Blood on the Moon by James Ellroy

her application. I now know this about my beloved:
    1.  Name: Linda Holly Deverson
    2.  Birthdate: 4/29/52
    3.  Birthplace: Goleta, California
    4.  Education: High school 1 2 3
    College 13 4
Advanced degrees? No.
    5.  How did you find out about F.F.S.?—I read your book.
    6.  Which four of these words best describe you?
    1.  Ambitious
    2.  Athletic
    3.  Aggressive
    Â Â Enlightened
    Â Â Tuned In
    6.  Befuddled
    7.  Inquisitive
    Â Â Passive
    9.  Angry
    Â Â Sensitive
    11.  Passionate
    12.  Aesthetic
    13.  Physical
    14.  Moral
    15.  Generous
    7.  Why did you come to the F.F.S. Institute?–I can’t honestly say. Some of the things in your book struck me as truthful things that could help me to better myself.
    8.  Do you think F.F.S. can change your life?–I don’t know.
    A subtle woman. I can change your life, Linda; I am the only one who can.
    Three nights later he broke into her apartment.
    It was carefully thought out and bold. He knew that she would be attending the second Synergistics Seminar, which was scheduled to last from eight o’clock until midnight. At seven forty-five he was stationed across the street from the F.F.S. Institute on 14th and Montana in Santa Monica, armed with a matchbook sized circuit breaker and wearing skin-tight rubber gloves.
    He smiled as Linda pulled into the parking lot, exchanged guarded greetings with other arriving F.F.S.ers and wolfed down a last cigarette before running into the large red brick building. He waited ten minutes, then sprinted over to her ’69 Camaro, opened the hood and attached the circuit breaker to the underside of the car’s distributor housing. Should anyone attempt to start the Camaro, it would turn over once and die. Laughing at the small perfection of it, he slammed the hood and ran back to his own car, then drove to the home of his beloved.
    It was a pitch-dark spring night, and warm winds gave added audial cover. Parking a block away, he padded over to 3583 Mentone Avenue, carrying a flat-handled lug wrench and a transistor radio in a brown paper bag. Just as a huge gust of wind came up, he placed the radio on the ground outside Linda’s living room window and turned the volume up full blast. Punk Rock bombarded the night, and he slammed the lug wrench full force into the window, grabbed the radio and ran back to his car.
    He waited for twenty minutes, until he was certain that no one had heard the noise and no silent alarm had been sounded. Then he walked back and vaulted into the dark apartment.
    Drawing curtains over the broken window, he deep-breathed and let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, then followed his most urgent curiosity straight back toward where the bathroom had to be. He turned on a light and then rummaged through the medicine cabinet; checked out the make-up kit on top of the toilet; even went through the dirty clothes hamper. His soul sighed in relief. No contraceptive devices of any kind; his beloved was chaste.
    He left the door ajar and walked into the bedroom. Quickly noting that there was no overhead light, he turned on the lamp next to the bed. Its diffused glow gave him light to work by, and he flung open the walk-in closet door, hungry to touch the fabric of his beloved’s life.
    The closet was packed with garments on hangers, and he swept them up in a giant armful and carried them into the bathroom. There were mostly dresses, in a variety of fabrics and styles. Trembling, he fondled polyester suits and cotton shifts, pseudo-silk culottes and businesslike tweed; stripes, plaids, tattersall checks–all feminine and all pointing to the subtle, searching nature of Linda Deverson. She doesn’t know who she is, he said to himself; so she buys clothes to reflect all the different things she could be.
    He carried the bundle of clothing back to the closet and