Chapter Five: Thursday, October 18
1.

Tommy had made an important decision without realizing it. Johnny was still in intensive care at Deaconess Medical Center in Billings. Only relatives were allowed in the room, and only for ten minutes at a time. Tommy had managed to convince the nurses that he was Johnny's brother, and he had spent all of Wednesday there, mostly waiting, and sitting by Johnny's bedside when he could. When visiting hours were over, he had gone to the waiting room to get his head together before driving home.

Seeing Johnny as he was, with his face pale and drawn, tubes stuck in his arms, and breathing through another tube in his nose, had a deeper effect on Tommy that he had imagined. He had almost convinced himself that he was not responsible for the accident, and therefore, was not responsible for Johnny's condition. That is, he was almost convinced until he saw Johnny.

The prognosis for Johnny's recovery was not good. The nurses were hesitant to tell him anything at all. Perhaps they really didn't believe that the two boys were brothers. But Tommy had lurked around the door to the room while the doctors and nurses were inside. He had found a chair near the nurses station. And he had listened. Little of what he heard was comprehensible to him and even those things he had heard of, he didn't fully understand. There was talk of anteroposterior tomograms and CAT scans, post-traumatic something-or-other, it sounded like tortellini, but Tommy guessed from the context that it had something to do with a spinal fracture. There were other things he knew and understood too well. Cranial fracture, severe head trauma, cerebral inflammation. And then there were the words the pretty young nurse named Angela had said to the older nurse with gray hair and a bad attitude when she thought no one else was around.

"That poor kid," Angela said, shaking her head. "It'll be a miracle if he comes out of this."

"Yup," replied the one with the attitude, "sure would. But he'll be lucky if he doesn't. I seen a lot of patients worse off than that survive. That don't mean they recover. Way I see it, living ain't worth it if you go through the rest of your life no more useful than a zucchini."

Tommy overheard this exchange as he was getting ready to go home. Even without it, he knew that the news was bad, but those were words he could relate to, and all at once, the reality of the situation hit him.

His best friend in the world was never going to leave this hospital alive, and even if it wasn't exactly his fault, it wasn't exactly not his fault, either. But whether he was or wasn't responsible, he had lost two people who meant more to him than his family did, and he hadn't even taken the time to grieve for them. He had been denying his feeling, but when he heard those words, all of those feelings rushed him at once.

He found a waiting room not far from the ICU ward that was completely deserted and sat down to think for a while. He had no intention of staying for more than a few minutes, but the couch was so soft and he was so tired, he decided to lay down for just a few minutes.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun was streaming through the windows, and the clock on the wall said it was nine thirty. He had been asleep for more than thirteen hours.

Even if he left immediately and sped all the way, he could not make it back to Proffitt Mines by eleven o'clock. He would not be going to Jen's funeral.

2.

The first message on Bobby Prentice's answering machine on the morning of Thursday, October 18th was precisely the reason he left the machine on all the time and never answered his phone anymore. It was the reason he didn't want to get out of bed in the morning, and it was one of the reasons he dreaded going to the job he used to love.

The first message on his machine said, "Hi, Bobby. It's Trista. I want to talk to you, so call me. Okay?"

The second message; "Bobby, it's me again. I know you're home and I really need to talk to you. Would you please pick up the telephone? Okay, call me when you get a chance."

The third message; "I am getting really sick and tired of you avoiding me. If there's something wrong, maybe we should talk about it. I'm at home, You have the number, don't you? If you don't, it's in the book. Bye, Bobby."

The fourth message; "I was just thinking. Since you haven't called me, maybe you don't have a phone book. My number is 555-9837. I'll be waiting for your call."

The last message, which was also the tenth, had come at one o'clock in the morning. Bobby had taken the phone out of his bedroom a long time ago, but his apartment was small, and the ringing from the livingroom had awakened him. He looked at the clock, put a pillow over his head, and went back to sleep. At that time of the morning, it was either Trista or Sheriff Dolan calling about some emergency. And, frankly, Bobby's Tristaphobia won out over his sense of duty any time.

The last message sat the tone for the rest of the day. "It's getting kind of late, isn't it," Trista said. "So I guess you're not going to call. It really wasn't that important, but I really wanted to talk to you. Well, I'll see you tomorrow, at work. We can talk then. Good night, Bobby."

Bobby and Trista had gone on a date. Once. Two years ago. And it really wasn't a date. At least, Bobby hadn't thought of it that way. He had been working late, filling out some routine paper work on a property damage collision, and when he finished, he was hungry. He didn't like to go to restaurants alone, and, since Trista was still in the office, he asked her to go with him to Rhiannon's. After dinner, he drove her home, because, one, her car was in the shop and she lived all the way across town, and, two, it was dark out. He thought about kissing her good night. She seemed to be expecting it. But Trista wasn't his type. As far as he could imagine, Trista couldn't possibly be anybody's type.

Ever since that night, Trista had been after him. And she was relentless. She didn't always leave ten messages on his answering machine in one night. Sometimes it was more like thirty and sometimes a month would pass without a single call. God, he treasured those months when Trista found something else to be obsessive about. But it always came back to him.

That was one reason he didn't like working for the Proffitt County Sheriff's Department. The other reason, which had never occurred to him until a few days earlier, was the sheriff himself.

Bobby had always looked up to Sheriff Dolan. He was everything Bobby was not and could never be. He knew how to talk to people, how to calm them down when they were upset and how to get them to tell the truth when they were lying. That's not the kind of thing a person can learn. Bobby had tried, and failed. But most of all, Sheriff Dolan was not only not from Proffitt Mines, he had lived in glamorous cities like Los Angeles and Boston. He had traveled all over the world. He had been to Greece and Egypt and Africa. The farthest Bobby had ever been from Proffitt County was a trip to South Dakota to see Mount Rushmore.

Bobby did the best he could. He tried to be as good a cop as one can be in the middle of nowhere. And he did a damned good job, if he had to say so himself. That was the problem. He did have to say so himself, because Sheriff Dolan sure as hell would never say it.

In fact, Sheriff Dolan seemed to think that Bobby wasn't capable of doing anything. Monday had been the final straw. In the morning, the sheriff had jumped in to defend Bobby when he had inadvertently provoked Charles Proffitt, as though Bobby couldn't defend himself. He supposed that he should be grateful for that, but he wasn't. To add insult to injury, that very afternoon, Sheriff Dolan had called Jeffrey Ahanu in from a routine patrol of the northern part of the county to talk to the Laughton family after Jennifer was killed in that accident. Bobby had been right there, but apparently, he wasn't good enough.

Bobby had never been one to hold a grudge, and he wasn't sure that there was one to hold now. But for the last three days, something had been building within him. It was a violent anger, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold it in.

It wasn't exactly directed at the sheriff, and it wasn't exactly directed at Trista, but they were a big part of it. Mostly, though, the anger was directed at himself, because he didn't have the courage to do anything about the situations that were making him so angry, and he didn't know how to deal with it.

He supposed that he needed to talk these things out, at least the part about Trista. He didn't care if word got around that he wanted nothing to do with her, since everyone who knew him knew it anyway. The part about Richard Dolan was his own private cross to bear, and that he would have to figure out on his own. But, he thought, if he got his feelings about Trista off his chest, he might be able to figure a way to get her off his back. Why he had chosen the new waitress at Rhiannon's to confide in, he would never know.

Bobby walked into the bar and grill not because he needed another cup of coffee, but because, as he drove past the brick storefront, he realized that he was less than two blocks from the courthouse. Less than two minutes from seeing Trista. The image of her unnaturally long fingers waving at him as he came through the office door and her tiny, black weasel eyes almost disappearing into their deep sockets when she smiled at him flashed through his mind, and, without thinking twice, his foot hit the brake and his Subaru came to a screeching halt in the middle of Main Street.

Had there been anyone on the street, he would have felt like an idiot, and maybe, he thought, that's exactly what he was. But the street was empty, so he took a minute to review his options. If he stopped at Rhiannon's, he would be late for work, and that would give Sheriff Dolan one more reason to think him irresponsible. If he didn't, he might just pull his service revolver and shoot Trista before she had a chance to greet him, and while this was by far the more appealing alternative, it didn't seem like a good idea. He pulled the car into a parking space in front of Rhiannon's.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he saw Allie standing behind the counter. She was filling the salt shakers with an intense concentration not befitting the task at hand. Bobby had heard alot about her, as everyone had, but he had not heard how pretty she was. Her long yellow hair hung partially over her face, obscuring his view of her eyes, but he could see full cheeks and pouty lips that were just right for kissing.

"Hello," Bobby said, taking a seat at the bar a few stools from where Allie was working.

"Hello, yourself," she said. "Be with you in a minute." She smiled and looked up from her salt shakers briefly, but it was long enough for the salt to overflow it's glass container and spill onto the counter. "Ah, shit." She scooped the spilled salt into her hand, careful to gather every tiny grain. With her eyes closed, she tossed it over her left shoulder and mumbled something under her breath.

Bobby couldn't help but laugh. "A little superstitious, are you?"

"Better safe than sorry." She sauntered over to where he was sitting, moving slowly, so that the trip of about ten feet seemed to take forever. She leaned on the counter in front of Bobby and smiled again. "I'm Allie." Her eyes met his and held the gaze, and instantly, Bobby lost all sense of where he was.

"I know. I'm Bobby Prentice."

"It's nice to meet you, Bobby. That's a big gun you've got there."

"What," he asked. He had blushed bright red before he remembered that he was in uniform and she was talking about his sidearm which was in plain sight on his right hip.

Allie laughed. It was a deep, guttural laugh that Bobby could feel rumbling in his gut like the beat of a bass drum, and it was accompanied by a hedonistic grin that she must have been rehearsing for years. The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started and Bobby longed to hear it again.

"What can I do for you," Allie asked. She broke eye contact long enough to reach into her pocket to retrieve her order pad, and Bobby realized where he was. He looked around frantically to see who had witnessed this exchange.

He was surprised to see that the bar was completely empty except for the two of them, highly unusual at a few minutes before nine in the morning. Usually, the last of the breakfast crowd was slowly and reluctantly getting up to leave, heading off to a long day's work. And always, Baruch Rhiannon was standing vigil over the cash register or polishing the gleaming oak of the bar. His absence gave the place an odd feel.

"Coffee," Bobby said. "Where's Rhiannon?"

"He took the morning off. Just coffee?" She asked the question in such a way that there was no doubt what she meant.

"For now."

"Okay." Allie seemed a little disappointed, but she got the coffee and set it on the bar in front of Bobby, the resumed her position leaning on her elbow just inches from him. "How is it," she asked before he'd had a chance to swallow his first sip.

"It's fine," Bobby lied. In fact, the coffee tasted a lot like the mud his brother had forced him to eat when he was six years old. "It's great.

"I made it myself."

"Really?" So she was no domestic goddess. Somehow, that did not lessen the attraction. "You did a fine job."

"I'm glad you like it," she said. "I haven't done it that often. Make coffee, that is." She bit her lower lip and giggled. "I don't like coffee. It's too bitter."

"I thought everyone liked coffee. Only way I know to get going in the morning."

"Believe me, Bobby, there are other ways."

"And you know them all, don't you?" It suddenly occurred to Bobby that they were no longer talking about coffee and he almost blushed again. Flirting was an art at which he had never thought himself proficient, but he realized, with some dismay, that he was doing just that, and he was doing pretty good.

"Uh huh. I know them all. And I've come up with a few of my own. Too bad you have a girlfriend." She sighed. "I'd love to show you."

"What makes you think I have a girlfriend," Bobby asked, genuinely confused.

Allie smiled coyly. "She came in here for lunch yesterday. She couldn't stop talking about you."

"Trista," Bobby said. He had to fight the urge to spit when that name crossed his lips.

"That's the one. Although, I can't imagine what a big, strong, handsome man like yourself could see in... her. No offense intended, but she's... a little odd."

"She's more than a little odd, Allie, and she's absolutely not my girlfriend, as much as she'd like to think she is."

He proceeded to tell her everything over two more cups of river sludge that was masquerading as coffee. He revealed details that he had entirely forgotten until that very moment, entire conversations, word for word, that he would never have thought he could remember. And Allie listened to every word with the same intense concentration she had used to fill the salt shakers. When he was through talking, she stood for a moment, deep in thought, before she spoke.

"You have to be careful, Bobby. People like that can be very dangerous."

"I don't think Trista's exactly dangerous."

"But you never know," Allie said. "You can never know what a person is capable of until they're pushed to the limit. I've seen it happen." She came around the bar and sat on the stool next to him. There was a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "But, then again..."

Bobby waited, thinking she would finish her thought, but apparently, she needed some prompting. "Then again what," he asked.

"Maybe all she needs is proof that there's nothing between you. Have you ever told her that you're not interested?"

"Many times."

"Have you ever shown her? Has she ever seen you with someone else?"

"That seems a little cruel."

"Maybe it is. Maybe that's what it's going to take. You know I'm right, don't you?"

Bobby thought about it. He thought for a long time. Why, he wondered, should he be concerned about Trista's feelings when she had made his life a living hell? She certainly never stopped to think about how he was feeling. She just went of harassing him when he had made it perfectly clear that he wanted her to stop. Why should he care about pushing her to the limit? She was pushing him to his, and Allie's suggestion, if nothing else, was more acceptable than the thought that had crossed his mind in the car.

"Yes. You're right."

"I thought you'd see it my way. And Bobby, I'd be more than happy to play the part of your girlfriend." She laid her hand on his and smiled at him once more. Her fingers danced lightly over his. They were warm and soft.

"Okay," Bobby said, hoping that his voice sounded stronger than it felt in his throat. He was hoping that she wouldn't just be playing a part. "When?"

"The sooner the better, don't you think?"

Bobby could only nod.

"But I can't do it tonight," Allie said. "I have other plans." Bobby felt his face and his spirits drop lower than they had been when he walked in. Allie pinched his cheek and winked. "Don't worry. I'm free tomorrow night."

3.

It was after eleven o'clock when Bobby Prentice walked through the back door of the Proffitt County Courthouse, climbed the stairs to the second floor and slipped into the Sheriff's Department offices hoping not to be noticed - by Trista or by the sheriff. His luck held, in part. Trista was sitting in her little cubicle talking on the telephone, immersed in conversation, and did not hear him come in. Allie had suggested that Bobby not ask Trista to meet him at Rhiannon's until tomorrow morning, let her think about it all day, let the expectation build in her mind, and then they would bring her down hard.

The more Bobby thought about it, the more he realized that it was the only way. And even if he had had second thoughts, the unspoken promise of what was to happen after they left Rhiannon's on Friday night was more than enough to remove any doubts.

But he was not so lucky as to escape the watchful eye of the sheriff. Richard Dolan was standing in the doorway of his office, waiting and not looking very happy, when Bobby came in. He didn't say a word, but just motioned Bobby into his office.

"Nice of you to drop by," Richard said as the deputy slid past him into the office. He shut the door and sat down in his desk chair. He held a steady gaze on Bobby, one that was meant to make the recipient feel uncomfortable.

It worked, but Bobby had resolved to show no reaction. He was not sorry that he was late, and he would not be made to feel guilty. He stood at attention, with his eyes straight forward, and waited for whatever was to come.

It did not take long for Richard to figure out Bobby's game plan. He had interrogated many suspects in twenty-some-odd years with police departments all over the country. If he had learned only one thing from his experiences, it was patience. When you have the upper hand, no matter how determined the person is, his will can be broken. Its just a matter of time.

If Bobby wanted to play a waiting game, Richard would play along. He straightened a stack of papers, pulled a handful of pencils out of their holder, and, finding a few with dull points, sharpened them. By the time this was completed, Bobby's hands were no longer still at his sides. He was drumming his fingers on his thigh. His eyes were no longer staring unfocused out the window behind the desk, but were following Richard's movements. He was just about ready.

Richard leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the corner of the desk. He considered lighting his pipe, going for the disapproving father look, but decided that might be pushing it. Besides, he had promised Krystiana that he would give it up.

He could never bring himself to get rid of it, though. It was just an old fashioned corncob pipe, but it held great sentimental value. It came from a little shop he and Krystiana had found on their first trip to Athens. She had haggled with the shopkeeper for twenty minutes. They spoke in Greek, and Richard couldn't understand a word they were saying, but in the end, he had gotten the pipe for next to nothing. When they returned to Athens five years later, the little shop was gone and a massage parlor had taken its place.

Richard picked up the pipe and stroked it, smiling at the memory. He needed her now, the presence of her mind in his, her constant advice that he had never really been aware that she was giving. Behind every good man is a good woman, he thought, and that was more than true in his case. Everything that he had become, he owed to her. It was she who had guided his every step, practically since the day they met. He wondered if a part of him should resent that, but how could he? If it were not for her, he had no doubt that he would still be a street cop in Boston, taking orders, not giving them, because without her guidance, he would not know how. Just as he did not quite know how to talk to Bobby.

He returned his pipe to its proper place. "I suppose you have a good excuse for being late," he said.

"No, sir, I don't."

"I see. You come in more than two hours late, and you have no excuse."

"That's right."

"Deputy Prentice, I realize that the crime rate in Proffitt County is not such that you have a case load that keeps you busy every minute of the day. But you are a sworn officer of the law. You have a duty to perform and wandering in any time you damned well please doesn't sit well."

"No, sir," Bobby said. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"I guess not. Get to work."

4.

Trista was just hanging up the phone when Bobby came out of Richard's office. This had been the last on a long list of phone calls she had made over several days, and it had finally paid off. She had suspected for a long time that there was something strange going on and that certain residents of Proffitt Mines, Montana were not what they appeared to be, and now she had the proof. Now, it was just a matter of waiting for the documents she had requested to arrive.

She didn't want to say anything until she had the proof in her hands. Until then, they would just deny the accusations and then she would look like the fool. But they couldn't deny it if she whipped out page after page of damning evidence and threw it in their faces. And to see their faces when they found out all that she knew would be the high point of her life.

Always, other people had been in control. Other people told her where to go, what to do and how to do it. This was her own. Maybe she couldn't be a deputy. Maybe no law enforcement agency in the United States wanted her just because of those blasted braces on her legs. It wasn't her fault that she was born that way and that other people made assumptions about what she was and what she wasn't able to do because of it. It was just another example of other people being in control. This would show them all.

She had conceived this plan. She had figured out that something was going on. She had followed up on it. And she had solved the case. She would prove once and for all, to herself, to the sheriff and to everyone in town, that she would make a damned good cop even if her legs wouldn't let her run the obstacle course at the state police academy. Not that she'd ever gotten that far. In her mind, she was absolutely sure that she could have found a way to get through it, but she hadn't been able to pass the psychiatric evaluation portion of the entrance exam. Some shrink had met with her for an hour and labeled her a borderline personality, whatever that meant.

How could they possibly know anything after just an hour? If you say someone is out to get you, and someone really is out to get you, you're not paranoid, are you? But did they take the time to look into her background? To verify the things she told them? Of course not. They talked to her for an hour and stuck a label on her.

But now, maybe people would notice her. The people who mattered would notice her, and they just might give her a chance, because this was big. It was the biggest thing to happen in Proffitt Mines in her lifetime, maybe ever, and she had uncovered it. It was too good to keep to herself, even for a few days.

"Bobby," she called. "Come here. I've got news, and I want you to be the first to hear it."

Bobby rolled his eyes before he turned to face her. "No time, Trista. I have to get out on patrol."

"It won't take long. Promise."

"Sorry. Maybe later." Bobby pulled on his uniform coat and rushed out the door without glancing at her again.

But he had said maybe later. To Trista, that was the same as saying, "we'll have a long, intimate conversation about it soon." She decided that, as hard as it would be to keep the secret, she would wait, and she would tell Bobby first. It was only right. After all, they were in love.

5.

Pleasant View Cemetery lived up to its name. Located on a hill three miles outside of Proffitt Mines, it overlooked the former site of one of the largest strip mining operations south eastern Montana had ever seen. Rather than leaving the deplorable sight of the scarred and violated earth, Proffitt Mining Company had planted trees, put in a few park benches and picnic tables, and filled the old mine with water, creating the aptly named Old Mine Lake.

On this day, the view was even more spectacular than usual, with frost still clinging to the trees and a thin crust of ice covering the deep blue water of the lake. Someday, Jack and Muriel Laughton might care about all of this, but not now.

They were here to bury one of their own, the youngest of their five children, the little girl they had named Jennifer. The child who had brought so much joy into their lives and into their home. The rest of the family gathered around them, offering comfort and sharing their sadness. Jennifer's brother and sisters, nieces and nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins and countless friends wept openly. A cold wind blew across the hilltop, freezing tears as they fell while Father John tried to comfort them with the Word of the Lord.

There was no comfort for Jack Laughton, but there were no tears for him, either. His child was gone. He could not bring her back. But there was something he could do about it. He could see to it that the person who was responsible for her death was punished. Or die trying.

The law was not going to do anything to Thomas Proffitt Skolinski. He was the grandson of Charles Proffitt. He could do anything he wished in this town and no one would touch him, because of who he was. So much for equality under the law. But now, someone was dead, and even Sheriff Dolan, who was, in essence, an employee of the Proffitt family, could not entirely look the other way.

And if he chose to look the other way? Then Jack would turn to plan B. He would take care of his family business himself. An eye for an eye, a life for a life.

6.

With the temperature in the mid-twenties and a strong wind blowing from the Northeast, the park surrounding Old Mine Lake was nearly deserted. Except, that is, for a mismatched couple on their first date. Baruch Rhiannon had chosen this site on this day for a particular reason. It was a test of Nona's resolve.

He knew that Nona was an outdoorswoman, that she enjoyed hunting and fishing, and that the greatest memories of her childhood were the times she had spent camping in Custer National Forest with her family. This was a start, but it was not enough. Rhiannon could never share his life with anyone who was any less than his equal.

Nona had never spent a long, hard winter in a tent in the mountains of Afghanistan along side the Muslim guerrillas fighting President Amin. She had never had to dig through feet of snow in search of some scrap of edible vegetation. She had never faced a blizzard with no gloves and holes in the soles of her combat boots. Rhiannon had, and he had learned the hard way what it takes for a man to face that kind of adversity.

Old Mine Lake was not the Hindu Kush. There was no snow, and Nona had on gloves and warm boots with fleece lining. If Nona Daniels could not withstand this relative paradise, she was not the woman for him and whatever was between them would end before it began. Rhiannon expected that it would turn out this way, and he was prepared.

But for more than an hour, they had walked slowly around the lake, fighting the wind and cold valiantly. They talked the whole way, about their lives and their dreams and their once forgotten aspirations of childhood. Nona had wanted to move to Hollywood and break into show business. That was after she had given up the dream of being a ballerina and before she thought about being a firefighter. Rhiannon confessed that, as a child, he had admired the great stars of the old Westerns, and that he dreamed of riding the range with the likes of John Wayne and Roy Rogers. It was the longest conversation he could remember having, and to his surprise, as everything had been lately, he enjoyed it.

Nona listened to what he had to say, without offering observations or suggestions. She did not pass judgment when he began to speak of the wars he had been involved in and the battles he had seen. These were things he had never shared with another living soul, and he found himself longing now to tell her every detail of the nightmares that haunted him even when he was awake. But it was too soon to tell Nona about the horrors he had witnessed. And perhaps the time would never be right to tell her of the horrors he had committed.

It was not that she wouldn't understand. Rhiannon was sure that she would. Some things, though, are best left buried, and many of the details of his past qualified for this treatment.

As they rounded the last curve of the lake, and the parking area where they had left the truck came into view a hundred yards ahead, it was not Nona, but Rhiannon, who had had enough of the cold weather. He had not worn gloves, and he had opted for a light windbreaker in order to show Nona, or prove to himself, he was not sure which was the case, that he was a man to be reckoned with, and even the elements must bend to his will.

The elements would not bend. It was damned cold with the damp breeze blowing off the water and the numbness had long ago moved beyond his fingers and up his arms. On top of that, Nona had decided that they should have lunch after their walk, and Rhiannon was left to hope that the sound of his stomach rumbling, which sounded like a cavernous roar in his own ears, did not reach Nona. Soft, he said to himself, I'm getting too damned soft.

The trail around Old Mine Lake ended in a fork. If you turned to the west, you could go to the parking area or go around the lake again. To the east, another trail led into a densely wooded area that had survived the mining operation. When Nona and Rhiannon came to the fork, they paused.

"Do you remember when there was no lake here," Nona asked.

"Not really. Never paid much attention."

"I do. When I was little, I used to stand on the top of that hill over there," she said, indicating the rise to the south and the cemetery beyond. "And when I looked down, I could see nothing but trees. Then I'd take off my shoes and run as fast as I could down the hill. I loved the feeling of the grass between my toes and the freedom. If I got up enough speed, it was like flying, wild and out of control. I was running on instinct, because I was going to fast to really see if there was anything in my path. The woods started at the bottom of the hill back then. That was the danger, you see, and danger was part of the game. If I didn't aim just right or if I didn't stop in time, I would collide with a tree. Sometimes, when I got to the bottom, I would just keep going. I would run through the woods until I was sure that I was lost, and then I would sit down under one of the trees to catch my breath and just listen to the sounds of the birds and the animals. By then, the adrenaline was really pumping. All of my senses were heightened and everything looked and sounded so crisp and clear. Eventually, I'd realize that I wasn't lost, because I knew those woods. I knew every tree, every rock, as sure as I knew my own family. That took the fun out of the game, at least for that day, so I'd get up and start back. The next day, though, I'd be right back on top of that hill, and I'd do the same thing all over again.

"I was fourteen when the mining company bought the land and started clearing the woods. Every morning, I would come and sit on the crest of the hill and watch the workers cutting down the trees and bulldozing the land. The whole time, I was feeling something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I thought I was just sad that I would never be able to play that game again. But, looking back, I think the feeling was part of my childhood being torn away. I still feel a little bit sad when I come here."

"Should we have gone someplace else," Rhiannon asked.

"No. The memories are good. This was the perfect choice." Nona held out her hand and waited for Rhiannon to take it. He either did not notice or did not know what to do, so Nona took his hand. The bewildered expression that came over his face lasted only a few seconds. Then he pulled his hand away and turned to look at the lake.

"I've been away from the bar too long," he said. "I think I ought to be getting back before Allie destroys the place."

Nona stepped back. She knew that Rhiannon was anything but socially adept, and she expected a few setbacks in the path of the relationship, but she was nonetheless startled at this apparent rejection. She wondered what she had done wrong.

Of course, she had done nothing wrong. What was wrong was wrong with Rhiannon. Although he would never admit it, he was scared. And he felt a little guilty for rebuffing Nona, but he didn't know how else to react.

"Do you want to take me home," Nona asked. "And maybe we can have lunch another time?"

Rhiannon nodded. "Yeah. Maybe."

7.

"Are you feeling any better?" Richard and Krystiana were walking down Main Street from the courthouse, hand in hand, headed for Rhiannon's Bar and Grill.

"Yes," Krystiana said. "I finally got some sleep last night. I think that helped. It's still with me, but it's not as strong."

"The presence?"

Krystiana nodded. "It's still... blocking everything. I don't know how long I can deal with this, Richard. I mean, I don't care if something wants to live in my mind. I've been dealing with that all of my life. But this absence of anything else is driving me crazy. I don't know how to function like this." By the time she finished speaking, she was choking back tears and trembling.

As luck would have it, at that moment, they were passing a bench, set in the middle of the block for no apparent reason. Richard led her to the bench. They sat down and Richard put his arm around her.

"What are you talking about," he asked.

"When I look at you," she said, struggling for the words, "when I look at anyone or anything, I might as well be looking at... at a television screen. I can reach out and touch you, but you are no more real to me than a character on television."

Richard shook his head. "I'm not following you."

"I don't know how to explain it. To explain what I'm feeling, I would have to explain my gifts and I've never been able to do that. As far back as I can remember, I've known what people were feeling, sometimes what they're thinking. I've been able to touch an object and see it's entire history - the people and places connected to it. And all the time, it's been growing and changing." She stopped suddenly. Her lower lip was trembling and she was wringing her hands. "There's something I've never told you. I couldn't bring myself to say it, because I hadn't brought myself to accept it and I didn't know if you could, either."

She was in a great deal of pain and Richard wanted nothing more than to comfort her, but he did not know what to do or say. He kissed her and held her hands in his. "You can tell me anything, Krystiana. You know that. I love you, and you don't have to worry about anything changing that."

She smiled. He could tell that it took great effort, but there was something strange about it. It was almost...

...sinister. That was the word that came to mind. Knowing, and not quite evil, but very dangerous.

Like the dream. Had she smiled that day, he wondered. Had she smiled that smile as they stood on the hill, looking down at the river, saying good-bye to the one thing that would bind them together for all eternity? Was that the smile of the monster he had wanted to see? Had it been there all the time, and he had just not seen it? Had she really done that horrible thing?

"Anyone can learn to project their consciousness to another place," Krystiana said. Her words brought Richard's wandering thoughts back to the present. "Call it astral projection, wind walking, whatever you want. I've been doing it for a long time. At first, it was just for fun. I could see into places I wasn't allowed to go. Gradually, it became a tool. I used it all the time when you were with the homicide division in LA and you called me in on cases."

"Those were good years."

"All of our years have been good, with a few exceptions," she said and squeezed his hand. "All logic tells me that my astral body should not be able to affect its environment. There is no way that should be able to happen." She pulled away from him, stood up, and started pacing the sidewalk in front of him.

"But it does happen," Richard said. He tried to keep his tone neutral, but there was a feeling like hot lava boiling just beneath the surface of his skin, and it might erupt at any moment. So that's how she did it, he thought. That's how she could be with me, and still do what she did, what she must have done. But he had to give her a chance.

"Do you remember on Monday, when you thought you could smell my perfume in your cruiser?"

"Of course."

"It wasn't you imagination. I didn't mean for it to happen. It just did. And that wasn't the first time, and it's not the most frightening part. I, or my astral self, can feel things. I can touch things. Pick them up, hold them, move them."

Yes, obviously you can, my love, Richard said to himself. You can pick up a knife, hold it, and use it on someone I loved. "How long has this been going on," he asked.

"About a year."

That's a lie. It's been a lot longer than that. "I see," was all he could say without betraying his anger. It sounded very inadequate.

Krystiana flung herself down on the bench and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders rose and fell with the dry sobs of tears that would not come. Richard watched, torn between anger and pity, one part of him wanting to reach out to her, another repulsed at the idea of touching her. Finally, love won out and he pulled her to him. She laid her head against his shoulder.

The wind was picking up speed, and the woolen cape Krystiana was wearing was little defense against the cold, yet she seemed not to notice. Without thinking, Richard pulled the cloth tighter around her shoulders to cover the exposed skin at her neck and pulled the hood of the cape over her hair.

"My grandmother had strong psychic abilities," she said. Her voice was no more than a whisper. "She could see things that I never could. She could look into the future at will. She used a crystal ball, but that was just a prop. She didn't need it. But that was her limit. She never learned to read emotions or thoughts. She never saw along a parallel time line or into the past."

"I know how much you miss her," Richard said. "I see it in your eyes every time you talk about her."

"I don't even know if she's dead or alive. I wish I knew just that much. I always saw her as an old woman. I mean, she was my grandmother, she must have been old, right? But do you know, she was only thirty-five years old when I was born. She's probably out there somewhere, wondering where I am as much as I wonder about her. I made my choice when I left, though. I knew and she knew that we'd never find each other again. But we both knew, in different ways, that it had to be that way."

"I don't know if I could have done what you did," Richard said. "It must have been hard to leave behind everything you knew, to travel thousands of miles to a place you knew nothing about. I admire that."

Krystiana laughed. "Don't admire it. I had an advantage. I knew about you."

"What?"

"I never told you? Before I left, my grandmother sat me down and told me a few things. Not all of it translates very well, but it was something like, "The first gentleman you meet in America will be a tall, handsome man with wavy brown hair. You will fall in love with him, if you let yourself. Don't fight it, because if you accept the love he offers you, you will be with him for a very long time.'"

"She said that?"

"The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were the person she was talking about. And believe me, there was no fighting it. We may not have spoken the same language, but it didn't matter."

"Nothing mattered. I loved you and... and I loved Andi like she was my own child."

It was the first time her name had been spoken since that fateful day fourteen years ago.

8.

The sound of that name stabbed at Krystiana's heart. Perhaps others would think her heartless and cruel if they knew what she had done, and she let nothing show that would alter that image, but not a day went by that Krystiana didn't think about her daughter, that she did not regret what had happened.

But she had also known for a long time that she could no longer control Andi, as Richard insisted on calling her - that nickname had always been a bone of contention between them. Krystiana had done all that she could for her child, and while she made many mistakes along the way, if she had that part of her life to live over again, she doubted that it would turn out any different.

"She was the reason I left Greece," Krystiana said. "It was naive, I know, but I thought that if I got her away from that environment, she might have a chance at a normal life." Richard's confused expression prompted her to continue. As she did, she pulled away from him, sitting at the end of the bench, as far from him as she could get without standing up.

"I don't remember my mother. I only know what my grandmother told me about her. She had the gift. Stronger than my grandmother's and weaker than mine. That's the way it's always been, you see. It gets stronger with each generation. And my mother was not a strong person emotionally. She never learned to use her abilities, never really accepted them. Shortly after I was born, it drove her insane. They found her next to my crib. She had cut her wrists."

Richard tried to take her hand, but she shook her head. She was glad, for the moment, at least, that she could not sense any thoughts from him, for if she had sensed the pity she was certain that he was feeling, she could not have finished telling the story.

"I've always been afraid that that would happen to me. That my abilities would keep growing and expanding until I just couldn't deal with it anymore. Maybe that's just what has happened. It all became too much and some unconscious part of my mind just shut down. Maybe this thing that I think is a presence is just what everybody in the world feels all the time, and they don't notice because it's always been with them. My God, Richard, what if it never comes back?"

It was exactly what she had been thinking for two days, but had not dared to put into words. Once she had done it, though, the harsh reality took its toll and the tears began to stream from her eyes.

"Then you will learn to live with it," Richard said. "I'll be with you. I'll help you."

"I can't live with it. Could you... When you're questioning someone, how do you know if they're telling the truth?"

"I don't know. I just do."

"Think about it. Try to define it."

It was Richard's turn to struggle to find the words he wanted. It was a long time before he spoke. "I don't know. I guess its instinct."

"Yes! That's exactly what it is. And I don't have that. It's born into everyone, but not everyone knows how to use it. It's something you learn and it takes a lifetime. It's too late for me to develop that. I might as well be blind, deaf and dumb. I don't understand the world anymore. Things look familiar, but there's no depth, no meaning in the things I see."

"People have been living like that for a long time, Krystiana. So you learn to adjust."

"I haven't been living like that!" Frustration was getting the better of her, and she knew she had to find a way to make him understand before she lost all power of reason. That thought gave her an idea. "What would you do if you lost the ability to reason. If you could no longer put clues together to solve a crime. If you heard a telephone ringing, but your mind could not associate the sound with the physical object. You couldn't drive, because you couldn't associate turning the wheel with the car turning. You wouldn't be able to recognize the people you love because you couldn't associate them with your memories of them. Your memories, in fact, would be nothing more than a meaningless jumble of images running through your mind, with no sense of continuity or purpose."

"How can you make that comparison," Richard asked. "You still have that ability. You have every ability that everyone else in the world has. You also have a... an extrasensory perception, a sixth sense, if you want to call it that. You've been relying on that. But if it's gone, and you don't know that it is, you'll learn to rely on your other senses."

"You're not even trying to understand," Krystiana said. She took a few steps, determined to go back to the courthouse, where she had left her car, and not speak another word to Richard until she had had a chance to calm down. But something in her, perhaps one of the instincts she didn't think she had, made her turn around. "This isn't like loosing a sense. It's not quite like going blind. When a person looses their sight, they don't have to learn to hear or to smell or to touch. They just have to learn to get around in the dark."

"You're over-simplifying that."

"Yes, I am. But I would gladly give my sight if..."

"If you could get your life back," Richard said. He stood and wrapped his arms around her. Krystiana nodded against his shoulder. "You see. Maybe I understand more than you give me credit for. When... There was a time in my life when I thought I'd lost everything. When you left me."

"I'll never forget the look on your face as the plane pulled away from the terminal."

"You saw that?"

"Yes. I cried all the way home. Even before the plane got into the air, I knew I couldn't stay away for long."

"And you didn't. You see, things may not always work out for the best, but in the end, everything turns out the best it can be."

9.

When they finally got to the front door of Rhiannon's Bar and Grill, on the corner of Third and Main Streets, Richard and Krystiana found the front door locked, the lights inside turned off, and the red and white sign that said CLOSED hanging in the window. They exchanged puzzled glances. This was the first time in the four years they had lived in Proffitt Mines that Rhiannon's had been closed in the middle of the day. They shrugged and walked back down Main Street in the direction they had come, and they thought nothing more of it.

10.

An hour or so later, when Doc Murphey arrived at the door of Rhiannon's, the lights were on and the sign said OPEN. He opened the door, unaware that a little while ago, the sheriff and his crazy psychic girlfriend had tried the knob and found it locked, and stepped inside, unaware, as the rest of the town was unaware, of the reason the bar had been closed.

Inside, there was nothing out of the ordinary, or at least, nothing that would cause him to suspect that something odd was happening. It was a bit unusual that Baruch Rhiannon was nowhere in sight. And he was less than pleased to see the new waitress standing behind the counter near the cash register, reading the latest copy of the local weekly, the Proffitt County Journal and Times.

Doc had not ventured into Rhiannon's since Monday afternoon. He had heard about the new waitress and that was precisely the reason. He had an understanding with Rhiannon. They did not speak any more than absolutely necessary, and that was just the way he liked it.

What he had heard about the new waitress was not encouraging. Someone had actually called her perky, and that translated as talkative, something he had not been, and was not today, prepared to face.

But he was hungry. There had been nothing in his refrigerator that morning except an unopened carton of sour milk and a lime that had seen better days, so he could not pack a lunch, and stopping at the Corner Food Mart meant seeing and talking to more people than he could stand. In the final analysis, it was Rhiannon's or starvation.

He took a chair at his usual table in the corner and waited for the inevitable. He did not have to wait long.

"You must be Doctor Murphey," Allie said.

"Uh huh."

"I'm Allie. You need a menu or do you know what you want?"

Doc groaned. Perky was an understatement. "Liver and onions. And make it fast. I'm in a hurry."

"You got it, Doc." She ran off to the kitchen to turn in the order, and Doc found himself hoping that she would stay there.

No such luck. A moment later, she returned, came over to his table, and sat down. "Hope you don't mind," she said. "I've been on my feet all morning and I've just gotta sit for a while."

"Would it make a difference if I do mind?"

"Hey, I'll leave you alone if you want me to. Frankly, if I have to be nice to one more person today, I think I'll scream."

"Really?"

"So you want me to leave or what?"

"You can sit there for a while," Doc mumbled. It might be interesting to see what she has to say, he thought.

"All day, people come in here and I have to be all smiles and sweetness, and they still leave lousy tips. They blame me for rotten food, nag at me, hit on me and grope me, and I gotta take it with a big ol' grin on my face and pretend I'm enjoying myself." She took a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket. "You mind?"

"I'm supposed to warn you that those thing'll kill you. I think it's part of the Hippocratic Oath now."

"Warning taken and ruefully disregarded," Allie said. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Shit, with all the toxins in the air, breathing is hazardous to your health. What are we supposed to do, walk around with oxygen tanks all the time? No offense, Doc, but sometimes I think all these medical breakthroughs are bullshit."

"Sometimes I think you're right," Doc said. "About everything you've said. People expect too much from other people. It's as though having a medical degree is supposed to make me some kind of super human who doesn't sleep. I get calls in the middle of the night from people with head colds and colicky babies, and they expect me to get out of bed and make a house call."

"Don't you like being a doctor?"

"I don't like dealing with people. I don't like people."

Allie nodded and thought about it. "You should have been a pathologist. You could have worked on patients that don't talk back. And you don't have to be nice to them. Who are they going to complain to?"

"Where were you twenty-five years ago when I needed that advice?"

11.

If you're looking for someone, and that person does not want to be found, even in a town as small as Proffitt Mines, it can be a formidable enterprise. But when a man has had nothing to do for weeks on end but sit in a recliner in his lonely livingroom, drinking Wild Turkey straight out of the bottle and thinking about that person and having it out with him once and for all, and when he finally decides that the time is right to do just that, no obstacle seems too large to overcome. James "Preacher" Fitzhugh was equal to the task.

Never mind that his quarry had no idea that anyone, let alone Preacher Fitzhugh, was looking for him, or that he was not really hiding. The confrontation that was to come, and the feud that was perceived, by the hunter if not by the hunted, had built up in Preacher's mind to the point that, in his view, the man he was seeking could not help but know that he was coming.

James Fitzhugh had earned the nickname Preacher when he was in high school. The oldest son of a devout Baptist family, he felt from the time he was a small boy that he had been called to the priesthood, and lived his life accordingly. Often, when he saw his friends committing some minor infraction, he would lecture them and tell them that they would be condemned to hell. Once, during one of these tirades, the recipient said, "Yes, sir, Mr. Preacher Man," and the name stuck. Soon after that, in high school, things began to change.

Preacher had lived all of his life in Hamlin, an unincorperated community a few miles south of Proffitt Mines. Hamlin had twenty-three permanent residents, divided into twelve family units that lived in twelve little houses clustered loosely around an empty and collapsing grain elevator. The only business that survived in Hamlin was a bar located about half a mile from the community itself. Despite it's limited clientele, the bar did a booming business. As in the legendary town that shared it's name, the rats of Hamlin, in this case, the people, fell under the evil spell of the piper, alcohol.

The young Preacher resisted the spell for as long as he could, but in the end, curiosity won. On his eighteenth birthday, friends offered him a beer and he accepted it. And he liked it.

From that day on, his life was a fast ride down hill. He still attended St. Matthew's Baptist Church regularly. After high school, he took a job in the mines and a few years later, married his sweetheart, whom he had met at a youth retreat sponsored by the church. And through it all, he continued to drink, graduating from beer to Wild Turkey and Jack Daniels when he could afford it.

Armed with the certain knowledge what he was going to hell, he decided that there was no longer any point in trying to live a good life. Before long, he was spending most of his evenings in bars and most of his nights at a brothel just across the Wyoming border. Through his highs and lows, his wife, Judy, stood beside him, loving him unconditionally and praying for his immortal soul.

And, despite the way he treated her, he loved Judy with all his heart. She was the one good thing in his life, and although he did not deserve her, he still thanked God every day for her.

But in His infinite wisdom, on a stormy night in September, He had chosen to call Judy home. She had gone quietly in her sleep, and although her death was not unexpected, it came as a devastating blow. Whatever vices Preacher had before were amplified by his grief, but so was his love for Judy. Nothing could have prepared him for the void created by her absence.

There were two people to blame for her death, one who had caused it and one who could have prevented it. Preacher, himself, had been the cause. God had taken her, he was convinced, as a punishment for his own sins. He did not deserve her, but if Jesus Christ had appeared to her and told her to leave her husband, she would not have done it. The only way to sufficiently punish Preacher Fitzhugh, other than the eternal damnation that was a given, was to take away the one thing that he loved.

The other person who was, in part, responsible for her death was the man Preacher was searching for, the man who could have prevented her death. What he would say when he found this man was still a mystery. He only knew that he wanted some kind of satisfaction, if nothing else, a confession of guilt would do.

If Preacher had bothered to ask a single person, he could have found out instantly where the man was hiding, but he was in no mood and no condition to ask questions of the average man on the street. And if he had bothered, it was likely that no one would have given him the time of day.

It had been several months since Preacher had his last haircut. He hadn't shaved, bathed or even changed clothes in several days. He looked bad, smelled worse and didn't care at all. What did it matter?

So, attracting disapproving stares from the people he met on the street, he conducted his search, his bottle of booze wrapped in a brown paper bag in his hand, and spoke not a single word. He checked the man's office, then his home, and having no luck with these locations, began a methodical search of the down town.

He started on the south side of Main Street, searching first the lobby of the bank, then on to Rosemary's Attic, the combination antique and dress shop that occupied two floors of the building next door. No luck there. Next was Perry Cooper's General Store and the Corner Food Mart. Nothing.

He crossed to the north side of the street and peered through the door of the newspaper office. He was not there either. His next stop was his final one. Even before he got to the door, he could see the man through the window. His back was to the door, and he acted as though he was not expecting anyone, although he must be.

Preacher Fitzhugh stood outside for a moment, gathering his courage, and then opened the door of Rhiannon's Bar and Grill.

12.

Allie was just coming out of the kitchen with Doc Murphey's plate of liver and onions when the scruffy looking man opened the door and walked into the bar. She was not particularly surprised to see him. She had been watching his progress across the street, as he went into each establishment in turn, and she had been awaiting his arrival with mixed feelings of anticipation and suspicion. Keeping a watchful eye on the stranger, she served Doc his lunch and returned to her post back of the counter.

Doc had noted the arrival, too. When the door opened, he looked up, and turned just enough to see that someone had come in, but not who it was. He didn't care. He just hoped that his meal would not be interrupted.

After his eyes had adjusted to the dimmer interior of the bar, Preacher shuffled across the wooden floor until he was standing directly behind Doc's chair. The bastard didn't react at all. He just poured half a bottle of ketchup on his plate and ignored him. Preacher opened his mouth and tried to speak. His brain formed the words but his throat would not comply. His second attempt was more successful.

"Uh, I, uh," he said, slurring the three words into one long syllable, "wanna talk to you," hiccough, "Doc."

Doc stuffed a big bite of food into his mouth before he turned around. When he did, it took a moment before he recognized the ragged figure standing there. "Preacher? That you?"

"Ya know it's me, Doc." Preacher wobbled a bit and spread his feet apart to keep his balance. "An' ya know why I'm here." Hiccough.

"No," Doc said, "no I don't. What can I do for you?"

"It's your fault, Doc. It's all your fault, an' I wanna know what you're gonna do about it."

Doc sighed. If there was one thing he disliked more than people in general, it was people who talked in riddles. "Could you be a little more specific? What's my fault?"

"Judy's dead."

"I did hear about that, Preacher, and I'm very sorry. But why do you think that's my fault?"

Preacher opened his bottle of Wild Turkey and took a long drink for courage. Then he carefully replaced the cap and tucked the bottle under his arm. "Ya should have helped her. Ya could have helped her and ya didn't."

Doc reviewed his mental file of all his patients, called up the name Judith Fitzhugh, and studied it for a moment. He found that he hadn't seen Judy in well over a year and that the last time he had seen her, she had come in complaining of severe stomach cramps. Beyond that, he remembered very little. "You'll have to give me more than that."

"You said it was just the," hiccough, "stomach flu or somethin'. It wasn't the stomach flu, Doc. You were wrong. It was cancer, and she died 'cause she believed you."

It was starting to come back to him. Doc got up and stood face to face with his accuser. "Now, wait a minute, Preacher," he said, "as I recall, I said it was probably the stomach flu. It was going around at the time, and from the symptoms she described, I had no reason to think otherwise."

"Ya should've..."

"Let me finish. The only thing out of the ordinary was the length of time she had been having problems. I gave her a prescription and told her that if the symptoms didn't go away in a few days, that she should either contact me or go to the hospital in Billings for some tests."

"You're lying," Preacher screamed. "You're nothin' but a damned liar!"

"If she chose to ignore my advice," Doc continued, ignoring the interruption, "that is not my fault."

"Just admit it, Doc."

"I won't admit anything!"

Both of the men had forgotten that there was a witness present, if Preacher ever noticed her in the first place. Allie was leaning with both elbows on the bar and her chin propped on the folded knuckles of both hands, watching intently, taking in every nuance of the scene being played out before her.

The stranger, the one called Preacher, was, she noted, much bigger than the doctor. Not only was he a good six inches taller, but outweighed Doc by at least seventy-five pounds. He was not fat exactly, but it appeared that what had once been the bulky muscles of a hard laborer had gone soft and only the bulk remained. It was difficult to tell his age under all the dirt, but Allie guessed that he and Doc must be about the same age. Early fifties. Preacher might even have been attractive at one time, she observed, with a strong jaw, high forehead and deep set, expressive eyes, but the years had not been kind.

Doc, on the other hand, she could best classify as an aging nerd. He wore thick wire rimmed glasses, balanced on the bridge of his nose that was just a little too large for his face, over eyes that were dull and humorless. He was taller than Allie, but, in her opinion, too short for a man. Not only was he short, he was scrawny. There seemed to be not a single developed muscle in his body.

The doctor was definitely no match for the stranger. If Preacher wanted to mop the floor with him, there would have been no problem, but he didn't seem the type of man prone to excessive violence. There was a softness, a kindness in his face. In another time and place, Allie thought, he just might have been a preacher, of the fire and brimstone variety, but with a tender edge that would earn him the love and respect of his flock.

Doc was a different story all together. She had no doubt that, deep down, he was a nice guy, but he wouldn't know bedside manner if it came up behind him banging a bass drum and bit him on the ass. He would certainly never knowingly do anything to harm another person, but considering how he felt about his profession in general and his patients in particular, it was reasonable that he might make a few mistakes now and then.

Allie's mother had once said, "there's no such thing as a mistake if you learn from what you've done." She wondered now if dear old Mom would have said the same thing if there was a human life involved, decided that she probably would have and that she really didn't care anyway. Watching these two men was much more interesting.

"You got to admit it," hiccough, "'cause it's true, Doc," Preacher said.

"Just what is it that you want from me?"

"I told ya, Doc. I just want ya to admit what ya done."

"Why, Preacher? So you can sue me? Is that it?"

Preacher pondered this for a full minute. He hadn't thought of it before, but it wasn't a bad idea. Not bad at all. It wouldn't really make him feel any better, but it would certainly make Doc feel worse, and there might be some justice in that. "Maybe. Maybe that's just what I'll do," he said.

In the next instant, Doc did something he had never done before in his life. He did not know it was going to happen, and even had he known, he could not have stopped himself. Some part of him that had always remained hidden inside, buried beneath a facade of decorum, burst suddenly to the surface, pushing rationality to the side. Without his knowledge or consent, the fingers of his right hand flexed, then tightened into a rock hard fist. His arm swung back as far as he could push it, and then swung forward with a force he would not have thought himself capable of.

When Doc Murphey's fist met Preacher Fitzhugh's jaw, the awful medley of sounds that met his ears nearly turned his stomach. There was the muffled "umpff" that escaped Preacher's lips as the air was knocked out of him. There was the sound of breaking bone, which he would not realize until later came not form Preacher's face but from three fingers of his own hand. And there was an odd sound that seemed to come from somewhere a few yards away. It was something between a moan and a scream that sounded strangely sexual, totally out of place.

For a moment, Doc could do nothing but stare at his hand, still clenched tightly and streaked across the knuckles with a minute trace of blood. He turned it, examined it, then let his hand drop to his side. He turned and looked toward the bar and was somewhat surprised to see Allie looking back at him, her arms folded across her chest.

"Hell of a punch, Doc," she said. "Knocked him out cold."

"What?" He was genuinely unaware of what had happened. It seemed that for that instant, his mind had not been in control of his body, and whatever it had done while his brain was taking a powder was in no way related to who or where he was. He glanced down at the floor, following Allie's gaze, and saw Preacher in a disheveled heap on the floor, his legs bent under his body in a painful, but not injurious, position, his head tilted so that it rested on his shoulder. For a moment, Doc thought that Preacher's neck might be broken, but as that thought flashed through his mind, Preacher stirred, moaned, and tilted his head to the other side. "I did that? I guess I did that," Doc said.

"Sure did. Either he's got a glass jaw or you're stronger than you look," Allie said and laughed.

"It's not funny!"

"Relax, Doc. He deserved exactly what he got."

"I have to get this man to my office."

"He'll be okay. That one little punch couldn't have caused that much damage. All he really needs is a minute to come around and a few days to sleep off the booze, and he'll be fine."

"That's your expert medical opinion," Doc asked. "I think I'd be more confident of that if I checked him out myself."

"Have it your way," Allie said. There was a note of disapproval in her voice. "But you've got a lot to learn about being in a good fight."

Doc looked down at Preacher, then back at Allie. He repeated this once more. "What do you mean?"

"All set for lesson number one," she asked. Doc made no response and she took that as a yes. She came around the bar and sauntered over to where Doc was standing, stepping over Preacher, who was still only semi-conscious, to reach her destination. "Now, I'm not exactly an expert, but I grew up around bars, and I learned a few things just by watching. Namely, there are four important rules to barroom fighting. Rule number one is when you hit someone, you don't try to help them, because it just makes them mad. Rule number two is an obnoxious drunk is like a wounded animal. Even if you're just trying to help, they're going to perceive a threat and they'll attack. Rule number three is the most important, because it combines one and two. If you hit an obnoxious drunk, it's best to just pretend nothing happened, because odds are, once they've slept it off, they won't remember what happened anyway. Got it?"

"I think so," Doc said. "What's number four?"

Allie smiled. "Actually, there are two more. Make sure everyone's got their head on straight by trying to put one past them. You passed that test with flying colors. Congratulations. And, finally, always let someone else clean up your mess. You go sit at the bar for a few minutes while I take care of this one," she said, indicating Preacher with a light kick to his ribs, "then I want to have a look at that hand. I suspect when the final casualties are tallied, you came out on the losing side."

13.

When he left Rhiannon's, Preacher Fitzhugh was mad as a hornet. He had taken his share of punches in his lifetime, and that alone would have been enough to evoke a reaction. But he had been sucker punched by the little pip squeak who was responsible for his wife's death and for no good reason. And on top of everything else, his bottle of Wild Turkey had broken when he fell. So when he walked out the door, he turned right and headed for the courthouse to file a complaint with the Sheriff's Department.

It was nothing more than a case of simple assault, and normally, Richard would have let one of his deputies, even Bobby Prentice, handle it. But this simple assault was not so simple, since it involved Dr. Murphey, who from his position alone qualified as a pillar of the community, and it required a delicate touch.

So Richard took Preacher's statement, much to the chagrin of Deputy Prentice, who was sitting at his desk the whole time, still in the midst of some unexplained funk. The story Richard took from the complainant made no sense whatsoever.

According to Mr. Fitzhugh, he wrote in his report, who admitted to being intoxicated at the time, he had engaged the suspect, Dr. E. Murphey, in a conversation concerning the illness of complainant's deceased wife, when, with no warning or provocation, he was assaulted by said suspect. In the words of Mr. Fitzhugh, he "popped me one in the mouth." Fitzhugh stated that there was one witness, whom he named only as Allie. He stated further that she works at Rhiannon's Bar and Grill, the location of the assault, and that she had expressed to him that she would confirm his story. The full, signed statement of Mr. Fitzhugh is attached. Proceeding at this time to the office of Dr. Murphey and said location of the crime. Additional report to follow.

Richard did just that, and the version of the events he got from Doc made a lot more sense than Preacher's version had. According to Doc, who appeared more than willing to accept the consequences of what he had done, he had been provoked. Not only had Preacher threatened to sue him, which was certainly not justifiable provocation, but he had made several libelous comments about the doctor's ability to perform his job. In fact, there was only one point the two men agreed on. Both were absolutely certain that Allie would back them up.

With such conflicting reports, he would have to rely on the recollections of the witness. And it would be interesting to see what she had to say, since she apparently had made the same promise to both of them.

When he walked into Rhiannon's Bar and Grill, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Baruch Rhiannon was standing in his usual spot next to the cash register. It had already gotten around town that Rhiannon had not worked the lunch shift because he had a date, two of the most startling bits of gossip to hit town in a long time. Richard considered asking him how it had gone, but decided against it. To be perfectly honest, he was a little intimidated by Rhiannon. And Rhiannon wasn't much for small talk. No point in pushing an already strained relationship. Instead, Richard asked him if Allie was around. Rhiannon pointed to a young girl sitting in a booth at the back of the bar, working on a steak dinner the way a surgeon might work on a patient during a particularly difficult operation.

She did not look up as he approached, but continued her delicate work. "Hello, Sheriff Dolan," she said. "I've been expecting you. Join me, won't you?"

Her voice was thick and rich, like fine velvet, and reminded him of Krystiana's voice. It was not as deep, nor was there the alluring accent that could melt a heart of stone, but Allie's was a powerfully moving voice. It never hurts to admire a rose, he thought, as long as you remember that an orchid is waiting for you at home.

Richard slid into the booth across from her and waited. It seemed somehow inappropriate to interrupt her. She cut the steak lengthwise into paper thin strips, which she then laid neatly in a pile on the other side of her plate. Each level of the pile consisted of three strips laid side by side, perpendicular to the piles above and below it, to form a perfect square. The bits of gristle formed another pile, this on a separate saucer placed just above the plate. When this part of the operation was complete, she poured a generous amount of steak sauce onto the center of her plate. It formed an oddly perfect circle. Finally, it was time for the ultimate test. She speared one of the steak strips with her fork so that it hung from the utensil like a long, thin flag, and dragged it in a circle around the sauce, so that only the inner edge was coated. Then she held it up, tilted her head upward, lowered the food into her mouth, and bit off half of it.

The whole process was probably meant to be seductive, Richard thought, and then wondered why he would think that. But, really, when he looked at her face, Allie looked like nothing more than a little girl to him, and playing with her food made her appear even more childish.

She laid her fork across her plate and turned her attention to Richard, and he realized that he had been partially wrong. There was nothing child-like about her eyes. In fact, the depth of knowledge showing there was rivaled only by...

...by Krystiana, he thought. Why do I keep making that comparison?

Because she wants you to, Krystiana's voice whispered in his mind.

Is that you? Are you back, he asked telepathically. There was no response. Just the same eerie silence he had been hearing for days. It must have been his imagination.

"I'm sorry about that," Allie said.

"About what," Richard asked. His mind had been far away.

"That there was a witness to my little game. I haven't done that since I was eleven years old, and I just wanted to relive a fond memory. I hope you don't mind."

Richard shrugged. "It's not my dinner. I have no say in what you do with it."

"You're not from around here, are you, Sheriff Dolan?"

"No, I'm not. But how did you know that?"

"Your accent, of course. East coast, right? I would guess... New York."

"Massachusetts. I grew up in Fall River."

"I've heard of that. I've never been to New England, but I've looked at picture books. It's a beautiful region. I'd like to go there someday."

"Then, by all means, you should."

"Actually, Proffitt Mines is just a stopping off point for me," Allie said. "I'm on my way to New York, so I guess I'll get the chance." A puzzled look crossed her face. "I could never figure it out. Is New York part of New England?"

"Well, actually," Richard said, "there are several schools of thought on that. Some say that because... I'm sorry, Allie. I didn't catch your last name."

"Oh. It's... uh, it's Barloe. Allie Barloe."

"Where are you from, Allie?"

"Um, Billings."

"Really, then you went to high school..."

"Out of state," she said quickly. "I went to a boarding school in Colorado. So, you probably want to talk to me about the incident that happened here this afternoon, huh?"

"Yes. Can you tell me what you saw."

"Sure," she said. She leaned against the back of the booth, pulled one knee up and propped it on the edge of the table. She took her cigarettes out of her pocket and shook one out of the pack. "I can tell you exactly what I saw. Nothing."

"Nothing?"

She shrugged. "Nothing."

"Allie, both Mr. Fitzhugh and Dr. Murphey said that..."

"Such nice men. Both of them. But they were both a little bit..." She touched one finger to her temple and rolled her eyes.

"A little bit what," Richard asked.

Allie checked to see if anyone was lurking nearby, then leaned forward. "Tipsy," she whispered.

"Dr. Murphey was drunk?"

"I wouldn't say drunk. Look, this is just an opinion, because I certainly didn't serve him any alcohol. I mean, a doctor shouldn't be drinking when he's working, should he? By the way, I've been so rude. Can I have Rhiannon bring you something?"

"No, that's alright. What do you base this opinion on?"

"Well, it's nothing concrete," she said, gesturing expressively with her hands, waving her unlit cigarette. "Just the way he was acting." She patted down her pockets and, not finding what she was seeking, let a pouty expression cross her face. "You got a light?"

"No, I don't."

She wiggled forward and reached into her hip pocket. "What do you know. Here it is." She brought out a lighter and lit the cigarette. "Anyway, I hadn't met Doc before today, but I'd heard alot about him. I expected him to be a little stand-offish, but he wasn't. In fact, he was too... Well, he was almost giddy. And then there's... Sheriff Dolan, I just got to town this week, and I don't want to be the one to start any rumors that could harm anyone's reputation. Maybe I shouldn't be saying anything."

"It's alright, Allie. Anything you tell me will stay with me unless it has some bearing on the case. If it does, then it should come out."

"I guess you're right," she said. "Well, we got to talking, and he was complaining about his job. Then he got this kind of sad look on his face. He asked me to get him a beer. Well, I said he shouldn't be drinking when he's working, and he said it wouldn't be the first time or something like that. Finally, I talked him out of it. If Rhiannon got wind of that, oh boy! Booze is where he makes his money, you know. So anyhow, a few minutes later, I had this overwhelming urge to... I excused myself to go to the restroom. I was in there for maybe two minutes. When I came out, Doc wasn't sitting at his table. He was walking back to it, from the direction of the bar, and when I went over to his table, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. That's when he started getting kind of happy, if you know what I mean. I didn't say anything, because it was a really awkward situation." She glanced toward the bar. "Are you going to tell Rhiannon about this? I could really get in a lot of trouble."

"I don't think that will be necessary. But let's get on to Mr. Fitzhugh. When did he come in?"

"Not long after that. I was back of the bar, trying to be inconspicuous. I was trying to find the bottle Doc had been drinking from, because we couldn't exactly serve anyone out of it. Health codes, you know. And this guy comes in, carrying his own bottle of booze and looking sort of sleazy. He just stood in the doorway for a while and then he started walking over to Doc's table."

"Did you say anything to him?"

"No."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No. Not until after."

"Okay. What happened then?"

"You mean after Preacher came in? Al rang the bell in the kitchen, and I went in to get Doc's order."

"How long did that take?"

"Well, I'm not really sure. I chatted with Al for a minute or so. It wasn't very long. When I came out of the kitchen, Preacher was on the floor and Doc was standing over him."

"And you didn't see how it happened?"

"Sorry."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Well, I could hear their voices, and I guess I could make out little bits of what they were saying, but I really wasn't paying any attention."

"Do you remember anything they said?"

"No, I don't."

"Okay. I won't keep you any longer," Richard said. He stood up and took a business card out of his pocket. "If you do recall anything, let me know. I'm in the office until five-thirty, but you can reach me at this number any time."

Allie took the card and tucked it into her shirt pocket. "I'll remember that, Sheriff Dolan. I wish I could have been more help."

14.

Tommy pulled his mother's car into the driveway at four thirty in the afternoon, and parked it in the garage. Scully's Silverado was not there, but that was not unusual. No matter how angry he might be, nothing could keep him away from his work. And, tonight, nothing could prevent the confrontation that was sure to come.

Tommy knew that he had made a mistake and that he would have to face the consequences, but he had had a long time to think while he was driving home from the hospital in Billings. At least, he now had a plan.

In the house, there were tell tale signs of his father's wrath every where he looked. The potted palm in the livingroom was overturned and the loose soil scattered over the floor. Beyond the kitchen door, which was standing ajar, he could see the pieces of broken china littering the floor and one of the chairs that surrounded the kitchen table laying on it's back.

He checked the other rooms on the first floor and found that these had escaped damage. Upstairs, however, the most severe evidence was yet to be revealed.

Tommy found his mother in her bedroom. She was laying on top of the blue down comforter that covered the bed, still dressed in the light yellow sundress she had been wearing the previous morning. Around her hips, the coverlet was stained a darker blue. The stench of stale urine and human excrement was overpowering. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and she blinked only intermittently. She had reverted into her little world once more, and this time, the reason was all too clear.

There were dark bruises around Katherine's eyes. The discoloration, which had turned the tender flesh closest to her eyes black, extended across her temples and half way down her cheeks, where the color turned to a mixture of purple and green. There were thin trickles of dried blood running from her nose and from one corner of her mouth.

Tommy left the room, closing the door behind him, and went to the phone in the hallway. He called his grandmother, told her what had happened, and asked her to rush over.

When he hung up the phone, he went to his bedroom and closed the door. Then he sat down on the bed to wait.

15.

As afternoon turned to evening, soft shadows descended on the offices on the east side of the courthouse, diffusing colors and turning everything shades of gray. In an office on the second floor, Richard propped his feet on the edge of his desk, put his pipe in his mouth, and closed his eyes.

He had finished typing the reports on Preacher Fitzhughs case at five fifteen, and still had no idea what had really happened. He had a feeling that everyone was lying, which was not so unusual. But without Krystiana's help and advice, he was at a loss to determine who was lying about what and why.

Once more, he was painfully aware of how much he had come to rely on her, and how much of the success he had had in his career he owed to her. It was at once heart warming and infuriating. He would not trade the closeness that the two of them shared and there was no doubt that his feelings for her were genuine. But, he wondered, how much of what he had thought and felt since he met her was his own and how much had been Krystiana imposing her thoughts and feelings on him. Had he had a completely independent thought in that time?

Once more, he knew that this should make him angry, but it did not. Instead, in the silence of the empty office, with only the soft groan of the furnace to keep him company, the awareness of her absence from his mind was oppressive and he longed for the comforting knowledge of her presence.

He had not seen Bobby since he left the office to talk to Doc, and Trista had gone home for the day about an hour earlier. Sitting alone in his empty office was becoming a bad habit, and one that he didn't like at all. But getting up, walking to his car, and driving home seemed too much effort.

So, he leaned back in his chair and let the myriad of pictures in his mind play in whatever order they wanted. Past and present mingled in a chaotic mixture of thoughts that were disturbing, disconnected, and strangely foreign. Foreign, that is, until Krystiana's words of that afternoon joined in the confusion. "What if you lost the ability to reason? Your memories would be nothing more than a meaningless jumble."

When he heard those words, he knew what was happening. His unconscious mind was teaching him a lesson. He had been completely insensitive to Krystiana this afternoon. She needed to rely on his strength, the way he had been relying on her for so long, and he had pulled away. Now, he was getting even with himself by living a little bit of what she had been talking about.

The more he thought of her, the more he knew that his suspicions were unfounded. There was so much love in her, deep and passionate love for him and a more generalized love of all people. How could he think that she could harm anyone? She couldn't.

But there was an exception. A glaring exception that haunted his perfect image of her. She hadn't looked upon the child's face with any malice. In fact, she looked at her child with as intense a love as any mother has for her child. At least, in the beginning, it had been that way. But as time passed, she had stopped looking altogether. It wasn't exactly neglect so much as a total disregard, and, toward the end, Richard had become both father and mother.

When he thought about it, though, the reason for this presented itself. She had known what was coming. Hadn't she tried to prepare him for the inevitable? And he had been so skeptical back then that he had totally disregarded her words. But she had been preparing herself by putting distance between herself and the child she knew would be lost.

And then, there was the inescapable fact that nothing in the case added up to anything. If Krystiana's astral body could affect matter, that was a new development. She had said so herself and she had no reason to lie. She did not know that he suspected anything because these thoughts had not surfaced until after she lost her powers. But...

But that could all be an act. Her voice had come to him earlier in the day, when he was talking to Allie Barloe. It was her voice, and it could have been his imagination. But on the other hand, maybe it wasn't. Maybe she had been listening to his thoughts all along, testing him, and at that moment, she had lost control, just long enough for that one thought to reach his mind, before she shut off her end of the communication once more. If that were so, then maybe she had been suppressing those very thoughts in him for all these years.

Could she do that? Was such a thing possible? He had to admit that it probably was not. But then, he had never thought telepathic communication was possible. Or any form of psychic phenomenon. And she had proved him wrong on those counts.

He concluded that it was not entirely impossible, but it was extremely unlikely. She might be able to maintain a facade for a long time, but for fourteen years, and for one of those years, from thousands of miles away? That truly would be impossible. Wouldn't it?

The answer to that question would have to wait until some other time. At the moment, there was something else that needed his attention. Someone was knocking at the door.

Richard switched on his desk lamp, and a bright glow filled the center of the room. In the corners, harsh shadows came to life, lurking like wild beasts kept at bay by a campfire. He took the pipe from his mouth and set it, with great reverence, on the desk.

"Come in."

Allie Barloe did as she was told, and closed the door behind her. As soon as she was inside, her commanding presence filled the room. There was something different about her, Richard thought. She had changed her clothes since his meeting with her a few hours before, but there was something else different, too. Something much harder to define, but just as obvious.

She had left behind the jeans and yellow shirt she had been wearing, and instead, was dressed all in black. Slinky black mini-dress, black stockings, black high-heeled shoes. Her blonde hair, which she had worn in a ponytail earlier, had been styled and curled and hung in tight ringlets that framed her face.

Like a cheap, blonde version of Krystiana. Pretty, not beautiful. A child, not a woman. She was too thin, the color of her eyes was too pale and with no humor behind the mask of knowledge in them. The list went on. She was nothing at all like Krystiana, he realized, but the comparison hung in his mind, an unwelcome cloud over his thoughts.

"Hello, Sheriff Dolan," she said. Even her voice had changed. It still had the velvet quality, but it was deeper.

"What can I do for you, Miss Barloe?"

She folded herself into a chair, crossed her legs, adjusted her skirt, and smiled. "Miss Barloe," she asked. "You were calling me Allie this afternoon. What happened?"

It had been an unconscious choice, but he was certain it had been the right one. Responding to her question was another matter all together. There may be no right thing to say, so he decided to say nothing about it. "I asked you a question first," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"You said to get in touch with you if I thought of anything. Well, I thought of something that might interest you."

"And what would that be?"

"Well, you remember I said..." She picked up the pipe and looked it over. Richard had the irrational urge to lunge forward and rip it out of her hands, but that would have been a severe tactical error and he held back. "You smoke a pipe," she asked.

"I used to."

"I think pipes are sexy," she said. "I just love the smell of tobacco smoke. Why did you give it up?"

"Because," he began, then stopped. It was none of her business. And besides, he could see where this was leading.

"Because why?"

"Look, Miss Barloe, I don't like games."

"Neither do I. Well, there are some games I like."

"I'm sure there are."

Allie handed him the pipe. "Put it in your mouth."

Richard took the pipe, laid it on the desk and made no further response.

Allie stood up and walked around the desk. She leaned on the edge of the desk near Richard, picked up the pipe and held it out to him. "Humor me, Sheriff Dolan. Put it in your mouth."

"Miss Barloe,..."

Before he could finish his statement, Allie slipped the pipe into his mouth and laughed. Stunned by this, Richard could not react for a moment. When he did, his patience had run out. He took the pipe once more from his mouth and this time, held it in his hand. "If you are not going to tell me why you're here," he said, "you'll have to leave."

"All in good time," Allie said. She lifted herself onto the desk, kicked off her shoes and crossed her legs so that one foot was resting on Richard's knee. "Everything will come in time, Sheriff." She picked up a photograph of Krystiana that was on the desk and examined it closely. "This can't be your wife," she said. "You don't wear a wedding ring. Girlfriend?"

"Yes," Richard said. He snatched the photograph from her and returned it to its proper place. A stupid thing to do, because Allie just picked it up again and continued looking at it.

"She's very pretty."

"Yes, she is."

"Have you been together long?"

"Yes."

"And you're not married?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Richard could only laugh and shake his head in disbelief. He had met some nosy, pushy people in his time, but Allie Barloe topped the list for guts. "I don't think that's any of your business," he said.

"Just curious," Allie said, smiling. She gave his knee a gentle kick. "Your idea or hers?"

"What?"

"Not getting married."

Maybe the truth would get her off his back. "We were married for a while. We found out that marriage didn't work for us."

"That's too bad."

"Some people might think that. I don't."

"I just mean that... Well, commitments are very important."

"Yes, they are. And I am very committed to Krystiana."

"Krystiana? That's an unusual name."

"I suppose it is." This time, he did not snatch the photograph from her, but slipped it out of her hands slowly, putting the pipe on the desk in order to free his hands to do so.

Allie turned her attention back to the pipe, picking it up and fondling it. "Did you give up smoking the pipe because of her?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"I don't believe in that."

"You don't believe in what?"

"Trying to change people. I think if a relationship is going to be successful, you have to let people just be themselves. I would never ask a guy to change anything about himself for me. And I expect the same in return. I mean, if a guy starts telling me what I should think or how I should dress, he's history."

"I think you're wrong," Richard said. "A successful relationship requires compromise and willingness to change."

Allie cocked her head to one side and thought about it. "Hmm," she said finally, "I suppose a little give and take could be alright. Unless one person is doing all of the giving and none of the taking."

"Balance. That's what I'm talking about."

"And is your relationship balanced, Sheriff Dolan?"

No, he thought, not quite. But he didn't dare say that.

"It's not, is it," Allie asked.

"I didn't say that."

"No, but I can see it on your face. You give. She takes. And it leaves you feeling a little less than... satisfied. Am I close?"

"No."

"Yes, I am." She held up the pipe. "Or else, why would you have kept this? It symbolizes everything you've given, and this little, itty bitty part of yourself is all you've kept."

Richard hoped that his face did not betray him. Allie had come too close to the truth of what he had been feeling, and he didn't like it. He didn't want anyone to know him that well. Anyone except Krystiana, that is. Strange that even though she was the person who was causing these feelings, she was the one person he wanted to share them with. It was as though she had him under...

"It's like an evil spell," Allie said.

"What?"

"An evil spell. It's almost like the person is a drug. The more you get, the more you want, and even though you know it's bad for you, you can't turn away."

"I've heard enough," Richard said. He took the pipe from her, and this time, he opened one of his desk drawers and put it inside. Before he could slam it shut, though, Allie reached into the drawer and pulled something out. She moved so fast that Richard wasn't really sure that she had moved at all until he looked up at her and saw his handcuffs dangling from the index finger of her right hand.

"Give me those," he demanded and reached to take them from her. Allie jumped off the desk and backed away from him, laughing.

"Come and get them, Sheriff." She held up her left hand and clicked the cuff into place around her wrist.

Richard was frozen, half standing, half sitting, behind his desk, with no idea what to do next. In order to get the handcuffs back, he would have to go near her to unlock them, but that didn't seem like a very good idea. He trusted himself. He was not attracted to this girl. But he did not trust her.

Finally, he settled back into his chair. He took the keys out of the drawer and set them on the desk. "Take them off," he said.

"You really want me to?"

"Yes. I really want you to."

"Does she ever let you tie her up? I bet she doesn't, does she?"

"I'm sure if I asked her... Why am I telling you anything?"

"Come on, Sheriff. Every man has a bondage fantasy."

"Not every man."

"Tell me about yours."

"Even if I had one, I wouldn't tell you."

"It can be fun if you're with some one you trust."

"I'm sure. Take off the handcuffs."

"I bet there are a lot of things she won't let you do. I'll try anything."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," Richard asked. "Now take them off."

Allie shrugged. "Okay, Sheriff Dolan. Your wish is my command." Instead of reaching for the keys, Allie reached for the strap of her dress and pushed it slowly off her shoulder. She did the same with the other strap, struggling a little to get the handcuffs attached to her wrist through the arm hole. With her arms free, she pushed the dress down until it lay in a heap around her ankles. She stepped out of it and kicked the pile of cloth across the room.

Under the dress, Allie was wearing a merry widow of black silk that left little to the imagination. A garter belt with little red bows held up her stockings.

Richard fixed her with a disinterested gaze and tried his best to look bored. He was determined that the seduction was not going to work. But at the same time, Allie was obviously not going to take no for an answer. It might be interesting to see just how far she would take this.

"Do you like what you see, Sheriff," she whispered.

"I see a little girl playing dress up," Richard said.

"I'm not a little girl."

"Yes, you are. You are a little girl who hasn't learned the difference between sex and love. You use your body to get what you think you want, but all you're getting is used. I am not going to use you, Miss Barloe. It's not because I don't like you, and it's not because I do. I don't care about you one way or the other."

"Good. I don't care about you, either, Sheriff. I just wanna have some fun. And you look like someone who knows how to have fun. You see, I know just what I want. It's you who is confused."

"Me? And what am I confused about?"

"Sex and love," Allie said. She stepped forward and put one foot on the edge of the desk. As she continued speaking, she unhooked the garters and slipped the stockings off. "You see, love is an emotional reaction. Sex is a physical reaction, and a very powerful one. It powerful enough to make you think that you love someone. You are right about that. But there doesn't have to be any emotional involvement. It's just a matter of separating the emotional from the physical, the mind from the body."

"Sex is no good without love," Richard said.

"Because you haven't learned to separate them. Once you do, it opens you to a whole new world of pleasure. A whole world of experiences that you can never have if you are on some antiquated quest for love." She began to unhook the top of the merry widow.

"I'm not looking for anything," Richard said. "I've already found everything I want."

"Everything?" She slipped the top off. Standing there in nothing but a skimpy pair of underwear and handcuffs, she no longer looked childish to Richard. She looked foolish and stupid.

"Yes," he said. "Everything."

"And you can sit there and tell me that you are looking at me and feeling nothing."

"No," Richard said. "I am feeling something. I feel sorry for you. Take off the handcuffs, put on your clothes, and get out of my office."

"Don't you want to know what I remembered about Doc Murphey?"

"Frankly, I don't really care. I just want you out of my office."

Allie stared at him, a look of disbelief on her face. She's probably never been turned down before, Richard thought.

"Fine," Allie said at last. She picked up the key on the desk, unlocked the handcuffs and gathered up her discarded clothing. "You'll be sorry, Sheriff Dolan. You will be very sorry."

Without bothering to dress, Allie walked out of the office. "Better put your clothes on before you leave the building," he called after her, "or I'll have to ticket you for indecent exposure."

Allie slammed the door. Richard leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief. He felt as though he had fought a long and difficult battle, and had won. He was tired, but he was also proud of his restraint. The only thing left to do was decide how much, if any, of this he was going to tell Krystiana.

The question seemed out of place in his mind. Just a week ago, there would have been no decision to make. She would already have known everything.



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