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cat ever since that day, Rebecca. I’d love to see you out of here. I don’t think you’ll ever feel safe in this place again.” She pondered it.
    “Los Angeles, huh? Earthquakes. Riots. Floods. Smog.”
    “Millions of people are comfortable there,” Bill Moore said. “There are suburbs if you don’t want to be in LA proper.”
    She thought about it. On their honeymoon they had traveled the West Coast, driving from San Diego all the way up to the Napa Valley, three memorable weeks of sunshine, wine, great restaurants, beaches, and lovemaking. Now he was reminding her that every day could be like that. Sort of. He took her hand.
    “I will try as best I can,” he said, “to make this the best move of our lives together. That’s a promise, Becca.” Half a minute passed. She examined her thoughts, her fears, and her hopes.
    “I think,’ she said, “I could finally buy this idea.”
    “And,” Bill Moore said, “Mr. Shaved Head would never turn up again.” Her eyes found his.
    “You’re trying to tell me that you’re doing this for me?” she asked. “It’s for both of us. Or for that matter, all four of us. We’re in our thirties. If we cash out here with the house, we’ll have enough money. If we don’t like California, we’ll kiss it good bye after a year or two.” Another few moments of thought.
    “Okay. I just bought the idea,” she said. He kissed her. He never mentioned Sergeant Chandler’s final spin on the Tremont Lane incident.
    In the weeks that followed, the Moores did some cosmetic fix-ups on their home, and then put the house on the market. They set a reasonable price and hoped for a quick sale.
    Bill flew to California and back to secure his position in his former college roommate’s architecture firm. While he was away, Rebecca and the children stayed with friends. And the more she considered the move, the more receptive she was to the idea. Once a week, she saw the psychiatrist. Dr. Miller thought that a change of scene might help ease her residual fears. Miller also offered the name and address of another man in California, a Dr. Henry Einhom, to whom she could speak if she felt she wanted to continue seeing a professional. Rebecca put Dr. Einhorn’s name in her laptop.
    Meanwhile, the investigation of her abduction receded. Sergeant Chandler thought about the incident repeatedly. It was like a tune that stays involuntary upon one’s mind early in a day and of which one can’t rid oneself. There was something about the case, Chandler kept thinking, that wasn’t quite right. But he couldn’t figure out what it was. Someday, he vowed, he’d take a walk in those woods again and see if he could get lucky and find an arrowhead. Or a bullet.
    But, now given to nightmares and daydreams, Rebecca Moore kept seeing the face of the man who had attacked her. Somehow she knew that he had been there to kill her. And she sensed all along that the police were skeptical about her story.
    But she
knew
that there had been a beastlike man bent on killing her. What she didn’t know was why. In her mind, the incident kept replaying like a film projector stuck for eternity on the same reel. She searched for clues and for meaning. And hundreds of times a day, in her mind, she saw the horrible face of her assailant, always accompanied by the notion that someday, possibly out of nowhere, he would re-appear.

Chapter 4
    “I think you might like this,” Esther Lewisohn, the real estate lady, whispered in a mildly conspiratorial voice. She stood on the porch of a neglected seven-decade-old Queen Anne house.
    Mrs. Lewisohn was a pleasantly pushy woman with a crown of platinum hair that gave her the final three inches of a five foot four stature. She specialized in private homes in West LA, Beverly Hills, and the better neighborhoods contiguous to both. She had done well over the last twenty years, much better than she had done as a math teacher in the New York City public school system in the first