rm
campfires, of the Maine woods, rich and green in summer. He thought of
his father's hopes for his future and the words of that tall,
gray-haired figure came back to him.

"_You'll be a fine doctor, Lewis. Study and work hard and you'll
succeed. I know you will._"

He remembered the long winter evenings of study at his father's great
mahogany desk, pouring over medical books and journals, taking notes,
sifting and re-sifting facts. He remembered one set of books in
particular--Erickson's monumental three-volume text on surgery, richly
bound and stamped in gold. He had always loved these books, above all
others.

What had gone wrong along the way? Somehow, the dream had faded, the
bright goal vanished and was lost. After a year of pre-med at the
University of Southern Cal, he had given up medicine; he had become
discouraged and quit college to take a laborer's job with a construction
company. How ironic that this move should have saved his life! He'd
wanted to work with his hands, to sweat and labor with the muscles of
his body. He'd wanted to earn enough to marry Joan and then, later
perhaps, he would have returned to finish his courses. It all seemed so
far away now, his reason for quitting, for letting his father down.

Now, at this moment, an overwhelming desire gripped him, a desire to
pour over Erickson's pages once again, to re-create, even for a brief
moment, the comfort and happiness of his childhood.

He'd seen a duplicate set on the second floor of Pickwick's book store
in Hollywood, in their used book department, and now he knew he must go
after them, bring the books back with him to the drains. It was a
dangerous and foolish desire, but he knew he would obey it. Despite the
risk of death, he would go after the books tonight. _Tonight._

* * * * *

One corner of Lewis Stillman's room was reserved for weapons. His prize,
a Thompson submachine, had been procured from the Los Angeles police
arsenal. Supplementing the Thompson were two semi-automatic rifles, a
Luger, a Colt .45 and a .22-caliber Hornet pistol, equipped with a
silencer. He always kept the smallest gun in a spring-clip holster
beneath his armpit, but it was not his habit to carry any of the larger
weapons with him into the city. On this night, however, things were
different.

The drains ended two miles short of Hollywood--which means he would be
forced to cover a long and particularly hazardous stretch of