Programmed for Peril

raised itself, his fingers extended.
    Her soft neck seized his attention. It seemed to stretch itself like Alice growing taller in Wonderland.
    He spread his hands. Let him wrap that ivory column with the bony ropes of his fingers!
    “Mommy, Mommy!” Melody’s scream from her room.
    He jerked his hand back as though wakened from a dangerous dream. Panic followed. Mothers could raise themselves from the dead on hearing their child’s weakest cry.
    “Mommy, I’m having a dream!”
    Champ rushed from bedside to closet, tore open the door, flung himself among clothes. Queen of My Heart’s sweet odor was rent by the rancid edge of his sweat. He stood motionless, dripping amid cloth’s caress.
    He wondered if Carson’s powers extended to the sorcery of an induced nightmare delivered to Melody’s brain at that penultimate moment. If somehow his master had known— did Champ even know?—on what acts’ edges he had teetered, punishment would be absolute.
    Absolute.
    “Melody, it’s okay! Mother’s coming.”
    And Champ is going!
    He heard the give of springs, the faintest rustle of hurried strides. Crack the door. Out with the head. The way was clear! A 210-pound man could move like a wraith on two cat feet. Whooosh! Down the stairs, to the pantry, the cellar, and out.
    In the shadow of the garage he panted, sweat drying too slowly. He shuddered at where he had gotten to, what he might have done. Behind any such forbidden behaviors would lie Carson’s wrath, following as surely as thunder after lightning. Next: furious punishment.
    More terrifying than Carson in full rage was the vivid lesson he had just learned.
    He no longer maintained stony control over his behaviors!
    Bewilderment rose like the dew on the grass at his feet.
    The Tumbler Tickler got him into the garage and under the hood of her car. At work, with devices of his own assembly in hand, his newfound uncertainties subsided. His mood improved. He hummed as he worked. In time he smiled. He sang in a low voice, “To dream the impossible dream . .
     

19
     
    NICHOLAS HAD REACHED NEW HEIGHTS OF PECULIARITY when making his report, Trish thought, nosing her Acura through traffic. It had taken her a while to translate the evasive eye contact, foot shifting, and dome stroking. Eventually she understood they meant he had been embarrassed and chagrined. Dino’s shotgun blasts had sent all his determined technical efforts down the chute.
    Trish had hidden her disappointment at the news. Nicholas attempted to hearten himself by sharing with her new ideas about how he would resume the electronic hunt for Carson. She sent him on his way with words of encouragement and cheer that she didn’t truly feel. She had put a lot of stock in the odd man’s scheme. That it should have failed on Dino’s account she found disappointing. It seemed his inner steadiness had been a facade. In his way he was even less reliable than his spidery partner. An odd couple indeed.
    Buying bread at Estrella, she found Dino sheepish and apologetic. Sometimes he could be hotheaded, he explained. Trish imagined she heard again frightened Rocco DeVita talking angrily of deranged Vietnam vets.
    Dino reached across the counter and touched her hand where it rested beside the white bag. “Don’t give up on me, Patricia,” he said. “I can be a help to you. I know it. Besides just me and Mario keeping an eye on your building. I want you to call on me again. I won’t screw up. Promise.”
    Had she more forces in her fight against Carson, she would have politely kissed him off. But a quick tally of troops, especially with Foster’s loyalty hanging in the balance, told her she couldn’t spare Dino, no matter his taste for the quick and violent.
    Thoughts of Foster wheeled her back to memories of their relationship over the last two weeks, shifting like a river delta in floodtime. She groaned, wondering more than ever if they would allow themselves to reach the haven of September fifteenth nuptials. He had ordered a one-week break in their relationship—to Trish’s great anxiety—the day after he had confronted her with the lewd videotape. He needed that time to “confer with my heart,” as he put it. She feared he would go to Lois Smith-Patton with his dilemma. Trish could well imagine Lois sending a final torpedo into the damaged vessel of his engagement.
    To her joy, the hiatus ended with his invitation to go sailing. He set a course for the middle of the bay. She waded