Chapter One: Monday, October 15

1.

The alley was little more than two gravel tracks with a thin strip of grass down the center. In the early days of the town, before coal was discovered in the rolling hills to the west, when this area had been nothing more than farmland, it had been the path leading to the old Sutcliffe homestead. The Sutcliffe family had long ago died out or left the area, no one knew or cared which, but the pathway still bore their name.

Sutcliffe, spoken of as though it were an actual road that might lead somewhere, ran between the rows of houses on Glacier Boulevard to the north and Hill Street on the south, from Sixth to Tenth, where it ended abruptly at the back door of Joe Hewett's Standard Oil Station. Originally meant for a horse and buggy, Sutcliffe was far too narrow for most modern cars, and one wrong move might take you into a bed of petunias and earn you the wrath of Old Mrs. Hammond, unless, of course, you happened to be Charles Proffitt.

Most people, however, were not Charles Proffitt and more than a few had found out why the phrase 'the wrath of Hammond' had entered the local vernacular in the first place. Old Mrs. Hammond had lived in the house on Seventh and Hill Streets for more years than anyone could remember. And, as far back as anyone could remember, she had been old. Many figured that she had to be over a hundred years old by now, and despite the thirty-some-odd cats prowling her property any time of the day or night, which she occasionally forgot to feed and hence ransacked nearby trash cans in search of food, her mind was sharp as a tack. She was, however, very protective of her petunias. And she did own a gun, which for some reason, she carried when she was working in her garden, which was all the time. On several occasions, she had shot out the back window or rear tires of those who had damaged one of her precious plants.

Every Monday morning, though, Charles Proffitt would roar by in his big, black Lincoln Town Car and he never failed to take out at least two or three specimens from Old Mrs. Hammond's crop. And, oddly, the old woman would just wave as he went by.

Truth be told, Old Mrs. Hammond was afraid. Not of Charles Proffitt himself. No, he was just a windbag and not one to be overly concerned with. She was afraid of the woman he was visiting, the woman who lived across Sutcliffe from her house. There was something odd about her, very odd. From the day she moved into that house, Old Mrs. Hammond had noticed, not one of her cats would venture onto the newcomer's property. They would, in fact, go out of their way to avoid it, as though it were somehow marked.

The two women were not exactly what you would call friends, but there was no animosity between them. They had, in fact, had several long conversations, each standing in their own backyard, neither, it seemed, daring to cross Sutcliffe. Old Mrs. Hammond actually liked her neighbor, but in a way one might like a storm cloud. It was fine as long as you kept one eye open and ran for cover at the first sign of trouble.

In her neighbor's case, at least, Old Mrs. Hammond would not be the one to start the trouble if there was going to be any. So when the woman's gentleman caller arrived every Monday morning like clockwork, she ignored the tires' invasion of her petunia beds.

And so it was on Monday, October 15th. Old Mrs. Hammond was working in her garden, as usual. It had been an unusually mild autumn, and a few of the plants were still blooming, and thus, needed her tender loving care. At eight twenty-five, just like always, she heard the powerful engine approaching. Just like always, the car veered slightly to the right, crushing a petunia plant, and one that was still in bloom, no less, before pulling onto the small paved area at the back of 714 Glacier Boulevard. Old Mrs. Hammond smiled and waved. Inside, she was fuming and the weight of the thirty-eight caliber hand gun in the pocket of her house dress was an unwelcome reminder of that she would do to that man if only she weren't so afraid of that woman.

2.

The concrete parking space had been installed at the request and expense of Charles Proffitt. It was located between a magnificent blue spruce tree and a large juniper shrub. Here, the car would be hidden from prying eyes, except those of Old Mrs. Hammond, and she didn't really count.

It did not matter to Charles that everyone in town knew about his standing Monday morning appointment, had known for four years. Knowing was one thing and having proof was quite another. If he never admitted it, and the lady he was visiting was discreet enough not to mention it, then unless someone saw him, there was no proof.

There was a hint of danger in sneaking in the back door and that appealed to him. From the moment he had been intellectually mature enough to understand the implications of being Charles Proffitt, he had striven to live up to his perceived station. While his high school classmates pursued the diversions of youth, Charles though only of reputation and honor. He had married his high school sweetheart and they had led a picture perfect life. It was not until Charles reached his middle years and his own child was grown that he realized all that he had missed.

His childhood had been wasted. During those years when young men believe that they will live forever, when having fun should be the most important thing on their minds, Charles had worked at living up to his name. It was, after all, his father and namesake whom the town honored on founder's day and for whom the town was named. If there were more important things than following the family tradition, the young Charles Proffitt could not see them.

He could see them now, and he mourned the lost chances. It was that sense of loss that had driven a wedge between him and his wife. Charles and Evelyn had been separated for years, although they lived in the same house and had never sought to legally dissolve their marriage. Charles went about his life and Evelyn went about hers. In the eyes of the town, they were the perfect couple, still happily married after almost fifty years. But in their secret hearts, they resented each other and resented what their marriage stood for - loss.

For Evelyn, the union had been ideal. Her father had worked for the Proffitt family, an unskilled laborer in the coal mines. The boss's son had chosen her to be his wife, and even though her one true love had been nursing, she had given up even the thought of a career of her own in favor of this perfect match. It was different for Charles. Evelyn had been pretty, true. But far more important, she had the social skills that were necessary if one was to be Mrs. Charles Proffitt. It was for that reason alone that he had chosen her over all of the other available young women in town.

All had gone well for the first few years, until it came time to start a family. Their first child was stillborn, but they were still young and there was plenty of time. After that, however, Evelyn had suffered a series of miscarriages, enough to break a lesser woman. On what she considered her last try, Evelyn had carried the child to term. It was born healthy and happy. But it was a girl. Evelyn had flatly refused to try again. She had been through enough. And Charles resented that, too - that Evelyn had never borne him a son to carry on the family name.

Charles got out of his car, feeling all of this and more without being able to put any of it into words. He only knew that his mood was as black as the coal that was mined by the company that was no longer run by someone named Proffitt. His rotten son-in-law was at the helm now. Nothing he could do about that, though. He had chosen to retire. He had chosen to let that good-for-nothing take over. Ancient history.

His shoulders were slumped and he limped slightly as he made his way along the sidewalk by the side of the garish purple garage. The pain in his joints was like that of a thousand razor sharp daggers stabbing at him from the inside. The pills Doc Murphey had given him were not working. Hell, nothing worked anymore. It crossed his mind that perhaps it was time to pack it in. Spend the rest of his life sitting in a Barco-lounger watching football and daytime soaps and letting that miserable excuse for a wife, who had not had the common decency to give him a son, bring him a beer now and then and read the newspaper to him when the pain got too bad to hold it himself.

But what would be the price for such a life? Too high, he was afraid. No more Monday mornings, for one thing. Not that there was anything between him and this woman. That would be too much to ask. It was enough to sit for a while and listen to her words, to look at her face and get lost in a romantic daydream. He had never thought of her in a sexual way, and that in itself separated him from the rest of the male population of Proffitt Mines. No, to think of her that way would be to deface the Virgin Mary. She was untouchable, unreachable, and, he had to admit, out of his league. Still he dreamed of one day expressing his love in an anonymous letter, the kind that makes young girls weak in the knees.

My dear, he would write. For some time now, I have worshipped you from afar. I have seen your beauty, both physical and spiritual, and it has touched my very heart. It makes the suffering I endure each time I see you that much stronger to know that you do not regard me in the same way. I do not ask that you return my affection. Know only this. For as long as there is breath in my feeble body, and beyond that, for all eternity, I shall have only one love.

"Bah," he mumbled to himself. It was a nice fantasy, but he had no time for such things. Besides, he thought, if she did find out that I had sent such a note, she might refuse to see me. At that thought, his heart dropped to his stomach. If that happened, it would surely kill him.

He stopped at the door to her office, a bright pink portal in the purple monstrosity that used to be the garage. A sign on the frosted glass pane read "Lady Samara's" and below that, a smaller sign, "Please knock before entering." He did.

3.

Inside the converted garage, the bright colors gave way to warm earth tones, and a sense of well being came over Charles as soon as he entered and shut the door behind him. Charles looked over the treasures hanging on the walls. There was an African rain stick, elaborately decorated and obviously the real thing. Next to it was a medicine man's rattle, the kind used in the traditional Indian dances he had seen at the Crow Reservation. A Chinese gong, with its mallet hanging neatly beside it. And many more. Things familiar and things he had never seen and could not fathom a use for. All of these things, though, despite the diversity of cultures from which they came, had one thing in common. They were all symbols or instruments of magic.

At a small round table, covered with a russet cloth woven with an intricate floral design and sparkling gold thread, Krystiana Samara sat toying with a thick deck of cards. Her black hair hung loose today, not hidden under the brightly colored scarves that she so often wore, and Charles was thankful for that small favor. She said not a word when Charles entered the room, but simply watched him, studied him the way a scientist might study a lab animal, with curiosity and just a hint of affection.

He could feel the weight of that gaze on him as he crossed the room toward her. Whether it was that, or the fact that, here, he needed no pretext, his limp worsened. Those eyes, he thought. Curse those beautiful eyes.

"Your rheumatism is worse today," she said as he lowered himself into the chair opposite her. She had long ago given up offering him the special tea her grandmother had taught her to make for just such ailments. If he was too stubborn or skeptical to try it, that was his problem. She had done all that she could for him. Still, it hurt her to see anyone suffering.

"Just a bit," he said.

She regarded him silently, weighing his words as she did everything, measuring the truth with an instrument more reliable than a polygraph. Finally, she nodded.

"In that case," she said, shuffling the cards, "is there a particular question you would like to ask this morning?"

There was, but he didn't dare. And perhaps she sensed this, because she continued with only a moment's hesitation.

"Very well, then. We will do a general consultation."

"Yes," he replied. "That would be good." She set the cards in front of him and waited while he separated them into three piles. She put the right pile on top of the center one, and the left on top of that, then fanned the cards across the table.

"Your aura is very dark today," she whispered. "Tell me."

"No, I don't think..." But it was useless. He began slowly, trying to put into words all the feelings that had been haunting him lately.

While he spoke, Krystiana closed her eyes and passed her hand over the cards. One by one, the cards chose themselves, drawing her hand to them, making her select the ones that would tell the story. Twelve times she did this, and twelve times she was certain that the choice had been right. Had she had the least bit of doubt in the cards, she would have begun the process again, or even cancel the reading, but never before had she sensed the rightness so completely. Never before had the pull of the cards been so strong.

She did not open her eyes until Charles stopped speaking. When she did, she nodded. No advice. That wasn't her business. Listening was, and offering an interpretation of the cards, and if the client found something useful in that, all well and good. Asking the client to speak freely while she chose the cards served an important purpose. It told her what was on the client's mind, what forces were affecting him, driving him. It was what the reading was all about.

Krystiana laid the cards on the table, one by one, in the order she had chosen them, offering nothing until all were showing. Charles knew what to expect as was silent. Krystiana would speak again when she was ready, and not before.

She stared at the cards, each one in turn, and the meaning presented itself immediately. It was only when she looked at them as a group, as she was doing now, that the task became difficult. Often, there were contradictions, and she had to determine why they had appeared. Today, however, there were none. The answers were all too clear.

At first, she was hardly aware of the tingling at the back of her neck, but it gradually grew more insistent. Finally, she had to consciously block it from her mind.

At that moment, had she chosen to look, had she opened that part of her mind, she would have seen unimaginable horrors inflicted on a man she did not know, through eyes she knew well, but could not identify.

The images would come next, she knew, but had she not learned to block them years ago, they would certainly have driven her insane. They were still there, playing like a motion picture on the back of her eyelids, but the moment they disappeared, they would be forgotten, like a bad dream.

The tingling sensation was stronger than usual. That meant that something significant was happening, perhaps something with far reaching effects, but these things had happened before and would happen again.

Another lesson she had learned years ago was that she could not effect the outcome of these things. The images were like radio waves, and she saw them as they were happening. What was the point, then, of watching them? She had seen cities destroyed by earthquakes and tornadoes, but if there was no time to warn the people who would perish, then there really was no point.

The most important thing, at least to her and at that particular moment in time, was the layout of the cards on the table. What she saw there frightened her. She had seen this configuration before, on a night long ago.

The Devil stared up at her from the table, a study in red and black. Here, he was depicted as a hideous half-man, half-beast, perched atop his throne, sitting on his haunches. He had cat eyes, goat horns and the wings of a bat. Clutched in one hand was a savage looking club, dripping the blood of the damned. Flanking him, and chained to the throne by their necks, were two figures, a man and a woman, both naked and standing at attention like obedient dogs.

This card was in the fifth position, telling Krystiana what influences would be at work in the near future. That alone would not have been so bad. Every life encounters a bit of evil now and then. The telling card was in the twelfth position, where it spoke of the final outcome, the culmination of events. It was the Tower.

The picture on the card was of a high stone structure sitting securely on a mountain top. Flames jutted from the windows as lightening struck from all directions. Again, the central image was flanked by two figures, a man and a woman. They were falling, screaming, from the top of the tower.

"Well?" Charles interrupted her train of thought. He was getting impatient, and when she looked at the clock, she realized why. Her next appointment was due to arrive at any time. She had wasted nearly ten minutes just staring at the cards.

Krystiana hoped that Charles would see this as an attempt to interpret the cards. In truth, this was the hardest part of her job. Phrasing a tactful and comforting response when the cards showed disaster.

"A crucial time in your life is approaching. There will be many major changes coming your way, and not all of them will be for the best. You must remember to ask a lot of questions. Take nothing at face value."

The lines around his eyes deepened into a frown. She could see that he was not going to be satisfied with carefully constructed half truths. But in this case, she was not going to volunteer anything more. He would have to ask the questions. And he did.

"What kind of changes?"

Krystiana took a deep breath and continued. "There are many things." She shook her head, trying to clear it. The cards had spoken the truth too many times for her to ever doubt them. The rest, however, was an act. The setting, the way she looked and spoke, was all an act, staged for the benefit of the audience, the client. The part she played was but a small part of herself. She lost sight of that now and then, became too immersed in the role she played and forgot that she was dealing with human beings, people with emotions and fears, just like her own.

True, the phrasing in circumstances like these was important. But wasn't it better sometimes to conceal the truth? To stop in the middle of the act and say "I'm sorry, I forgot my lines," and walk off the stage?

She decided the time was right to break character, to be Krystiana for a while and to put Lady Samara on hold.

"Are you sure you want to hear this, Charles? If you have any doubts, let's stop now."

"I want to know," he whispered hoarsely.

"There is... death in the cards. And betrayal." She waited for some kind of signal from him, to continue or to stop. His face was ashen. His eyes mere slits, downcast and full of some emotion she could not quite grasp.

Slowly, he nodded. "Any suggestions?"

"Just that you keep in mind that what I am telling you is what I see now, and that it is in no way the unalterable truth."

"Well, you've never been wrong before, my Dear."

"You create your own reality, Charles. If you accept unconditionally what I have told you, then it will come to pass. Please, just this once, fight it."

The clock struck nine as Charles left by the back door and Krystiana put her head down on the table and closed her eyes. This had been her first reading of the week, and if it was any indication, she thought, perhaps a vacation was is in order. If Charles Proffitt had a bad day, everyone in Proffitt Mines, Montana had a bad day. He would see to it personally.

The sensation in her neck had grown stronger, but she did not have the strength to look at the images. She was tired. She was just beginning to realize how deeply the dream she had had last night was effecting her.

Those voices. Why did they frighten her so? And why were they so familiar? It seemed to her that the source was just coming to the front of her mind. The answer was there, and she almost had it. But as the clock struck for the ninth time, there was a knock at the door. Mrs. O'Bannion, right on time. And the answer was gone.

4.

"It was a great concert," Jen Laughton mumbled. She was laying across the seat in the back of the van, half sleeping and still feeling the effects of the pumping adrenaline and the marijuana smoke that was thick in the air, both at the concert and in the van.

Tommy could barely hear her over the loud music that rumbled out of the speakers. He made a sound that was neither affirmative nor negative, and pulled the van off the interstate and onto the two lane highway that would take them home to Proffitt Mines.

They were supposed to be in school. By Tommy's own calculation, if he played by the rules, he would be in Mrs. Hayle's dreadfully boring geometry class right now. But he did not like rules more than he did not like geometry. He did like music though. Heavy metal, in particular. The louder, the better.

It's not often that a really awesome band like Vice Squad makes an appearance in Billings, Montana. So, school or no school, Tommy and Jen were not going to miss it. Johnny Milton had gone along, too, but he didn't have to worry about skipping school. He was a dropout.

To Tommy, that was the ultimate thing to be. Being a dropout meant being a rebel, and having a kind of freedom that someone like Tommy could never have. The freedom to go where you want and do what you want whenever you want to do it.

Thomas Proffitt Skolinski was an honor student. He had to be, just because of who he was. The same sense of purpose that was ruining the grandfather's life had been instilled in the grandson, although he took a different approach.

This was, after all, a different era. Things had changed since Charles was seventeen, and, Tommy figured, the face of leadership had to change with the times. Could a future business and political leader take the time off to do something impulsive like drive a hundred miles to see a rock group with a gorgeous lead singer like Stormie about whom he had had some really wicked and extremely erotic fantasies? Could such a person afford the risk of smoking an occasional joint? The answer, Tommy decided, was hell, yes!

Living a life of honor, as his grandfather so often put it, was great. And it would be great if he could accomplish great things. But what would that mean if he grew up to be a depressed, bitter old man like Charles? Nothing at all. Zip, zilch, nada.

It was moments like this that made life worthwhile, really. Good friends, plenty of beer, and Stormie Konichek's voice screaming from the tape deck. "A victim, a fool, in this lover's duel. Your wicked ways are revealed," she roared with the sounds of electric guitars and drums behind her.

Tommy let the image of her fill his mind, just as she had been on stage last night. The heat and intensity of the lights making beads of perspiration appear on her flawless brow. Her bright red hair falling in tight curls around her face and shoulders. A portrait in black spandex and crimson lace.

Jen was a great girl, true enough, and they always had a lot of fun when the lights went out, but Stormie was the kind of woman he wanted to marry. Someone who would cause a bit of scandal in quiet little Proffitt Mines. It really wasn't impossible, either, he thought. Someday in the not too distant future, he would have the kind of power and money that could attract someone like her, maybe even Stormie herself. Never mind that she was twenty years older than Tommy. From what he'd heard, that was just how she liked it.

"Want a beer?" The sound snapped Tommy out of his dream world. Johnny was finally awake and crawling around on the floor. He was trying to get the cooler open, but was too drunk to accomplish the feat. Jen rolled off the seat to give him a hand.

"Sure," Tommy called over the music. A moment later, Jen handed it up to him, already open. He drained half the can in one gulp.

The music had changed. It was softer now, a ballad. Amazing, really, that Stormie could rock the house down as well as any man, then turn around and sing a love song so beautifully. "Show me a world where dreams can come true. If I could, I would be there with you." In Tommy's mind, she was singing for him, and only him.

It was a familiar fantasy. They were in a magnificent bedroom all done in black and crimson, her colors. He was laying on the bed. She was sitting next to him, singing and playing her guitar. She stared into his eyes as she sang, and as the notes died away, she let the guitar fall to the floor. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. As she did, her hands disappeared beneath the pillows and came back out with handcuffs. He let her do as she wished, being perfectly content to be her prisoner.

Once he was locked in place, her hands began to explore his body. They were hot and soft and lingered in all the right places.

Tommy's head was swimming and he could feel his body reacting to the fantasy affair. It was that real.

He could hear Jen's screams long before he saw the semi truck coming straight at him in the wrong lane. At the very last second, he swerved the van off the road into the ditch. It rolled three times before landing upside down at the edge of a corn field.

5.

The call was received by Trista Jarvis, the dispatcher on duty at the Proffitt County Sheriff's Office, at one twenty-six. It had been a quiet day, and aside from a report of stolen livestock from a rancher out on County Road 9, this was the only call she had gotten since coming on duty at eight in the morning.

Trista was immersed in one of her romance novels, and just getting to the good part, nonetheless, when the phone rang. She was tempted to let it ring. If it's important, they'll call back, she thought. Of course, if someone was calling the sheriff's department, it was no doubt important, but Trista's mind did not work the way most people's do. To her, anything less than a triple murder-suicide was small potatoes, and since such things only happen once or twice in a dispatcher's lifetime, answering the phone was not one of her priorities.

In her book, the hero, Drake, was unbuttoning Rowan's blouse and whispering how good it was to finally be alone with her. She, of course, was melting like butter under his touch. Trista was trying to put herself in Rowan's place. She had no way of knowing that very similar thoughts had just gotten three young people in some very deep trouble.

The telephone was ringing insistently, and Trista was finding it difficult to concentrate on her book or her thoughts. When she finally answered the phone, it had more to do with getting another routine call out of the way than with any sense of responsibility.

The voice on the line was that of a very upset man. He was practically screaming into the phone and speaking incoherently as well. Trista could not understand a word of what he was saying.

"Calm down and tell me what the problem is," Trista said and yawned.

"I think they're dead," was all she could understand of the reply. It was enough to pique her interest. This might just be the call she had been waiting for.

"Who's dead?"

"The people in the van. Please, we need some help out here!"

"Where are you," Trista asked. It was just another traffic accident. Disappointment washed over her and she yawned again.

6.

Sheriff Dolan was sitting in his cruiser at the edge of town, as he had taken up doing when he wanted to avoid something particularly unpleasant around the office. He did not know what Krystiana had said to Charles Proffitt this morning, but he meant to have a word with her this evening.

Proffitt had been utterly unreasonable when he had finally arrived at the county courthouse at Fifth and Main, later than usual, and breezed into the Monday morning planning session already reeking of whiskey sours. He had started by stating that the planning sessions were a waste of the taxpayers' time and money, and whose harebrained idea was it, anyway?

Deputy Bobby Prentice had made the near fatal mistake of pointing out that Proffitt had been the one to suggest the meetings in the first place. Proffitt responded by turning a shade of red that Richard could not remember ever having seen on a human face. Had it been a cartoon, the sheriff was reflecting, steam would have been coming out of his ears and his scalp would have flown into the air, done a couple of flips, and landed perfectly in place. As it was, Richard had saved the day, as well as the deputy's job and maybe his life, with his quick thinking.

"Of course, if you wish to suspend the meetings, that is well within your rights, Councilman," he had said, "but I believe the deputy will agree with me when I say that..."

Proffitt had interrupted at that point with a wave of his hand. So much for diplomacy. Proffitt had calmed a little bit after that, but only a little bit. He had spent the remainder of the meeting tearing apart every issue that was brought up, and had ranted for fifteen minutes about the number of cars that sped by at breakneck speeds on Route 75, and why wasn't the sheriff's office writing more tickets?

That was Richard's purpose now. Writing tickets and making good use of the taxpayers' time and money. And avoiding Charles Proffitt, to boot.

Normally, Richard would have paid no attention to the gray Mazda that made a turn off of Route 75 into Proffitt Mines Township since the driver was not speeding and there were no visible violations. But he had found that there was little else to occupy one's mind while sitting in a cruiser, waiting for the lawbreakers to come to you.

The driver was none other than Proffitt County District Judge Barton Winslow. He had retired from the bench in Billings and had moved back to his home town to live out the remainder of his years in peace, but retirement had not been what he had expected, and he soon found that he was bored. With only a little prodding from his old friend, Charles Proffitt, Barton Winslow was back at work, this time, presiding over the Proffitt County Court. It was something to do, and it left him plenty of time to pursue his hobbies.

In the passenger seat of Winslow's car was a girl of about twenty. She was pretty. Not quite beautiful. Nothing at all like Krystiana, but pretty, nonetheless.

"Thank you," Krystiana's voice said in his mind.

Richard ignored it and went on looking at the girl until the car passed out of sight. Her hair was the color of spun gold, and very long. He could not see her eyes, but guessed that they were blue. Cornflower blue. If I were twenty years younger, he thought.

"If you were twenty years younger, you still wouldn't stand a chance, my Dear."

Richard wondered why he should feel guilty for thinking such a thing. Then the voice returned again. "Isn't lust one of the seven deadly sins," Krystiana asked.

"I wouldn't know," he lied aloud.

"I think it is." Richard would have sworn, at that moment, that the voice was not inside his head, but coming from... From somewhere outside of himself. He had always thought it to be the voice of his conscious. Now, he wasn't sure.

"It doesn't hurt to look," he said. Then, as an afterthought, "And please get out of my mind."

Her voice was silent after that, but Richard could still feel her presence, as he often could. It seemed at that moment, as it had so many other times, that if he closed his eyes, then opened them very slowly, that she would be there. He had never tried that, and he wasn't going to now. It was enough to know that she had many powers that he did not understand, and if materializing in a locked police cruiser on a lonely country highway was one of them, it was best not to find out.

The scent of violets, her scent, was strong in the car. He was trying to remember if she had ever been in the cruiser, and if not, why the scent was, when the radio crackled. Just as well since he was about to lose himself in a fantasy of his own.

7.

The last of the lunch crowd usually left Rhiannon's by one-thirty or so, and the serious drinking crowd did not arrive until the day shift at the mines got out at five. In the intervening hours, the bar and grill was usually the quietest place in town. That was precisely the reason Doc Murphey chose this time for his lunch break.

The rest of the day, from eight to five, was spent tending the sick, sympathizing with hypochondriac old women, and staring down the throats and into the ears of every man, woman and child in town. That was really not as bad as he could make it sound. It was the fact that he actually had to be nice to these people that really turned his stomach.

He had become a doctor to please his mother. Her dreams for her only son had effected him more than he cared to admit. She was a strong woman with strong opinions, and a force to be reckoned with. He knew that he would always remember the day he had told her that he wanted to be an electrician, that he wanted to discover how things work and fix them if they didn't. She had beat the hell out of him that day.

That was a long time ago. In those days, it was not considered child abuse. It was considered knocking some sense into the kid, and was not only alright, it was expected.

Doc had always preferred things to people. It was a little known fact that his home looked like a Sharper Image showroom, since no one was ever invited there. He spent the happiest hours of his life scouring garage sales for old televisions and radios in need of repair and taking them home to the room he called his workshop. There, he would spend hours, sometimes days, taking these things apart and putting them back together in much the same way he had when he was ten years old. He rarely, if ever, got these things working again, but it was a sheer joy to be separated for that brief time from anything alive, to work on a patient that could not talk back.

There were a few exceptions, of course. A few people in town whom he actually liked. They were not exactly friends. Just people who did not get on his nerves.

Among these people was the owner of the bar and grill where the doctor now sat. This man took his order, brought his food and otherwise left him alone. No solicitous "How is everything today," just at the moment he had shoveled a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. No "Can I get you anything else," when he was already taking the money from his wallet to pay the bill. Just "What d'ya want," and "Here it is."

Doc sopped up the last of the gravy on his plate with a piece of egg bread, cholesterol be damned, and gobbled it down without spilling a drop on his tie. This he considered a major accomplishment.

To reward himself, he took a dollar cigar out of his breast pocket. He made a grand show of unwrapping it, sniffing the length of it, then biting off the end and spitting it into the ashtray. He found his lighter in his hip pocket and lit the cigar.

He put seven dollars on the counter. "Why are all the good things in life so bad for you," he asked the man standing there.

"Don't know," was the response. It was the most the two men had ever said to each other.

8.

Winter can descend on Montana any time after August first, so since that date, the display in the front window of Perry Cooper's General Store had the tools of the season - shovels, snow blowers, de-icers and the like. Nona Daniels stood in front of the display, trying on pair after pair of thermal gloves and staring out the window at the brick storefront bar across the street. She was waiting for the last of the lunch crowd to leave. She did not need any witnesses to this little scene and she did not want to be the object of gossip over every dinner table in town tonight or any other night.

She tried on another pair of gloves and returned them to the display, hoping that she looked like a picky shopper and not a woman who was about to do something that could change her life forever. A week of planning had gone into this, and nothing was going to interrupt her. She had rehearsed every word, every gesture, over and over.

Life has a way of throwing curves just when they are least expected. Nona had always known this, but it did not make it any easier this time. The way she saw it, she had two options. She could take the curve at a hundred miles an hour or she could stay on the straight path she had been on all of her life and run headlong into a tree.

After two failed marriages, Nona had never expected to fall in love again. And she certainly never expected to fall in love with her boss. He was, after all, the most arrogant and frustrating man she had ever met. But the attraction was undeniable. In the last few weeks, the innocent flirtation had changed. Into what, she could not exactly define, but it was no longer innocent.

Of course, he would never do anything about it. If a move was going to be made, it would have to be up to Nona to make it. Still, she felt a bit awkward about it and she was more than a bit nervous. After all these years, she could hear her mother's voice, forbidding her to call a boy on the phone. It's just not done. And for a woman to make the first move? Why, it's simply scandalous. No respectable woman would do that!

But, Mother, she said to the nagging voice in her head, once in a while, you just have to take your life into your own hands. And that's just what I'm going to do. Oh, but what if... What if he really doesn't feel the same way? What if I make a fool of myself?

She knew that she couldn't afford to think that way, but she couldn't help it.

Doc Murphey was leaving the bar. The time was now or never.

9.

Baruch Rhiannon was standing behind his bar. It seemed that he was always there, from open to close, seven days a week. He was the easiest man in town to find and the hardest to get to know.

Rhiannon had seen some heavy fighting in Vietnam, and when he came home, like so many others, he found that he could not readjust. So he had become a mercenary, fighting for any army and for any cause. Have gun, will travel.

But a few years back, he had been shot and left for dead in the jungles of San Salvador. When he was finally found, he was in such bad shape that his comrades had discussed whether it was worth hauling him back to their camp. They did, and he recovered, but his fighting days were over.

He returned to his home town of Proffitt Mines with a little money in the bank and a few souvenirs of his exploits. With the money, he bought the local bar and grill and renamed it Rhiannon's. The souvenirs now hung like trophies over the bar. His favorite was the AK-47 assault rifle, plucked from the freshly killed body of an enemy soldier.

Rhiannon now ran his business with the same zeal that had kept him alive during twenty-five years of daily gun play. He did not sleep unless he had to, and he did not trust anyone. As a result, he ran the place almost single handed. In the beginning, his only employee had been the cook, Al. Rhiannon had tended bar and waited tables, and with amazing efficiency. He learned quickly, however, that one person might be able to handle the lunch crowd, but dinner time was another story altogether.

Reluctantly, he hired Nona Daniels as a waitress. She knew her job and did it well, and she did not get in the way. In addition, she was not afraid of him, and that was a trait Rhiannon respected more than any other.

Eventually, the two had become friends, or as close to it as Rhiannon allowed himself to get. Rhiannon had been optimistic in thinking that this would not change things. It seemed to him that Nona was the only person in town who came close to understanding him, and as such, it seemed reasonable that she would respect his way of life.

But there seemed to be something more. Rhiannon was not a man who allowed himself the dangerous luxury of any deep emotion, especially love. Yet he felt something for Nona, something very strong. What he felt when he was around her was even more troubling - light headed, queasy. Not in control.

At first, they both tried to deny it, but it had become too obvious. In fact, Nona had hinted on more than one occasion that she thought he worked too much and that she'd like to see him outside the bar sometimes.

And much to his surprise, Rhiannon had taken this suggestion in stride. There was a time when he would have reacted to such meddling with a violent outburst, but this time, he hadn't. During a momentary lull, he had given the matter some thought, and had come to a conclusion that truly shocked him. He loved her, and although he would never say the words out loud, he was certain that Nona not only knew exactly how he felt, but that she felt the same way.

He thought further that it would, indeed, be nice for the two of them to spend some time together. And hadn't he been wanting to take a fishing trip into Canada? To spend a few days in the wilderness and to once again sleep under the stars. A little female companionship on such an outing couldn't hurt anything, could it? Nona seemed just the type of woman who might enjoy the unspoiled beauty of the land as much as he did.

Of course, his stubborn side would never allow him to make such a suggestion. It would mean admitting a weakness, and love is a weakness, isn't it? So until such a time as she came to him, he would continue to stand behind his bar.

That is exactly where Nona found him at two in the afternoon on a warm Monday in October. As she came into the bar, there was purpose in her stride and determination in her pretty AmerInd features. She took a seat at the bar and simply stared at Rhiannon.

"What," Rhiannon asked. He was smiling inwardly. Here it comes, he thought.

Nona took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. "What exactly is going on here, Baruch?"

"What do you mean," he asked, putting on a puzzled expression.

"You know what I mean. The looks, the smiles. Hell, I think you actually blushed once. Is there, or is there not, something going on between us?"

This was going to be better than he'd hoped. "Just what do you think might be going on, Nona?"

"This place is your life, and sometimes I think there is no room for anyone or anything else. But... I care about you, whether you like it or not. And if there is any room left in your heart, I would like to be a part of your life. Maybe I'm a fool, Baruch, but I think that's what you want, too."

"You are a part of my life. We're friends."

"That's not quite what I mean. I'd like for us to spend some time together."

"We're together every night, five to eleven."

"Dammit! I don't mean working together. Let's... do something. Go out somewhere. Anything!" There was more force in her voice than she had thought herself capable of.

"And just who is going to run this place if I'm not here?" It was a question Rhiannon had often asked himself. He liked to think that no one could take his place, even for a couple of hours.

"Al knows this place as well as you do. I'm not asking for much. Just a little time to get to know each other better." She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

"I'll have to hire another waitress."

Nona blinked a few times. She wasn't sure if she'd won the battle, if not the war, or if she had been fired. "Huh?"

"If, you know, we were both to take time off."

Nona stared in stunned disbelief. She had been prepared for a dozen different scenarios, but this had not been one of them.

"Thank you," was all Nona could manage to say.

"You're not supposed to be at work for another three hours. Now, get your butt out of here. I don't want to be paying you for overtime."

Nona stood up. She started to say something, then changed her mind. She looked back at him as she headed for the door, the look of disbelief still on her face.

When the door closed behind her, Rhiannon took a piece of cardboard from behind the cash register. It had been there for weeks now, and had a thin coat of dust on it. Then he went to the window and watched Nona until she disappeared around the corner.

He put the sign in the window. It read "Waitress wanted - apply within."

10.

When the hour hand came to rest on the twelve, there was no chime, no fanfare. There was only the eerie silence of hallways that should be bustling with people when there is no one around. Nearby, there were dozens, maybe hundreds, of people sleeping. There were others going silently about their work. None of them knew. None of them cared.

And there was that smell. It was the smell of disinfectant, but in Tommy's mind, it would forever be connected with death. It permeated the tiny room, covering him, penetrating his clothing. He felt that it had become a part of him, that no matter how hard he scrubbed, it would forever be on his flesh.

He was laying in a hospital bed, feeling just fine, thanks. At least physically, he felt fine. A few scraped and bruises, and the doctors said he had a concussion and wanted him to stay in the hospital overnight for observation. But there were other wounds, wounds that no doctor could heal. At least, not yet.

Across the room, his mother was sitting stiffly in one of those uncomfortable vinyl chairs that can be found only in hospitals because no one would put up with them anywhere else. She had been sitting there since she arrived at the hospital almost eight hours earlier. In that time, she hadn't said a word. She just sat there, staring.

His father was there, too, somewhere. He had stopped by Tommy's room early in the evening and yelled something about responsibility before the nurse asked him politely to please leave the room. He left. And he had not come back. Didn't matter, though. There would be plenty of time for yelling and screaming when they got home.

It wasn't right. In the morning, Tommy would be going home. It was all his fault, and he was going home. While Johnny was in intensive care, Tommy would be back in school. While Johnny was in critical condition, Tommy would be getting up in the morning and going to bed at night. Tommy would be getting on with his life, while Johnny may not have a life to get on with.

And then there was Jen.

Katherine shifted slightly in her chair without taking her eyes off her son. There was a hardness in her expression that he had never seen before. There was no love or concern, but there was no anger, either. The weight of that gaze was worse than his father's harsh words had been. If only she would lash out at him, or comfort him, or something. But no. She just sat there, staring at him with those blank, lifeless eyes.

Tommy wondered what his mother was seeing, as he always did when she went off into her own little world like this. Did she see anything? Did she have any idea of where she was or what had happened? It seemed unlikely. This was her way of dealing with things she could not deal with.

He had always been curious about these trances, about how she could be just a few feet away from him, yet her mind was miles and years away. Always before, this aspect of the human mind had intrigued him. It was different this time. This time, it frightened him.

The difference was not in her. It was in him, in the way he was seeing her. She looked just the way she always did, but he had never noticed those eyes. Dead eyes.

Jen's eyes.

He was no stranger to death. He had seen it many times before. The dear departed laid out in their coffins, dressed in their finest, their faces painted for their final journeys. They were like sculptures, life-like, but not real to him. He did not associate those objects with the people he had known.

Yes, he had never seen death, but he had never seen it happen. He had thought about it once. It was several years ago, when Grandma Skolinski died. She had been very old, and very sick for a long time. They had known for months that the end was near. When she finally died, it was for the best. Her suffering was over.

That is how it should be, Tommy thought. It should be a process, long and drawn out. It's not really that way at all. One second, you are alive, whether you are old and sick or young and healthy, and the next, you are not. There are no bells or brass bands to herald your passing.

Just like the clock. Unless there is someone watching, no one will ever really know. It can be explained, described, but unless it is witnessed, it cannot be understood.

Tommy understood too well. He was terrified. It could have been, should have been, him. Instead, he had lost Jen. He had killed her, and he would have to live the rest of his life with that knowledge.

11.

There had never been any doubt in Scully's mind that his son had been put on this earth for one reason and one reason only. To make his life as miserable as possible. It was a test. How much could one man take and still keep his sanity?

Not a hell of a lot more, that was certain. Wasn't it hard enough being the CEO of the biggest goddam mining company in the state? Wasn't it enough to be saddled with a wife who was catatonic half the time? He could live with these things, though. After all, if he hadn't married Katherine Proffitt, he would probably still be tending that barren little parcel of land that his father had optimistically called a farm. He certainly wouldn't be the CEO of Proffitt Mining company, and he wouldn't be living the life to which he had grown accustomed. But did he really need a son who was a goddam James Dean wanna-be?

Scully was sitting in an all night coffee shop a few blocks from the hospital. He had had plenty of time to think since he left his son's room, and already he had formulated several plans. For one, he was going to sue the hospital and that battle-ax nurse who had thrown him out for doing nothing more than trying to talk some sense to the boy. Then he was going to sue the driver of the truck who had caused the accident. Plus, he was going to make damned sure that that Laughton slut's family couldn't sue him.

He finished his club sandwich and went to work on a piece of apple pie. The only thing left to figure out was what to do about Tommy. Maybe it was lesson enough to have killed one friend and nearly killed another, but Scully had a lesson or two of his own in mind. Unfortunately, Tommy was big enough to fight back, so the old standard beating was out of the question. And it was too late to send him to military school, a threat that had worked well on several occasions.

Oh, well. He would think of something.



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