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Bill’s eyes remained staring across at the lawyer. ‘If we do take him to court, how do I prove that all this actually happened?’

There are ways you can obtain proof. For example, next time he calls and wants to come to your house to talk, have a witness present.’

‘Isn’t Janice a witness?’

‘Certainly she is, but it would be better if you had an unrelated person present. Conceivably, you might get this Hoover to write you what he wants and proposes to do, or perhaps secretly tape his conversations…’

That was it, Bill thought with a quick surge of elation. He’d tape him. Surely, Russ Federico would lend him the equipment and even help him set up the living-room and work the machine. Russ could be the unrelated witness at the same time. Bill heard Harry droning on in the background of his thoughts and quickly shifted his concentration back to what his friend and lawyer was saying.

The tape, while probably inadmissible, could certainly be used to convince the police that this man is bothering you and enable you to avail yourself of their legal restraints and powers.’

‘I think I can arrange to tape our next meeting,’ said Bill, rising.

‘Not so fast. Where are you going?’

‘To set things up.’ Bill glanced at his watch. ‘I haven’t got much time.’

‘You intend to do this that soon?’

‘I intend to do it tonight.’

‘In that case, there are some questions I will want you to ask him.’ Harold’s stubby hand reached for a legal pad and sharp pencil. ‘A few simple bedrock questions, the answers to which will have some legal force and validity in a court of law, if indeed that is the course we select to pursue.’

Bill slowly sat back down on the couch and watched Harold bring the rubber end of the pencil up to his thick semi-parted lips and begin mentally formulating the substance of his first question.

‘One,’ he said.

*

The meeting with Russ had gone as expected; he was not only willing, but eager to help Bill. They agreed to rendezvous at the apartment at six thirty and, as Russ put it, rig the place for action. Bill hadn’t gone into great detail with Russ, only that he was being preyed on by a shakedown artist and that he needed Russ’ expert help to nail the bastard. They discussed the kind of equipment Russ would use and its deployment. Hiding the wire connecting the mike and recorder would pose a problem, he felt, unless he used a wireless mike, which was kind of temperamental and not as dependable as a direct hookup. Russ finally decided to bring a variety of systems and test them all before Hoover arrived.

Bill felt a growing excitement as he saw each step of his plans dropping neatly into place.

Before leaving Russ’ studio, he had called Janice, told her what they were up to, and suggested she arrange with Carole for Ivy to spend the night there.

‘He called this afternoon, Bill.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘No,’ Janice said. ‘I let Dominick take a message. He left a phone number.’

‘Okay, let me have it.’

‘Just a sec’ Janice was back almost immediately. ‘555-1771.’

Bill dialled the number and was surprised to hear a woman’s voice say, ‘Good evening, YMCA.’

‘Good evening,’ Bill said. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Elliot Hoover, please.’

‘One moment, please.’ A sharp click, followed by a buzzing sound and then by a subdued male voice: ‘Fourth-floor dormitory.’

‘Elliot Hoover, please,’ the woman said.

‘One moment, please.’

Bill put his hand over the mouthpiece and quietly asked Russ, ‘Nine o’clock okay?’

‘Nine thirty,’ Russ whispered back.

Bill could hear the echoing sound of footsteps approaching. Then Hoover’s voice said, ‘This is Elliot Hoover.’

‘Bill Templeton here.’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Templeton.’ The voice held a note of eagerness.

‘I’d like to get together with you tonight, at my apartment, say, nine thirty?’

‘That will be fine. Thank you.’

Yes, Bill thought, jumping over a dirt-encrusted snow drift at the corner of Fifty-ninth and Central Park West, it will all work out fine.

*

‘A girl named Abby called. She said that the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette confirmed the information you wanted: that Sylvia Flora Hoover and her daughter, Audrey Rose, were killed in a car accident on the Harrisburg Turnpike a little after eight thirty on the morning of August 4, 1964.’

No kiss, no hello, no chance to take off his coat and boots; Janice assaulted him with the information the moment he pushed open the door.

‘Okay,’ Bill said quietly, edging his way around her into the apartment.

‘Okay?’ she shrilled back.

Take it easy, baby. Let me take off my coat and make us a drink,’ he said soothingly, although the rich winy odour on her breath informed him that she hadn’t waited to be asked. ‘We can talk about this thing reasonably.’

‘Oh, God,’ she moaned softly.

‘Janice!’ Bill’s voice sharpened. ‘I don’t know what you’re building here. But I want you to know that I do not believe in spooks, ghosts, haunts, auras, Karmas, or any of that crap. There’s got to be a simple, real-fife explanation to all this.’

Janice took a quick step back.

‘All right, give me one!’

‘Okay, off the top of my head. The guy picks his mark, finds when their child was born - the exact minute of birth - then does research on what child died at that very same time. He’s got the whole country to pick his child from. And once he matches them up, he simply steps into the character of the dead child’s father and makes the hit. Reasonable?’

Janice stared back at him without saying a word. He could tell by the softening lines in her face that his explanation had scored with her. Not entirely, but enough to permit him to take her into his arms and kiss her lost and haunted eyes.

‘And that’s off the top of my head.’ Bill smiled. ‘Believe me, Janice, we’re gonna get to the bottom of this thing and shake ourselves loose from this creep. I promise.’

He kissed her lips and felt her mouth open and her body lose most of its tension. But for Ivy upstairs, zealously packing her overnight bag for her sleep-over date with the Federicos, Bill might have made love to her then and there.

Russ showed up at six twenty-five with a mountain of sound gear. Mario and Ernie helped him lug it off the elevator and down the corridor to Bill’s apartment.

For the next hour, Bill’s voice intoning, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six … do you read me? Do you read me? Six, five, four, three, two, one … come in, Russ, do you read me?’ filled the apartment and filtered through to Janice, in the kitchen, preparing sandwiches and dressing a large salad of mixed vegetables, lettuce, and tomatoes. Ivy had left on her overnight journey a few minutes before Russ had arrived, toting a much too heavy suitcase and her favourite TV dinner under her arm.

At eight fifteen, Russ, Bill, and Janice were seated around the living-room, finishing the last of the sandwiches and beer and surveying their handiwork. The wireless mike hadn’t worked, compelling them to string a wire from the microphone, concealed among the autumn leaves and flowers in the vase next to the sofa, clear across the long living-room, hidden under a series of carpets and up the staircase wall to their bedroom, where Russ had set up his Nagra recording equipment. It would be up to Bill to get Hoover to sit in precisely the right spot on the sofa in order to guarantee a usable signal. Janice felt the whole thing was too complicated to work. The men were not discouraged by her scepticism and continued to work with enthusiasm, perfecting the setup, until nine twenty-five, when the phone rang.

Bill lifted the receiver gingerly and said, ‘Yes?’ Then, after a pause; ‘Okay, send him right up.’

Bill signalled Janice with a quick motion of his finger. She heard Russ’ footsteps ascending the stairs to their bedroom to man his post, and she quickly moved to her own prearranged position at the far end of the sofa adjacent to the one intended for Elliot Hoover. She would be the decoy, Bill reasoned, to lure Hoover to that part of the room.

A pronounced hush settled over the apartment, a conscious, collective stillness such as one experiences in a theatre, just as the houselights dim and the curtain goes up.

The doorbell rang.

Janice heard Bill and Hoover mumble something incomprehensible to each other as they walked down the long, narrow hallway towards the living-room and assumed it to be some form of salutation. There was a sense of madcap, Janice thought, in the act of two men, undoubted enemies, observing the gentle amenities prescribed by a rigid upbringing - like two opposing generals shaking hands before a slaughter.

Bill’s face was stern, set, ungiving, as he preceded Hoover through the carved doorway and into the living-room and attempted to guide him towards the area of the sofa with a slight wave of his arm. But Hoover stopped on the threshold and remained standing, critically surveying the room, his doleful eyes filled with great awe as they slowly took in each detail of the walls and ceiling. The soft pink light of the sconces accented the clear, unlined pallor of his face, lending it a youthful, priest-like placidity.

Bill had turned quickly when he realized that Hoover’s attention was elsewhere and now stood impatiently waiting for their guest to make a move.

‘It’s exactly as he described it,’ Hoover said in a small, incredulous voice. ‘The fireplace … the white stuccoed walls … the ceiling paintings’ - his eyes found the staircase - ‘and the staircase, with the carved-head newel post…’ He walked to the staircase and placed his fingers on the Viking’s head in a delicate, tentative gesture, as if he were seeking tactile corroboration to confirm the fact that his eyes were not deceiving him. His gaze slowly drifted up the banister to the top of the staircase, and his eyes became pinpoints of curiosity.

‘The bedrooms … upstairs’ - his voice was hushed with emotion - ‘three of them … Ivy’s to the left of the stairs.,.’

Bill girded himself for action. If Hooker took one step up the stairs, he would charge across the room and tackle the son of a bitch.

But Hoover held his ground and turned his attention to Bill.

‘Am I right?’ he asked with a smile that Bill decided was smug.

‘Umm … yeah …’ Bill said, shifting about nervously. ‘I… er … think we’d better get this thing started, if you don’t mind.’

‘Certainly,’ Hoover replied, and quickly crossed the room, taking in the slipshod arrangement of carpets concealing the microphone wire. He sat on the sofa where he was meant to sit, and Bill took the seat immediately to his right.

‘Uh … I wonder, Mr Hoover,’ Bill began, groping, ‘if you’d mind going through the … highlights again of what you told us last night? We were kind of hazy, and … you hit us with so much…’

Hoover thought a moment. ‘Is there any particular part that you would like me to repeat?’

Janice was sure that Hoover knew-he was being recorded.

‘No, no,’ Bill said. ‘Just a general summary of things, you know, starting, say, with the death of your wife and child.’

Elliot Hoover took a deep breath and shut his eyes. There was a sense of ritual in the gesture, a rallying of inner strengths to muster support for a time of trial. When he spoke, it was in short, well-organized, fact-filled sentences.

‘My wife and child died in a car accident on August 4, 1964. About a year later, I met a woman, a psychic, who told me that my daughter had returned to life, in the body of another person, and was living in New York City. My tendency was to scoff at the notion, but I did find it intriguing. A year later I attended a lecture given by a well-known parapsychologist, and he told me substantially the same thing the woman had a year before, that my daughter was living in the body of a child named Ivy, and he went on to describe her home, which was identical to the environment I now find myself in.’

The simple, direct manner of his delivery gave Janice the chills. He really seemed to believe this.

‘Who are these people?’ Bill interrupted.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The two psychics? What are their names?’

‘I never knew the woman’s name. The man wasErik Lloyd.’

‘Erik Lloyd?’

‘Yes, he’ - Hoover’s eyes lowered in respect - ‘died several years ago.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Bill commiserated. ‘That’s too bad.’

He could have predicted both answers. Hoover obviously thought he was dealing with novices.

‘All right,’ he continued, his eyes fastened on Hoover, ‘at that point, we’re talking about 1965 to ‘6. You say that two people, psychics, told you your daughter was alive and living in New York and that her name was Ivy, is that correct?’

Janice thought Bill was overplaying it. Still, Hoover answered forthrightly and without seeming concern.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That’s correct.’

‘Well, why didn’t you come here then and claim her?’

‘It was never my intention to claim her. Nor is it now.’

‘Well, why didn’t you at least come and look us up, as you’re doing now? What took you, was it, seven years to decide whether or not she was really your child?’

‘Mr Templeton’ - Hoover’s voice was soft with patience - ‘as I explained last night, my entire background, my religious upbringing, the sum and substance of all I was and believed in, were strongly opposed to such ideas. I was a scoffer and a disbeliever, as you are now.’

‘So you went to India to discover the truth?’

‘I went to many places, Mr Templeton, met and stayed with many families, many teachers; learned of a way of life that was totally alien to mine; joined my life with theirs; embraced their customs; shared their poverty; partook of their beliefs and their philosophies; and, in time, with the help of God, and the wisdom of Siddhartha Guatama, their Buddha, came to know the reality of their religious convictions.’

Hoover turned to Janice.

‘Might I please have a glass of water, Mrs Templeton?’ he asked.

As Janice rose and walked towards the kitchen, Bill’s next question faded off in the background.

‘Understand, Mr Hoover, when it comes to reincarnation and things like that, I’m at ground zero. Tell me. What are these religious convictions you’re talking about? And what convinces you that they’re right and that you are right in what you’re doing?’