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searched for a toehold and finally spotted a shallow lip about ten feet below. Focusing, she bent the scraggly tree over and patiently worked her fingers along the trunk as she lowered herself.
    Finally, the toe of one running shoe found the narrow shelf. Almost immediately, the roots broke free in a shower of sand and rock.
    She released the tree. As it fell, she swayed, caught her balance, and flattened into the sheer face, suddenly overwhelmed by pain. She hurt everywhere. Breathing deeply, she blocked it from her mind again.
    There was another little ledge lower. Carefully, she eased her way down from outcropping to spindly bush to clump of grass. Progress came in inches. When she reached the ledge, she collected herself and saw a third place below where she could put both feet. With small goals, the impossible was achievable.
    When she reached that ledge, she looked down again. Fifteen feet remained. A towering wave rolled in and crashed onto the sand, sending spray up against the cliff, almost reaching her. She decided that was too good a sign of a doable distance to ignore. She analyzed the drop, bent her knees, flexed her body, and stepped away from the cliff.
    Heart pounding, she plummeted straight down through the ocean air and landed in a crouch in the sand, sending seabirds aloft in flight. Their sharp cries of complaint rose and disappeared. She stayed there, fingers dug into the sand, motionless, panting.
    Finally, as glossy white surf spent itself near her feet, she wiped an arm across her hot face and forced herself to think. It was illogical, impossible, that she had been a target of opportunity for some random madman. No, that bastard had been following her. He had tried to kill her —and had come very close to succeeding. But why here? Why now?
    She shuddered, feeling again his steely grip around her waist, her helplessness at his well-planned attack. At last, she stood up, brushed the sand from her hands, and began walking back. Soon she was overcome by restlessness. Then a fiery bolt of outrage shot through her. Furious, she ran. Had the past caught up with her at last?

Three
    In the psych building, Liz hurried down the hall. Walking toward her was a student with books clutched to her chest, her gaze far away, thinking. Then she saw Liz.
    Her eyes rounded with surprise. “Are you okay, Professor Sansborough?”
    â€œHad a little tumble jogging,” Liz told her breezily. “Nothing to worry about.”
    Liz continued past. Students, books, academics. This was her life. A wonderful, stimulating world of the mind she had grown to love. She studied and taught about violence. She no longer lived it. That was finished. She was a different person now.
    She unlocked her office, rehearsing what to say when she called the Sheriff’s Department. But as she crossed the room, heading for the phone, she had the eerie sense that something here was not right either. She stopped behind her desk. Her office was a constantly changing mosaic of books, papers, newspapers, tapes, photographs—correspondence and research of all kinds. Dizzying to others, including Kirk. As she gazed analytically around, she realized with surprise that she could still reconstruct a scene with accuracy.
    Nothing was out of place. Her imagination must be in overdrive. She swore aloud, reached for the phone, then stopped.
    The red light was blinking on her answering machine. She punched the play button. “Message posted ten-thirty A.M .,” the machine informed her.
    It was Shay Babcock, her producer, in his unmistakable Hollywood mixture of insider whisper and con artist sweet talk: “Hey, Liz. Howareya? I’ve got some lousy news for you. Looks as if we’re out of business for a while. Compass Broadcasting has postponed Secrets of the Cold War until next season. Maybe longer. Sorry, kid.”
    â€œNo!” Liz fell into her chair.
    With a rush of guilt, Shay continued: “I called and called