If large numbers of trees move, they are approaching. If there are many visible obstacles in the heavy grass, it is to make us suspicious. If the birds take flight, there is an ambush. If the animals are afraid, enemy forces are mounting an attack.

It was perfectly clear to her that Cassie, the enemy, must have fed her husband rat poison because she found out Mitch was leaving her. Mona clutched her chest. She and Mitch were getting married. They had a new house all ready. She'd stopped taking the pill. Any day she'd be pregnant. Only the date, only telling Cassie-that one last dreadful little detail-had been holding them up. Once he told Cassie, there would be no more pretending.

Now Mona knew that Mitch had not been so angry with her, after all. He must have gone home to tell Cassie the marriage was over, and the spoiled, selfish, infantile woman had put rat poison in his coffee. Another wheeze tickled her throat at the thought of Cassie murdering her husband. Tearful and sweaty in her jaunty red sports car, she dialed Mark Cohen's number.

"It is subtle, subtle! There are no areas in which one does not employ spies."

"Doctor's office."

"Marta, it's Mona. I just got back from Paris and heard about Mitch. This is terrible. I didn't know anything about it. When did it happen?" She could barely control her voice. This was no act. She was distraught.

"Friday."

"Friday! Friday!"

"Yes, sometime in the afternoon."

"Oh my God, where is he? I have to see him."

"He's at North Fork. But he's in intensive care. He can't have visitors."

"Oh my God!" Mona shook her head. Her burgundy curls bounced on her shoulders. "Intensive care. I had no idea. Is Mark there?"

"He's with a patient."

"What happened? Tell me everything."

"He had a stroke, Mona."

"Oh Jesus, a stroke." Mona was silent for a moment. Could a person get a stroke from rat poison?

"Mona, are you there?"

"I'm just so upset. Would you tell Mark to call me right away? On my cell." Mona hung up. She felt horrible, more than horrible. But she couldn't go back into the warehouse with the news. Everybody would panic, and she had to keep her mind on Mitch.

She decided to go see him and keep mum to everyone else. She dialed her assistant, Carol. "Honey, I'm taking off. I'll see you tomorrow. Anything comes up, call me on my cell." She tried to keep good cheer in her voice.

She turned and caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her weeping had really messed her up. Mascara was all over the place, and little rivulets snaked through her foundation. She definitely couldn't go to the hospital looking like this. She had to be strong for Mitch. She had to look really good, like an angel from heaven, to bring him back to her. To look that good she had to go home. She grabbed her sunglasses and put them on, hit the ignition. The car growled to life. As she started to back out, she saw the black Mercedes in the rearview mirror. Oh shit. It was on the service road, heading this way. For a tiny second her heart spiked. Mitch had done it again: The whole thing was a big joke. He was fine, after all. No stroke. Then she saw that Mitch wasn't the driver, and she kept going.

She agonized all the way home. How could this be happening to her? It was like cancer, the atom bomb striking. The Nazis. Something out of a spy movie or a thriller. Her lifelong enemy had done something to him. He'd been fine, perfectly fine, on Friday. First the audit, now the stroke. It was too much. Now in the mirror, she saw the Mercedes behind her. It looked as if Cassie was following her home. Too fucking much.

The major configurations of terrain are accessible, suspended, stalemated, constricted, precipitous, and expansive.

Mona lived in a town house complex in Roslyn. She'd lived there for ten years with the profound belief that any minute she was going to marry. She'd been frugal to a fault. She had two completely inadequate floors. Downstairs, a tiny kitchen and small living room/dining area. Upstairs, a bedroom and den. Full bath and powder room. There were hardly any closets at all. The only way to make the place work for her was to give away her clothes after three or four wearings. She did not like her neighbors, who were either old, very young with children, or middle-aged, divorced, and desperate. The old people wanted to talk. The young couples had noisy children who left toys on the sidewalks for people to trip over. And the divorced women wanted to go on trips with her. Mitch didn't like them, either, and never came there. Not only that, the garage was not attached. It was cut into the hill behind the house. She didn't like to use it.

Today only one thing went right. She found a parking spot out front and hurried into the house. She hadn't seen the Mercedes for the last two blocks but slammed the door and double locked it anyway. She didn't want to see Cassie no matter what.

As soon as Mona was inside her second-rate house, her whole history did a number on her impossible situation. She felt even more terrible that she hadn't been informed immediately of Mitch's illness. She was his partner, as important to the company as he was. Didn't anybody realize that? She was so careful and meticulous about everything. Everything was arranged just so. It wasn't right for Teddy not to tell her this, her friend Mark, their accountant Ira. This had to be some kind of conspiracy to keep her isolated and in the dark.

Once inside the house, she focused on an old complaint, her lack of help and closets. With the millions in business she brought in, she should have a full-time staff to take care of her house and clothes. When she'd arrived home yesterday afternoon, no one was there to carry the heavy suitcases upstairs, so she'd been forced to unpack downstairs in the living room. As usual, she'd laid everything out on the sofa, on the floor, in a very precise way. Her stuff was all over the place. The suits and coats and dresses and tops and shoes and purses from her trip were in piles, carefully sorted for the cleaners and the laundry whether she'd worn them or not. She was too upset to appreciate the profusion of pale colors and expensive fabrics strewn all over the white, top-of-the-line wool, mile-high shag carpet and white silk sofa and different patterned white silk throw pillows with gold bullion fringe.

A wheeze clutched at her throat. She felt sick. She felt hurt. She felt like a tiger with a sick cub she had to save. She felt the hot breath of the crazy, unloved wife and the IRS Nazis coming to take away everything she cared about in life. All those feelings were roiling around in a single wounded bird. It was just too much.

The cheap doorbell of her second-rate house sounded its half-assed dingdong. At the same time the doorknocker clanged against its fake brass plate. Mona's heart almost stopped. Shit. The enemy had actually dared to follow her right into her private home. "As for constricted configurations, if we occupy them first we must fully deploy throughout them in order to await the enemy."

She raced up the stairs. Peeled off her skirt, threw on a pair of baggy black pants and a blue work shirt. Grabbed her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. In the bathroom she scrubbed at the dissolving makeup with a washrag until only her healthy tan showed.

The doorbell and knocker continued to sound as she flew in bare feet down the stairs. In the living room, wheezing and coughing, she grabbed clothes, flung what she could back into the cases, jammed the cases into the closet. She was throwing the rest of the stuff into the powder room when Cassie started shouting through the door.

"For heaven's sake, Mona, open the damn door. I know you're in there."

"Cassie, honey, is it you?"

"Of course, it's me. Who else?"

Simulated chaos is given birth from control. The illusion of fear is given from strength. Order and disorder are a question of numbers.