Chapter Seven: Friday, October 19

1.

It had been another long day in a series of long days and there was no end in sight. As he always did after one of these days, Scully Skolinski had stopped after work for a few drinks at Rhiannon's before heading home. There, amid the drunken laughter and camaraderie, time seemed to pass faster and the realities of a cruel world dissolved in alcohol like sugar in water.

When he stumbled out of the bar, it was after one o'clock in the morning. The goal had been reached. It was no longer today, but tomorrow. The today that had been so horrible was now yesterday, and as everyone knows, yesterday, once gone, will never be back. One of the wonders of linear time.

The sheer joy of knowing that it was a new day, and with a new day came new hope was eclipsed, though, by a fierce anger, growing more intense with every step he took. Baruch Rhiannon had confiscated his car keys, suggesting that he, Erwin "Scully" Skolinski, the chief executive officer of the biggest goddam mining company in Montana, heir by default to the Proffitt Empire, the most powerful man in the county, was too drunk to drive. Suggesting that there was something that he was not capable of doing.

He could have forgiven that, in time, because, in fact, he was too drunk to walk, not to mention driving, but walking home had not been his idea. On a night that was too cold to do anything but huddle in front of a raging fire, and dressed in a sport coat that was no protection against the elements, someone else had exerted power over him and forced him into this situation. He had not been in control. Someone else had been. Someone he was afraid of.

Scully had no doubt that Baruch Rhiannon was dangerous. Very dangerous. And if provoked, there was no doubt that he would react with violence. It was, after all, the only way a person like that can react. Scully, too, was a fighter, but he had at least the limited mental capacity necessary to know that it is not a good idea to get into a fight with someone who could pulverize you without blinking an eye.

As distasteful as it was to Scully to know that there was anyone who was better than he at anything at all, he had to admit that Rhiannon was. But Rhiannon was a small fish in a small pond. He did not have wealth and he did not have power. Scully did, at least for the moment. At least until the world found out that Proffitt Mining Company would not survive much longer.

And while he had those things, there was something he could do. He could, and would, ruin Baruch Rhiannon. In the morning, he decided, when the alcohol haze had worn off, he would formulate a plan.

In the meantime, there was another matter that demanded his attention and this was much more important.

For four days, Tommy had managed to avoid the punishment that was due him. For four days he had conveniently not been around when Scully was looking for him. For four days, Tommy had been blatantly disregarding the rules Scully had laid down for him, and that was about to end.

Scully was no fool. He knew that Tommy had been sneaking out of his room. He knew that Tommy had not come home last night. He knew a lot of things, and foremost among them was that his son was the very personification of evil, and evil had to be dealt with harshly.

Scully was not a particularly religious man. But he believed in God and, more, he believed in the Devil, and the power of the Devil to possess the souls of men. Possession was not, in his view, a definable presence of evil spirits. It was not like the movie, The Exorcist. It was more subtle and much more difficult to drive out.

There was no single element that defined this kind of possession. Rather, there were a series of indicators, not all of which needed be present, and which may all be present without an actual possession. Determining who was possessed and who was not was more a matter of instinct. Wanton disregard for authority was primary among the indicators. Disrespect for elders, conceit, lustful behavior, disregard for human life. All of these were symptoms. And there were more. Many more. And all of these were present in his son.

The conclusion. Tommy was possessed.

2.

"I know you're here," Scully called as he walked through the front door of his house. "You better show your sorry hide and take what's coming to you like a man!"

Tommy was sitting on his bed. He had been waiting for this moment, anticipating it, for hours, but now that it had arrived, he found that he was unable to move. He was frozen in a kind of fear that he had never felt before. It did not come from what might happen in the presence of his father. He could take a beating, as he had done many times, and he could fight back, which he had never done before, but was certain that he could accomplish this time. The source of the fear was that would happen after. This would be a life changing event. Once it was done, it could not be undone. And there was the distinct possibility that whatever lay in store after this was done would be far worse than what he was living now.

He had thought about this moment. He had thought of nothing else since he got home in the afternoon and saw what Scully had done to his mother and realized with the certainty that only someone in his position could have, that he would be the next victim. He had thought about the words of his new friend, Allie Barloe, when she told him that she had endured the same things. "Do it for me," she had said. "Do it for everyone like us."

The decision to confront his father had been an easy one to make. It had to happen sooner or later if Tommy was going to get on with his life. The choice of sooner was entirely selfish, but, then, who else did he have to consider.

Everyone like us, he thought.

The harder decision had to do with where the confrontation was going to take place. Tommy knew that if he was going to be victorious, he would have to choose the place, if not the time. Home turf advantage. But this house was Scully's turf. This town was Scully's turf. In the end, there was only one choice. The only place Tommy could really call his own was his bedroom, and even that was questionable, because it was in Scully's house. It would have to do.

So, trembling with fear, Tommy sat on his bed and waited for the sound of his father's footsteps coming down the hallway. He did not have much longer to wait.

As soon as Scully's foot hit the tell tale squeaky board at the top of the stairs, Tommy was on his feet. He stood facing the door, waiting for what was to come.

"Where the hell are you," Scully screamed.

"I'm in my room."

As soon as the door knob turned, the fear Tommy had been feeling dissipated. There was no room for it now.

"What do you want," Tommy asked as Scully entered the room.

"Where were you last night?"

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"You don't think so?"

"No, I don't think so. You gonna try to make me?"

"Damned right."

"I'll give you one warning, Scully," Tommy hissed. "Don't fuck with me."

Just for a moment, Scully could not react. No one, especially his son, had ever spoken to him that way. When his reaction came, the fury that had been building within him was in control. Had he wanted to stop himself, which he did not, he could not have done so.

"How dare you," he gasped, his voice thin and strained. Even as he spoke, he was moving toward Tommy. He seemed not to take a step, but to glide until he was close enough to strike.

Tommy accepted the first blow, but it was not what he had hoped. Tommy had hoped for something that might leave a more visible mark. Instead, Scully sunk a hard right hook in Tommy's stomach.

The father stepped back, preparing for his next attack. He was looking for a weakness and he found one. The son was doubled over, clutching his stomach and struggling for the breath that had been knocked out of him.

Scully stepped forward once more, standing directly in front of Tommy, and brought his knee up hard, crushing it into Tommy's face, bringing the boy up with it and knocking him back. With a grunt, Tommy fell back onto his bed.

Blood was gushing from his wounded nose, and he could taste the bitter salt flavor of the blood in his mouth. Beyond that, he was aware of nothing until he felt his father on top of him, delivering rapid, hard jabs to his face and upper body.

Tommy brought his legs up as far as he could manage, then brought them down hard, pushing himself, and hence, his father, up off the bed with the sheer force of velocity. It was not much, but it was enough to knock Scully off balance, and he leaned back to keep from collapsing on top of his son. Tommy took advantage of the momentary respite, freed his arms, and with all the strength he could muster, pushed his father.

Scully flew backward off the bed, landing on his tailbone in the middle of the floor, and continued back until his head crashed into the wall with a solid thud. The force of the impact knocked a mirror off the wall, and it crashed to the floor and shattered a few feet from Scully.

Tommy was on his feet, but Scully was not far behind him. Tommy had the advantage of youth and speed, but he was in a lot of pain. It was, in fact, Scully who had the real advantage. He had experience, and it was he who was first to raise his fist.

This time, Tommy saw it coming and managed to duck the blow that was intended for the right side of his jaw. Bent over, Tommy rushed his father, running full force into him with his shoulder and pushing him back once more ran into the wall.

Blindly, purely on instinct, Tommy reached up, found his father's arm, and using his own shoulder as a balance, flipped Scully onto the floor behind him.

Tommy spun around and delivered a hard kick to Scully's head. "You want more, Scully? Come on. Get up. I'm not through with you yet."

Scully tried to pull himself up and found that he could not. He rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up. He found a little more success with this method, but by the time he was on his hands and knees, he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath.

"Can't take it, Scully," Tommy asked. "You can beat the living shit out of a defenseless little kid, but you can't take a few punches yourself, can you? Well, how about this?" Tommy kicked him once more, this time in the rib cage.

Tommy had expected that kick to finish him off, but Scully seemed barely to notice. In one swift motion, Scully grabbed Tommy's leg, pulling it out from under him, and at the same moment, lunging toward the shards of the shattered mirror.

Before Tommy had the time to realize that he was on the ground, Scully was on top of him once more. When he opened his eyes, he saw only a bright flash as the sharp piece of glass from the mirror caught the light. There was no thought, only the knowledge that something deadly was aimed for the center of his chest, and that if he did not move quickly, he would be dead. Tommy caught Scully's arm and brought the downward motion of the weapon to a stop just inches from its destination.

Scully gripped the shard tighter and pushed down with all of the strength left in his arms. It was not enough, and Tommy held him back.

The sharp glass had cut Scully's hands and blood from the wounds dripped onto Tommy's shirt with the steady rhythm of a leaky faucet and mingled with Tommy's own blood. He could feel the dampness growing cold against his skin. He could feel the warm blood still gushing from his nose.

And he could feel the tension in all of the muscles of his body taking its toll. He would not be able to hold his father back for much longer. He had to make a move and he had to make it now.

With one final burst of power, Tommy pushed his father, and Scully fell back still clutching the glass, and instantly scrambled to his feet. Tommy made it only to his knees, but this gave him the leverage to reach behind the dresser and bring out the baseball bat that was hidden there.

It was Jen's bat, the one she had used just a few weeks ago when she was still alive and playing softball for the Proffitt County Pythons. It was the one she had used to bat in the winning run in the last game of the season. It was the one Tommy was about to use to strike the winning blow in his own battle.

Scully, not seeing the weapon in his son's hands, moved toward him once more. Tommy brought the bat over his shoulder, waited until Scully was in range, and when he was, swung the bat, catching Scully on the knee, knocking his legs out from under him. When Scully was on the ground, Tommy raised the bat once more and brought it down on his father's forehead. Wood met bone with a solid crack, and Scully moved no more.

For a moment, Tommy could do nothing more than lean on the end of the bat, looking down at the prone figure of his father's unconscious body and feeling a sense of relief and accomplishment wash over him. When he had caught his breath at last, he tried to stand, but the effort was futile. Instead, he crawled to the bedside table, where he had plugged in the telephone he had taken from the hallway, and hit the auto dial button he had programmed earlier.

After a few rings, the phone was answered.

"Sheriff Dolan," Tommy gasped, "this is Tom Skolinski. I'm at home. I need you to come over here right away." With that, he hung up the phone and sat back against his bed with the bat still in his hands just in case, to wait for the Sheriff's arrival.

3.

Krystiana was awakened by the dull, nagging awareness that something was wrong. It was the first psychic impression she had had in days, but as much as she wanted to take this as a positive sign, the frustration of not knowing exactly what she was sensing was almost too much to endure. She decided that the absence of the voices and visions was almost better than knowing a little bit and having no way to find out the whole story.

She tried to call Richard, and there was no answer. That confirmed part of her suspicion. Something was going on. There was no other reason he wouldn't answer his phone at two thirty in the morning.

Despite not being able to get in touch with him, Krystiana was not concerned. That, too, was a good sign. ESP or no ESP, she was sure that she would know if he was in danger. She was confident that he was not.

But something was going on, and curiosity was not going to let her go back to sleep until she knew what it was.

In the dark and silence of her bedroom, Krystiana closed her eyes and began the process of slow, deep breathing that should carry her into an astral trance, freeing her spirit to move silently through the night, searching out the source of her sensation. She first felt herself descending through the darkness, as though she was floating on a cloud, into the recesses of her mind. Then slowly, reality began to dissolve, falling away in minute pieces, until her mind was free of all worldly concern. In the next phase, her tactile sense faded, diminishing her awareness of her physical body. Finally, she felt her mind separating from her body, floating up into the darkness of the bedroom, seeing and sensing everything, with a heightened awareness that a physical entity would not be capable of.

But before the separation was complete, her astral body rejoined her physical self with a sudden startling snap. In one instant, the blissful mindlessness was gone, and the weighty burden of reality collapsed on her.

Disgusted, she threw back the covers and got out of bed. Cerberus opened one eye and growled low in his chest, annoyed at his sleep being disturbed. Krystiana ignored him.

Down stairs, she turned on the light in the livingroom and unlocked the drawer of her desk with the key she kept taped to the bottom of a chair. In the drawer, she found what she was looking for. There, wrapped in a piece of white silk tied with a red ribbon was the one treasured possession from her childhood that she had kept when she began her trek to America. Everything else had been left behind and quickly forgotten.

She cleared the coffee table, dimmed the lights, leaving barely enough to see by, and sat down on the floor like she had done when she was a small child waiting for her grandmother to come in and begin another lesson in the art of Tarot reading.

Krystiana laid the package on the table and untied the red bow with great reverence. She unfolded the silk and picked up the old, frayed deck of cards that had been wrapped in it. This deck had belonged to her grandmother and was the very one she had practiced with all those years ago. And when she had mastered the skill, her grandmother had given her the deck which she had used for so many years.

It was just one of the traditions of her people that Krystiana had accepted as a child and began to question only when she was older and wiser and away from the influence of the community in which she was raised. A Tarot deck could not be bought by the individual who was to use it. If it was, the readings from it would be worthless. Rather, it must be received as a gift, or, if nothing else, stolen.

She picked up the deck, held it in her hands, absorbing the energy stored in it. There had been many times in her life when her psychic abilities had been blocked, although those occasions had never lasted longer than a few hours. Even in the worst moments, this deck had been good to her. She had never had a bad reading from it. It had revealed many things to her, some of them good, some of them tragic. But she had always gotten something.

Fearing that this night might hold in store it's first failure, she considered wrapping it up and putting it away before she even tried. But if she did that, she may never know.

So, with great care to avoid damaging the ancient cards, she shuffled the deck, concentrating on her own thoughts and on the questions she wanted answered. What is causing the blockage? What is the source of this sensation that something is wrong? Will Richard and I survive this test of our love?

With that, she stopped. Where had that thought come from? What test? Was there something that her unconscious mind was aware of that, with her psychic abilities blocked, she did not realize? It was another question to ask the cards.

She returned her attention to the cards, spreading them across the table in a wide fan. With her eyes closed, she held her hand a few inches above the table and waited for the pull of the cards to draw her hand to the ones that would reveal the truth. It took a moment, but when she finally felt it, the pull was very strong.

She chose eleven cards instead of her usual twelve. Because she was reading for herself, there was no need for the twelfth, the reader card. It's position was combined with the first, the significator, or the questioner's card.

When she had selected the last of the cards she would need, she set them aside, gathered up the others, and placed them on the strip of white silk. Then she picked up the eleven and prepared to lay them out on the table in a Celtic Cross spread that her grandmother would have severely disapproved of, but that she found more accurate than any other.

The first card she turned over would represent herself and tell her about the reading and her part in it. Rarely in the last fifteen years or so had she turned this card and not found the High Priestess and she was not disappointed this time. This card, the card that represents the future and truth soon to be revealed, was a good omen for the reading. Further, as it was also the significator in this layout, its other meanings were of importance. Passion, fidelity, wisdom. Secrets and mystery.

On top of this one, she laid down the second card, which was the Emperor. This card, too, had turned up more often than not in her readings for herself, and when it did, it always had something to do with Richard. It represented, more than anything else, power, protection and reason. The meaning of the second position, covering the first card, was in itself symbolic. Taken together, the cards meant that Richard was Krystiana's protector, and that was just how she thought of him.

The third card was laid across the first two. This was also symbolic. It was the obstacle facing her at the moment. Here, the inverted Queen of Cups told Krystiana very little. From it, she knew only that there was a woman with light brown hair and a fair complexion, a woman who was not to be trusted, who might cause problems. The rest of the cards would tell her more about what was to come.

The next four cards, laid out clockwise beginning at the left of the first three, represented the future, distant past, near past, and the best that can be hoped for. Krystiana paused before laying them on the table. Reading for other people was one thing. If a person wanted to know his or her future, that was their business and she was there to interpret for them, nothing more. But she had never been certain that she wanted to know anything about her own future. She had always secretly suspected that that ability was what had driven her mother insane.

She took a deep breath and turned over the next card. It was the Tower, one of the few cards in the deck that, no matter what its position, could have no positive meaning at all. Next was the Devil. It's meaning was no better. Then came the Queen of Swords and the Fool.

Some event from her past, some tragic thing that would be better left buried, would have a profound impact on her future.

Three more cards reaffirmed the meaning of the others. The Star, the Moon, and Death.

And in the final position, the final outcome, the inverted Ace of Wands. Decadence, destruction, ruin, mortality.

4.

She studied the cards for a long time, until she could keep her eyes open no longer. Then she pulled herself onto the sofa and fell asleep, with the cards that spelled disaster still laid out on the table, where she could study them again in the morning.

As she descended into the dream world, she found herself in a beautiful meadow. The sun was shining and a soft breeze was blowing, keeping the air cool on a warm summer day. The grass was a thick carpet of bright emerald green, littered with bits of color from the dozens of varieties of wildflowers growing there.

She was standing on a small rise, looking down and across the field at a group of children, some mere babies barely able to stand for themselves and supported by the older children. They were playing, dancing in a circle, and singing an old folk song. The words were unintelligible, but Krystiana recognized the rhythm. It was a song she had learned as a child, and although the words, which had been in her native language, a rare dialect of Greek, were long since lost to her, something deep inside recalled the story they told.

It was the story of a woman named Rumbini and her daughter. The verses chronicled the little girl's life, from her birth to her death and beyond. The dance that accompanied the song began with the children running in a circle, slowing their feet and their words with each verse, until, on the final lines, they were moving in slow motion. And with the final words, they collapsed to the ground, trying to remain motionless as long as they could. When Krystiana was young enough to play, this part of the game never lasted long. Someone always started laughing, and soon everyone was laughing, and then they started over again.

These children, though, were experts. Then they fell, they stayed down, motionless for several minutes. All except one little girl who stood over them, looking down at the bodies of her playmates. She stood with her back to Krystiana, dressed in a thin, white sundress tied around the waist with a pale pink ribbon. A matching ribbon was tied in her coffee colored hair. She wore no shoes or socks, but there was a thin gold chain around her left ankle that glittered in the sunlight.

Slowly, the little girl turned, her face still down, still looking at her friends. When she was facing Krystiana, she lifted her head.

When Krystiana saw the face, she wanted to scream, but the sound would not come. She wanted to look away, but could not turn her head. She wanted to close her eyes, but she could not.

The little girl's face was as stark white as the dress she wore, except for a blue cast to her lips and the dark purplish circles around her eyes. There was no expression in those eyes or in her face. Rather, her features were frozen in a hideous mask of death.

"Andi," Krystiana called to her. "Andi, I'm sorry!"

The little girl raised her head to look at her. As she did, she was transformed. Life flowed back into her face and eyes, and for just a moment, she was the beautiful child Krystiana remembered. But she continued to change. Her eyes took on a bright glow, pulsating from yellow to red. The skin, too, turned an odd shade of red and blisters and boils appeared on the surface, oozing a thick, grayish gel-like substance. Her lips all but disappeared, stretched thin over huge, uneven canine teeth stained red and dripping blood.

Her hands changed, too, the skin growing red and fingernails becoming long, sharp claws. In another instant, she was a tiny, hideous demon, all the more frightening in her little girl's clothing.

Krystiana moved slowly toward the beast child, toward the thing she had created.

"Mitara," the thing that used to be her child said, "yiati?" The voice was not that of a child. It was a low rumble, like thunder in the distance.

Krystiana kneeled in front of her. "Mo moro," she whispered, "singnomi. With all my heart, I'm sorry." She brushed the tears from her eyes.

"Look at my face, Mother, and know that you did this to me."

"I do know. I don't deserve it, but I beg your forgiveness."

"Why should I forgive you, Mother?"

"Whatever I did to you, Moro, I love you. And I will always love you."

"And yet you did this. Can you look at this and say now that you love me?"

"Yes! I do. I do love you, Moro. You must believe me!"

Andi glared at her with those pulsating eyes, eyes that could express no tenderness, eyes that could show nothing but hate. But she held out her deformed claws and Krystiana accepted her with open arms.

"You could never know," Krystiana said, "how long I've wanted to hold you in my arms once more. How I've longed for you."

"I did love you, Mitara," she said. She pulled back to look at Krystiana's face. "But I can never forgive you."

"I don't expect it. I don't expect you to love me, Moro. I only ask that you let me love you."

"Can I stop you?"

"No."

"Then why do you ask my permission?" She stepped back, took Krystiana's hand in hers and pressed something into it. "Aftos krisos asteri epano tis stethos, Mitara. Do you remember?"

"Yes. Is it still with you? Where ever you are, do you still have it?"

"Kriti eki to moro. Afti voithi to pedi alakso." She laughed in the same low rumble in which she spoke. It was a bone chilling sound.

"No," Krystiana cried. "No, that's not true! Mo moro, please!"

"Kriti eki to moro."

"Yes."

"Afti voithi to pedi alakso."

"I can't take all of the blame."

"But it is true."

"No!"

"Kriti voithis to pedi alakso."

"What ever I've done to you, I didn't mean it. But I am not the one who condemned you! What you've become..."

"What I have become, you made me. You admitted it once. Why do you deny it now?"

"I may be the cause, Moro, but it's not my fault. I didn't know there were any other options."

"You plead ignorance," the child asked.

"Would you put me on trial for the crimes of youth?"

"If it were in my power. You knew enough to create. Surely, you knew enough to destroy."

"And is that what you would have had me do?"

"Without hesitation. You should have known."

"Then why do you denounce me now?"

"Denounce you? Ah, Mitara, I do not denounce you. No more than I embrace you. Tell me, Mitara, what conceit would bring you to believe that you mean enough to me that I would bother?"

"You have come to me."

"To you? Or to all?"

"I don't understand."

"I didn't think you would." The beast child stepped away from her and held out a hand. "Come, Mitara. And I will show you."

"Moro, you frighten me."

"Come, Mitara. You owe me so much. Give me this little."

Trembling, Krystiana stood and took the beast child's hand. She realized, for the first time, that the hand was hot to the touch. Too hot, like holding a glowing coal, and the odor of burning flesh mingled with the sweet smell of the wildflowers. But Krystiana did not dare let go.

The beast child led her into the meadow, into the circle of children, still laying motionless in the grass. In the center of the circle, they stopped.

"Look, Mitara. Take a good long look and remember."

Krystiana did as she was told. On the ground at her feet was an infant, no more than six months old. A beautiful little boy with gaping, bloody wounds across his belly.

"Kriti," the beast child whispered, "voithis to pedi alakso."

"No!" The scream echoed in the empty meadow. The beast child had vanished. The children had vanished. Krystiana remained, alone with the violated body of the infant.

5.

Word spread quickly, and by eight in the morning on Friday, October 19th, there were few people left in Proffitt Mines, Montana who did not know that in the early hours of the morning, Sheriff Richard Dolan had arrested Scully Skolinski for beating his son.

Rachel Clancy was among the last to find out. She lived fifty miles away, in Hooper. The commute to Proffitt Mines was a long, lonely drive, but it was made easier after she met Melissa Parrish, Scully's secretary. The two women became instant friends, and before long, they were not only sharing the ride, but also an apartment.

It was Melissa's turn to keep the car for the day, a situation Rachel found uncomfortable. For one thing, it was her car, and she was protective of her property. For another, she didn't like being anywhere without a means of getting someplace else if she wanted to. But, she had agreed to the arrangement, and even though she was kicking herself for it now, she was not going back on her word.

Even before she got out of the car, she knew that something had happened. It was rare to see so many people hanging around in the parking lot, teachers and students mingling in small groups, deep in conversation. She had come to think of those two groups as factions that avoided each other at all costs outside of the classroom. It was one of the things that made her job so difficult. She was there to help the students, but she was not one of them. She was a teacher. She was allied with the enemy.

She had grown accustomed to the fact that it was hard for the kids to trust her, but every day, she did everything she could think of to gain their trust. And occasionally, it worked. Tommy Skolinski, for instance. He might not have trusted her to do anything for him, but he had talked to her, and that was something.

Ever since that day, she had been thinking. She had been weighing her options, her responsibilities. As long as he asked her to do nothing, that was exactly what she would do. It was a moral obligation to her "patient." But she also had a moral obligation to do something. Any reconciliation between those two obligations was impossible. And it had haunted her every waking hour since.

She found out, though, almost before she set foot out of the car, that she had been worrying needlessly. Tommy had done something himself.

Rachel had not given the boy enough credit. She had figured him for a coward, a victim who would rather live with the victimization than stand up for his rights. She had never been more pleased to be wrong.

All was not well, though. While this was certainly the best thing for Tommy, Rachel had to wonder what it would mean for Melissa. Melissa had confided in her that Proffitt Mining was not doing well. Just how bad the situation was, she did not know, but then, neither did Melissa, or anyone else. Now, with the boss in jail, things could only get worse.

6.

The Proffitt Mining Company offices did not open until nine o'clock, so Melissa Parrish stopped at Rhiannon's for a cup of coffee before going in. She took a seat at a table near the door where she could see the clock, placed her order, and sat back to wait.

Melissa was not a morning person. Anyone who knew her knew better than to speak to her before her fourth cup of coffee. Of course, not many people in Proffitt Mines knew her that well. She was sitting with her head resting on her folded arms on the table when someone she did not know came up behind her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"You're Melissa Parrish, aren't you," the stranger asked.

Melissa sat bolt upright, startled by the intrusion. "Yes," she gasped. "Who are you?"

"Ellen Adams," the stranger said. She sat down, then asked, "Mind if I join you?"

"I guess not," Melissa said. What can I do about it now, she thought.

"My husband works for Proffitt Mining."

"Really?"

"Carl Adams."

"I don't think I know him."

"I would have thought you'd know everyone. In such a small community, I mean."

"Well, it may be a small town, but its a big company."

"I guess so. I just wanted to tell you how shocked I was to hear the news."

"What news is that," Melissa asked.

Allie appeared at the table and set a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish in front of Melissa.

"About Mr. Skolinski," Ellen Adams said.

"What about him?"

"You haven't heard? He's in jail!"

"What," Melissa gasped. She, too, had noticed the unusual crowd in the lot at the high school. She knew that something had happened. But this?

"What," Allie asked, equally shocked.

Ellen noticed the waitress for the first time. She pulled out a chair and nodded at it. "Have a seat and I'll tell you all about it. Everything I know, at least. By the way, I'm Ellen Adams."

"Allie Barloe," Allie said, and sat down.

"Nice to meet you, Allie. This is Melissa Parrish from Proffitt Mining."

Allie and Melissa exchanged nods, then turned their attention back to Ellen. "So, what happened," Allie asked.

"Well, the way I hear it..." Ellen preceded to tell a story that only vaguely resembled the truth. By the time it finished making the rounds of the other towns in the vicinity, it would be even more outlandish.

Melissa might not have been a native of Proffitt Mines, but she had been around small towns long enough to know that you only believe half of what you hear. The other half most likely has been embellished to make it sound more interesting. The fact remained that Scully was in jail. That part would not have been made up.

Melissa paid her bill and left Rhiannon's without touching her breakfast.

7.

For the first time in a long time, Bobby Prentice woke up in a good mood. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and after tonight, Trista would be off his back, maybe for good.

What's more, there was only one message on his answering machine, and it was not from Trista. It was from Sheriff Dolan. Something about a disturbance at the Skolinski house. He didn't listen too closely once he heard that it was not the whining voice he was expecting.

Nothing could kill his mood. Not even getting to the office and learning that he would be on guard duty all day.

"What do you mean," he asked Trista, who had delivered the news.

"You're on guard duty in the jail."

"You mean we have a prisoner?"

"It's been a while, huh," Trista said. "You'll be off the hook once the sheriff locates Judge Winslow. He's been trying since three o'clock in the morning, and believe you me, he's getting pissed."

"Don't blame him."

"Yes, well, I'd avoid him if I were you. You're not exactly on his list of favorite people this morning, either."

"Why?"

"He called you last night. And you didn't return the call. Just like you never return a call. Anyway, he's been stuck here all night guarding the prisoner himself. I think he's out for blood. Yours."

Bobby collapsed on the wooden bench in the lobby area of the office. "Shit, it's Skolinski, isn't it?"

"So you did get the message."

"Yeah, I got it." It was very unusual that a guard would be posted at all times when there was a prisoner in the jail. More than anything else, they got disorderly drunks. The routine was put them in the cell and let them sleep it off. A guard would be a waste of time and money, and dear old Charles Proffitt wouldn't stand for that.

A full time guard meant a VIP. And this VIP was Charles Proffitt's son-in-law. Big trouble any way you look at it. And the sheriff was on his case anyway. It all added up to disaster. But he was determined that nothing was going to spoil his good mood.

"Any suggestions?"

At that moment, the door flew open and Melissa rushed in. "I've got to see Mr. Skolinski," she said, breathless.

"Sorry," Trista said, "no visitors until after he sees the judge."

"When will that be?"

"Don't know."

Melissa stood in the middle of the room looking lost and searching for something to say. "Can't you make an exception," she asked at last.

"Absolutely not," Trista said.

"I'll handle this, Trista," Bobby said. "Is it an emergency," he asked Melissa.

"Well, not really. I just need to ask him a couple of questions about the business."

"I'll take that as a yes. I was just on my way down stairs to the holding cell. Wait in the hall and I'll take you down."

Melissa's face brightened. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you very much." She rushed out the door.

"You can't do that," Trista said. "I told you, you're already in trouble with the sheriff. This is just going to make it worse."

"On the contrary, Trista. He's not going to make a scene in front of anyone. It'll give him time to cool off."

"Very sneaky. I like that." Bobby was headed for the door when Trista remembered something she had wanted to say. "By the way, Bobby. I still want to talk to you."

"Oh, right," Bobby said. "I wanted to talk to you, too. Rhiannon's at seven o'clock."

Bobby's back was turned, but had he been looking, he would have seen the color drain out of Trista's face and a broad smile cross her lips. Had be been looking, he could never have gone through with his plan. But he didn't look back. He only hesitated long enough to hear Trista say, "I'll be there."

8.

The jail was located in a dingy area near the boiler room in the basement of the Proffitt County Courthouse. There were two cells on an inside wall. Each cell had a cot and a chair. There was one light fixture in the center of the room, located outside the cells, hanging over a desk. On the rare occasions when a guard was required, this was where he sat.

Richard had been sitting in the chair for nearly five hours, having a break only for an hour or so when Scully's lawyer had been in the cell consulting. He had exhausted his repertoire of mental games, having successfully named all of the states and then their capitals in alphabetical order, named the US presidents in the order they had served, and made an attempt at naming the vice president and found that he could only remember eleven.

After this, he searched through the desk drawers and found a half completed crossword puzzle from the June 7, 1984 New York Times. He would have finished it, too, but he didn't know the Swahili word for banana.

When he finally crumpled the aged newspaper and made a bank shot off the wall into the trash, it was only five in the morning. Since then, he had been trying to get Judge Winslow on the phone. He wasn't home, which probably meant that he had spent the night at Mistress Mary's, the notorious house of ill repute in Wyoming, the same place where Preacher Fitzhugh had spent so many nights. But listening to the ringing of a telephone that he knew was not going to be answered was much preferable to listening to Scully's ranting.

That had led to another game. Richard took a sheet of paper from his notebook and kept track of the number of times Scully repeated his favorite lines. At the end of three hours, he had said, "You can't do this to me," fourteen times. That one was the most popular. Runners up included, "Do you realize who I am," which was said seven times, and, "I'll have your badge for this," which came in at six. Richard wasn't worried.

The last time Scully threatened to have him fired, Richard broke his own rule against speaking to the prisoner. Scully was aggravated enough, and Richard didn't want to give him any more ammunition. But just that once, he decided to speak. "Fine. Have me fired. I really don't care," he said.

That had shocked Scully into silence for a few minutes. It had shocked Richard, too. He had grown to love Proffitt Mines, but sitting in that room, with its dim but harsh lighting, and the dull gray concrete walls, he found himself thinking that he wouldn't care if he never laid eyes on the town or any of the people in it again. Except Krystiana.

In fact, he thought, it might not be a bad idea if they packed everything up and moved on. They had been in Proffitt Mines for four years. Krystiana was getting restless. She might deny it, but he could see it in her eyes. And if he was going to be honest with himself, he was getting restless, too.

He had grown up going to museums and symphony concerts every weekend. As a child, he had hated doing those things. He had made up excuse after excuse to get out of it. But he had gotten older, and then he met Krystiana. She had never seen such things, and he wanted to show her everything. The first time he took her to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, she knew only a few words of English, and his Greek was as limited. But the naive wonder in her face as she gazed at the paintings and sculptures was infectious and he had looked at these things in a new way.

Sure, there were things to do in Montana, but somehow, it was not the same. An outing had to be planned. It was at least a three hour drive each way to get to anything. There could be no spontaneity. And very little variety.

Rhiannon's was great the first fifty or sixty times they went there for dinner, but after that, it got a little old. And Krystiana was constantly complaining, in a jesting manner, about the conspicuous absence of baklava from the menu. On top of that, the nearest Chinese take out was in Billings and there wasn't even a Pizza Hut in all of Proffitt County.

But where would they go? It would have to be a place that could rival Boston in history and Los Angeles in diversity, but new and different. Richard spent a lot of time thinking about this and was no where near an answer when the door opened and Bobby Prentice and a woman he did not know walked in.

"It's about time you got here," Richard said.

"Sorry. This is Melissa Parrish, here to see the prisoner."

Scully looked up. For some time now, he had been laying on the cot in his cell, trying to sleep. But the medication Doc Murphey had given him was wearing off, and he was beginning to feel the wounds he had gotten in the fight.

Lifting his head took a major effort, and when he did, any consolation in the fact that at least, in jail, no one would see him in the condition he was in, vanished instantly.

"What are you doing here," he growled.

"Mr. Skolinski, it's very important," Melissa said. "I have to speak with you."

"No. Sheriff, get her out of here."

"Just give me five minutes." Melissa was standing with her back to Richard and Bobby. From their vantage, it appeared that she was pleading with Scully, but Scully had a different view. He could see her face, and there was no question that her words were a command.

"That okay, Sheriff," Scully asked. The sarcasm in his voice would have been more irritating if Richard weren't so tired and desperate to get out of there and go home.

"No, but you've been such a model prisoner, what the hell, I'll make an exception."

"Gee, thanks a shit load."

Richard had the almost uncontrollable urge to give Scully the old one finger salute, but diplomacy won out. He just smiled and turned to Bobby. "He's all yours. Enjoy." And he walked out.

9.

Melissa pulled the chair up next to the cot and sat down. Bobby was waiting in the hallway, leaving her alone with Scully, but he might return at any moment. It wouldn't look right if she was sitting on the cot when he did.

She was not surprised at the fact that Scully was less than pleased to see her. She had gone to work at Proffitt Mining straight out of high school. That was just before Charles Proffitt retired and Scully took over.

There were many reasons to dislike Scully. He was loud and obnoxious and he had a bad temper. And then there were the things she had heard about the way he treated his family. But he wasn't like that around the office. In fact, there were things about him that she admired. Namely, his wealth and power. But also his presence. When he came into a room, he took command. You could not help but notice him.

It was not because he was handsome, or even a bit attractive. If anything, he was exceptionally plain. There was something about him, though, in the way he walked and in the way he carried himself, that screamed success. And he knew it.

That was the reason he didn't want her there now. He liked, needed, to be in control, and he was not in control of this situation. It was painful enough for him without letting someone else she him like this.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Skolinski?"

He was still laying on the cot, facing the wall, his back turned to his visitor. "You can leave me the hell alone."

"Talk to me, please. Look, I know I'm not supposed to know about the problems with the company, but..."

Scully sat up and turned to face her. "Just what is it you think you know?"

"I open your mail for you, Mr. Skolinski. I know everything. Don't worry. I won't say a word. But what am I supposed to tell people when they start calling?"

"What people?"

"Pay checks are supposed to go out today, remember? I mean, there's talk anyway. The workers are going to get really suspicious when they don't get their checks."

"You tell them that they'll get their checks as soon as I get this mess straightened out. Nothing more, nothing less."

"But..."

"You don't question my orders, Melissa."

"No, sir."

"Is there anything else?"

"Well,..."

"Spill it, Melissa."

"It's not true, is it? What people are saying?"

Scully laid down again and turned his back to her. "Of course not." He looked over his shoulder at her. "What are they saying?"

"Well, I heard that... that you were drunk when you got home, and that Tommy was asleep and you attacked him. With a knife."

"That's crap, and you know it."

"Then what really happened?"

"Not that I have to explain anything to you, but Tommy attacked me. He was waiting for me, and he attacked me with a baseball bat or something. I had to defend myself."

As much as Melissa wanted to believe him, she couldn't. She knew something, but she didn't dare ask him about it. But she had to know. She had to know if the man she had worked for and respected for so long was really guilty of the things she had heard.

She didn't realize that she had been staring at him until he spoke. "Something else on your sorry excuse for a mind?"

"No. It's just... Is that the story you're going to stick with?"

Scully stared at her, his face turning red, that violent temper Melissa had heard about but never seen coming to the surface. "Are you saying you don't believe me?"

"Of course not, Mr. Skolinski. If you say that's what happened, that's good enough for me. But, can I be completely honest with you?"

"I suppose."

"It might not be good enough for other people. I know that you've had problems with Tommy, that he's not the person you'd hoped he would be."

"So?"

"I also know that there have been other incidents. And that some people might take those incidents to be... abuse."

Scully was off the cot and on his feet practically before Melissa could blink. That statement had been out of line, she shouldn't have said anything, and, just for an instant, she feared for her life. But she had faith in the fact that Scully was an intelligent man, or at least that he possessed the common sense that would prevent him from doing anything rash in this place.

"Who told you that," he bellowed, leaning close to her.

Melissa didn't want to answer him. He might not hurt her, not now, anyway. But he would get out of jail soon. As soon as he could. And there was no telling what he would do then. She couldn't believe the things she had heard about him, but seeing him like this, she was starting to think that it was more than possible. But, didn't he have a right to know who was spreading the rumors that had reached his ears? Maybe, but it meant putting someone she cared about in danger.

"I can't."

Scully grabbed the lapels of her coat and pulled her out of the chair. "Who told you," he asked again, his face inches from hers, his breath hot on her face.

"Tommy..."

"You've been talking to my son?"

"No! He... talked to Rachel."

"Rachel who?"

"I can't tell you any more," Melissa said, trembling. "I'm sorry, Mr. Skolinski. Please, let go of me."

"Rachel who?" He tightened his grip on her coat.

"My roommate. Rachel Clancy."

Scully released his hold on her and began pacing the length of the cell. A calmness had come over his face, and it was almost as frightening as the outburst.

As for Scully, he had almost forgotten the problem with his son. He hadn't quite forgotten that he wanted to get even with Rhiannon. But this was more important. And settling the score with Rachel Clancy was just a phone call away.

10.

The St. Matthew's Baptist Church ladies' club held meetings three times a week to discuss current events and local gossip, to pass judgment and criticize, and to dream up ways to redeem the souls of the damned, in other words, anyone who wasn't a member of their church. The women, fourteen in all, would take turns hosting the meetings and providing refreshments. On the morning of Friday, October 19th, it happened to be Vera Duncan's turn.

They had completed the current events portion of the meeting, having determined that the Internal Revenue Service and the CIA, both of which had been in the news recently, were agencies of Satan, and that everyone in Washington DC was probably beyond saving, and so were not worth their time, and were about to move on to more pressing local matters. But, before that, it was time to bring out the coffee and rolls. Keeping track of the personal lives of the twelve-hundred-and-some-odd residents of Proffitt Mines, not to mention the more colorful characters in the outlying areas, was hard work and required nourishment.

Vera was just coming out of the kitchen with a tray of homemade sweet rolls when the telephone rang.

"I'll get it, Vera," Lucy Trevor called from the kitchen where she was tending the coffee maker. Then a moment later, "Vera, there's a man on the phone. He insists on talking to you. He says its urgent."

"Who is it, Dear?"

"I don't know. He won't say."

Vera could feel the weighty stared of her guests as she put the tray on the table. A strange man calling her on the phone was as close to scandalous as she cared to get and it might be enough to keep her friends talking for a month or so. She laughed nervously.

"It's probably my husband," she said. "He has a very strange sense of humor." She headed to the kitchen to take the call, but then thought better of it. It might look like she was trying to keep a secret. She took the call on the extension in the livingroom. "Hello?"

"Is this Vera Duncan," a voice asked. She thought that she should recognize the voice, that she had heard it before, but she could not place it.

"Yes."

"The president of the St. Matthew's ladies' club?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"That's not important. I want you to listen because I'm not going to say this twice. There's evil in this town, and someone needs to do something about it. You are just the person to get the job done. Do you know Rachel Clancy, the guidance counselor at Proffitt County High?"

"Yes. She's a member of our church."

"That may be. I'll have to take your word for it. Nonetheless, she has committed one of the most grievous sins against God and humanity."

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you know where she lives?"

"In Hooper."

"Do you know who she lives with?"

"Yes. She shares a place with another girl. I don't recall her name."

"It's Melissa Parrish," the stranger said. "And they share more than an apartment."

"What are you saying?"

"They are lovers."

There was a gasp on the line and Vera realized that Lucy Trevor was still listening. "Who is this," Vera asked once more.

"That doesn't matter."

"Then why should I believe you?"

"If you don't, I will find someone who does."

"Wait! How do you know?"

"That doesn't matter, either. The only thing that matters is that someone like that is entrusted with out children. She is in a position to corrupt their minds and their morals. We cannot sit back and allow something like this to continue. Can we?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Then you will do something?"

"Of course. Do you have any proof of this?"

"I could get it."

"You do that. How can I get in touch with you?"

"You can't. I'll get what you need and I'll call you. But you'd better move quickly, before she can do any more damage. I hate to think what she's done already."

"Yes, of course, you're absolutely right. You did the right thing."

"I know." There was a clock and the line went dead.

Vera turned to face the group of women in her livingroom. She was too overwhelmed with a mixture of concern and excitement at the fight that lay ahead to speak for a moment. When she found her voice, her words were cut short by Lucy Trevor, who had appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands and shaking.

"What are we going to do, Vera? What on earth are we going to do?"

"Have a seat. Ladies, we have our work cut out for us."

11.

The phone at the Skolinski house started ringing at the crack of dawn and did not stop until Tommy took it off the hook at one o'clock. Most of the calls were from concerned friends and neighbors asking if there was anything they could do for him and offering to bring over casseroles and asking if he would need a place to stay once his father got out of jail.

Tommy hadn't thought that far yet. He had figured that his problems were over, that Scully would be in jail until they could arrange for a trial, and then he would go to prison. But now, when he really thought about it, there was no chance of that. Judge Winslow would set bail, and Scully would come home, madder than ever. If Tommy was there, there was no telling what Scully would do to him.

A few of the phone calls had been less than supportive, and he had expected that. Scully had a lot of friends who would never believe the accusations. The most surprising phone call, though, had come from one of Tommy's friends.

"What the hell were you thinking," Allie asked without preamble.

"What are you talking about?"

"I told you not to involve the cops. Jesus, Tom, do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Look, Allie, I..."

"No, you look. All you've done is make matters worse, but you've probably figured that out by now, huh? But I guess there's nothing you can do about it now. What's done is done."

"I know."

"You can still make it work, you know."

"How?"

"I'd be more than happy to tell you, if you promise to listen to me this time."

"I promise."

"Okay, but not now. I'm at work."

"I could meet you after work."

"No. I've got a date tonight."

"A date?"

"Don't worry, Tom," Allie said sarcastically. "It's a mercy thing. The only one I want is you."

Tommy wasn't sure, but it sounded like a well rehearsed line. He didn't care. "When then?"

"First thing in the morning. I'll stop by before I go to work."

"He could be out of jail by then."

"You worry too much. I'm fairly certain that he will still be safely locked away until then."

"Well, I'm not so sure."

"Would you have a little faith. See you in the morning." And she hung up.

Not long after that, Tommy had been sitting in the livingroom, drinking a Pepsi and trying to figure out what Allie was talking about, when the front door opened and his grandfather walked in. Tommy knew it was only a matter of time until he had to deal with him, but he held out hope until he saw the expression on Charles' face.

Charles dropped into a chair and regarded Tommy with a look of pure disdain. He loved Tommy, but he had long suspected that the child didn't have the sense God gave a peanut. The events of the previous night were further proof. He had not come to judge him, maybe just rake him over the coals for a while.

Then he saw Tommy's face. How he could see out of his swollen eyes was a mystery. In fact, there was little of him showing that wasn't bruised. It softened Charles, but not much. He decided that this was a good time to teach Tommy a lesson in strategy and tact instead.

"Get me a drink," he said.

Without a word, Tommy got up and crossed the room to the liquor cart. "What d'ya want?"

"Anything. And make it strong."

Tommy poured some whiskey into a glass, which he took to Charles, and returned to his seat on the couch.

Charles finished half his drink in one gulp and set the glass on the end table. "What the hell were you thinking, Tommy?"

"You know," Tommy said, "someone else was just asking me the same question."

"And what was the answer?"

"I couldn't take any more. You don't know what he's like."

"Oh, I don't?"

"No, you don't."

"Then tell me."

Tommy started to, several times, but could not. "Do we really have to talk about it now?"

"You're going to be doing a lot of talking about it, Tommy. To the police, in court. You might as well start with me. I'll be a lot easier on you than they will."

"What are you talking about?"

"You think your father is going to sit back and take his punishment? Well, no, he's not. He's going to fight it. He's already telling people that it was your fault."

"No one's going to believe that."

"Maybe they will and maybe they won't. That won't matter. What matters is whether or not they believe you. And they won't."

"And why not?"

"Because he has power on his side. Power and powerful people."

"Like who?"

"Like me."

Tommy couldn't believe what he was hearing. He knew that his grandfather would be angry with him, but he never expected this. "What?"

"The good of the company has to come first. Do you know what this mess is going to do to the reputation of Proffitt Mining? To the reputation of the entire Proffitt family?"

"I don't really care!"

"I know you don't. But someday, you will."

"What was I supposed to do? Let him beat the shit out of me any time he damned well pleased and take it for the good of the family? I'm sorry I let you down, Grandfather, but I couldn't do that."

"Of course you couldn't," Charles said. "No one should have to. Why didn't you come to me, or to your grandmother? You could have stayed with us and none of this would have been necessary."

"I never thought of that," Tommy said.

"Of course you didn't. You didn't think. That's your problem. Someday, all of this will be yours. How can you expect to run a business when you don't stop to think about the consequences of your actions."

"It all comes down to that, doesn't it? Everything is Proffitt Mining. Family doesn't matter."

"It's all that matters."

"How can you say that?" Tommy got up and started pacing the room. It was a habit he had picked up from his father. Scully always paced when he needed to think or when he didn't know what to say. Tommy hated the idea of having anything, even this insignificant habit, in common with him, but he couldn't help it. He just couldn't sit still and listen to this.

"I love you and your mother more than anything. I just want what's best for you."

"And you assume that Proffitt Mining is best for me. Maybe it isn't. Did you ever stop to think, Grandfather? Did you ever wonder if I wanted to inherit the business someday? Or that maybe there was something else I would like to do with my life?"

"No," Charles said. "I didn't. Is there something else you're interested in?"

This was another reaction Tommy had not expected. Charles should have been incensed at that thought. "I don't know. Maybe. Aren't you going to tell me that I have an obligation to you, to the company?"

"No, I'm not," Charles said. There was a hint of sadness in his voice. "I've been giving that a lot of thought of late. Frankly, life is too short to go through it doing something you hate." He finished his drink and stood up. "If there is something you want to do, do it, Tommy. You have my full support."

"But not your support against my father."

"No. This fight is yours and yours alone. If you insist on going through with it, I won't do anything to harm your case. But I won't do anything to help it, either."

"I guess that's as much as I could expect."

"It's more. Life isn't fair, Tommy. The sooner you learn that, the better."

"I know that, Sir."

"Good. Now, I'm going over to Proffitt Mining. There needs to be somebody in charge in case an emergency comes up. Call me if you need anything."

"Okay. Thank you."

Charles shrugged and headed for the door. He stopped just before he reached it and turned around. "You free tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. I'll pick you up at two." Charles walked out without further explanation.

After he was gone, Tommy took the phone off the hook and went upstairs to his bedroom. He had cleaned it up as soon as Sheriff Dolan took his father away, but the evidence of the fight that had occurred there was still obvious. Tommy really didn't care, though.

He could barely remember the last time he had slept. He was tired. He laid down on the bed, fell asleep almost immediately, and dreamed of Allie Barloe.

12.

If he had known what was going to happen, that he was going to be in jail and that Charles was going to go to the Proffitt Mining Company offices, Scully would not have left the bank statements and financial records laid out on his desk. He would have hidden them away in a locked drawer, under a pile of old letters and newspapers, or in the floor safe under the desk, or maybe he would have just burned them. But he did not know, and so he did not hide the papers. He left them in plain sight, where anyone who entered his office could see them. Where Charles could see them.

He didn't notice at first. He sat down in the desk chair that had been his for nearly three decades. He looked at the walls and furniture, all things that had been his. He marveled at how different the very same things can look when someone else has had them for a comparatively short period of time.

The old office felt like home, even though it had changed, and it felt good, better than he could have anticipated, to be there again. It was just a room, like any other, with four walls, a ceiling, and a floor, with a door and a window, but this room held a lifetime of memories, from the day he had taken it over from his father to the day he had passed it on to his son-in-law. Memories of deals and investments that had paid off and those few that had failed. Memories of the people he had met, friends, associates and employees who had known that the door was always open, and that no grievance, no matter how minor, would fall on deaf ears.

Charles had cared about the workers. He knew that if they were happy, both professionally and personally, that they would work harder and accomplish more. If anyone would have asked him, in those days, he would have cited that as the reason. But it was not the truth. The truth was that Charles was a compassionate man, no matter how he tried to hide it.

He found, as he sat there reminiscing, that he even missed the drudgery of the constant paper work. Sign this, read that, and file everything in triplicate. But, if the workers were the heart of the business, paperwork was its soul, and the business could not survive without it.

It was like being in love, he thought. You might love someone without giving any thought to why. And when that person is gone from your life, it might be the things you disliked the most that you miss the most.

With that though, he started shuffling through the papers on the desk. It all seemed routine. The payroll records seemed to be in order. The final totals on the expense records seemed a little high, but times had changed. Then, he picked up the most recent financial statement.

13.

When Nona walked into Rhiannon's at four o'clock, the proprietor was in his usual spot, doing his usual thing. He didn't say a word to her, nor she to him. She put her purse into a cabinet behind the bar, like she had done every day since she started working there, and put on an apron. She checked the pockets and found her order pad and pencil just where they should be. She checked the salt and pepper shakers and ketchup and mustard bottles on all of the tables and found them all full. The floor was mopped, the bathrooms clean, and there wasn't so much as a speck of dust on the leaves of the plastic ferns. The nightly specials were the same as they had been every Friday night since God knows when, so there was no need to review the menu. There was nothing for her to do but sit down at the bar and wait for the dinner crowd to arrive.

And the wait seemed interminable. More times than she could count, it crossed her mind that she should say something, anything, no matter how stupid it sounded, just to break the heavy silence. But she could not think of a single thing.

Much to her dismay, it was going to be a very slow night. The first customers wandered in at five-thirty, and were finishing desert before anyone else arrived. It left her too much time to sit and not talk to anyone. At a quarter to seven, Allie Barloe walked in and took a seat in a booth at the back of the restaurant.

"What can I get for you," Nona asked her after giving her sufficient time to make a decision.

"Nothing yet. I'm waiting for someone."

"In that case, do you mind if I sit down until they get here?"

"Go ahead."

Nona settled into the seat, glancing over her shoulder at Baruch Rhiannon before she did.

"I couldn't help but notice," Allie said, "that there's something going on between you two. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't think there's anything to talk about," Nona said and sighed. "It's not that I didn't try. He is just so..."

"Frightened."

Nona laughed. "That's not a word I would use to describe Baruch Rhiannon. I don't think he knows the meaning."

"That may be, Nona. But he is terrified. Look at him. He hasn't looked up from the bar since I came in here. He doesn't want to look at anyone because they might see the fear in his eyes."

"That's ridiculous."

"No, it isn't. I think he's really in love with you."

"He has a funny way of showing it."

"He has no way of showing it. He's never let himself feel love before, and he has no idea how to act or what to say. He's found himself thrust into a realm of emotion that's utterly foreign to him. You expect him to respond in a certain way, because that is how a person is supposed to respond. Am I right?"

"Yes," Nona said.

"But, like everything else, those responses are learned, and he has never put himself in a situation where he had to learn them. You can't expect him to know what you want from him, because he doesn't know what he wants from you. Or from himself."

Nona thought about this. "That makes sense. So, what do I do?"

"Do you love him?"

"I think I could. I really think I could."

"Then you have to talk to him. You have to tell him what you want, and if he does something wrong, or something that hurts your feelings, you're going to have to push that aside. You have to be patient and tell him what you want. Tell him how he's supposed to act."

"I don't know if I can do that."

"Then chalk it up to experience and get over it. Because there's no other way. Can I tell you something in confidence?"

Nona nodded. She was too busy thinking about what Allie had already said to pay much attention to what she was going to say. Or so she thought. The story she was about to hear struck a chord. It was strangely familiar. There was no risk of anything confidential getting past the table, because Nona would no more repeat Allie's story than her own.

"He reminds me a lot of my father," Allie said. She took a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and began to tear it into tiny pieces as she spoke. "Not my stepfather, the man who raised me, but my real father. I didn't really know him that well. He always seemed so cold and untouchable. I always thought that he didn't love me, but I was wrong. He just didn't know how to show it. He confessed that to me just before he died. I mean, I was young and I really didn't understand at the time, but now, I think back and I really missed out on a lot because I didn't try to get close to him. Don't make that mistake, Nona. Don't go through your life regretting what you didn't do."

"It's strange," Nona said. "My father was kind of like that, too. Do you think that could be the reason I'm attracted to Baruch? Because it's like having a second chance to get close to my father?"

"It could be."

"Then I've been deceiving him, and myself."

"Don't look at it that way. If nothing more comes of it than you making peace with your past, that's just fine. Because he gets something out of it, too. He learns how to give something of himself. It's a no lose situation. You owe it to yourself and to Baruch to try. Who knows, it may be your destiny to be together."

"I had thought of that. I mean, we're so different, and yet, I think we have more in common than even we realize. I really think we'd be good for each other."

"I'm not the one who should be hearing this, Nona. He is." She looked over at Rhiannon, still standing behind the bar, looking anywhere except at Nona. "He doesn't know it yet, but he has a lot of love to give. It's been building up for a long time, and it's going to take a very special person to release it. Now, you can wait around, hoping that he figures it out on his own, and take the chance that someone else will come along and do the job for you, or you can go over there right now and talk to him."

"Yes," Nona said. She stood up. "That's exactly what I'm going to do. Thank you, Allie."

As Nona walked away, Bobby Prentice came into the bar. He made his way across the room and slid into the booth across from Allie.

"It's about time you got here," she said impatiently. "Trista will be here any minute and we haven't even figured out our plan."

14.

On Fridays, Trista got off work at five o'clock. It took fifteen minutes to walk home, and about the same to walk back down town to Rhiannon's. That left her only an hour and a half to get ready for her date with Bobby. It would mean plotting her time carefully, but she had had all day to do that. Just as she had planned, it took twenty minutes to shower, ten to dry her hair, and another ten to put her make up on.

It took a little longer than she had expected to figure out what she was going to wear. She needed something that was not too dressy, but not too casual, either. Something that didn't look planned, that said 'I'm available,' not 'I'm desperate.' She finally decided on a black wool shirt and a black and white plaid flannel shirt, belted at the waist with a thick leather belt.

Choosing the right jewelry was just as involved, and in this area, she chose a silver chain and large hoop earrings. Feminine, but practical. Elegant, but not extravagant. As a final touch, she added her high school ring on her left hand. She thought this made her look like an intellectual.

She checked the overall look in the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She nodded a general approval, but something was not quite right. Further examination in the make up mirror on the counter confirmed her suspicion. Her nose looked gigantic. She added some light shading to the sides to make it appear thinner and a dab of powder blush on the tip to make it look shorter. When she checked the mirror again, everything was perfect. She grabbed her coat and purse and headed out the door.

As dusk descended on Proffitt Mines, storm clouds moved in and the temperature began to drop. Walking was difficult for her anyway, but the cold, combined with the dampness in the air, made it excruciating. Poor circulation in her hands and feet left her extremities defenseless against frostbite. The frigid metal of the braces on her legs might as well have been a red hot poker as it touched her flesh.

But none of that mattered. The darkness falling around her like a shroud didn't matter. So she put all of that out of her mind and concentrated on the one thing that did matter. Bobby Prentice, whom she had worshipped far longer than he knew, had asked her to meet him at Rhiannon's and nothing was going to keep her from keeping the date.

Did he realize, she wondered, that at the age of twenty-nine, she had never been on a real date? That she had never been kissed? That no man had ever shown the least bit of interest in her until that day, two years ago, when Bobby had taken her to dinner? Did he know that one date every two years was enough? That she would accept that happily if it meant the chance to spend just one evening with him every once in a while?

And there were things that she knew he did not know. Things that no one knew, because she had chosen not to tell. She told everyone that, two years ago, when her car broke down, the repairs had been too expensive and she could not afford to have them fixed. That was not the truth. She sold the car, because the weakness in her legs had gotten so bad that driving was a task she could no longer accomplish. No one knew that, and if she had her way, no one would.

No one knew that she had not gone to Indiana to visit her brother on her last vacation, that she had spent a week at the Mayo Clinic instead. No one knew what the doctors there had told her. That, within another year, she would be confined to a wheelchair. That, eventually, she would lose all use of her legs, and then her arms. That, sooner or later, she would need a brace even to hold up her head. Someday, she would not be able to dress herself or feed herself or even control her bodily functions. She would have to rely on others for even the simplest of things. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could prevent it. Nothing that could slow the progress. And there was no comfort in the fact that once these things had happened, she would not live long, because no one knew whether she would or not. She could live on in that condition indefinitely or she could drop dead before she got there.

It was for that reason that she did not care if Bobby did not seek a long and lasting relationship with her. It would be enough if he would talk to her, listen to her, be her friend. She would put no demands on him. She would ask nothing of him if only he would show her some compassion and kindness.

She paused at the front door of Rhiannon's. Once she stepped through, there was no turning back. Once inside, she could not loose her courage and walk away. But that was not really an option anyway. She was exhausted from the long walk and she was cold. Her fingers were numb and she could already feel the pins and needles that preceded frostbite in her toes. The consequences of turning around far outweighed any possible humiliation that awaited her inside. She opened the door and went in.

She spotted Bobby immediately. He was sitting at the corner table, with his back to the door, studying the menu. She didn't need to see his face. In a strange city, in a room full of strangers, if she did not know he was there, she would have recognized him just from the position in which he sat and the tilt of his head.

"Hi, Bobby," she said, arriving at the table having used up the last of her strength. She collapsed into a chair and tried not to look like she was in pain.

"Hi, Trista. Glad you could make it."

"I'm sorry I'm late."

"Only a few minutes. Think nothing of it. I took the liberty of ordering drinks. Coffee for you?"

"Yes, that's perfect."

"Good. Allie's getting them for us. She should be over in a minute."

"Allie? I didn't know she worked nights."

"She doesn't. I asked her to join us. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh," Trista said, "no. Why should I mind?" Why, indeed, she asked herself. At least if the embarrassment caused her to blush she could blame the cold weather. "I just thought..."

"There was something you wanted to tell me?"

"Oh, right. I've been..."

"I'm back, Honey," Allie said, setting the drinks on the table. When her hands were empty, she planted a kiss on Bobby's lips. "Aren't you going to introduce me?" She sat down and looked at Trista.

"Of course, Trista Jarvis, this is Allie Barloe."

"We've met," Trista said in an even tone. It sounded terse, but she had meant only to keep the quiver out of her voice.

"We have," Allie asked. "I'm sorry. I don't remember."

"I came in the other day. For lunch."

Allie thought for a moment, then looked up. It was such a cartoonish gesture that Trista almost expected to see a lightbulb appear over her head. "Of course. The leg brace, right? Now I remember."

"Yes."

"You work with Bobby, don't you? The receptionist or something?"

"I'm the dispatcher."

"That's right. I think Bobby told me that. Didn't you, Honey?"

"I'm not sure," Bobby said. "I might have."

"Oh well," Allie said, shrugging. "So, Trista, are you from Proffitt Mines?"

"Yes."

"I'm from Billings. I just moved here."

"I know."

"You do? I guess word spreads fast in a small town, huh?"

"I guess."

Everyone nodded in agreement. That was followed by a long, uneasy silence during which Allie stared at Trista, making her feel like an exhibit in a Ripley's Museum, some freak of nature on display for all to see, to pity and to revile.

"Is something wrong," Trista asked when she could take it no longer.

"Sorry. You have a ... smudge on your nose." She wiped at her own to indicate the location of the offending mark.

Trista grabbed a napkin and wiped at the spot Allie had indicated. "Did I get it?"

"No," Allie said. She took a napkin from Trista. "Let me." She leaned across the table before Trista could object and wiped her face the way a mother would clean up a messy child. Trista was thankful that there were not many people in Rhiannon's to witness this.

"That's better. I think I got all of it." Allie settled back in her chair and laid the soiled napkin on the table, then glanced down at it. "Oh! That was make up. I'm sorry. Oops." She laughed.

"Well," Bobby said, stepping in mercifully. "Shall we order dinner?"

"Good idea," Allie said. She looked at him and bit her lower lip. "I know what I want." Back to Trista. "What about you?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Good." She turned around and, spotting Nona, motioned for service.

Nona came over immediately. "What can I get you folks tonight?" She looked to Trista first.

"Umm, BLT and fries."

"You don't want that," Allie said. "Bacon is loaded with cholesterol. It's terrible for you. We'll both have chef salads, oil and vinegar on the side, and Bobby will have the New York steak."

"That agreeable with everyone," Nona asked, mainly for Trista's benefit.

"Absolutely," Bobby said.

"I guess," said Trista.

After Nona left, Allie turned once more to Trista. "Al makes the best chef salad I've ever had. You are going to love it."

"I'm sure I will."

"It's really cold out, isn't it," Allie said.

"Yes."

"And you walked here?"

"Yes."

"It must be really tough, not being able to drive."

"What? It's not that. I don't have a car."

"Oh. I just assumed. I'm in the same boat. But, then, I have Bobby to take me places. Isn't that right, Sweetie?" She gave Bobby a good natured pinch on the cheek.

"Yep."

"We've been practically inseparable ever since I got to town."

"I didn't know," Trista said.

"Well, I guess news doesn't spread that fast after all."

"Are you going to be staying long?"

"I wasn't planning on it," Allie said. She gazed into Bobby's eyes. "But I might be persuaded to stick around. If anyone wants me to."

"I'm glad," Bobby said. And he kissed her. It was a long, passionate kiss.

Trista pushed her chair back and started to get up. "Maybe I should go. I can tell, you two want to be alone."

"Don't be silly, Trista," Bobby said.

"We were being rude. I'm sorry."

"I invited you here for dinner. I want you to stay for dinner."

"It's just that," Trista began. "It's just... I thought..."

A look of understanding crossed Allie's face. She laid a hand on Bobby's arm. "Oh, Bobby, she thought this was going to be a date. You and her. She didn't know about me."

"Is that true, Trista," Bobby asked.

"Well, I kind of assumed it was."

"Maybe I'm the one who should leave," Allie said. "After all, I have Bobby any time, and this was going to be a special night for you, wasn't it, Trista?"

"That won't be necessary," Bobby said. "We're all adults. We'll just chalk it up to an error in communication. Forget about it and have an enjoyable evening. Right?"

"Right!"

"Yeah, okay."

"It's really kind of sweet when you think about it," Allie said.

"My mother used to say never assume," Trista said. "When you do, you make an ass of you and me. Guess I did a pretty good job of that."

"Of course not," Allie said. "Like Bobby said, it was a simple misunderstanding. These things happen all the time. Think nothing more of it."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"No!" Allie laughed. "Why should it? It's not like you'd be..." She stopped short.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What," Trista demanded.

"It's not important."

"I wouldn't be any competition for you. Is that what you were going to say?"

"No, Trista, it was nothing like that."

"Then what?"

"Trista," Bobby said sternly, "there's no reason to cause a scene. If Allie says that wasn't what she was going to say, then it wasn't."

"I was going to say you wouldn't be the first person to try and steal him away from me. I mean, he's pretty cute, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I know so."

"Thank you, Allie," Bobby said.

"You're welcome."

"I'm sorry," Trista said. "I didn't mean to... I'm just a little jumpy tonight. I'm sorry."

"It's completely understandable," Allie said.

"Completely. Trista, I'm the one who should be apologizing. I should have made my intentions clear, but I was in such a hurry this morning," Bobby said.

"It's over," Allie said. "Let's just drop it."

"Right."

"Okay."

"So, Trista," Bobby said, "what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"It's really not that important."

"Nonsense. If you're worried about Allie hearing, don't. Talking to her is the same as talking to me. We have no secrets."

""No. Really. It wasn't important. Umm, it's business and I don't like to... mix business and... It can wait until another time."

"So, Trista," Allie said, in a tone that suggested she would say just about anything to make conversation, "Bobby tells me that you... Is there something wrong?"

"No! Why?"

"Well, your face is all blotchy. I was just wondering if you were feeling all right."

"Fine. It must be the cold weather."

"Probably. But it's awfully warm in here. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine!" Trista crossed her arms over her chest. By this time, she had taken about all she could and she was desperately trying to think of a polite way to cut the evening short.

"There's no need to get defensive," Bobby said. "Allie's just concerned about you."

"No, she's not," Trista said, not daring to look at either of them. "She's trying to embarrass me."

"How could you think that, Trista," Allie asked. "I would never do that. If you misinterpreted..."

"Would you stop that?"

"What?"

"You're treating me like a child. You're talking down to me," she said, and picked up the napkin what was laying on the table and threw it at Allie, "and wiping my face. Why are you doing this? Why are you letting her do this, Bobby? I thought we were friends."

"Is that true, Bobby," Allie asked. "Are you and Trista friends? Talk to her. That's why you asked her here, isn't it?"

"Yes," Bobby said.

"Are you friends?"

"I never really thought of it in that way."

"How do you think of her?"

"I don't really. I mean, we're just two people who work together. I like her."

"Talk to her, not to me."

"I like you, Trista, don't get me wrong. But friends are people who can talk to each other without one of them feeling that he's being harassed. It's a two way street."

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for. Just stop it."

"She put you up to this, didn't she? This was all her idea. How long have you been planning this?"

"There's no need to get upset," Allie said softly. "And there's no need to call attention to this. And for God's sake, don't start crying."

"Crying?"

"This is exactly what I was talking about," Bobby said to Allie. "Everything's a conspiracy. Everyone's always out to get her."

"Well, it's true," Trista said. "And I'm not crying."

"Then what would you call it?" Allie passed the napkin back to her.

"I always thought you were a nice guy, Bobby. I guess I was wrong. You're nothing but a... a... a creep. I'm sorry I wasted my time liking you."

"You're overreacting," Bobby said. "I knew this would happen." He turned to Allie. "She gets so emotional."

"Well," Allie said sympathetically, "I can understand that." She leaned toward Bobby to say something confidential, but forgot to lower her voice. "I mean, she does have a lot of problems. It can't be easy to go through life like that. All crippled up."

"I know, but that's no excuse," Bobby said. He was kind enough to speak softly, but his words were just loud enough that Trista could hear them.

"You have to be a little forgiving with people like her."

"I've been as forgiving as I know how to be. You haven't been living with her hounding you for the last two years. I can't take any more."

"You're right. You're the only one who can speak for yourself."

"I'm not going to listen to any more of this," Trista said. She stood up and backed away from the table. "I'm never going to speak to you again, Bobby Prentice! Never!"

"If that's the way you feel about it," he said.

"You'll be sorry. You'll be very sorry you did this!" With that, she headed for the door. She would have given just about anything if she could have made a fast get away, but her legs would not let her run. The walk seemed endless, like a dream. With every step, the door seemed farther away. And through it all, she could hear Bobby and Allie still talking about her.

"What was that red spot on her nose," Allie asked.

"I think she thinks it makes it look smaller or something."

"It was all I could do not to break into a few refrains of 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.'"

"Go for it."

"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," they sang, "had a very shiny nose. And if you ever saw him..."

Trista finally made it to the door. She stepped out into the blessedly quiet, dark street. Snow had begun to fall and the wind had picked up, blowing the snow flakes around her in a dizzying screen of white. In the distance, there was an unseasonal flash of lightening, and a moment later, the low rumble of thunder. She made it to the end of the block and around the corner, and found what she could go no further. There, she leaned against the cold stone of the building, and wept.

15.

With her confidence renewed, Krystiana had opened her office in the converted garage for the first time since Monday afternoon. She had had only three appointments scheduled for Friday, so she called in a few other clients whose appointments had been canceled earlier in the week. All in all, the readings had been successful, if a little dark in nature. In that regard, she suspected that she was letting her own problems invade the sanctuary of her office, but this was a minor inconvenience that was easily overcome.

When her last client left the office at five-thirty, Krystiana returned to her house and laid down on the sofa. She would not have thought that she would be so tired after a comparatively easy day, but there was no fighting the exhaustion. In a matter of minutes, she was sound asleep.

When she finally awoke, it was not by choice. She had the eerie sensation that someone was watching her, and her subconscious, acting on its own, forced her eyes to open.

Richard was sitting on the coffee table, just inches away from her, with his elbows on his knees, staring at her. "Hope I didn't wake you," he said, unable to keep a big grin off his face.

For a moment, she just stared back at him, trying to look annoyed. Then, with a practiced motion, she grabbed the pillow out from under her head and threw it at him. But Richard had invented this game and he was quicker. He batted the pillow out of the way and it landed in the middle of the floor. In the same motion, he leapt over her and landed between her and the back of the couch.

The game had originated when they were living in Boston. In those days, a double bed had doubled as a couch, and it was much wider than the one Krystiana had now. It was cramped, but neither of them cared.

"Where have you been all day," Krystiana asked after she had managed to free her arm, which had been pinned under Richard.

"Driving around. Last night was rough."

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too," Richard said. He slipped his arm under her neck, brushed her hair out of the way, and started nibbling her ear.

"I heard about what happened," she said.

"Uh huh."

"Was it terrible?"

Richard propped himself up on his elbow. "You'd really rather talk?"

"For the moment."

"It wasn't terrible, exactly. In fact, it was educational. Scully threatened to have me fired."

"He can't do that. You're an elected official."

"He didn't realize that at the time. But that's not the point."

"Then what is?"

"I almost wished that he could."

Krystiana nodded. She had seen this coming for some time. "You want to move?"

"Maybe. Do you?"

"I don't know. I don't care. I just want you."

On cue, Richard rolled over on top of her and kissed her. He slipped one hand under her and pulled her blouse free of the waistband of her skirt, then slipped the hand under her blouse and pressed his palm against the small of her back. His hands were powerful, yet he touched her gently. Even after all they years they had spent together, the countless nights they had spent exploring each other's bodies with fingers and mouths, this was enough to throw her into an impassioned frenzy that she had experienced with no one else.

With a little effort, she pushed her own hands between their bodies and worked on unbuttoning his shirt. Richard arched his back to make the task easier, pressing his mouth harder against hers as he did so. Two days worth of stubble on his chin stung her face. There were many times when this would have bothered her, but tonight, it did not. Tonight, she did not want him to be gentle. She had no interest in the slow, romantic love making that had become the hallmark of their relationship.

She needed this night to be like the first night they had spent together, the night they had finally given in to the sexual desire that had been building in them for weeks. When all of that energy was at last spent, they had collapsed in a daze, breathless, their muscles aching, and then, they began again.

In seventeen years, they had never been able recapture the intensity of that night. But it had been fun trying.

Is that what you want? For a moment, she was not aware that Richard's voice had come into her mind. She had almost gotten used to its absence, yet it was so natural that when it reappeared, she nearly disregarded it.

Yes, she sent her response. Oh, yes.

Richard got up on his knees and pulled her into a sitting position in front of him. "God, I love you," he gasped between heavy breaths. "I don't tell you that as much as I should."

"I know," Krystiana whispered. "You don't need the words." She closed her eyes and let her mind drift into his. What she found there was an intense sadness, but she could not find it's source. "What's wrong?"

With a little effort, Richard untangled his legs from hers and sat down next to her. He took her hand in his and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. "I've been so unfair to you and you don't even know."

"You have doubts. About me, about us."

He couldn't look at her when she said that, and that was as much of a response as she needed. Silently, he invited her into his mind, and this time, he showed her all that he had been thinking and feeling in the days her voice had been silent in his mind.

She closed her eyes to watch and listen to the thoughts he was sending her. As she did this, Richard kept his eyes on her face, searching for some reaction, some hint of emotion that would confirm or deny his suspicions, but there was nothing, only the serene beauty that he at once worshipped and despised, because it masked an array of emotion that she would not allow him to see, and, therefore, that he could not understand. The only thing that could break that mask was insane fury, and he could never see it coming.

It was a sudden transformation. Her soft black eyes would become hard black stones that reflected no trace of humanity. Her full lips would part in a modified snarl and the sounds that came from her mouth were more like an animal's growl than any human speech. Richard almost expected to see this transformation when she opened her eyes.

He did not. In fact, her reaction was exactly the opposite. She smiled.

"I'm flattered," she said.

"What?"

"Richard, that you would think me capable of blocking your thoughts for all these years, at times from thousands of miles away, is flattering. I've never been completely certain that you even believed in my abilities. I'm glad you do. But if I had that power, which I do not, I would certainly never use it, and especially not on you. But you don't quite believe me."

"I want to."

"I know. And I don't know any way to prove what I'm saying."

"I know how."

"Tell me?"

"You tell me what happened that night."

She sighed and tried to move away from him, but found she had no place to go. His mind was not open to hers at that moment, for if it had been, he would have left her, then and there, and never returned. At least, that is what she had to believe, because she could have respected no other course of action.

"I don't know." She said the words in a staccato manner, with deliberate sternness behind them.

"How can you not know?"

"Believe me, Richard, I wish I did. I don't know anything more than you do. We were both there. We both saw what happened."

"We were not there! We were not in that room!"

"We saw the result. Would you want to see more?" Krystiana raised her voice to match his intensity. The anger in her words felt unnatural to her. She wasn't feeling it, yet she was expressing it.

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe if I'd been there."

"Maybe? There's no sense in thinking that way," Krystiana said. She stood up and crossed the room to the fireplace. "If you're going to start on that, then I might as well say, maybe if I had never come to America, maybe if we had never met, it wouldn't have happened. Then again, maybe it would have. Somewhere else, with someone else. Would that make you happy?"

A flash of lightening illuminated the darkened room, casting momentary harsh shadows across their faces.

Richard pushed himself up off the sofa and glared at her. "It might be better than going through life pretending that nothing is wrong. Refusing to talk about it."

"Is talk going to change anything?"

"It couldn't make things worse."

For a long time, they stood as they were, several feet apart, regarding each other with suspicion and anger. Finally, Richard's expression softened, just a bit. "I'm sorry," he said.

Krystiana shook her head. "There's no need to be. You spoke your mind."

"Can you even say the words?"

"Can you?"

He tried several times, and finally said, "No."

"So, at least we know where we stand. Neither of us has accepted..." She paused and took a deep breath. "Neither of us has accepted... You're right. I can't say it."

With slow, uncertain steps, Richard crossed the room toward her, not wanting to go to her, but unable to stay away. When he reached her, she fell into his arms and buried her face against his neck.

"You knew," he said. "It's always bothered me that you knew."

"I told you."

Richard held her at arms length and shook his head, telling her to be quiet. "When you told me what was going to happen, I was still a skeptic. It had never occurred to me that your Tarot cards could really predict the future. Then, when it happened..."

"You suspected that I had known because I had planned it."

"Yes."

"I'm not going to pretend I didn't think about it, Richard. And if you hate me for that, I can't blame you. Looking into the future is a heavy burden. And seeing something tragic is worse yet. But the hardest thing to see is something terrible happening to someone you love. I could have made it quicker, less horrible for everyone. I had a plan. I knew exactly how and when, but when the time came, I could not do it."

Any doubts Richard had had were gone now. Krystiana might not allow her pain to show on her face, but it came through in her words, and it was beginning to show in her eyes. He could feel it as he felt his own.

"Many times," Krystiana said, "I've wondered what life would have been like if we could have gone on as a family. But, as husband and wife, we were..."

"A disaster."

"Yes. To put it mildly. And as parents." She shrugged. "We were too young. I was too young. I could not give my daughter the guidance she needed, because I was still trying to find my own way. And you, you didn't know what she needed. How could you understand when you've never lived with the responsibility and the stigma that goes with who I am."

"Krystiana..."

"No. Listen to me. When I came to this country, I wore the dress of my people. I followed their customs because I knew no other. You were the only person who looked at me without fear and suspicion. I was a gypsy, and in the minds of most people, that translates as thief, liar, swindler. And if I wasn't any of those things, it didn't matter. But the truth is, I was. All of that and more."

"I know all of that. I don't care."

"Thank the Gods you don't. But I do."

Richard pulled her close and kissed her lightly. "Everyone has regrets, things they would like to change. You have to let go."

"And now I have. But then? Richard, I didn't even know if I could change. How was I supposed to know how to teach a child right from wrong when I didn't know myself?"

"That's all in the past."

"Maybe. And maybe I still don't know."

"I think you do," Richard said. "Deep down inside, you know."

"Man is inherently good. My Richard, the eternal optimist. Me, I'm not too sure. I've seen too much for too long not to question that."

"You are inherently good, Krystiana."

"I question that, too, and so do you, or we wouldn't have had this conversation."

He had to give her that point. But that question had been answered to his satisfaction, at least for the moment. He remained convinced, and rightly so, that she knew more than she was telling. There was something in her words that troubled him. He knew that if he thought about it enough, added ten, carried four and tried to balance it all out to zero, he would come up with a great big negative. But he also knew that, whatever it was, it was not important. It was just one more thing that she was not prepared to admit. Had he searched his own heart, he would have found the truth there, too. Secretly, he had always known, but he kept it locked away.

16.

Perhaps Bobby had spent too many hours thinking about Allie Barloe, imagining what would happen when he took her back to his apartment, planning every word, every move. When they were at last alone, whatever he thought might exist between them, at least potentially, he found to be little more than a fantasy.

As a lover, she was skilled. She knew just what to do and just what to say. But there was no passion. There was lust, but no real excitement. Just two bodies going through the motions with no feelings for each other.

To be perfectly honest, Bobby was relieved when it was over. At the same time, though, he was overcome with guilt. It was only then that he realized all that had occurred in the last few hours.

When he closed his eyes, he could see Trista's face and hear the things he and Allie had said to her. At the time, it had seemed necessary. It had seemed justified. But, as he laid there in his bed, with Allie next to him, he knew that it was nothing more than cruel. An animal shouldn't be treated like that, not to mention a sensitive human being, a person with emotions like his own, but compounded by the insecurities Trista hid behind a facade of strength.

He tried to put himself if her shoes. How would he feel is someone treated him that way? Damned angry, humiliated, emasculated. And why should Trista feel any different?

It was made worse yet by the fact that she would have to face him, and he would have to face her, at work on Monday. He wasn't sure that he could do that. And it would be harder for her, because she had been the object of his ridicule. The only solution would be to apologize to her before then, if she would accept an apology.

There was a problem with that, too. If he called her, she could hang up on his or he could lose his courage and hang up himself. If he went to see her, she would likely slam the door in his face. He would expect nothing less. He knew, though, that he had to try something.

Allie pulled the rumpled sheet around her and rolled over to light a cigarette. "I think tonight was very successful, don't you," she asked.

When she looked at Bobby, she had a smile on her face that was at once self-satisfied and cunning. Her eyes were dull and dazed and there was a detachment in them that could not have been there earlier. Her yellow hair hung in matted ropes that reminded Bobby, for some reason, of a photograph he had seen in one of his high school history books and that had remained with him ever since. He remembered nothing of the lesson that went along with it, but that painting he recalled in vivid detail. It was created by a 17th century artist named Caravaggio. The central image was the face of Medusa, reflected in a shield, surrounded by the snakes that were her hair.

Look upon that face, Bobby thought, and you will turn to stone.

"Well," Allie asked.

"What?"

"I said, I think tonight was very successful."

"I'm not so sure."

"Trista won't be bothering you any more. That's what you wanted, isn't it, Bobby?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Then you should be happy. Are you happy, Bobby?"

"No."

Allie balanced her cigarette dangerously on the edge of the night stand next to the bed and moved closer to him. "Don't I make you happy?"

"I didn't say that." But he meant it. "I just think it could have been handled better."

Allie sighed and sat up on the edge of the bed. She picked up the cigarette and took a long drag, then crushed it out on the top of a soda can. "I told you that there was no other way. I told you that it would not be easy. Do you think I was wrong?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe it was the only way, but that doesn't necessarily make it right. How would you feel if someone did that to you?"

"No one would dare," Allie said with intense seriousness. A moment later, she broke into laughter. "Oh, Bobby, I understand. What you did was not easy. Trista got hurt tonight, and that's not an easy thing to watch. Do you think I enjoyed it?"

"Did you?"

"No! Of course I didn't. But I did it for you. You owe me at least a little gratitude."

"Do I?"

"Yes." She crawled across the bed, laid down next to him, and kissed him. "Are you going to show me again how grateful you are?"

"Not now, Allie," he said. "Frankly, I don't think I can stand to look at you right now."

Allie jumped back and looked at him with a stony stare. "Are you asking me to leave?"

"Yes. I am."

For a moment, she did not move and Bobby wondered if she was going to be as hard to get rid of as Trista. Then she did something he did not expect. She shrugged, got up and got dressed without another word.

Bobby watched her with the same detachment he had seen in her. He could see why he had been attracted to her. At the same time, he could not understand why he had fallen under her spell. The kindness that he thought he had seen in her was no more than an act, and he had been taken in by that. He should have seen through it.

Allie looked back at him as she headed for the door. "I'm sorry you feel this way," she said, shaking her head sadly. "We could have been great together. Good bye."

She waited for a few seconds, giving him the opportunity to call her back. When he did not, she smiled, opened the door, and left.

Bobby heard the lock on the door click into place. He turned off the light, buried his head in his pillow, and tried to go to sleep.

17.

Upstairs, behind the closed door of the bedroom, Richard once again invited Krystiana into his mind. It was not a conscious decision. He found himself thinking about the evening before, when Allie Barloe came into his office. In the midst of this memory, he sensed Krystiana's presence in his mind, and rather than shutting off the images, he restarted them, showing her everything, from beginning to end.

When it was over, she smiled. "You were worried about how that would make me feel," she said. "Why?"

"You've been through so much lately."

"Richard, you and I, we're a team. We've conquered so much. This is nothing." Krystiana unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the floor. "It excited you, though, didn't it?"

"No!"

"Not her. Not her offer. But the idea, the handcuffs."

"Krystiana..."

"Be honest. You're a terrible liar, Richard, so don't try."

"Yes. I've thought about it."

"Do you want to?" She sat down next to him on the bed and ran her hands over his bare chest. "I don't mind."

"No," Richard said. "It was just a fantasy, and not one that I care to act out."

"I see," Krystiana said. Her voice was a low growl. She pushed him down on the bed and went to work removing what little of his clothing remained. "Is there anything you want to do that we haven't tried before?"

"I can't think of anything we haven't tried." His voice was trembling in anticipation.

"I can. Let me show you."

18.

Bobby was asleep and never saw what was coming. That was a disappointment, but a minor one. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. This had not been part of the plan. But now, there was no other way. What had to be done simply would have to be done.

Standing over the bed, looking down at the sleeping form, the one wielding the knife felt a kind of love for the intended victim. It was the eternal bond of hunter and prey. In another moment, they would be one forever, never to part again. Bobby's soul would be claimed, and would forever reside within the mind of his killer.

The killing should be easy. The sleeping one would not put up much of a fight if the site of the first incision was chosen carefully and correctly. He should not die immediately, but he must be rendered helpless with a single blow. He must see the face of his assassin. But he must not be able to call out for help. He must not be able to rise from the bed and fight for his life.

The one with the knife circled the bed, searching for a vulnerable spot to attack. Watching, waiting for the perfect opportunity. It was not long in coming.

Bobby moaned and rolled onto his back. A moment later, from his sleeping state, he sensed a movement in the room. He opened his eyes just in time to see the knife descending toward his throat, and the face beyond it.

19.

Richard held Krystiana in his arms, playing with the damp ringlets of hair that clung to her face and gazing into the soft fire in her eyes. He could have stayed there forever. Looking at her, touching her, loving her was enough to sustain his existence. Being near her was more than he deserved. He was so much less than he deserved, yet there she was, and she was holding on to him as though she dared not let him go.

"I think," Richard said, "that was against the law."

"Really?"

"Mm hmm. Proffitt County has some very old laws of moral conduct that are still on the books. At last count, we broke three of them tonight."

Krystiana ran her fingers through his hair and bit his lower lip playfully. "Does that mean you have to arrest me?"

"I should. But, seeing as you didn't know, I'll let you off with a warning this time."

"And next time?"

"Well, if you do that again, Ma'am, I'll have no choice but to place you under house arrest."

"We can't have that, can we? I guess I'll just have to behave myself from now on."

"Do you think you can?"

"Ignorance of the law might work once, but I don't think you'd fall for it again. Just to be safe, maybe you'd better show me what is allowed. If you have the strength."

Richard laughed. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

"You're getting tired?"

"And hungry."

"And if I feed you?"

"I might find the energy to give you a lesson or two."

"There's some left over pastitso in the refrigerator."

"I beg your pardon."

"That used to be funny. I'll be right back." Krystiana got up, pulled on her robe and left the room.

She hadn't been gone for more than a few seconds when Richard heard a blood curdling scream from the hallway. He bounded out of bed, ripping away the sheets that were tangled around his legs, and was through the door in two steps.

Krystiana was sitting at the top of the stairs, holding on to the newel post, staring at an invisible point in space. Her breath came in erratic gasps. Her face was ashen and there was terror in her eyes.

Richard fell to his knees beside her. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, trying to snap her out of whatever had her.

She put a hand on his arm. "It's all right," she gasped, but did not look at him.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

She did not seem to hear him. "Please, stop," she moaned. Her grip on his arm tightened, her knuckles turning white, her hands trembling. "No. Please. Don't do this!"

Richard could take no more. Seeing her so disturbed was more than he could bear. He stepped in front of her, took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. "Krystiana," he said harshly, shaking her again, "talk to me. What are you seeing?"

"It's... It's Bobby."

"Bobby Prentice?"

"Yes."

"What about him? What's happening?"

"Oh, God, no! Stamata!"

"Krystiana! Come on. Talk to me."

"Eza... Eki... Parakalo."

"In English. Speak in English. Uh..." He struggled for the words he wanted. "Milao anglika."

That seemed to get her attention. She looked at him, but she seemed to be looking through a thick haze, barely able to make out the form in front of her. "Richard?"

"I'm here." He took her hands, put her arms around his neck and hugged her as tight as he could. "I'm right here."

"Richard, make it stop."

"How? What can I do?"

"Save him. Go to him."

"I'm not going anywhere until I know you're all right."

"Yes," she gasped. "Fine. Go. Before it's too late."

20.

Before he left Krystiana's house, Richard called Jeffrey Ahanu, who was on duty at the jail, guarding Scully Skolinski, and who was less than pleased with the idea of going out on a call in the middle of the night, even on the orders of the sheriff himself. Richard did not care. He told Ahanu to meet him at Bobby's apartment. Now. And hung up.

Outside, the snow was falling hard. Near blizzard conditions made it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead and distinguishing the edge of the road was all but impossible. Richard tried to keep to the streets as much as he could, but that was not his major concern.

He had seen Krystiana in these spells before, but never had the reaction been so strong. Whatever she was seeing, whatever was happening to Bobby Prentice, had to be very bad. His only concern was getting to his destination.

When he pulled into the parking lot of Bobby's building, Ahanu was waiting for him, leaning against the side of his truck, watching the puffs of steam coming from his mouth as he breathed. It was frustrating to see him so calm, but then, he did not know what was going on.

There were no parking spaces open, so Richard left his car in the middle of the lot. He put it in park, but did not take time to shut off the motor or pull the keys out. He did not know how much time he had, only that he had to hurry.

As he ran for the door, he motioned for Ahanu to follow him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the deputy's face. He had not realized the urgency of the situation, but when he saw Richard's expression, it finally dawned on him and he sprung into action.

Richard nearly pulled the door off its hinges as he flung it open. As he bounded up the stairs toward Bobby's second floor apartment, he could hear Ahanu's lighter footfalls on the steps behind him.

Bobby's door was the second one from the right. Richard did not wait for his deputy to catch up to him, but pounded heavily on the door even before he had stopped running. "Prentice," he called. "Open up. It's Sheriff Dolan."

He positioned himself to the left of the door, with his back against the wall, and pulled his revolver out of the shoulder holster he wore under his jacket. Taking his lead, Ahanu did the same.

After a few seconds, when there was no answer, Richard said, "We're going in."

"What's going on," Ahanu asked in a whisper.

Richard reached across the door and tried the knob. It was locked. He stepped back, preparing to kick it in. With a nod, he told Ahanu just what to do. Richard took a deep breath, braced himself, and landed the kick just inches from the door knob. The wood gave way with a loud crack, breaking in a rough circle around the dead bolt and spewing splinters. Richard jumped back, giving Ahanu room to jump into a crouching position in the doorway, covering him.

They stood for a moment in the doorway, waiting. There was no sound or sign of movement coming from inside the apartment. Richard stepped past Ahanu, proceeding cautiously into the dark livingroom. The deputy followed him in and Richard motioned him toward the hallway. While Ahanu checked out the bedroom and bathroom, Richard would see to the rest of the apartment.

There was no one in the livingroom. There was no one in the kitchen. It was quiet, deathly quiet, until he heard Ahanu's voice.

"Jesus," he exclaimed. "Sheriff. In the bedroom."

Even before he got to the door, he knew what he was going to find. He had been in the business long enough to know a few things. He knew what the tone of Ahanu's voice meant. He knew the peculiar feeling of a place where someone has died. It was not a feeling that he could define, but this place had it.

The first thing he saw as he approached the bedroom door was Ahanu. He was standing just inside the room, staring at something Richard could not see. His face was pale and he looked nauseous. He held his gun down at his side, the hand holding it shaking. He took a step back and looked away, toward the door, and saw Richard.

"It's bad," he said weakly and shook his head.

But Richard already knew it was bad. He just didn't know how bad.

He walked into the room, then froze in the middle of the doorway. For a moment, looking at the motionless form on the bed, he could not be certain that it was Bobby.

The body was covered with a red sheet, the head resting on a red pillow. The face was covered with blood. Blood spatters stained the wall behind the bed, the carpeting around it, the lamp and the night stand it was sitting on.

Richard forced himself to take a step closer. To look at the face. Bobby's eyes were open, frozen in a glassy stare. Blood had collected in them, overflowing in a line down his temples like crimson tears. His mouth was open, caught in a silent scream.

"Call the state crime lab," Richard said, still looking at the body, unable to take his eyes off of it. "Then get the camera out of my car."

He heard Ahanu make a sound that seemed affirmative, then a moment later, he heard the creaking of the front door.

Finally, Richard was able to look away, and when he did, he found himself thinking of Krystiana. Her reaction was no longer a mystery. She had seen this. Not the end result, not what he was seeing. She had seen this happen. Some force in her had forced her to watch as the animal responsible for this went about its work.

...a great big bear snuck into the room while he was sleeping...

Death is never kind, he thought. Seeing it is always disturbing. But a death like this. How, he wondered, would she be able to live with this memory?

...it picked him up and shook him...

He should not have left her alone. He should have thought to call someone to stay with her.

...then it dropped him and...

"Stop it," he said to no one. "Just stop it."

"You say something, boss?" Ahanu was coming back into the room. He looked a little better, at least for the moment.

"No. Talking to myself."

"I got the camera."

"You know what to do," Richard said. He stepped back out of the way while Ahanu took pictures of the body from every angle.

"Who called this in," Ahanu asked, more to keep his mind off the job he was doing than out of curiosity.

"No one."

"Then how..."

"Does it matter? What did the crime lab say?"

Ahanu took the last picture. "They'll have someone down here in about an hour. The state police should be here in twenty minutes."

"Shit. What do they want?" Richard took a pencil out of his breast pocket and approached the bed. "This is a local matter." He slipped the end of the pencil under the edge of the sheet that covered the body.

"You gonna move that?"

"That was the plan."

"The state boys aren't going to be happy about that."

"Screw 'em. This isn't their jurisdiction."

"They think it is."

"You better get a picture while I do this." Carefully, he lifted the sheet and pulled it back. It was unnaturally heavy and he realized that it was not a red sheet at all, but a white one, stained with blood. Slowly, he worked the sheet down, concentrating on his task, until the body was completely exposed.

"Jesus," Ahanu said again.

Now Richard looked at the body for the first time. The most obvious wound was the one to the neck. Bobby's head was tilted slightly to the left. The cut that began in the center of his neck and extended in a perfectly straight line down the left side had nearly separated the head from the body, but left the exposed spinal column intact.

As if that hadn't been enough, there were deep gashed on his chest, four of them, parallel to each other, running diagonally from his right shoulder to the left side of his waist. Another deep cut ran perpendicular to these, leaving six loose flaps of skin mangled and twisted over the ribcage. His wrists were slashed so deeply that one hand hung from a strip of flesh no more than an inch wide.

"What could have done this," Ahanu asked.

...a great big bear snuck into the room while he was sleeping...

Richard could only shake his head and wonder the same thing.



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