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The tap, tap, tapping became an annoying bang, bang, banging. Eventually, the idea penetrated my groggy semi-consciousness that someone was trying to get my attention from the other side of the door to my hotel room.

I stumbled about trying to find my robe. I yelled out: "I'm coming already ... hold your horses."

While putting on the robe and heading toward the door, I snatched a glimpse of the digital clock-radio by the bed. The clock registered twenty-seven past eight in the morning.

Opening the door, I was confronted by a familiar, yet not altogether welcome, sight. Special Agent Williams was standing before me wearing a conservative FBI style of suit along with his own, personal accessory - a dour countenance of imperious impatience.

I greeted him with: "Agent Williams, I'm flattered you couldn't wait for me to return to Boston. I must warn you, however, I'm already spoken for by a very nice woman back home."

"Dr. Phelps," responded Agent Williams, "may we come in. There are a few questions that we need to ask you."

I ushered Agent Williams and a woman into the interior of the room. Pointing to a couple of chairs, I motioned for them to sit down and proceeded to choose the edge of the unmade bed for my seat.

Nodding his head toward the woman who was accompanying him, Agent Williams said: "This is Special Agent Davenport from the local Chicago office. The woman looked at me rather impassively but with a hint of how a scientist might look at a specimen about to be dissected.

"Where's Agent Bradley?" I inquired. "Did he win or lose the coin toss?"

"Special Agent Bradley is taking a few days holiday," replied Agent Williams, " ... not that it's your business. In any case, the time for chit chat is over.

"The first order of business, Dr. Phelps," began Agent Williams, "is the fact that your alibi for last Tuesday morning does not check out. Although you were placed at both the Frames of Mind Cinema and the doughnut shop, there is no such place as 99 St. Jude. Or, perhaps, more accurately, where 99 St. Jude should be, one finds an empty lot.

"In addition, we interviewed people around the neighborhood. Not a single soul living on that street ever heard of any one called Rip.

"Are you sure you got the address right?" he asked. You allege you had been attacked and that some unknown foreign substance was blown into your face, whereupon you claimed to have felt dizzy and fell to the ground.

"Maybe the after effects of this supposed incident scrambled your memory or perceptions somewhat. Is this possible, Dr. Phelps?"

"Possibly," I offered, "but I don't think so. By the time I left Rip, I feel fairly certain my faculties were pretty much intact.

"I remember looking at the house number, and it read 99. I also recall looking at the street sign at the end of the street which read: 'St Jude'."

"Do you know Art Carmichael?" asked Agent Williams.

"I've met him," I answered. "I can't really say I know him.

"He was part of a discussion group in which I participated yesterday afternoon, and again last night. Art didn't show up for last night's get together even though he indicated in the afternoon he would join us."

"Did you ever visit with Mr. Carmichael in his hotel room?" Agent Williams queried.

I shook my head negatively. I added: "I don't even know his room number."

Agents Williams and Davenport briefly exchanged glances. Proceeding on, Agent Williams indicated: "In that event, Dr. Phelps, we have a real puzzle on our hands that I hope you'll be able to resolve for us.

"Could you explain," inquired Agent Williams, "how the key card for your hotel room turned up under the bed of Mr. Carmichael? We happened to find the card on the floor of his room along with something else - Mr. Carmichael's dead body."

I was completely nonplussed. What was going on?

Stammeringly, I managed to say: "I ... I ... When I was getting ready to leave my room and attend the ... ah ... meeting last night, I noticed my card was missing. I looked for it, but couldn't locate it.

"I went down to the registration desk and requested an additional card which they gave me. I assumed my card would show up at some point, but not like this."

"Yes, I can appreciate your sentiments, Dr. Phelps," acknowledged Agent Williams. "Now, I hope you will have some appreciation for our situation.

"Art Carmichael was an undercover agent for the FBI. He was investigating links between terrorism and various religious and spiritual cults.

"Of course, we get upset when any citizen of the United States is murdered. But, we become very upset when a member of the FBI is killed, especially when that agent is performing his or her duty on behalf of the people of this country.

"Where were you, Dr. Phelps, between the hours of 6 and 8 p.m. last evening?" asked Agent Williams.

"I had a long dinner at the restaurant next door to the Balmer House. I came back to my room, took a shower, got dressed, looked for my missing card, went to the hotel's registration desk to seek a new key card, and, then, attended the meeting that had been scheduled for the rest of the evening by the group with which I had been in the afternoon."

"Can anyone verify your whereabouts throughout this period of time?" Agent Williams inquired.

"With the possible exception of, maybe, my waiter at the restaurant, I don't think so," I stated.

Agents Williams and Davenport arose from their respective chairs. "Stand up, Dr. Phelps," ordered Agent Williams. We're going to have to take you in on suspicion of murder, not only of Agent Carmichael, but also of Ken Pratt, a federal employee. Furthermore, we feel you are implicated in either conspiring to assist a federal prisoner - one, Brian Idaho - to escape custody or helping to harbor this same fugitive from justice or both.

"Face the wall next to you, Dr. Phelps," directed Agent Williams, "place your hands on the wall above you, and move your feet back from the baseboard about three feet."

Even though I was in a state of mental shock about what was happening, I complied with the order. As he began frisking me for weapons, there was a knock at the door.

With his hand placed firmly between my shoulder blades, he exerted pressure to let me know I should not make any movements. "Ann," he requested, "see who it is."

Agent Davenport went to the door and opened it. From around the corner, I heard: "Agent Bradley to see Agent Williams."

A few seconds later, Paul Bradley walked into the room. He took in the scene and said to Agent Williams: "What's going on Ed?"

"What are you doing here?" Agent Williams asked. "I thought you were taking a few days off."

"I was," Agent Bradley informed his colleague, "but I decided to spend my time following the good Dr. Phelps around. Are you arresting him?"

"You bet," answered Agent Williams with a little too much enthusiasm for my liking.

"What for?" inquired Agent Bradley.

"Suspicion of murdering Agent Carmichael, together with suspicion of murdering Ken and Pamela Pratt, as well as suspicion of conspiring to help a federal prisoner escape custody," itemized Agent Williams. As he finished the list of charges, Agent Williams pulled out a pair of handcuffs and told me: "Lower your right hand, Dr. Phelps, and place it behind your back."

"Do you mind if I get dressed first?" I wondered.

Before Agent Williams could answer my question, Agent Bradley said: "Ed, I've talked with our forensic people. They gave me their preliminary estimate on the time of death."

"During the critical time in question, Dr. Phelps never left his room after returning from the restaurant next door to the hotel. I had him under surveillance the whole time. He couldn't have killed Agent Carmichael."

"So, how did the professor's key card end up at the scene of the murder?" Agent Williams queried.

"I don't know," replied Agent Bradley. Turning toward me, he asked: "Why did the hotel employee come to your room after you returned from the restaurant?"

I looked at him in a quizzical fashion. "Nobody came to my room ... at least ... not that I'm aware of," I indicated.

"I was in the shower for ten or fifteen minutes. Someone might have come in then, but, if so, I didn't hear anything."

Agent Bradley looked over at Agent Williams and gave the latter a look which suggested that, perhaps, Agent Williams ought to reconsider the possibilities. In addition, Agent Bradley said: "As far as the other charges that you mentioned are concerned, Ed, even though part of Dr. Phelps' alibi for last Tuesday doesn't check out, the preponderance of evidence pointing to him is both fairly marginal and circumstantial.

"We both know the time line required for him to go from Boston to Washington, commit the murders, and, then, return to Boston is extremely tight. Furthermore, when we showed a composite drawing of him to the ticket and airline personnel, both in Boston and Washington, no one remembers him.

"Motive, opportunity and means are, up to this point in time, entirely absent from any case we might have against Dr. Phelps in relation to the Pratt murders. We have even less evidence capable of tying him to the Brian Idaho prison escape."

Apparently, Agent Williams was mulling over what had been said to him by Agent Bradley. He hadn't taken his hand from my back, but the force being exerted had diminished considerably.

Finally, almost reluctantly, Agent Williams withdrew his hand from my back. For the moment, I seemed to have been tossed back into the waters of freedom as not quite a legal catch.

I felt badly for Agent Williams. There was no love lost between us, but I'm sure the soaring anticipation with which he flew to Chicago to rendezvous with me had just plummeted in a severe down draft supplied by Agent Bradley's words.

His return trip to Boston was likely to be a downer as well. Nonetheless, despite my empathy for his condition, I also felt: better him than me, and I was sure that being the kind of guy he was, Agent Williams would be able to deal with his pain and disappointment in a suitably manly fashion.

Agent Williams backed away from me and moved toward the hall leading to the door. Just before turning the corner, he turned around and faced me.

Pointing his finger at me, he said: "Don't think this means you are home free, Dr. Phelps. I don't buy the idea your connection with three murders and a prison break is a matter of coincidence.

"I don't know how you fit into all of this, yet, but you better believe I'm going to stay with this case and find out." He glared at me for a few seconds longer, looked over at Agent Bradley with an expression that was hard to read, and turned around to leave the room.

Agent Davenport followed him through the doorway. Agent Bradley lingered behind.

When the other two had left, he asked: "When are you planning to leave for Boston?"

I thought for a moment. I concluded that Rip's prognostication concerning my being overtaken by events had just transpired, and if this was not the case, I wasn't anxious to wait around and discover what followed this existential appetizer.

"If I can book a seat, probably either sometime this morning or this afternoon," I replied. "Why?"

"Can you meet me on Sunday at a time yet to be determined?" inquired Agent Bradley. "More likely than not, the time will be earlier in the day rather than later."

"Yes, I guess so," I responded. "What's the purpose of the meeting?"

"I'll tell you when we get together," he intimated. "Stick by your phone in the morning, and I'll let you know the time and place."

Agent Bradley turned to go. I said: "By the way, thanks for bailing me out."

Still going away from me, he stated: "I was helping Agent Williams as much as I was helping you. Moreover, Dr. Phelps, in certain ways Agent Williams is quite right."

At the door, he turned around and faced me. "Your involvement in all of this is no coincidence," he stated matter-of-factly.

"My theory of the matter may be different from that of Agent Williams," he added. "Nonetheless, you should know that neither he nor I will stop until we get to the bottom of what is going on in these events of the last month or so."

"Does this mean I'm going to be under continuous surveillance?" I inquired.

Agent Bradley smiled. "Now, Dr. Phelps, you wouldn't want me to spoil all the fun you'll have in trying to guess whether or nor you are being watched, would you?"

"Believe it or not, Agent Bradley," I said, "being watched, is not my primary concern at the moment. I am becoming more concerned about how many parties are watching me and why, because, seemingly, there is a growing amount of evidence, at least in my own mind, that the FBI is not the only party who is treating me as a spectator sport."

The smile disappeared from Agent Bradley's face. He fixed my gaze for a second or two and said: "I'll contact you on Sunday, Dr. Phelps," and, then, he walked down the hotel corridor in the direction of the elevators.

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