up of snow slowed the car and he slid back towards the center. "Thank God, for I'm driving a Buick," he said aloud, confident that his heavyweight car would protect him in all, but the worst of crashes.

The Rapper saw a road sign imprinted with a truck on it, indicating a steep hill ahead. He said a Hail Mary. He shifted into second for the scary ride down the mountain, praying to Mary that nothing would come at him. Suddenly, he was on blacktop again and the onslaught of snow was behind him. He passed a sign for the Dam Town Motel and the East Branch of the Delaware River. Walton was nine miles ahead, according to another sign.

The road rose sharply upward again. He was driving past tall pine trees whose branches were thick with snow. Snow began hitting the windshield, piling up on the road. In the swirling whiteness ahead, he could see flares on both sides of the road. He tensed, gripping the wheel hard. He could barely see as he drove past the flares, but there was no wreck, no nothing. Whatever had been was gone, towed or driven away. He was breathing hard with a slight pain in his left arm when he saw another triangle with a truck indicating more dangerously steep road ahead. Walton two miles, the next sign said.

The Rapper reached Walton, and with a feeling of relief turned onto a fairly well-traveled highway heading towards Delhi. There were mountains and deep snow on either side of the road. He passed a series of steep hills and another mountain in a long slow drive before reaching Green Suspenders Farm just after one o'clock. He felt hungry and exhausted. "Jesus Christ," he said when he realized the snow on the road leading into the farm was deep and undisturbed. He drove ahead hoping for the best. The heavy Buick moved through the snow beautifully. The Rapper could see lights in the farmhouse when he crossed the bridge. He smiled. "Oooeelie, Oooeelie, Oooeelie," he said out loud.

Three dogs came bounding around the house barking. The Rapper spotted the Airedale. Sam Ruden, alerted by the commotion, rose from the kitchen table and came onto the porch. This was a strange time for someone to be coming to the house. "Be quiet," he shouted to the dogs. Ryan, the Golden Retriever, and David, the hound, fell silent. The Airedale kept leaping at the car door. "Scavenger. Come here," he shouted, holding the door open. The three dogs rushed for the house and the delicious odors coming from the kitchen. Sam, wearing his green suspenders and a Yankee baseball cap, stepped out onto the porch closing the door behind him.

"Mr. Ruden?" the Rapper said as genially as he could, stepping through the deep snow. He extended his hand as the approached the steps.

"Yes," said Sam uncertainly, wondering what a man in a trench coat and fedora with dress shoes instead of boots was doing at his farm in the middle of the day.

"I'm John Rappaporte, a private investigator from New York City," the Rapper said shaking Sam's hand. He pulled a business card from his inside jacket pocket, a confirmation of who he was.

"Really," said a still puzzled Sam.

"That Airedale is why I'm here. Could we go inside and talk about him?"

"Sure," said Sam suddenly feeling sad. Mandy loved that dog. "Come on in. I'm just having lunch with my apprentice."

"I heard you make great furniture. Everybody in New York seems to know who you are," the Rapper said, strokingly.

Sam was pleased. "We're having bean soup and homemade rye bread. Got to warn you there's ham in the soup, in case you're Kosher."

The Rapper smiled. "I'm just starved. I drove through one nasty snow storm."

"Today was nothing," Sam said. "You should be here in January or February. You get wind that drops the temperature 10 below zero and drifts that cover a car. A couple of years ago in the spring thaw they found a guy from New York City just like you sitting in his car frozen. He had slid into a ditch. Snow plow covered him up and that was it."

"I hope he wasn't a private eye."

Sam laughed merrily at the Rappers riposte. "I hope he wasn't a customer. I need everyone I can find." He took the Rapper's coat and hat. "You could use some boots in this weather," he said pointing to his shoes.

"I could use some of that hot soup you was talking about too."

The three dogs were in the big kitchen, whimpering quietly at Evvy, who was sitting at the table, eating his soup.

"Oooeelie," the Rapper said, extending his hand to the Airedale.

Oooeelie, sensing this man was danger, responded with a guttural snarl, baring his fangs. Sam sailed right into him, grabbing him by the back of the neck and flinging him out the back door onto the porch. He chased the other dogs after him. Then ordered them off the porch into the yard.

"I'm sorry Mr. Rappaporte. Scavenger is usually a pretty good dog. I've never seen him act like that with a person. He's tough on other dogs, but terrific with people."

"Glad to hear that," the Rapper said.

"You called Scavenger, Oooeelie?"

"That's his real name."

Sam shivered, thinking of Mandy's dream.

Over the soup and bread, the Rapper explained that he had been hired to track down the Airedale. He was sure that Sam would want to see the dog returned to his rightful owner.

"It's going to break my little girl's heart, but I can understand why your client wants his dog back. I'm curious," Sam said. "Does your client live on Long Island and spend a lot of time on the water?"

The Rapper looked at Sam, still wearing his hat at the table with his thick lips and his beard and wire rim glasses. This was a weird character. "I have the impression he lives in Manhattan. But you know how these people with money are. He probably has a place in the Hamptons or Fire Island," the Rapper lied easily. He didn't want to salt any doubts into Sam's mind when he seemed ready to give up the dog.

Sam refilled the soup plates. "You're going to think I'm nuts," he said deciding he had to tell the Rapper about the dream, "but for the past week, my little girl, Mandy, has had this persistent dream that Scavenger was in the prow of a small boat out on the water somewhere. It was beautiful. The man on the boat was a clammer. She could see him so clearly pulling clams out of the water. In the dream, Mandy is Scavenger. When the man ties up the boat, Scavenger jumps overboard and swims to the beach. Mandy looks back and the man is paddling a little boat towards the beach. In one dream, a woman comes onto the beach; she walks by a post with a wooden cutout of a boat with a man with a clam pole and an Airedale in the prow. Mandy said Scavenger was filled with a surge of love and goes running towards her. The strangest part. The woman says, "How was the water today, Oow-willie?'"

"Oooeelie's the name. You're not shitting me? She dreamt that? That's one strange story," the Rapper said, wondering if Sam were going to hit him with a con aimed at holding onto the dog. He hardened inside, preparing to flick aside any games of that sort.

"How did the dog get lost?"

"This is really wild, because some nut took a shot at him. Maybe hit him, but whatever happened, the dog took off down Fifth Avenue, and that's the last my client saw of him. He tried finding him himself, but realized he needed a pro if he was ever going to recover him."

"That explains the wound he had. When I hear stories like that, I'm glad I'm bringing my kids up in the country." Sam studied his coffee for a while, thinking of the unhappiness Mandy would be experiencing in a couple of hours when she found out that she was losing Scavenger. He looked at the Rapper: "I'd like to talk to your client myself. I get down to the city a couple of times a year. Maybe we could arrange to have Mandy visit Scavenger or whatever his name is. I'd feel a lot better if I could tell her that."

"That's a great idea. I'll have him give you a call. I'm sure he'll be happy to accommodate you. He's a classy guy. Lives in a very nice neighborhood on the West Side. I figured the dog was trying to find his way home when you picked him off the street."

Sam took his pencil from behind his ear and a little from his back pocket. "What's his name and number, this client of yours?"

"You can understand that information like that is confidential. It can only be released by the client," the Rapper said.

"So give him a call and ask him to release it. Tell him that a sweet little girl who showered his injured dog with love wants his name so we can arrange visiting rights." Sam smiled.

"You don't want to get me in trouble, Mr. Ruden. He'll call you." An edge had come into the Rapper's voice. "Let's just get the dog, and I'll haul my ass back to the city. It was a hard drive up here, and I want to get back within range of civilization before dark."

Sam at that moment didn't like the Rapper. "I'm not asking for the world, but a little favor."

"Let's cut the shit and get the dog," the Rapper said, irritated now. He always tried the polite track first, but he could feel himself moving across the line to anger and unrestrained violence. His heart was thumping as it always did as a prelude to slugging someone. "Come on," he commanded, standing up.

Sam flushed. He could feel Evvy's eyes on him. There was no reason to be getting into an argument over the dog. He couldn't understand the man's ugliness. "He's out back," he said to the private detective. "Get him yourself." He pictured the Rapper wading through the deep snow in his dress shoes.

"Give me his leash."

"He doesn't have a leash."

"You son of a bitch. Get me a piece of rope," the Rapper was sorry he had spoken so harshly the moment the words flowed out of his mouth, but he was breathing hard and his anger was rising. His face felt flushed. He was surprised at his loss of control. Must be the hard trip, he thought.

Sam stood up. He was shaking inside. "This is my house. I'm not giving you a piece of rope. You want the dog. You get him." He felt triumphant, suddenly in command. Rappaporte was in for a real struggle if Scavenger decided he wasn't going with him willingly.

The Rapper looked around the room. He would take a leash or a piece of rope if he spotted it. "Where do they keep some rope, kid?" he said to Evvy.

"Get out of my house," Sam said.

"Oh fuck it," the Rapper said. He put on his coat, went out onto the porch and into the yard with Sam and Evvy following. He slipped going down the stairs, preventing a pratfall only by grabbing the railing. He wrenched his arm painfully. "Where's the dog?"

"He's probably in the barn, but I don't want you in there."

The Rapper's face was red. "You don't get that dog out of there, I'll get a warrant for him and for you for possession of stolen property."

"Evvy go in the barn and chase Scavenger out here."

Oooeelie, who had been watching, sensing the hostility between Sam and the stranger, slid through the dog door into the yard in his stalking posture. He could feel the chill of fear that passed through the Rapper. The man looked around for a weapon. His heart felt like it bounced in his chest when he realized the Airedale that had been black and tan in the house was now white. It wasn't snow. The dog's fur was white. The Rapper's mouth dropped open.

Oooeelie rose from his crouch, his eyes locked on the stranger. He propelled from his long memory a huge predatory bird diving fiercely out of the sky with a scream that froze his prey.

The Rapper gasped. Locked in place by the terror of the eagle roaring towards him with a terrible sound. When it was about to rip him from the earth, it exploded into a mass of flying flesh and feathers. The Rapper sunk into the snow, gasping for air, shaking uncontrollably.

Oooeelie whirled to bound away into the snow-covered field and the forest beyond, leaving Sam and Evvy bent over the fallen private detective. The Rapper couldn't speak. The pain in his chest swallowed his words.

"I think he's having a heart attack." Sam said. "We're gonna have to get this guy to a doctor. Get the four-wheel drive and bring it around here, Evvy," he said. The Rapper's pulse was beating so fast that Sam couldn't get a count.

They hauled and dragged the Rapper into the back seat of the GMC "Jimmy." Evvy drove while Sam whispered into the ear of the tough man who had been threatening him: "You're okay. Hang on."

The emergency room doctor wondered at the Rapper's mental stability when he managed to describe the monstrous winged thing with piercing eyes that attacked him. He ordered the Rapper admitted for observation and tests to determine the state of his heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

As upset as Sam was by the Rapper's heart attack, he made real French fries to go with the hamburgers and beans for supper. He didn't have time to make anything more interesting. This was the kids' favorite meal anyhow.

The consumption of food was a sacred experience in Sam Ruden's house. A peaceful meal with pleasant conversation had become an ingrained habit. The full enjoyment of the meal, the savoring of the scents of the foods were too important to be disrupted by ugliness or unhappiness.

He waited until they had finished eating before asking the whereabouts of Scavenger. "He's out in the barn, Pops," Mandy said. "Is something wrong? I should known something was up when we had hamburgers for dinner."

Hamburgers, even with real French fries, were an emergency meal in the gustatorial universe of Sam's life. He loved to cook an exotic meal almost as much as he loved making furniture.

"A man came here today..."

"The one in the hospital?" Mandy asked excitedly, fearful that Scavenger had attacked him. He was a tough dog. Everyone knew it.

"I'm sorry, baby," Sam said. "But you're going to lose Scavenger." He felt tears in his eyes for the sorrow he knew Mandy would be experiencing.

"Forever?" she asked.

"That man came to get Scavenger. The people who own him want him back."

"But they let him go."

"It's a lot more complicated than that, babe," he said, and took her into his arms, consoling her as she sobbed on his shoulder.

"When does he have to go, Daddy?"

"Probably in a couple of days. We'll hang onto him as long as we can." Sam was being cautiously untruthful. He looked across the table at Magnolia. She knew he wanted to get rid of the dog as soon as he could. He told her that unbelievable as it might sound, he had seen the dog's hair turn white when the Rapper keeled over with his heart attack. Sam wasn't certain whether the shock of seeing black and tan hair transformed into startling white was what put the Rapper over the edge or whether it was the strange hallucination he experienced, but whatever it was, Scavenger was responsible. This wasn't any ordinary dog. Sam had told Magnolia that he suspected something supernatural, something he didn't want to be involved in.

Mandy ran out to the barn to be with Scavenger leaving Sam with an uncomfortable, uncertain feeling. It was so odd that the private investigator had been so aggressive over the dog. Perhaps he thought that Sam and Mandy stole Scavenger when all they did was try to help the dog. What they were confronted with was a hungry, thirsty, injured animal. They had done what they thought they should do.

That was the philosophy that Sam preached at the supper table on so many nights: always do what your instinct or your conscience tells you is right. Something was telling him now that it would be wrong to turn the dog over to the Rapper. He was confused. He sat in his chair in the living room in a half dream, remembering Mandy's detailed description of her dreams, the feeling of the salt air and the hills rising in the distance from the water; the old lighthouse; and the heavy man sliding the aluminum poles into the deep water, pushing back and forth, then pulling them up, hand over hand, the T-handle reaching high above his head. Shaking the clams into a wooden box hanging over the side, above the water. Sam sensed someone staring at him, suddenly becoming aware of Mandy and Scavenger silently watching him in the doorway.

"Scavenger's sleeping with me tonight. Mommy said it was okay," Mandy said in her determined voice.

Sam looked into the dog's eyes and realized suddenly clammers don't clam on the West Side of Manhattan.

CHAPTER FORTY

In the morning, Sam called the State Conservation Department in Oneonta. He asked, "Where do people clam in the New York City area?"

A conservation officer told Sam that the only legal clamming was on Long Island. Sam told him he was trying to locate a place where the clammers used rakes on long poles and there were hills along the shoreline.

"I used to work down there. That sounds like North Shore clamming to me. Somewhere around Oyster Bay, Huntington, maybe Northport. Those are the places that sound like what you're looking for. In the Great South Bay, a lot of the clammers use tongs instead of rakes and the water is much shallower so you use short poles even if you are using a rake."

"Do they clam at this time of the year?"

"The real baymen do," the conservation officer said. "They're a pretty tough bunch."

Sam was familiar with Long Island. He had customers throughout the area. He examined his maps. He decided to try Oyster Bay first, then work east to Huntington, and finally Northport. Studying the lay of the land around Oyster Bay Harbor, he realized this was going to be a major undertaking. There seemed to be no single place on the map marked as a port. He decided he would drive into the area and just ask someone. As a starter, he called back the conservation officer in Oneonta.

He told Sam, "There aren't many clammers in Oyster Bay. I would say your best bet is to call one of the clammers' associations."

Sam interjected, "I remember seeing an old light house in the water. It wasn't very big."

"On a small island?"

"That's right."

"That has to be Huntington," the conservation officer said. "I think I have the number for Billy Hilfe, who heads the North Shore Baymen's Association. That covers the Huntington clammers. I think you've narrowed it down, Mr. Ruden." He gave Sam the number.

Sam dialed Billy Hilfe's number. He got an answering machine: "I'll be here when next I'm here. Call then or leave a message only if you must. In the meantime eat clams." He didn't leave his number. He had decided to go directly to Huntington. Airedales are an elite breed. Not many people had them. He was certain that if he made contact with Billy Hilfe or some other clammer on the shoreline, he would find the name of the man in the boat. Sam caught himself. He was assuming that Mandy's dream was real and there was a man in a boat and a slender woman with straggly hair. He didn't like dabbling in the supernatural. But something was compelling him to do what he was doing.

He went to Mandy's school, telling the principal there was a family emergency. They brought his daughter to the office. On the way home, he told her to pack a few things since they might be gone for several days. They were going in search of Scavenger's real family and they had to be gone before Mr. Rappaporte recovered enough from his heart attack to contact his client. Sam's instinct told him that the client wasn't Scavenger's owner. "We're in this together, you and me," he said to Mandy.

"The three of us are in it, Pops."

Sam took Route 28 through the snow-covered mountains, traveling in the "Jimmy" with Scavenger in the back seat, passing the head of the Pepacton Reservoir, to Kingston, where he picked up the New York State Thruway. He called Billy Hilfe again from a restaurant along the Thruway, but still no answer. It was two o'clock.

"Know why we are going to find Scavenger's family right away?" Sam said.

"Because we're prepared."

"Right." That was another favorite theme at the supper table: "Be prepared." The Boy Scout motto and a good philosophy. Sam didn't let go. "If we didn't bring a change of clothes and weren't ready to spend days on our quest, we wouldn't have a chance. Instead everything is going to go our way."

"Pops, you're jinxing us." Mandy held up her hands with the middle fingers crossed over the index fingers.

"Right. It will probably take us forever to find them." Sam felt good. He liked his chosen life, but he didn't get many adventures out of it. Now he was on a quest. He felt excited. This is what all of the great figures of mythology and literature did, whether Ulysses or a knight of the round table. A song appropriate to the occasion popped into his mind. He sang: "We're off to see the Wizard..."

Mandy joined him, "...the wonderful Wizard of Oz."

They sang it over and over, laughing and feeling wonderful--drawing some excited barks from Scavenger.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Billy Hilfe finally answered when Sam called from a street telephone in Huntington Village. "Hell, yeah, I know a clammer who's missing an Airedale, Mr. Gilbert. That's what we call him. Let me check the files. He's a member."

Billy came back on in a few minutes with Gil Tyrling's phone number and address.

Sam located the street on his Suffolk Hagstrom's. They drove along Shore Road, where Billy Hilfe said the clam boats were moored, but no men were about since darkness had fallen. Oooeelie could barely contain his excitement in seeing the familiar places. He paced back and forth on the back seat barking and whimpering.

They found the house without any trouble. Lights were on so the Tyrlings were home. The front door opened as they approached. Oooeelie, whimpering with excitement, leapt through the truck's window before they stopped, hitting the ground running.

"He's home!" Gil shouted into the house. "It's Oooeelie."

The dog leapt at him, throwing himself against Gil, and Joanna when she joined them. Oooeelie rolled on his back and cried in his joy of returning to his family. Tears rolled down Mandy's cheeks. Sam felt choked up too.

Gil and Joanna welcomed them into the house, anxious to hear the story of finding Oooeelie and finding them. They talked for hours over drinks. There was a lot to tell, of strange dreams, visions actually of Gil clamming and Joanna greeting them on the beach. "I recognized you the moment we saw you," Mandy told them. "I saw you in my dreams." Joanna and Gil looked at one another. Joanna was smiling, but Gil could see the uneasiness behind her mask. Gil took the visitors to the beach with Oooeelie while Joanna cooked. Even in the darkness, Mandy recognized the place where she seemed to wade ashore to meet Joanna. It was frightening.

Oooeelie paused on the beach, as the others walked back to the house, the instinct that drove him to want to return to his home on Long Island had aroused in him the memory of a longing for another home left untold millennia ago. Oooeelie raised his eyes to the stars. He sought out Sirius hovering large and bright among the distant dots in the clear cold sky. He remembered a comfortable land filled with the warmth of love and blazing colors on another planet out there circling one of Sirius' sister stars.

"Oooeelie," Gil called over his shoulder. The Airedale turned back to the reality of where he was, earthbound, and trotted after his friend.

Over an elaborate supper and coffee and ice cream cake, they discussed what happened to John Rappaporte, the private detective, coming to the conclusion that Oooeelie had terrorized him with a vision. Sam asked if they ever considered taking Oooeelie to one the scientists at Duke or some such place where they studied the paranormal.

"That's something to consider," Gil said.

"It's a wonderful idea," Joanna said, thinking perhaps there was rational, rather than a supernatural, explanation for the strange powers the dog possessed.

Sam and Mandy stayed the night. In the morning, Gil took them and Oooeelie in the boat past the lighthouse, a short distance into Huntington bay and into Lloyd Harbor. Though the wind was light, Sam and Mandy clung fearfully to the sides of the boat, nervously watching the cold, slate-colored water. Oooeelie stood high in the prow, looking back to bark with pleasure at them. "I saw all of this in my dreams, the lighthouse, the trees on the shore," Mandy said.

Gil gave them a brief lesson in clamming, enjoying the role of teacher of an arcane skill. Then he took them back to the warmth of the house.

After lunch, Sam and Mandy started home with promises to visit again and urging Joanna and Gil to come to the farm. Mandy hugged the dog in parting, saying that she loved him and would never forget him. She cried softly most of the way home, feeling the bite of loss, until at last she fell asleep.

Oooeelie, too spent the evening overcome by sadness and a sense of loss, a knowing that the home he remembered among the stars was beyond his reach in this lifetime. He ached to be drenched in the love he remembered and to revel in the brilliance of that never forgotten land.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

"The dog's back," Cowboy Herd said into the phone without any preamble.

Georges Ortega came awake, shedding the minor depression he had been feeling until he heard those words. "Cowboy?" he asked, knowing who it was.

"You got it."

"How did they get it back?"

"Got me."

"I want that animal," Ortega said. "This time take it on land and don't let it get away again.

"You got it," Cowboy said and hung up.

Ortega leaned back in his big leather chair excited at the prospect of triumph within reach. He decided he would notify the board members only after he had Oooeelie. No more embarrassments. He felt so excited he had to restrain an impulse to rush out to Long Island to make certain it was captured. On reflection it would be much better to avoid a direct role in the taking of the dog. That's what people like the Cowboy were good for.

His secretary buzzed. "There's a Mr. Rappaporte on the line."

Ortega was amused. He hadn't heard from the detective since he first hired him. Was he calling to announce failure or to put the squeeze on him for more money? He enjoyed being in the power position, armed with knowledge. He took the call.

"Mr. Rappaporte. I was wondering when I would hear from you?"

"I tracked down the dog."

"Wonderful. Where is he?"

"On a farm in upstate New York."

Before the Rapper could continue to tell his client his hard luck story of fright and a heart attack, Ortega responded with a single word: "Bullshit."

The Rapper was flustered. He felt out of breath. "I'm not in a position..."

Ortega cut him off. "No I'll bet you're not in a position. Probably need some more help. Want to hire a bigger staff? I have some news for you, Mr. Rappaporte. The dog is back home on Long Island. You are terminated. Send me your bill and if it is reasonable, I'll pay it."

The Rapper exploded, starting to scream into the phone, but Ortega had hung up. The Rapper's body burned in rage and frustration. He gasped for breath, and fired the phone across the room.

Ortega sat in his office laughing.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

From his perch in the prow of the Sharpie, Oooeelie spotted the strange boat on his beach the moment they moved into the mouth of Huntington Harbor. He barked, a long continuous bark, pointing his nose in the direction he wanted Gil to look.

"Quiet Oooeelie," Gil called from the plywood steering cabin. The usually obedient Airedale seemed to bark louder. Gil looked to the beach. Cowboy Herd was sitting in the shelter of a big rock taking the sun.

Gil had been heading for the inner harbor to sell his clams, but turned towards the beach. He considered reaching for the flare gun, but that was too extreme. Instead, he picked up a cherrystone, a clam the size of handball, holding it in his left hand at his side. An inner voice told him to keep going to his original destination, but anger moved him towards whatever confrontation lay ahead.

Oooeelie growled softly, then fell silent. He smelled trouble. His whole being was alert. Wisdom told him to use his mind power to propel some awful image at the intruder, but like Gil anger overwhelmed his being. His Airedale nature dominated, he was hungry to demonstrate his fierce courage in the attack without retreat.

Cowboy rose as the Sharpie touched ground. Oooeelie leapt forward, ignoring Gil's cry "Oooeelie!" The dog, in the thrall of battle, rushed toward Cowboy, who brought his right hand from behind his back in a graceful swinging motion, casting a weighted net. Oooeelie's momentum entangled him in the net.

"Hey, Mr. Gilbert," Cowboy called to Gil, who had leapt onto the beach. "You weren't convinced you should give me the dog last time so I brought my convincer." He bent down to pick up a shotgun, his eyes on Gil, a broad smile on his face. Gil responded with his cherrystone, thrown with the speed of a pitch from his high school baseball days and the power of the muscle he had built into his shoulders and arms in the months of daily pulling the heavy weights of the poles and laden baskets from the water.

The cherrystone seemed to have hardly left the tips of his finger, covering the fifteen feet in an instant to pass just beneath the red bill of the blue baseball cap with a Marine Corps emblem to connect with Cowboy's forehead. The sharp crack, like a bat connecting with a hard ball, filled Gil's ears. Cowboy paused, then fell forward in a heap.

While Oooeelie continued to thrash in the grip of the net, Gil walked cautiously to the fallen figure. He pulled the shotgun free and threw it high in a spinning arc into water. Cowboy didn't budge. A fright passed through Gil, a fear that he had killed the man. He untangled Oooeelie, who rushed to Cowboy, sniffing around him. Gil ordered the dog to sit, which he did. Gil rolled over Cowboy. His forehead had ballooned into an enormous lump centered on a bloody crest where the cherrystone had broken the skin. He was breathing to Gil's relief.

Gil tied a line onto the Sharpie to secure it. He went up to the house to call 911, but paused with his finger hovering over the nine on the phone to consider the trouble he could cause himself. Instead of calling the police, he took a bag of ice and a blanket back to the beach with Oooeelie trotting at his side.

Cowboy was sitting up, groaning.

"Put this on your head. It'll take down the swelling," Gil said. He put the blanket around the unresisting man's shoulders. "I was going to call the police, but I figured you would lose your job over this, because I'd be forced to press charges." He noticed how effectively he was lying. "I'd say it's a felony to point a loaded gun at a man."

"Jesus," the Cowboy whimpered.

"Now tell me what the fuck this is all this about. Why are you coming after me and my dog?"

The Cowboy responded by fishing a folded piece of paper from the left breast pocket of the red wool plaid shirt he was wearing.

Gil looked at the smudged penciled note: "Oooeelie, Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Ortega."

The note confirmed Gil's suspicions. "That son of a bitch," he said,

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Joanna came home at 6 o'clock bringing Oooeelie rushing to the front door to bark in excitement at her return. The noise stirred Gil out of a deep, delicious sleep in his favorite chair in the living room. He had a hard time coming awake and fell back into a slumber for the short time it took her to move from her car to the door. Oooeelie sat patiently awaiting her entrance. With an effort, Gil opened his eyes as she came into the room.

"Sleeping beauty," she said.

He held up his glass. "Get me another Jack Daniels and I'll tell you the story of an heroic clammer. How he rescued Joanna's Oooeelie."

There was a nastiness in Gil's voice that irritated Joanna. "Don't pull that on me. The little serving girl getting master his drink," she said angrily, her happy mood shifting to ugliness. "I've been working all day too. The Long Island Rail Road was a nightmare today."

"Take up clamming," he said, feeling himself freeze in anger.

"One of us has to make a decent living."

"I wouldn't define what NYU pays you as a decent living," he said.

"How much did you make today, $35?"

"Something like that."

"I have to make supper," she said, going into the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors and banging the pots around.

Gil fetched the bottle from the liquor cabinet along with a glass for Joanna. He half filled each of the low-ball glass with crushed ice from the dispenser in the refrigerator door. He poured two shots of Jack Daniels into each glass. Joanna was putting left over rice into a pan in which onions and celery were sautéing. She was making fried rice to go with a shrimp dish that was a favorite of Gil's. He spun her around. "Leave me alone," she said.

Gil pressed the drink into her hand. He touched her glass: "To a life filled with love and heroic deeds."

"Yeah," she said, taking a sip. "I have to make dinner. I don't feel like playing games with you. Either tell me what happened today or don't."

He sat at the kitchen table, sipping the whiskey, and told her the story of the battle on the beach with Cowboy Herd. Gil said his first impulse was to tear into the city to confront Georges Ortega, envisioning the scene: Reaching across Ortega's desk to grasp him by the lapels of his Italian suit and pulling him out of his seat. Sweeping everything off the desk in the process of dragging him towards him, and flinging him to the floor. He'd follow with a punch and a couple of kicks to the ribs. But that was a fantasy; he knew that he was still too much of a conformist to carry out. Very aware that the restrictions of his middle class mores still gripped him with a fear of arrest and the courts, his rash assault on Cowboy Herd filled him with delight over his manliness. He would relish this day for as long as he lived. "I'm tempted to go in there and dump Ortega on his ass."

"Grow up, Gil," Joanna said. "You wouldn't get past the receptionist at the foundation. No outsiders allowed above the first floor."

"Then I'd find Ortega someplace else. I'll knock on his door at 6 in the morning. He'd be home."

Joanna thought of Ortega's solid, athletic body, knowing that he wouldn't be the pushover Gil seemed to think. "Maybe you should bring a couple of cherrystones to throw at him," she said, laughing. "That's all we'd need. You'd have the satisfaction of bopping Georges in the nose; he would have you arrested; and the police and courts would take over A criminal lawyer would swallow what's left of our money like a vacuum cleaner."

"He tried to steal our dog."

"Wow that's a big crime, even if anyone believed you. The judge would tell Georges not to do it again, and he'd give you a year in jail. You'd be attacking the head of a foundation. Someone with money and connections."

Gil swept his glass off the table, sending it bouncing across the kitchen floor. "Fuck you," he said. He stomped out of the kitchen. "I'm not eating supper," he said over his shoulder. He shrugged on a jacket and walked down to the beach with Oooeelie. A crescent moon was framed like a rind of white silver by thick, dark clouds. While Oooeelie sniffed along the water's edge, he sat on a big rock considering his options. Joanna was right. To an outsider, the struggle over Oooeelie would be puzzling. He would look like just any other dog.

The problem was how to shake Georges Ortega off Oooeelie's trail, forever. He considered turning Oooeelie over to some college researcher distasteful. The dog would end up in a cage no matter what promises were made. If he and Joanna moved away, Ortega could pursue them. He was a man with considerable resources. Besides, Gil wasn't ready to abandon clamming for a dog. And Joanna had tenure at NYU. Then it struck him. The solution lay in Cowboy Herd. Using him to create the illusion that Oooeelie was dead.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Cowboy Herd sipped his Bud and listened to Gil describe his elaborate plan to fake Oooeelie's death. Cowboy made patterns on the bar with the wet circles from his beer glass and looked past Gil at the bumper pool game being played by a couple of girls in form-fitting jeans with very nice asses. Gil said he wanted Cowboy to get the body of a dog who had been gassed from the Town of Huntington Animal Shelter. "We want a dog that looks something like Oooeelie. An Airedale would be perfect. I know that's impossible, but we need an animal with the same coloring. Then we'll take the body out onto the bay. Dump it in the water and when it washes up on shore, you call Ortega and tell him Oooeelie's body has been found."

"You got to be shitting me, Mr. Gilbert. Why don't we do it the simple way. I'll call up Ortega and tell him I killed the dog."

"He might check with the police."

Cowboy shook his head theatrically. "Jesus. Don't you know anything? Do you think the cops care enough about a dead dog to write reports about it?"

"Yes, if someone like me reports his dog fell in the water. When a dog pops up on a beach, they'll call me." He didn't want to tell Cowboy, but Joanna would call Professor Collins with the sad story of the death of Oooeelie.

Cowboy fell silent while the waitress placed the plates with their hamburgers and French fries on the bar in front of them. She fished a bottle of ketchup out of her apron. "Anything else, gents?"

"Mustard," Cowboy said. As she went to fetch the mustard, Cowboy poured ketchup in thick bands across his fries. "Let me give you a free lesson in the law," he said and pushed a couple of fries into his mouth. "Filing a false police report's a crime. I'm not getting involved with no crime for you."

Gil's stomach churned. He couldn't bring himself to eat. "You're not off the hook yet, buddy. I can still file a charge against you for what you tried to pull on the beach yesterday."

"Man, that's a joke. Monday you had me by the balls. Today that's ancient history. And that's another crime, extortion. You're threatening me with something that didn't happen so I'll go along with you filing a false police report." The waitress returned with the mustard. Cowboy smiled as he slathered mustard on the hamburger roll, then poured on ketchup.

In a fury, Gil stood, threw enough money on the bar to cover the tab, and started for the door, then whirled around. Cowboy was eating his hamburger. "What are you going to tell Ortega?" Gil asked.

Cowboy rocked with laughter. "I don't have to tell him anything," he said. He laughed again enjoying Gil's discomfort and confusion. His amusement was fed by what he wasn't telling Gil, that he had already told Ortega what happened so there was no need to tell him.

Being subjected to Cowboy's derisive laughter embarrassed and enraged Gil. A real clammer probably would have grabbed him by the throat and flung him to the floor in the foreplay of a barroom brawl. Gil felt his insides quivering. He wanted to sail into Cowboy, but he hesitated. He wasn't a street fighter. He was too civilized to be driven into the frenzy of battle by rage. He turned towards the doors, taking a few steps when Cowboy called out: "Mr. Gilbert!"

Gil turned. His heart was pounding.

"We'll meet again, Mr. Gilbert," Cowboy said and lifted his empty Bud bottle, signaling the bartender he wanted another.

Gil left trying to shake the feeling that he had been cowed by Cowboy. He knew that he hadn't, but that's how it must have looked to the waitress, and the girls at the bumper pool table, and the men sitting at the bar. He sat in his car replaying the scene between them over and over. In some versions, he punched out the Cowboy. He drove home feeling disconsolate.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

On a searingly cold Sunday, the day after New Year's, Joanna took Oooeelie out for an early morning walk on streets slippery with black ice. With the wind chill at 14 below zero, Lloyd Harbor's normally quiet lanes were empty of all traffic aside from a lone light blue van that moved from the head of the street towards them as Oooeelie was marking his territory. The van stopped halfway down the block. A man dressed in layers, a windbreaker over a grimy blue hooded sweatshirt, stepped out of the passenger door to toss papers onto three lawns. Joanna decided when they reached her to ask them to please skip her house. She wasn't interested in any free shoppers.

The paper tosser crossed to the other side of the street, carrying a cloth bag filled with copies of the shopper. The driver got out to go around the back of the vehicle.

As they came abreast of the van, Oooeelie suddenly became alert, aware that the man with the bag of papers had focused his mind on him. The Airedale turned towards the man and suddenly a fiercely pitched sound burned his ears and scrambled his thoughts. He lifted his head to howl in pain.

"Oooeelie, what's the matter?" Joanna asked with concern. Running towards her pointing what looked like a portable loud speaker was the paper tosser. The driver came up behind her and threw a large blanket over the suffering Airedale--and rolled the dog into it. His face, too, was partially hidden by a sweatshirt hood. "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded. He responded by slugging her on the chin. Joanna stumbled backward, tumbling onto her backside with a shock of pain that stunned her.

The men heaved the blanket-wrapped Oooeelie into the back of van. The paper tosser climbed in with him, directing the speaker at the dog.

Joanna got up and clawed at the back door as the truck pulled away leaving her screaming and crying in the street. She ran to the nearest house to pound on the door. She could hear voices in the house. They seemed to take the longest time. Finally the door opened a crack. "Yes," said a grey-haired man in a bathrobe.

"They've stolen my dog. My dog. I have to call the police."

He opened the door wider. "Take it easy. What's the problem?"

Two men in a van stole my dog. I live around the block in the white, modern house on the water.

"Oh yes," the man said uncertainly. "The clammer's wife. Come in."

He led her to a telephone.

She punched 911. Joanna told the police operator what had happened. The operator asked if this were her home? She said she had run to the nearest house. Every minute counted, because the van could still be intercepted. The operator suggested she go to her own home, where the first available patrol car would meet her.

"You don't understand. You could get them."

"A car will be at your house shortly," the operator said.

Joanna called Gil to tell him. She said she was coming right home. "I'm going after them," Gil said. "Blue van. What was the license plate?"

"I don't know," she said through tears.

"Any markings on it?"

"Just a big blue van, a panel truck really. Two men in hooded sweatshirts."

"You wait for the cops. I'm making a run for the expressway, then into the city, to the foundation. You have Ortega's home address."

"Yes," she said weakly. "Somewhere at home."

"You come home, wait for the cops. I'll call you from the city for Ortega's address."

"Suppose the police come before I get there?"

"Suppose I catch the van and get Oooeelie back."

Gil's heart was pounding and his mind filled with his determination to rip into the thugs who took the dog. He raced the Volvo out of the driveway, skidded as he turned onto the street, did a spin and slammed through the white picket fence of the neighbor across the way. He was shaken by the impact, but otherwise seemed okay. His left elbow ached. He had bashed it somehow. Gil considered driving away, but the neighbor was upon him, opening the driver's door. "Switch off the ignition," he said.

"I'm sorry I'll talk to you about this later. But I have to go," Gil replied.

"You're not going anywhere far with two flat tires, Gil."

"Dammit," Gil said. He opened the car door, feeling a surge of pain in his arm. "I think I hurt my arm."

The neighbor reached in to help him out, and Gil almost passed out from a sickening rush through his body. He recovered in a moment. He surveyed the damage to the car, the bumper was pushed in; both tires on the driver's side were flat.

"I was walking out of the house when you hit the fence. What happened?"

"Someone took our dog," Gil said softly. "I was going after them."

Joanna rushed up, screaming, "Gil."

"I'm okay," he said. "I banged up my arm. We'll have to call triple A to get the car hauled out of here, get the tires fixed."

Tears streamed down her face. She tried to hug him, but he pushed her away.

The neighbor checked his watch. "I was going into the village for Mass anyhow so why don't I drive you over to Huntington Hospital. You better get that arm looked at. Might be broken."

He was barely paying attention to the man. "Where are the cops?" he said aloud.

"No one's called them. A little accident like this it isn't necessary."

"I called the police to report the dog."

"A lost dog is a low priority this morning," the neighbor said. "I turned on Channel 12 this morning for the weather, and they said there was a fire in a shop on New York Avenue in Huntington Village and they found a body in there. Someone was murdered and the place was torched. I wouldn't count on any cops coming by this morning. Not for a while anyhow."

Gil walked without difficulty across the street and up the icy driveway to his house with the neighbor and Joanna on either side of him. He felt exasperated, but remained outwardly calm, because of his embarrassment over knocking down the fence. As soon as the man was out of the door, Gil turned to Joanna, "Your Goddamned boyfriend finally got the dog. I hope you're fucking satisfied."

"How can you say that," she said crying again. "I'm going to call him right now. I'll kill him if he hurts Oooeelie."

"Noooo!" he screamed after her. He ripped the phone out of her hand.

"If you alert him that we know he's taken Oooeelie, he'll be gone. Only our hope is to get to him right away."

"And how are we going to do that?" she asked with contempt. "Aside from the fact you've just been in a car wreck and need medical attention, we're sitting 50 miles away from him."

"Yakub Rahm." Gil dialed Yakub's home in Brooklyn. His wife answered. Yakub was sleeping. Normally he didn't get up until 10 since he worked until 4 AM every day. "Wake him. This is an emergency," Gil said.

He explained to Yakub that Oooeelie had returned home almost a month ago, and this morning he had been kidnapped. Gil apologized for not calling Yakub when they recovered the dog, but Oooeelie needed his help. Could he get to the Wesos Foundation on East 78th Street as soon as possible? He might even get there before the kidnappers. They were driving a blue van. He told him Ortega's office was on the fifth floor of the building, that they would try to stop him at the first floor, but don't let them. "Ortega wants to kill Oooeelie. He's the great grandson of the man who destroyed your people's village on the mountain."

Yakub dressed quickly. He checked the silver-plated Saturday night special, which he carried in an ankle holster for protection against the passengers in the ghetto neighborhoods he worked. He strapped the knife he preferred for a fight in a scabbard under his left arm.

His wife watched him arm himself. "What's happening?" she asked, fear in her voice.

"You wouldn't understand," he said walking past her to fetch his coat from the hall closet.

"Yakub. Remember you have a wife and child. There is nothing more important."

"There are some things a man has to do no matter what the cost," he said and was gone. His wife's wail followed him down the stairs and out the front door.

Yakub drove his livery car onto McGuinness Boulevard and across the Pulaski Bridge into Queens. Within 20 minutes, he passed through the Midtown Tunnel and drove through the sparse traffic of a Sunday morning in Manhattan to the foundation. He double-parked in the street in front of the building. He looked down the street. No van. He became frightened thinking of how powerful the man who had taken Oooeelie must be, a man whose ancestors could travel into the mountains of Asia Minor to destroy the village of a warrior people, a man who acted above the law, dispatching thugs to do his dirty work. He got out of the car, walking the short distance up the stone steps to the front door. He was shaking when he rang the bell. No answer. It was Sunday. Yakub felt uncomfortable with himself for being relieved that the place was closed. He decided to wait, determined to do whatever he had to do to rescue the Oooeelie despite his fear. Maybe the van with Oooeelie was on the way?

\---

Michael Collins was poring over his maps and notes on the topography of the mountains south of Lake Van in Turkey when Bethany knocked. "Mr. Ortega's on the phone, professor."

"Michael," Ortega said when he picked up the phone. "I'm en route to the camp. Weather's cold, snow on the ground but beautiful. It's a wonderful day."

"I'm always happy to hear the weather report, but I usually get it from radio or the weather channel."

Ortega laughed. "I'm on my car phone so I have to be a little circumspect. Never know who's listening in. I'm traveling behind a van carry man's best friend. We're on our way to the camp in Massachusetts. You understand what I'm saying."

Collins looked wistfully at his map. He had the dog, but not the great discovery. That lay somewhere in the mountains of southeast Turkey. "I understand," wondering whether his voice betrayed the sadness he was feeling.

"The whole gang is coming to the camp for a special meeting Thursday night."

"Can they get here that fast?" Collins asked.

"We're arranging charters for the folks in South America and Europe. Mark is managing a commercial flight."

"I'll take the train up sometime tomorrow. Don't worry about me."

"Good. See you then. There'll be security at the gate. Just a precaution against being disturbed."

"Fine. And, congratulations Georges."

\---

In the van, Oooeelie writhed in agony, the unrelenting sound of white noise, pitched beyond human hearing, screamed in his canine ears. His howl had become a persistent croon of agony. There was little air in the tightly wrapped blanket adding to his discomfort. Every once in a while, Luis kicked him with the heel of his shoe. "Shut the fuck up," he snarled.

After an hour, Luis took his finger off the trigger that sent the sound through the bullhorn so he could brace himself to stomp the dog. He slammed the bottom of his thick-soled shoe over and into the form in the blanket until he was exhausted. The bruised animal whimpered softly, relieved that the sound had stopped.

"That's better," Luis said. "A good kick in the ass gets the message across every time," he shouted to Roberto at the wheel of the van. He squeezed the trigger. The dog howled again. He let go. The whimpering was almost as bad. "Stop the fucking noise and I'll stop," Luis said. Oooeelie fell silent, suppressing his whimpers through an act of will. After a while in the stagnant air trapped in the blanket and the rocking motion of the van, he fell into a distressed sleep.

When they arrived at the Wesos Foundation Farm, Roberto and Luis carried the dog, stilled wrapped in the blanket to a large bedroom room the third floor of the main house with Ortega following, his poised finger on the bullhorn trigger. The double bed had been shoved to one side of the room. A cage, barely larger than the dog, with steel bars on all sides including the floor, was lodged in a corner, open, ready to receive the dog. They unrolled the blanket dropping Oooeelie on the hard wood floor. The dog bounced lifelessly.

The men looked at one another.

"Careful," Ortega said.

"He's playing dead," Roberto said.

Roberto and Luis each gripped two of Oooeelie's paws. The limp body suddenly came alive scratching and biting at the pair. Ortega squeezed the trigger drawing a howl from Oooeelie, who bounded into him, snapping and slashing with his fangs, clawing with his powerful paws, ripping wounds in the man's hands and side. As Ortega fell back, Oooeelie turned on Luis biting his face, sending him crashing against the window, shattering glass. Roberto, terror-stricken, fell back across the bed out of the way.

Oooeelie raced out of the room, down the stairs, and through the rooms on the first floor looking for a way out. His eyes surveyed the closed doors and windows, registering the impossibility of crashing through any of them. He paused, panting, centering himself, Oooeelie resuming control, mastering his raging Airedale nature. He was swept by an awareness of strength and power. He did a quick mind-focusing exercise. His fur changed to a snow-white and he focused on the head of the stairs, waiting for the enemy.

Ortega, followed by Roberto, emerged from the bedroom swinging the bullhorn at arms length in an arc, ready to fire in any direction. He moved to the stairway—and Oooeelie sent a flash of stinging energy into his brain. Ortega flung away his weapon, his hands instinctively gripping his head. He screamed in pain, stumbling forward and down the stairs. Roberto ran back into the bedroom.

Oooeelie stood frozen, experiencing a drain of energy that made his body feel like an empty shell. That was a weapon to be used cautiously, he realized.

The cook, who had been preparing lunch for Mr. Ortega and his guests, came rushing through a swinging door in the serving pantry into the dining room to find the cause of the noise. Oooeelie turned to her. "Open the front door," she heard in her mind.

She stopped and screamed.

"Open the front door," Oooeelie repeated in her mind with a snarl in the words. Her head snapped back as though punched. She looked at Ortega, bloodied and in disarray, on his hands and knees, his head bowed in pain, and back at the dog disbelieving what she knew. The dog had talked to her. He was waiting, a frightening fierceness in his eyes. Oooeelie with a false bravado took a menacing step towards her, and she rushed to the front door, opening it. He walked slowly through the door. He crossed the crusted deep snow of an open field, sinking several times and forcing himself to move steadily forward, ignoring the exhaustion dragging at his legs and lungs. Finally, he reached the frozen lake bordering the farm. A plateau of ice swept clean of snow by the north wind lay before him. He dropped, resting, almost going to sleep. He rose again forcing himself to trot across the ice. He knew he couldn't rest again until he reached the safety of the tree line.

Ortega in an equally fierce struggle to cross the foyer to the doorway watched the Airedale, a black form against the sunlit snow, reach the far shore and vanish into the forest.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The doctor in the emergency room at the MacAlpin Falls Regional Hospital dealt with Luis' wounds first. The left eye was gone. Gouged out. He bandaged the head, covering the wounded socket. He clamped the three scalp wounds, neat slashes from glass. He stitched the torn nose. A ragged wound that demanded plastic surgery. Worse, Luis was a gibbering basket case, begging for a priest, moaning about a leopard that had leaped at him and the beast that tore his face. The thought Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome went through the doctor's mind, but that was issue to be dealt with later.

The nurse practitioner detailed to patch up Georges Ortega's hands and side, scratched and bruised in the encounter with the dog told the doctor: "We might have a concussion or something worse here. Maybe a traumatic brain injury? He's got severe headache and blurred vision in his right eye."

The doctor glanced at his clipboard. "Mr. Ortega, I'm Doctor Picardy. I need you to answer a few simple questions. "Could you tell me your name and address?"

"I've already gone over that twice. With the nurse at the door and that woman in the white jacket, whoever she was," Ortega said with anger.

"Doctor Guilio. She's a nurse practitioner. She asked me to take another look at you. Said you were complaining of a headache. So I have to ask you a few questions as a starter on what treatment to pursue. Do you know where you are?"

Ortega's right eye was drooping, his brow was furrowed by the pain in his head, and his face twitched every few seconds. He let out a sigh, hating to admit his confusion. Then the answer poured from his lips without thought: "Baingle Brae." He pronounced it in the lilting accent of a Scot in the Middle Ages.

"Come again?" the doctor said.

Ortega, lost in a relived memory, didn't respond. He was a Scotch noble, named Corran, dressed in a forged helmet, a sheath of iron mail covering his chest, riding slowly across the body-strewn battlefield at Baingle Brae at first light with Donald, a man at arms, trotting beside him. When he saw her, the Pict woman and her Wolfhound, he spurred his horse. Donald ran hard behind him. The dog turned to face him. "Oooeelie, spawn of the devil. Christ be with me," he shouted, riding hard, his battle ax poised for delivery. As he closed, she armed herself with a short sword from a fallen Pict warrior, Oooeelie assumed a rigid pose. A blow like a spear as hot as a flame smashed into Corran's brain, knocking him backwards, unhorsing him. Donald raced by. The Wolfhound had sunk to its knees, drained of energy. Donald slashed the beast's neck, severing his head, spun, and sunk the point of the weapon into the woman's face despite her shield and swinging sword. Donald fell with a cut across his left side that bit into his heart. He was dead by the time Corran was able to rise with his head pounding, the sight gone from his right eye. He picked up the dog's head, vowing to be grateful to the fallen Donald forever. "At last, you evil bicche," he said to the dead woman. He dropped Oooeelie's head and ripped open her tunic. He studied the strange tattoo of a seven-pointed star encasing the areola of her left breast from which a curving serpent reached across her chest to three smaller stars, with seven points, five points and three points, strung along the front of her right shoulder. He shivered. She was a witch. He would get to a priest for a blessing as soon as he could. Corran lived the remains of his life, only four more years, with unremitting pain in his head, the blind right eye, and a paralysis that crept up his left side from his foot to his leg to his arm.

"Mr. Ortega," Dr. Picardy said to him. "I'm going to admit you. Give you something heavy duty for the pain. Take some X-rays as a starter. We're going to have to take some precautions until we get a better picture of what's happening inside your head. Swallow no liquids at all. You get thirsty, I want you only to rinse your mouth and spit the water out. This is important do you understand me? And we're going to immobilize the head for the time being with the head of your bed elevated. That's very important."

Now Ortega understood his affection for Jack Jones. A bond that reached across more than 11 centuries. He mused over his relationship with Jack as he went through the process of being X-rayed and being hooked up to an IV for a diuretic to drain water from his body, a preventive measure against swelling of the brain. Did Donald's blood run in Jack's veins? Or, did his spirit occupy Jack's body? Roberto could have played the role of Jack, but failed him. The throbbing in his head had subsided as the drugs took hold, but still ached.

Dr. Picardy had a cup of coffee and called the MacAlpin Town Police Department as soon as he had a break. "What happened?" he asked Tim Murphy, the cop who covered the call.

"This is a very weird happening Doc. One witness, a Roberto Martinez, said they were attacked by a crazy dog that got into the house somehow. He doesn't know how. He managed not to get hurt. Now the really strange part. You know Bobby Lawrence. She lives over on Mountainview Road. She cooks and cleans and whatever up at the foundation's farm?"

"No. I don't."

"She says the dog, that was an Airedale, spoke to her. Ordered her to open the door."

"You're kidding."

"She swears to it, and she's one frightened lady. I wanted to take her to the hospital too. She wouldn't come. She wanted to go home."

"Did you catch the dog?"

"Ran off into the woods."

"Are you looking for him?"

"Oh yeah. I'm gonna have the night man take a look around the countryside a little later.

"What do you think really happened?"

"I don't know. You see three Hispanics and you figure a drug deal gone bad. Could have been somebody's vicious guard dog? They have 'em. Maybe the foundation's a front? Maybe Bobby was making up a story to avoid real questions? And, they hired a security firm out of Boston to man the gate, keep everyone off the property who didn't belong there. Got to find out what that was all about?"

"It would make my job easier if I knew someone cracked Mr. Ortega on the head. And I would like to know why my other patient, who was very badly chewed up by that dog, is in such a state of shock. He was mumbling something about a leopard attacking him when I treated him."

"He did do a tumble down the stairs. Well, as I said Doc, lot of unanswered questions about a very, very weird situation. So call me if you hear anything from your patients."

Murphy was heading out the door for home when the dispatcher called him back. "Murph, I'm patching a call through. Sounds like your dog case."

"Officer Murphy here," he said into the phone.

"Officer Murphy My name is Gilbert Tyrling. I live in Suffolk County on Long Island so you can check what I say with the Suffolk County Police. We reported it."

"Yeah what can I do for you?"

"Two men attacked my wife and stole our dog this morning."

"So why are you calling me?" he asked pleased with himself for forcing the caller to provide information without prompting. Clean info he liked to call it.

"The Wesos Foundation has a farm up where you are near MacAlpin Corners. We have reason to believe they might have been behind the dognapping. We're willing to press charges."

"What kind of a dog?"

"An Airedale."

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Oooeelie came out of the woods in a darkness relieved only by the glow of the moon onto a plowed road, which he followed to a farm. As tired, cold and hungry as he was, he lay in a strategic position, where he could watch the road and the lighted farmhouse with a television screen flicking through a window. He wanted to be certain that his enemies weren't on his trail. Satisfied, he moved forward. A huge black dog, a mix of a mastiff and German shepherd, came out of a barn, sniffing the air. Oooeelie was impressed by his skill as a watchdog and his self-control. No barking. Readiness for battle. He picked up an aura of fierce animosity from the dog. "Sit." The dog sat. "Lie down." The dog lay down. "Stay." He stayed where he was as Oooeelie trotted past into the barn. The dog started up. "Stay," Oooeelie commanded.

Amidst the smells of cows, wet straw, and dung, Oooeelie found the dog's dish loaded with dry food. Next to it a bowl of water. He quenched his thirst, and ate his fill. He preferred human food, but this had to do. He found the dog's bed, a blanket insulated with hay in a covered stall. He surveyed his position. Two ways out: the door slightly ajar and an open window with a shattered glass.

Oooeelie was drawn from a deep sleep by the soft noise of a motor and the flash of headlights turning into the farmyard. He heard the mastiff-shepherd mix's guttural growl.

"Whoa, it's me, Hurricane."

"Stay," came a commanding voice from the porch. "Don't worry about him. He's not going to hurt you deputy. As long as I'm here."

"Mr. Rains we had a dog attack over at that Wesos place off the county road. Chewed up a couple of men and frightened the hell out of Bobby Lawrence. She cooks over there. On top of that we get these people from Long Island trying to file a complaint that the Wesos folks stole their Airedale."

"And? What are you trying to say Billy?"

"And looking at a map, your place is a logical stop along the way for a dog moving cross country. The people at Wesos asked us to do an all-out search for the animal. Fraid of rabies I guess. And the Long Islanders say they want that dog back. The Airedale. Both says it's an Airedale."

"And Billy, you think he got past Hurricane?"

Billy laughed and laughed. "See what you mean Mr. Rains. Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Rains. You have a good evening."

"Night, deputy," Mr. Rains said going back into the house with a bang of the front door.

Hurricane came into the barn and slept pressed against Oooeelie, enjoying the warmth of another body in the cold winter night.

Oooeelie ate some more dog food before he continued his trek across the countryside in the morning. Snow was falling and drifting covering his tracks, which was good, but making for a hard hike.

Towards afternoon, high on the mountain above the Rains farm, Oooeelie spotted rabbit tracks. He knew what to do, although he had never done it in this lifetime. He lay down in the snow off the rabbit trail. After a long wait, a rabbit scurried along, scratching in the snow for feed. Oooeelie lunged onto him, snapping his neck with his teeth. He tore into the rabbit chewing the warm meat and the little bones, swallowing the innards. He wiped his bloody maw in the snow and licked his chops. That night, he burrowed into the snow in the lee of a small hiker's cabin. He awoke several times in the miserable cold looking for the first light, so he could be on his way.

Just below the crest of the mountain, Oooeelie found the source of the narrow column of smoke that had drawn him through the day in the silent snow-filled woods: a log hut nestled in a stand of spruce. A drift reached halfway up the door. He examined the setting. The snow lay in unbroken dunes around the building and trees. Only the smoke told him that the hut was occupied. Oooeelie was voraciously hungry and worn by the relentless cold made worse by a steady wind that gusted for hours lifting veils of fine, blinding snow. He moved forward, coming to a standstill when the face of a big Yellow Lab appeared in the window. Oooeelie knew the dog had sensed something different in his quiet realm. Their eyes locked.

The Lab barked. An old man's face appeared at the window. Oooeelie wagged his tail and sat. He extended a paw towards the man, who laughed. Oooeelie reached the door as the man pulled it open. He leapt past him from the chest-high ledge of snow into a room laden with the scent of a rabbit stew simmering on the wood stove. The Lab, a Methuselah of dogs, lunged at him. Oooeelie easily sidestepped the attack. The Lab scrabbled across the floor, his back legs failing him for a moment.

"Hugo!" the man said, wrapping his arms around his aged companion's neck. "Take it easy."

"Sit! Stay!" Oooeelie commanded telepathically.

Hugo paused. Surprised.

"Sit!"

Hugo sat.

The man squeezed him affectionately. "That's better." He ran his hands along the Lab's sides and head before he rose to close the door against the cold.

Oooeelie moved nearer the stove. He sat with his back close to the delicious odor and warmth. He held up his paw again. The old man shook Oooeelie's extended paw. He glanced back at Hugo, who remained motionless. He petted the Airedale, gripping his collar. He glanced at the new red dog tag dangling from the collar, but the printed data: Oooeelie's name, address, and Joanna's telephone number was a blur to his eyes. "Your owner's probably going frantic right now. Time for you to go boy." the old man said. He tugged Oooeelie's collar dragging him towards the door. Oooeelie growled. He was hungry and short-tempered, but controlled his Airedale impulse to snap at the man. Instead, Oooeelie projected into the old man's mind the image of laughing naked woman, her wet hair plastered to her head, emerging from the Mediterranean Sea on the coast of Gaul twenty-two centuries ago. The old man gasped. His mouth dropped open, the lower jaw trembling. He let go. Oooeelie trotted across the room to lay down on Hugo's bed near the stove. The old man stared ahead, watching the woman cross the beach to her naked lover, a sinewy youth whose right arm and chest were marked with purple scars, healed battle wounds. He could feel the morning sun on his back and hear the sea lapping the beach. Oooeelie watched his memory work on the old man, catching him, entrancing him. He had resurrected the scene effortlessly. He slipped into sleep taking the scene with him.

The old man stood without moving trying to continue the fantasy, fumbling to recapture his vision of woman with her firm breasts and black bush, her easy laugh, her anticipation of sex. "If I have to have hallucinations before the end, Lord give me more of that." He had expected beautiful winter sunsets and white outs and the joy of a good wood fire when he came to the Hut to die. His wife was gone; his two sons had died, one of lung cancer, the other in a bus accident on the way to Atlantic City. He and the wife always noted with interest the tendency of friends, relatives and the famous to die as the Winter Solstice approached. "Nature's way of weeding out the weak to make room for the young. We're the product of millions of years, Ham," Judy would say him. She died on a Dec. 21 many years ago. He knew he couldn't last much long, and he didn't want to. The pain in his legs and back every morning. His hearing gone. His eyes fading. He decided the time had come to truck up to the Hut to let winter do him in, like an old Eskimo going out on an ice flow. He had been waiting for death for three months past the winter solstice into January. Dozing away most of the afternoons away. Exhausted from splitting firewood and slogging out to his rabbit traps. He stirred the stew. Fetched his bottle of Scotch, almost empty, for a glass to go with tonight's dinner. Seeing that woman in the great naked was something to celebrate. He would do some biscuits too. Old Ham looked at the Airedale snoring on Hugo's bed and Hugo in a corner staring across the small room at the sleeping Airedale. "This has been one strange and marvelous day," he said speaking to Judy. He caught himself, wondering whether Judy could look from across the beyond into his mind to see the pleasure the sight of another woman had brought him. She would be so cranky, so jealous.

Oooeelie awoke just long enough to eat the plate of stew, Old Ham had set out for him. He fell back into a deep sleep to dream of a drawing, of the spherical star traveler made heading towards the open mouth of the serpent in the heavens. A cloistered nun had sketched the scene from the data he implanted in her dreams hundreds of years ago in England. She had burned it in terror before someone found her out and burned her. The odor of frying Spam pulled him awake. Morning.

"Pancakes and Spam for breakfast, boy," Old Ham said to him. He was in a jolly mood having awakened twice in the night, as usual, but lulled himself back to sleep, making believe he was the young man and she was wading out of the sea, looking expectantly at him. He awoke with a hard on at first light, still thinking of her. A hard on was a novel experience in his 80s. "No butter, but we got maple syrup," he said to his companions. He put two pancakes, cut up, and a slice of Spam on each of the dog's plates. Old Ham sat over his coffee lost in a daydream of the woman after consuming his breakfast with gusto.

Oooeelie examined the old man's thoughts, amused by his preoccupation with the woman of so long ago. The dog conjured another image for him: the woman shaping and baking little wheat cakes with honey on a cold winter morning.

Old Ham sitting at his small table in the Hut in the Berkshires twelve-hundred years later could feel the heat of her oven and revel in scent of the baking cakes and honey. He smiled, engrossed in the new pleasure she brought him. Hugo scratched at the door wanting to go out to relieve himself, breaking into the man's reverie. He let both dogs out. A short time later, with a light snow falling, he joined Hugo and Oooeelie, putting on his snowshoes for a tour of his traps. He carried his big rifle with a coil of rope hung round his short knife on the chance of encountering a deer. His mouth watered at the thought of venison. Hugo stayed with Old Ham, the pair of them lumbering through the woods, breathing hard. Oooeelie scouted their flanks searching for signs of trackers in search of him. He caught the movement of a doe out of the corner of his eye—and immediately raced at her, leaping onto her back. She shook him off, and he charged into her turning her in the direction of Old Ham and Hugo, who were alerted by the thrashing encounters of the doe and the Airedale. Old Ham gracefully raised the rifle to his shoulder, aimed and fired bringing down the deer. He was elated. A beautiful kill. He moved quickly, effortlessly. He looped the rope round the deer's right back leg tethering an end to a thick branch to spread her for the first incision. He slit her open, sliding the blade through the tissue severing her bowels and tubes, tying them off with an expertise of a lifetime of hunting. He cut into the belly, careful not to pierce her intestines. He pulled out her guts and heart. He sliced the heart into pieces throwing the meat to Hugo and Oooeelie. Old Ham paced himself with rest periods through the skinning and butchering. He carried the tenderloins back the Hut, where he fetched a sled. Snow was falling heavily, whipped by a bitter north wind through the two round trips towing the meat and the hide from the scene of the kill to the Hut.

Old Ham fried fillets from the doe with home fries and beans, a meal prepared in near slow motion from fatigue. His celebration extended to big plates of the supper for the dogs and a double Scotch for himself. He dropped into a deep sleep, too exhausted to clean up the cooking mess. The Airedale trotted into his dream. "I am Oooeelie," he said. Behind the dog, the woman appeared. She spoke in a strange language, which Old Ham understood. "I know how brave you are, how fearless, how small a hold life has on you." She ran her fingers over those purple scars. "For the love of me, I ask your promise that you be willing to die for Oooeelie." "I promise," Old Ham said, and she came to him in his bed.

Towards the end of January, Old Ham's grandson, a lean bearded man in his mid-30s, arrived at the Hut on a snowmobile towing a sled filled with supplies: potatoes and onions, dried soup, a large bag of dried beans, flour for biscuits and pancakes, sausage, eggs, whiskey, butter, beef for stew, a slab of bacon, potatoes, some fresh vegetables, vitamin tablets, and two steaks. The steaks were for that day's lunch. "Hallelujah Granpops still alive! Still alive!" he shouted as he dismounted. Hugo, his tail flailing, ran to him. "And Hugo too!" Oooeelie followed, playing the curious friendly dog, wagging his tail too, leaping around the newcomer, smelling him. "Who's this?" he asked taking a step back almost falling across the snowmobile. Oooeelie sensed his flush of fear.

"Don't worry about Oooeelie. He's friendly. Got me a deer, Tony" Old Ham said in a rush words. He shook his grandson's hand.

"Where'd the Airedale come from?"

"Oooeelie walked in here from out of nowhere about two week ago."

"Oooeelie?" Tony straightened up. "Whoa, Granpops. This pup is friendly?"

"Friendly and smart and the best goddamned hunter I've ever seen."

Tony didn't take his eyes off Oooeelie. "Around about two weeks ago, an Airedale named Oooeelie chewed up a man or two really good on the old Mason place, the one that bunch of weirdoes took over. Almost took one guy's nose off."

"That so," Old Ham said.

Oooeelie moved away from Tony, watching for any sign of aggression.

"There's a $1,000 reward for the dog alive, and $500 dead. His name is Oooeelie. I got the flyer in my pocket."

"So that really is his name," Old Ham said, unwilling to tell his grandson that he learned the name in a dream. He certainly wasn't going to tell him about her, how he watched her every night living her life in another country in another age, making sleep more pleasurable than waking.

"He sounds like he can be a dangerous piece of work, Granpops. He tore those men up real good, like I said."

"Maybe they deserved it." He watched Oooeelie trot across the crusted snow nearly to the crest of the mountain. "He's the smartest thing on four legs I've ever seen. I swear I think he can read my mind."

"If he can read mine then he'll get the hell out of here, because I could use an extra $1,000, but I'll settle for $500 if I have to."

"That's what I was talking about. I'd say he's outside of catching distance now."

Tony unhooked the trailer. "Not for a man on a snowmobile." As he was climbing onto the saddle, Oooeelie dashed to the very crest of the mountain. He stood there.

"Leave him alone," Ham called.

Tony revved his machine, heading straight for the Airedale. As he approached Oooeelie, a wall of water rushed at him. "Jesus," Tony screamed, instinctively swerving, tumbling off the snowmobile.

Oooeelie turned and loped across the rocks and through the trees on the other side of the mountain.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Oooeelie paused on a ledge looking down the mountain through a wide firebreak covered with deep snow. He could see the hazy lump of Mount Greylock rising in the distance. The prospect of lumbering through the snow in the cold or worse picking his way through the woods with rocks, sudden drops, and tangles of undergrowth didn't appeal to the Airedale. If he didn't find shelter before sundown when the temperature dropped and the wind picked up it could mean death. His best options were to return to Old Ham's Hut and hope to be left alone for another day or week or month, or to follow the trail broken through the snow by Tony's snowmobile in search of a way home to Joanna and Gil.

He returned to the crest and watched Old Ham helping Tony, who moved slowly in pain, to right the snowmobile. Tony got onto the saddle, starting the motor, but turning back to the Hut instead of pursuing Oooeelie's tracks. He went inside with Old Ham. After a while, they returned to the unloading of the supplies from the sled. Tony threw the tarp that had covered the supplies into a lump on the sled, fastening the ropes on either side. He reattached the sled to the snowmobile before going back into the Hut for a lunch of steaks and coffee.

Oooeelie slipped from his hiding place to the sled. He nestled under the tarp and waited for Tony to unwittingly ferry him down the winter-gripped mountain. Out of the wind and under the canvass heated by the sun, he drifted into a half-wakeful doze, not daring to completely relax.

"I wish you wouldn't tell those folks about Oooeelie," Old Ham said.

In his hiding place, Oooeelie's ears perked up. He understood Old Ham's spoken words. And what Tony said in reply.

"It's the right thing to do Grandpa. You're not going to talk me out of it. Besides, I still might make a buck or two out of it."

"Thanks for bringing the supplies up Tony. But I hope I don't see you again till next month. That Oooeelie's one goddamn good dog."

"Hasta la vista, Grandpa." Tony moved out slowly, picking up speed on the trail.

Images from lives he had lived over tens of thousands of years churned through Oooeelie's mind on the trip off the mountain. He became aware that the layers of his memory and knowledge had been blossoming through his brief life and were now bursting open in a torrent. He could see into the minds of men and animals, he understood spoken words, and now he could form those words himself to project them into human minds. He realized he already had spoken to the minds of men in this life when he told Michael Collins and Georges Ortega that he taught man to speak.

Tony parked the snowmobile in front of the old barn on his property. He was undoing the connections linking the sled to the vehicle when Oooeelie spoke.

"Sit!" Tony heard in his mind as loudly and clearly as if the words rang through the air. He stumbled backwards in fright.

Oooeelie emerged from his hiding place. "Sit, I said."

Tony turned screaming in a dash towards the house. He tripped on the back porch stairs, sprawling onto his hands and knees. As he rose, the back door opened. His wife, Beatty, asked: "Tony what's wrong?"

Before he could speak, he saw a flash and heard an explosion. A dark-skinned man, an Asian in a long, dirty robe and turban, wailed in agony. Tony saw him grip a shattered hand, just strings of torn flesh and bared bone hanging from his right arm. Tony sat down clasping his head in both hands, his arms and body shaking.

Beatty rushed to him, clasping Tony in her arms. "What's the matter?" she asked, tears of concern rushing down her face.

When his fear subsided, Tony slowly lifted his head to look at the dog standing before him, tail raised high. He ignored his wife, sobbing her arms still around him. "What do you want?" he asked Oooeelie.

"Tony are you crazy? Are you talking to the dog?" she said.

"Inside. Food. Oooeelie is hungry," the Airedale told Tony.

He pushed Beatty away, rose from the steps, and held open the storm door for the dog. Tony paused, watching Rommel, his powerful German shepherd rush barking towards the door, expecting him to react fiercely to another male dog invading his territory. Instead, Rommel glanced at him and as if he were ashamed, put his head down. "There's food in the dish," a disappointed Tony said, pointing to the dry dog food piled high in Rommel's dog dish, wanting to humiliate the dog that failed him.

"No," Oooeelie said.

Beatty stood at the kitchen door watching, unconscious of the cold air blowing across her back.

Tony went to the refrigerator. He took the leftover pork loin and potatoes from last night's dinner. "How about this?"

"Heat it," Oooeelie said.

"I'll put in the microwave. You want milk or water?"

"Fresh water."

"Tony, I'm going to my mother's," Beatty said. She took the keys to the pickup truck from the hook by the back door.

"No. Tell her to say," Oooeelie said.

Tony put the food on a counter. He pushed the door closed. "Did you hear what he said?" he asked her.

"Who?"

"He says you have to stay so you have to."

"Oh Tony," she said putting her arms around him. "What's happened to you?"

Tony overcame a tremble that passed through his body enough to say: "Put the food in the microwave."

CHAPTER FIFTY

Oooeelie was just finishing the hot leftovers when BT arrived home from school. She squealed with delight over the beautiful Airedale. Oooeelie stood tall, wagging his tail, delighting in her hugs and kisses. He crooned as she ran her hands along him.

Beatty said, "Stay away from him."

"Why? He's so sweet?" BT asked, puzzled by the fear in her mother's voice.

"He's the Airedale."

"The one in the paper?"

"Well Tony?" Beatty asked.

"I think so," Tony said. He was transfixed by the rapport between this terrifying animal and his 15-year-old daughter.

"Where did you find him, Daddy?" BT asked.

"At Granpops."

BT jumped up. "A thousand dollars, Daddy."

"That's what the paper said."

"Who are you calling? The Arab or the folks at the old Mason place?" Beatty asked. "Or I should say, who does he want you to call?"

The girl laughed.

"I'm calling both. He goes to the highest bidder," Tony said. He took the two flyers pinned magnets to the refrigerator door. His stomach was alive with butterflies, expecting an eerie command from the Airedale to ring in his head. Oooeelie ignored BT, focusing on Tony dialing the telephone. He punched in the 800 number for the Wesos Foundation. A woman with a Latino accent answered and put him through to Mrs. Ryan, who said that she had received 14 calls about the reward for the Airedale. Three were cranks and 11 involved an Airedale belonging to the Pantello family. That wasn't the dog they wanted.

Tony said with exasperation that this dog's name was Oooeelie, the same as the one in the flyer. He found the dog on the top of Bennett's Mountain not anywhere near town.

"Well then, I'll have Mr. Ortega call you back," she said. She sounded exasperated. He left his number. His next call was to Mrs. Fennel's, where Yakub Rahm was renting a room. After going through the required small talk of how sad Mrs. Fennel was over the passing of his parents, she had gone to school with his mother, Tony asked for Mr. Rahm. She said he wasn't in, probably was riding around looking for the dog. The man was tireless, she said. He drove the country roads all day long, talking to people, putting up his flyers. He usually called in around 4 for any messages. "Have him give me a call, Mrs. Fennel."

"You got the dog?" she asked.

"I sure do, Mrs. Fennel," he said looking at Oooeelie.

The phone rang pulling Tony from a doze in front of the TV. At the same time, he heard a knock on the front door. Tony rushed to the telephone. "Get the door," he said to Beatty.

Georges Ortega introduced himself, then without further preliminary asked how Tony knew he had the right dog.

Before Tony could respond, he was startled by a loud "Ohhhhh." He turned to see Yakub Rahm dropping to his knees before the Airedale. Beatty stood by the open door, transfixed by the sight of the brown-faced man whose forehead touched the floor, his hands joined in a prayerful pose above his head. The warmth of Yakub's love flooded Oooeelie.

"Look at me," Oooeelie said to the man.

Yakub looked up. Tears streamed down his face. He chanted guttural words in an ancient language no longer spoken.

Oooeelie sat. Astonished. He couldn't think for a moment, overwhelmed by joy and then sadness. He understood Yakub's words. He had heard the chant innumerable times in the seminal language of this man's distant ancestors. The language he had taught them. "Do you know the meaning of the words?" he asked.

"Yes, lord," Yakub said aloud. "We remember what the Oooeelie did for man. I will always remember. I am a Rememberer."

"I am not your lord or your god. I am Oooeelie. Oooeelie taught man to speak."

"We remember," Yakub said aloud.

Tony, his wife and daughter watched the communication between the dog and the man, hearing the man's words, knowing that Oooeelie was somehow speaking back to him.

"What's going on?" Ortega asked over the telephone.

Tony was shaking. "I think the dog is talking to Mr. Rahm."

"I'll give you $10,000 for the dog," Ortega said.

`Tony pressed the off button. He just wanted the dog out of his house, out of his life. "You have the money?"

"Mr. Tyrling will send it to you."

"Okay. Just take him."

The phone rang again. Ortega said he believed they were cut off.

"No. I hung up. "

"Where is Rahm taking the dog?"

"Somewhere away from here. Thank God."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Oooeelie sat in the passenger seat of Yakub's Buick watching the snow clad Massachusetts fields and hills lit by a bright, barely waning moon. He could sense the excitement in Yakub diminish growing smaller and disappearing as he concentrated on moving the car south on Route 7 towards Connecticut. He was going to Long Island, where Joanna and Gil waited. How Oooeelie wished he were going home, to his real home, his constant goal.

He felt the familiar frustration over mankind's slow evolution from the savannahs and the caves to the edge of technology. There was no use regretting his own failures, his dependence on man and his own inability to build a space sphere with its seven-pointed star-shaped outer shell thinner than silk and three times as hard as diamonds along with the micro-fuel cells required for thrust. He was an explorer, not a scientist or fabricator. He had the general knowledge, not the specific techniques, skills and formulas to put together the space sphere and its energy package. He knew he was no miracle worker. Man might have developed the same skills without him. He hurried the process along having the greatest impact at the beginning, providing man with a spoken language, opening the corridors of communication and sophisticated memory. The rest followed. He did know the formula for basic explosives, a first step towards the leap from earth to space. He planted the concept of exploration of land, sea, and sky, the reaching for the stars; the hunger for knowledge, comfort and beauty. In his recent lifetimes, his seedings had been specific: the details of the space sphere and the fuel cell and the corridors out there into which a space sphere could be plunged and hurtled millions of light years in moments.

He came out of his musing to study Yakub, who had become tense, gripping the wheel, grinding his teeth.

Yakub becoming aware of Oooeelie's attention said, "This is a happy day for me, lord. I have fulfilled the dreams of who knows, a thousand generations, two-thousand generations of my people. I have not only remembered you, I am serving you in this little way. I feel like a hero. I feel like a poet should sing my praises, telling of my quest, the long journey to this country from the mountains of Asia and my struggle to survive in Brooklyn, finding love, having a family, and now this: finding you lord."

"You don't seem happy."

"Because I have a problem lord. I've been away for weeks. I haven't worked. My wife is frantic with worry about the rent, the grocery bills. But I know there is nothing more important than you, lord."

"Call me Oooeelie."

"Ah yes. You are not my lord or my god. I wish you were a god Oooeelie then you could confer wealth and power on me."

"If I were a god I would transport myself home. I long to go home."

"I am taking you home."

"You are taking me to Joanna. My home is in the Sirius system. I'm an alien on this earth."

"I long for my home too. I'm an alien in this country. I don't dare go home.And my wife wouldn't want to go. My daughter would have an awful life there in the mountains." He paused. "You could live with me Oooeelie. I have a two-bedroom apartment in Greenpoint near the river. In a very nice house."

"Take me back to Joanna and return to your family." Yakub's cloying adulation irritated him.

Yakub was overcome by guilt for seeming to put his family first, before Oooeelie. He wailed, "I'm a cab driver. How can I support my family and serve you with my whole being, Oooeelie?

"You can't," Oooeelie said.

They drove the rest of the way without speaking.

\---

An uproarious excitement surged through Oooeelie the moment the Buick turned into the Tyrling's driveway. His Airedale nature surfaced. He barked excitedly, dancing in the passenger seat. As Gil opened the car door, Oooeelie lunged out, racing around the front yard, covered in a thin layer of frozen snow, barking, prancing, leaping at Gil to touch him with nudges of his nose and flicks of his tongue. Gil slid his hands across the dog, hugging him, whispering that he missed him so. Joanna stood by watching, hesitant, exuding distaste. Oooeelie's frenzy receded. Her absence of joy made him wonder whether she had led him into the trap when she took him into the city? He looked into her eyes, deciding to be cautious around her, to refrain from communicating with her until he became convinced of her loyalty.

And, she sensed his distrust.

Yakub came into the house with them, but Oooeelie could feel his restlessness, his anxiousness to depart. "Go!"Oooeelie commanded.

Yakub said, "I don't want to go, but my wife and daughter are waiting."

"We understand, Yakub. You were wonderful to stay up there. And to find Oooeelie that was unbelievable," Joanna said, touching his arm sympathetically, although her face displayed her unease in the presence of the dog, .

Gil fished out his wallet. He counted out ten hundred-dollar bills. "To make up for your lost income. I was working the water while you were up there."

"No. I did it for Oooeelie, not money."

"You have a family." Gil pressed the lump of bills into Yakub's hand.

"Take it! Go!" Oooeelie's irritation welled up again.

"How may I serve you further, Lord? Say and I will act."

Oooeelie looked across the millennia to the time just before he left his first body, grown old and drained of strength. Votaries waiting to serve his any whim surrounded him. They were hairy beings more in substance like his first body than these clothed, frail modern men and women. 'How can I serve you, Oooeelie?" asked a tearful Shaman, the fiftieth female to serve as his bridge since he landed on this miserable planet earth. He knew she was thinking in terms of a sip of water, a piece of meat ground fine for his old gums, a sprig of mint to freshen his mouth. He turned to her. She was touching his body with the tips of the fingers of her left hand. He could still remember the warmth that radiated through his body. He had rarely been touched in his long stay on earth by any of these hairy beings even his Shamans. How he missed the touch of his wife. Why did he ever leave her? He savored the touch of this alien being, this Shaman. He turned to her with a request he meant in sarcasm, but came out as a plea: "Find me a space sphere to take me home." He turned now, sitting in this young, vibrant Airedale body in the Tyrling's living room in Lloyd's Neck and with real sarcasm ordered Yakub: "Find me a space sphere to take me to Sirius."

"Sirius?" Yakub said aloud, conscious of the stares of Gil and Joanna. He asked Gil, "What is Sirius?"

"The dog star. The brightest star in the heavens," Gil said.

"Does America have space ships that go there?"

"We've gotten as far as Mars, but not very successfully. In unmanned space craft," Gil said.

Joanna said, "Gil, we've been to Venus too."

Oooeelie perked up. "How far have men traveled into space?"

Yakub repeated the question aloud: "How far have men traveled into space?"

"To the moon," Joanna said, realizing that Yakub seemed to be relaying his words from someone else. "Are you hearing voices Yakub?"

"Oooeelie speaks to me," he said sending chills through Gil and Joanna.

"What else does he want to know?" Joanna asked, her voice rising, her eyes wide with fear.

"He wants me to find him a space ship to Sirius."

She said angrily, "Well, he's out of luck. Are you telling him what I say through mental telepathy?"

"I think he understands what you say," Yakub said.

Gil watching the dog in fascination for his reaction said: "They've sent unmanned ships to the edge of our solar, but not beyond, and Sirius is way beyond. Light years away."

Oooeelie felt a knot in his chest, discomforted by Yakub serving as his bridge to men. That was inappropriate. "Quiet!" he said in a harsh voice. The admonition showed on Yakub's face, the command ringing in his head.

"He understands us!" Joanna shouted.

Her anguish and Oooeelie's anger at him made Yakub want to run, to escape. "I am going," Yakub said, holding up his hand to silence her. He headed straight for the door.

"Wait," Gil said.

"I say no more. Yakub hesitated at the door. "I have some change from the money you gave me for expenses."

"Keep it," Gil said, "But we want to know more about this. Tell us what's going on."

Yakub shook his head, emphasizing his determination to remain silent. He didn't dare displease Oooeelie any further. He pulled the door closed behind him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Joanna had to get away from the Airedale. She was afraid to speak to Gil in front of him. She sought refuge in the kitchen, automatically putting together the dinner planned by Gil to celebrate Oooeelie's safe return: a portabella mushroom appetizer, goat cheese salad and porterhouse steaks. A bottle of champagne was chilling in an ice bucket. She wept as she worked at the meal. Joanna was frightened. What kind of a thing had she brought into their house, into their lives? The damage he did to Georges and the Latino man. The dreams. The book in the library. This business of Yakub being out of a tribe of Rememberers and acting like the dog controlled him? He had abandoned his family without hesitation to spend all his time searching for Oooeelie. And, Joanna could feel that the dog didn't trust her. The way his eyes followed her. She had whispered her fears to Gil and turned to see the dog staring at her with seeming distaste.

Oooeelie and Gil were in the living room in front of the fire surrounded by several volumes of the Britannica from the bookcase. Gil searched for references on the moon and Sirius and stats on the solar system and space—making notes on a yellow legal pad.

Joanna forced herself to go to the living room, intending to announce that the steak was ready. She watched Gil read aloud from his notes to the Airedale, who sat up, listening attentively. "The moon is about 250,000 miles from earth. That's as far as a manned spaceship has gone. To put that in perspective, the edge of our solar system is about 9 billion miles from earth, and Sirius is 8.6 light years from earth. Translating that into miles, we talking about two millions times the distance to the moon. Man's a long way from a trip Sirius, Oooeelie." As soon as the man finished speaking, Oooeelie lay down, looking at the fire.

"Gil I have to see you for a moment." Joanna said. With the kitchen door closed behind them, she said, tears streaming down her face. "I'm afraid to be in the same house with that thing." She trembled, wringing her hands.

"You've got to be kidding. Oooeelie is an incredible animal. Gorillas can speak to human beings with sign language. They recognize people they haven't seen in 20 years. You saw that PBS show. Why shouldn't an extraordinarily intelligent dog understand what we say? Maybe most dogs do?"

"I can feel he doesn't like me. I don't want him in this house a moment longer. "

"Joanna we can't just throw him out on the street. Look at the trouble we went through to get him home."

"Trouble. I hoped he was gone forever. You just don't understand what I'm going through. You don't care about my feelings do you? I'm just someone to fuck when you're in the mood."

"That's just not true. I love you."

"Then I'll make it into an easy decision. You can have the woman you love, or that Airedale." She shoveled the steak from a cutting board into Oooeelie's dish. "This is his last meal in this house."

\---

Gil took the steak into the living room. Oooeelie was lying down, his eyes closed, dreamily remembering his recent lives. He had roamed the Brazilian backcountry with Amelia, a black woman with whom he had grown old before realizing the slightest of his powers. He was transformed from a listless, worm-infested old mongrel into awareness by the startling noise of a machine flying overhead, a small airplane. Amelia ran to the river with the rest of the villagers to watch the plane touch down on the water, which flared on either side of its pontoons. That night, he dreamt of the ancient cave, and so did Amelia. In the morning, she told her man about the dream in detail, frightened by her experience. A few days later, she abandoned Oooeelie on the bank of the lazy river, and he never saw Amelia again.

His mouth watered at the scent of the dish being carried towards him. He turned, opening his eyes to watch Gil cross the room. He remembered, now, lying on the floor at Gil and Joanna's feet watching rocket-propelled ships rise slowly from launching pads on the television. His heart pounded, realizing the connection between the numbers Gil was spouting and the crude space ships. He had been seeding the idea of space travel into the minds of his Shamans for thousands of lifetimes, and at last man was taking the first real steps toward the stars.

Gil was surprised that Oooeelie ignored the savory steak. "Are you okay old buddy?" he asked roughing the Airedale's head with an affectionate hand. "Can you speak to me? Tell me about Sirius? Tell me what it's all about?"

Oooeelie looked at him. He liked Gil. He could feel the man's constant affection for him. He was amused by this man's awe of distances and his ignorance about how quickly a sphere ship could move from star to star towards the edge of the universe. But there was no need to speak to him. He wagged his tail, giving Gil his due, a touch of Airedale affection. He turned to the steak, gobbling it down, enjoying the flavor that filled his mouth. Licking his chops. He had come to a decision. Joanna's fear of him, so like Amelia's, was unendurable. After Amelia, he found a naked Indian girl in the jungle to love him and become his Shaman. He had to find another Shaman to replace Joanna.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

At first light, Gil and Oooeelie tracked through the three inches of snow that had fallen overnight to the beach. He would have preferred to wait another hour or hour and a half for the warmth of the sun. But Joanna was still in her crazy state. He had to get Oooeelie out of the house and out of her way, hoping by this evening she would calm down. The boat, locked in thin ice, was just a few steps from the beach. The wind was burning cold. Oooeelie ran ahead across the ice hopping easily into the heavy wooden boat. Gil untied the mooring line from the sea anchor, holding it with one hand, and moved gingerly towards the boat, breaking a ragged hole in the ice with each step. His rubber boots protected his feet from the water which was only a few inches deep. He swung his bag with its thermos of hot tea and two ham and cheese sandwiches on rye into the sharpie and rolled in, pushing off as he did. He leaned over the side with a small sledge hammering the ice around the boat and beneath the raised motor. He dropped the motor shaft into the water. The motor started on the first turn of the key to Gil's relief. He reversed the engine, went into neutral, and swung the craft in an arc. The boat broke through the ice to the open channel 15 feet away. With Oooeelie behind him in the lee of the makeshift plywood and Plexiglas winter steering cabin, Gil drove the Sharpie through the dark, ominous, four-foot waves in the mouth of the harbor into Huntington Bay. Just past the Huntington Lighthouse with a thrill of fear lacing his insides, Gil road the crest of a wave into Lloyd Harbor into relatively calm water out of the wind and lurching waves in the bay.

Gil went right to work, putting three sections of pole together, clamping the rake-basket to the end, filling a bucket with water. This was his favorite fishing ground. Not too deep. Out of the north wind. Surrounded by beauty, green in the summer, blazing colors in the fall, and picturesque white this winter. He slid the rake into the water, biting into the bottom just 12 feet down. He let the drift do the grunt work of moving the claws of the rake through the bottom pulling rocks, debris and clams into the basket. He lifted his heavy catch hand over hand into the boat dumping the contents of the basket onto a rack extending over the water. Sand and minor bits of debris fell into the water. An old bottle, some rocks, and clams were left behind. He shuffled the clams into the bucket; the water would keep them from freezing. The rocks went back to the bottom. He tossed the bottle onto a pile of sacks. He would look at it later. Maybe add it to his collection of unusual relics scraped from the bottom.

Oooeelie sat on the stern, divorced from the pleasure of the warming sun, mulling over his predicament. He didn't trust Joanna, and he knew Georges Ortega would be after him again. Ortega represented pain and death. Suppose he died and didn't come back again. Just lay trapped in a grave of unthinking, unfeeling, unremembering. A whirlwind of fear gripped him. He rose planting his four legs on the deck and howled, startling Gil who came near to tumbling over the side.

"Jesus Christ, Oooeelie!" he screamed.

The dog dropped his howl to a whimper.

Gil laid his pole across the width of the boat. "What's the matter, boy? Speak to me." he asked running his hand across Oooeelie's body, trying as he had all morning to prompt a telepathic response from the Airedale.

Gil's hand felt so good. So calming. Oooeelie wished he could just lay down, take it easy, forget about Sirius. But he couldn't. He was driven. And he was frustrated. How little he could do in this body. And men were so limited. Only in this lifetime had they broken free of earth's atmosphere, and then only into the space of their own solar system.

Gil laughed. "Look," he said, keeping up his chatter, pointing at a harbor seal sliding through the water, breaking the surface and slipping under again. "This is the life," he said.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Michael Collins rose with some difficulty, his girth tangling him for a moment with the edge of the small table. He let his red cloth napkin slip from his hand to the checkered tablecloth, reaching out to Joanna. "Professor Tyrling, I was so pleased to hear from you."

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Dr. Collins." She was suddenly conscious of her unwashed hair and the wrinkled blouse she had donned this morning, knowing that it needed an ironing, but wanting to get out of that house. "I know I must look frazzled."

"You look just fine my dear." He held both her hands as he spoke to her. "I've taken the liberty of ordering us a bottle of Italian Chardonnay from a little vineyard on Lake Garda, not to far from Venice, I believe."

"Wonderful. I need a drink."

The waiter uncorked the wine as soon as Joanna sat down. Collins sniffed the cork and the wine after a quick swirl in his glass. He sipped. "Fine," he said. The waiter poured for each of them. He placed the bottle into a grey metal ice bucket. Collins waited until he was out of earshot. He leaned forward, whispering. "When I was a boy, I had a passion for pretzels, bretzels we called them. In my dotage, I've turned to good scotch and pleasant wines. I say pleasant wines, because the taste, not the year nor the price, high price I mean of course, is what draws me." He raised his glass. Joanna raised hers automatically. Collins said. "To the return of Oooeelie."

Joanna put down her glass without drinking. "That's why I'm here. I wish he hadn't returned."

"Then to our friendship, because I feel a strong friendship for you, and I hope you return the feeling."

"I do," Joanna said, raising her glass again, and drinking.

The waiter returned to take their orders.

"I'm not very hungry, and I just can't focus on the menu or anything else at the moment."

"We'll both take the portobello appetizer and the fish special. Is that acceptable?"

"The fish is fine, but I'll take a small salad instead of the appetizer. We had portabellas at dinner last night."

"So let it be done," Collins said. "Now let's quickly get the troublesome part of the evening over before the food arrives. I have a good feeling about this place. I love little Italian restaurants. Philadelphia is filled with them."

Joanna told him of her deep fear of Oooeelie, her terror of an animal that could understand human speech, and could speak to Yakub through mental telepathy. "I want him out of my house, but my husband has become attached to him. I'm afraid to go home. I'm not sure if I'm dealing with a super intelligent animal or an evil spirit."

Collins looked into his wine glass to hide his excitement. A grand opportunity was at hand. "There is so much that science could learn from this dog. I've spoken to Oooeelie you know."

"You have?"

"And I have to agree with your assessment. He is dangerous unless properly controlled. He is intelligent, but he is a dog. Look what a pit bull is capable of. If Oooeelie turned on you and Gil, no one could help you. "

"I can tell he doesn't like me any more."

The waiter returned with the mushroom appetizer and the salad. He filled their glasses with chilled wine before leaving them again.

Collins ate with gusto, while Joanna pushed her food around the plate, taking only a nibble.

"Joanna, let me tell you as a friend, that your best course of action is to place the dog in the custody of a scientific institute, a research center, Rockefeller University for example or maybe Johns Hopkins, but preferably with me. I am at Penn. I'm still affiliated with the school. I would guarantee you that no harm would come to Oooeelie, that I would use his intelligence to learn more about both dogs and what he knows about the history of his special breed. Are there others like him? Is he unique? My God, Joanna, what this animal could tell me. I could question him, and he could answer me. I am a master of telepathic communications."

"I think he understands everything anyone says."

Collins was mulling that over when the fish course arrived. Red snapper in a light cream sauce with small new potatoes and broccoli. The waiter refilled their glasses again. He held the empty bottle in his left hand, looking at Collins, who nodded. Another bottle.

"Oh this fish. A perfect match to the wine," Collins said. He proffered the breadbasket. Joanna shook her head. He took a piece, his third since her arrival, eating it with a thick slather of butter. "Can't beat New York for bread," he said.

"I don't know if Gil would go along with giving up Oooeelie. He's crazy about him. He takes the dog out clamming with him every day."

"To be very frank, that animal belongs in a controlled environment. Humane of course, but certainly under conditions where he wouldn't harm anyone. He's capable of taking down a powerful man. He did it at the foundation's farm in Massachusetts. You're aware of that. Georges will never be the same."

"I feel so terrible about what happened to Georges. But it is so confusing. He stole Oooeelie."

"Let me ask you, what if this uncontrollable animal turns on Gil one day when he's out in the middle of Long Island Sound or wherever they go clamming? You know you'll never see Gil again."

"I can't believe that would happen."

"I hope it never would, but it could and is most likely if Gil annoys it in any way. You yourself say that the animal has become hostile to you. Georges believes Oooeelie is evil incarnate. I think he is a supremely intelligent animal. I am willing to take the risk on behalf of science that Georges is wrong."

The second bottle of wine arrived. The waiter filled fresh glasses for them.

Joanna sobbed. The wine was muddling her mind. She could feel a pressure on the inside of her forehead. "I don't know what to do," she said.

Collins reached across the table, placing his hand on hers. "We can end this problem right here and now. I can take custody of the dog tonight. We'll draw up a simple contract. To make it all legal, I'll give you a dollar and you give me custody of the dog." He slapped his hands together in a sliding motion.

"What about Gil?"

"Buy him a water dog, a Yellow Lab or something. He'll forget it the day after it's gone. Your happiness and peace of mind are what should be important to him. Oooeelie's only a dog."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Gil lay awake in bed for hours worried about Joanna's failure to come home. "Please God," he prayed, "let her come home safely." The fear that something had happened to her, an accident, or that she took his refusal to abandon Oooeelie as a sign that he had chosen the dog over her moved him to the edge of panic. His heart was beating wildly. He was filled with a love for her that brought him to a decision. The dog would go.

He was pulled from sleep by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Joanna! He swung his feet out of the bed. "That you?" he called, knowing that it was. Oooeelie hadn't barked. He glanced at the alarm clock. Three AM. He heard her padding up the steps. When she came into the room, he threw aside the covers, jumped out of bed and wrapped her in his arms. "I was so worried," he said, kissing her lips, and eyes that were wet with tears.

"We have to talk, Gil," she said without preliminary.

"I'm a step ahead of you. We'll set Oooeelie up in the garage as soon as I can figure out a way to heat it. And we'll find him a home as soon as possible. Maybe Sam Ruden, the guy from upstate will take him."

"The garage is part of the house. I told you in no uncertain terms, I want him out of my house, out my life." She was shouting. "I'm not going to live my life in terror. He isn't worth it. He's just a dog."

"Whatever you say Joanna. I don't want you to be unhappy. I love you."

Tears poured down her face. "I found someone to adopt him. Professor Collins." The word 'no' sounded in her head. Joanna turned to see Oooeelie standing behind in the doorway, staring at her. She screamed, rushing across the room, tumbling into the bed. "Get him out of here," she wailed.

Gil took her in his arms. She was trembling. Downstairs, Oooeelie," he said to the dog.

Oooeelie stared at him.

"Go!" he ordered, pointing.

The Airedale turned away, trotting down the hallway and down the stairs.

"Did you hear him say 'no'?"

"No I didn't."

"I did. He's driving me crazy." Joanna wept pulling Gil closer, relishing the warmth of his lips kissing her wet face. "Oh, Gil I love you so much. Don't let a dog come between us."

"I won't. You're the love of my life. No one or nothing is more important than you," he said rocking her in his arms.

Oooeelie sat on his haunches in the big family room looking through the French doors across the snow-covered slope of the lawn to Huntington Harbor, black on this moonless night. Joanna was preparing to hand him over to his enemies. He could no longer wait for an ideal situation; he would have to leave Joanna and this place as quickly as possible. He reached a paw to the lever handle of the French doors, pressing down and pushing forward imitating the actions of the humans. Locked! The other doors to the outside in the kitchen and front hallway were round, impervious to the pull of his paws, and certainly locked. He would have to wait until morning, seizing the first opportunity to slip away. He had no illusions about the difficulties ahead. He remembered his trek across the mountains in Massachusetts, tracking and seizing the rabbit, tearing into the animal's stringy and bloody carcass. The pampered life he had enjoyed hadn't prepared him to savor an existence based on the hunt. He would fall back on his instincts as an Airedale if need be, but a dog's tools of survival weren't his only hope against hunger. Human beings' garbage cans or even a generous soul, like Old Ham, could be sources of sustenance until he found a Shaman to replace Joanna. Would these physical limitations imposed by a canine's body and his frustrations over the creepingly slow evolution of man's reach toward the stars go on forever, a form of hellfire punishment for his own arrogance in his quest to reach the edge of creation? Or had God just plunged him into a million-year purgatory on this backward planet that would end some day with his return to his beautiful home planet spinning in the glorious Sirius System, and the special pleasure of living under three suns.

He went into the kitchen to his bowl, filled with dried food. He ate all in preparation for the journey ahead into the unknown.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Gil set up about 80 feet from the shore of Lloyd Neck in 15 feet of water. He clamped three sections of pole together. With a light wind blowing from west-southwest and the tide going out, the conditions for catching clams were perfect. The temperature was moving into the 30s today, according to the weatherman. It felt warmer in the sun. But he was blue. This was their last day together

A young bald eagle, three or four years old, circled about 100 feet up. No wonder there were no birds this morning. All under cover. The big eagle sparked an eerie feeling in Gil. Once months ago, the birds suddenly screamed and screeched and the eagle appeared moments later, perching in a high tree. It watched them, making Gil wonder whether it was measuring Oooeelie, considering his weight and whether he could take the Airedale in a swooping stab into the boat. Oooeelie had locked his gaze on the bird, never taking his eyes off the eagle until it lifted from the tree flying higher and higher into the blue sky, becoming a speck in the distance.

He talked to Oooeelie as he worked, apologizing for agreeing to surrender him this afternoon to Michael Collins. But in a choice between Joanna's mental health and the dog, Gil had to sacrifice Oooeelie. Tears came to his eyes and the innards of chest burned, feeling twisted. He said to the dog, "He'll make you a good home, and he says he'll talk to you. Maybe we'll come down to Philadelphia to visit in a couple of weeks to see how you are making out? Or at least I will. Joanna is just petrified of you."

Oooeelie sat listening to Gil's monologue with contempt. He waited until the man had dropped his rake over the port side and was focused on rocking it back and forth, the drift slicing the rake through the soft bottom, the sand and mud slipping through the teeth, the rocks and clams captured in the basket with a vibration Gil could feel in his hands gripping the T-handle and the resonance of chi-chunk, chi-chunk in his ears. The clams moved further down into the muck, hibernating in winter, becoming more elusive, harder to catch. Gil was smiling, despite his professed sorrow, in the pleasure of feeling and hearing a cache of clams in the rake. His reverie was interrupted by a splash behind him. He turned to see Oooeelie's head just above the surface moving steadily through the water, heading for shore.

"Oooeelie," Gil called after him.

Oooeelie waded into the shallows of the winter-dead wetland bordering the narrow harbor, reached the beach, and shook off the cold water. Gil watched him, willing him to turn to look back for one last connection. The dog kept going, crossing a narrow band of leafless trees to a road and out of sight. Gil felt the ache of rejection, of loss, of being left behind forever.

Oooeelie emerged onto Lloyd Harbor Road and without hesitation turned west away from Huntington Bay, the direction from which he and Gil had entered the harbor. He moved at a trot, scurrying to the shoulder of the road as a blue BMW rushed along the road, swerving to avoid him. That sent a rush of adrenalin through the Airedale making him aware of the wisdom of moving along edge instead of the center of the road. He was passing Fiddler Green when a faint scent stopped him. He raised his nose sniffing, certain now of the perfume of sex wafting through the cold clear air. Drawn by a lust that overcame his superior being, he crossed Lloyd Harbor Road, following the invitation to join a ready bitch. He found her 200 yards up the road behind a big house, whose backyard was enclosed by an eight-foot high chain link fence. She was pacing back and forth, whimpering. A beautiful black Lab. Her scent was overwhelming. Oooeelie breathed hard. He surveyed the fence, found the gate, and pushed at the metal latch with his nose. The latch didn't budge. He stretched the length of his body against the gate and pushed the latch with front left paw, catching the curved, narrow, metal lever between two toes. He pushed upwards. The gate swung open.

They danced, circling face to face until Oooeelie moved to her side. He rubbed his face the length of her body. She stiffened and he drove his nose into the heart of that honey smell, snuffled, and mounted her in silent and joyous relief. He was in the midst of coming when a shriek pierced the air. "Noooooooo." Panting, he ignored the sound and kept pumping. Suddenly he was struck hard in the side by a spade. He tumbled onto his back, rolled over and came up in a fighting stance, fangs bared. A thick-bodied woman, her flabby face contorted in rage, came at him with the spade poised across her right shoulder to smash him. She hesitated in the face of his display of fierceness. Then stepped back. Oooeelie came into control of himself. The object of his affections was barking furiously at her mistress.

"Quiet Janie," the woman rasped. The black Lab barked on, just as intensely.

Oooeelie trotted to the gate, alert for any sharp movement by the woman. He slipped through the open gate, turning north on Fiddler Green.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The Rapper was getting ready to call it a day, a long day without any action. Hardly a phone call. He tossed the stained Styrofoam plate and clear plastic top and the squat empty Styrofoam soup container from the Joyous Garden of Delights, the Chinese takeout place on the corner, into the black garbage bag in the wastebasket. He turned off the computer, put on his trench coat, and was stepping towards the main light switch by the front door when the phone rang. "Sonuvofabitch," he said aloud. He hesitated. He wanted to make the 5:35, but he could use some business. He picked the phone. "Rappaporte Investigations."

"Mr. Rappaporte please." A woman's voice. Authoritative and velvet. Some big shot's secretary not a telecommunications pitch, the Rapper guessed.

"Speaking."

"Could you hold on a moment for Mr. Ortega?"

"Georgie Ortega? No I got a train to catch," the Rapper said becoming playful, but curious about what the son of a bitch wanted.

"Please. He's right here, ready to speak to you," she said.

The Rapper hung on, his heart beating faster.

Ortega came on with a forced enthusiasm in his voice. "Rapper! Georges Ortega here. I wonder if we could get together this evening to talk a little business. I have another job for you."

"And I have news for you. Your credit's no good. I sent you a full report on finding the Airedale along with my bill for services due. You owe me five grand."

"We'll talk about that when we meet."

"Are you bringing the 5,000?"

"No, but..." The Rapper hung up. He smiled. Life was a game; he and Ortega were playing one-on-one one-upsmanship. The phone rang. He laughed and picked it up.

"Rappaporte Investigations."

"Why don't you listen to my proposition instead of letting your ego rule your life?"

"I'm listening."

"You know the Player's Club on Gramercy Park?"

"I know where it is, but I'm not going there. You want to talk to me, you come to my office with my missing $5,000. Should I pencil you in for say 11 o'clock tomorrow."

"You didn't produce the dog."

"The deal was a $5,000 bonus for finding the dog."

"Whatever. I have to see you tonight. What I need can't wait. I don't have $5,000 in cash in my pocket. Will a check do?"

"No. You know my office? Come down to the office now. I got a busy night ahead of me, but I'll take some time out to listen. If we cut a deal, you can come up with the $5,000 cash tomorrow. But I'll tell ya, I don't do a noodle's worth the work until I get what's coming to me."

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Give me your word, you'll be there a while. I'm coming from uptown. You know what the traffic is like is this hour of the night."

"I'll give you an hour."

He called home. The answering machine picked up after four rings. "Sugar, don't wait supper for me. I'm working late," he said.

Ortega could smell the odor of Chinese food clinging to the discarded containers in the wastebasket. His stomach flipped. He felt weak. He often did since getting out of the hospital. The constant pain in his head drained him. His face offered a strained expression. His right eye sagged, dripping salty little tears.

"You look like hell warmed over," the Rapper said.

Ortega put down the box he was carrying, swallowed and went right to the point. An associate had called him at 4:45 to tell him that Oooeelie, the Airedale, had once again disappeared. He needed the Rapper's demonstrated skill in tracking down the animal. He explained that his associate was told the dog was last seen jumping out of Gil Tyrling's clam boat and running down Lloyd Harbor Road on Lloyd Neck out on Long Island early this morning.

"Why wait until now to contact me?"

"Tyrling didn't come in from clamming until 2:30. When he showed up without the dog, my stupid associate tried to track down it down himself on Lloyd Neck. That took a couple of hours."

"What do you think, I'm your personal dog catcher? Find somebody else."

"We both know what a magnificent job you did last time around. I made a mistake in shrugging you off. I apologize."

"You know the old saying. Screw me once, shame on you."

Ortega tried to laugh. "I know the saying. You'll have your $5,000 in cash as soon as my bank opens tomorrow. And, we'll do the same arrangement as last time. A month in advance. Expenses. And, another $5,000 when you turn the dog over to me. No, we'll make it $7,500. All cash."

"The arrangement last time was a bonus for finding the dog. I did that. Tell you what, you give me my bonus from last time, you give me six weeks in advance plus $2,000 in advance for expenses. All tomorrow. I'll agree no $7,500 bonus unless I hand the pooch over to you."

They shook hands. The Rapper smiled. The game was in his court. He held up his right index finger. "Let me think this over for a minute. Figure where I'm going from here." Ortega watched as he fetched his file on Oooeelie from a locked cabinet. He flashed through it. Then found a road map of Long Island. "I live on the Island. So not to waste any time, you deliver that money to me say at 11 o'clock, good thing I penciled that in for you, at Monty's Diner just south of Northern State Parkway on Route 110. That's Melville, you look at a map. I'll be on the job first thing in the morning. Get some preliminary work done. I'll need a couple of helpers like last time. Okay?" Ortega nodded. "I got some figuring and some phone calls to make in the morning. See you then."

"You'll see one of my people."

"Fine."

"One more thing." He patted the box. "This is a bullhorn fitted to emit white noise. The sound just wipes a dog out. I would suggest you use it when you find Oooeelie and don't turn it off until you've disabled him, or trussed him up, or." He hesitated. "Killed him."

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Two lanky teenagers were led by Monty himself to the booth the Rapper had occupied all morning, studying maps, making phone calls, receiving an envelope sealed with masking tape and thick with packets of hundred-dollar bills, delivered by Mrs. Ryan.

"Sit down fellas." He told them to order whatever they wanted for lunch, asking if Mike Spiegel, the retired detective who taught their Criminal Justice II course at Suffolk Community College, had told what the deal was? The Rapper knew he hadn't because he didn't tell Mike what was going on. No use embarrassing himself if he didn't have to. One said that Professor Spiegel had told them that they should be honored to be legmen for a master sleuth. The Rapper smiled at that.

"I need you full time for at least a week."

Their faces reddened. They had classes every day and part-time jobs.

"Today's Wednesday. You work for me fulltime. That's eight hours a day for the next five days, I'm paying $15 an hour plus lunch. You both got cars, which is good. You get another 40 cents a mile plus a lump sum of $10 a day for use of the car. And, whoever scores; whoever finds our target. I mean finds not gets a lead on. That guy gets a $500 bonus."

"Suppose we're together? We each get $500?"

The Rapper laughed. "Five-hundred period. You want to split it that's your business. What I'm saying is you work fulltime. Fuck classes and part-time jobs for the next five days. And I'm guaranteeing the five days. This is an assignment we could wrap up this afternoon if we got lucky, so you'd get five days pay plus whatever time we get in today, and maybe a $500 bonus. Otherwise finish your hamburgers and there's the door. No hard feelings. I'll call Spiegel for a couple of other recruits."

The teenagers agreed. Then the Rapper told them who their target was: an Airedale, which fortunately was a distinctive-looking breed. He watched disappointment replace the excitement in their faces. He glanced at his notes to be sure of their names. "Jack and Al, I want both you fellas to know that this is a difficult and therefore challenging assignment. You're going to get paid a prime rate and you're gonna get on-the-job training in police techniques that apply to any murder case, any heavy-duty missing person case, any kidnapping." He let that sink in. "Only what we are doing is harder. I don't know if you know my reputation?"

"Professor Spiegel said you're the very best," Jack said.

"Then you know I don't take ditsy cases. I don't have to. This is a hard one."

They nodded.

"Okay. We're gonna start with a door to door canvas of the houses on Lloyd Neck." He handed them cellular phones, pictures of an Airedale, and maps with Jack's streets marked in red and Al's in blue. "I'm going to talk to the folks working in Caumsett State Park. It's two o'clock. Figure we'll be up there in half an hour. We meet at the northern end of the beach on the causeway at five o'clock. We get any information on the target, anyone who's seen the Airedale you call me that moment. And of course if you really get lucky and find the Airedale, you call me that moment. When you knock on a door, just say, I'm looking for this Airedale. Be polite, be open. Keep your ears and eyes open."

"Suppose we finish our streets before five?"

"Call me."

On Wednesday morning, a Long Island Lighting Company lineman, stopping for coffee at a deli in Huntington Station told Al that he saw an Airedale in Caledonia Park, a town park at the corner of Caledonia and Wolf Hill Roads. Some of the town workmen were feeding him sandwiches around noon the day before. Al called the Rapper, who told him to go right to the park; he would meet him there with Jack.

Al used his waiting time to talk to a team of parks workers, who said the Airedale hung around their work shed until Jenny Ying, a very friendly Chinese woman who brought her Collie to the park to play every morning and afternoon, showed up. They all knew Jenny. At the very least she waved hello. Usually she talked to them and joked with them. She was happiness personified. The Collie and the Airedale hit it off, and Jenny took the strange dog home with her. Al asked with a growing excitement if they knew where Jenny lived? In the subdivision just across Wolf Hill Road from the park. They didn't know which house.

By noon, the Rapper was watching Al and Jack knocking on doors in search of Jenny and her Collie. The memory of what happened upstate roared through him. His heart was pounding. Sweat filled the palms of his hands. He got out of the car. He couldn't sit still. He knew he couldn't face that dog again. Al came trotting towards him. "Jenny Ying's house is around the corner on Wheatfield Place."

"Good work," the Rapper said.

"You okay?"

He pressed his hands to his side to hide their tremors. He was lightheaded and started to breathe rapidly. He managed to say: "You go to the house. Get the dog. Put him in your car. Call me when you got him. On the phone." He didn't want that animal anywhere near him. "Go," he said when Al hesitated, obviously concerned about the Rapper.

Al and Jack went to the house together. Their knock brought a barking dog crashing against the inner door. "Whoa," Al said to Jack.

A full-faced Chinese woman in her 30s opened the door. She was holding the longhaired Collie by her collar. "Yes?"

"Hi. My name is Alan Bauer."

"I don't want any," she said starting to close the door.

"No. You have our Airedale."

Jenny stopped closing the door. "Sit Tiger. Silence," she said to the Collie, who sat down and stopped barking.

"You're really good with dogs."

"I don't understand why you're here. Your driver picked up the Airedale last night."

"My driver?"

"Yes. Maybe there's a mix up here. My husband called the number on the dog's collar and someone came by to pick the dog up last night."

"Oh."

"Thank you," Jack said, nodding his head to Al, a signal to leave.

"The big question," Al said to Jack as they walked back to the Rapper's car is whether we get the bonus money."

"I think we're out of luck," Jack replied.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Yasmin finally stopped weeping and whimpering when they cross the Delaware Water Gap on Route 80 going west. He glanced over his shoulder. Oooeelie and Noor, his little girl, dozed together on the back seat. God had given him a second chance. He hadn't slept well or enjoyed eating since he abandoned Oooeelie at Gil and Joanna's house. He had chosen to put his family before this mystical being whose roots were in the beginning of time, a decision that gnawed at his soul. He felt good. He was as happy as Yasmin was sad. He started singing the words of the rhythmic, haunting poem, learned by every child in his tribe, telling the story of Oooeelie's descent from heaven and his generosity to man.

"What's going to become of us?" Yasmin asked interrupting his song.

"We're together. One family. My wife, my daughter, me, and the Oooeelie. What more can I ask of life?"

"A job. A way to make a living. We have to eat."

"You're hungry. We'll stop at the first rest stop. We'll eat the sandwiches and tea."

"You know what I mean," she said in fury.

"We're leaving the dreary streets of Greenpoint for some place where we can breath fresh and see the night alive with stars."

"They'll find you. Then what? These are powerful men. You told me so."

Anger flashed into his voice. "You don't understand the forces at work inside of me, inside of the Oooeelie. What would be the meaning of our lives? You work in a bakery making bad sweets. I drive a car, a servant to anyone with a fare. What I'm doing in this moment is fulfilling my destiny."

"Your destiny," she said with contempt.

"Shut up. How can you understand what's outside your understanding. You just want enough to eat and perfume and clothes. I want to reach to the stars."

"Ha," she snickered and turned to look at the passing countryside. Snow among the trees. Big tractor-trailers pressing close behind, roaring past them. Frightening.

Yakub swallowed the temptation get in the last word, which would continue the bickering. She didn't realize what a man he was. She should know that the little silver plated pistol lodged on his ankle wasn't a decoration. He would use it to defend Oooeelie if they found them. He imagined himself lifting the pistol from its perch, raising the little weapon into the surprised face of one of them, and squeezing the trigger.

Yakub wasn't certain himself where he was going until this morning. Gil Tyrling had called him last night telling him that Oooeelie had run away, but had been found. He hadn't told his wife. She wouldn't let the animal back in their house anyhow, but had agreed to give Oooeelie to the University of Pennsylvania. The dog was going to wind up in a cage, the subject of research and maybe experiments unless they spirited him away. Gil said that he was sorry to impose again on Yakub, he wanted to give the dog another chance at living his own life. He suggested that Yakub could drive the dog upstate to Green Suspenders Farm. He was certain Sam Ruden would take in Oooeelie. His little girl, Mandy, was crazy about the dog. He had given Yakub the address of the house on Long Island, where Oooeelie was lodged and the telephone number and address of Sam Ruden upstate.

The despair that had clung to Yakub slid away as he drove to the Ying house on Long Island. He would die before failing Oooeelie again. Those men from the foundation would pursue Oooeelie to the farm or wherever he went. At his reunion with Oooeelie, tears streamed down his face, puzzling the Yings and their children, two daughters with pure black hair and eyeglasses, miniatures of their mother. The Yings looked at one another over Yakub's back as he fell to his knees sobbing, hugging the dog on their living room floor. He drove back to the city telling Oooeelie of his plan: He had $8,000 in the bank. He would withdraw it in the morning. He would sleep with his gun in hand, ready to fight to the death for his Lord Oooeelie. He would tell Yasmin to take only those things she valued most, nothing large. Everything else had to be left behind. They could buy other things, but he would not fail the Oooeelie a second time. He had worried about facing his tribesmen, if he ever he saw one again, and discovered he couldn't face himself. God had given him a second opportunity.

On Friday morning, he packed the car, filling the trunk and the floor of the backseat. Just blankets and two pillows on the seat with Oooeelie and Noor. He didn't want to crowd them. The journey ahead was too long. Months ago, a passenger, a young woman with hair as black as Mrs. Ying, glasses, and a fine figure in black slacks and a blue cardigan, had left behind an envelope filled with pamphlets about St. John's College in Sante Fe, information about the small city in the foothills of the Rockies in New Mexico. He had read the words and studied the pictures. It all sounded wonderful. Mountains like home. Fresh air. Safety for Noor. Now a place of escape, where even the powerful wouldn't find Oooeelie. A refuge. He smiled and sung the words of the song again. Triumph in his voice as he reached the ending: "We remember what Oooeelie did for man. I will always remember. I am a Rememberer."

The Airedale opened his eyes, listening to the words in the guttural dialect of the mountains of eastern Asia. He snuggled closer to the sleeping girl, content in the warm touch of her flesh, relishing her presence. He closed his eyes, remembering the day long ago when he looked upon his first Shaman, passing that memory into the dream memory of the sleeping girl on the backseat of the Buick.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Rosie Corrigan ate her lunch of tuna salad, made with Thousand Island dressing, on toasted raisin bread and iced tea alone on her covered patio overlooking Tucson. She lingered over a second glass of tea without sugar fighting a building temptation to put another slice of raisin bread in the toaster. She was two pounds overweight this morning. That was because of dinner with Bobbie celebrating the 23rd anniversary of the launch of Voyager 1. She started with a kir royale for an aperitif, a goat cheese salad, a porterhouse steak, baked potato, a pot of beans and New York cheesecake, and half a bottle of wine to wash down the food. Bobbie drank the other half. She didn't count the coffee. Black, no sugar. No fat in that. Her stomach told her she ate too much, so much that she wondered whether she would enjoy sex with Bobbie. Fortunately, her gluttony didn't interfere with her ecstasy. She hadn't had much of that since her husband, Tom, died in 1997, three years ago. She decided against the extra half sandwich and certainly no chocolate chip cookie today.

She put away the leftovers thinking how much she missed Tom. He was company at the table, breakfast, lunch, and supper, and wonderful in bed. Adventurous. She thought about those adventures at the end of lonely days. Once in a while, one of her old buddies, like Bobbie, from NASA stopped by. She liked them all. Some of them had wives, same age as her, who depressed her with their thinning hair and deep wrinkles. Her face was still relatively smooth; lots of expensive creams and care went into that. Her head was still thick with hair. Thank God! Bobbie was the only one she went to bed with. His wife, a matronly woman with a vast belly, had passed away even before Tom. She knew he appreciated her ample figure with a fleshiness that softened with age and pleasant to the touch. He was five years her junior. She liked to tell him he was just a boy, and she loved fucking boys.

A little after one o'clock, she turned on her computer. She signed on, checking e-mail as a starter. Eighteen new messages. She glanced down the list. She opened the one from Rudy Marasco, who succeeded her as the director of the Salome's Veil Team in 1992. She pursed her lips as her encryption program translated the squiggles into English. She assumed Rudy would be bouncing another query off her. He thought that he could tap her brain forever.

His message: "Check this out. (See attachment) Either this is an incredible coincidence or this kid has broken into Rosie Corrigan's files and somehow has accessed still classified data. Maybe somebody's playing with us?"

Rosie opened the unencrypted attachment. It was an entry in the NASA essay contest for sixth-grade students, designed to spark an interest in space science. The subject of the essay: "How would you leap to the stars? In 500 words or less."

The top half of the page was decorated with a drawing of a green serpent linking a large red seven-pointed star with three glowing, golden astral bodies: a seven-pointed star, a five-pointed star, and a three-pointed star. Rosie's stomach sank. Her fingers trembled. The entry was from Noor Ram of Sante Fe:

Man has developed rockets and nuclear power—the missing ingredient in the leap to the stars is the concept of radical acceleration. Once a spherical spaceship has been developed with a skin as light as silk and three times as hard as a diamond and a self-fueling propulsion system drawing on the magnetic detritus of deep and interstellar space, the corridor of the Serpent could be entered and crossed to the Sirius System in a matter of weeks.

The opening of the corridor is at the intersection of the Phaeleus Line (a line from the center of the sun) with the Heliopause (the edge of the Solar System).

Rosie immediately realized that Rudy had called the essay to her attention because of the phrase "as light as silk and three times as hard as a diamond." That was the proclaimed, and still top secret, mission of the Salome's Veil Team at NASA. But the drawing of the serpent and the stars was what flipped her stomach. Rudy would know nothing about that unless he had experienced her visions as a girl or read the obscure little volume of poetry by Joanna Tyrling. Neither was likely.

Rosie sent an encrypted message back to Rudy: "What do we know about Noor Ram?"

Rudy messaged back: "NASA Security on the case. Noor Ram is an 11-year-old in the sixth grade at Parker Memorial Middle School in Sante Fe. Ms. Eileen Ferguson, Noor's sixth-grade teacher, confirms she watched the students in her class write the entries in the contest as part of a pop-composition class without prior notice or preparation. Noor yet to be questioned. Aside from her inside knowledge of the Salome Project, we want to know source of her awareness of the Phaeleus Line, which you know was discovered in the writings of nun, Arnica Phaeleas, who lived in Egypt somewhere around the 600 AD. The translation from Greek by an astro-anthropologist, under contract, in 1973 immediately was classified top secret and never released in any form known to anyone in the agency."

She responded: "So how does this 11-year-old know all this? Family member?"

Rudy messaged: "Noor's father, Jake Ram, is maintenance worker at St. John's College, Sante Fe. Her mother, Jasmin Ram, works in food service, same location. Uneducated. Immigrants from northern Iran. No science backgrounds. In Sante Fe since 1994 And her dog, Willie, is an Airedale."

Rosie sat back and thought for a long time. She made herself a cup of tea, and had some butter biscuits from England as she dipped into the recesses of her mind. She picked up Joanna Tyrling's book of poetry. It was right on her desk: In My Dreams by Joanna Tyrling. Dedicated to "my husband Gil, the lasting love of my life." Rosie turned to the table of contents, finding the title she wanted: "The Serpent and the Stars." A short piece about mysterious symbols on a wall. Rosie had seen symbols like that on a wall in her own dreams. Another piece, "Dreams," dealt with a dog first called Randy who renamed himself Oooeelie. A long poem entitled "Oooeelie" described a godlike creature that talked to her in her dreams and in her head. Rosie shivered the first time she read those poems, and again on this evening. She had called Joanna Tyrling when she received the book in 1997 from the North American Poetry Foundation, a freebie that came as a gift celebrating her renewed membership. She posed as a fan enthralled by her book of poetry, expressing curiosity about the source of her inspiration. Joanna told her that the dog had disappeared with Yakub Rahm, a taxi driver from the mountains of northern Iran. And she was glad to be rid of him. He had attacked two men, one who required plastic surgery on his nose. The other involved brain damage. That man never recovered, and had died in 1998. "I saw his obituary in the Times. He was only in his 40s."

"My God," Rosie had said to Joanna. After a few minutes of praise for the poetry, she hung up.

Rosie stood up. She went over to the photo on the wall. A picture of herself in 1930 on her eighth birthday with her new puppy, a scruffy mutt, a mixture of every dog who ever saw the Rio Grande. Her father named him Bing. Daddy was very upset when she changed the mutt's name to Oooeelie three years later. Her Oooeelie, who was hit by a car in 1940, had told her in her dreams about his longing to return to Sirius, about the spherical space ship with skin as light as silk and three times as hard as diamonds, and of course the Serpent corridor, somewhere up there in space, but not where to find it. Ideas like that were the stuff of science fiction in those days. Everyone in the family thought she was a strange one when she devoted her life to a search for substances harder than diamonds. She never told anyone Oooeelie made me do it. They would have considered her really strange.

Rosie had a whiskey while she thought about that name Willie. She wrote it down. Doodled around it. And came up with the solution: W equals double oo put it all together and phonetically it spells Oooeelie. She sat still for a while thinking of the implications. Reincarnation? A tribal memory? A visitor from the stars?

Rosie did some quick calculations. Voyager 1 was more than seven billion miles out, moving towards the heliopause at a speed of about 320 million miles a year. That meant the ship would reach the entry point of the Serpent corridor laid out in Noor's essay sometime in the year 2006. What she had to do now was to convince NASA to point Voyager 1 in the direction of the opening to the Serpent's corridor. The concept of wormholes as bridges to the stars in space had been around since before she was born so there was the possibility they would listen to her. But first, she would have to determine whether Noor's Willie was really a unique dog named Oooeelie?

One way to find out. A visit to Noor and her dog. She tapped into the Southwest Airlines website and made a reservation, at the senior rate, on tomorrow's 2:30 flight to Albuquerque. Santa Fe was about an hour's drive from Albuquerque. She would rent a car.

Rosie knew she wouldn't sleep tonight. Anticipation would keep her awake all night. She mused as she lay in bed that Noor could grow up to be the scientist who would develop the spherical spaceship with a skin as light as silk and three times as hard as a diamond and a self-fueling propulsion system drawing on the magnetic detritus of deep and interstellar space--capable of radical acceleration--to finally carry the Oooeelie home.

THE END

