Jorja had not put the doctor playkit under the tree; it was hidden in a closet as a final surprise. But with only three boxes left, Marcie was pale and trembling in anticipation of Little Ms. Doctor.

In God's name, what was so important about it? Many of the toys already unwrapped were more expensive and more interesting than the playdoctor's bag. Why was her attention so intently and unnaturally focused on that single item? Why was she so obsessed with it?

When the last of the gifts beneath the tree and the last of those from Mary and Pete were opened, Marcie let out a sob of purest misery. "Santa didn't bring it! He forgot! He forgot!"

Considering all the wondrous presents strewn across the room, the girl's despondency was shocking. Jorja was disconcerted and displeased by Marcie's rudeness, and she saw that her own parents were startled, dismayed, and impatient with this unexpected and unjustified tantrum.

Suddenly afraid that Christmas was collapsing into ruins around her, Jorja ran to the bedroom closet, plucked the crucial gift from behind the shoe boxes, and returned to the living room with it.

With frenzied desperation, Marcie snatched the box from her mother.

“What's gotten into the child?” Mary asked.

, 'Yeah,“ Pete said, ”what's so important about this Little Doctor?"

Marcie tore frantically at the wrappings until she saw that the package contained the item she most desired. Immediately, she grew calm, stopped trembling. “Little Ms. Doctor. Santa didn't forget!”

“Honey, maybe it's not from Santa,” Jorja said. She was relieved to see the child she loved emerging from that strange and unpleasant mood. "Not all your gifts came from Santa. Better look at the tag."

Marcie dutifully searched for the tag, read the few words on it, and looked up with an uncertain smile. “It's from . . . Daddy.”

Jorja felt her parents' staring at her, but she did not meet their eyes. They knew that Alan had gone off to Acapulco with his latest bimbo, the airhead blond named Pepper, and that he had not bothered to leave so much as a card for Marcie, and they no doubt disapproved of Jorja letting him off the hook like this.

Later, when Jorja was in the kitchen, squatting in front of the oven, checking on the turkey, her mother stooped down beside her and said softly, "Why'd you do it, Jorja? Why'd you put that louse's name on the gift she wanted most of all?"

Jorja slid the rack partway out of the oven, bringing the turkey into the light. With a ladle, she scooped the drippings from the pan and basted the roasting bird. Finally she said, "Marcie shouldn't have her Christmas ruined just because her father's a jackass."

“You shouldn't protect her from the truth,” Mary said quietly.

“The truth's too ugly for a sevenyearold.”

"The sooner she knows what a louse her father is, the better. You know what your dad heard about this woman Alan's living with?"

“I sure hope this bird's going to be done by noon.”

Mary would not drop the subject. "She's on the call list of two casinos, Jorja. That's what Pete heard. You know what I mean? She's a call girl. Alan's living with a call girl. What's wrong with him?"

Jorja closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Mary said, "Well, if he wants nothing to do with Marcie, that's fine. God knows what diseases he's picked up living with that woman."

Jorja pushed the turkey back into the oven, closed the door, and stood up. “Could we not talk about this any more?”

“I thought you'd want to know what the woman is.”

“So now I know.”

Their voices dropped lower, became more intense: "What if he comes around some day and says, 'Pepper and I want Marcie to go to Acapulco with us,' or Disneyland, or maybe just stay at their place for a while?"

Exasperated, Jorja said, "Mother, he doesn't want anything to do with Marcie because she reminds him of his responsibilities."

“But what if-”

“Mother, damn it!”

Although Jorja had not raised her voice, there was such anger in those three words that the effect on her mother was immediate. A hurt look crossed Mary's face. Stung, she turned away from Jorja. She went quickly to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked over the contents of the overloaded shelves. “Oh, you made gnocchi.”

“Not storebought,” Jorja said shakily. “Homemade.” She meant to be conciliatory, but she realized that her comment might be misconstrued as a snide reference to her father's dismay over storebought cookies. She bit her lip, and fought back scathing tears.

Still looking into the refrigerator, a tremor still in her voice, Mary said, "You're going to have potatoes, too? And what's thisoh, you've already grated the cabbage for coleslaw. I thought you'd need help, but I guess you've thought of everything." She closed the refrigerator door and looked for something she could do to occupy her and get them through this awkward moment. Tears were visible in her eyes.

Jorja virtually flung herself away from the counter and threw her arms around her mother. Mary returned the hug, and for a while they clung to each other, finding speech both unnecessary and impossible.

Holding fast, Mary said, "I don't know why I'm like this. My mother was the same with me. I swore I'd never be like this with you."

“I love you just the way you are.”

"Maybe it's because you're my only. If I'd been able to have a couple others, I wouldn't be so tough on you."

“It's partly my fault, Mom. I've been so touchy lately.”

“And why shouldn't you be?” her mother said, holding her tight. "That louse walks out on you, you're supporting yourself and Marcie, going to school. . . . You got every right to be touchy. We're so proud of you, Jorja. It takes such courage to do what you're doing."

In the living room, Marcie began shrieking.

What now? Jorja wondered.

When she got to the living room archway, she saw her father trying to persuade Marcie to play with a doll. “Look here,” Pete said, "dolly cries when you tilt her this way, giggles when you tilt her that way!"

“I don't want to play with the dumb doll”' Marcie pouted. She was holding the makebelieve plasticandrubber hypodermic syringe from the Little Ms. Doctor kit, and that unsettling intensity and urgency had taken possession of her again. “I want to give you another shot.”

“But honey,” Pete said, “you've already given me twenty shots.”

“I've got to practice,” Marcie said. "I'll never grow up to be my own doctor if I don't start practicing now."

Pete looked at Jorja with exasperation.

Mary said, “What is it with this Little Ms. Doctor thing'?”

“I wish I knew,” Jorja said.

Marcie grimaced -as she pushed the plunger of the fake hypodermic. Perspiration glistened on her brow.

“I wish I knew,” Jorja repeated uneasily.

Boston, Massachusetts.

It was the worst Christmas of Ginger Weiss's life.

Although Jewish, her beloved father had always celebrated Christmas in a secular spirit, because he liked the harmony and good will that the holiday promoted, and after his death, Ginger had continued to regard December 25 as a special day, a time of joy. Until today, Christmas had never depressed her.

George and Rita did all they could to make Ginger feel a part of their celebration, but she was acutely aware that she was an outsider. The Hannabys' three sons had brought their families to Baywatch for several days, and the huge house was filled with the silvery laughter of children. Everyone made an effort to include Ginger in all the Hannaby traditions, from popcornstringing to neighborhood caroling.

Christmas morning, she was there to watch the children attack the mountain of gifts, and following the example of the other adults, she crawled around on the floor with the kids, helping them assemble and play with their new toys. For a couple of hours, her despair abated, and she was assimilated by the Hannaby family in spite of herself.

However, at lunchrich with holiday delicacies yet essentially a light meal, just a hint of the extravagant dinner feast to come that eveningGinger felt out of place again. Much conversation involved reminiscences of previous holidays of which she'd not been a part.

After lunch, she pleaded a headache and escaped to her room. The splendid view of the bay calmed her but couldn't arrest her spiral into depression. She desperately hoped Pablo Jackson would call tomorrow and say that he had studied the problem of memory blocks and was ready to hypnotize her again.

Ginger's visit to Pablo had distressed George and Rita less than she had expected. They were upset that she had gone out alone, risking an amnesic seizure with no friend to help

her, and they made her promise she would allow either Rita or one of the servants to drive her to and from Pablo's apartment in the future, but they did not attempt to argue against the unconventional treatment she had sought from the magician.

The bay view's capacity to calm Ginger was limited. She turned from the window, got up, and went to the bed, where she was surprised to find two books on the nightstand. One was a fantasy by Tim Powers, an author she had read before, the other a copy of something called Twilight in Babylon and she had no idea where they had come from.

There were half a dozen other books in the room, borrowed from the library downstairs, for during the past few weeks she had had little to do but read. But this was the first time she'd seen Powers' book and Twilight in Babylon. The former, a tale of timetraveling trolls fighting their own secret war against British goblins during the American revolution, looked delightful, the type of exotic story that her father had enjoyed. A slip of paper laid loosely in the front identified it as a review copy. Rita had a friend who was a reviewer for the Globe, and who sometimes passed along intriguing books before they were available in the stores. Evidently, these had come within the last day or two, and Rita, aware of Ginger's tastes in fiction, had put them in her room.

She set the Powers book aside for later delectation, and she took a closer look at Twilight in Babylon. She had never heard of the author, Dominick Corvaisis, but the brief summary of the story was intriguing, and when she had read the first page, she was hooked. However, before continuing, she moved from the bed to one of the comfortable chairs and, only then, glanced at the author's photograph on the back of the jacket.

Her breath caught in her throat. Fear filled her.

For a moment she thought the photograph was going to be the kicker that knocked her into another fugue. She tried to fling the book aside but could not, tried to stand up but could not. She drew deep breaths, closed her eyes, and waited for her pulse rate to sink toward normal.

When she opened her eyes and looked at the author's photograph again, it still disturbed her, though not as badly as it had at first. She knew that she had seen this man before, had met him somewhere, and not in the best of circumstances,

though she could not remember where or when. His brief biography on the jacket flap informed her that he had lived in Portland, Oregon, and now resided in Laguna Beach, California. As she had never been in either of those places, she could not imagine when their paths might have crossed.

Dominick Corvaisis, about thirtyfive, was a striking man who reminded Ginger of Anthony Perkins when that actor had been younger. His looks were compelling enough that she could not imagine having forgotten where she had met him.

Her instant reaction to the photo was strange, and some might have dismissed it as a meaningless fillip of an overwrought mind. But during the past two months she had learned to respect strange developments and to look for meaning in them, no matter how meaningless they seemed.

She stared at Corvaisis' photograph, hoping to nudge her memory. Finally, with an almost clairvoyant sense that Twilight in Babylon would somehow change her life, she opened it and began to read.

Chicago, Illinois.

From University Hospital, Father Stefan Wycazik drove across town to the laboratory operated by the Scientific Investigation Division of the Chicago Police Department. Though it was Christmas Day, municipal workers were still cleaning last night's snowfall from the streets.

Only a couple of men were on duty at the police lab, which was located in an aging government building, and the old rooms had the deserted feeling of an elaborate Egyptian tomb buried far beneath desert sands. Footsteps echoed resoundingly back and forth between the tile floors and the high ceilings.

Ordinarily, the lab did not share its information with anyone from outside the police and judicial systems. But half the police officers in Chicago were Catholics, which meant that Father Wycazik had more than a few friends on the force. Stefan had importuned some of those friends to make petitions in his name and to pave the way for him at the SID.

He was greeted by Dr. Murphy Aimes, a paunchy man with a perfectly bald head and walrus mustache. They'd spoken on the telephone earlier, before Stefan left the rectory

for University Hospital, and now Murphy Aimes was ready for him. They settled on two stools at a laboratory bench. A tall opaque window loomed in front of them, decorated with dark streaks of pigeon dung. On the marble top of the bench, Aimes had laid out a file folder and several other items.

"I must say, Father, I'd never compromise case information like this if there were any possibility of a trial arising from the shootout at that sandwich shop. But I suppose, as both perpetrators are dead, there's no one to be put on trial."

"I appreciate that, Dr. Aimes. I really do. And I'm grateful for the time and energy you've expended on my behalf."

Curiosity ruled Murphy Aimes's face. He said, "I don't really understand the reason for your interest in the case."

“I'm not entirely sure of it myself,” Stefan said cryptically.

He had not revealed his purpose to the higher authorities who had made him welcome at the lab, and he did not intend to enlighten Aimes, either. For one thing, if he told them what was on his mind, they would think he was dotty and would be less inclined to cooperate with him.

“Well,” Aimes said, miffed at not being taken into Stefan's confidence, “you asked about the bullets.” He opened a manila envelope of the type that ties shut with a string, and he emptied its contents into his palm: two gray lumps of lead. "The surgeon removed these from Winton Tolk. You said you were particularly interested in them."

“certainly am,” Stefan said, taking them in his own hand when Aimes offered them. "You've weighed these, I suppose. I understand that's standard procedure. And they weigh what .38 slugs should?"