Chapter Four: Wednesday, October 17
1.

Tommy had no idea where he was. He knew only that he had been asleep, that it had been a blissful and mercifully dreamless sleep, and that he was not in his bedroom, although that is where he should have been. Then it hit him. The library. He had come here because he did not want to go home and he did not want to see anyone.

And apparently, he hadn't. He felt that he had been asleep for a very long time, and when he tried to sit up, he found it difficult. His neck and back were stiff and his legs were completely numb. He tried to stretch them, and a hot, searing pain shot through him, followed by a tingling like a thousand red hot needles being pressed into his skin.

Slowly, tentatively, he began to flex his toes. Each movement sent a new wave of pain through his legs, but gradually, the tingling began to ease.

He looked at his wrist and found that he had not put on his watch. What was it his grandfather used to say at such times? It's three freckles past a hair. That was it.

From where he was sitting, he could see a window, and it was dark outside. There was no sound in the library, and although that was not unusual, he was afraid that Mrs. Hilliard had forgotten that he was there, that he might be locked in overnight. The rational part of his mind told him that the lights were still on, and that meant that someone was still there, but the seeds of panic had already been sewn.

From the front of the library, he heard Mrs. Hilliard's voice and the alarm began to subside. "The library closes in half an hour, Miss."

"I'll be long gone by then. Thanks." It was a voice Tommy did not recognize. There was just a hint of an accent in it. The vowels were slightly elongated.

Tommy tried to stand, but found that his legs were still too stiff. He stretched them out in front of him and flexed each muscle in turn.

The library closes in half an hour, he thought. During the school year, it's open until ten, so it's nine thirty now. Dad's home and he's probably found out that I'm not. "Shit."

"Excuse me?" The voice came from directly behind him. He spun around in his chair.

The girl he was looking at was about his age. If he hadn't been grieving the loss of Jen, his first thought would have been that she was very pretty. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and the light yellow blouse she was wearing brought out the golden highlights in her hazel eyes.

"I was... talking to myself. Sorry."

"Yeah. I do that alot, too." She selected one of the large ledger books from the shelf of county documents and sat down at the table across from Tommy, then she took a notebook out of the large shoulder bag she was carrying. Actually, it looked more like an airline carry on bag. "I'm Allie Barloe. I'm new in town."

"I thought so. Tom Skolinski."

"You're the one everybody's been talking about," she said, then thought better of it and put on an apologetic look. "But you probably don't want to talk about that, huh?"

"No, not particularly."

She opened the book, Real Estate Transactions, 1986 to 1994, and scanned the pages. Tommy watched her, intrigued. She regarded the pages with perfect concentration, oblivious to all else. What could be so important in that book? It took a few minutes before she found what she was looking for. When she did, she opened her notebook, then looked up, puzzled. "You wouldn't happen to have a pencil on you, would you?"

"No, I don't."

"That's all right," she said, picking up her shoulder bag. "I'm sure I've got one in here someplace." She began to unload the bag on the table. Tube of strawberry flavored lip gloss, small green vinyl wallet, a pack of Marlboro regulars, lipstick, wintergreen breath mints, a box of Trojan ribbed condoms, lubricated, of course, and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. Just the stuff every girl carries around with her on a trip to the library. Finally, she reached in and brought out an eyeliner pencil. "Guess this'll have to do." She wrote something in the notebook, then tucked it into the bag and shut the ledger.

She returned the book to the shelf and sat down again to repack her bag. The last item she picked up was the bottle, and she noticed Tommy eyeing it. "I borrowed it from my boss. Hey, I have an idea," she said, her eyes lighting up. "You don't look like you're too anxious to go home, and I don't know anyone around here." She held up the bottle. "You want to go somewhere and help me drink this?"

Tommy thought about it. He figured he wouldn't get in any more trouble for being out all night than he would for sneaking out in the first place. And maybe that was just what he needed. To get really drunk and forget everything for a while.

"Sure," he said and shrugged.

"I'd ask you to my place, but it's a real dump," she said with an expression on her face that was almost a pout and that accentuated the dimples in her cheeks.

It's her way of flirting, Tommy thought. She smiled at him and bit her lower lip, lowering her face, but keeping her eyes on him. Yes, she's definitely flirting.

"I think I know a place."

2.

The night was as black as any he could remember as they made their way through the park. There were no street lights here, and with the clouds blocking out the moon, they had to move slowly, with Tommy in the lead, making his way almost entirely from memory.

As they came up over a small hill, they could see a single light, shining brightly in the dark. It illuminated the empty pool and the six foot fence around it.

"Are we gonna climb that," Allie asked.

"No, there's another way in," Tommy said. "See the building? That's where the gate is. It's padlocked, but all we have to do is slip the chain up over the top. Watch out, there's an old rabbit hole around here someplace."

As soon as they were within the circle of light, they ran for the building. It was just as Tommy said and they were inside in a matter of seconds.

Tommy took Allie's hand and led her into the deep end of the drained pool. They sat down, leaning against the side and avoiding the many puddles left over from the afternoon rain.

"This is nice," Allie said, pulling the bottle out of her bag. "Peaceful. And you can look at the stars."

"Mm hmm," Tommy mumbled. Jen liked to come here to look at the stars, he thought. "So what brings you to Proffitt Mines?"

Allie opened the bottle, took a drink, and told him about her dreams. She passed the bottle. "What about you? What do you want to do with your life?"

"What I want is to get the hell out of this town, away from my family. But that's not what's going to happen." He took a long drink from the bottle and passed it back to Allie. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something else. "I'm like a... like a salmon, I guess."

Allie broke into laughter and some of the schnapps spilled down her chin. "A salmon?"

"Yeah. The salmon knows that if he swims up the river to spawn, he's gonna die. But there's nothing he can do about it, right? It's instinct. He has to swim up the river, I have to stay here. Life's a bitch and then you die."

"That's depressing."

"I suppose it is. If you had my family, you'd see it the same way, though."

"Maybe. But mine was pretty rotten, too. I think there's always a chance."

"For most people there is, but most people aren't 'heir to the Proffitt empire.' That's what my grandfather calls me. I think my father would just as soon see the company go to someone outside the family. The man doesn't think I can do a damned thing. And maybe he's right." He took the bottle.

"He sounds like a jerk," Allie said sympathetically.

"That ain't the half of it. I suppose you've heard most of what happened?"

"The accident?"

Tommy nodded. "He blames me. Ah, hell, I blame myself, but I don't think I could have avoided it. Even if I hadn't been... I don't know. But in his mind, I did it on purpose, just to make him look bad. It's like that with everything, though. If I bring home anything but straight A's in school, it makes him look bad. I break curfew, I don't make the football team, it makes him look bad."

"Like you don't matter."

"Yeah. Like I don't matter. Sometimes I feel like I don't."

Allie was nodding. "I know how that is. My father used to ... do things."

"He molested you?"

"Among other things. My mother blamed me. She knew about it all along and she never did anything about it. She was jealous, though. She used to accuse me of seducing him."

"That's rotten." He passed the bottle back to Allie. As she took it, he could see that her hands were shaking. "Are you cold?"

"Not really. I've just never talked like this." She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before continuing. "Sometimes, she'd just start beating on me, and telling me to stay away from him. She didn't understand that I wanted to, but he was my father, and I couldn't. Ya know what I mean?"

"There's like this rule that says, if they're your parents, you have to love them, no matter what they do. Yeah, I know. They're supposed to watch out for you, protect you. And even if you know what they're doing is wrong according to society, you think that maybe society is wrong. Because they're your parents and they aren't supposed to do anything to hurt you. By the time you figure it out, you're already screwed."

"You speak from experience," Allie said. Tommy scratched at the label on the bottle, peeling off small shreds of paper and tossing them into the breeze. "If you don't want to talk about it..."

"No, it's just... I remember every beating I ever got. I used to make up the dumbest stories to explain the bruises. And if the stories weren't good enough, I'd get another beating. I once told one of my teachers that I fell out of the attic window at home. Well, she didn't go for it and called my dad. The next day, I had to tell her that I had said that because I was embarrassed to say that I had slipped on a bar of soap in the shower. Of course, then I had a few new bruises to explain, but no one said anything. But the things he always says hurt just as much."

"Useless, stupid, the list goes on," Allie said.

"Yeah. My all time favorite is, 'I'd be better off if you'd never been born.' That one feels real good."

"You gotta blow things like that off, ya know. You just can't listen, because if you fall for it, if you listen to them, you start to believe it. And if you do... I guess you always do. It's like you said. They have power over you. I mean, when you're little, they have all the power in the world, at least in your eyes. So, if they say it, it must be true. It's not, though. As soon as you learn that, you have to keep reminding yourself every chance you get." She held the bottle up to the light. The schnapps was about half gone and she made that pouty face again.

"That's not all, though. Those are the things I remembered. But things have been coming back to me."

Allie laid a hand on his arm. "It helps to talk."

"I talked to the school counselor."

Allie groaned. "Bad idea."

"I know. All she could think about was... doing something about it. I mean, doesn't she know that it would cause more problems than it would solve?"

"That's the way with people like that, Tom. They act like they are trying to help you, but really, they're just out to make themselves look good. Believe me. I tried that route once."

"What happened?"

"It was right after we moved to Butte. I just couldn't take any more, so I went to the police. There was this big investigation, and they concluded that I was lying."

"That figures."

"And, of course, what happens to me? Things get worse at home. My father was like, how could you do this to me after I've been so good to you. And my mother was no better."

"How'd you get away?"

Allie took a long drag off her cigarette and let the smoke out very slowly. "They died. I'm not sorry, either. They deserved everything they got."

"How did it happen?"

"The house burned down. My father fell asleep with a cigarette burning, and they never woke up. I wasn't home when it happened. I got home, and there was, like, nothing left of the house. This cop comes up to me and he's acting real sympathetic. That I'm sorry, but, bullshit. I tried to act real sad, you know, so they wouldn't think that I did it, but inside, I wanted to throw the biggest fucking party Butte, Montana had ever seen."

"Did you?"

"Throw a party?"

"No. I mean, did you set the fire?"

The rain had begun to fall again, but neither of them noticed. There was enough alcohol pumping through their veins to keep them warm, and getting a little wet was just part of the bargain.

Allie took another long drink and passed the bottle. Their rate of consumption had slowed, and she was glad to see that there was still quite a bit left in the bottle. She had a feeling that she would need it.

"It's not like I didn't think about it. Not a fire, though. That was too quick. Maybe I wished for it too hard, I don't know. And maybe, in a way, I wish I had done it. That would have been real justice."

Her cigarette had burned down to the filter, and she tossed it aside. It landed in a puddle of water and died with a faint hiss.

"Could you have lived with that?"

"I don't know. I think I could."

They were silent for a long time. The memories passed through Tommy's mind like an evil parade, the things he had told Rachel Clancy and other things that he had not dared to tell her. And other things that had not come back to him until just that moment, sitting in the cold, wet silence. The memories made him feel dirty and he was thankful for the rain. He only hoped that it might wash some of it away.

"A penny for your thoughts."

That might be just about what they're worth, Tommy thought. "My father used to come into the bathroom when I was in the tub. This was when I was five or six. He'd sit there on the toilet and jack off in front of me and beat me if I tried to look away. I used to beg my mother not to make me take a bath, because I knew what might happen."

"Did she know about it?"

"She might have. But she doesn't deal with reality too well, and if she did know, she probably didn't really realize."

Allie lit another cigarette and offered Tommy the pack. He took it and looked the cigarette over carefully before he lit it.

"You're making excuses for her."

"I know, but I have to. If I were to believe that she knew and did nothing about it... Look, I can remember a time when she was a normal, loving mother. Nothing like she is now. And I've always believed that it was my father who drove her insane. But if she knew about it, then that was probably part of what happened to her. And even though I know that it wasn't my fault, I would feel partly responsible."

"You love your mother."

"I guess I love who she used to be. I don't even know who or what she is now. She was always so weak, so controlled."

"By your father."

"And by her father. But, yeah, you're right. Mostly by my father. She was supposed to protect me, damn it, and she didn't. She was too wea..." He stopped short. A new image had entered his mind, and although he fought it, there it was, clear as day. It was something else he had forgotten, or had chosen to forget. When he continued speaking, his voice was monotone, emotionless. "She knew. Oh, damn, she knew. She walked in on it and she never said a thing. She never did a single fucking thing about it."

Allie took his hand and patted it gently. "It's not your fault, and you have no responsibility in it. We aren't the guilty ones, Tom. They are."

He managed a nod. He wasn't going to cry. Crying would be foolish and stupid.

But those were his father's words. You're doing this to make me look bad, Tommy. I want you to stop this instant. How would it look for a man in my position to have a damned crybaby for a son?

Allie was leaning close to him. She knew. She understood things that Rachel Clancy could not. He had found a kindred soul, and now, everything might turn out alright after all. But...

"I can't go home," he said. His voice was flat, filled with hate. "I can't face them again."

"I know," Allie said, looking deeply into his eyes. "I know, but you have to. You can't get past it until you confront them. You have to show them that you're strong. Tom, you are strong. But they don't know that yet. They still think of you as a little boy. You have to show them that you're a man, and that you'll fight for yourself."

"I don't know..."

"If you can't do it for yourself, then do it for me. I never got the chance to tell my parents how I felt, Tom. You and I, we're two of a kind. We have to stand up for each other, because no one else is going to stand up for us. You don't have to do it tonight, but do it. Do it for everyone like us, Tom."

Do it for everyone like us. That made sense. If his father had done that to him, wasn't it likely that he had done it to others, would continue to do it? Yes. And could Tommy let that happen, with the knowledge that he could have done something about it? No. If he let it pass, he would be no better than his mother.

"Sheriff Dolan would listen. He would believe me. He hates my family anyway."

"Cops can't help you. They won't help you. Tom, if you send him to jail, what good is that going to do? There are lots of people in jail for doing that kind of thing, aren't there?"

"I guess so."

"And nothing happens, does it? It doesn't help one bit. But what if all of the people who have been victims stand up and say, 'We don't have to take it anymore. We won't take it anymore.' Then maybe the people who are victims will find out that they can stand up and say the same thing. Doesn't that make more sense?"

"I suppose so. But how?"

"You start by talking to him. And then you talk to anyone who will listen. You humiliate him, and you sit back and watch him squirm like he watched you. Wouldn't that be the best revenge?"

"Yes." In his mind, he could see a picture of Scully, pacing the floor of his office, ranting and tearing at his hair, knowing that there was no way to fight. The frustration of knowing that there was no way to fight his son would drive him slowly insane. But it would be the loss of respect among his friends and colleagues that would be the worst. That would kill him.

Tommy took another drink from the bottle and set it aside. He laid back on the had concrete of the swimming pool and looked up at the stars, letting the rain fall softly on his face, and letting his imagination run wild.

If Scully lost the respect of his workers, he wouldn't be a very effective boss, would he? And if he could not be that, wouldn't he feel as helpless and hopeless as Tommy felt most of the time? And he wouldn't be able to deal with that. He would probably buy a gun and put a bullet through his brain. That would be the best revenge.

3.

If you leave Proffitt Mines and drive north on Highway 7 for about twenty miles, then blink at the wrong moment, you will completely miss the town of Greenfield. If you happen to see it and stop, and you stand in the middle of the down town and take a look around, you will see a boarded up bank, a storefront with soaped windows that used to be a grocery store, and the vacant lot where the post office once stood. Around the corner, you will find Fuzzy Malone's Tavern and the Highway Diner. Food and drink are the last things to go when a town dies.

Fuzzy Malone was born and raised in Greenfield and had rarely ventured beyond the confines of Proffitt County. Despite the narrowness of his existence, he was always good for a colorful story, one that always began with the words "A customer of mine once told me..." You might be the customer who had told him the story and you would never recognize it. Five minutes after he heard it, he would have rewritten the ending and put his own bizarre twist on it.

It was a rare thing to find anyone drinking at Fuzzy's bar and even rarer to see a car parked in front of the tavern, since every residence in town was within easy walking distance and the farmers in the surrounding area would rather drive the extra twenty miles to Rhiannon's and actually have someone to talk to while they got drunk.

But at eight o'clock in the morning on Wednesday, October 17th, a Cadillac El Dorado pulled into a space directly in front of the doors.

Evelyn Proffitt visited Fuzzy's about twice a month. More during the summer months and sometimes not at all in the winter when the roads were bad. She came here when she needed to get away - from her husband, from her family, from her responsibilities - and this seemed to be happening more and more.

Evelyn grew up thinking that it was a woman's duty to give to her husband and to her family, and to keep nothing of herself for herself. It was the way her family had functioned, the way her mother had acted. Many was the night her mother had gone without dinner because there was not enough food in the house for all of them. For months one year, her mother had gone without shoes because the children needed new ones and Daddy needed his beer money.

And for thirty years, Evelyn had done the same things. She was married to Charles Proffitt, and going without had nothing to do with the necessities of life. If she wanted champagne and caviar for dinner or wanted new Italian pumps and an original Calvin Klein gown, she had but to ask. For Evelyn, going without was much more personal. It meant going without love, without affection, without an identity of her own.

In the Seventies, the sexual revolution had come to Proffitt County, and Evelyn saw something she never realized could happen. Women, married women, with jobs, with careers. Women who defined themselves by what they wanted and not by who their husbands were.

Sadly, Evelyn realized that it was too late for her. She had spent too many years of her life one way, and even if she had had the courage to change, she doubted that she could have done it. She did not have the courage to go to her husband and tell him that she wanted to go back to school, to get a degree. To get a job. Could she have found the courage?

Maybe. But Evelyn liked the life she led almost as much as she hated it. More accurately, she liked complaining about it. She enjoyed wandering around her big house mumbling about lost chances and lost hope. She enjoyed feeling bitter, but putting on a happy face for the townsfolk. It gave her a sense of accomplishment.

Keeping secrets in a gossip garden like Proffitt Mines, keeping secrets from her husband, gave her a sense of accomplishment, too. And it was exciting.

Her trips to Fuzzy Malone's Tavern were a secret. No one knew. No one even suspected. And no one would think to look for Mrs. Charles Proffitt in Greenfield, not to mention in a run down dive bar in Greenfield.

Evelyn did not go to the tavern to drink, although she did indulge in a martini now and then. She didn't go there for the atmosphere, because the place had none. It was just an old bar with peanut shells on the floor and neon beer signs on the walls. She didn't go there during business hours. She arrived early in the morning and was careful to leave long before the doors opened at noon.

There was always a poker game going in the back room of the tavern, and Evelyn came to play, to spend a little of her husband's money on a pastime he certainly wouldn't approve of. She came to lose. At least, it always seemed to work out that way.

It made losing a little easier if Evelyn thought of it as charity. She had money, and most of the men she was playing with did not. It was her way of giving something back to the community that had provided so well for her. And no matter how much she did lose, it was worth it to be away from him, from them, from that place, even for just a few hours.

4.

Charles went into his office and locked the door behind him. He needed to be alone, with no interruptions. He had not slept in two days. He wasn't even certain that he had eaten anything, but these things were among the least of his concerns. He had been too busy thinking.

The heater in the courthouse had been turned on that morning, but had so far had little effect, and it was as cold in the office as it was outside. Charles lowered himself into his leather desk chair without taking off his heavy wool overcoat and watched the puffs of white steam coming from his mouth as he breathed.

The pounding in his head would not stop. It had been a long time since he had had a hangover like this one. But then, it had been a long time since he had been drunk for two days straight. He had already swallowed half a dozen aspirin tablets that morning, and would have taken a couple more if he hadn't left the damned bottle at home.

Three and a half years he had been seeing Krystiana, once a week, every week. That came to about one hundred seventy times. He was no expert. He had never held a deck of tarot cards in his hands and he had never attempted to analyze their meanings. That was her job.

But he had watched. He had seen the cards enough times, looked at them on the table while she was telling him what she saw there. And he was no fool. He hadn't graduated magna cum laude from Montana State University by being stupid. He hadn't run Proffitt Mining Company for forty-some-odd years, he hadn't made it one of the largest mining operations in the United States, by failing to observe.

He had seen what was in the cards. Krystiana would see things there that he could not. She would pick up on the nuances, the details. But he could piece together a rough outline.

She had chosen twelve cards. Twelve cards out of seventy-eight. One to represent herself, one to represent him, and ten to tell his future. He remembered each one of them. At one time or another, he had seen them all before. But he had never seen them all at once.

Charles had never thought of himself as a superstitious man. Superstition had no place in the business world. He did not believe in ghosts or spirits or the ability to see the future. He went to church every Sunday, but he wasn't even sure that he believed in God. To believe in something, he needed hard proof. Facts that he could put down on paper, scientific equations that had been proven correct time and time again over the years.

He could not remember the day Krystiana Samara had come to Proffitt Mines. He had heard about it, of course. News of a newcomer in town spreads faster than any other kind. Almost any other.

He remembered another day with crystal clarity. He was sitting in his office, just as he was now. He was looking over the estimates for putting all of the county records on a computer system and deciding that there just wasn't enough money in the budget to pull it off when there was a knock at his door.

Vera Duncan and Lucy Trevor stormed into his office without waiting for him to invite them in. Vera was the president of the ladies' club at St. Matthew's Baptist Church, and where ever Vera went, Lucy wasn't far behind. Vera took a seat in front of the desk. As always, Vera held her head inclined slightly upward, with her nose in the air, her lips puckered and her face screwed into an odd expression that made her look as though she were detecting some offensive odor that no one else could smell. Lucy, an elderly spinster who was even more of a prude than her friend, if such was possible, stood in the corner, looking nervous and wringing her wrinkled hands until her knuckles turned white.

"We have a problem," Vera said in her whiny, high-pitched voice. "And we want to know what you are going to do about it." She accented the wes and the you, and enunciated each word of her prepared statement, making it perfectly clear, without saying any such thing, that she had no intention of leaving the office until he had done exactly what she wanted.

Vera's husband, Luther Duncan the Third, as it was printed on his business cards, owned and operated the only real estate office in town, one of only three in the county. It seemed that the 'newcomer' had contacted Luther and was interested in renting the empty building on Main Street. That alone was bad enough, that a stranger should open a business in Proffitt Mines when there were so many good, hard working people who had lived in town all of their lives. But it was the kind of business that woman wanted to open that the town could simply not put up with.

"What kind of business would that be, Mrs. Duncan," Charles asked.

Vera leaned forward, as close to Charles as she could get with the huge oak desk between them, glanced about to make sure that no one else had entered the office in the last thirty seconds, then whispered, "She's a fortune teller."

Lucy Trevor made a sound that was half gasp, half moan and wrung her hands even more fervently. The news was nothing new to her, but it was just as agonizing each time she heard it.

"And that's not all," Vera continued after glancing at Lucy with a sympathetic smile. "Rumor has it that she was raised by gypsies. And that she's not even a Christian. Now, I ask you, Councilman Proffitt, can we allow a person like that to warp the minds of the people of our town? Why, it's simply scandalous!"

Charles ushered the two women out of his office with a promise to do all that he could for them. And he intended to. He sped immediately to the newcomer's home, where he intended to do just what the ladies' club of St. Matthew's Baptist Church wanted him to do.

When he got there, and he saw Krystiana Samara for the first time, he lost his resolve. And maybe part of his heart. She had known things, even at that first meeting, that no one should have known. First of all, she had known why he was there. She had laughed that beautiful, haunting laugh.

"I can just hear dear old Vera telling you all about me," she said. And she had repeated, almost word for word, exactly what Vera had told him. But that was not all.

She told him many things that day. Things about himself that even he had not known, but once she had spoken the words, he knew that all of it was true.

But that was then. Looking back, Charles wished that he had never gone to see her, that he had never met her. He wished that he had found a way to run her out of town. That he could erase the last four years.

No, none of that was true. He wouldn't trade knowing her for anything. But those damned cards. They had never lied before. And Krystiana, sweet, kind, beautiful Krystiana, had never lied before.

But two days ago, she had lied to him. There had been death in the cards. He had seen it, too. Jennifer Laughton had died in an accident that could have easily claimed the life of his grandson. Perhaps his immediate family had escaped that part of what destiny held in store, and perhaps not. Time would tell.

Charles wasn't afraid of death. But there were other things there. Worse things. Things the Krystiana hadn't wanted to tell him. Had refused to tell him. Those were the things that he was afraid of.

5.

Tommy couldn't believe his luck. When he climbed back in through his bedroom window at four o'clock in the morning, he expected to see his father sitting there on the bed, waiting to beat the shit out of him. Tommy had anticipated this with equal doses of fear and excitement. Facing Scully would not be pleasant, but the sooner it happened, the better for everyone involved, except Scully, of course.

Whatever it was that had happened to him that night, and even Tommy wasn't sure what it was, it had changed something within him. The despair was gone. The grief, well, it was still there, but he no longer felt that it was going to consume him. He had loved Jen. He still did, and probably always would. But she was gone, and he was ready to accept that fact. Had be been the instrument of her death? No, the truck had been. Tommy was just another victim.

Just as he had been the victim of his father's abuse. He couldn't change that any more than he could bring Jen back from the realm of the dead. But the sooner he confronted Scully, as frightening a prospect as that was, the sooner he could put that part of his life behind him and get on to more important things.

Like Allie Barloe. He wasn't quite in love with her, but falling in love with her was certainly a possibility, and he wouldn't know until he tried. At the very least, he wanted a chance at sleeping with her. And she was willing, very willing, but she had made it perfectly clear that it would not happen until he earned her respect. And she would not respect him until he had taken his destiny into his hands and stood up to his parents.

He didn't feel quite ready to do that, though. He needed a little bit of time to work out a plan, to decide what he was going to say, to write the script in his mind and to rehearse it until it was perfect. So, when he climbed through his window and found the room just as he had left it, with the light still on and the door still locked, he had been even more relieved than he had thought he would be.

He stripped off his wet clothes, wrapped himself in a blanket and waited for his frozen fingers and toes to thaw.

He woke up, still cold and numb, as the first rays of morning sunshine filtered through his window. This had been the longest Scully had kept him locked in the bedroom without at least opening the door to throw in a plate of food, even if it was just the scraps left over from dinner, the skins from baked potatoes, gristly bits of meat or chicken bones, corn or beans, and, if he was lucky, a few crusts of bread, the kind of slop fit for hogs. Even that was starting to sound good and Tommy realized that he had forgotten to eat anything while he was out.

He found a heavy sweater in the back of his closet, pulled on a pair of jeans, and checked the door. It was unlocked. He stood for a moment in the doorway, listening for the sound of his father's voice. He'd fallen asleep before he'd had a chance to begin formulating his plan, and he wasn't ready to see Scully quite yet.

There was no sound of water running in the master bathroom, no rustling of a newspaper, no yelling and screaming. No sound at all that Tommy could associate with his father. In fact, except for the dull mechanical hum of the furnace and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the big house was completely silent.

He wasn't yet convinced. Cautiously, Tommy tiptoed to the window at the end of the hall. From here, he could see the garage and driveway. The garage door was open and his mother's gray Nissan Sentra, which hadn't been driven in months, was inside. The spot on the driveway where Tommy's van was usually kept was conspicuously vacant. Scully's red Silverado was no where in sight.

Tommy went downstairs, feeling not quite confident, but no longer concerned. As he made his way through the livingroom toward the kitchen, he could smell the delicious aromas of bacon and toast, and even coffee brewing. Strange, since no one but his mother had ever bothered to fix breakfast in that house, and she hadn't done that in a long time.

Strange, too, that Katherine wasn't sitting in her chair next to the fireplace. How long had it been since Tommy had come through this room in the morning and not seen her sitting there, frozen in a catatonic state, staring at nothing but whatever pictures were in her mind? He decided that it had been at least six weeks, maybe more. It really didn't matter. But why wasn't she there now?

Tommy got the answer to that question when he walked into the kitchen. Katherine was sitting at the table, eating her breakfast and making out a grocery list on a scaled down yellow legal pad. She looked up when Tommy came in.

"Good morning, Sweetheart," she said cheerfully. "Sleeping in this morning, huh?"

"Uh, yeah," Tommy replied. He tried to hide his shock, but, in his own estimation, failed miserably. Katherine didn't seem to notice.

"There's some bacon for you, but I think the eggs are probably cold by now. I can make some fresh if you want any."

"No," Tommy said, regarding her suspiciously, "that's okay. I'll just have the bacon and some juice. I can get it myself."

Katherine looked better than Tommy had seen her in a long time. Her hair was not just brushed but also curled and styled, and her make up perfectly applied. She had obviously chosen her own clothing this morning, and even dressed herself, a feat she hadn't accomplished since sometime during the summer. Perhaps it was still summer in her mind, because she had put on a pale yellow cotton sundress and a white linen short sleeved jacket.

"I'm going down to the Corner Food Mart this afternoon. Is there anything you want?"

"No thanks, Mom," Tommy said. "You might want to put something warmer on if you're going out today. It's kinda cold."

"Oh." Katherine looked confused. "I thought... Of course," she said looking at him, "if it's sweater weather, this won't do at all, will it? I don't know what I was thinking. Thank you, Tommy."

"Sure. No problem." He scooped up what was left of the bacon off the broiler rack and put it on a paper plate, a habit he had developed in the times when his mother was unable to wash the dishes. In those times, the house rule was anyone who uses a plate washes a plate, and Tommy hated doing dishes.

He sat down at the table, across from Katherine. She had stopped writing and was sitting motionless, with her pen poised inches about the note pad, staring at some imaginary point in space.

Great, Tommy thought. She's gone again. Just what I need.

"Mom," he asked, "you alright?"

Katherine looked up, a little startled. "Fine. I was just... thinking."

"Right. Were you planning on driving to the market?"

"Of course," Katherine said. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I was hoping I could borrow your car for a couple of hours."

Katherine nodded. "I can go to the store when you get home. There's no problem. But why don't you take your van?"

Where ever she had been, she hadn't been aware of what was happening around her. "I sort of wrecked it," Tommy said. "Don't you remember?"

"That's right," Katherine said, smiling and looking confused again. "I forgot." The smile faded and she bit her trembling lower lip.

If Tommy had wanted to confront his mother, if he had been ready, he couldn't have done it. Whatever Katherine had done, or not done, as the case may be, Tommy realized that she had been as powerless as he had been. She, too, had been a victim, but it had cost her much more. Looking at the quivering and confused shell of the person he had once known sitting before him, he could feel nothing but pity for her.

She was trying to put on a brave face, to pretend that there was nothing wrong. She was doing this as much for her own benefit as for Tommy's. Neither of them believed it.

Katherine gathered up her breakfast dishes and carried them to the sink. What would follow would be a day of frenzied cleaning and straightening and organizing until Katherine fell exhausted into bed to go to sleep or into her chair and retreated into catatonia. This was the other way she dealt with things she could not deal with, keeping her mind so busy that she wouldn't have time to think about them.

"So, Dear," she said, scraping the dishes into the sink, "what are your plans for the day?"

"I thought I'd go to Billings, to see Johnny."

"Johnny Milton? What's he doing in Billings?" Something deep within herself told Katherine that she should have known the answer to her own question, and she changed the subject before Tommy could respond. "That's an awfully long drive all by yourself. Maybe Jennifer would like to go with you."

"Mom, Jen's..." But what good would it do to tell her? That would be just one more thing that she couldn't deal with. "Jen can't go. Can I have the keys?"

"They're in my purse," Katherine said. She didn't look up from the dishes. "I don't think I'll be going anywhere today, after all. Too much to do. I just can't imagine how the house got so filthy. I just cleaned it the other day."

6.

Through the bedroom window, Krystiana could see most of the township of Proffitt Mines. The rain had finally stopped, but not before the temperature dipped below the freezing point. The ice covered everything. It had captured flowers in full bloom, leaves still on the trees. The landscape glittered like a sea of gems. The view was spectacular. It should have lifted her spirits.

Destiny had called Richard to this little town, and she had followed him, just as she had every day for more than half her life. She had loved him unconditionally. And perhaps she had sacrificed more than she should have to be with him, yet she had no regrets. None until today.

It was not being with him that she rued. He had given her so much. He had been there when there had been no one else in the world she could turn to. He had loved her through the good times and the bad, and there had been a lot of both.

But the cost of being with him was another matter. She had given up a way of life to conform to the society in which he lived. Never, before the day she met him, had she lived in the same place for more than a month at a time. She had never had a home without wheels on it. She had been educated by her grandmother. It had not been a traditional education, but she had learned what she needed to survive.

It was Richard who had taught her to read and write, to speak properly, and to behave in an acceptable manner. A manner that was acceptable in his society. All of this had not been his idea. He was willing to take her as she was. From the beginning, he had found her ways intriguing, even charming. These had not only been his words, but also his thoughts.

But there had been another thought that had troubled her. It was the first time he had taken her out to dinner, and as they walked into the restaurant, she had sensed his pride in being seen with her. She had watched him as the waiter flirted openly with her, and had sensed Richard's jealousy, and again, pride that he was with a woman that other men found as attractive as he did. When the dinner arrived, though, something changed.

Krystiana had never seen a lobster before, and she had no idea what she was supposed to do with it. Laying there on the plate with claws and feelers still attached, it looked a little too alive. She decided to be brave and at least try it, but that didn't solve the worst of her problems, how to go about trying it. Seeing no way to approach this task, she picked it up, turned it over and continued examining it.

Richard practically lunged across the table, took the lobster from her, and returned it to the plate. He had felt that everyone in the restaurant was watching, and he was embarrassed. In turn, Krystiana was embarrassed, not just for herself, but for both of them. She had resolved that night that such an incident would never happen again.

Whatever she had done for him, she had done for herself, too, because he was so important to her. And she knew that she was better off here with him than she would have been if she had stayed where she was. But, sometimes, that life still called her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Krystiana had been too deep in thought to hear or to sense Richard coming into the room, and his words, whispered just inches from her ear, startled her. Slowly, as her mind came back to the present, she nodded.

She had managed to avoid this conversation all night, knowing all the time that she was doing nothing more than delaying the inevitable. There was something on her mind, as Richard had guessed, and she had no desire to hide this from him. But she did not have the words to explain it. It was a feeling. The presence of a feeling or the feeling of a presence that she could not define or even come close to understanding. So how was she going to make him understand?

Richard took her hand, led her to the bed and sat down next to her. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

"I don't know," she said. "I can't sense your thoughts. There is something blocking me."

"Is it something I'm doing," he asked.

"No. I wasn't sure at first that there was really anything there. But last night, when we made love, whatever this thing is that's in my mind was forced out somehow. Everything was just as it should be. But this morning, it's back, and it's stronger."

Richard held both of her trembling hands in his and stared into her eyes. She didn't need to enter his mind to see that he was worried about her, but at the moment, there was nothing she could do to ease his concerns.

"There are no distinct thoughts," she continued, "no memories or ideas, nothing we would associate with normal thought patterns. Just instincts, primal and undeveloped. Like the mind of an animal."

"Could it be an animal," he asked. "Cerberus?"

Krystiana thought about it and shook her head. "If it were, it would be the first time. And if it was Cerberus, his mind might be able to effect me when I'm in the same room or even the same house. From here, I think I would have to make the connection myself."

"But you're not sure."

"No. But there's no distance. If you were downstairs, in the kitchen, and I was here, I would be able to feel that distance. I can't quite explain how it works, but it's like depth perception."

"Like driving a car. You can't see the tires, but you can feel when they're too close to the curb."

"Exactly." Krystiana relaxed a bit. Richard was trying to understand what she was feeling, and that was more than she had expected from him, although she wondered why she would have expected anything less. "And I feel like I'm driving with two tires on the sidewalk and there's nothing I can do about it."

She hadn't meant that statement to be quite as sardonic as it sounded. She was in no mood to laugh, but when she saw Richard's lip twitch and some of the concern in his eyes replaced by a sparkle of humor, she couldn't help herself. Richard joined in her laughter and it became infectious. They laughed, not because anything was particularly funny, but because they needed to, until their sides hurt and their jaws ached. They would stop and almost regain composure until one looked at the other and the whole process started over again. They laughed until they both collapsed on the bed, out of breath and nearly exhausted.

For a brief moment, in the midst of the laughter, Krystiana could see herself through Richard's eyes and she could feel his love for her as surely as she felt her own for him, just as she had last night, and it shocked her into silence. For that moment, the thing in her mind had released its hold on her and her mind was free. But just for a moment. Before she had even the time to realize what had happened, it returned.

Richard propped himself up on his elbow and stroked Krystiana's hair with his free hand. "Is that why you thought you were pregnant," he asked when his breath returned.

"Yes."

"Are you disappointed that you're not?"

"Are you," Krystiana asked.

"I suppose I am. A little bit."

Krystiana looked him in the eye, searching for something, some door to his mind that was still open to her, and found none. While it was rare that she came across someone whose mind she could read as easily as Richard's, she had never before had to rely on instinct to judge someone's emotion. And at this crucial moment, she needed more than ever to know just what Richard was feeling.

"I see," she said at last. It was an inadequate response, but she could think of nothing else to say.

"I think that it's about time we talk about it," Richard said.

Krystiana stood up and crossed the room to the window. There would be no right time to hold this discussion, but now was definitely the wrong time. "Aren't you late for work," she asked.

Richard checked his watch and stood up. "You're right. But don't think I'm letting you off the hook." There was a lightness in his words that Krystiana was relieved to hear, but there was something else behind it, and at any other time, Krystiana would have known what that something else was.

7.

Unlike Doc Murphey, Anders Lindstrom had never doubted that he had made the right career choice. He had worked at the Proffitt County National Bank since he was sixteen years old. He loved the work and the people he worked with had become more like a family to him than his own family was.

In addition, it gave him the opportunity to meet and to get to know almost everyone in town. Not in the superficial, say-hello-in-passing way, either. Everyone in Proffitt Mines knew everyone else. When you live in a community of only twelve hundred people, you can't help it. But how many people really knew everyone beyond knowing their names and recognizing them when they passed on the street? How many people could say that they had held deep and intimate conversations with everyone else. Anders figured that the answer was damned few.

As much as he loved his work, he sometimes suspected that he had done his job a little too well. From day one, he had given everything he had to his job, sometimes to the exclusion of everything else in his life. And it had paid off. When he was forty years old, the board of directors had elected him president of the bank. If he had known then what he knew now, he would have said, "Thanks, but no thanks," and gone on about his business.

Looking back, he should have known just what he was getting himself into. After all, he grew up in Proffitt Mines. He'd lived there all of his life, and that should have made him something of an expert on small town life. But he had been too busy dedicating himself to his work to notice much of what went on. May the circle be unbroken.

What Anders had failed to realize was that the president of the bank is not the most popular man in a small town in the best of times. In the worst of times, he's public enemy number one. If a farmer has a bad year and can't make his loan payments, what happens? The bank has to foreclose on his property. And when that happens, who gets blamed? Certainly not the tellers, or the accounting department, or even the loan officer who approved the loan in the first place. No. Every one blames the president.

He is, after all, the boss, the big man. People didn't realize that he had rules he had to follow, that, while he may be the big man at Proffitt County National Bank, there are bigger guys in Washington DC making those rules and doling out the punishment if the rules aren't followed. And if the rules aren't followed, who gets punished? Well, everyone blames the president.

And, there was another down side to the job that he hadn't foreseen. When he was the one on the front lines, out there meeting and talking to the people of Proffitt Mines, it had always seemed that the president of the bank was looking over his shoulder, looking over the shoulders of all of the employees. When he accepted the job himself, he hadn't realized how much time he would spend stuck in the little office on the second floor, far away from the very people who had made the job such a pleasure.

His fellow employees now regarded him with, at best, some suspicion. If he tried to be too friendly, he must want something. And if he maintained a discreet distance, he was a snob who no longer had time for those whom he had once considered friends.

It was no easier with the public. He no longer had the time to spend chatting with each and every customer who came in. In fact, the only time he really got to see anyone and to spend time with them was when he was giving them bad news. This was not part of his job description, but Anders had never believed in sending bad news via the US mail. No, it's much better delivered in person, and while a few people in town still believed in the ancient custom of killing the messenger, no one, at least so far, had taken it too seriously.

It took only a few such missions before the entire town knew that a visit from the president of the bank means nothing but bad luck. And soon after, it seemed, people started thinking that so much as seeing the president of the bank on the street was bad luck. He started to think of himself as a black cat, and he wouldn't have been surprised at all if people started crossing themselves when he crossed their paths.

Since taking the job, his social calendar had become conspicuously empty, except for the occasional party held by one of the Proffitts, and, as he climbed the steps to the third floor office of a person who was about to receive some rather unpleasant news, Anders suspected that soon, he would be a persona non grata at those affairs, too.

8.

Scully had gone over the books at least a dozen times in as many days. He had added and readded the columns of figures until his fingers were sore and callused, until his vision blurred and his head was swimming. He had had nightmares in which little numbers were chasing him through mine shafts and through the long dark corridors of his office building.

They never caught him. They came very close, but he always managed to escape. The only thing he could not escape was reality.

He spread the stack of papers across his desk one more time, still convinced that this had to be a mistake. That somewhere in the payroll records or the purchase orders or the records of operating expenses, there was a multi-million dollar error, and if he looked hard enough, he would find it, and then everything would be all right.

But it wasn't all right. The truth, no matter how much Scully denied it, was that Proffitt Mining Company was in serious trouble. Not quite bankrupt, but on a down hill slide that was picking up speed every day.

The financial statements on the desk in front of him told a story that Scully did not want to hear. In 1989, the net income had dipped below the hundred thousand dollar mark for the first time in forty years. By 1992, there was no longer a net income figure at all, but rather a net loss that was fast approaching seven digits. And in 1993, it got there. Since then, there had been no sign of improvement.

In less than two weeks, the quarterly taxes would be due, and there wasn't enough money in the bank to pay.

Then, yesterday, Scully's old friend Anders Lindstrom had called. His tone had not been casual. He had not invited Scully to dinner or suggested that they meet for a drink after work. He had said, "I need to see you as soon as possible." His tone had been very business-like and urgent.

He would arrive any minute to tell Scully what he already knew. And Scully would have to try to explain what had happened. How could he explain that it was not really his fault at all? Who would understand that none of it would have happened if that evil son of his hadn't demanded so much of his time?

9.

Anders waited in the outer office while Scully's secretary called her boss on the intercom and told him that his one o'clock appointment had arrived. When she hung up the phone, Melissa Parrish smiled sweetly and reported that Mr. Skolinski was on an important conference call, but it would be only a few minutes.

Anders knew it was a lie. None of the lights on the telephone indicated a line in use. But it was a harmless lie. Scully was no fool, and he certainly knew why Anders was there. If he needed a little extra time to prepare, let him have it.

This was not the first time he had visited the office of the president of Proffitt Mining Company. He had been there many times over the years for one reason or another. But he had never really stopped to look around. He had never really noticed how oppressive the atmosphere of the office was.

The room was about the size of a jail cell, eight feet by ten feet, and was no more cheerful. The paint on the walls and the carpet on the floor were the same dull shade of institutional gray. Melissa's desk was a rectangular block of steel, the same dull color, and had only a lamp, a typewriter and a telephone on it. There was no window. No plants or paintings hanging on the walls. There was no color, no personality, no life.

Melissa was the only bright spot in the office. She was one person Anders really didn't know, but she was not from Proffitt Mines and she had never come into the bank. Melissa was from Hooper, and commuted fifty miles each direction every day to come to work here. Somehow, even in this environment, she managed to keep a smile on her face.

Many people might have considered Melissa pretty, but Anders was not one of them. Her hair was bleached too blond. Her pert little nose was too upturned. Her colored contact lenses were too blue. And her silicon implants were too big. Nothing about her seemed real, including her smile. But at least she tried to add something to the decor by wearing a bright red dress.

She had just offered Anders a cup of coffee, which he turned down because there was no decaf, when Scully came out of his office. His face was as gray as the office walls.

"Good afternoon, Anders," he said, trying to sound upbeat. He held out his hand and Anders took it. Then Scully led him into the office and shut the door behind them.

Inside, Anders took a chair in front of the desk while Scully paced the floor.

"I suppose you know why I'm here," Anders began.

"Sure do."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Scully sat down in his desk chair. He folded his hands on the desk, and took a deep breath before he spoke. "Look, Anders, I appreciate your concern. I know things don't look good right now..."

"No, they don't."

"But it's not as bad as it seems. This is a temporary situation."

"Scully," Anders said, "we've known each other for a long time. When it comes to business, I've never lied to you. I'd like the same professional courtesy from you. What ever is going on, it's been going on for several years. I've never said anything, because it's not my place."

"You're right, it's not."

"You missed last month's loan payment and this month's was due last week. There's no money in the business account to cover it. You've got payroll coming up and taxes are due at the end of the month. What is going on?"

Scully's face hardened into a scowl. He unfolded his hands and gripped the arms of his chair. "You said it yourself. It's not your place to say anything about this. I'm not going to sit here while you insinuate that I am incapable of running my own business."

"I never said any such thing." Anders kept his voice low and calm. He had dealt with irate and irrational people before, and he knew that given the chance, under these circumstances, Scully would pounce on anything he said. "Look, if you don't think there's a problem, then as far as I'm concerned, there's not a problem, right?"

"Right."

"So, if there's nothing I can do to help, I'll be going."

Anders left the office and shut the door behind him. Scully sat in his chair until it was time to go home, staring at his hands, alternately clenching them into tight fists and splaying his fingers, and thinking how easy it would have been to wrap those fingers around the neck of his old friend Anders Lindstrom and slowly choke the life out of him.

10.

When Richard got home, he expected to find Krystiana waiting for him. She had promised to be there and that they would finish the discussion they had started in the morning. But her car was not in the driveway, and she was not in the house. She had broken her word.

Three times, he picked up the phone to call her, and three times he hung up before he dialed the last number. He wasn't sure whether to be angry at her, or sorry for pushing the subject when she was in such a vulnerable state. And not knowing which emotion would come to the surface when he heard her voice, he decided that it was best not to talk to her at all.

He had known for a very long time how she felt about having children. She had never made excuses. She never led him to believe that she might someday change her mind. Yet he held out hope that someday, she would.

But she had also never explained to him exactly why she didn't want to have children. If anything, Krystiana was the most open minded and giving person he had ever met. If she felt this strongly about something, Richard thought, there must be a damned good reason for it. So why hadn't she confided in him?

The answer came into his mind as though she had put it there. She would tell him everything when she was good and ready, and not a minute before.

He wished that she had planted the thought. It would mean that she was feeling better, and that he could stop worrying, but there had been no psychic contact all day. He had never realized how much he had come to rely on it to get him through the day. Without her voice invading his thoughts, his mind had been a dreadfully quiet and lonely place, and he couldn't bear the thought of going another day, another minute, without talking to her.

This time, when he picked up the phone, he dialed the number quickly, so that he would not have a chance to change his mind. She answered on the third ring.

"Hello?" Her voice was weak, barely audible.

"Did I wake you," Richard asked.

"Yeah. I was supposed to meet you at your place tonight, wasn't I?" Her voice was more than just weak, Richard realized. Her speech was slurred.

"That's all right. You don't sound too good. Have you been drinking?"

Krystiana laughed feebly. "Unfortunately, no. I thought about it, but then I remembered I don't keep anything in the house." There was a long silence on the line. "I'm sorry. I know you wanted to talk."

"I don't think you're up to doing anything but sleeping. Take care of yourself and don't worry about me."

"I do worry, though. Look, Richard, I lost you over this stupid disagreement once. I don't want to let that happen again." It was, in fact, Richard who had lost her all those years ago. She was the one who walked away, but Richard decided to let that pass. "If this means that much to you, the least I can do is to be open to discussion."

"But you're not going to change your mind."

"Probably not," Krystiana admitted, "but you talked me into moving to this wretched little town, didn't you?" Her words were gradually getting clearer, and there was a hint of sarcasm in her words. She was teasing him. But, Richard wondered, was she doing it because she wanted to or forcing herself to do it to put his mind at ease?

"I thought you liked it here."

"I like being anywhere you are. Montana wouldn't have been my first choice, but it's home now."

"Is it," Richard asked. Before the words were out of his mouth, he wondered just what he meant by them.

11.

Richard might have wondered what his words meant, but Krystiana knew. She did not need any psychic bond to understand perfectly. She had been having the same thoughts all day.

"No. No, it's not," she said. "Home is where you're surrounded by everyone you love. We don't have a home anymore."

"Boston."

"Maybe. But what's left for us there?" The bitter truth of her own words brought tears to her eyes. "That was a different lifetime. We were different people then. Let's face it. We've got each other. That'll have to be enough."

"It is."

"Yes."

The conversation ended in the usual way. They said "I love you" and promised to meet for lunch the next day. Richard hung up his phone.

Krystiana let the receiver drop to the floor. She was laying on the bed in her darkened bedroom, wrapped in a thick blanket. Talking to Richard and trying to sound even remotely normal had taken every last bit of strength in her body, and the thought of lifting her arm to return the receiver to its cradle was more than she could bear.

The presence in her mind was no longer the dull annoyance it had been in the morning. She had spent the day trying to fight it off, but to no avail. Every attempt she made to banish it to the far reaches of her mind seemed only to aggravate it. When it reasserted itself, as it did every time, it came back stronger, until, by early evening, she felt that she was loosing herself in it. That at any time, it might consume what was left of her mind, and Krystiana would be no longer.

How innocent those abstract images that had been forced into her mind earlier seemed now. All of it was derived from some base survival instinct. In the beginning, it had been nothing more than that. This thing, what ever it was, seemed to be on a quest for merely the things it needed to survive; shelter and food. It had found those things in Krystiana's mind, and if she had let it be, perhaps it would have been content there, coexisting with her own thoughts.

But Krystiana had not been content, so she had not let it be. The thoughts assaulting her now were disturbing, violent in nature. It was blood lust, pure and simple. And the power of these thoughts was such that it took intense concentration on Krystiana's part to distinguish them from her own emotions. And it frightened her more than mere words could express.

It frightened her, too, to surrender to sleep, for she did not know what this thing might do to her when she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the exhaustion she was feeling. It might use that defenseless state against her and claim even more of her consciousness. It might steal what was left of her resolve, in essence become her, living in her body and behaving as though it were her, while her own thoughts were little more than a presence in its mind.

That thought, that fear, was irrational, and Krystiana knew that. But she had no more strength to fight this than she had to fight anything else.

Cerberus leapt onto the bed and laid down next to his mistress. He pressed his back against her leg, thumping his powerful tail against her foot and nudging her hand with his muzzle.

Absently, she stroked the soft fur of his head. This soothed her, and she began to relax. Finally, she drifted into a fitful sleep.

12.

In the dream, they were standing on a hill overlooking the Charles River. The sky was gray and overcast, and the sun showed no sign of trying to peek through the clouds. It hadn't started raining, yet, but it was just a matter of time. On top of all else, a heavy fog had settled over the city, obscuring the reassuring sight of the Boston skyline.

Here, on this hill, they were standing just above the haze, which gathered and swirled in the breeze at their feet. The temperature was warm, but there was a chill in the air. And in their hearts.

They had not spoken to each other in days. On this day, they would exchange only the barest essential pleasantries, and then he would not see her again for almost a year. At the time, though, he did not know that, and did not expect to see her ever again. It made the despair that was already in his heart all the worse.

More than once in the short time they were there, Richard had gazed down at the Charles, remembering the happy hours they had spent walking along the river, sharing a picnic on its banks, or just staring out at it from their apartment in Back Bay. More than once, he had thought about, seen himself, walking away from that apartment for the last time, walking down Beacon Street to the Harvard Bridge, crossing to the center of the bridge, standing there, proclaiming his undying love for her, and then throwing himself into the river.

Her eyes said all there was to say. She knew what he was thinking, and she didn't care. There was no love in her eyes, no tenderness. There was no hint of the woman he had come to know and shared his life with for two years.

Richard was lost in his grief, and Krystiana had refused to be there for him at this time when she was the only person in the world who could console him. She should be standing beside him, sharing his pain. There should be tears in her eyes. She should look as though she hadn't slept in days. She should feel even worse than he did.

But standing there before him, at a distance of ten feet that might as well have been a million miles, she looked as she did every other day, calm, peaceful, and, yes, beautiful. As much as Richard wanted to look at her and see the monster he now suspected her of being, for that alone could have given him some solace, he could not. If that face truly masked a fiendish soul, he would be content to live with that. If she had done this horrible thing, or if she had allowed it to happen, and if she had a good reason, he could accept it, although forgiving would take longer, and trust was out of the question for a very long time.

He could live with her, but there was something else that was a part of her that he could not live with, and it was something that he could not ask her to give up. It was not his place, and he had no right. But he had lost her anyway. In a matter of days, he had lost everything, and nothing really mattered anymore.

Tomorrow, she would board a plane and return to her family. He would be there, at the airport, watching from a distance as she left him once and for all. She would never see him standing in the terminal or watching with his face pressed against the window as the plane taxied down the runway. But she would know that he had been there. She would go on with her life as if none of this had happened, because, apparently, it meant nothing to her. And that just wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

She wasn't right. It was wrong for her to be standing there with that complacent look on her face, dressed as she was in the bright colors that were the tradition of her people. To hell with whatever religion it was that she subscribed to. This was a solemn occasion, an intimate time when they should be sharing their grief, and even if she was incapable of feeling anything, she should have some respect for his feelings. To hell with her evil spirits. "They're afraid of bright colors, of laughter and joy," she had said. "If we cry and dress in black, we invite them to inhabit the bodies of the living and to follow the dead to their graves." To hell with all of it. And to hell with her.

But, he wasn't right, either. Standing here on this day, focused on his own feelings of despair and anger when there was something much more important than either of them that he should be thinking about.

Here, the dream broke from reality, yet it seemed just as real.

The sound of metal grinding against metal, the sound of wheels turning against each other, drew his eyes down. The gravesite was surrounded with every variety of flower he could imagine, gifts from grieving friends and family, their sweet aromas mingling in the air until they combined to create a nauseating, sick-sweet stench. Everyone they knew had gathered around, some of them weeping openly, others glaring suspiciously at Krystiana and at him. Krystiana held her head high, met their gazes with defiant pride, as only she could do. Richard could only lower his eyes and pretend that there was no one there.

In the center of all this, a small, silver coffin, the coffin of a child, was being lowered into the ground, disappearing forever into a deep, dark pit. And as soon as their backs were turned, it would be covered with the dank mound of earth that sat waiting a short distance away. And so it would be, for the rest of eternity. Alone, unloved, forgotten.

Richard looked up at Krystiana once more time. She, too, had been watching the slow descent of the tiny casket. As it finally disappeared from sight, she smiled. It was a knowing smile, not tender, but not evil. Then she pressed her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss toward the grave. It was an empty gesture, void of emotion, as was her next. She took the flower that had been pinned in her hair - had it been there before? - and tossed it casually into the pit. From Richard's point of view, it looked like a gesture of disdain.

With that image, the dream dissolved. Richard awoke suddenly and sat bolt upright in his bed. He was filled with an inexplicable terror and a desperate need to talk to Krystiana one more time. He needed to hear her voice in order to separate the fiction of his dream from the reality of their life.

He grabbed the telephone from the bedside table, knocking the lamp off onto the floor as he did so. It landed with a crash, sending shards of glass skittering across the wooden floor. He didn't care.

He dialed the phone as though his life depended on it. As he hit the last number, and the connection was completed, the pulsing drone of a busy signal met his ear. It was enough, though, and everything fell into place. He returned the phone to the table and laid down.

The real images of that day crystallized in his mind. It was no more pleasant that the dream, but it was, after all, history, and they had recovered, and they were together, in spite of everything.

It hadn't been a funeral, at least not in the traditional sense. But many things had been laid to rest that day. And some of them, no matter how they tried, they would never get back.



Back to index
Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four
Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten