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name is Ron.” There was a moment where Holly expected to hear the rest of the SOL statement, but it never came and the group remained silent.
    “Bobbi,” Ron continued, “I paid forty-five dollars to be here tonight. Your workshops cost fifteen hundred dollars. A set of your tapes runs ninety-five bucks. Don’t you think there is something fundamentally inconsistent in offering work of this depth at such great profit to yourself?” Holly wondered the same thing but hadn’t wanted to draw attention to herself.
    Bobbi seemed unruffled. “The most useful thing for you to bear in mind is that the results of the work stand independent of the cost. In fact, putting up the money will intensify your commitment to the work. And that in turn will result in a greater sense of being a part of our fellowship, an increased sense of well-being, of wholeness that will launch you into so much higher a state of creativity and productiveness that the few dollars you pay here will be the best investment, the wisest placement of that energy we call money, that you ever made. Furthermore, I invite you, once you’ve got it, to give it away.”
    It was a smooth response, Holly thought, to Ron’s challenge. A higher state of creativity, wholeness, well-being, rocketing into a new dimension—it all sounded so very attractive.
    Bobbi thanked the audience to new cheers and applause and then left the stage. Art walked up to the podium and took the mic.
    “Okay, does anyone not have an application for the next intensive?” He held up a copy. “Look around and you will see someone in your section standing and holding up one of these. Take your application to them and they will walk you through the enrollment procedure. Don’t go home and think about it. The time to save your life is now.”
    The house lights went on and the theater burst into commotion. Holly turned to see Ted: he had a look of triumph on his face. “Really something, wasn’t she?”
    Holly wasn’t yet sure what she thought—she was baffled by the juxtaposition of serious issues, tantalizing promises, and blatant hucksterism she had just seen. She was saved from having to answer by the appearance of Art.
    “Holly, deck the halls. Why look so dour?” He really was very charming, she thought. “You’re worried about the price of a miracle. Put it out of your head—we’ll have a talk about it later.”

CHAPTER 8
    ⍫
    Ron Pool left the theater and walked to the parking lot. He unlocked the door to his old Land Rover and stepped up into the seat. In the quiet interior of his car, he closed his eyes and tried to still his thoughts. Instead, they took him back to a particular night in what almost seemed like another person’s past, the end of a twenty-year nightmare, the night of his last drink nearly fourteen years ago. He remembered his first few weeks off booze, the horror of the first sleepless nights, the shaking hands. The thoughts, the guilt, and the pictures that wouldn’t stop.
    Driving home, he decided to give Joe Greiner a call.
    “Joe. Ron Pool.”
    “Hey, Ron, ’sappening?” Joe was at home, probably drinking, never drunk. “Did you get my fax? Eight girls in less than two years, including Marilyn Fenner.”
    “I got it. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
    “Yeah, like they’re in some damn club or something,” Joe said.
    “Joe, I’d really like to look at each file, photos and everything. This is worth looking into, and those case summaries aren’t enough to go on.”
    “Ron,” the detective replied, “I don’t see it. Matter of fact, I think you’re chasing a dead tale,” and he made a garbled laughing sound that turned immediately into a fit of coughing.
    “Jesus, Joe, you get worse all the time.”
    “What, this cough? It’s nothin’.”
    Ron turned up Beachwood Canyon. “No, I mean your goddamn sense of humor.”
    “Come over to the station tomorrow and spend some time with the files. It’s depressing, is all, so I