November 17, 1971 - San Raphael, California

It was an ordinary ranch-style house on a typical, quiet Californian cul-de-sac. A perfectly clear moon-less, starry night… until the explosion. Even that was muffled and neighbors would later claim they didn’t hear a thing. If they had been watching, they would have seen a firestorm roll through the front room and crack the big picture window.

A few hours later a ’67 Mercury pulled around the corner onto Hacienda Way, the couple inside giggling like teenagers. The girl driving was only nineteen, but the man pawing at her was old enough to be her father.

"Stop it," she pushed him away, "You smell like greasy burger and onions. You know that stuff ‘il give you bad dreams."

"Not tonight, baby," he whispered as he sensuously flicked his tongue on her neck as Sheila parked the car on the street. Phil breathed heavily into her ear, "Let’s do it right here."

"Nooo," she whined, then in a teasing voice, "Let’s go in and do it on the floor."

Phil’s girlfriend-of-the-moment hopped out of the car and pulled him from the passenger seat. Phil nuzzled Sheila’s neck and playfully tugged at the buttons on her blouse as they staggered up the walk-way to the front door.

"Ummm," she moaned, fumbling with the key to unlock the front door. Sheila reached in, flipped on the light switch and shrieked, "Jesus! Phil, look!"

For a moment, Phil couldn’t comprehend the devastation. "What the…?!"

A million tiny pieces of white debris covered everything – the carpet, the furniture, the drapes and it was even sticking to the walls. As his eyes darted toward the adjoining den, his writing room, where chunks of metal were strewn among the bits of white. Phil pushed past Sheila, who was frozen in place, to his study and saw the mangled remains of his fire-proof file cabinet.

"Shit," he cursed aloud, rubbing his eyes and temples. "Damn, I knew it!"

Now he could see pieces of wet towel among the debris. The force of the explosion had blown slivers of steel into the side of his oak desk. Bits of canceled checks, and other unrecognizable paper and plastic particles swirled together into a sickening stew of debris that used to be his only safe haven.

Phil allowed friends to come and go, smoke pot and generally make a mess of his house, but no one was allowed in the writing room. It was strictly off limits and he kept it neat and tidy. It was the only way he could organize his thoughts and have any privacy to work on his novels. Now, his mind was as cluttered and confused as the mess around him. But, he knew one thing for sure – his latest and most important manuscript was gone.

Sheila found him in the study, surrounded by debris, just standing there staring blankly.

"Thank God I’m not crazy." Phil said aloud and then laughed a crazy, maniacal little laugh that scared her.

"I’m calling the cops," Sheila looked around for the phone.

Phil grabbed her forcefully, "No you’re not." The wild look in his eyes scared her. "No fucking cops, you hear?"

Sheila began to cry and shake.

"You need to go home. I’ll deal with this." Phil practically shoved her out the door and then felt bad. It wasn’t like him to be mean, especially to a crying woman. But, he was about to cry himself and he didn’t want anyone to see that. He collapsed in a heap on the living room floor, and curled up right in the middle of the mess. "Damn," he sputtered aloud. "I knew the sons of bitches were after me."

For hours Phil sat on the floor, rocking back and forth and playing over in his mind theory after theory of who would go to such extremes to steal his writing. It was a carefully crafted, professionally executed explosion. They knew to use heavy wet bath towels to muffle the sound and contain the contents. "The bastards," he thought, hoping they got a soggy wet manuscript and that maybe one of them blew a hand off in the process. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, still curled up in a half-sitting, half fetal position.

In the light of day, the scene was even more disturbing. It hadn't been a dream. The mess was real. Stiff and foggy, Phil got up and stumbled to the phone, which was still intact. He searched for the number of a guy he knew -- a demolitions expert who had served in the Marine Special Forces. Carl knew all about explosives. When he finally got him on the line, Phil identified himself and mumbled something cryptic. The call worked, because in less than hour there was a knock on the door.

Phil cautiously peaked through the peep hole. Standing there was a six-foot-four, two hundred and seventy pound square-jawed Rambo-type guy still sporting a marine-style buzz hair cut.

Phil opened the door and Carl had the same reaction as Phil had the night before.

"Shit!" Carl carefully stepped inside, surveying the scene. He reached down and ran his fingers through some of the white debris. "Asbestos. Your safe was blown, eh?"

Phil shushed him, finger to his lips, and went to turn on the stereo for background noise. Amazingly, it still worked. The TV had been blown to hell. Still in a hushed tone, suspecting the place was now bugged, "An eleven hundred pound Mosler Class D fireproof file cabinet." He pointed toward the study.

On the way Carl bent down and picked up another bit of debris. "Plastic explosive. C3 or 4. This stuff ain’t on the street. Very suspicious." He held out the piece to Phil who visibly shuddered. He also pointed out something else Phil has missed. "Combat boots. Check out that print." Sure enough, several tracks were visible where the white powder was crushed into the thick green carpet.

The two men stood together surveying the remains of Phil’s den. For the first time he could ever remember, Phil felt old and he looked old standing hunched over next to the tall, muscular jarhead.

At 42, Phil’s beard had been streaked with gray for a few years and his barrel-chest was now in competition with his emerging pot belly. His famous piercing blue-green eyes, were tired with dark circles underscoring them. He rubbed his head and felt his thinning hair. His head ached – actually his brain hurt. He had always worked way too much, writing into the wee hours, sometimes all night. He practically lived on bennies to prop up his intense writing-style of pumping out pulp after pulp. Phil had been known to crank out a novel in less than two weeks and not just hack work, either. His writing was becoming deeper and more intricate with each new novel. But, years of hard living were catching up and this break-in might just be the proverbial "final straw" for Phil.

"Who’s after you, man?" Carl asked, snapping Phil back to reality.

"Everyone. Religious fanatics, the CIA… maybe both. They got my manuscript."

"Manuscript? What the hell kind of stuff are you writing?" Carl looked confused as he pulled his pack of Camels from his T-shirt pocket. "Guess you don’t mind if I smoke in this mess, do you?"

"Actually, I’ll take one myself."

Carl lit both cigarettes and handed one off to Phil who took a deep drag and immediately coughed and choked as if his lungs might be the next to explode. "Prefer snuff, myself," he offered as an explanation to his hacking fit.

When Phil settled down, Carl asked again, "So, what are you writing that would justify this? Does sci-fi pay that well?"

Phil chuckled, "Hardly. No, no. This is something else. If I tried to explain it, you’d think I’m certifiable." He took another small drag, and blew the smoke right back out.

Carl reached down and picked up a larger piece of the plastic explosive. "I recognize this shit. A buddy from my unit had some of this exact same stuff. Claimed it was used in a hit back in D.C. I don't know, something to do with some anti-war activist. They claimed Nixon was behind it."

"Wouldn’t surprise me." Phil responded, "Nothing would surprise me after this."

Rambo Carl took a long drag and studied Phil. "So, why would the Feds or Special Forces hit your place?"

Even though Phil was formulating an idea, aloud he simply said, "Um, not sure."

Carl added, "You’re gettin’ in way over your head if you’re taking on Nixon. Next time you might not be so lucky -- could be you, not a book."

"Yeah, I know." Phil sighed. "Let’s go to the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee."

Phil was buying time debating how much to reveal to Carl. After all, as an ex-Marine, Carl had some loyalty to the US government. Phil had none to these Nixon-led, fascist pigs that were now running the country. He had openly criticized Nixon in several of this novels, so that was nothing new. Why would government operatives break-in and steal this manuscript that had nothing to do with Nixon? No, this was definitely about Pike. His good friend Bishop Pike had made it through a heresy trial only to get snuffed out over some discovery he made in the Judean desert. Someone, somehow must have known that Phil was writing about it. It was highly controversial stuff -- or so Pike had said before he died. Now Phil was taking on the Church and they were more diabolical than the Feds. All the serious blood-shed in the world was always over religion. Phil didn't have the energy or the inclination to explain this complicated theory to Carl, who probably couldn't follow it anyway.

So, they drank coffee while Carl chain-smoked and rambled on about explosives and other hits. Phil let him go on believing the break-in was probably the subversive Minute Men and even muddied the waters further telling him about Black Panthers who lived in the neighborhood. He didn’t say a word about Bishop James Pike.

Thinking out loud, Phil said, "I know how you feel about deserters… but obviously I’m way beyond draft age. I think I may have to go. You know, get out of the country for awhile."

"Like Mexico?" Carl asked blowing a smoke ring into the air.

"No, Canada. I've got an invitation to speak to a sci-fi convention in Vancouver. I could just stay on awhile. You know, buy some time."

"Yeah, can’t say I blame you." Carl stubbed out his cigarette and stood up, towering over Phil. "You should stick to outer space and stay out of politics, man." With that, 'ole Rambo Carl flashed Phil the peace, or victory, sign – Phil wasn’t sure which, and got up to leave. "You know how to reach me if you need anything."

Phil never called him again. He just packed a few things and left for Vancouver, leaving Sheila and the mess on Hacienda Way behind. He didn’t even bother to clean up the place. Sometime after he left, looters broke in the back door and stole his stereo and everything else of value. Phil never returned to San Raphael, California.

* * * * *

So, it begs the question -- who would go to such lengths to steal a Philip K. Dick manuscript? He was virtually unknown at the time, with only a cult following for his unique brand of speculative fiction.

Phil never quit obsessing over the 1971 break-in. Nor, did he ever re-write the true story of Bishop Pike’s controversial discoveries at Qumran near the Dead Sea or how the clergyman died as a result of it. He did finally go public with the story of the break-in. His friend Paul Williams published an account in Rolling Stone magazine in 1975 that described several theories, including the one that Church officials may have tried to silence Phil and the dead Bishop. The Rolling Stone article did wonders, in terms of publicity, for Phil and his novels, but by then things had become much more complicated.

Phil moved back to the States, but to Southern California instead of the Bay Area. In February of 1974 he had another kind of "break-in" to think about. A presence -- a pink light, actually -- beamed information to him. A fantastic claim, but one that Phil could describe quite convincingly. And he spent several years and over eight million words speculating about the source of that light and searching for the true meaning of the information it revealed. He distilled some of his written meditations into a synthesized religion, of sorts, which he labeled his Tractates Scriptura Cryptica and wove into one of his final novels, VALIS. He basically fictionalized the "pink light" experiences in his last three novels. (VALIS, Divine Invasions and the Transmigration of Timothy Archer.) It doesn't take much imagination to see that Bishop Timothy Archer is a thinly veiled characterization of Bishop Pike.

So, what were the mysterious findings at Qumran? What could be so important that a Bishop would give up his career and ultimately die trying to prove? That would cause a writer's home to be "hit" and a manuscript stolen? That would drive Philip K Dick to the brink of insanity trying to comprehend?

Well, the whole story wouldn’t -- actually couldn't -- be revealed for another eight years…