Chapter Ten: Sunday, October 21

1.

What he was doing was wrong. His gut told him that much. But no one else was going to do anything about his grievance. No one else gave a damn that Doc Murphey's incompetance and negligence had resulted in Judy's death. Hell, cancel that. Doc Murphey had murdered her. No, he hadn't used a gun or a knife or any weapon that you can see. He used something far more sinister. He used the trust his patient had in him, abused that trust, and she had died as a result. It was the same as holding a gun to her head and pulling the trigger. And Doc Murphey deserved to be punished.

Preacher Fitzhugh crawled out from under the porch and pushed the wooden latticework strip back into place. He stopped for a moment, thought about the bottle of Wild Turkey just inside his makeshift door, the last bottle, and weighed the pros and cons of taking it with him, and decided to leave it. It would still be there when he came back, waiting like a faithful hound for his return. Besides, he would need to keep his hands free.

Preacher had reached a conclusion. There was no one living inside the house he was living under. He had spent all of Saturday listening, waiting for some sound, an idication that someone was home. But the day had passed without so much as the distant buzz of a television set or even the hollow thud of someone walking across a room. He had noticed, too, that the thick blanket of snow on the sidewalk and driveway had remained untouched.

All of this meant that he could stay in his new home as long as he liked, or until the home's inhabitants returned, whichever came first. He still had to be weary of neighbors, but he had planned for this all the while he was listening for sounds of life. He would come and go only by night. And if he chose a path carefully, staying as close to the edge of the porch as he could until he got to the sidewalk, and then if he was careful to leave only two sets of footprints in the snow, one going up to the front door and one leading back to the street, it would simply look like someone had gone to the door, found no one home, and left. He just had to remember, as he was coming and going, to be very careful to step only in his own footprints. It wouldn't do for the fresh snow to reveal too much traffic.

He had waited as long after darkness had fallen as he could stand. When he finally crawled out of his hiding place, he looked around, found that there were no lights on, either in the house above him or in any of the other houses on the block. Everyone must be in bed.

He gathered up his bundle. Where and when he had found these things that he would use in the first stage of his revenge, he couldn't remember. He had only a vague recollection of being in a garage, of finding these things laying there as if they were waiting for him. Had they been under the porch with him all along? Had he found them when he found the towels and boxes? Maybe. He had been more than a little drunk all along, and the alcohol was beginning to play tricks with his memory. Besides, it really didn't matter. He had them. That's all that counted.

The snow had drifted. As Preacher stood next to the porch, the snow was above his knees. Not leaving much of a trail was going to be more difficult than he had thought. He brought one leg up as far as he could, kicked it out like an English guard, and put it down carefully. As he came closer to the sidewalk, the depth of the snow diminished, and the going was easier. When he was two feet or so from the sidewalk, he took one more big step, putting his foot down sideways. It was a struggle to keep his balance as he pushed himself onto the sidewalk, but he did it.

He walked down the sidewalk to the street, then turned around and walked back up to the door. Best to lay the tracks now in case someone happened to drive by. In the darkness, as he walked back to the street, it was difficult to see his own footprints in the snow. This yard was in that peculiar spot directly between two streetlights, where neither of them cast much light. The trek down the sidewalk to the street took several minutes. He would have to remember, while he was out, to look through a few garages. Maybe he could find a flashlight or a lantern.

Once he made it to the street, there would be no more problems. Doc's driveway and sidewalk were clean. There were no obstacles standing between Preacher and Doc's front door. Of course, he wouldn't have cared if there were. His mission was too important. He crossed the street and climbed the steps. Now, just be careful not to make too much noise.

What he was doing was wrong. His gut and his religion told him that much. But he owed this to Judy. He had let her down all of her life, and he was not going to let her down now. If he thought of this as a game, it seemed to help. It made it a little less immoral if he pretended to be a carefree kid out to play a prank, a harmless one, too. At least for now.

Judy had suffered. She had suffered for a long time, and it was only right that Doc should suffer for a long time, too. He should know that someone was out to get him. He should know who that someone was, and he would. There would be no doubt. But there should also be absolutely nothing he could do about it. He should live in fear of when and where Preacher would strike next. He should be looking over his shoulder for weeks, even months, until the final blow was struck. Ah, sweet justice.

Preacher laid his bundle carefully in the corner of Doc's porch, where he could work hidden from view, either from Doc's house or from the street. With great reverence, he unfolded the towel that held the tools of his trade and laid them out. A screwdriver, a paintbrush and a can of paint. He looked forward with glee to the day when his bundle would hold a rope, a razor, maybe a jar of battery acid, if he could find any. But for now, these things would do.

Step one of Preacher's plan was to reveal to the world, or at least to the townspeople of Proffitt Mines, what Doc Murphey really was. To announce it in a banner headline across the front of Doc's own house.

Preacher picked up the screwdriver, inserted its tip under the edge of the paint can's lid and pushed. Nothing happened. He tried it on the other side. Again, nothing happened. He pushed down harder and the paint can tipped over with a loud bang and rolled across the porch. Preacher scrambled after it, forgetting for a moment the need for silence. He remembered when he caught the renegade can, and he cowered in a corner for several minutes, waiting for someone to catch him. It didn't happen. No lights came on. No one peered out a door or window. If anyone heard, he thought, they must have assumed it was an animal rummaging in the garbage. That was fine. Better to be mistaken for a raccoon than to get caught.

Preacher crept back to where he had dropped the screwdriver and sat down on the floor of the porch. This time, he held the paint can between his feet so it couldn't get away, and worked around the lid with the screwdriver to loosen it. It worked. In a moment, the lid popped loose and clattered to the wooden planks with an unnaturally loud clatter.

"It's okay, everyone," Preacher mumbled inaudibly. "Just little old me. Just a raccoon lookin' for a meal. Everyone back to bed."

He waited for a minute or so, listening, but this time, he really didn't expect anything to happen. And he was right.

Preacher was laughing inside as he got to his feet and gathered up the paint can and the brush. He hoped he would be awake in time tomorrow morning to peer out of his hiding place and see Doc's face when he discovered what Preacher had done. He wished he had a camera, that he could capture the expression on Doc's face and keep it with him forever. A video camera, so he could watch it over and over and feel this mirth whenever he wanted to. But if wishes were horses, beggars might ride, right?

Preacher dipped the brush into the paint before he even stopped to think. What color was the paint. It had to be seen. What if it was too light to do the job? He couldn't tell exactly in the darkness, but it looked dark enough to do the job. And the can was nearly full, too. Preacher breathed a sigh of relief. Fate must be on his side.

The paint was cold and very thick. Hindsight 20/20. Of course it would be thick in this weather. He should have thought to look for some paint thinner. But he didn't even really remember finding the paint, so why would he have thought of anything else? It would have to do.

He plunged the thick brush deep into the can and stirred the paint. Then he took a deep breath, glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure there was no one around, and started his work.

When he was through, he cleaned the brush of the floor of the porch just in front of the door. That should get Doc's attention, make him look around. Then he replaced the paint can's lid and wrapped the can, the brush and the screwdriver in the towel, had to be careful not to leave any clues behind, and, besides, he might need them again, and rushed down the steps and into the street.

When he was across the street, in the yard he was beginning to think of as his own, he turned around to view his handiwork. It was hard to see anything in the shadows, and squinting didn't help, but even in the darkness, it was possible to see that something was there. He smiled a satisfied smile and started the slow journey up the sidewalk.

Now, all he had to do for the rest of the night, after he tucked his bundle safely under the porch and took a quick drink from his precious bottle of Wild Turkey, was to wander through town looking for open garages and ideas.

2.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that something strange was going on, and Jeffrey Ahanu thought he knew what it was. The Fates had been too good to Proffitt Mines, Montana. Nothing bad ever happened there, at least, not until this week. Then, all of a sudden, there was one traffic death, one murder, and two assaults all in a matter of days.

He should have seen it coming. They all should have. It all boiled down to statistics. If one person in a thousand dies a violent death, if one person in ten is the victim of assault, then it was only a matter of time.

Some great and evil cosmic force had all but forgotten about Proffitt Mines, Montana for decades, and now, having rediscovered it, was making up for lost time. How much more would happen before this force was appeased? No way to tell that. It depended on how pissed off this force was at having forgotten this sleepy little village for so long.

None of that changed the fact that there was a murderer in town, a sadistic fiend with a warped, but cunning mind. No witnesses, no clues. Maybe the state crime lab would find something conclusive in the bags of evidence they had collected, and maybe not. Probably not.

So what if they found a stray hair that didn't belong in Bobby Prentice's apartment, or a fingerprint that didn't belong to the victim. All that was well and good if you had a line up of suspects and had to narrow it down to one. But it didn't do a damned bit of good if you have no suspects.

There was a murderer living and working among the people of the town. A murderer who might strike again at any moment. A murderer...

Jeffrey slammed on the brakes and brought his truck to a screeching halt. He wasn't sure he'd really seen what he thought he saw. It might be his imagination, or else why would it have fit so well into his thoughts.

He checked the rearview mirror. There was no one else on the street, so he threw the truck into reverse and backed half a block down the street, coming to a halt in front of Doc Murphey's house. He sat for a full minute staring at the message emblazoned across the front of the house in bold purple letters.

Who was the message for, Ahanu wondered for a moment. He got out of the truck for a better look. He didn't know how long he had been staring at the house, but suddenly one of Doc's neighbors was by his side. Someone else had stopped their car in the middle of the street, and like Ahanu, stood now next to his car, staring at the house.

A moment later, Doc himself came out of his front door. He noticed the bright purple stain in front of his door, but he was more concerned, for the moment, with the crowd that was gathering on his lawn.

"What the hell is going on here," he demanded. "What's everyone looking at?" Then, following the direction of their collective gaze, the turned to look at his house, and then he saw it. MURDERER, it announced.

3.

On Friday night, after the bar closed, they had a long talk. Well, actually, Nona had a long talk and Rhiannon had a long listen. She had made her intentions clear and asked the same consideration in return, and was shocked when Rhiannon complied. She was shocked, too, by the elegance and kindness of his words as he told her all the things she had been longing to hear.

He told her that he found her beautiful and intelligent, compassionate and understanding. He admitted that he did not know how to act around her or how to react to her, but he told her that he wanted to learn. He told her that in the life he had led to this point, love had always been a dangerous distraction, and he admitted that unlearning that would be a difficult task and that he was afraid, both of giving in to the possibility and of her, but if she would be patient, he was willing to try.

Then, something truly amazing happened. He walked her to the door, took her hand, and kissed her. She could see how nervous he was. She knew that this gesture, for him, took more courage than she had summoned to bring up the subject. And she was grateful.

Since that night, things had been happening so fast that Nona had barely had time to stop and think. On Saturday afternoon, they spent several hours over lunch at Rhiannon's apartment over the bar. The choice of location had been a strategic one. This was his domain, his safety zone. And it curbed any chance he had of getting away. If there was a problem at the bar, if something happened that Allie couldn't handle, they had only to run down stairs and take care of it.

The apartment was more or less what Nona had expected it to be. It consisted of four tiny rooms, plus an efficiency kitchen off the livingroom. For furniture, Rhiannon had what must have been left when he took over the place. At least, Nona hoped it had been left behind, because she didn't think anyone would actually buy it. The sofa in the livingroom looked as though it had survived a flood, barely survived. An old brass lamp with no shade sat on an end table made out of an old lettuce crate. The kitchen table was an old wooden thing, which over the years had had countless initials carved into it and sanded out. The two metal frame chairs had ugly vinyl cushions, dark beige with yellow and brown daisies.

There were an array of photographs tacked onto the walls. Rhiannon was in all of them, in the varied uniforms of the various armies he had served in. He and the other soldiers posed in front of tents in the tropics or ramshackle huts high in the snowy mountains. These photographs were his history, and Nona spent a long time looking at them, asking him questions about where they were taken, about the people he had been close to. He spoke freely with her, even when she could tell that the memories were painful.

When the time came to sit down for lunch, Rhiannon pulled two styrofoam containers out of the oven and transferred their contents onto mismatched plates and joined Nona at the table. They ate for a while in silence. It was not uncomfortable, but it was not an easy silence. It was Rhiannon who finally spoke.

"If I remember right, you and Bobby Prentice used to be close, right?"

"Uh," Nona said, "yeah. I guess."

"Sorry to hear about what happened to him."

"Yeah, me too. But it's been over for a long time. I mean, I feel bad for him, but..."

Rhiannon thought for a moment. "Is that my cue to change the subject," he asked.

Nona laughed. "Yes, I would say it is." She smiled at him. "There's something I've wanted to ask you for a long time. That is, if it's not too personal."

"I'll tell you if it is."

"Okay," Nona said. "That's fair. I remember you before you were Baruch Rhiannon."

"I know. I don't want to even hear that other name," he said. "The person who had that name is dead now. Forgotten."

"I know that. How did you get this name? Where did it come from?"

Rhiannon took a bite of his lunch, and debated with himself whether he should tell her. "It was when I was in 'Nam," he said at last. "I was fighting along side this kid, couldn'ta been no more than sixteen. Baruch was his name. One night, we were pretty close to the front lines. We were expecting an attack, knew it could come any time. We were sitting down in this foxhole, no light, no food, no nothing. Boring as hell and twice as frightening." He paused to take another bite of lunch. "So, uh, we got to talking. Nice kid, really had his head together, which was unusual out there, you know. Said when he got back to the states, he was gonna go to college, wanted to get into politics. Damn fool actually thought one good politician could make a difference. Anyway, one thing led to another, and I asked him about his name. He told me it was Latin or Greek or somesuch, and it meant doer of good. Well, it wasn't no more than five minutes later we were under fire, and the next thing I knew, there was a grenade in the foxhole with us. That stupid kid threw himself on top of it and got blown sky high. Saved my worthless hide. I never forgot him, never want to. I carry a picture of that kid with me everywhere I go." He tapped his forehead. "If I ever feel like things are going out of control, if I ever feel like I want to turn tail and run, I just look at that picture, I remember that kid."

He shrugged. "As for Rhiannon. I like the name. That's the whole story."

Nona had forgotten the plate of food in front of her. She was entranced by his words. "That's one hell of a story," she whispered. "I think that boy would have liked the man you've become. And the way you've honored him."

Rhiannon made a sound that was almost a laugh. "Don't know about that, but I guess I kinda hope so. By the way, that's your cue to change the subject."

They finished their lunch in relative silence. When it was done, they sat down on the sofa, and talked for a long time. They talked about Proffitt Mines before the Vietnam War. How it had changed in the years since. Rhiannon told her how he had felt, returning to this little town after so many years, finding that he had no family left here. Nona talked about her childhood, about her marriages and how she had failed because she did not know how tell other people what she wanted. She marvelled at how easy that was becoming now, with Rhiannon.

And then, suddenly, it was time to go to work. The afternoon had crept away from them while they weren't paying attention. Neither of them wanted their time together to end. They kissed at the door, then walked down stairs hand in hand.

Saturday night at Rhiannon's Bar and Grill was slow for a Saturday, but there was more than enough business to keep everyone running. When closing time finally came, Nona had just enough energy left to manage a civil see you tomorrow and go home.

But even as she was slipping her key into the lock on her front door, the telephone inside was ringing. Rhiannon's voice was on the other end, making sure she got home alright.

She fell asleep quickly, and had pleasant dreams for the first time in a week. And then it was Sunday morning. Nona was barely out of bed and the coffee wasn't made yet, when the doorbell rang. She rushed into her clothes and ran for the door. It was Rhiannon.

He was a funny sight, standing on her porch in fatigues and combat boots, with a big bouquet of roses in his hand. But Nona had no urge to laugh.

4.

For nearly a dozen years, Katherine had lived most of her life in a dark Hallway, isolated from the world around her. At the end of the Hallway, there was a door, with a light shining through the crack beneath it. On the other side of that door, lay the Other World, the physical world in which everyone and everything outside of herself lived. Sometimes, when it was very quiet in the Hallway, she could hear the distant drone of voices from the Other World. Sometimes, she could even hear what they were saying, but she was powerless to respond.

Here, in the Hallway, there was only herself and the Other One. The Other One spoke to her of love and friendship, of the past and of the future, of fear and pain and suffering. But the Katherine who existed in the Hallway did not have the power to speak. At times, she wanted to answer the Other One's words with the thoughts and ideas that came to her, and it was frustrating that she could not.

She wanted to ask the Other One what she meant by past and future. These were concepts that were foreign in the Hallway. Here, time did not exist. The Katherine of the Hallway knew that something had happened at some Other Time, something terrible that had brought her here. She knew that something else had happened, that there had been an arguement in the Other World, and then a loud crash, and angry screams. But she did not know when these things had happened, only that they were not happening Now. In the Hallway, only Now and Other Time had meaning.

She wanted to ask the Other One where she had come from. Was she a part of the Katherine of the Other World? Or was she one of the Others who existed there? Did she know who these Others were who were constantly trying to break through the door at the end of Hallway, the ones whose voices drifted in now and then? One of them called her Mother. What did that word mean? And who was he?

But she could not ask these questions, and so she listened to the Other One's voice, and hoped that someday her words would answer those unasked questions.

But it would not be Now. Now, one of the Others was at that door, trying to break it down. Didn't these Others know that there was no way to do that? Why did they keep trying?

Katherine of the Hallway huddled in a corner as far from the door as she could get and tried not to hear the words that were drifting in from the Other World. Some Other Times, when she did not want to hear, the Other One would step in and speak in a loud voice, tell her stories about Katherine of the Other World's childhood, but Now the Other One was mercilessly silent.

The one from the Other World who was speaking to her was somehow familiar. Some part of her knew the voice, even had a picture of the face stored somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Maybe once, this person had a name, but it was long forgotten.

"Katherine, can you hear me?"

No, Katherine of the Hallway would have said if she could. Please go away and leave me alone.

"Katherine, it's your mother."

There's that word again. What does it mean?

"I wish you could talk to me. I wish you could tell me where you are so I could help you to come back to us."

Why would I want to do that? The Other World is an ugly place. The Other One told me so. Here, it's beautiful, because there is nothing.

"You're looking better today. The bruises are healing. Erwin didn't hurt you again last night, did he? You know, Katherine, if I could, I would get you away from this house, away from that man. You have to believe me when I tell you that I didn't know it was this bad." The one speaking made a strange sound and the word crying came into Katherine of the Hallway's mind. "I suppose I should have. We all should have."

We? How many are out there? How can you live in the Other World if it's such a horrible place?

"You were such a beautiful, happy child. When this happened to you, we should have known. We should have, but we didn't, and I'm sorry. Poor Katherine, can you ever forgive me?"

I don't understand. What do you mean?

Katherine of the Hallway felt something. At least, she thought she felt something, but she wasn't sure, because in the Hallway, there was nothing but herself and therefore, nothing to feel. She didn't know what it felt like to feel something, but somehow...

Is this what it means to forgive, she wondered. Is this thing that's happening to me Now what the Other One calls sympathy.

Katherine of the Hallway crept out of the corner and crawled toward the door. She did not want to go through, only to be closer to the one who was speaking, to hear her words more clearly.

Going through the door was too dangerous. It happened sometimes, if she got too close, and then Katherine of the Hallway would cease to exist for a little while, and Katherine of the Other World would step in. That Katherine would not remember Katherine of the Hallway, or the voice of the Other One. She would live for a while in the Other World, until its ugliness and cruelty forced her back through the door. But Katherine of the Hallway would remember. The ugliness and cruelty would become a part of Other Time, and the memories would linger, getting mixed up, falling all over each other until they were incomprehensible. She didn't want to remember any more about the Other World than she already did.

"You know, Katherine, that your father and I love you. I wish I could take away whatever pain you're in."

That feeling again, only it was getting stronger as she got closer to the door. It was frightening and exhilarating. But how did she know what these things were? She had never felt them in here. The Other One talked of happiness and joy, of love. What were these things? Did these things, too, lie just beyond the door? And how could something so wonderful exist in the Other World if it was such a horrible place, like the Other One said.

Katherine of the Hallway was curious. Another feeling? But she didn't want to go through the door. Too dangerous. Don't get too close, but maybe just a little closer.

She laid down on the floor of the Hallway and inched her way toward the door slowly, carefully. The feelings got stronger and stronger, until she thought they would overwhelm her, drive her back into the far corner and bring out the voice of the Other One, with her warnings about the Other World. But she pushed forward.

Something was happening. There was darkness all around her, but the door seemed to be dissolving. Shadows and shapes of the Other World were taking form, muted patterns through the opaque door. She could see the one who was speaking, the one who called herself Mother. She could see Mother's honey colored hair, her bright blue eyes. She could see the pale green suit Mother was wearing.

Slowly, other images came together. A giant fern in the corner, its green fronds contrasting the dark wooden walls behind it. The deep burgandy leather, studded with shining golden studs. Chair, some part of her mind that was not the Other One said. That is a chair. We don't have these things in the Hallway. We don't need them here.

What are those boxes on the shelf in the corner?

Those are books, the new voice said. They contain words, give knowledge and pleasure. They ask for nothing in return. They are a part of the beauty that can exist in the Other World.

Tell me more, Katherine of the Hallway asked the new voice. Why am I able to talk to you, and why can't I talk to the Other One?

The Other One exists in the Hallway. In the Hallway, you cannot speak. You are no longer in the Hallway.

Am I in the Other World, then?

No. You are in Limbo. You must pass through this place to get to the Other World. It is I who decides if you are to be allowed to enter it.

But I don't want to.

I know. But you wanted to see it. And there it is.

Can I speak to the one called Mother?

If you get close enough to the Other World, you might be able to. You can try if you want to.

But I'm afraid. What if I go too far? What if I fall through?

I won't let that happen. You're not ready for that. There's nothing to be afraid of. I exist only to protect you from the Other World. I won't let you fall through, I promise.

Katherine of the Hallway felt something new. This time, it was a physical sensation, strange and exciting. Someone, something, was touching her arm.

Is that you, she asked the new voice.

No. I can't touch. I have no physical form. What you are feeling is the hand of the Mother.

I like it.

Move closer. Feel more, the new voice said.

Katherine of the Hallway inched closer to the Other World. She no longer had the sense of the floor beneath her. She was floating, far from anything, and closer to everything than she had memories of.

Memories. The dam had been broken and they came back in a raging flood. An entire lifetime of memories descending on her all at once.

What's happening, Katherine of the Hallway asked.

You are becoming one with Katherine of the Other World. Your memories are becoming intertwined. You are experiencing what this place is for.

Has it happened before?

Yes. Many times.

Why don't I remember?

I've never allowed you to remember. I've never allowed you to be aware of the experience. You weren't ready.

And I'm ready now?

Yes. You are here. You are speaking to me. Katherine, you have to stop. I can't let you get any closer.

But I'm curious. I want to see the Other World.

You're not ready for that right now. You can try to speak to Mother, if you want to.

What do I say to her?

Say what you feel, Katherine. This is your time. But remember, I don't know how long I can hold you here. You'll have to go back soon.

Back to the Hallway?

Yes.

Katherine looked at the one called Mother. She was looking back, her head tilted to the side, staring into Katherine's eyes.

"You've heard me, haven't you, Katherine," the mother asked. "I can see something happening." She took Katherine's hand and held it tightly. "Can you say something, Katherine. Can you say anything?"

I don't know how to form the words, Katherine of the Hallway said.

Let them come naturally, the new voice whispered. Just let them come.

Katherine swallowed to clear her throat. It took so much concentration just to open her mouth that speaking seemed a distant and remote possibility. She drew in a deep breath. "I..." she began.

Slow and easy, the new voice said.

"I... f-for... forgive, Mother."

5.

Richard couldn't remember when he had been this tired. He had been awake all night, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and nothing fit. He kept telling himself that the answers had to be there, that if he didn't find them soon, he might never find them, but that only served to frustrate him. If he tried to sleep, if he closed his eyes, he would only see Bobby Prentice as he had last seen him, his mutilated body laid out on his bed. He only heard that strange voice in his mind talking about a bear.

So he sat at his kitchen table until it was time to go to the office. Jeffrey Ahanu was supposed to meet him there, but when Richard arrived, his deputy was no where in sight. Richard sat in his office and thought about these things some more until Ahanu got there.

"What the hell is going on in this town," Richard asked Ahanu as the deputy lowered himself into a chair.

"Interesting question," Ahanu said. "I don't think hell is going on. I think this town has become hell. And we're living in it."

Richard flipped through the reports of Bobby's murder, then threw the papers across the desk to Ahanu. "The answer has got to be there," he said. "There's something there I'm not seeing." He rubbed his eyes. "I can't even see straight anymore." He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the corner of the desk, picked up his pipe and chewed on the end of it. "You've been through his cases. Is there anything there?"

"Cases," Ahanu laughed. "What cases? This is Proffitt County, Montana. Unless someone got really pissed off over a speeding ticket or a jaywalking citation, that's a dead end."

"Is that possible?"

"Shit, Sheriff, anything's possible." Ahanu pushed the stack of reports aside. He had read them a couple dozen times and had memorized every word in them. He didn't want to see them again. "Too bad that Barloe chick has such a good alibi. I liked her for this."

"So did I," Richard said. "Something weird about this whole thing. Her especially. How airtight is her alibi, anyway?"

"It's a freaking vaccuum. Bobby was alive when she left his apartment, and she was at Rhiannon's until more than an hour after we discovered the body."

"How do we know that," Richard asked. "We have a time of death. It could be wrong. Krystiana could have been wrong." He shook his head. "No, she couldn't. She's never wrong." He wished that he still had a pouch of tobacco hidden in the back of his desk drawer. It had been there until a few months ago, then he'd thrown it out. It had no longer been a reminder of his willpower, but had become an overwhelming temptation. He would have given in to it today. Krystiana would have been upset, but she would forgive him.

"You read my latest report yet," Ahanu asked.

Richard shook his head. "Enlighten me. What does it say?"

"When Allie Barloe got back to Rhiannon's, she realized that one of her earrings was missing. She figured she left it at Bobby's apartment, but she was too mad to call him. She had Nona Daniels call for her. Nona verified it."

"How well did Nona know Bobby. Could she have been wrong?"

Ahanu shook his head. "They dated for a while in high school. They've been friends ever since. She'd know his voice."

"What about an accomplice?"

"It'd have to be someone local. A stranger in town is big news. Someone would have seen something, and we'd all know about it."

"She been seen with anyone else?"

"I've heard some rumors that she's been hanging out with Tommy Skolinski. Doc Murphey seems to be pretty fond of her." Ahanu shrugged. "Speaking of which, Doc's house was vandalized last night. Someone painted murderer across his porch. Doc says it was Preacher Fitzhugh."

"Probably was," Richard said. "There seems to be some kind of feud going on there."

"No joke? That's why I was late. I drove down to Hamlin, to see if he was home. No one answer at his door, and no one around there has seen him since the middle of the week. Sounds to me like he might be hiding out somewhere in town."

"He leave any evidence behind? Something we can trace?"

"Not really," Ahanu said. "But he used purple paint. The hardware store has only had one order for purple paint in living memory."

"Krystiana."

"Yep. When the two of you finished painting her garage, was there any left over?"

"Three cans. She always buys more of everything than she could possibly use. She kept one for touch ups, or actually, had me keep it, because she didn't want it cluttering up her office. As far as I know, it's still in my basement. The other two went in a box of stuff she gave to Father John McAnich for a rummage sale or something."

Ahanu looked at Richard like he'd just said the sky was green and grass was blue and meant it. Then he started laughing. "It's hard to picture Krystiana supporting the Catholic church," he gasped.

For the first time, Richard saw the humor in this, too. "Yeah, well," he said, "they haven't burned any witches in a few centuries. I think she's forgiven them. She's not the kind to hold a grudge."

"I'll check with Father John later," Ahanu said. "If we know where Preacher got the paint, we might be able to find out where he's hiding."

Richard nodded. "Good idea. Not priority, though." Whatever momentary lapse into merriment they had experienced was gone with those words. There was a serious matter to be discussed, and it required serious demeanor.

"No, of course not," Ahanu said. He turned away from the window, and something on Richard's desk caught his eye. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "we're sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves, not knowing what to do, and we've got the best investigative tool in the free world right here in town."

Richard nodded. "Krystiana. I thought of asking her, but I wanted to avoid it if I could. She's been having a rough time lately."

"You think she'll do it?"

"I know she'll do it. I'll talk to her in the morning. I'm not taking her to the apartment, though. I won't put that kind of strain on her."

"Sure. I'll go by this afternoon and pick something up."

"Wood if you can find it. She says it retains the most energy."

"Got it. You really think the Barloe girl had an accomplice? I mean, maybe we're concentrating too hard on her and overlooking something else."

Richard took his feet of the desk and turned to face Ahanu. He shook his head. "No, I don't. I don't think she was involved at all. It was just an easy answer. But, I also don't think we can afford to overlook any possibility, no matter how remote."

Ahanu stood up, walked around the desk, and leaned on the window ledge. It was a beautiful day, no matter how terrible it might be. The sun didn't care what the people down here were feeling. It didn't close it's eyes on their pain.

"We could get a warrant, search her place. Who knows. Maybe we would turn up something. It's better than sitting around here."

"You suppose Winslow's back from his unofficial vacation," Richard asked.

"Nope. I noticed when I was at Doc's place. His driveway hasn't been shovelled. The place is closed up."

6.

Charles knew what would happen if he came face to face with Scully. He also knew that there would have to be a confrontation eventually. Even if this had been a trivial matter, he couldn't avoid his son-in-law forever. This was not, after all, a thriving metropolis where one can get lost in the crowd. Sooner or later, he would pass Scully on the street or wander into the bar and see him sitting there. And heaven help Scully when that time came.

But this was not a trivial matter. If anything, this was the most significant and potentially disasterous thing to happen to the Proffitt family in generations. There was still time to fix it and there was a way it could be done, but if Scully was so half-witted as to let it happen, he certainly would not be clever enough to come up with the solution on his own.

Charles had a solution, and he was more than willing to share it with Scully. The biggest trick, but by no means the only one, involved in sharing it, though, was keeping himself from killing Scully long enough to tell him what to do. But Scully was a stubborn, closed-minded asshole. You can lead a jackass to a solution, but you can't make him think.

By nature, Charles was not a violent man. Violence was a sin. Even if he didn't believe everything Father John and all the other preists at Holy Cross Catholic Church had been telling him for the last seventy years or so, he believed that. He believed that, if there really is a God, He is a kind and just being, but He has His limits. If He didn't, there would be no need for a Hell. As such, He would understand that man, the feeble creature that he is, also has his limits. Turning the other cheek is fine, but a man only has two, and after they've both been slapped, it's time to do something about it.

Charles had plenty of reasons to want to hurt Scully. The bastard beat his daughter, beat his grandson, and had nearly destroyed Proffitt Mining. No jury in the world would convict him. But that wouldn't solve anything. It would just cause more problems. Hadn't he just lectured Tommy on the value of tact and diplomacy? What kind of example would he be setting if he dug his old hunting rifle out of the closet and put a bullet between Scully's eyes? A very bad one.

What he needed was guidance. He needed someone to tell him how to cope with this anger and hatred, how to set it aside and turn it into something positive. He needed to talk to someone who would not judge him, or at least, would not show it if he did. And most of all, he needed to talk to someone who's opinion of him didn't matter. It was Sunday. He was going to church anyway. He decided he might as well talk to Father John after the service.

He expected this to be like any normal Sunday service, the church less than half full, and half of the people there dozing off during the sermon. But this had not been a normal week in Proffitt Mines, far from it. Terrible things had happened since last Sunday's service, and, it seemed, the entire congregation turned out for a little reassurance that everything would be alright.

The entire congregation. Including the bastard who was the cause of all of his problems. Scully didn't say a word to Charles. He pretended not to see him as he came into the church, although he had looked right at Charles. Scully sat down two pews in front of him and didn't move a muscle. He didn't turn around to see who was there. He didn't even turn his head when the person directly behind him leaned forward and said something to him. He just nodded his response and picked up a hymnal. He was cool and calm, if not quite collected.

Charles tried to concentrate on the service. He stood up when he was supposed to. He knelt when he was supposed to. He sang the songs and recited the prayers, and the whole time he was staring at the back of Scully's head and secretly wishing that he had a crowbar in his hand. He tried to listen to the sermon, tried to take its message to heart. Love thy neighbor as thyself, Father John was telling him. He wanted to, but how could he when there was murder in his heart.

When the congregation stood to sing the closing hymn, Scully glanced over his shoulder. He must have seen the look in his father-in-law's eyes, because he closed his hymnal, put it away, and slipped out of the church before the service was ended. Go in peace, Charles thought, for now.

7.

"What can I do to help you, Charles," Father John asked. They were sitting cradled in two overstuffed Queen Anne chairs in the parlor of the rectory, drinking tea and eating butter cookies, with the warm radiance of the sun shining in through the French doors that led to the veranda and the church beyond.

It was an imposing stone structure, with its towering belfry and stained glass panels roughly the size of doors all along its length. From the rectory, Charles couldn't see the medieval gargoyles guarding the front of the church, nor could he see the beautiful faces of the saints and apostles that were carved in the stone on the other side, but he was comforted knowing they were there.

Holy Cross was so much more to Charles and to the people of Proffitt Mines than just a church. It was more than a meeting place or a source of renewed faith in troubled times. It stood as a monument to the miracles that can be accomplished by mere men when the entire community comes together. It stood as a reminder that even when things appear to be at their worst, all is not lost.

The original Holy Cross Catholic Church was the simple white clapboard structure one might expect to find in a little town like Proffitt Mines. There was nothing extraordinary about it, except maybe the people. When that church was destroyed by a tornado one spring many years ago, the community rallied in support. Even those who had lost their own homes came together to help in rebuilding their church, offering whatever skills they possessed, whatever money they could afford to give.

That disaster brought out the best in the people of Proffitt Mines. It brought tears to many and touched the hearts of all when construction began on the new Holy Cross church. Even though Charles was only a child when it happened, he remembered in vivid detail walking by the site on his way to school. He remembered the day that the stones that bore the likenesses of the apoostles were brought to town, they day they were lifted into place. Half the town turned out to watch as the cranes raised those stones so carefully into place.

He remembered the first service in that new church. It seemed everyone in town was there, the faithful and the curiosity seekers, the Catholics, the Baptists, the Methodists, everyone. It was a day of celebration.

Charles stared out at the church for a long time. What could Father John do to help him? That was not a question with an easy answer. Absolution? Forgiveness for the terrible thoughts that had been haunting his mind? Yes, he wanted all of that that, but it wouldn't be enough. He could be forgiven for the thoughts he had already had, but that wouldn't stop him from thinking them again.

"I want revenge," Charles whispered. He noticed that his hands were shaking and he set his cup of tea on the coffee table. "I don't want to want revenge, but I do. I tell myself that I shouldn't be thinking about it." He shook his head slowly. "I can't stop myself."

Father John nodded in understanding and took a bite of a butter cookie. If there are no easy answers, take some time to think about it.

If there was a place on earth that was so charming and so comforting that the most intense anger a man can feel would diminish within its walls, this parlor was that place. The rich mahogany woodwork around the doors and windows was carved with delicate scrolls. Potted palms and ferns standing like sentries in front of the French doors were so well kept, thriving so beautifully, that it was almost impossible to resist the temptation to reach out and touch them to see if they were real. Everything here, from the bright watercolor cityscapes hanging in their gilded frames on the walls to the statue of the Virgin Mary on the mantel to the rich burgany of the oriental rug on the dark hardwood floor, it all had a calming effect.

It all should have helped, but the anger Charles was feeling did not diminish as he sat in this room. Instead, he felt that anger and the hatred, and he felt guilty about it, all at the same time.

"Wanting vengeance," Father John said thoughtfully, "and acting on that desire are vastly different."

"But that's precisely the point, Father," Charles said. "I haven't put myself to the test. I don't know if I can pass it when the time comes. For the good of Proffitt Mining and of the family, I have to come face to face with Scully, I have to convince him to listen to what I have to say. I can't do that with this rage inside me. But I don't know how to get rid of it."

"Have faith in the power of God to guide you. He won't let you down."

"That's an easy answer to a complicated problem. I wish it were that easy, Father. I wish I could open my heart and let my faith wash away what I'm feeling, but that doesn't seem to be happening. The more I try to move beyond it, the worse it gets."

"How long have I known you, Charles," Father John asked.

Charles shook his head. "I don't know. What is it? Ten years?"

"Twelve. The day I came to Proffitt Mines, you and Evelyn were at my door to welcome me and invite me to dinner. I've never seen you raise a hand in anger. I've seen you lose your temper, and it's not a pretty sight. But physical violence? I don't think you're capable of it."

"You've never seen me pushed to limit."

"No, and I'm not seeing it now." Father John picked up the plate of cookies and offered it to Charles, who accepted the offer. Father John returned the plate to the table with the calm demeanor Charles had expected but couldn't understand under the circumstances. Here he was sitting face to face with a man who had just all but told him that he was contemplating murder, and there was no trace of excitement or apprehension. He just nibbled on a butter cookie and sipped his tea.

"What are you talking about," Charles asked. "Scully deserves everything I've thought about doing to him. He has abused the trust I put in him. He has abused my daughter, my grandson and my business. What more do you think it takes to drive a man over the edge?"

"A lesser man would have crossed that line a long time ago, Charles. Any one of the things you've told me might well drive a lesser man to commit a crime against God and society. But not you. You've thought about it. In your situation, I can't imagine anyone not thinking about it."

"Would you?"

Father John thought about it. "Probably. But thinking and acting are like night and day. I wouldn't act on it and neither will you."

"How can you possibly know that," Charles asked. He could feel the frustration building. Father John might say he understood, but it was becoming obvious that he didn't understand. He didn't understand at all.

"Would a man bent on committing a crime confess to it before he commits it," Father John asked. "You came to me because you don't want to do anything you'll regret. You might want revenge. Something in you might want some harm to come to him. But if you really wanted to be the instrument of that harm, you wouldn't have come to me. Am I right, Charles?"

Charles straightened his glasses as an excuse for looking away. He had to admit that it made sense. Would knowing this help? Maybe. "Yeah, you're right. It gnaws at me that he's going to get away with everything he's done."

"'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

8.

Rhiannon's Bar and Grill was still crowded at one o'clock on Sunday afternoon when Tommy walked through the door. He spotted a vacant booth in the back of the resterant, and made his way through the maze of tables and bodies, slid onto the bench, and tried his best to blend into the woodwork. He wasn't here for lunch and he didn't want to be noticed.

No such luck. Every vigilant, Nona Daniels was at his table in a matter of seconds with a menu and a glass of water. "How ya doing, Tommy," she asked.

"Fine. I guess."

"I've heard about... everything that's been going on. I just wanted to tell you, I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"You meeting someone, or are you on your own today?"

Tommy looked around. Allie was running back and forth to the kitchen, clearing plates and bringing more. "Well, I was hoping I could talk to Allie, but she looks busy. I guess maybe I should come back later." He started to get up, but Nona was in his way.

"It'll be clearing out pretty soon. You just sit there, and I'll bring you a big slice of pecan pie."

Tommy really didn't want to eat. He didn't want to be here, in public, any longer than he absolutely had to be. "I don't know," he said. He was getting hungry. "Maybe if it had some ice cream on it."

Nona shrugged and wrinkled her nose. "Ice cream on pecan pie? Well, the customer is always right." She smiled and walked back toward the kitchen.

Despite the crowd, the resterant was almost silent. Those who spoke did so in low whispers. Tommy had the feeling that they were talking about him, even though he knew better. There were other things, much bigger things, to be discussed. The accident and what had happened with his father were old news, almost forgotten now that Deputy Prentice had been murdered. But he couldn't shake the feeling any more than he could figure out what his next move should be.

Staying with his grandparents was fine. He was seventeen years old, and even if his father demanded that he come home, he didn't have to listen. Scully could not tell him what to do anymore. But it was a temporary solution. He might not have to live with Scully, but he couldn't exactly avoid him. Like it or not, the man was his father. And like it or not, this was a small town. Here, avoiding someone was relative. It didn't mean not seeing them, because that was inevitable. It merely meant not talking to them when you did see them.

Besides, he would have to go back to Scully's house eventually. All of his clothes were there. So were all of his school books, his homework, his photographs, and everything else he owned. He could put together an army of supporters with General Charles Proffitt in command and storm the place, but even that wouldn't prevent the confrontation that was bound to come.

Just one more year and he could go off to college somewhere far away and none of this would matter. That was the long term solution. But here and now, that really didn't matter much. It didn't matter at all. One year seemed like a very long time to live in the home of Charles and Evelyn Proffitt. He loved them. They loved him. They treated him well. But there was something cold in that house.

Tommy had never given much thought to his grandparents' relationship. Whenever he saw them together, it was at family dinners and community events, and everything seemed normal. There was the usual tension that exists in any relationship from time to time, but they always appeared to be content, if not happy.

But one night in their home was enough to shatter that illusion. They spoke when they had to, but their words were terse and their manner abrupt. They had tried last night to put on their public faces, to look and act as Tommy expected, but the truth came through loud and clear. The harder they tried to hide it, the more apparent it became. And if the strain was that great after only one night, one year would be out of the question.

Then again, there were no other options. No matter how bad it might potentially get with Charles and Evelyn, it was better than it would be with Scully. And thinking about it was getting him nowhere.

When Nona brought the slice of pecan pie to the table, he turned his attention to that. It wasn't great, but it wasn't bad. He took a big bite and let the ice cream melt in his mouth. There was something soothing about the sensation of the frozen treat on his tongue. He could get lost in it if he really tried, but reality kept dragging him back bringing with it the problems and unresolved questions of his life.

One more year, and then what? College, of course, but to do what? And did it really matter, since he would probably end up right here in Proffitt Mines, running Proffitt Mining, like his father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather, and so on and so on. Okay, so maybe his grandfather, the would-be poet, would support his decision if he did something else. But what? Charles never knew he had other options, and he probably wouldn't have done anything differently if he had known. Tommy knew there were other possibilities, but nothing seemed right. It was a damned mess and it was Charles' fault.

If he had never told Tommy that it was alright to want something different, if he had never taken Tommy to see that weird fortune teller, who hadn't told him anything, everything would be just fine. He would go on thinking his fate was sealed and he wouldn't be getting a headache from thinking about it. That would have been just fine.

He leaned forward to take another bite of pie, and he felt the deck of cards in his pocket. He should have left them at home, but he'd forgotten that they were in the pocket if his jacket. They weren't his and he didn't want anything to happen to them. But, then again, it's not like he had asked to borrow them, or like he'd even taken them willingly. That woman had forced him to take them. "Work with them for a while," Krystiana had said to him. "See what you find in them. See what they tell you."

"Shit," Tommy mumbled. See what I find in them, he thought. See what they tell me. It's all bullshit, pure and simple.

He would keep them for a while, he decided. Put them in a drawer and in a few weeks, he would return them and say thanks, but no thanks. He laughed. Work with them. That'd be the day.

But, without thinking, he reached into his pocket and took out the cards. He put the thick deck on the table and looked at them one by one. The pictures on the cards were pretty, swirling patterns in blues and purples and greens framing portraits of beautiful women and handsome men. But what was he supposed to see? What in these pictures was supposed to show him the way?

He found the card with the words Page of Staves written across the bottom. Krystiana had called it the Page of Wands, and she had seemed pleased when he picked it up and studied it so carefully. Now, he wondered why.

The boy in the picture looked to be about twelve, maybe fourteen years old. He wore a short cape and held in his hand a long wooden sceptor. His face was rather plain, not like the faces on the other cards. He was smiling, but not as though he meant it. His expression was pained, a little bit sad. This is supposed to be me, Tommy thought.

He set the card aside and tried to remember the others he had looked at the day before. He sorted through the cards quickly, looking for something familiar. He could remember that the picture was of a woman, that she reminded him of... who? Allie. She looked like Allie.

It was the Queen of Cups. He found the card and separated it from the others. He looked at it laying on the table, then he picked it up and looked at it some more. The woman was seated in a chair, holding a large, footed bowl filled with water. She was wearing a long, full gown of peacock feathers. Her long blond hair was bound in green ribbons, and there was a small green pendant on a chain around her neck. Her face was peaceful, inviting, but there seemed to be darkness all around her. Was this supposed to mean, Tommy wondered, that Allie was the beacon in the darkness. Did it mean that she would guide him through?

"Your lunch is melting."

"What," Tommy gasped. He looked up in time to see Allie drop into the seat across from him. She pointed at the plate in front of him.

"Your lunch is melting."

"I guess my mind wandered."

Allie reached across the table, picked up a few of the cards, and looked at them. She studied them, turned them, then dropped them on the table. "Don't tell me your into that psychic crap," she said.

"No way," Tommy said. "It's kind of a long story. My grandfather is sort of into it."

"Because of Krystiana Samara," Allie asked. Her tone was full of ridicule and she rolled her eyes.

"Yeah." Tommy pushed the cards aside and picked up his fork. "He's kinda got a thing for her. Only he doesn't think I've noticed." He took a bite of pie.

"Really," Allie said, suddenly interested. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. "You think there's anything going on?"

Tommy laughed, putting his hand over his mouth that was full of pie that threatened to become disgusting projectile flotsam. He forced himself to swallow and nearly choked. He drank half his glass of water before he managed to get the pie down and his laughter under control. "Yeah. Right," he said. "He's a little old for her. Besides, she and Sheriff Dolan are an item."

"You said yourself that Sheriff Dolan hates your family. I just thought maybe that was the reason."

"Not a chance."

Allie leaned back and lit a cigarette. "Oh, well. So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"I did like you said. I talked to the sheriff. Scully's out of jail."

"That's good," Allie said. "But let me guess. You don't know what to do next, and you want me to tell you."

"Well, yeah, but I also wanted to tell you that I'm staying with my grandparents, and..."

"Tommy," Allie exclaimed. "What in the hell do you think you're doing. That is the most stupid thing I've heard all day."

"But..."

"How are you going accomplish anything if you run away from your problem?" She dropped her cigarette in the ashtray and took his hand. "I'm sorry, Tom. I didn't mean to get upset."

"It's all right."

"I guess you probably had to be away from home for a little while. But you've got to go back. It's the only way."

Tommy moved the cards around on the table and tried not to look at Allie. He believed in what she told him. He was willing to do what she told him, but... "If I go home, Scully will kill me."

Allie stood up, slid into the booth next to Tommy, and put her arm around his shoulder. "Look, I know you think he will. But home is the safest place you could be right now. Scully wouldn't dare lay a hand on you. Not with the whole town watching his every move. I was wrong before, Tom, when I told you that you were wrong to have Scully arrested. I didn't think it would work, but it has. Everyone is suspicious of him now. No one really believes that you started the fight. So if anything were to happen, they'd jump on him right away. He knows that."

"Yeah, but Allie..."

"No buts, Tom. If you're going to bring him down, you have to do it from up close. You have to be there to enjoy it. Don't you want to see the look on his face when he figures out what you're doing?"

9.

Rachel sat on the sofa, twisting her hair around one finger, drumming the fingers of her other hand on the end table and staring out the window. There was nothing on television. She was too frustrated and restless to read a book. There was no one to talk to because Melissa had gone to the grocery store and no one else in Hooper, Montana wanted to speak to her now that word of her suspension and the allegations that led to it had reached town.

It was all so damned unfair. If she had done something wrong, she could accept it. If she had even been accused of doing something wrong, it would be alright. But she had been accused of being in love with a woman, and even if she had been, that was certainly not grounds for suspension.

At least, it wouldn't have been if she had listened to her father's advice, and took that cushy job in Chicago. But, no. There were plenty of psychologists in Chicago, and every other major city. She would just be another face in the crowd. No, she had to make a difference. She had to pick a backwards little town in the middle of nowhere. She had to go to work as a guidance counselor in a little high school in a little town populated by little people with little minds.

She should have known the day she drove into town that everything was just a little too picture perfect. White houses surrounded by white picket fences, each with a mother and a father, two-point-seven kids, a dog named Spot, and a station wagon in the driveway. When she saw that, she should have turned her car around and driven away at the speed of light.

But she hadn't done that. And now she felt like she was stuck in a bad episode of the Twilight Zone. Like she had somehow traveled back in time to the 1950's. All of the people and places looked the same, but they had changed. Their thoughts, and their attitudes, and their moral ideals had suddenly become so antiquated that the slightest percieved deviation sent them into some kind of frenzy, like sharks that have detected the scent of blood.

Now, she had to defend herself against a charge that was not only untrue, but that was not even a crime to begin with. Innocent until proven guilty? Forget that. She had to prove her innocence. And how was she supposed to do that when people were going to believe what they damned well pleased anyway?

"Anyone who knows you knows it isn't true," Melissa had said when they got home Friday night. Didn't she get it. It was the very people she had thought knew her that were responsible for what was happening to her. Her good friends at the St. Matthews had started the vicious rumor and her friends and collegues at the high school believed it. So much for loyalty.

Now her fate was in the hands of these people, and if she didn't come up with some way to prove that the accusation was false, it was sealed. But how can a person prove something like that? She could say flatly, "It's not true," but what good would that do. Then it would be just a matter of her word against the rumor mill. She could say nothing, take her punishment, and file a lawsuit. But did she really want to draw that much attention to this? No, she didn't. And that gave her the feeling that she was guilty of the same attitude that had led to her problem, but, frankly, she didn't have the time to worry about that. Besides, it was her life and she hated labels. If she didn't want one stuck on her that fit like a glove, she certainly didn't want one that had no basis in reality.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Melissa flopped down in a chair and put her feet up on the coffee table. Her presence startled Rachel.

"Geez, Missy, don't do that. I didn't hear you come in. You scared the living crap out of me."

"Sorry."

"And what do you think I'm thinking about?" Rachel tucked her feet underneath her and hugged a pillow.

Melissa opened a bag of cookies and passed it to Rachel. "Here. They're chocolate chip. Chocolate always cheers you up."

Rachel took the bag but set it aside. "I don't think it'll work this time. Thanks anyway. Dammit, Missy, if I just knew who started this stupid rumor, I could do something about it. I feel so damned helpless." She didn't want to cry anymore. She had done enough of that in the last two days. But she couldn't help herself. "This is no way to handle anything," she gasped through her sobs.

"It's okay, Rachel," Melissa said. She moved to the sofa and sat next to her friend. "You cry, you punch a pillow. Yell at me, if you need to. You get it out. You can't hold all of that pain inside."

Rachel nodded and wiped her eyes. "What about you? How are you holding up?"

"Don't you start worrying about me," Melissa said. She tried to keep a smile of her face, but her whole body seemed to droop. "I'll be fine." She shrugged and her smile faded. "I'm not going to let this get me down. I'm not going to let some vicious lie ruin my life."

"What happened?"

"You don't need to worry about it."

"Melissa, don't hold out on me. What happened?"

Melissa shook her head and shrugged. "Just some ignorant people's idea of fun. They soaped the windows of the car, and... there was a dead fish in the back seat. With a note."

"What did it say," Rachel asked. The tears had stopped. Now, there was a deadly seriousness in her voice.

"That's not important. I wouldn't want to repeat what it said, even if I remembered it exactly. I just dumped it in the trash. Then at the store, everyone just stopped talking when they saw me, except for the whispers. And a lot of pointing. Even the little kids. They're too young to understand, but, boy, they know something's funny. How can people be so cruel and so ignorant, Rachel? Explain it to me."

"I wish I could explain it to myself." She punched the pillow she was holding. My father and my grandfather, they're part of the system, the voice in her head said to her. You would lose your job. "Jesus Christ, Melissa," Rachel said. "I know who did this to us. I don't know how he found out, but I know he did it."

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"Melissa, I hate to have to ask you this. Did you tell Mr. Skolinski that Tommy had talked to me?"

Melissa felt the blood drain from her face and every muscle in her body tremble. "I went to see him," she said, "when he was in jail. I didn't mean to say anything, but I was afraid of him, and... He forced me to. Rachel, he would never do something like this. I know it."

"Who else would do it, Missy? Oh, God, I knew I shouldn't have said anything to you, but I had to talk it out with someone."

"I'm sorry," Melissa whispered.

"Oh, it's not really your fault. It's mine. I broke the rules by talking about it, and now I'm paying the price for it. And I'm dragging you with me."

"It's not your fault, either."

"Then it's Erwin Skolinski's fault. I know you like him. I know you think he's wonderful, and that he would never do something to hurt another human being. But you didn't see the look on Tommy's face when he was telling me those things. You didn't see the fear. But, Melissa, didn't you just say that you were afraid of him when you went to see him? Why? Why were you afraid?"

She thought of the look on his face that morning in the jail cell. She remembered the way he grabbed her coat. "So, if it was him, what do we do about it?"

"I'm not sure yet. We have to make him tell the truth. He has to admit that he made all of this up. We're going to make him admit it."

10.

According to his tradition, this place should have been boarded up and no one should have entered it again. But Bobby Prentice was not a follower of the same traditions Jeffrey Ahanu recognized, nor did the society in which he lived. Jeffrey had made a decision when he went to the police academy. He knew that there would be times, many times, when his religion and traditions would come into conflict with the world in which he was chosing to live. That didn't mean he had deserted them.

And at moments like this one, when those beliefs surfaced in his mind, it made his job very difficult.

How would he define his relationship with Bobby Prentice? Saying they were friends was stretching the truth, but they certainly hadn't been anything less than that. As he climbed the stairs to Bobby's apartment, he tried to remember how many times he had been here before. Five? Six? No more than that. They had gone out for drinks a few times. Did that mean that they were friends?

Whatever they were, he missed Bobby's presence at the office and the knowledge that there was someone to talk to, someone who would understand, when he had a bad day on the job. It felt strange, as he cut the tape on the door and slid the key into the lock, to be entering this apartment. It felt strange, not because Bobby's restless spirit would be here, but because Bobby himself would not be. It felt strange because searching through this man's things would be like betraying a trust between friends.

He closed the door and switched on a light. It was cold inside the apartment, just as cold as it was outside. No one lived here anymore. There was no sense in wasting money for heat. Jeffrey found the thermostat, turned on the furnace, and waited for it to kick in. He was wearing his heavy uniform jacket, hat and gloves. The temperature didn't really matter, but he didn't really want to go into the bedroom. The memory of what he had seen on Friday night was still too fresh in his mind. He didn't need to be forced to see it again.

The reports from Billings were starting to come in. The autopsy report, minus the blood chemistry profiles, told them nothing they didn't already know. Jeffrey hadn't read it in detail. In truth, he didn't really care to know. But the sheriff had read them, and he had told Jeffrey everything in them that he needed to know. Nothing.

The preliminary reports from the state crime lab were no more help. He had to give credit to the technicians. They were working overtime to process and analyze every shred of evidence that had been collected from the scene. They couldn't help it that there was nothing there.

Jeffrey took a deep breath and walked down the hall to the bedroom. He moved quickly so he couldn't change his mind and walk away. Once through the door, he went about doing what he had to do, trying to keep only one thought on his mind. Find something personal, something made of wood, something Krystiana could use to help their case.

He went to the dresser, and tried not to look at the bed. He didn't want to see it, he wanted to forget that it was there. He opened a drawer and rifled through it. Nothing there but tee-shirts and socks.



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