Chapter Eight: Saturday, October 20

1.

Tommy was barely awake when the doorbell rang at seven o'clock. He was expecting Allie, but he wasn't expecting her so early. The way he had it figured, no one in their right mind would be awake at this hour on a Saturday morning unless they absolutely had to be. On the other hand, he was out of bed, if not completely awake, and he liked to think that he was in his right mind.

He opened the door and Allie rushed into the house without waiting for an invitation. "It's fucking cold out there," she said.

"Snow, huh," Tommy said, peering out the door. He hadn't bothered to look out a window yet and the thick white blanket on the ground took him by surprise.

Allie sat down on the marble floor of the foyer and took off her sneakers. "Yeah. I wouldn't mind so much, but I don't have any boots. Anyway, have you heard the news?"

"What news," Tommy asked. He closed the door, shutting off the cold air that was robbing the house of its warmth.

"About your friend Rachel Clancy. She's been suspended indefinitely. Word's been going around that she's a femme."

"A what?"

Allie laughed. "God, life in a small town is sheltered. A dyke. A lesbo. She fucks women. The school board and the town council are meeting Monday night to talk about what to do with her. Thought you might like to go and speak on her behalf. I mean, since you think she's so wonderful."

"I never said that."

"Are you going?"

"Are you?"

"It's something to do, isn't it? Yeah, I'm going." Allie peeled off her wet socks and rubbed her frozen feet. "Shit, I've got to get some boots. You've got a nice place here, Tom."

"Thanks."

"Too bad you won't be able to stay here much longer." Allie got to her feet and wandered into the livingroom. On the television, Elmer Fudd was chasing Bugs Bunny, who did a pirouette, a flip, and disappeared down his rabbit hole, all the while munching on a carrot. "Cartoons," Allie asked.

"Yeah, well, there's not too much on TV on Saturday mornings."

"I love cartoons. I haven't had a chance to sit down and watch them for a long time."

"You're welcome to join me," Tommy said.

"Thanks." Allie plopped down on the couch and put her feet up on the coffee table, barely missing the bowl of cereal that was Tommy's breakfast. She noticed it and moved her feet. "Whatcha got there?"

Tommy cleared his throat and grimaced. "Uh, Captain Crunch."

"That's cool."

"You want some?"

"Nah. I don't eat breakfast. But don't let me stop you. That stuff gets really disgusting if it sits too long."

"Yeah." Tommy sat down beside her and picked up his bowl.

"So, is anyone else home?"

"Just my mother."

"Would she mind if I smoke?"

"I doubt that she'd notice."

"That's right. She's catatonic. You told me that. I'm sorry I brought it up." She took her cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. "Ashtray?"

"In the drawer." He nodded at the end table and shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. "You had an idea about what to do about my father," he asked while Allie fished for the ashtray.

"Yep."

"So, what is it?"

2.

There is one assumption that can be made when conducting a criminal investigation in a small town. Everybody saw something. And whether or not it has anything to do with the crime, they will report it. It all boils down to separating truth from rumor and rumor from they stories that were made up just so that the story teller might get his or her name in the newspaper.

In the case of the murder of Bobby Prentice, it should have been easy. Even before the crime was discovered, Jeffrey Ahanu had heard from his cousin, who had been at Rhiannon's on Friday night, that Bobby had been there with Allie Barloe and Trista Jarvis, that something was done or said to make Trista mad and she left after just a few minutes, and that Bobby and Allie left together some time later and headed up Main Street toward Seventh.

While waiting for the state crime lab technicians to arrive, Richard questioned Bobby's neighbors. Almost all of them reported having seen Bobby and Allie enter the apartment together at about nine o'clock. Between nine and ten, many of them reported hearing sounds, although the nature of those sounds varied from witness to witness. Some remained convinced that what they had heard was sexual in nature. Others said, in retrospect, it must have been moans and screams of pain. Those who had seen Allie leave the apartment agreed that she did so at about ten-thirty.

From this, Richard thought he had a good suspect when he returned to Bobby's apartment. The crime lab was hard at work gathering evidence, and it was only a matter of time, he thought, until he could make an arrest. But that was before the medical examiner reported his initial findings. The time of death was between eleven and midnight, and Bobby had died within minutes of the first wound. Richard and Ahanu had burst through the door a few minutes before midnight, and Bobby had most certainly been dead at that time. In addition, the blood on the sheets and on Bobby's face had not been dry yet. That helped to further pinpoint the exact time of death.

With these clues, the medical examiner amended his first statement, putting the time at between eleven thirty and eleven fifty-five. How long had Ahanu been standing outside the apartment building before Richard arrived? Five minutes, Ahanu told them. And in that time, no one had come in or gone out. That left a window of just twenty minutes.

Of course, Richard had a better idea than anyone else of the exact time, but he knew better than to say anything. Krystiana had "seen" the murder as it happened, at about eleven thirty-five. Trying to explain that would be more trouble than it was worth.

The problem with that timing was that his prime suspect had been long gone by the time the crime was committed, and no one had seen her, or anyone else, come into the building after she left. That didn't mean that no one did, but it did narrow the range of possibilities. Someone in the building could have done it, but that, too, seemed unlikely. Richard knew everyone who lived there. Hell, he knew everyone who lived in Proffitt Mines, and it was hard to believe that any of them could have done this. Only one person, maybe two, knew the truth.

By the time the crime lab finished its work and the state police packed up their things and got out of the way, by the time the body had been removed to Billings for the autopsy, and by the time Richard had taken one last look through the apartment for any evidence that might have been missed the first ten times, the sun had come up on a new day. Walking to his car, he was struck by the contrast, the ugly reality of what had happened to Bobby and the unspoiled beauty of the snow covered land. Looking out across the field west of the apartment complex, he felt the first pangs of grief descending on him.

Inside, in the presence of his fellow officers, he had not allowed himself the luxury of thinking about the situation, of thinking of Bobby as a person who had been his friend. It had been just another crime scene with just another nameless, faceless victim. But that wasn't the truth. It wasn't even close.

Bobby loved the snow. Richard could recall the first winter he had spent in Proffitt Mines, the first snowfall of that winter. He was in his office when the snow started. He might or might not have looked out the window. If he did, he didn't notice the weather. The next thing he knew, Bobby had burst through the office door, exclaiming, "It's snowing! It's snowing!" Something about it brought out the child in Bobby Prentice.

It brought out the child in Richard, too. It must have been a strange sight later that day for anyone passing by the courthouse. Three grown men, all of them officers of the law, engaged in a vicious snowball fight on the lawn of the Proffitt County Courthouse, laughing like little boys. It had been the first of many such occasions. It had, in fact, become an annual tradition in the day of the first significant snow fall.

This would have been the day, Richard thought. But there would be no snow ball war this year, or ever again, because Bobby was dead. His friend, the young man in whom he had seen so much of himself, was gone.

There was much to be done. Reports to file, witnesses to question, but first, he needed to take a little time to grieve, to share that grief with someone else who was no doubt as disturbed by this tragedy as he was.

3.

The images she had seen were still haunting Krystiana on Saturday morning. All night, she hadn't dared to close her eyes in fear that they would return. She hadn't dared to send her astral body to stand beside Richard at the crime scene, although she almost felt that this was her duty.

Instead, she had spent many hours trying to think of something else. That tactic didn't work, though, until she confronted herself, asked herself why she was so disturbed by these images, which were no more horrible than many others she had had over the years. And when she thought about this, the answer was too obvious. She knew the person involved. She liked him, cared about him. It was sorrow that brought the images back time and time again. Once she knew that, she was able to deal with it and get it out of the way.

With that knowledge, she was able to set her mind on other things. Or, more accurately, the one other thing that was bothering her. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She could neither push it from her mind, nor control the fury that she knew was irrational, but consuming nonetheless.

So, when morning came, she got dressed and left the house to take care of that situation. She did not know what she was going to say or do, but she knew she had to do something.

Down town Proffitt Mines was dead on this morning. The only cars parked along Main Street belonged to the few shopkeepers who bothered to open their stores on Saturday mornings. From the looks of things, they would have a long wait until a customer came through their doors. The weather was a good excuse to stay home.

Krystiana parked her car in front of Rhiannon's Bar and Grill and went inside. Rhiannon, of course, was in his usual place. There was only one other person there, a young girl standing behind the bar, drinking a cup of coffee. She had to be Allie Barloe.

Krystiana took off her cape, folded it over her arm, and took a seat at the bar. From here, Rhiannon would be able to hear everything she had to say, but that didn't concern her.

"Can I help you," Allie asked without bothering to move.

"Yes, Allie, you can." The coldness in her voice caused even Rhiannon to look up from what he was doing and take notice.

Allie glanced at her boss, who instinctively looked away. If Krystiana Samara had a bone to pick with his waitress, he was not going to stand in her way. He was not afraid of her, but he was, perhaps, a bit of intimidated. The way he saw it, she had a powerful and intimate connection to a world of spirituality that he did not understand, and only a fool would cross a person who had a direct hotline to the gods.

"I'm sorry," Allie said, stepping closer to Krystiana, "do I know you?"

"No."

"Oh. What can I do for you?"

"To start with, you can stay away from Richard Dolan."

"You must be Krystiana," Allie said. She smiled a knowing smile and leaned on the counter. "I've heard a lot about you."

"I'm sure you have," Krystiana said. She found Allie's cheerful demeanor infuriating. She was doing her best to appear threatening, but the child standing in front of her either didn't notice or didn't care. "I repeat, stay away from him."

"I don't think that's up to me," Allie said.

"Then I don't have anything to worry about, do I?"

"You don't own him. Maybe you ought to remember that more often."

"I don't need your advice!"

"Maybe you do. Maybe you just don't know it."

The urge to get up and physically attack someone had never been so strong, and that disturbed Krystiana. Violence never settled anything, she knew that, and that thought was the only thing that held her back. "You are the most presumptuous little..."

"Don't say anything you're going to regret."

"Don't worry. There aren't words strong enough."

"No wonder he thinks you're..." Allie stopped short and smiled again.

"What?"

"Controlling. And selfish."

It was the oldest ploy in the book. That accusation was so general it could apply to anyone at one time or another, but it came too close to the truth, too close to what Krystiana and Richard had discussed the night before. Krystiana's rational mind told her to ignore this. But the very fact that she was here was proof that she was not listening to the rational part of her mind.

"He told you that," Krystiana asked. She knew as she said it that she had not phrased the question the way she intended. It had been a long time since she had a problem with the English language, but at times, when she was tired, as she was now, she found herself stumbling over words and searching for their meanings.

"Not in so many words, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what he meant."

"Just what did he say?"

"Why should I tell you. It was a private conversation."

"Fine," Krystiana said. "I'm really not interested in hearing your lies anyway." She picked up her cape and stood.

"He said there's no balance in your relationship."

"What are you talking about?"

"Give and take. He gives. You take. I think that's the way he put it. He feels like he's..."

"He's what? This could be interesting."

"Addicted to a bad drug."

Krystiana laughed. "You would know about such things, wouldn't you? May I give you a bit of advice, Allie? Get to know a person a little better before you start making up stories about them. Richard and I may have our problems now and then. Everyone does, and I'd be a fool to deny that. Allie, I've known him for a very long time. I know the way he thinks and the way he talks. He would never make that comparison. And if he chose to talk about his feelings with someone, it would certainly not be you. Enjoy your little fantasy. I don't have the time for it."

Krystiana turned and headed for the door.

"Have it your way, Krystiana," Allie called after her. "But I think you're the one who's fantasizing."

"Oh, really," Krystiana said. She took a step back toward Allie.

"Just don't be surprised if you wake up one day and find that you've driven him away." Allie stepped out from behind the bar and stood facing Krystiana from across the room.

"And I suppose you think he'll come running to you just because you made the offer."

"He might."

"I feel sorry for you, Allie. You're nothing but an insecure, naive liga koritsi. Do these games make you feel good? Do you need to make other people miserable in order to feed your ego?"

"I just tell it like it is. It's no game. And if it were, it would be no worse that what you do."

"Would you care to clarify that?"

"I'm talking about the games you play with the lives of the people of this town," Allie said. "Stealing their money and making up stories, pretending to tell their futures with your side-show parlor tricks. You're a con artist, Krystiana, nothing more than that. You may have these people fooled, but you don't fool me."

Rhiannon had been trying very hard to look like he was not paying attention. He kept his eyes down and had pulled a ledger book out from under the counter and was pretending to study it intently. But he was listening, and when he heard those words, he knew that something was bound to happen. He would later wish that he hadn't looked up from the book, but the fact was that he did. What he saw, he knew that he would never understand, and he did not want to.

He was only human, and he was a man. As such, it was impossible for him not to notice Krystiana. She had the kind of exotic beauty no man could resist for long. Sooner or later, every man who met her would fall in love with her.

But when he looked up and saw her face, for a brief moment, he could see no trace of that. Her face had been transformed into a mask of fury and hate. The veins in her neck throbbed and her muscles were noticeably taut, even under the flowing pastel cloth of her dress. Her breathing was slow and regular, but escaped her mouth in a low rumble, like the growl of a rabid animal. poised and ready to attack.

A moment later, a serene calm came over her face and body. Very slowly, she tilted her head back, looking toward the heavens, and raised one hand, summoning all the power the cosmos had to offer her. With the same slow, exaggerated motion, she closed her hand into a fist.

4.

Jeffrey Ahanu had learned a long time ago not to ask too many questions when it came to Sheriff Dolan, his girlfriend, or their slightly unusual relationship. So when Richard told him that Krystiana had "reported" the murder of Bobby Prentice, even though the two of them had been together at her house two miles away at the time, Jeffrey just smiled and nodded. When Richard told him to question Allie Barloe in connection with the crime, even though she was, for the time being, the prime suspect, and questioning her was, at least officially, the responsibility of the senior officer on the case, Jeffrey smiled, nodded, and said, "Sure thing, boss." Whatever the sheriff's reasons for passing this duty on to him, he had no doubt that they were valid. Incomprehensible to any rational person, but valid nonetheless.

He had grown up in a very traditional Native American household. His father was a shaman who had taught his children the legends of their ancestors the way other cultures teach the stories of the Bible, the Koran, or any other body of holy scripture. It was the truth of their religion, filled with tales of the supernatural, laced with bits of inexplicable psychic phenomenon.

Jeffrey had no more reason to doubt these stories than he had to believe them. Logic told him that the beliefs of his forefathers were too spectacular to be true, but faith told him that, in part, they were. If myths and legends are to survive through the centuries, he believed, they must have some root in truth, but as they are passed down from generation to generation, they change, each person embellishing, shaping the story to apply to the current circumstance or need.

But that was before he met Krystiana. He had heard of her, of course. He subscribed to all of the law enforcement journals and kept up with current events through newspapers from all over the country. He had a particular interest in the field of psychics who aid in police investigations, and had read many articles on the subject. Krystiana's name had been mentioned more than once in connection with some of the most celebrated cases of the last fifteen years.

Whether or not he put much stock in these reports was a matter he had given a lot of thought to, but had made no decision on when he found out that he would have the opportunity to do some first hand research. He regarded Krystiana Samara as something of an idol, an icon of popular folk heroism.

As people so often do with the others they regard in that way, he had built an image in his mind of what she would be like. He pictured a wrinkled, heavy set old woman with grizzled gray hair and dull eyes, a crone who surrounded herself with cats and who saved old newspaper clippings and meaningless scraps of paper until her home looked like a garbage dump, only less organized. There was nothing threatening about this image.

Jeffrey looked forward to getting to know the eccentric dowager he expected her to be. Meeting the real Krystiana had been a surprise, and whether it was a pleasant surprise or not, he still hadn't decided. There was something frightening about a woman possessed of that kind of beauty who was so powerful besides. He had not taken the time to get to know her as he had planned. There were no long evenings spent questioning her about her adventures in the realm of the spirits or how she had come to communicate with them so freely.

They had become friends, but even that was not his doing. For a long time, he had been speechless in her presence, in awe of her. But she had been so open with him, telling him the stories he would have asked to hear if he could have found the words.

And he had watched her, observing silently her interaction with others, especially with Richard. He was in awe of their relationship, too. There was an intimate connection between them that went far deeper than anything he had seen before. Eventually, there comes a time in every relationship when the people involved can anticipate each other's thoughts and actions. But she did not anticipate, she knew. This left him wondering just how much she was capable of.

He had noticed her car parked in front of Rhiannon's when he got there to talk to Allie Barloe, but he thought nothing of it. At least, no more than he would have thought at seeing any car there. As he approached the door, he could see her through the tinted glass window, standing not too far from the door, her head thrown back and one arm raised high in the air. He didn't think much of this, either. He didn't even stop to wonder why.

When he walked through the door, he saw Baruch Rhiannon standing next to the register and Allie Barloe standing against the wall on the other side of the room. Both of them were looking toward the far corner of the restaurant as though something were compelling them, as though they could not take their eyes off of whatever they were seeing. Fear was showing in Rhiannon's face, but Allie only looked amused. She would not be for long.

Jeffrey was about to ask what was going on when he caught some kind of motion out of the corner of his eye. It was not until a moment later, when it was all over, that he could figure out what he had seen. When he had pieced it all together, it scared the living hell out of him.

From its position next to a table in the corner, a chair had levitated, and must have hung in mid air for several seconds before hurling itself at Allie. It flew through the air so fast that when it was in motion, Jeffrey could not decipher what it was, and crashed into the wall a foot or so above Allie's head. It broke into several pieces, which fell to the floor around her, none of them, miraculously, touching her.

When he looked again at Allie's face, there was no more amusement, nor was there the fear there should have been, the fear that he was now feeling. Allie was looking at Krystiana with a kind of startled respect, but still, she could not move.

Rhiannon, who had ducked behind the bar when the chair started to move, now peered over the top of it, and seeing no more phantom furniture floating in the air, got to his feet. His face was a little paler than it had been, but was otherwise unchanged.

Krystiana, at some point, had lowered her hand and stood with her arms at her sides, staring not at Allie, but at the wreckage of the chair at her feet. Her own expression was one of incomprehension, as though she were wondering if she had, in face, done this thing, and if so, how. A moment later, when she looked up at Allie, the puzzlement was gone. "Any more questions," she asked.

Allie shook her head. "No."

Krystiana turned to look at Rhiannon. "What about you?"

Rhiannon put his hands up and took a step back. "No questions at all."

"Good."

Jeffrey cleared his throat. "I have a question," he said weakly.

Krystiana, who had not heard him come in and was not aware of his presence, spun around to face him. Instinctively, he put up one hand to ward off any stray item that might come at him on a crash course with his head. When he saw Krystiana's face, she was smiling, pleased to see him, and his gesture made him feel a little foolish. Skillfully, he turned the defensive motion into a puzzled scratch of his head.

"Jeffrey," Krystiana exclaimed, "how long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough. Do you mind if I ask what's going on?"

"There's no need," Allie said, stepping carefully over the debris around her. "It was just a little demonstration." She approached Krystiana, but must have decided not to get too close, because she stopped several feet away. "Your point is well taken, Krystiana. But it doesn't change anything."

Krystiana smiled sweetly at her. "Akathartos zoan," she said and turned back to Jeffrey. "I'm sorry you had to see this."

"So am I," he said. He took her hand and pulled her into a corner near the door. "You'd better hope that neither of them wants to press any charges," he said in a whisper.

"I don't think that will be a problem." She glanced in Rhiannon's direction, then at Allie. "Look, don't ask me to explain any of this, because I don't think I can. I just need to get out of here. You know where I am if you need me."

"Yes, I do." Jeffrey had calmed down a bit by this time, and was able to force a smile and pat her on the shoulder. He was also able to remember his own rule about asking questions. "Whatever happened, I'm sure you had your reasons."

"I'm glad someone is."

"The sheriff is looking for you."

"I thought he might be. Is he in his office?"

"He should be pretty soon."

Krystiana smiled once more, a little sadly, and walked out the door. Jeffrey watched her go, still wondering about what he had seen and what her words had meant, and sorry for having walked in on this scene. For a moment, he could not remember why he had come here, and he wondered if it was destiny. But then he saw Allie Barloe, and he remembered. What had started as a bad day was getting worse by the minute.

5.

Preacher Fitzhugh had not been home since his altercation with Doc Murphey on Thursday afternoon. Part of the reason had to do with the memories of Judy that haunted every nook and cranny of the house in Hamlin. But another part, the bigger part, had to do with Doc himself. Preacher was watching him. He wanted to be there when Doc was arrested for attacking him. He wanted to see the puzzled look on Doc's face.

But two days had passed, and Preacher had begun to realize that this was not going to happen. The sheriff either didn't care or didn't believe him. Whatever the case, his grievance was to go unavenged unless he took it on himself to do something about it. And lately, he had had plenty of time to think about revenge.

He had taken up residence under the porch of the house across the street from Doc Murphey's For two days, whoever lived in that house had been unaware of their unwelcome visitor, just as Preacher had been unaware of them. He had remained very quiet, venturing out only under cover of darkness or when he was absolutely certain that no one was at home. For warmth, he had taken some old towels and boxes he had found in a garage that had foolishly been left open. These things, he was sure, would not be missed. He had also put in a hearty supply of Wild Turkey, on which he had spent the last of his welfare check. That meant the remainder of the month would be lean indeed, but that never entered his mind.

Planning for the future was not something Preacher bothered with anymore, and at the present time, a couple of bottles of his blessed alcohol seemed more important than almost anything else. It was relatively warm under the porch, but in the dead of night, when the wind began to blow and the snow came, it was damned cold. He needed the drink to ward off the icy numbness in his limbs.

It is said that alcoholics never suffer from hangovers. Preacher had no desire to test that theory. He had had his share in his lifetime, and didn't like them one bit, so to prevent that circumstance, he decided to just stay drunk. That was the condition in which Saturday morning found him.

When he awoke, it was completely dark under the porch, and he thought it was still the middle of the night. But, on further thought, if that was the case, he should be able to see the glow of the street lights, and he could not. He concluded that the situation warranted further investigation. He found, as he tried to push the towels and sheets of cardboard off his body, that the dampness in the cold air had settled in his joints and even the smallest movement was excruciating. Biting his lip in a vain attempt to fight the pain, he struggled to his hands and knees and crawled in the direction he thought was the front of the porch.

Beneath his bare hands, he could feel the remnants of the slimy moss that had grown on the hard packed soil over the summer. Farther on, he felt a depression in the earth, filled with straw and soft fur. It had probably been the home of field mice in the warmer months. By now, they would have moved inside.

He continued on, three grueling yards to the edge of the porch, and without warning, ran head first into a wooden wall. With no way to tell if this was the side of the porch or the foundation of the house, he made an arbitrary decision and turned right, crawling along the wall. Two more yards and once again, his head struck wood. Another right turn, another few yards, the same thing.

Preacher was beginning to panic. What if the front of the porch had been boarded up while he was sleeping? What if he was trapped forever, left to die like a rat on a sinking ship? This time, when he turned right, he moved faster, desperate to complete his rounds and know for sure what his fate was to be.

After about a yard, his hand touched the towels and cardboard that had been his bed, and the panic increased. He once again scrambled forward, and before his feet passed the pile of bedding, his head once more struck wood, but this time, it was the loose latticework that covered the front of the porch. When he hit it, he knocked loose a spray of snow that fell in on him and opened a tiny crack in the wall of the snow drift, letting in the beautiful morning light. He grasped the latticework cover and shook it, knocking away more of the snow. When at last he was content with the light he had let in, he moved off in search of the loose board that had become his front door.

Finding it, he pulled the board away from its place and set it aside. Carefully, so as not to give himself away, he pushed on the snow drift, creating another small opening, and peered out.

He was just in time to see Doc Murphey walking down the sidewalk from his front door to his driveway, where his ancient Dodge Diplomat was parked. He whistled as he walked. Not a care in the world, and that just didn't seem right.

More intent than ever on getting even with the doctor, Preacher first thought of darting out of his hiding place, running across the street, and strangling the man with his bare hands. But there were a couple of problems with that plan. One, Preacher was too drunk and too sore to run any more than a few steps, not to mention across the street. And two, a quick death would not be good enough. Preacher wanted to see the doctor suffer.

Make that three problems. Once Preacher left the sanctity of this hiding place, he could not return. Footprints in the freshly fallen snow would give him away, and it was not likely, once he was found out, that the people in the house would take kindly to his living under their porch.

For now, he would have to stay where he was. From here, he would make his plans, and he would leave only after he had figured everything out. No matter how long it took.

6.

After Krystiana left Rhiannon's, she sat in her car for a full ten minutes, thinking over what had happened. She did not doubt that she had been responsible for the events that had taken place. She had levitated the chair, or, her thoughts had levitated it, and had flung it across the room. It was something she had not known she was capable of, and yet, she had done it without thinking about it. Then, how had she known to try it?

None of it made sense. The whole morning, the whole week had not made sense. Trying to put it all into some semblance of order was going to do little more than give her a headache, so after a little while, she went on to something else.

She thought she knew herself pretty well. She had never been what she would call a jealous person. She had sat idly by on countless occasions as women of all descriptions from all walks of life had flirted with Richard. The same things that had made her fall in love with him attracted other women to him, and she accepted that without a second thought. She was secure in the knowledge that he loved her, and if she ever doubted that, she had only to go into his thoughts and look at herself through his eyes.

She also knew her own temper, and she knew that, at times, it was bad. But the kinds of things that previously had driven her to the extreme she had reached today were drastic in comparison to the relatively innocent things Allie had said. There was no justification for her reaction. It had been irrational. Even insane.

Like her mother? Maybe. With the destructive impulse turned outward rather than on herself. She had given that idea more thought over the years than she would admit to anyone, and she had reached only one conclusion. If she did, at some point, find herself traveling down that road, it would not be fair for her to drag Richard along with her.

But, living in fear of going insane was as bad as being there already. And one irrational act does not psychosis make. Just because she had one symptom, that did not mean that she had the disease. If she kept reminding herself of that, she would be alright.

She searched her mind for some trace of Richard, and in a moment, found him. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift into his, seeing what he was seeing. He was driving along Glacier Boulevard, headed toward her house. That made perfect sense since he would want to question her about what she had seen the night before. If he didn't find her at home, he would head for his office. If she walked to the courthouse, she would get there at about the same time he did. The cold air, she thought, would be good for her. It would clear her mind.

She got out of the car just as Jeffrey Ahanu came out of Rhiannon's. In a way, she had hoped not to see him again that day. He had seen a side of her that even she had not known existed, a side that she would rather no one see, and that embarrassed her more than she could say.

But, on the other hand, they were friends, and he would be kind enough not to bring it up if he knew that she did not want to talk about it. And, she thought, she had made that quite clear.

Jeffrey stopped in front of her car and looked at her. There were questions in his eyes, but they would not cross his lips, and she thanked him silently for that. Whether or not he was able to pick up on that thought, she did not know. She could not read him in the way she read Richard, but she had always been much better at sending thoughts than at receiving them.

"Are you going back to the courthouse," she asked.

"Yeah."

"Mind if I tag along? There's a favor I'd like to ask of you."

7.

The ambush was carefully planned. Hidden behind the bushes that lined the walk from the parking lot to the door of the Proffitt County Courthouse, the would be assailants were all but invisible to the intended mark. Hiding, though, was overkill. Richard was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice much of anything.

The first shot grazed the back of his head. He barely had time to think, what the hell, before the second one caught his chest dead center, leaving a white circle of snow on his uniform jacket.

His first thought was that Bobby must be laying in wait for him, but of course, Bobby was dead. But then, who...

A second round of ammunition came at him, this time from both sides of the walk at once, hitting him this time in the shin and shoulder respectively. This time, it was accompanied by the deep feminine laughter that could be only one person.

Another snowball came out of one of the bushes, and he managed to avoid it by diving behind a concrete bench. "You better watch it, Krystiana," he called, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a hard ball. "I'm ready for you this time!"

"You'll have to find me first," she called back.

The sound of her voice came from the opposite side of the walk, but the snowball that hit him in the back of the neck did not. He spun around in time to catch a glimpse of blue through the deep green of the conifer hedge. He got the pitch off in time to clip the fleeing form on the back of the leg.

"You have an unfair advantage," Richard said.

Krystiana parted the branches of a bush directly across from him. "Call it tactical superiority," she said, and before Richard had the chance to grab another handful of snow, she launched another ball, this one finding its destination between his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, she was gone. He wiped the snow from his face and laughed. This was just what he needed, and he should have expected it. It was just the kind of thing she would think of.

He crept out from behind the bench and across the sidewalk, staying low and packing his snowball ever tighter as he went. For good measure, he picked up another handful. It never hurts to have a backup.

He reached the line of bushes and pushed them back slowly. As he poked his head through, he caught a flash of red, Krystiana's cape, out of the corner of his eye before a handful of loose snow was thrown in his face. Blinded by it, he threw a snowball in the direction of the spot where he had last seen her.

"Missed me," she called, taunting him.

Behind him, Richard heard a soft "Psst." He looked up and saw Jeffrey Ahanu kneeling near him with one finger planted solidly over his lips. With the other hand, he pointed to Richard, and indicated the end of the hedge, then to himself and the other end. Richard nodded in comprehension.

With their plan laid out, the two moved slowly along the hedge, listening intently for any sound coming from the other side. Richard reached his end first and glanced back at Jeffrey, who was just slipping into position. They would lunge around the corner on the count of three. Richard held up his hand and did the count. With perfect synchronization, they rounded the corner. And stood face to face, thirty-some feet apart, with no sign of Krystiana but the rustling of branches where she had slipped through the hedge.

"Nice try," she said. "But I'm over here."

Before she finished speaking, they were back around the hedge and on the sidewalk with Krystiana trapped between them.

"You're good," Jeffrey said.

"But we're better."

Or so they thought. Richard threw a snowball that should have hit her square in the stomach, but with quick, cat-like reflexes, she jumped out of the way and the ball sailed past her, loosing altitude as it went, and hit Jeffrey in the knee. Jeffrey had better luck and hit the tail of her cape.

"Come and get me," Krystiana called as she slipped through the bushes on the other side of the walk.

Without so much as glancing at each other, Richard and Jeffrey followed her to the main lawn of the courthouse, where she was waiting with a snowball in each hand. She threw both of them at once, in opposite directions, and while she did not manage to hit either of them, it was enough to make both of them jump out of the way of the pitches and gave her time to take up a tactical position behind a big oak tree.

"You're in for it now, lady," Richard said, trying to sound menacing through his laughter. "You've got nowhere to run."

She leaned out from behind the tree long enough to toss one snow ball, but it was also long enough for Richard to get one off and it hit her on the shoulder.

While she had been occupied with Richard, Jeffrey had snuck up behind her. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her out into the open. Her scream as he did so was as much in jest as it was startled.

"What do you want me to do with her, Sheriff," Jeffrey asked.

With a smile, Richard picked up a handful of snow and started toward her. "Let me think," he said, packing the snowball. "Assault on a police officer, flight to avoid capture." Satisfied that the snowball was hard enough, he tossed it in the air and caught it. "What do we do with the hardened criminals, Deputy?"

"Toss 'em in the lockup," Jeffrey said.

"I can make it worth your while if you let me go, Sheriff," Krystiana said.

"Tempting offer."

"You'd be a fool to pass it up."

Richard nodded thoughtfully. "Okay," he said. "Release her."

"Thank you," Krystiana said. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then ran once more for the bushes.

Richard was ready for this and pitched the snowball low. It caught her in the back of the knee, knocked her off balance, and she fell, laughing, to the ground. She made no effort to get up, but rolled onto her back, trying to catch her breath through the laughter. In a second, Richard was on top of her, straddling her waist. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, "I've got you now."

"And for always," she said. She reached up and gently touched his cheek. "Are you alright?"

Richard moved off of her and sat down in the snow next to her. "I am now. Thank you." He took her hand and held it tightly. "I don't know..." ...what I would do without you, he finished the thought silently.

"Survive," she said. "You would survive."

Richard cupped her chin in his palm and looked deeply into her eyes. "I hope I never have to," he said.

Could it be that he had known her thoughts. Of course that was possible, but the thought was unnerving. For the first time, she knew how he must feel, knowing that no thought, no matter how deeply hidden or personal, could be kept completely secret. She realized how small a part of her existence she had permitted him to see, and if, suddenly, he were to see it all, heaven knows what might happen. "I hope not, too," she said.

8.

It had been a fitting tribute to Bobby, Richard thought. He would have approved, but still, it seemed wrong to have been laughing and playing when he should have been looking for Bobby's killer. It seemed wrong, also, to be sitting in his office, drinking hot coffee, wrapped in a blanket waiting for his clothes to dry. It seemed wrong to be sitting there engaged in idle chit chat with Krystiana when she was the one person who might be able to shed some light on what had happened.

It might be a politically incorrect idea, but it was all but impossible for Richard to question a beautiful woman with whom he had an intimate relationship when she was sitting across the desk from him wearing nothing but the spare uniform shirt he kept in his locker. It would have been different if the matter at hand were the usual trivial misdemeanors that he dealt with on a daily basis, but it was not. Murder is a serious business, and if Krystiana had anything important to say, he would need to keep his mind on that, and not be staring at her bare legs or undressing her with his eyes.

Of course, Krystiana was aware of this line of thinking, and for a moment, considered pulling the blinds and indulging his wildest fantasies right there on the desk. But, in truth, she was still exhausted from last night, and besides, the lock on the door hadn't worked in years. Instead, she reached for the blanket she had refused earlier and wrapped it around herself, blocking his view.

"I don't want you to think me heartless, Richard," she said thoughtfully. "I adored Bobby. You know that. And I grieve for him."

"But you're wondering if I'm wondering why you aren't more bothered by what you saw than you are. I suppose I am. It's none of my business."

"It is. It's our business. The truth is, I've seen so much, things much worse than this, that it doesn't affect me anymore. Once I can separate the act from the person, it's nothing."

"If that's the case, then I feel very sorry for you."

"So do I, sometimes. But self pity is an indulgence we don't have time for. This vision, if I could change it, if I could see these things before they happened and do something about it, then I certainly would. But that's not possible. The best I can do is suppress it."

"Or you couldn't deal with it. It would drive you crazy."

"It's doing that anyway," she said, staring at her reflection in her coffee cup. "I'm sorry. I guess I am feeling sorry for myself." She knew it was pointless to think of her mother's fate, but at the moment, she could not get it out of her mind. More and more often, she felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of the powers she had. Her recent brush with not having them at all was even worse.

"You are not your mother," Richard said. He came around the desk and knelt beside her.

"Reading my thoughts now, are you?"

"You can be pretty obvious at times. How old was Kerkira when she died?"

Krystiana shook her head. She knew where he was going with this. "She was seventeen."

"And she had had mental problems all of her life, hadn't she?"

"Yes, but..."

"So stop worrying. Do you want to talk about what you saw?"

"Is that a polite way of interrogating me," Krystiana asked. The old sparkle had returned to her eyes and she smiled.

"I guess it is," Richard said. He returned to his chair. They might both be nearly naked and wrapped in blankets, but if this was going to be a witness interview, he was going to try to make it as business-like as possible.

"I don't think you'd want to know everything I saw," she said. "What you really want to know is if I saw the killer."

"Did you?"

"I wish I could help you. No, I don't. What I saw, I saw through the killer's eyes. You could say I saw myself doing those things. I don't know who it really was."

"Any ideas?"

Krystiana thought for a moment, then shook her head, then shook her head. "The feeling was very familiar. I've seen through those eyes before, but the identity has always been a mystery to me."

"Can you tell me what you've seen before?"

"Hmm," Krystiana said, nodding slowly. "There was something." She searched her mind for the old images. "It was about a week ago. I was busy with something else, and I really wasn't paying attention. It feels like it was important, though. It's not going to come to me right now. And there have been other bits and pieces. Things I can't really put together to form an identity."

"Is it someone from around here?"

"What you really want to know is this. Was it Allie? I don't know. It could have been. It also could have been just about anyone else. I've had this kind of experience with a lot of people. Sometimes before I've met them, sometimes after."

"Have you met Allie Barloe?"

"Allie... Barloe," Krystiana said. "I didn't know her name. Yes, I met her this morning."

"And?"

Krystiana shrugged. "I don't know."

9.

It was not until Richard was alone in his office, listening to the prevailing silence, that he remembered that there was a prisoner in his jail, and that that prisoner had been there for well over twenty-four hours and had not been charged with a crime because Richard had never been able to get in touch with Judge Winslow. If he were so inclined, and Richard had no doubt that he was, Scully had the makings of a good law suit on his hands, and "I forgot," would not be an adequate defense.

Of course, once he had located Winslow, Richard could rearrest Scully, and this time, make sure everything was done by the book, but that was locking the stable door after the horse had gotten out. For the moment, there was little to do but go down stairs to the jail, open the door and issue a brief, if not hear felt, apology. Nothing flowery. No groveling. There was no point in putting ideas in Scully's head. But something would have to be said.

Richard had no more opened his office door to do just that when Tommy Skolinski came into the lobby. His hands were in his pockets and his eyes were cast down, watching the floor. His jacket was zipped all the way to his chin and the collar was turned up, hiding most of his face. What was visible of his face was red and chapped from the cold. There was something in that face, something other than common sense, that told Richard that this boy was not here to see his father.

"What can I do for you, Tommy," Richard asked, catching Tommy by surprise. He had not seen anyone because he was not looking for anyone. If the truth were known, which it was not, he had been hoping that no one would be here.

"Sheriff Dolan," he said, "I, uh, need to talk to you. About my dad."

"Have a seat." Without stopping to think, Richard sat down at the nearest desk, which happened to be Bobby's. His first impulse upon doing this was to get up and move to Ahanu's desk, but there was really no need for that, and it might look a little odd, so he stayed where he was.

Tommy slumped into the chair next to the desk, without taking his hands out of his pockets, and stared straight ahead at the back wall of the room, appearing to study the usual array of posters featuring McGruff the crime dog and urging everyone to "Just Say No to Drugs." At any other time, Tommy would have met this with his usual response of, "I did, but the drugs didn't listen." But he was in no mood to try to be funny. He wasn't even sure why he was here, and he knew he didn't like what he was about to do. But Allie was right. It had to be done.

"There's something I've gotta say," Tommy said, shifting his gaze from the wall to his hands, which he had pulled out of his pockets. He picked at the thumbnail of his left hand. "You see, I didn't exactly tell the truth before. My father has been really upset with me because of the accident. I got really tired of hearing about it, and I just couldn't take it anymore. So, the other night, when he came home, and he was drunk and started in on me again, I sort of lost my temper."

"Before you say anything more," Richard said, "I have to know if you're making this statement of you own free will. Did someone tell you to come down here?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, someone told me that I should tell the truth, and that's why I'm here."

"You are aware that making false statements is a serious matter." The subtle threat of punishment, Richard thought, might be enough to change Tommy's mind. His actions might merely be the result of nervousness, but something told him that Tommy was lying.

"I'm aware of that. It makes coming here that much harder, but it's the right thing to do. I got mad and I was the one who attacked him. He took it as long as he could, but he had to defend himself. Anyway, when I called you, I was still really mad. That's why I said what I did. It was all a lie and I'm sorry."

"Can you say that without staring at your thumb," Richard asked.

Tommy looked up as though he had not been aware of what he was doing. After a moment, the confusion passed and he smiled ironically. He looked Richard in the eye for a moment before he spoke. "I lied. My father is innocent of the things I said he did. It was my fault."

There was nothing Richard could do to change Tommy's mind, and he tried. Tommy stuck to his second story, acted as though he could not remember the story he had told before, and after all, Scully had to be released anyway. When Richard finally told Tommy this, a momentary look of panic crossed the boy's face.

"You're releasing him right now," Tommy asked.

"What did you expect?"

"Well, I thought it would take a while. You know, that there would be a lot of paper work or something."

"Of course, there is, but it should only take a few minutes, if you want to wait for him," Richard said. He watched closely for Tommy's reaction to this.

What he saw was a very scared little boy, with darting eyes, squirming in his chair. "I can't," he said, his voice shaky. "I'm supposed to meet my grandfather. Can I... Can I go now?"

Richard thought for a moment, or at least, pretended to. "I suppose so," he said thoughtfully. "I don't imagine there will be any charges brought against you. And if there are, I know where to find you."

"What?"

"You did make false charges against your father, and it resulted in false imprisonment. I told you, it's a serious matter. Now, are you absolutely sure about what you've just told me?"

"Yes," Tommy said. He stood up and backed toward the door. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Richard could only shrug. When he did, Tommy turned around and ran for the door.

It has been said that if there is no complaint, there is no victim, and hence, no crime. On many occasions, Richard had given some thought to that theory. At different times, in different places and different situations, the scales of pro and con had tipped both ways. Here and now, it seemed like utter bullshit.

Tommy was a victim, there was no doubt about that. He was a victim who had endured years of conditioning that taught him not to complain, that he must accept his lot in life and not cause trouble. He had nearly escaped. He had gone so far as to report the crime that had been committed against him. Then that training kicked in and he changed his story. Did that mean that he had not really been the victim of that crime? No. It just made the victimization that much worse.

10.

It took considerable effort on the part of Charles Proffitt not to simply strangle any person that crossed his path, and had Scully done it, the effort would have been in vain, because instinct would have taken over. He had spent the better part of Friday night and all of Saturday morning in Scully's office at Proffitt Mining Company going over the financial records that had been so carelessly left on the desk and trying to make some kind of sense out of what had happened to the company.

It did not make sense. None of it. How could a corporation of that size, a corporation that had never ended a year in the red, up until eight years ago, go down the drain that fast? How could one man, even the man in power, do this kind of damage when production was up and labor costs were down?

Proffitt Mining was a well oiled machine, even if Charles didn't approve of some of the tactics Scully had used to get it to that point. Scully paid the miners less than industry standards dictated. He had fewer men doing more work, and yet managed it so that no one complained. He was, or had seemed to be, a good and kind boss, if not a fair one.

But, in spite of all of this, Proffitt Mining was on the verge of extinction, and, to anyone else who might be searching for the reason, there might have been no good explanation for it. Charles, though, knew the business like the back of his hand. It had taken a while, long hours of running endless columns of numbers through the computer and comparing the bottom lines, but he found it.

Scully had done a fine job of competing in a depressed market by increasing efficiency and productivity, by keeping expenses in a manageable range, and by maintaining sales levels where other companies in the industry had suffered. On the outside, this would appear to strengthen the company, but when it came down to the raw figures, the problems began.

Scully had kept Proffitt Mining competitive by renegotiating contracts and underselling the competition. In the final analysis, per unit production costs exceeded per unit sale price by about one third. The more coal Proffitt Mining sold, the more money it lost.

All of this added up to a great big black cloud hanging over Charles Proffitt's head when he picked his grandson up at his home and headed down Sixth Street toward Sutcliffe. He had murder in his heart, but he tried not to let it show on his face. He tried not to let Tommy see it.

Charles managed to keep his eyes on the road, but he was blinded by his anger and he really didn't see anything. He didn't see Old Mrs. Hammond digging in the snow, gathering the seeds from her petunia plants at the edge of the alley as he swung his car into its usual parking space. He didn't notice the fact that his tires passed mere inches from her hands, or that, startled by the close call, she had fallen over backwards and for a moment lay on her back with her arms and legs flailing in the air like a turtle trying in vain to turn over, or that when she did manage to get to her knees, she whipped the thirty-eight out of the pocket of her parka with the speed of an Old West gunslinger and already had the gun aimed and cocked before she realized who she was about to shoot, and, cursing under her breath, returned the weapon to her pocket.

Tommy didn't notice any of this, either. His mind was occupied with his own problems. He never even bothered to ask where they were going. He didn't really care, as long as it was away from the house his father would be returning to in just a little while. As far as he was concerned, Charles could drive him to down town Timbuktu, where ever that was, and drop him on a street corner with nothing but the clothes on his back and a wave good-bye. It really wouldn't matter, because he would be better off there than anywhere Scully might think to look for him.

It was only when the car screeched to a halt, with the front bumper penetrating the juniper shrub at the front of the space, that Tommy came to enough to wonder where he was. He recognized Sutcliffe, and some of the houses, but it had been a long time since he had taken this short cut from his home to the Standard Oil Station, where he went almost every day when he was younger to buy a Pepsi or a pack of gum. In fact, it had been several years since he had realized that if he took the longer route around the park, then along Eleventh to Hill Street, not only was the scenery more interesting, but it allowed him to be out of the house and away from his parents for longer periods of time.

He searched his memory, trying to recall the old pseudo-Victorian house with the pink and purple garage, and came to the conclusion that, while it must have been there all along, it couldn't have been pink and purple, because he would certainly have noticed and remembered that. He would have made it a point to get to know anyone who would dare violate the unwritten rule that all homes in Proffitt Mines be painted neutral tones, like white or tan, or, to be really shocking, pale green or yellow.

Without a word, Charles got out of the car and started up the walk, taking for granted that Tommy would follow him. Only when he reached the door to Krystiana's office did he look back. Tommy was standing half way down the sidewalk, staring at someone or something Charles could not see.

"Move it," Charles said, knocking on the door. "We're already late."

11.

The telephone conversation between Charles and Krystiana on Friday afternoon had been nothing if not cryptic. He had said only that he needed to meet with her, and indicated that there would be someone else there. She had sensed his frustration and agitation, but her psychic probe of him had revealed no more than his words.

Charles had a very strong personality and he tended to deny his emotions, even to himself. That made him a very difficult man to read. Krystiana had never gotten a strong psychic image from him, so when her powers failed on him this time, she wouldn't have given it a second thought, but the feelings she felt from him were so strong, and so near the surface, that disguising the source of them would almost be impossible.

That left Krystiana with a curious conclusion, one that was as exhilarating as it was disturbing. If she tried very hard, she could read some thoughts from almost anyone, and after knowing them for a prolonged length of time, their thoughts would eventually be as natural to her as Richard's. That aspect of Charles, though, would apparently be forever a mystery to her.

One thing she knew about Charles Proffitt, one thing that she did not need any psychic ability to see, was that he was never early for an appointment, and he was never late. As the clock struck the appointed time, he would unfailingly knock on the door.

This afternoon, when the mantle clock on the table in the corner of the office struck two thirty, Krystiana was prepared for the arrival of Charles and his mystery guest, but it did not come for another five minutes.

Charles came into the office with his mystery guest in tow. Krystiana was surprised to see Tommy. Of all the people Charles could have brought to see her, this was the one she had not considered.

Of course, it had been less than a week since the accident that had killed Jen Laughton, and it was only reasonable that Tommy would be having a hard time dealing with it. That, in addition to the family problems that had become public knowledge would be difficult for anyone to handle. Charles seemed to be the only one in the Proffitt family with the capacity to care about what the boy was feeling, but if he needed help, Krystiana thought, this was not the place for him.

"Good afternoon, Charles," she said. "And Tommy, how are you?"

Tommy looked at his grandfather, then back to her. "Uh, fine."

"You don't know why you're here, do you?"

"No."

"Then we have something in common. Charles?"

Charles made his way to a chair and sat down. He hooked his cane over his arm. "I suppose you've heard everything. He doesn't have anyone to talk to. You've always given me good advice."

Krystiana nodded. "Tommy, come here and sit down. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not," he said, but the steps he took toward the table where Krystiana was seated were small and tentative. Finally, he lowered himself into the chair across from her.

"We've never met. Do you know who I am," Krystiana asked.

"You're the psychic."

Krystiana laughed. "Okay. My name is Krystiana. Anything you say to me will stay in this room. I don't know if I can help you, Tommy, but your grandfather thinks I can. So, tell me, Tommy, why are you here?"

"Because he brought me here."

"No, Tommy. Why are you here?"

Tommy searched for an answer, but none of the responses that came to mind seemed right.

"All right," Krystiana said, "let me tell you a story. I was born on the Isle of Crete, into a band of gypsies. Most of my people were illiterate, uneducated, but they had a strong sense of history. And so, they devised a plan to record their history. My name is Krystiana, from Kriti, Crete. My mother was Kerkira, for the town in which she was born. And so it has always been and will always be with my people. Our names are our history. What does this say to you, Tommy?"

"I'm here because I'm a Proffitt," he said. "Because my past and my future are ruled by my name." He spoke as though amazed at his own insight. "Because I've always been told what my future will be, and I've never been given a choice."

"Because?"

"Because of my name."

"You're wise beyond your years, Tommy. I was a lot older than you when I finally figured that out. When you are raised to do something, it's very hard to break away."

"It's impossible."

"Is it?"

Tommy looked over his shoulder at Charles, who was watching intently.

"Maybe it's time you told him the truth," Krystiana said to Charles. "The truth of who you are, or who would have been if you had not been Charles Proffitt. Maybe it's time you told yourself the truth."

Charles averted his eyes from her. Slowly, he hoisted himself out of the chair and crossed the room, feeling like he was walking the last mile to the death chamber. She was right. She was always right. The time had come.

Krystiana offered him her chair and he accepted it gratefully. She stood behind his as he sat and looked across the table at his grandson, and it was as though he were seeing the boy for the first time, and seeing himself, too, when he was a boy. Krystiana laid her hands on his shoulders and leaned close to his ear. "It's all right," she said gently. "He'll understand."

Her hair brushed against his face. He could smell violets and honeysuckle and in his mind he traveled back to his youth. He wanted to close his eyes and see the images that were fighting their way to the surface, to get lost in the memories. But it would serve no purpose but his own, and he was here for Tommy, not for himself.

Krystiana moved away from him, and the memories faded with her scent. She knelt next to the table. "Give me your hand," she said to Charles. He hoped that she didn't see him tremble as he complied. "Tommy," she said, and held out her other hand. Hesitantly, the boy gave her his. "Trust. In me and in each other." She brought their hands together and held them in both of hers in the center of the table.

"When I was your age, Tommy," Charles said, "I started to doubt... I knew what I was supposed to be. I thought it was what I wanted. But it wasn't. I know that now, and it's too late. I should have followed my heart."

"What would you have done," Krystiana whispered.

"I don't know."

"You didn't know you had an option, and so you never explored your abilities."

"No. I used to write poems. I think Evelyn still has some of them in a box somewhere. Maybe I would have been a poet, and maybe I would have failed."

"Would that have mattered?"

Charles could not define what he was feeling. It was as though he were floating in a dream state, somewhere outside of himself, listening to his own words like they were the words of a stranger. "No, it wouldn't have mattered."

"Why?"

"Because I would... have followed my heart."

"Tommy?"

"Yes?"

"What do you want? More than anything else in the world, what do you want?" Krystiana took her hands from theirs, breaking the connection, breaking the spell. Charles looked around to see what had happened. Tommy just shook his head. "Look inside yourself. Where do you see yourself in twenty years, in ten, tomorrow, next week? What do you see in your future?"

"I... I don't know," he said. "I thought you were going to tell me."

Krystiana smiled and picked up the deck of Tarot cards from the table. "Is that what you want," she asked, shuffling the cards. "Do you want one more person telling you what you're supposed to do?" She fanned the cards across the table, face up.

Tommy reached out for the cards, but pulled his hand back. "It's all right," Krystiana said. "Let's find out what you see in them."

With a delicate touch, Tommy began move the cards, pushing some away from him, turning them, studying them. He picked up the Moon, looked at it, set it down. He repeated this with the Page of Wands. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking for," he said.

"It's alright. You're doing fine."

He looked at the cards some more. Then he stopped and picked up the Queen of Cups. He looked at it for a long time. "She's beautiful," he said. "She reminds me on someone."

Krystiana took the card from his hands. "That's an interesting choice."

12.

Trista had no intention of responding when she heard the doorbell ring on the afternoon of Saturday, October 20th. There was no one in town she wanted to see. There was no one she wanted to talk to. There hadn't been to many people at Rhiannon's last night, but there had been a few, enough to spread the word. And by now, everyone in town would know what had happened to her last night. Everyone would be talking about it.

Eventually, she would have to venture out of her house. She had responsibilities, a job she would be expected at on Monday morning. Maybe by then, she thought, hoped, something would have happened to make the people of Proffitt Mines forget about her, maybe then, no one would ask her for details, and she wouldn't have to come up with any answers.

She didn't know that something terrible had already happened. She didn't know that, over night, Proffitt Mines had grown up, that it was no longer and never would be again the innocent little community where children played in the streets without fear and adults went out for the day and left their doors unlocked. She had laid awake most of the night hoping that something horrible would happen to Bobby Prentice, something that would avenge the wrong he had done her. She didn't know that something horrible already had.

She just wanted to be left alone. All of the curtains were pulled and the lights were off. She hoped who ever it was would just assume that she wasn't home. But when she didn't answer the first ring, the person at the door just rang the bell again and knocked. Finally, curiosity took over and she pulled back the curtain, just a crack, and peeked out.

Sheriff Dolan was standing on the porch and just happened to be looking at the window. He had spotted her. She had no choice now but to open the door. But she didn't have to be nice.

"If you're here to talk about Bobby," she said even before he was through the door, "you can save your time and mine and just leave."

"I know this is difficult," Richard said.

"It's not difficult," Trista said. "I just don't want to talk about it. He treated me like garbage, and if you're here to try to smooth things over because the little creep doesn't have the guts to do it in person, get out, because I don't want to here it." She stood in the open doorway with her hand on the knob, waiting for him to leave.

He didn't leave. Instead, he gave her a puzzled look. "You don't know what happened," he asked.

"All I know is that Bobby Prentice is a good for nothing bastard who deserves to be taken out and shot. Of course, maybe that's not good enough for him either, but I haven't come up with anything sufficiently horrible."

Richard could feel the beginnings of an intense rage building. He took a few steps into Trista's darkened livingroom and switched on a table lamp before he spoke. "Someone did," he said. He took a good look at Trista's face and he could see the hatred burning in her eyes. Enough hatred to have killed and mutilated Bobby Prentice? Maybe. Stranger things have happened.

He sat down in the uncomfortable wicker chair next to the corner table, leaned back, crossed his legs, tried to look casual. There was a stack of mail on the table. He picked up an envelope and tapped it absently on the edge of the table's surface. "Where were you at about eleven thirty last night?"

"Here. Why? What's going on?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Did you talk to anyone?"

Trista closed the door and finally came into the livingroom. "Sheriff Dolan, what's going on? Did something happen?" She sat down on the sofa, in the darkest corner of the room, where Richard could not discern her facial features, but only her profile against the diffused light coming through the curtains. Had she planned that?

"What happened at Rhiannon's last night?"

"I told you. He treated me like garbage, and he deserves anything he gets."

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"No, I can't. Why are you treating me like I'm the prime suspect in the crime of the century?"

"Interesting that you should ask that."

"What's wrong? Did... Did something happen to him?"

Richard picked up the stack of mail, rifled through it. The usual utility bills, credit card bill, a post card from her brother. Nothing out of the ordinary except a thick envelope, The Bristol Gazette printed in the corner in an ornate Gothic print.

"Put that down," Trista said urgently. She was struggling to get up from the sofa.

"Something here you don't want me to see," Richard asked, waving the envelopes.

Trista got to her feet and moved as quickly as she could across the room. She grabbed the letters out of his hand and tucked them protectively under her arm. "It's personal," she said. "Now, what is going on?"

"Bobby's dead. He was murdered last night."

"What," Trista gasped. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself, and her precious letters fell to the floor. "How... You're lying! Why are you doing this?"

"Trista, I'm afraid it's true. Bobby was killed last night."

"Who did it? Was it her?"

"Who?"

"Allie. That little bitch. Did she do it?" She was barely able to speak through the tears.

If Trista really was a suspect, Richard thought, she was doing a hell of a job of acting. He got up and helped her into a chair. "Why do you think Allie had something to do with it," he asked.

"She was... She was with him last night. I don't know."

"She was at Rhiannon's last night from a quarter to eleven until one thirty. She couldn't have done it, Trista. Now, can you think of anyone else who might want to harm him?"

Trista picked up a throw pillow and hugged it tightly, rocking back and forth and trying not to cry. "No. He was really a good person, Sheriff. Why would anyone... She changed him, you know. I don't know how, but she made him... she made him act that way."

"What way, Trista," Richard asked. "Tell me what happened."

"I knew it wasn't really him. I knew he would never do that. She must have had him hypnotized, or... or she was forcing him somehow. Have you noticed..." She stopped short. "But you said she didn't do it."

"No."

"Then who?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out."



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