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After closing the door to my room, I lay down on the bed and began to reflect on the news that had come pouring forth from the lips of Agent Williams, like an unwanted leak in the dikes of my sanity. 99 St. Jude did not exist or was a vacant lot - take your pick.

How could this be? I had spent some six or seven hours in that house.

Rip had given me the grand tour through its varied rooms and facilities. I had eaten food in the center's soup kitchen.

Suddenly, a thought surfaced. Beth's abductors had planted memories in her mind about aliens in order to obscure the reality of what had transpired.

Was 99 St. Jude a similar implant? Were Rip, the center and my experiences there a clever, fabricated mental construct designed to hide another reality altogether?

In Beth's case the memory of one kind of abduction had been used to conceal the fact of another kind of actual abduction. In my case, perhaps the memory of an attempted abduction was being used to mask an actual abduction as well.

Beth had experienced some missing time, and where she had been in reality was blocked out by an implanted memory of an alien abduction. I also may have experienced some missing time, and where I had been in actuality may have been screened behind an implanted memory of a Botclofot community center.

On the one hand, everything about that morning with Rip seemed so vivid in my memory. On the other hand, people who undergo false memory syndrome also are quite certain that certain things happened which, in point of fact, have not taken place.

Elizabeth Loftus, a psychologist, had done quite a bit of experimental exploration into the ways in which memory could be distorted and falsified, after the fact, through a variety of different forces such as our vulnerability to suggestion and social pressure. The notion of confabulation referred to the mind's capacity to invent or reconstruct memories in an effort to make sense of, or generate a consistent story line with respect to, whatever memory fragments we do have.

I also thought about a syndrome known as autoscopy. In this condition, an individual has a hallucination in which one's body image is projected into visual space and experienced as an external, real object.

Maybe, Rip and the center were some sort of weird variation on autoscopy. Rather than just projecting my own body image into space, I had constructed a whole set, together with a cast of actors, and projected them into visual space as well.

If I had experienced a transient episode of an autoscopic-like condition, I may have had some natural or synthetic chemical assistance. A number of hallucinogenic candidates flitted through my mind.

The Tukano Indians of the Amazon used a hallucinogen known as yaje. The Huichol native peoples of Mexico ingested peyote which contained mescaline as an active hallucinogenic ingredient.

Ayahuasca, or the vision vine, was popular among some of the native groups in the high- and mid-Amazon jungles of Peru. LSD or some new designer drug were also on the short list of chemical suspects.

Many of these hallucinogens were described as being able to generate incredibly vivid and life-like hallucinations of considerable detail and intricacy. If the substance which I believed had been blown into my face at the time of the attempted abduction was one, or more, of these hallucinogens, then maybe Rip and the center were nothing more than an elaborate hallucination.

Depending on how much of such substances might have been blown into my face, the length of my 'trip' would have varied. However, six to seven hours would not have been an implausible drug-aided journey into inner-space.

So, here I was sitting in a hotel room in Chicago, possibly at the behest of a figment of my imagination. Visions of doing some down-time in a private psychiatric facility began to dance through my head.

In the light of these considerations, Rip's, or my alter ego's, deconstructive treatment of schizophrenia was not necessarily the delineation of an interesting and insightful paradigm shift involving the perspective of spiritually intoxicated mystics vis-a-vis so-called 'normal', sane individuals. Instead, these musings may have been the unconscious projections of an over-the-hill psychology professor who, thanks to a drug-induced altered state of consciousness, was being forced to swallow some of his own conceptual medicine in an attempt to heal an alienated and scarred psyche whose hold on reality was not as firm as he sometimes deluded himself was the case.

At this point, the trajectory of another thought lit up the darkness of my ignorance. How did my alter ego know about the existence of the symposium; its correct title; the dates for the event; the city; and the building where it would be held?

To be sure, lots of notices landed on my desk during the course of a school year, informing me about many different meetings, gatherings, lectures and the like. Perhaps, for some reason, I had absorbed the data and, then, proceeded to forget where I had read or heard about the symposium.

This was a possibility I was inclined to discount. But, I couldn't necessarily rule it out completely.

The information concerning the symposium could have been a memory implant. Yet, how did such an implant know, ahead of time, that events would overtake me in Chicago as my friendly chimera, Rip, correctly had predicted?

How could an implanted memory know I would develop a liaison with someone at the symposium who would be of assistance to me, as seemed to be the case with Special Agent Paul Bradley? Was this all a matter of coincidence or synchronicity or a carefully worked out plan of some sort?

Were the whole set of events involving the symposium, Art Carmichael, along with Agents- Williams, Davenport and Bradley, all part of some elaborate conspiracy in which I had become entangled? How could they possibly have known I would sit down in a lounge where a group, of which Art Carmichael was a part, would invite me to participate?

Perhaps this mysterious 'they' didn't know I would be sitting in that lounge at that time. Maybe they were just opportunists whose previous preparations allowed them to exploit the opportunities which chance was providing.

I also began to wonder about whether or not I had gone to the lounge of my own free will and volition? Or, was the lounge idea part of a post-hypnotic suggestion given during the time of my abduction that, at the appropriate time or with the right stimulus-trigger, would bob to the surface of my consciousness as if it were my own thought?

For "persons unknown" to conspire in such an elaborate fashion with respect to me, seemed, to say the least, rather egocentric and narcissistic. There just seemed to be no reasonable explanation for why anyone would feel the need to construct a highly complex set of arrangements in order to involve or manipulate me.

Then, again, if the pawns in a game of chess had some small degree of self-awareness and rationality, maybe, they, too, would be wondering why anyone would bother to take the time and make the effort to get them mixed-up in all manner of struggles, strategies and deceptions. An individual didn't necessarily have to understand she or he was a participant in a game in order to get moved about by the mover of the first part whose motives were opaque to the movee of the second part.

I was getting nowhere fast with all these flights of fantasy. I decided to do something down-to-earth and try to get a flight back to Boston.

As a result of the up-coming Fourth of July holiday and the normal, enhanced level of summer air traffic, I wasn't able to obtain a departure time before 10:00 p.m.. Once time zone, flight time, road travel time back to the apartment, and getting-ready-for-sleep-time were factored in, I was able to climb into my own bed around three in the morning.

Paul Bradley must have been watching all of this. Apparently, keeping me guessing about surveillance was not enough for him, and he decided to have some further fun at my expense by providing a wake-up call at seven a.m..

He may have been amused. I wasn't.

"Dr. Phelps, this is Agent Bradley. Could you meet me in about an hour outside your apartment building?"

"Are you calling at this time to annoy me or because it is really necessary?" I inquired.

"To annoy you, of course," he replied. "However, if you take a nice hot shower, I believe you'll find that all your annoyance will wash off, along with the remaining residues of your late-night trip back from Chicago."

"Should I dress in formal attire for my audience with you?" I asked.

"Something between tennis and a tuxedo should be sufficient," he answered. "I'm a pretty humble kind of guy."

"Maybe," I responded, "but you lack compassion for those who are sleepless in Boston."

"Sorry," he apologized insincerely, "but my job description as an FBI agent quite clearly specifies I must be devoid of both compassion and humor whenever possible. You wouldn't want me to be suspended for conduct unbecoming an agent would you?"

"I'm warming up to the idea," I indicated.

"We're wasting time, Dr. Phelps," he urged. "If you hurry, I'm sure a man of your integrity and intelligence should be able to get to the lobby in about fifty minutes, complete with matching socks."

"What happened to the hour you were dangling before me earlier?" I asked.

"What happened to it is something you might do well to keep in mind, Dr. Phelps," stated Agent Bradley rather ominously. "At the FBI our offers don't stay on the table very long."

"Do I need a trench coat, or perhaps a cloak and a dagger?" I queried.

"Just bring a Captain Cosmic, deluxe, de-coder ring," he advised and hung up.

Approximately forty-five minutes later, I was downstairs in body, although

not quite in spirit. The latter appeared to have hit the snooze button for some extra sack time and was still in some far off exotic place of which dreams are made.

At least I seemed to have remembered to put on some pants and a shirt - although given recent events, I couldn't be really sure if this was true. I decided not to check and see whether I had met the matching-sox-standard of Agent Bradley's test for integrity and intelligence.

Agent Bradley was waiting for me in front of the apartment building. He motioned me to get in his car.

When we both were buckled up for safety, I asked: "Where are we going?"

"That information is classified, Dr. Phelps," he informed me. "I'll de-classify it when we arrive at our destination."

The remainder of the trip was traversed in silence. Whether this was due to his nature, the situation, a need to maintain the secretive, taciturn image of the FBI, or, a combination of these factors, was uncertain.

Some forty minutes later we were parked in front of the Frames of Mind Cinema. Agent Bradley got out of the car and indicated for me to do the same.

After leaving the car, he said: "Dr. Phelps, I would like you to retrace your steps of last Monday night and Tuesday morning. As we go along, describe to me whatever took place at that time as best you can remember."

"Is this an official request?" I wondered.

"Semi-official," he stated. "Your assistance could help out in an on-going investigation, but I'm also doing this on my own time and for my own reasons.

"If you want to make it official, Dr. Phelps, we can meet again on Monday morning with Agent Williams. The choice is yours."

"You have such a way with the English language, Agent Bradley," I remarked. "Your semantic nuances are so subtlety and delicately phrased."

"It's the training," he offered. With his hand extended in front of him, his body English and the expression on his face voiced the question: 'Shall we proceed?'

By way of response, I began to narrate the sequence of events of nearly a week ago as we walked along the same route followed at that time. Some fifteen minutes, or so, later, we had arrived at St. Jude street.

We ambled slowly down the street to where I believed, and recalled, 99 St. Jude to have been. Agent Williams' words reverberated in my mind as my eyes bounced about the empty lot.

I began walking into the vacated area, not really paying any attention to where I was going. I was preoccupied, once again, with all the possibilities I had considered while lying on the hotel bed in Chicago.

Somewhere toward the middle of the lot I stopped and turned around. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, as if to express to no one in particular: 'I don't know what is going on. This is not how I remember things'.

I looked over at Agent Bradley, who was observing me from about forty feet away, and, then, I casually scanned the ground around me. A piece of paper was fluttering in the slight breeze that had arisen.

The paper was held down by a small piece of asphalt that covered about a quarter of the sheet. Out of idle curiosity, I leaned over and tugged at the corner of the paper .

Upon pulling the sheet closer to me, I could see there was writing on it. It read:

"Dear David,

Sorry for the disappearing act. I hope to see you soon. Say 'hello' to Agent Bradley for me.

Rip

By the time I had finished reading the note several times in order to overcome my incomprehension about, and awed fascination with, what was in my hands, Agent Bradley was by my side. I handed the note to him and said: "If neither you nor Agent Williams wrote this note, there is a lot bigger mystery here than any of us suspects?"

Agent Bradley stared at the paper for quite some time. On several occasions he looked over at me with a very puzzled expression on his face.

I suspected he, mentally and emotionally, was running through his version of what I had gone through, lying on the bed in Chicago. For my part, I felt exhilarated, amused, relieved and confused all at the same time.

Rather mischievously, I inquired: "Do you suppose the people down at forensics can do anything with this? If you like, I can loan you my deluxe, Captain Cosmic de-coder ring."

He was silent for a while longer. Finally, he asked: "Do you mind if I keep this?"

Initially, I wasn't happy about relinquishing the only piece of concrete evidence I had which helped to substantiate my whereabouts last Tuesday morning. On further reflection, I realized the piece of paper, in and of itself, probably didn't prove a whole lot.

In fact, the most important feature associated with this piece of evidence may have been the manner in which Agent Bradley was serving as a witness to its discovery. Unless, of course, he suspected me of either planting it, or having it planted by one of my co-conspirators such as the ever dangerous Beth Idaho or the criminal genius, Jennifer Ormsby.

I answered Agent Bradley's request with: "I suspect you could confiscate the paper as material evidence irrespective of what I say, but I appreciate your having sought my permission."