His potbellied pig got killed by a pit bull. He broke his left leg when his new sneakers slipped on wet leaves. Last week, a storm-blown tree crushed his 1996 Volvo. He had come to dread wet weather.

Now, his burly frame slumped in the back of a cab, he was traveling through rain to respond to a frantic call from Lotti Spielmacher. Her brother, Benny, was in trouble. She was too distraught on the phone to be very coherent, but Roscoe had a bad feeling he knew exactly what kind of trouble. He and Benny had been partners on the Lake City police force before they retired.

Roscoe vainly tried to push aside his awful certainty that rain always brought him bad luck. Deep in his heart he knew the spritzing he was getting through an uncloseable gap in the right rear window was a foretaste of bad things to come.

He tucked his chin into the upturned collar of his raincoat just as the Pakistani cabby suddenly turned onto the wrong thruway. Roscoe shouted several times to get the driver's attention and then struggled to make him understand the route he should be taking. By now his raincoat was uncomfortably damp. Here we go again.

The cab finally let him off in front of the yellow-brick apartment building where Benny shared a condo with his sister. The building dated to the 1920s, when large rooms with mahogany woodwork gave young couples affordable space for raising a family and entertaining with a bit of style. It somehow survived the wrecking balls that broke the neighborhood down to electronics marts shuttered at night with accordion steel fencing, narrow bars with drink specials, Asian fast-food, and balloon graffiti.

Lotti answered the door. She was in her late forties, short, with a round face pulled tight by a spinsterish bun. She wore a black sweater over pendulous breasts, and green slacks stretched to their limit across her broad thighs. Years ago a rabbi had courted her but she had ended that relationship for reasons never revealed. Lotti had never warmed to Roscoe. A drinking buddy at the Galway Bay suggested she saw him as a rival for Benny's affection. That's possible, he thought. Or maybe she thought a divorced guy was a bad influence on her bachelor brother.

Without even a "hello," she led him to a large living room with a faded oriental rug. Theater posters and photographs of famous stage actors covered the walls. A History of the American Theater lay open on a worn leather couch, and beside it, a book entitled Play Production. Books on play directing, costuming, and set design were scattered on flanking leather chairs and piled next to a tarnished brass lamp on an end table. Benny's suppressed desire to produce a Broadway show blossomed into a mania after he retired. With an eye to economy, he focused on works that were out of copyright. Thus far he had had no luck with proposals and solicitations. No one showed the slightest interest in making a musical of Pilgrim's Progress, or staging a modern version of The Golem. The only financial backing offered him so far had been five dollars from an elderly secretary in a producer's office who misconstrued his pitch for Lost Horizons: The Musical as a solicitation for a home for runaway girls. Despite the rejections, Benny was optimistic. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow he would find that one backer who loved his proposal and would bankroll the whole thing.

At the moment, he looked as though he were auditioning for the part of a corpse. He sat in a rocking chair facing the television set, dressed in his walk-about clothes: plaid pants, a yellow shirt under strain from his ample belly, a blue nylon warm up jacket, and a Yankee cap that covered his bald crown. The cap also concealed the lump Roscoe put there with a rubber mallet two days earlier. Benny's head tilted back against the chair, his eyes closed, his hands cradled limply in his lap. Only the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest showed he was alive.

Lotti's voice quavered: "He's been gone since yesterday," she said. "He said he was going for just a few hours. I just know he has screwed up and can't get back. Damn astral travel! Damn you for showing him how to do it!"

Roscoe checked the impulse to defend himself. She was in no mood to believe how hard he resisted teaching Benny the protocol, but how he finally had to give in to Benny's begging and wheedling. Who could deny anything to a guy you've eaten doughnuts with for 23 years?

He tried to reassure her that Benny was okay.

"Probably just found something interesting that detained him. He'll pop back any minute," he said, not really believing it. There were dangers in the etheric, even for the most experienced traveler, and Benny was a greenhorn. Roscoe had made him promise never to go on a trip without him, but he knew in his gut his old partner wouldn't keep that promise if something excited him. At 48, Spielmacher was still an impulsive kid who wanted to do things now, no matter what. It was also possible, Roscoe thought, that he went alone just to spite me for surprising him with the mallet. He still seemed a little pissed off after I explained why I had to do it.

Lotti fixed him with an angry stare. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.

"You're responsible for this. You have to go bring him back!"

The damned rain never fails.

Roscoe Duffy got into astral travel because he couldn't stand retirement. With no job to go to every day, he felt lost. He didn't miss the bureaucratic bullshit and the politicsof police work, but he missed being a detective. That's all he ever wanted to be. In his fantasies he identified with detectives in the crime novels he read so avidly. Every now and then, to amuse himself, he'd inject a snappy line of a fictional detective into his conversation. It was the closest he ever came to being the equal of his heroes.

The truth was he had been a mediocre detective. His superiors knew it and he knew it. When he reflected on this depressing fact he concluded he probably was as smart as the more successful detectives, but lacked their self-confidence. He was afraid to follow his instincts. He avoided decisions he would have to answer for. He found it difficult to back his deductions with persuasive argument, especially when his superiors challenged his views. And so he had been given the low-priority cases usually assigned to rookie detectives, and he had settled for being less than he wanted to be. As he grew older, the knowledge that he was squandering his life ate at him, but he could not manage to change anything. Now, at 49, feeling he had betrayed himself most of his life, and without the distraction of his detective's job, Roscoe felt old and useless and frightened.

There didn't seem to be any alternatives. Working in security for an agency or corporation didn't appeal to him-more of the same crap he'd left behind. Nor could he see himself as a private detective sitting for hours in a car, pissing in empty coffee cups while waiting to film some guy kissing his bimbo outside a motel. Then, a year ago, he ran into Martin Eckert, a psychic who'd helped him find a couple of bodies during Roscoe's precinct days.

Eckert was Roscoe's height--about six feet--but gaunt. His dark eyes were set deep in a narrow face elongated further by a van dyke beard. Over coffee in a doughnut shop, Eckert listened sympathetically as Roscoe complained about how he missed being a detective. Eckert's response was to recommend astral travel. It was exciting, even dangerous, he said, and above all it took you into the realm of the ultimate mysteries we all ponder. He shrugged and spread his narrow hands apologetically as he added that you couldn't make much money as an astral detective, although you could do pretty well if you specialized in finding bodies, stolen jewelry and missing pets.

Low pay did not concern Roscoe. He didn't need much money. He no longer had to pay alimony to his ex-wife, Barbara. His retirement income paid for his small apartment and other necessities, and left him with a comfortable amount of walking-around money. The astral idea excited him. Maybe he would search for a body now and then--Jimmy Hoffa came to mind--but surely there had to be more fascinating challenges than tracking down dead people, stolen jewelry and missing pets! He persuaded Eckert to tutor him.

All went well during six months of "pre-flight" training. His one anxious moment came at the end of this period, when Eckert suddenly announced he would have to fire a bullet into Roscoe's head or hit it with a mallet. Before Roscoe could protest, Eckert explained:

"Astral travel requires a faculty that was active in ancient people. Except for a very few individuals who still have that gift--and you are not one of them--that faculty has dimmed in modern man. Vestiges of the hard wiring remain, but they need to be shocked into wakefulness. In my case the wake-up call came in 'Nam from a bullet I took in the head."

There was a pause as Roscoe weighed the options. "I'll settle for the mallet," he said at last, overriding sudden doubts about proceeding with this astral stuff.

"A sensible choice. No surgery, bone fragments or collateral brain damage to worry about. Only thing is, if one whack with the mallet doesn't do it, I will have to keep whacking you until the faculty kicks in."

"How many of these mallet jobs have you done?"

"Actually, you'll be the first. I always used the gunshot method until I had a bad experience with the last guy I treated. My aim was a little off."

A chill gripped Roscoe's heart. "Off" meaning what? A miss or a fatal shot? He decided not to inquire. If it were a fatal shot, he would have to ask himself: Is Eckert guilty of manslaughter? Is he a serial killer? Is he crazy? And if he is any of things, is it wise to let such a man hit you in the head with a mallet? But if he, Roscoe Duffy, truly wanted to become an astral traveler, the prudent course would be to avoid these worrisome considerations altogether, and put one's faith in Eckert. After all, the man looks sound enough. No buck teeth or protruding ears. Eyes are a little spooky, but not too close to the nose. No Neanderthal brow or protruding jaw. Canine teeth not extended over the lower lip.

Eckert overcame Duffy's remaining qualms by assuring him he had read everything written on the technique and that nothing could possibly go wrong. And so Roscoe Duffy, former detective in the 31^st Precinct, bent his head to the rubber mallet. It was not a complicated procedure. Eckert simply clocked him behind the ear hard enough to put him out for several seconds. When Roscoe came to, his head hurt a little but he definitely felt different.

"Tell me what you're thinking." Eckert said.

"I am repeating my name, and doing that calls up the name Chester Conklin."

"The silent movie actor who played the heavy in several Chaplin films?"

"Right. But there's no reason for the association. Roscoe Duffy, Chester Conklin. Roscoe Duffy, Chester Conklin. It's weird."

"Excellent! One whack and that superrational sense has kicked in. It's out there in the Collective Unconscious making meaningful connections, even if you don't understand them. You're ready to go!"

Eckert gave him the numbers of a few sites he would find interesting. A site number is merely a number chosen by a previous astral traveler to mark a place he may wish to revisit, or which others may wish to visit. The number itself has no significance, but once assigned, it ever after marks the location of that site in the Collective Unconscious or, as some preferred to call it, The Divine All. And that was how it began.

Now, riding home from Benny's, Roscoe mused that even after a year of astral travel he still did not understand why thinking of his own name immediately called up Chester Conklin. Maybe he would understand the connection someday. Right now he had to focus his energy on finding Benny.

Roscoe's one-bedroom apartment conformed to the modern developer's first rule, that small and boxy makes more money than ample and cozy. The galley kitchen and dining area shared a space barely large enough for a car. A tiny balcony overlooked a littered Yates Avenue four stories below. The kitchen/dining space extended left into a square, windowless living room which crowded together a couch, a television set, and an overstuffed chair for visitors. A short hallway, narrowed by a low bookcase filled exclusively with detective fiction, led past the closet-size bathroom to the bedroom.

The bedroom walls would be entirely bare had not an overnight guest named Maxine suggested the place would be more conducive to amorous exercises if it were softened with decoration.

"Bare wall is so blank when you are searching for inspirational thoughts," she told him. One wall now bore a color print of Man-O-War. Across from the foot of the bed hung a still life: a shotgun resting on a table near a bowl of pears and two dead pheasants with blood-speckled breasts. The wall behind the bed presented a blowup of Joe Louis in a fighting stance.

Roscoe opened the refrigerator, which held two cups of yogurt, a six-pack of beer, moldy multigrain bread, mayonnaise, and three slices of bologna turning green in the middle. He selected a strawberry yogurt and a beer and consumed these while standing beside the stainless steel sink.Only a few things needed to be done before departing. Having passed on, his pot bellied pig, Snorty, did not need a baby sitter. The rent was paid, there were no newspaper deliveries to cancel, and his mail would sit in his post office box until he picked it up. It was possible his nosy neighbors, Mrs. Chatworth on the right, and Elmo Denker across the hall, would notice his absence and pretend to worry about him so the janitor would let them in to snoop for gossip material. For this reason he pinned a note to his shirt : "Do not disturb. I am not dead, only gone for a while. The pig you hated so much is gone, too. He won't be back at all. Up yours."

Roscoe made sure his medicine stone--a gift from Eckert--was in his pants pocket. He also loosely wrapped two Krispy Kreme doughnuts in wax paper and stuffed them into a pocket of the red nylon bowling jacket he wore. Then it was time to go. He reclined on the couch with arms folded across his chest. He breathed deeply several times, then concentrated on visualizing 215, the number of the site he wished to visit. He fell into a trance, and within minutes felt the sudden vibration of his consciousness leaving his body and floating into the ineffable.

He was traveling head first at ballistic speed through a swirling vortex. His phantom body did not feel the ether rushing by, nor the heat his speed would normally generate. The walls of the vortex hummed like an electrical turbine generator. A small light gradually emerged at a great distance. As he drew closer, it got larger, becoming at last a portal at the end of the vortex. He hurtled through it with the small popping sound of an object bursting through a thin membrane. It took him a few seconds to realize he was no longer in motion. He stood in a white mist. His astral body looked exactly like his earthly self, right down to the stitching on the red bowling jacket. Bullets, knives and punches would pass harmlessly through his phantom body. The greatest threat he faced was being absorbed by more powerful spirits and transformed into something hideous.

Eckert had warned him about this location. Site 215 was the beginning of Chaos, the most dangerous dimension in the Divine All. Neither Heaven nor Hell, it was the unregulated realm between the two where evil spirits prowled in search of souls that blundered into their realm. Roscoe had been here at the edge once before, staying for just a few seconds to satisfy his curiosity before moving away to more benign locations. The dangers of Chaos had kept him from venturing through it to the heavenly dimension. But now he had to make that perilous journey to search for Benny. His friend might not be in Heaven but it was the logical place to start. Benny's current obsession to produce a musical version of Paradise Lost could have drawn him there for background and inspiration.

He moved cautiously into the white mist, his heart thumping in his ears. His hand clutched the medicine stone in his pocket. This amulet, now in its astral form, was the work of an Indian shaman and guaranteed protection against the evil ones, according to Eckert. He remembered the gaunt psychic's solemn warning: "These spirits are shape-shifters. They may come at you as hideous creatures or as friendly forms offering to help you. Trust no one!"

For a few moments nothing happened. The mist enveloped him completely, emitting a faint hum like a low-voltage electrical field. Then an ominous sound began in the distance, a staccato kind of crackling that resembled static. This could not be static from a cheap radio. Up here, so far as he knew, there were no radios. Suddenly, a shadow appeared in the near distance, moving toward him, growing larger each second. Oh shit!

The attack came with incredible speed. With the tremendous roar of a cataract, a gigantic squid burst from the mist, its suckered tentacles spread wide, its great horny beak agape to seize Roscoe. As the beast lunged at him, he managed to hold the medicine stone aloft. The creature shrieked with rage and veered off at the last second, leaving behind a sulfurous stench."Well done," a voice said.

Roscoe spun around, brandishing the stone.

The speaker was a ruddy-faced man with muttonchops who wore the domed hat and uniform of a turn-of-the-century policeman. On his back were large white wings that looked a little frayed and soiled.

"Azy now, lad. Azy does it. I'm here to help ya." Roscoe was not about to be fooled by a shape-shifter, however Irish he might seem. He held the medicine stone in front of him like a shield. "Begone, evil spirit," he said, trying to imitate the exorcists he had seen in old movies. This had no effect. The policeman was still there, smiling with amusement. It occurred to Roscoe that "begone" might be fancy English beyond the comprehension of a simple Irish policeman of the 1900s. So he tried "Scat!" "Beat it!" "Go away!" and finally, "Haul ass, Buster, or I'll kick you in the balls and shove your nightstick up your ass."

The policeman bent over with laughter. He obviously understood Roscoe's meaning. "That will be pretty hard to do, boyo," he said. He unzipped his fly and opened it wide. There was nothing but empty space where his genitals should be. He turned around and dropped his pants and spread his creamy buttocks. He had no anus, either.

Very strange, but strange things are to be expected in the etheric world. It struck him that perhaps he was being subjected to the bad cop-good cop routine; the squid being the "bad cop," who scared the shit out of him, and this one, the "good cop" who would offer beguiling friendship to gain his trust. But if the cop were one of the shape-shifters, why didn't the medicine stone ward him off?

A terrifying snarling and howling erupted all around him. The chilling sounds moved closer. Evil ones gathering for the kill? He could fend them off with the stone if they came at him one at a time, but if they swarmed from all directions. . . . The policeman looked amused. Had he summoned them here? Roscoe wondered. His throat tightened with fear. Should he trust the cop?

He did not get a chance to decide. The mist suddenly disgorged a writhing mass of beasts from all directions--a blur of bat-like wings, twisting serpentine bodies, crested reptilian heads with glowing red eyes. As he desperately reached for the medicine stone, he felt something pin both arms to his sides and lift him up. He was in the grasp of the policeman and they were flying upward. As they rose, the demons rushed around them, splitting the ether with furious screams, but keeping their distance.

The policeman taunted the frantic hoard with a haughty smile and a salute with his upraised middle finger.

"I love pissing them off. That's the beauty of being an escort."

"Don't piss them off too much! They seem to be moving closer."

"They can't harm me or anyone under my protection. Can't you see I'm an angel, a superior spirit. The wings should have tipped you off."

The demons slowly fell back and began to disappear into the mist below.

"I figured you might be one of the demons dressed to fool me," Roscoe said

The policeman shook his head in wonderment. "You're a piece of work, Duffy. I did everything I could to advertise myself as a good guy: the endearing Irish brogue, the uniform of a lawman, the wings of an angel--and you missed it all. The boss will get a big kick out of this--a big kick!"

There's the nub of it. Who's the Boss? Where are we going?

"Who's the boss and where are we going?"

"Sorry. Can't tell you."

New doubts seized Roscoe. Perhaps this really was an evil one after all! Maybe the stone didn't work on all demons. Maybe the attack was pure theatrics to scare him into the clutches of the policeman. Maybe that static was from cheap radios. After all, every radio transmission ever made is still traveling farther into the cosmos. Why wouldn't the evil ones have radios to monitor earthly life. Of course it would take time for radio broadcasts to reach this distant realm. By now "Ma Perkins" and "Just Plain Bill"of the 1940s could be coming in. Possibly even "The Shadow."

Who is the boss? Where are we going?