Date: 1983-04-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Fiction
Description: He was a salty old sailor, weather-beaten superstitious and in desperate need of money. So he sold three pints of his pure red blood -- and the horror began... First, the brutally mutilated bodies of a honeymooning couple are found at a campsite. Next, a highly reliable nurse commits suicide during her night shift. Finally, a sudden outbreak of a flu-like virus threatens to become an epidemic. Dr. Rachel Adams searches for an answer in a deserted hospital laboratory -- while the only clue flows freely in the sailor's tainted blood...

The Taint

PATRICIA WALLACE

Cemetery Dance Publications

Baltimore, MD

2013

Copyright © 1983 by Patricia Wallace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cemetery Dance Publications

132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

Forest Hill, MD 21050
http://www.cemeterydance.com

The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN-13: 978-1-58767-439-6

Front Cover Copyright © 2013 by Desert Isle Design

Digital Design by DH Digital Editions

To

My sister JuAnna

and

My teacher Robert Wicks

PROLOGUE

He watched as the needle was inserted into his arm, holding his breath, fighting the wave of nausea that rose in his throat. He gulped repeatedly, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead. He could feel the tension in his body; the urge to move, to pull his arm away from the sting of the needle, but he resisted. He glanced at the technician who was intent on hitting the vein and then looked down in time to see his blood, dark red and thick, flow into the tubing.

“Relax your arm,” the technician said.

He unclenched his fist and closed his eyes, grateful that the probing was over. His ears were ringing and he could smell the odor of his own discomfort. He lay very still.

The blood swirled through the tube and into the clear plastic container.

It would not take long and then he’d have the money; five dollars for a pint of blood. A fair price, he thought.

He would buy a bowl of the thick potato soup at the small restaurant by the road, and maybe the nice waitress would be on duty, the one who always gave him a slice of freshly-baked bread on the side.

His mouth watered at the thought of it. He hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. It was tempting to buy one of the dinners, maybe chicken with potatoes and gravy and thick slices of tomato, but he knew that his stomach could not handle that much food, and that he would be sick. The thought of it was enough to make his stomach ache.

Cool fingers grazed his arm and he jumped at the touch. He had dozed off. The needle was pulled from his arm and a gauze bandage was applied to the wound.

“Here,” a voice said.

A man he recognized as the manager of the bloodmobile handed him a cup of orange juice.

He waited until the manager had turned away before raising the cup to his mouth and drinking. The juice stung his gums but he swallowed greedily, feeling the pulp as it passed over his tongue.

“You can’t come tomorrow,” the manager said, and shook his head. “There’s rules.”

The rules had already been broken, he knew, but he could not afford to antagonize his benefactor. He needed the money.

“Pay him,” the manager ordered the technician, who jumped slightly, jabbing his thumb with a needle.

The technician sucked on his thumb and glared at the manager who had turned away. He opened a locked cabinet, smearing blood on the key, and took out a small cash box.

The technician counted five singles into his hand and locked the cash box away, then disappeared into the back of the bloodmobile.

He sat upright, slightly dizzy, and stuffed the worn bills into his pocket.

His eyes moved to the container of orange juice which was sitting on a small table next to a stack of cups.

There was an inch of juice left in the bottle.

He licked his lips.

The manager was absorbed in paperwork, the tech was nowhere in sight.

He swung his legs off the table and planted his feet on the floor. Still holding the cup, he stood, swaying, his eyes focused on the plastic container of juice.

The manager turned in his chair, facing him, tapping a pencil against the desktop, and he stood still, waiting.

The manager looked away, shuffling through a stack of papers.

He tossed the cup into the garbage can and rolled down his sleeve.

He moved as quickly as he could toward the door, wishing desperately that he had his pea coat so he could hide the container.

His fingers closed around the neck of the bottle and he lifted it, holding it close in front of his body as he pushed open the door. His heart was beating fast and his mouth was painfully dry. The door closed behind him and he moved down the wooden steps, narrowing his eyes against the afternoon glare.

He looked down at his prize, reassuring himself, and walked quickly away.

He walked carefully up the dirt path, trying not to stir the dust. He was not used to the thin mountain air which grew warmer as he moved along the incline. A trickle of sweat ran down the small of his back.

He was so far from the sea.

He stopped for a few moments, resting on a fallen tree, and put the bottle of juice to his lips, drinking the cool sweet liquid.

It was gone so soon. His hands caressed the plastic as he looked back toward the small town. The tiny restaurant was almost hidden by the trees.

He should have eaten. A dollar or two wouldn’t have made much difference. He had almost seventy dollars in the copper box, enough to keep him for a while. A dollar or two . . .

It was difficult to breathe this far from the sea.

They had cast him off the ship not long ago, and he had sought the solitude of the mountains, heading inland and away from the only life he knew.

They were afraid of him but they had been unable to name the reason for their fear. He had not expected that from them; civilized men whose senses limited them to awareness of what they could see, reacting to a nameless instinct.

The superstitious natives he encountered in his travels had feared him, and avoided him, but he felt safe in their midst because they knew that it would not be wise to spill his blood.

The technology-crazed world had paid for his blood. Preoccupation with devices and gadgets had cost them their intuition. Sophisticated ignorance.

He struggled to his feet. It took a moment for his vision to clear.

The path wound its way up the hillside, away from the trees and the shade, and he kept his eyes down, watching his feet so that he wouldn’t see how much farther he had to go.

Insects swarmed around his head but he was too tired to brush them away.

He had fashioned a small shelter from pieces of aluminum siding and some warped wooden doors that he’d found at the dump. It was small and cramped but it kept the wind out and, more importantly, it cost him nothing.

He got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the narrow opening, then turned and secured the heavy tarp which served as a door. The darkness soothed his eyes.

Everything was as he had left it and he relaxed. He never felt secure, leaving his treasures unattended, but he was more fearful of someone accosting him in town than of a thief coming all this way to rummage through a shack.

The copper box was in a wooden apple crate that he’d found alongside the road and he had converted into a locker of sorts. By wiggling the nails around‚ he could remove the top of the crate.

He grabbed the copper box and leaned back onto the nest of grasses and rags that served as his bed.

He ran callused fingers over the engravings on the box. Solid copper it was, the inside lined with genuine silk. The lock had been broken for as long as he could remember but he still had the tiny key, thinking that one day he would have it fixed. One day.

The money was there, rolled and secured with a rubber band. His passport and the travel book were beneath the wad of money, and after he had put his blood money with the other soiled bills, he took the small book and flipped through the pages.

He had been to so many places, around the world, a traveler when others were content to stay. He had no home, and it was better that way; too long in one place and he might witness what followed him along the way. He had made that mistake only once, and it haunted his dreams.

His eyes began to close and he yawned. His stomach was quiet, eased by the juice, and he needed to sleep.

He put the book into the copper box and tossed the money on top as if it were of no importance. He positioned the box into a corner of the apple crate, next to the tiny clay figures. There were few of them left, now, he had sold so many. His eyes lingered over his meager belongings and then he put the lid on the crate, working the nails back into their holes.

His left arm itched from where they’d taken the blood the day before. He lifted the bandage and looked at the wound; it was red and tender. Later he would go into the forest and gather some leaves to make a poultice and draw out the infection.

Lethargy settled over him like a blanket and he moved back into bed, closing his eyes. He slept.

He stared into the face of his own mortality, his head turning as he dreamt of his death.

It had always been so, the dreams relentless in their clarity. His time was nearing, his body weakening, unable to nourish that which grew within him.

He awoke.

It took every ounce of his strength to move to an upright position but he forced himself to do so. The night was upon him. The air was cool and he could smell smoke, probably from a camp fire miles distant.

There was no time left.

He opened the apple crate with shaking fingers. Gathering the clay figures, he held his breath as one—the lynx—dropped, tumbling in slow motion onto the dirt floor.

It did not break.

He swallowed hard. The pressure behind his eyes was worse; stabs of pain and an intense heat. He had to concentrate if he were to go on.

He found the leather pouches with the powders and he tugged impatiently at the rawhide bindings. Finally they gave.

He worked feverishly, preparing his supplication. Out in the night an owl screeched, silencing the forest, and he shivered. It was not a good sign.

He lit a candle and began.

Thursday

ONE

Daniel Hudson raised the binoculars and adjusted the focus, scanning the trees. From the fire tower he had an unobstructed view of the forest. The wooden walkway encircled the small building and he moved along the rail without taking his eyes from the woods.

Camp fires. Nothing more. He lowered the binoculars.

It was hot out, this high up. Down in the park, with the shade of the trees, it would be comfortable. He drew a hand across his forehead and looked up at the cloudless sky.

The quiet was almost palpable.

Hudson turned and walked into the tower, hanging the binoculars on a wooden peg by the door.

The south side of the room was the office. Shelves were filled with U.S. Forest Service manuals and wildlife guides, along with a comprehensive survival series. A map showing park boundaries was mounted above the desk with the campgrounds indicated by color codes. The desk was neatly organized, an empty coffee cup placed almost dead center on the blotter.

He walked over to the small cabinet where the radio equipment was kept. Unlocking the metal case, he folded back the guards and turned the volume up, listening for a moment before grabbing the microphone.

“Tower One to Tower Two,” he said, depressing the send button. “Malloy, you there?”

Silence. Malloy must be out of the tower. He was always out. He switched the frequency dial on the radio, listening for traffic on the air.

The emergency band sputtered static and a one-sided conversation between the dispatcher and patrol. The other bands were either total static or dead air.

He switched it off. The mountainous terrain posed a problem with radio transmission—there were numerous areas that the signals were unable to penetrate. Up this high, above the park and town, it would seem that he should have an open airway but reception was poor. He was used to it now.

In fact, the isolation suited him.

He straightened up abruptly and felt a pressure in his face; a solid weighted feeling around his nose. Then, quickly, the blood began to run from his left nostril.

“Just what I needed,” he said to himself, tilting his head backwards and pinching both nostrils. He eased down in the chair to wait it out, counting the seconds.

After a full minute he released his hold tentatively. The blood gushed, pouring out with amazing force, staining the front of his shirt.

He moved slowly down the wooden steps. It was a long way to the ground, and almost impossible to move with one hand holding the towel to his face, but he hooked his arm around the right ladder brace and held on.

Sweat was trickling into his eyes, stinging them. He was nauseated from swallowing blood and a persistent buzz rang in his ears. If he didn’t get down soon . . .

He looked at the ground below. Maybe ten feet, maybe twelve. It was hard-packed dirt, cleared of brush as befitting a fire observation tower. If he hit it right he’d be okay, but off-balance he might break something. Or he could just bleed to death.

He let the towel drop, ignoring the blood which clung like sweet syrup, stepped down three more rungs and then jumped.

He landed hard on his feet and started to fall forward onto the ground before he steadied himself. He stood motionless for a moment, waiting for his vision to clear.

The jeep was to the side of the equipment shed, the keys in the ignition. He climbed unsteadily into the seat and turned the key before vomiting blood and stomach bile on the floor.

He made it to the small private hospital in eight interminable minutes and leaned on the horn, waiting for help.

“You’re in luck,” Dr. Nathan Adams said, still packing sterile gauze up Hudson’s left nostril.

“I don’t feel lucky,” Hudson said with an effort.

“Don’t try to talk.” He finished with the gauze and removed his surgical gloves. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, but, luckily, we’ve got your type on hand.” He picked up the chart and began to write. “I’ll want you to stay here for a couple of hours after the transfusion, but then you can go home.”

The nurse came into the treatment room with an IV pole from which a unit of blood was hung.

“Did you find the blood warmer?” Dr. Adams asked, placing the chart on the counter.

“Right where you said it would be.” She began to set up for the transfusion, unwrapping the blood administration set and connecting the tubing to the blood bag. She noticed the patient watching her as she tore off short strips of IV tape and attached them at intervals along the metal bed restraints. She smiled. “I’ll only have one hand free to tape the needle to your arm.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Dr. Adams said, going out the door. “I don’t hire nurses unless they have three hands.” The door swung shut behind him.

She picked up the needle and began swabbing his arm with an alcohol pad. “He’s in a good mood—his niece is coming home today.” Her fingers stroked his vein. “This might sting.”

He winced as the needle penetrated his skin.

TWO

The road wound up the mountainside in sharp angles which required total concentration and induced a measure of prudent anxiety. Rachel Adams geared down to second and gripped the wheel firmly; it had been a long time since she’d driven the road home.

Eleven years, in fact. She sighed and shifted in the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. It was quite a distance, yet, and she’d been driving since early morning.

She came up behind a car towing a trailer and eased back. There was no place to pass on these narrow roads and after following for a while she pulled onto a dirt turnout and parked. A half hour wouldn’t make much difference.

And it was beautiful. A clear dark blue sky and the vibrant green of the trees. Clean air and a light breeze. She could smell a wood camp fire upwind and she envied the people with the trailer their first night’s meal.

She got out of the car and stretched.

At one time she had known the woods surrounding Crestview intimately. Her young years had been spent in exploration of its shadowy secrets and her wonders had been of discovery. The forest was her refuge, her sanctuary; the restoration of peace came easy in such a place. It was here she had come when her brother was killed and she was calmed by the promise of continuation.

She had been away so long.

She rubbed her bare arms and looked up at the sky, turning slowly in circles. It was good to be home.

The cut-off to Nathan’s house was exactly as she remembered it. The bushes were thicker and denser than elsewhere along the road and the branches brushed the car.

It was darker, the trees blocking the sun from view. The sun would be setting in another hour and already the woods began to chatter—crickets, birds and, along the creek, frogs.

Rachel caught a glimpse of the house and smiled.
Nathan was always threatening to paint it green, so it
would blend into the trees and not be so intrusive, but
the white paint fairly gleamed.

She pulled up in front of the house. Nathan’s truck was nowhere in sight—he was probably at the hospital. For a second she considered driving over there but the lure of home was too great.

She hurried up the steps, anxious now to be inside, to see it all.

Unlocked, of course. She pushed the door open and stepped into the hall. Exactly as she remembered.

It was a decidedly masculine home, Nathan having never married, but it was warm and bright and comfortable. She could smell soup simmering on the stove and could hear the old grandfather clock keeping gentle time.

The living room was panelled in dark wood, and along one wall were the pictures. Her life was there, and Tim’s. There was a picture of their parents on their wedding day, and a family portrait with Tim mildly disapproving of an infant Rachel’s yawn. Tim in uniform, first a soldier and then a policeman, and the plaque, given posthumously. So little left behind.

She turned away, walking to the stairway and up to her room. The door was open, the bed made up and turned down. A breeze stirred the white curtains. The wood floor still bore traces of her roller skating days.

It was tempting to lie down for a while but she resisted. She needed Nathan’s presence to complete the homecoming. There was no need to rush into all of her memories at once.

She brought in the luggage and unpacked, then went into the kitchen to make coffee. She could feel the effect of jet lag and the lack of sleep. Sitting in the warmth of the kitchen her eyes began to close.

When the coffee was ready she drank a cup and then a second. She stirred the soup and paced, trying to distract herself from her exhaustion.

The clock chimed in another room.

The sun was down. Her favorite time of day. She went outside onto the porch and sat on the swing, drawing her feet up. The western sky was vivid pink and gold and the air was a hazy blue. It was a few minutes before she realized that the evening was absolutely still.

A hand touched her and she jumped.

“Rachel,” Nathan smiled, helping her to her feet. “My God, come inside where I can look at you.”

The color was fading from the sky as they went into the house and Nathan switched on the lights before surrounding her in a well-remembered hug. It was some time before he held her away and looked.

“I’ve looked better,” she said.

“I don’t know when. You’re so tan—the last time I saw you . . .”

“Nathan?”

He nodded, understanding. “So how was South Africa?”

“Hot and wonderful. It’s a good thing I didn’t discover archeology until after medical school—I loved every minute of it.”

He shook a finger at her. “I’m counting on you to stick around for a while. I’ve spent years setting up the hospital and my research lab, and I’m ready to become an absent-minded eccentric. And you, my naive city doctor, need to find out how challenging small town medicine can be.”

“I’m ready,” Rachel said, “for anything.”

THREE

The moon was rising in the sky when Hudson finally arrived back at the tower. He cut the engine and the lights, his eyes traveling the distance from the ground to the platform above. He counted the rungs—twenty-four. It had seemed like more.

He got out of the jeep, aware of the persistent ache in his joints. Both heels were bruised and tender, and each step was a reminder of his jump.

The wooden rungs were cool and smooth to the touch, and he climbed quickly, avoiding the dark stained places. His muscles protested but he moved unthinking until he was at the top. There he stood.

It was a strange feeling, knowing that someone else’s blood was running in his veins, through the chambers of his heart.

He had stretched out on the cot after cleaning his own blood from the floor and now he raised an arm, looking at the distended veins. Blood mingling. Pulsing.

It made him uneasy.

Very still, he could feel the rhythm of his pulse. Hear it as it throbbed through his temples. Steady, strong, almost hypnotic. The dormant blood had begun to tingle.

He twisted on the narrow cot, trying to get comfortable, knowing that his discomfort was tied to the invasive presence in his blood stream.

He thought about opening a vein and letting the blood spill on the floor, seeing it thick and hot and somehow powerful, and he squirmed.

A sudden, piercing pain behind his eyes and he sat upright, grabbing his head and rocking mindlessly. His face contorted and his throat tightened, ready to scream and he caught his breath.

Then it was over. The pain ebbed and he lay back. A tiny rivulet of blood ran from the corner of one eye.

Out in the forest the wind passed through the trees and the night creatures moved without sound. Nothing came near the tower.

After a while he rose and went out into the night.

The radio crackled in the empty room.

FOUR

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather get some sleep?” Nathan asked, building a fire in the large stone fireplace.

“I’m sure.” She suppressed a yawn and settled comfortably on the couch. “It feels so good to be home.”

“You know, you didn’t have to work all those summers—you could have come home at least once.” When she did not respond he turned to catch her staring at the pictures on the wall. He threw a match into the kindling and watched it flame. Then he rose and went to his desk, taking several letters from the top drawer.

“These came for you while you were in South Africa.” He handed them to her. “I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

She was sitting still, the letters unopened in her lap, when he returned with the coffee.

She looked at him, smiling sadly. “I’m not sure I want to read these now.”

“He wants to see you.” Nathan sat beside her and handed her a mug of steaming coffee.

“What could I say to him?” She wrapped both hands around the mug, warming her fingers. “I’m sorry? That doesn’t seem like enough, somehow.”

“He’s bound to find out that you’re home.”

“I know, and I’ll have to see him, sooner or later. I’d just rather it were later.” She sipped the coffee. “It wasn’t an easy thing to do.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” He hesitated. “I never said anything to you, because I didn’t want you to think I was interfering, but I never understood . . .”

“Things . . . got out of hand.”

“When you’re ready to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”

“Thank you.” She reached out and took his hand.

The silence lengthened, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire.

She undressed in the dark, moving with familiarity around the bedroom. She draped her clothes over the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and slipped into a light cotton nightgown.

Shivering, she moved toward the bed, then stopped at the window. The moonlight cast shadows in the trees and caught the stillness in its glow. Nothing was moving.

How many nights had she stood at this window, watching the silence, waiting for something she did not understand? It was compelling. Her face touched the cool glass.

The letters lay unopened on the dresser beside the bed. Envelopes that she herself had purchased, a long time ago.

Of course, it had not been that long ago.

Kelly Hamilton had been, for eighteen months, her lover, and for a shorter period, her fiancé. On a sunlit morning in June, slightly over a year past, he had stood at the altar of a church and waited for her to come down the aisle.

She was unable to go through with it. Dressed in a white satin gown, a veil covering her shoulder-length auburn hair, she had met her eyes in the mirror and had known she couldn’t do it. The ring on her finger tightened like a vise.

The gown slipped off much easier than it had gone on. Organ music filtered through the door as she dressed. She hated organ music.

A quick drive to the apartment that she shared with the man at the altar and she picked up her luggage—her trousseau. Her head ached as she loaded the car.

The trip to South Africa was the perfect getaway.

Except now she was back, and Kelly was willing to forgive her.

The very last thing she wanted was to be forgiven.

FIVE

Jonathan Scott pulled hard to the left, managing to avoid the rock slide which blocked part of the road. He parked the Bronco about a hundred feet up from the slide, turning on the red and blue hazard lights.

He took a shovel from the rear of the vehicle and walked back to the obstruction, his flashlight in the other hand.

He shone the light up at the hillside, checking for any indications that the slide was intentionally caused. On occasion the city kids who had come up with their parents to vacation in the park got bored. When they got bored they found ways to entertain themselves—causing rockslides, setting fires, driving all-terrain vehicles around, over and through the brush, and otherwise destroying the countryside.

There were no signs of mischief, and he set down the flashlight and began to shovel the dirt and rock off the roadway.

It was cool this evening, but by the time he had finished clearing the road he was sweating and his khaki shirt clung to his back. He stood, leaning on the shovel, surveying the roadside. The thick grass had grown up to the pavement and was turning brown with the heat. With fire season at hand it needed to be cleared away. He’d call the forestry station in the morning, first thing.

He walked slowly back to the Bronco, enjoying the solitude of the deserted mountain road.

A muted thump came from the left and he paused, expecting to hear more—the rustle of brush or twigs snapping. He noticed again how quiet it was. His hand went to his gun and he stood in the middle of the road, listening intently.

In his experience, the absence of sound in the forest usually meant a predator of some type. Mountain lion, or even a bear.

The radio sputtered in the Bronco, demanding his attention, and in seconds he was on his way, down the hill, where a car had gone over the side of the road.

The accident was not as bad as some he’d seen. The car had swerved around what people called “killer curve,” off the road and down the embankment for about two hundred yards before slamming broadside into a small cluster of trees. It had not rolled, and although the air was pungent with the smell of gas, it had not caught fire.

Earl Wagner spotted him and climbed up hill to where he stood.

“Did a job of it, didn’t he?” Earl shook his head with wonder.

“The driver okay?” Jon pointed his flashlight at the pavement, checking for skid marks. There were none.

“A little on the pale side—I drove him over to the hospital. Just shaken, I think.” Earl had his deputy’s badge fixed prominently on his corduroy jacket.

“Good,” Jon said absently. He clicked off the flashlight and started down toward the car with Earl in hot pursuit.

A closer examination revealed the passenger side of the car to be a total wreck, with both wheels bent outward and the fenders torn completely free of the body. Jon whistled softly.

“He must have been flying.”

“A tourist.” Earl kicked at a tire. “Good thing he was alone . . .”

Jon was leaning over, picking up a woman’s purse where it had fallen from the car. “Did he say he was alone?”

“He didn’t say anything, he was . . . oh my God.”

They found the body of the woman caught in the branches of a tree where she had been thrown during the accident. She was bloodied and broken, her neck twisted, her face tight against the tree trunk. One foot was bare.

It took some time to disentangle her from the clinging limbs of the tree. They carried her up to the Bronco and covered her with a quilt they found in the wrecked car.

Neither spoke as they drove toward the hospital.

Joyce Callan hung up the phone and turned to Jon.

“He just arrived home—he said he’d be right over.” She looked toward where Earl sat, head in his hands. “I’m sure,” she said very softly, “she was killed instantly.”

Jon nodded. “What about the driver? How’s he doing?”

“It’s very odd; he hasn’t said a word.”

“Got a name?”

“Wendall Tyler, according to his driver’s license. From San Diego.”

“A little out of his way, up here. She wasn’t dressed for camping . . .”

The phone rang and he turned away as Joyce reached to answer it.

He sent Earl home for the night and went into the tiny reception-waiting area.

He opened the dead woman’s purse and emptied the contents out on the coffee table, checking for zippered pockets and finding none. A wallet, a checkbook, hairbrush, matches but no cigarettes, a small perfume atomizer and a pot of lip gloss. No keys.

The wallet was good quality leather. A twenty, three ones, seventy-nine cents in change, along with two small safety pins. The license and credit cards were issued to Louisa Ann Tyler. The photograph only vaguely resembled the battered face of the woman now lying, covered by a sheet, in a back treatment room.

A few pictures as well; a young Louisa in the black sweater of a graduating senior; with a young man, both dressed for a prom, and with the same young man, obviously Wendall, in a wedding picture: a glowing bride Louisa. He removed the wedding picture from the plastic pocket, looking for a date.

Written in a corner: June 20, 1978. At last! He could almost feel the exuberance in the words.

“Sheriff,” Joyce Callan stood in the doorway. “Dr. Adams is here . . . with the body.”

“Jonathan,” Nathan looked up from the examination when Jon entered. “Good to see you. Unfortunate business, this.”

“Sorry to have to call you out again.” Jon stood on the opposite side of the table. In the bright fluorescent lights the woman’s wounds looked worse.

“Comes with the territory.” He leaned over to peer into sightless eyes. “Where’d you find her?”

“In a tree.”

“Ah. Well, that explains most of these scratches then. She’s really marked up.” Nathan pulled the sheet back over the body. “I’ll do the post-mortem later this morning, but I’d hazard a guess. Broken neck, fractured skull.”

“Instantaneous?”

“Very likely.” Nathan walked to the sink and began washing his hands. “What is her relation to our first patient?”

“Wife. How is he doing?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Nathan shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“Poor Earl.” Jon leaned back against a counter.

“Pardon?”

“Earl’s feeling responsible—he didn’t find the woman. He assumed the man was alone in the car. And, he told me the driver was just shaken.”

“Well, actually, other than a few bumps and bruises, Mr. Tyler is in good physical shape.”

“Then what?”

Nathan turned to face him, drying his hands. “It’s hard to say. He’s not in clinical shock—no drop in blood pressure, no change in pulse or respiration. But he hasn’t spoken and he appears to be oblivious to his surroundings. Just stares. And . . . he does not respond to painful stimuli.” He hesitated. “He’s almost catatonic.”

They walked out into the dimly lit parking area and stood for a moment, facing each other.

“Rachel is home.”

Jon nodded. “How is she?”

“All grown up. Remarkably like her mother. I thought maybe you’d have come by . . . said hello, welcome home.”

“I’m on duty.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and narrowed his eyes, searching Nathan’s face for signs of disapproval.

“Later, then. I know she’ll be glad to see you.” Nathan turned toward his truck. “Good night.”

Jon watched him pull out and start off down the road before moving slowly toward the Bronco.

On the way back to town he pulled into the road leading to Nathan’s, turning off the lights and engine and gliding to a stop well away from the house.

The house had a different feel to it, even from a distance. If he closed his eyes he could see her at thirteen, when he and Tim had gotten out of the service and had come to this house to regroup. Her hair worn in pigtails, dark serious eyes—like Tim’s—and a coltish grace. Determined, even then, to be a doctor, and outraged that Tim was planning to go off to join the Los Angeles Police Department only days after coming home.

And Rachel, again, a scant two years later, at Tim’s funeral. Standing beside Nathan, her face haunted, the new black dress rustling in the hot dry wind. He had given her the flag from the coffin and she held it to her chest, lowering her face but not before he saw the tears. He stood at her side as they lowered her brother into the grave, and put his arm around her to steady her trembling when the honor guard fired the salute.

It took a few weeks to settle the details, but he quit the police department and moved to Crestview, willing to take Tim’s place as big brother, needing forgiveness in his own mind. The small town life was quiet and unhurried, and soon it was his home. This house was very much a part of it.

“Welcome home,” he said aloud.

He pulled back onto the main road and headed toward town, intending to go to the office and fill out a report. The radio was silent and there were no other vehicles on the road.

He slowed to make the turn onto the old lumber road when he saw something move in the bushes, caught by the headlight beam. The Bronco lurched slightly as he braked.

For a moment he waited, scanning the roadside. He cut the engine and turned off the lights. Then he stepped out, gun in hand, moving toward where he’d seen the disturbance.

Whatever had been there was gone, he could sense that. A few snapped twigs, little else. He holstered the gun and walked back toward the road, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

There, off to the right, almost hidden, and two and a half miles from the accident scene was Louisa Ann Tyler’s other shoe.

SIX

The hospital was settled for the night, the lights in the hallways were dimmed and the patient call board was silent. Joyce Callan walked through the building, listening.

There were only seven in-patients tonight, all in the east wing, and she passed their open doors, shining the flashlight cautiously into the rooms. All was still.

Had it been a cry that she heard?

She switched off the flashlight and turned back to the nursing station. She was jumpy, as usual. Even after four years she was unable to get used to being the only night nurse on duty, to being the only one who heard.

Pulling her dark blue sweater around her, she decided to go through the west wing. Check the empty rooms and the locked office doors along the hall. To reassure herself.

She leaned over the counter, first, and switched the call board to audio. If any of the patients needed her, she would be able to hear the bell anywhere in the hospital.

It was even darker in the deserted hall which led to the west wing. The chapel was on this hall but it was locked, the massive wood doors keeping comfort inside. She hurried along.

As she neared the corner leading to the vacant wing she heard a loud click, like a door catching. From which direction? She hesitated, then began to run toward the southwest corner, to the morgue.

There was nothing there. She stopped, reaching for the door handle, her breath caught absurdly in her throat. The metal was cool to the touch. The door was locked.

It was getting to her. She shook her head and turned away. All of the long nights, the endless dark and quiet nights.

Walking past the solarium along the south corridor, she saw something move in the enclosed courtyard, and chiding herself for her timidity, she moved carefully toward the entrance.

It was Nora.

“Nora,” Joyce whispered, coming up beside the older woman. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

Nora Mae Samuels clutched the robe around her thin body. “Just enjoying the peace and quiet. And breathing the fresh air, if there’s no rule against it.”

Joyce smiled. It was a familiar argument. “No, but it’s cold out here, you’ll catch your death.”

“It’ll have to catch me.” Her piercing black eyes examined Joyce. “Someone died tonight.” It was not a question.

“Now, Nora . . .”

“I can feel it.” Her voice rasped, urgent. “I can smell it.”

It was true that Nora always seemed to know when someone had died, but how much was psychic, like she claimed, and how much was acute hearing, no one could tell. Joyce put an arm along the woman’s shoulders and began to guide her to the door.

“Come inside, now,” she said gently, not wanting to upset her.

Nora allowed herself to be walked back into the building, her head tilted in concentration, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

It took some doing to get her settled back in her room; all of the bedcovers had been thrown on the floor, and Joyce went to the linen room to get fresh sheets. Nora sat in a chair, looking out the window at the courtyard, not speaking as Joyce worked.

After finishing the bed, Joyce got a fresh pitcher of water and placed it on the bedside table, and brought a tiny white pill in a paper cup. She watched as Nora took the pill, and the ripple in the old woman’s throat as she swallowed.

“Good night, now,” she said, and walked to the door.

“Someone,” Nora began, and lowered her voice, “is out there.”

SEVEN

Natalie Stuart woke with a start. Something was outside the trailer; she could hear it moving. She nudged Ralph, hoping to wake him but he slept on, snoring lightly.

It rustled the leaves outside, the noise getting fainter as it moved toward the front of the trailer.

An animal? She didn’t know much about wild animals, only what she had seen on TV, and little of that was reassuring. Beasts lying in wait, preying on each other, the survival of the fittest. Vivid images of torn carcasses flooded her mind.

She swallowed hard. What if it were a bear? Those horrible stories of people being attacked, mutilated and killed. Could a bear get in? Hadn’t she heard something about a camper being demolished by a starving bear?

She nudged Ralph again, harder this time, but he just turned onto his stomach, trapping her against the wall. He wasn’t snoring now and she could hear again, clearly, the sound of it moving outside.

Melanie and Jason were asleep in the front of the trailer, in the smaller bed across from the door, tired from a full day of camping, mainly consisting of eating. Had Jason washed his hands after eating those ripe peaches? Could the bear smell him through the door?

She groaned, not meaning to, and was startled by the sound. Outside the rustling stopped.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the sound of ripping metal and the snarls of a frenzied beast. Instead, the sounds came back to where she lay. Something brushed along the side of the trailer, rocking it just slightly. Ralph slept on.

It was right outside the window at the rear of the room. She forced her eyes open, twisting carefully to get a look at the shape that menaced her. Barely perceptible, a shadow crossed from right to left.

And then, a cough. A human cough.

It was worse than she’d thought. A different type of beast, with cold steel honed to a fine edge, and the sick, perverted urges of the insane.

Miles down the mountain there was an asylum.

This was no time to panic. She could try to slip out of the bed and find the small handgun that Ralph had brought along. If nothing else, she would wake the kids and hide them in the bathroom.

She began to slip the covers down, and tried to maneuver into a sitting position. Ralph quickly spread out to take up the space she had vacated.

Outside, he passed the window once more and started to the door.

Her legs free of the blanket, she climbed over the motionless form of her husband and stepped on the cool bare floor. She prayed that the floor wouldn’t creak and tip-toed over to the built-in dresser. The top drawer always stuck, but she knew the trick to it, and lifted up while pulling out. It glided open without a sound.

She froze suddenly, trying to recall whether or not someone had locked the trailer door. She hadn’t, but one of them had, surely. If not . . .

The drawer and the gun, she reminded herself. But the solid lethal weight of the gun was not at her fingertips, no matter how hard she willed it to be.

There was no other choice, now, she realized. She had to go to the door. If it was unlocked, and he reached it before she did, there was little chance that she could escape.

She was still in the narrow hall when she heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep on the metal stairs outside the door. She could see the door at an angle from where she stood, and the interior handle with the lock beneath it.

She heard the screen door being pulled back and used the sound to cover her movements into the room. She was still two paces from the door when she saw the handle move.

She lunged forward, sliding the locking mechanism into place, falling on her knees. She could see the man’s silhouette through the frosted glass window in the door. Then he was gone.

The kids were sleeping, and Ralph was snoring. After a minute she got off the floor and went back to bed.

Friday

EIGHT

Rachel woke to the smell of coffee brewing. Nathan was up, then, and her plan to make breakfast was probably foiled. She’d heard him leave during the night so she knew he’d had less sleep than she, but here he was, up and at ’em.

She ran barefooted down the stairs and almost collided with him at the bottom. He had a tray fixed; breakfast in bed.

“Nathan!”

“I didn’t hear you moving around. I wanted to surprise you before I left for the hospital.” He motioned with the tray. “Back up those stairs and into bed.”

“You’re going to spoil me,” she protested, going back to her room.

“Only for this morning.” He waited until she was settled then placed the tray across her legs, lifting the silver covers off the dishes. Eggs over easy, bacon, wheat toast and orange juice.

“What, no coffee?”

“I want you to go back to sleep,” he said. “The coffee will keep.” He walked over to the window and pulled the shade down. His eyes rested on the unopened letters but he didn’t comment.

“What about the hospital?”

“It’ll keep as well.” He leaned over to kiss her. “I’ll be back around one and then I’ll take you on the grand tour.” With a wave he was gone.

After she finished eating she took the dishes downstairs to clean up but Nathan had anticipated her again; the kitchen was immaculate, the cooking utensils were washed and drying in the dish drainer. She washed her plate and silverware and refilled the glass with juice.

Sunlight flooded into the house and she luxuriated in its warmth, sitting in the window seat and gazing out at the morning. Nathan was right; the hospital could wait.

She fell asleep, curled up in the window seat.

When she woke again, someone was pulling into the driveway. She straightened and looked toward the grandfather clock to check the time. A little after ten. When she looked back out the window again she could see a dark blue Bronco with the golden emblem of the sheriff’s office on the door.

It was Jon.

She hurried up the stairs to throw on some clothes, her heart quickening.

“Come on,” she said to herself as she dressed, “you’re a big girl now.”

It took a great deal of self-restraint to keep from running down the stairs when the knock sounded. She did not want to be out of breath.

He was facing the other direction when she opened the door, and he turned slowly toward her, a shy smile on his face. He held his hat in one hand, a single wild rose in the other.

“Jon.” Her hand went to her mouth to hide the tremble and then she stepped toward him, feeling with great relief his arms as they went around her. When he made no move to kiss her she leaned back and pulled his head down, trying to act very matter-of-fact, but feeling thirteen again.

She was only mildly surprised when he pulled away after gently brushing her lips with his. It was very like him.

“It’s been a long time,” she said then, and moved back, taking his arm and leading him into the house.

“You look great.” He offered her the rose.

“Thank you.” She took the rose and turned. So do you, she thought. “Come in the kitchen, I’ll get a vase.”

He followed her and accepted a cup of coffee, watching with amused eyes as she searched the cupboards in vain for the vase. Finally she put it in one of her mother’s parfait glasses and sat opposite him at the table.

“So.” He smiled. “Yet another Doctor Adams in town.”

“I’m still not used to calling myself doctor,” she admitted.

“Doctor Rachel Elizabeth Adams.” He considered. “Has a nice sound to it.”

She smiled, pleased that he remembered her middle name. She sipped coffee and examined him over the rim of the cup. His black hair was beginning to gray at the temples but it suited him.

The silence between them was a comfortable one.

Later she walked him out to his truck. She wished briefly that she were a child again, so that she could touch him without having her feelings show. Instead she ran a hand along the shiny surface of the Bronco.

“This is sure a step up from that old Dodge truck you used to drive.” She turned and motioned at her own car. “I guess I’d better look for something a bit more sturdy.”

Jon tossed his hat on the truck seat and looked at her. “Don’t sell it before I have a chance to drive it . . . I’ve always wanted a Porsche.”

“Anytime.” She stuck her hands in the back pockets of her pants, her head tilted to meet his eyes.

He got into the Bronco and pulled away.

NINE

Nathan walked to the east wing nurse’s station, Wendall Tyler’s chart in his hand. Tyler had deteriorated since his admission, but there was nothing in his work-up to indicate why. Blood count and chemistry were within normal limits, the chest x-ray and skull series were both negative.

Yet the patient’s physical condition was poor; his eyes were sunken, his reflexes sluggish and his color was ashen. He was still mute. There was no way to obtain a history unless they reached the next of kin, and they’d had no luck so far.

He sat at the desk in the station and opened the chart to the nursing notes. The history and physical assessment form, filled out by Joyce on admission, was largely blank, since a large percentage of the evaluation depended on the patient’s ability to cooperate. The items that could be answered from observation duplicated the results of his own examination.

The neurological assessment was brief: the patient was able to move his extremities, his pupils were equal and reactive, and speech was absent.

He turned to the shift notes. As per his orders, Joyce had established an IV to prevent dehydration, using a twenty gauge intracath, and running a solution of five percent dextrose and water.

Vital signs were stable, taken every four hours since admission. The patient was receiving no medication.

Emma Sutter had come into the station and was digging around in a drawer, tossing forms and pads on the counter. He watched her idly, his mind still computing Tyler’s case, and then realized she was speaking to him.

“I’m sorry, Emma, what did you say?”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I said, today is the big day.”

“Hm. Oh yes, you’re right. Rachel will be coming back with me after lunch.” He closed the chart and pushed it away.

“Well, none too soon, if you ask me. Maybe you’ll take a day off once in a while.” Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “You look like hell. How much sleep did you get last night?”

“Enough.”

“I doubt that.” She sat facing him, her eyes concerned. “There were times I didn’t think you’d make it until she got back.”

“But I did,” he said mildly. “I appreciate your worrying about me, but I am all right.”

Emma leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Nathan, don’t forget—I’ve known you for better than thirty years. I’ve seen the way you work yourself into the ground. You’re a doctor, you of all people should know how important it is to take care of yourself.”

He reached and patted her hand. “If you weren’t married . . .”

“And three times a grandmother . . .”

“I’d marry you.” He stood to leave, glancing at his watch.

“Ha! The day you marry!” She shook her head, smiling nonetheless.

As he passed Tyler’s room on the way out he caught a glimpse of the man. It had been barely half an hour since he had examined him, yet the degeneration was astounding. His pallor had increased and the vacant look in his eyes, even from a distance, was chilling.

Something had happened to him, something he was unable to deal with. But what? The accident report indicated that Earl Wagner had happened upon the scene just minutes after it had occurred, and had found Tyler wandering aimlessly along the road. It was doubtful that the man had seen his wife, dead in the tree. Was he searching for her along the road?

There were many questions, and so few answers.

TEN

The Reverend Martin Frey pulled up to the hospital parking lot just as Nathan Adams drove away, raising a hand in greeting.

He needed to talk to Dr. Adams about Amanda but he knew that the good doctor would probably be back before he had finished his visits. He was concerned about her increasingly frail health, and her insistence on continuing her good works, even as she wasted away before his eyes.

He gathered up the inspirational pamphlets that he always distributed to the patients and entered through the emergency room door. The department was quiet and he placed some of the pamphlets in the waiting area before heading into the hospital proper.

Faint music played over the intercom; one of Dr. Adam’s latest additions to the intensive modernization he had begun three years back. The hospital itself was a marvel, clean and bright, with all of the eighteen patient rooms having a view of the courtyard which was enclosed in the center of the building. The sight of green plants, flowers, and the sunshine upon them must be good for the body as well as the soul. These patients were a great deal more cheerful than those he’d seen in the city.

He walked down the east wing toward the chapel, intending to open the windows, when he saw Emma standing in an open doorway, a troubled look on her face.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted her and glanced surreptitiously into the room. Nora Samuels was propped up in bed, staring out the window. Nothing odd about that, he thought, and turned his attention to Emma.

“Reverend Frey,” Emma reached for his arm urgently, pulling him back from the door. She put a finger to her lips and did not speak again until they were at the end of the hall. “Nora has gone peculiar again.”

“Oh my, what is it this time?” Nora was rather famous for her curious turns of fancy.

“She’s convinced that we’re under siege, and when I ask her from what or who, she says ‘It can’t be seen.’ “

“Outer space again?” He chuckled; her last foray into malignant forces resulted in a petition to the President requesting he not allow the space shuttle to land, in case it “showed them the way to earth.”

“I don’t think this is the same as the others.” Emma frowned, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve always had the feeling that her little escapades were . . . calculated. That she was constructing an elaborate game of some sort, and only she knew what the rules were. But this time, she’s scared. It isn’t a game and she’s scared.”

“But Emma, remember, she’s a sick woman,” he said gently.

Emma didn’t respond.

“Dr. Adams tells me she hasn’t long to live. Isn’t it more likely that the invisible threat is to her own mortality? She’s facing death, and of course she’s frightened.”

“It seems like more than that,” Emma answered, but with less conviction.

“I’ll talk to her.” He smiled his Sunday smile to reassure her. “Everything will be fine.”

He saved Nora for last, wanting to feel unhurried while he helped her to confront her fears. All through his other visits his mind strayed, preoccupied with the right turn of phrase, the right expression, to enlighten her. It was a formidable task.

She was resting when he came into the room and he took a moment to arrange his face in the proper beneficent manner.

“Nora,” he said, and folded his hands in front of him.

Her black eyes opened, immediately alert and her lips parted, the tip of her tongue flitting to moisten them. Color flooded into her cheeks.

“Watch her . . . it will come, and she is weak.”

Outside, the sun ducked behind a cloud.

ELEVEN

Rachel stood in the laboratory doorway, her eyes taking in the impressive array of technological equipment in the spotless room.

“Does the Mayo Clinic know you’ve taken all this?”

Nathan laughed, delighted. “This is what I spend my money on.”

“But, an electron microscope . . . it must have cost . . .”

“. . . a lot of money,” he said tactfully, surveying his domain. “And worth every penny.”

“Somehow, when you told me you planned to retire to the lab, I pictured a damp dark basement with rats and things growing on the walls.” She shook her head in wonder. “And maybe a hunchback or two.”

“I’m working on that.” He took her arm. “Let me show you the rest of the hospital—you won’t recognize it.”

“I’m lost already.”

They had covered the east, north and west halls and were turning down the south hall, toward the front of the hospital when Nathan halted, stopping in front of an unmarked door.

“This,” he announced, “is for you.” He pushed the door open to reveal an office, furnished, equipped and ready for occupancy. The rear wall featured a large sliding glass door which opened out into the courtyard. One wall was given entirely to bookshelves and her own medical books, sent for storage when she’d gone to Africa, were handsomely displayed.

“It’s beautiful.” She turned to face him. “This is the nicest thing anyone could have done for me. Thank you.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you to come home. I hope to make you sufficiently obligated so you’ll stay a while.” He smiled. “A little emotional blackmail never hurt.”

“This’ll do it.” She sat in the chair and looked around the room. “I spent the last year doctoring out of a tent—this is heaven.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Now . . . shall we check on our patients?”

“Lead on.”

The first patient was pacing the room when they arrived.

“It’s about time,” Franklin Dunn said, drawing up to his full height of five foot five and regarding them with disdain. What he lacked in size, he made up for in volume, raising his voice further. “You promised me I’d be going home today, and look, it’s already three o’clock.” He tapped the face of his expensive Swiss watch.

“I know how to tell time, Franklin,” Nathan said, unperturbed. “If you don’t calm down, your blood pressure’s going to go through the roof, and if your blood pressure’s up . . . you won’t be going home today.”

“I hope,” Dunn began, his voice controlled, “that you never have need of my professional services, because if you ever do, if there is a God, I’ll extract my pound of flesh.” Then he smiled. “So this must be Rachel.”

Rachel, stunned, did not reply.

“Rachel, this is Franklin Dunn, practitioner of law and other unsavory habits, voice of the town council, and the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

Dunn bowed, extended a hand. “It’s about time we got a real doctor around here.”

Nathan consulted the chart, the faint hint of a smile on his face. “Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head. “Not following my orders, I see.”

“They were absurd orders.” Dunn glowered.

“May I see?” Rachel interrupted and Nathan handed her the chart. She flipped through the pages, aware that the two men had exchanged a conspiratorial wink. After a second she nodded, closed the chart and regarded Mr. Dunn.

“Your blood pressure is up,” she said evenly, and turned to Nathan. “I suggest we bleed him.”

“What?” Dunn’s normally florid complexion paled.

“We’ll just make an incision, say, in the ankle, and drain off some blood. Your pressure will go down, if only until the next time, and you can go home.” She smiled sympathetically. “It’s quite scientific, really, and we hardly ever take too much blood these days.”

Nathan burst out laughing and Dunn looked back and forth between them, confused.

“Franklin, I think you might have just met your match,” Nathan said. “You’ve been taken.”

Dunn looked at Rachel, who arched her eyebrows, her face composed and serious. Dunn, whose successful law career was less from legal expertise than the inborn ability to determine at a glance which way a prospective juror would vote, looked again. He could not tell what Rachel Adams was thinking. And he smiled.

“If you ever get sick of medicine, I can get you into a really good law school.”

“I hope he didn’t think I was being a smartass,” Rachel said after they left Dunn.

“Franklin just looks like a pompous stuffed-shirt. And he likes to intimidate people if they’ll let him, but he has a great deal of respect for those who can out-maneuver him. Which you did.” He replaced Dunn’s chart on the desk and picked up another. “He just needs to unwind a little, relax.”

Emma Sutter snorted, coming up beside him. “There you go again, giving advice and never taking it.” She wagged a finger at him. “You’re discharging Frank, your old fishing buddy; why don’t the two of you take a day or two off?”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Rachel agreed.

“Oh, I don’t . . .”

“Here you are,” Emma continued, “living alongside a national park, two miles from Freedom Lake, and you can’t take a day off to enjoy it? I think you’d better enjoy it while you can because you—aren’t getting any younger.”

“It would do you good,” Rachel added.

“But what about my patients?”

Rachel turned to Emma. “Half an hour ago those were our patients.”

Nathan sighed, lowering himself into a chair. He looked at their faces and nodded. Reluctantly.

“I’ve never seen a more half-hearted concession in my life.” Emma bustled down the hall.

“I knew I should have put a lake in that laboratory,” Nathan mused, rubbing his chin.

“It’ll make a new man of you.”

“I haven’t even used the old one,” he protested and then stood. Their eyes met, Rachel respectful but undeniably an equal.

“And,” he added, starting toward the next patient room, “I should have bound your feet when you were a child.”

Rachel smiled. “You’ve been taken.”

“Smartass.”

TWELVE

Susan Donlevy was one of the new breed of nurses; incredibly efficient, bright and always questioning. She had taken the job in the middle of nowhere precisely for that reason. The doctors in the huge hospital complexes valued her conscientiousness but deplored her pathological doubt. Her employment pattern was always the same; a quick rise to the top, based on her formidable nursing abilities, then a subtle reassignment when she stepped on some toes.

She was very tired of being transferred.

She considered going into computer programming, where absolute accuracy would surely be prized, but decided against it when she’d heard that her cousin Ruthanne was in data processing school. Any discipline that would take Ruthanne would never have her.

It was nice, too, having only seven other nurses on staff. She knew them, could read their writing, and clearly understood the hierarchy of command. It was a nice hospital, and she liked Dr. Adams primarily because he never called her “nurse.” She had always hated being called by a generic name.

There were not many challenges for her organized mind, and when she came on duty at three she sat down with the patient charts to review the details of their care. Emma was busy setting up the labor room—the mother-to-be was on the way in, and Susan liked to start with all the facts current.

Immediately she noted the temperatures, charted and graphed on the vital signs sheet in Emma’s tidy hand. All of the temperatures, for all of the patients, were up by four tenths of a degree. Not a significant rise in itself, and not even unusual that everyone’s was up—the body temperature being given to afternoon and evening elevations in perfectly healthy people. But four tenths of a degree? All of them?

Intrigued, she turned to the nursing notes to read what Emma had to say about each patient’s progress during the day. Franklin was being discharged despite his little temp, his blood pressure still hovering around 160 over 90. He had no complaints, except for the overcooked broccoli served at lunch.

Samuels was restive, agitated and behaving strangely, as usual. Other than the temperature, her vital signs were stable. She had complained of nausea after lunch. Probably the broccoli.

The new patient, Tyler, was receiving nourishment via a nasogastric tube, and was still on D5W. He was in soft restraints and was non-communicative.

The Thomas brat, who was being watched for possible concussion after having jumped from the roof of his parent’s home in an attempt to fly, was oriented as to time and place, but was now to be kept a second night because of the fever.

And, curiously. The last three patients—Nelson, Hunter and Brown—all were complaining of severe headache, nausea and vertigo. She checked their medication indexes, to make sure none were taking any drug which might account for the symptoms.

Then she scolded herself; all three were admitted with exacerbation of flu syndrome. As simple as that.

She stood, straightening her uniform. It was a good thing she had the week-end off. Finding a pattern was one thing—it existed. Forcing a conclusion as to the cause of the pattern was another.

She went to help Emma prepare the labor room.

At four o’clock she took vitals, writing the figures, as was her practice, on the back of a progress sheet for later transfer to the charts. The aide was covering the floor while she concentrated on Tina Cruz, the eighteen year old child struggling to give birth to another child.

It was the beginning of a long evening.

THIRTEEN

Jonathan Scott arrived at the town hall at five p.m. and went straight to his office. Earl was out, presumably on patrol, and the door between the communications room and the outer office was closed. He poured a cup of coffee and went to his desk.

A note from Earl stating that he had been unable to locate family for the Tylers and that the car was at the garage being checked for mechanical failure. A set of Polaroids showing the car from several angles and the road with no skid marks.

A poorly-typed report from Earl on a minor fender-bender involving Ralph Stuart, a camper, and Florence Wagner, Earl’s mother. With painful impartiality, Earl detailed the incident. Mr. Stuart, exiting the campgrounds, had pulled without warning in front of Mrs. Wagner’s slow-moving vehicle, startling her so she had stepped on the gas and run into the back of the Stuart’s rented trailer. Mrs. Wagner was fine, and the Stuarts were fine, except for the wife who seemed almost hysterical when it was suggested they stay another night and have a home-cooked meal at the Wagner home.

That was it; the range of law enforcement in Crest-view. Accidents caused by winding roads and careless drivers. An occasional assist to the forestry service during fire season. And, sporadically, a search and rescue for a lost camper.

He settled in the chair, sipping the coffee, his eyes critically examining the room.

Is this what he had wanted? Coming out of the service, what? Fifteen years ago, aching for action but also needing the discipline of a quasi-military order. He had always felt, and still did, a need for order, for justice. There was right and wrong, and only as he grew older had he acknowledged the in-between.

Timothy Adams was the only one who had understood. They were in the military police, along with a lot of guys who were looking for heads to bust. He and Tim were the good guys. Professional, thorough and dispassionate. It was by the book, all the way. They never abused the implicit immunity of their work, took no favors, and gave none.

Six months before their discharge—Tim got out a week before he did—they agreed to pursue police work on the outside. They discussed New York, which Tim felt was the most challenging city in the country, but settled on Los Angeles because he had a strong suspicion that Tim would be unable to stay that far away from his family for very long.

And for two years it had been an exciting, exhausting life. It was tough out there, and scary, and brutal. People lived and died and it made no difference. They sweated and bled and cried, unnoticed, in the streets. He lived by instinct and intuition and a constant surge of adrenaline.

Tim amazed him. Especially after seeing where he’d been brought up. He was a very good cop and he made no mistakes. He was fast and careful at the same time. He had the ability to talk to the street people without damaging their brittle dignity, without passing judgment.

The strange thing was, Tim never let go. There was no discharge of emotion, no cathartic cry. No shakes. No bad dreams. No paranoia. For someone like Tim, whom he secretly thought had led a sheltered life, it was amazing.

It might have been what killed him.

They were both on the night shift and had met at an all-night restaurant for dinner. Tim had a letter from home, from Rachel. A week-end at home was in the works, and Rachel wanted to make sure that Tim invited him to come along. Tim winked at him.

“I think baby Rachel has a crush on you.”

Jon felt the warmth rise in his face. “I doubt it.” He looked at the menu with renewed interest.

“I know my own sister. You’d better watch out.”

“I’m not her type—I shave.”

Tim laughed. “She’s not interested in boys her own age. Never has been.”

“Even so . . .” He couldn’t read the look on Tim’s face.

“Yeah, you’re right. She’ll probably get married to some peach-fuzz punk, have eight kids . . .” Another smile.

Something about the remark annoyed him and he did not answer.

Later, cruising the streets in the patrol car, Jon allowed himself to examine the conversation. He had blushed. A grown man, a police officer. Yet he could feel the need to accept the invitation. To see Rachel.

He could see her gray eyes, her direct and questioning gaze. The soft reddish-brown hair she still wore long and loose, covering her bare tanned shoulders. Her slim arms, raised over her head as she stretched, the tight muscles of her legs.

He rolled down the window on the unit and turned up the radio, clearing his head. He caught his eyes in the mirror. None of this.

She was fifteen, now, still a child. There were laws against that kind of thing. Certainly he, least of all, should be thinking this way.

Yet after he had parked and was sitting in the dark quiet night, his thoughts returned to her. Imagining her tender young mouth . . .

The call came “Officer needs assistance,” and even before he pulled back into the street, he knew it was Tim. The other cars were lining the street, lights flashing, and he hesitated only slightly, but knew there was no alternative.

Tim lay flat on his back in the middle of a stinking alley. A dark stain, wet and spreading, covered his chest. His gun was clutched in his hand. His mouth worked, bubbling blood.

“I’m here,” Jon said, beside him, ignoring the broken glass that dug into his knees.

“Too slow . . .” Tim said, and blinked.

“Don’t talk.” Jon leaned over him, closer, shielding his body from other eyes. He heard the ambulance pulling up and sensed the lack of time. He squeezed Tim’s free hand.

The rescue personnel loaded him on the stretcher and into the ambulance. He got in the back without asking.

They were almost there.

“Jon?”

He looked up to see Tim’s face, strangely peaceful. He moved forward so that Tim could see him.

“Take me home . . .” Tim closed his eyes.

Jon swallowed with difficulty. “We’ll both go,” he whispered.

The ambulance pulled up to the hospital.

“Jon.” Earl Wagner stood in the door. “Didn’t you hear me come in?”

Jon swung around in the chair and waited a moment before answering. “Sorry. Did you need something?”

“Just to let you know what’s going on . . . I’m off duty in ten minutes.”

“Ah . . . go ahead.”

“You’ve seen my reports? The only new thing is that Randy Cruz has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“And his wife is over about to have the baby. I haven’t been able to talk to her yet, but there’s no sign of Randy, that’s for sure. I’ve criss-crossed all over this mountain.”

“Well, he knows the forest, I doubt that he’s lost.”

“He’s on foot, though. Hardly seems likely he could get that far away on foot, that I couldn’t find him.”

“Where was he going?”

“Don’t know. His wife’s mother said he went out to check on some sounds he heard—thought someone was sneaking around.”

“How long ago?”

“About midnight last night.”

“It’s twenty-four hours for a missing person . . .”

“I know. But with Tina having the baby . . .”

“You’re right. Okay, thanks.” He got up and put on his hat. “I’ll go over to the hospital and see if I can talk to Mrs. Cruz.”

“Well, good luck. It’d be a terrible thing if something happened to him when his kid was just getting born . . .”

FOURTEEN

“Don’t be scared,” Rachel said, patting Tina’s hand.

The girl did not appear to hear, her eyes wide and frightened, her body locked in a strong contraction.

Nathan entered the room and came over to where Rachel stood. “How is she?”

“Getting there. Any time now.”

He nodded. “I’m going to start the post-mortem on the accident victim from last night.” His voice was barely audible. “If you need me I’ll be in there.”

“You don’t want to wait until I can give you a hand?”

“I should’ve had it done hours ago. You just take good care of Tina.” He brushed the hair out of the girl’s face. She calmed at his touch and began to drift off in relief of her pain.

Rachel watched him go, and when Tina’s mother came in to sit with her she left.

Jon approached the nursing station just as Rachel left the labor room opposite it. The handheld radio he carried emitted faint static and he switched it to signal before facing her.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

“I need to talk to Tina Cruz about her husband.”

“What about him?” She leaned against the counter.

A nurse had come up to the desk and was making a great deal of noise looking through the supply shelves at the back of the station. Jon watched her for a second and looked at Rachel.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“My office.” She turned to the nurse. “I’ll be in my office with Sheriff Scott if anyone needs me.”

They started off down the hall, Rachel a step ahead.

“You really do look like a doctor in those clothes,” he commented.

“You look like a sheriff with that gun on your hip.” She continued walking, aware that he had stopped momentarily.

“What does that mean?”

“I am a doctor.”

“I know that.”

“Then why do you look at me like you expect me to skip off down the hall? Or play . . .” she hesitated, searching her memory, “. . . hopscotch.”

They turned the corner into the south hall.

“Did you play hopscotch? Somehow, I can’t imagine . . .”

“I did. Eighteen years ago, when I was a child, which I’m not anymore.” She held the office door open for him to enter.

She closed the door behind him. The office was dark, the only light coming from the lanterns in the courtyard. She passed him and turned on the desk light. The same aftershave.

“Randy Cruz apparently wandered off sometime after midnight last night and hasn’t been home since,” Jon said.

“The poor girl. No wonder she’s so scared.”

“Earl said that he’d gone outside to investigate some noises, and I need to know what, if anything, she heard. From what direction.”

Rachel sat on the desk, regarding him.

“And?”

“And, if there’s any reason he might want to disappear.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe they had a fight. Maybe he owed some money. I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Why do people run away?”

She didn’t answer for a minute. “Sometimes they want someone to come after them.”

After another minute he said: “Earl looked for him.”

In spite of herself, Rachel laughed. “You are . . .” she began, and then left off.

“Can I talk to her?”

“Of course.” She looked at her watch. “She’s about ready to go into delivery. Want to watch?”

“Uh . . .”

“There’s a little observation room between the surgical suites.” She stood up. “You can even keep your gun on,” she said as she passed him on the way out.

It was a very small observation room, claustrophobic, even, but luckily it was a quick delivery. He had seen babies born before, even delivered a few, as a police officer in L.A. But there was something different about watching Rachel. She was calm and very natural, and her face glowed when she held the baby boy up for the mother to see. A few minutes later, when the nurse wheeled the mother and infant out of the room, she took off her mask and smiled at him, thumbs up.

“Tina,” Rachel said softly, “Sheriff Scott would like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

“Randy . . .” the girl’s eyelids were drooping.

“Mrs. Cruz, I need to know everything you can remember about when Randy left last night.”

“He doesn’t know . . . about the baby.”

“That’s why I want to find him,” Jon said, “so I can tell him and he can come and see his son. But I need you to help me.”

The girl nodded.

“The sounds he heard, what did they sound like to you?”

“I asked him, not to go.” It was a whine. “I was scared. It sounded like some big animal . . . was killing something in the trees.” She clutched Rachel’s hand. “A lot of noise, terrible noise. I didn’t want him to go out there.”

“Did he take a gun?”

A nod. “He . . . he said not to open the door until I heard him shoot twice . . . the signal.” Her face twisted. “When he didn’t come back by morning, I called momma.”

“You didn’t hear anything else?”

Tears began to run down her face. “No . . . it just . . . stopped.”

Jon and Rachel exchanged a look, and he nodded.

“All right, now, I want you to rest.”

“You’ll find Randy?” Tina pleaded.

“I’ll do my best.”

Rachel wrote an order for a mild tranquilizer for Tina and noted that the infant was to be bottle-fed for the first day. She turned to Jon.

“Now what?”

“Now, I go out and look for Randy Cruz.”

“It’s getting dark out.”

He sighed. “It won’t be the first time I’ve stumbled through the forest in the dark.”

“Jon . . .” Rachel looked at him.

“Hmm?”

“Could you wait a few minutes? If Nathan’s finished the autopsy, I’d like to come with you.”

FIFTEEN

As always, that momentary hesitation as he held the scalpel above the body. He shook his head, slowly, his eyes fixed on the woman’s face.

She was very young, younger than Rachel, and that made it harder still.

He stepped on the floor pedal of the dictating machine and began to speak.

“The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished white female who appears to be the stated age of twenty-five. Preliminary examination reveals multiple abrasions and contusions and a grossly obvious neck fracture.” He lifted the scalpel again and stepped off the pedal. With the sophisticated technology of the recording equipment he used, he had found that if he dictated while actually cutting, many of the sounds were audible on the tape. Ripping, wet sounds.

He made the primary incision, and laid open the body.

He worked quickly, removing and sectioning the internal organs for microscopic exam. There were no abnormalities, no masses. Very little blood in the abdominal cavity.

Very little blood, indeed.

He looked closely at the contusions on the body. There was no bleeding beneath the tissue. He straightened, trying to recall what Jon had told him.

Found in a tree. The car in which she was riding had run off the side of a hill, and tossed her out.

He moved away from the table and paced twice across the room. Then he came back, lifting the head from the table, feeling the play in the neck. When he put his fingers beneath the fracture, he could feel bone scraping.

There was only one way to find out . . .

He’d assumed, from what Jon had told him, that the woman went through the windshield. There was glass in her hair, but no cuts with glass in them on her body. Her head might have knocked the glass out . . .

He got the razor and began to shave a patch of hair from her head, letting it fall onto the tile.

There they were; dozens of small cuts, the scalp puckered with them. And no subcutaneous bleeding.

Again he stood back, looking at the body.

The woman was dead when her head went through the windshield, or there would be blood in the scalp wounds. The woman was dead when her husband’s car slid off the road. Her neck was already broken when she landed in that tree.

He stepped on the pedal and after a minute he spoke.

SIXTEEN

He waited outside in the Bronco while Rachel changed clothes, his fingers drumming against the seat. It was dark now, the moon rising in the clear sky. He looked at the house. The light went off in her room.

She came out the door and down the steps, dressed in beige denim pants, a blue shirt and desert boots. She swung up into the seat and closed the door, turning to face him.

“Let’s go.”

“Don’t you have a jacket?”

“It’s summer.”

“If you say so.” He put the Bronco in gear and began to turn around in the yard. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”

“I know my way around the forest . . .” she tucked one leg up on the seat.

The drive to the Cruz property was along the back roads, dotted with potholes and partially obstructed by brush. The road twisted so that it seemed as if they were traveling in circles, but finally they came to the clearing by the house.

A solitary light shone on the porch.

Jon pulled up and turned off the engine. Crickets serenaded the night. For a moment they just listened, not moving.

“It’s spooky out here,” Rachel said, rubbing her bare arms.

“And cold, isn’t it?”

“I’m not complaining.”

He reached over into the back seat and grabbed his jacket, handing it to her. “Put it on.” He opened the door and got out, then went around to the back of the vehicle and pulled a rifle out.

Rachel moved away from the Bronco.

“Hey, don’t wander off.” He walked toward her. The jacket was long on her and she held her arms away from her body, turning slowly.

“This is going to slow me down,” she said. “And if I fall in the lake, I’ll drown for sure.”

“Rachel, shut up.” He handed her the rifle as he passed her and started toward the trees at the rear of the house.

They stood at the edge of the woods, letting their eyes adjust to the dark. Something had moved, off to their right, and immediately they turned off the flashlight. Jon moved a step closer to her, his hand on his holster.

He started in the direction of the sound, stepping carefully, motioning her to follow. It was slow, going forward in measured degrees, testing the ground, listening.

They heard no other sound. Still they moved deeper into the woods. The trees were blocking the moonlight and the darkness was like a cushion.

“Jon.” Rachel’s whisper surprised him, and he turned, almost colliding with her and having to hold on to her to keep from losing his balance.

“What?”

“I can smell something.” They were still standing close, his hands on her arms.

“What?” His voice sounded hoarse.

“I’m sure I smell blood.”

A short distance off they found an area where the brush had been trampled, and blood splattered all over. The thick metallic smell of blood was overpowering.

Jon knelt by a drying pool of red. He collected a sample, careful not to disturb the scene.

“Do you think . . .” Rachel looked at him questioningly.

“Cruz? I don’t know. It could be animal blood. There are no clear footprints anywhere around.” He stood, surveying the site. “Whatever did this . . .”

Rachel shivered.

“Come on,” he said, “I’m going to take you home.”

She was silent on the way back to the house, staring out the window. He reached to take her hand.

They pulled up in front of the house and he turned off the engine, getting out to open the door for her. She stepped down, standing in front of him, and began to remove the jacket.

“I don’t want,” she said, “to have to tell her.” She looked up at him, the pain strong in her eyes.

“He may be out there somewhere.” He accepted the jacket from her and tossed it onto the front seat.

“But where?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. If . . . if he came upon a bear and disturbed it, he might have had to run and hide.”

“For this long?”

“He might have been injured.”

“In which case he’s out there, helpless.” She paused. “What do you really think?”

Jon frowned. “I think . . . Randy Cruz is dead, and that he was killed out there in that clearing.”

Rachel stepped closer to him, putting her arms around his waist and leaning against him. A tremor ran through her body and he closed his arms around her.

They stood that way for a long time.

Driving back toward the main road, he could smell the scent of her on the jacket and he breathed deeply.

SEVENTEEN

Joyce Callan walked quietly into the laboratory, two cups of coffee in her hands.

“Nathan?” He was peering into a microscope.

“Yes?” He looked up and smiled.

She handed him a cup and sat on one of the tall stools. “Susan’s gone home.” She sipped at the coffee. “She told me the strangest thing.”

“Strange-how?”

“The patients seem to be running temperatures according to some sort of mathematical formula.”

“What?”

She laughed at the look on his face. “That’s what I thought at first, but then she showed me the charts. During the day shift, each one of the patients showed a point four degree temperature elevation. And, on her shift, all of the temps went up another point two degrees.”

“That is strange,” Nathan agreed.

“I can hardly wait to take the next vitals.”

“I’d be very interested to see if the trend continues.” He finished his coffee and placed the cup on the counter before standing and facing her, holding his arms out. “Come here.”

She complied, her heart racing.

He kissed her soundly. “I’ve been waiting all day to do that.”

“I stayed up this morning after work; I thought you might come by.”

“Ah.” He released her, holding her at arm’s-length. “I wanted to, but with Rachel home . . .”

“I thought she might be here with you tonight,” Joyce said carefully. “I’d like to meet her.”

“You will.” His gaze softened. “I intend to tell her about us, don’t worry.”

“I am worried. What if she doesn’t approve?”

“Rachel is my niece,” he reminded her.

“And your only family. She might not appreciate my coming into your life just when she’s come home.”

“Rachel came home for reasons of her own, not to run my life for me.” Nathan kissed her gently. “And what’s not to like about you? You’re very nearly perfect.”

“Nearly?”

“Perfect.”

The emergency buzzer rang, and Joyce hurried down the hall to answer it, brushing her hair back from her face and hoping the flush would fade from her cheeks. She looked through the peephole; it was Sheriff Scott.

“Dr. Adams in?” he asked when she opened the door, although Nathan’s truck was in sight in the parking lot.

Joyce felt the blush creeping back into her face and avoided his knowing eyes.

“In the lab,” she said, and locked the door behind him, giving him time to get down the hall. Then she went back to the nursing station, her face averted as she passed the lab door.

“Jon,” Nathan said, “this is a surprise.”

Jon smiled faintly and continued walking around the lab, looking at the equipment, running a finger across the counter.

“Nice,” he said, and smiled, facing Nathan.

“I haven’t talked to Rachel; how did your search go?”

Jon withdrew the vial containing the blood sample and handed it to Nathan. “I need to know if this is human blood.”

“You didn’t find him?”

“No.” His eyes continued to take in the room. “But we found a clearing where the brush had been trampled down, and blood all over.”

Nathan had already begun setting up to test the sample, his actions precise, his movements economical. He crossed to a glass enclosed cabinet and unlocked it, searching the shelves for only a second before finding what he wanted.

“So he’s probably dead?”

“Probably.” He leaned against a counter. “You finished the autopsy on Louisa Ann Tyler?”

Nathan stopped his preparations. “That’s peculiar as well.”

Jon waited expectantly.

“She was dead before the car ever left the road.”

Jon straightened. “Dead of . . .”

“A broken neck, but not received in the accident. Someone broke her neck.”

“Her husband?”

Nathan shrugged. “He’s still noncommunicative.”

“So someone killed her, she didn’t break her own neck in a fall, or . . .”

“There are two very distinct bruises at the base of the skull, and along her jaw. Someone came up behind her, put his thumbs on either side of the spinal cord, and snapped her neck.” He paused. “I sent a copy of my report down to your office earlier this evening.”

“Hm? Oh, I haven’t been back to the office, I’ve just come from dropping Rachel off.”

Nathan picked up the phone and began to dial. “I’d better have her lock the doors. If Randy Cruz is dead, that means we have two murders on our hands. And Wendall Tyler, whether or not he killed his wife . . .”

“. . . probably didn’t do both.”

Joyce stood, her fingers on Wendall Tyler’s wrist, her eyes watching the seconds pass by as she counted. His pulse was even and steady, seventy-two beats per minute.

He was breathing easily, the slow rise of his chest just visible in the indirect light from the hall. She replaced his arm by his side and turned to leave.

Behind her, he sat up, his eyes wide, a cry breaking the silence.

She spun, frightened, backing toward the door.

“No! No!” the man screamed, struggling against the bedclothes, his breath ragged, gasping. Then the fear on his face turned to horror, his eyes wider still and fixed upon some distant sight, all hope gone, his hands flew up and covered his ears, and a tortured soundless scream, the veins standing out in his neck, the awful silence.

He collapsed back on the bed.

She could hear them running down the hall toward the room, and again, the sound of him sleeping.

They put the leather restraints on Tyler and cleared the room of objects which might be used as weapons. They positioned the bed so that it was observable through the small window in the door.

When she gave Nora Samuels her medication, the woman whispered to her: “He has seen.” And later, when she was alone, she stood at his door and watched him sleep.

EIGHTEEN

Something was wrong.

Candy Burroughs walked determinedly toward the campground restrooms, her filmy robe billowing behind her, the satin high-heeled bedroom slippers digging into the loose topsoil.

Married less than twelve hours and already he was taking her for granted. She was beginning to think that she had made a mistake.

She knew a lot about being taken for granted, having learned it at her mother’s knee. It was dangerously close to being mistaken for the furniture . . .

She hadn’t expected it from David.

But the signs were all there. Married half a day and he was asleep in the tent, dead to the world, and there she was in her forty-five dollar negligee, reeking of Chanel No. 5.

She knew she shouldn’t have slept with him before she had a wedding ring on her finger. Her mother had told her.

Of course, there was the way he looked in tight jeans, and the way his body moved when they danced. He was something to look at. And this fiasco was getting worse every minute. Pretend you like the same things he does, they told her. Be a good sport.

Well, she was a good sport, and look where it got her; in the middle of nowhere, sleeping, and only sleeping, on a thin air mattress in a smelly old tent. No water bed, no adult movies, no champagne. And . . . no David.

How could he go to sleep like that?

She stumbled over a rock, twisting her ankle, and she stopped, taking off the heels. The dirt was cool and squished through her toes.

Well, he wasn’t likely to want to kiss her feet tonight, anyway.

The restrooms were well-lit and she went into the ladies section. Her mother had taught her how to use a public restroom without ever sitting down, something she was grateful for, especially now that they said that the disease germs probably lived longer on the toilet tissue than anywhere else. Maybe she’d take a wad of it to the tent and shove it into his pants.

The mirrors above the sinks were uniformly warped and there were no paper towels to dry her hands. She had only brought enough tissues to take care of number one. She stood, waving her hands in the air.

Back outside, she sat on the wooden bench which ran along the front of the building, examining her sore ankle. No swelling. Too bad. It might have made him sorry.

That was her mother’s trick as well. Mother had a lot of them, and she’d had a lot of husbands to try them on. Mother would probably know what to do.

She sighed, and began brushing the dust from the satin slippers.

What she really wanted to do was go back to the tent, wake him up, tease him and then tell him to go to hell.

No, what she really, really wanted was his hot little body. All night long.

“David,” she said, standing up, “you are going to get it.”

She didn’t remember this turn in the road, or the grove of trees. She slowed her pace, trying to find a familiar shape in the dark. A faint light shone in the distance but it seemed too far to be the guidepost. She had been walking for a long time.

She pulled the robe around her, holding the front together at the neck, and stopped walking. If she was going in the wrong direction she would only make it worse by continuing on. She turned around.

The restroom lights were not visible.

A whisper. She held her breath, listening hard. It was the wind in the trees.

She started back the way she had come. Very strange that she couldn’t see anyone’s campsite. There were lots of people in the park; someone must have a light on.

She was beginning to get scared. It was pitch black, even the moon obscured by the trees. She thought of crying out for help but decided against it. If something was out there she did not want to call attention to herself. The white nightgown and perfume were bad enough.

She came upon a turn in the road and the dirt was just enough lighter than the surrounding ground so she could see that the road split in three directions. She had taken the wrong fork.

Now she knew this one was the wrong one, but which of the others was the right one? She stood in the center of the road and peered down the others. Nothing struck her as familiar.

She found a large rock and placed it in the middle of the wrong path. Process of elimination, she thought, and took the right fork.

If she hadn’t been so upset with David, she might have paid more attention to where she’d walked. Again nothing looked right.

She was about to turn back when she heard a sound behind her, like twigs snapping, and felt eyes upon her. Her legs carried her forward.

What was it?

She moved faster, the negligee threatening to tangle around her legs, and she lifted it, gathering the material in her free hand, the slippers clutched in the other.

She could sense it behind her, moving stealthily, gaining ground.

She broke into a run, the gown up to her thighs, now, breathing hard through her mouth. A stitch in her side but she ignored it.

In front of her, a light. The guidepost, her guidepost, and beyond, perhaps four hundred yards, was the tent and the car. A trailer was across and two spaces down.

She ducked through the opening into the tent and fell to her knees gasping. She could not bear to look out and see what it was. She pulled the nightgown off; it was damp with sweat.

David lay on his back on the air mattress. He was dressed only in cutoffs, and the covers were twisted at the foot of the bed.

She crawled into bed beside him, pulling the blankets up around them and ran her hand across his chest and stomach before doing what mother never told her.

NINETEEN

Jon parked the Bronco in front of the town hall and entered the building through the side door, deliberately making enough noise with his keys so the night dispatch clerk could hear him.

“That you, Sheriff?” Sally Rose was a big woman, well over two hundred pounds, and she’d been dispatching long before he’d ever shown up in town. Rumor was that one night one of the deputies had shown up unannounced and she’d knocked him cold in anticipated defense of her virtue.

“It is, and how are you?”

“Can’t complain.” A pause. “Well, I could, but what good would it do me?” She laughed and winked at him. “It’s been real quiet tonight, Sheriff, not even complaints about barking dogs.”

“Good.” He unlocked the door to his office.

“Oh, wait. Here’s a report from Dr. Adams.” She held out a manila envelope. “Reverend Frey brought it by . . . he’s a good man.”

“Dr. Adams?” He opened the envelope and scanned the report.

“Reverend Frey. Always thinking of others.” She went back into the communications room, shaking her head in wonder.

“That’s his job,” Jon said under his breath and went into his office.

The report said essentially what Nathan had told him, if in more technical terms. Death caused by a broken neck. Shortly before the accident, as determined by the absence of post-mortem lividity—the gravitational pooling of blood in the body.

He tossed it on the desk and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet on the desk.

It had been a long time since he’d had anything to do with a murder case. As a patrol cop he was often first on the scene, responsible for preserving the integrity of the evidence, but homicide took over from there. This one promised to be a lulu.

Wendall Tyler was in no shape to talk. If he could talk to the family, he might uncover a reason why Tyler might want to kill his wife. Maybe he’d planned the whole thing; killed her and then ran the car off the road to make it look like an accident. He could be faking this entire speechless bit. They’d heard him yelling.

And Randy Cruz. Nathan had verified that the blood was human. Cruz had gone looking for something, and apparently he’d found it. But where was the body? Nothing he knew of would destroy every trace of it. Unless, like Rachel said, he had crawled off somewhere and was helpless.

He would organize a more thorough search in the morning. Earl could call a couple of the reserves and the park rangers might be able to round up some volunteers among the campers. There was a lot of land to cover.

The office was warm and he allowed his eyes to close, intending only to rest for a moment.

Tim was alive.

He was back in the LAPD uniform, driving his unit through the streets, and he heard Tim’s voice on the radio, calling in a traffic stop. Routine. Standard procedure.

For some reason, though, he turned and headed toward where the stop was made. His car glided along dark streets as he twisted his way through the city. There was steady traffic on the air, but nothing for him.

He was getting close now, pausing to let an old man cross the street in front of him, his jaw tightening.

He could see, ahead, the flashing lights of the patrol car, brilliantly bright. The other car was in front, all four doors standing open.

Where were they?

An alley ran through the middle of the block, and he could see it in his mind, dark, foreign.

He pulled up alongside Tim’s unit, his lights flashing now, and was out of the car, gun drawn, and running toward the alley. He saw three of them, but not Tim.

The flash of a gun.

He pulled the trigger, again and again, emptying the gun at them, and they fell. He began to reload, walking into the alley, trying not to smell the rotten stink of them.

Dead. He had killed them, blasted their faces away.

And Tim. Standing.

He had saved him this time.

He woke, throat aching.

Sally knocked on the opened door. “Sheriff, they’ve found Randy Cruz. Down at the rock quarry.”

Ranger Malloy stood in the middle of the road and flagged him down, coming around to the window.

“He’s over just beyond my jeep.” Malloy’s face was grim.

Jon got out and followed Malloy, his boots crunching gravel. A fine mist had settled near the ground, reflecting back the light from Malloy’s flashlight.

Randy Cruz was face down, arms and legs splayed. There was a great deal of blood. A rifle was just beyond his right hand.

Jon knelt by the body. “Did you move him?”

“God, no.”

Jon flashed the light at Cruz’s face and then at the hands. A thin wedding band shone on the left hand. “Shit.” He got up and regarded the rifle. “Why the hell didn’t he use it?”

Malloy didn’t answer.

He got back to the office as the sun was rising. The body of Randy Cruz was now in the morgue at the hospital, only a couple of halls away from his wife and child.

He would have to call Rachel, so she could tell the wife. It was not a job he envied.

Earl was due in any minute, and it was clear he’d have to call in one of the reserves. The work was piling up fast.

The day dispatcher showed up five minutes later, with Earl hot on her heels.

“Damn,” Earl said when he told him.

Jon picked up the phone to call Rachel but the line was busy. It wouldn’t take more than five minutes to drive over there. “I’m going to stop by the Adams house on my way home,” he said, “but I want to make sure you call me at twelve-thirty.”

“That’s not much time to sleep,” Earl said.

“It’ll be enough.” Then he was out the door.

Saturday

TWENTY

Joyce Callan took the thermometer from between Peter Thomas’ lips, noting the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and the high color in his cheeks. 102.6. She held her hand against his face. Unscientific, but she needed to touch him, to reassure him.

She went back to the station and picked up the direct line to Nathan, pushing the button so the line would ring.

Rachel Adams answered the phone.

“Doctor, this is the hospital.” She resisted the urge to ask for Nathan. “Peter Thomas is running a temp of one oh two six.”

“Was it up at all yesterday?”

Joyce flipped the chart back to the vitals sheet. “Normal on admission, ninety-nine, ninety-nine point two, and then it spiked during the night.”

“He’s how old?”

“Twelve. Admitted for observation . . .”

“Yes, I remember; he thought he could fly. Give him two adult aspirin and I’ll be down in half an hour.”

“Thank you.” Joyce replaced the phone, and went to the medication cabinet to get the aspirin.

“Who was it?” Nathan asked, coming into the kitchen.

“The Thomas boy is running a fever.” She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him. “I’d better get dressed.”

“I can take care of it.”

She stopped at the door. “I thought we agreed that I’d take over the patients for a while.”

Nathan nodded. “Yes . . . but . . .”

“And you’re taking tomorrow off to go fishing.”

Again he nodded. “But you need to get the radio installed in your car before I go.”

Rachel leaned against the door. “You’re right.”

“So take care of that first and then you can come and play doctor.” He drank the coffee and pushed aside the kitchen curtain. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

She was getting dressed when she heard voices from downstairs and she hurried when she recognized Jon’s.

Nathan was at the door, ready to leave, as she came down the stairs. “Jon says he’ll install your radio for you,” he informed her.

“But you’ve worked all night,” she protested.

“It won’t take long. I came by,” he continued, “to tell you we found Randy Cruz.”

She looked at Nathan and back at Jon. “He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

Nathan cleared his throat. “Would you like me to tell Tina?”

Rachel shook her head. “I’ll tell her.”

“I’d better get going,” Nathan said and went out the door.

For a moment they just stood, looking at each other.

“Did he look as though an animal had killed him?”

“There was a lot of blood, but it looked like knife wounds to me.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t the type of guy to have someone hating him.”

“That makes it worse,” she observed.

“Yeah. Well, I’d better get your radio in so you can get on your way.”

He was half-lying on the floorboard of the Porsche, fixing the radio brace under the dash. Rachel sat in the driver’s seat examining the radio, which she held in her hands.

“What’s band one and two?”

“One is the private frequency that the hospital uses; they’ve got a transmitter in emergency. Two is county communications, the open channel.”

“Is that you?”

“Sometimes. We’ve got a private band, too. Can’t let everyone know our business.” He connected a protective case around the brackets. He put his hand up toward her. “Okay, it’s ready to go in.”

She handed him the radio and watched as he installed it. His shirt had slipped up, an inch of bare abdomen was exposed. Fine dark hair. She looked away.

He attached the microphone to the radio case and made the final electrical connections, then slid, maneuvering until he was able to sit in the passenger’s seat. He handed her the mike.

“Try it,” he said, and reached to turn it on.

There was only silence on the air. He switched bands, and turned the volume up.

“You’re not receiving. This must be a dead zone.” He closed the car door. “Start it and drive up the road a way; see if it works.”

The engine caught, running smoothly, and she pulled away, a cloud of dust rising behind her. She pushed the gas pedal almost to the floor, shifting gears quickly, the little car hugging the road, and then stopped, allowing the car to slide just a little.

“I am the law,” he said.

It was close in the car and she reached up, touching his face with her hand. Her mouth was inches from his.

“Arrest me.” She smiled and picked up the microphone.

TWENTY-ONE

Five minutes after she arrived at the hospital she was standing outside Tina Cruz’s room. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Tina was lying on her side, facing away from the door, but she turned. She was pale and she looked very young, tiny blue bows holding her hair back from her face. She looked at Rachel and reached up to twist a strand of blonde hair.

Rachel waited until she was next to the bed before speaking. “Tina . . . I’m afraid I have some bad news, about Randy.” She took the girl’s hand. There was no gentle way to put it. “He’s been killed.”

The girl’s throat tightened, her eyes glistened, but she did not cry out.

“I knew he’d be here if he could,” she whispered. “To see the baby.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “The baby’s all right? They haven’t brought him . . .”

“The baby’s fine,” Rachel soothed. “The nurse is feeding him because I felt you needed a sedative and any medication that you take would be in your milk. They’ll bring him in later.”

“Little Randy,” she said softly. “He’s a beautiful baby, isn’t he?”

“Very.”

“Like his daddy.” The strand of hair was tightly twisted and she released it, fingering another.

“Can your mother come and stay with you when you’re ready to go home?” The secluded house was no place for a new mother and child.

“I’ll go to my parents’ home.” She began brushing at the sheet. “It will be just like he was never here.” She met Rachel’s eyes. “Except for the baby.”

“Tina, it’s all right for you to cry,” Rachel said softly. “It’s all right for you to miss him. I know you’re feeling these things, and even anger because he left you alone.”

“She . . . she . . .” a single tear ran across her cheek.

“You don’t have to be strong right now, you can be strong later. Go ahead and cry.”

“. . . told me . . . he was dead,” Tina gasped, her eyes wild.

“Who? The nurse?”

Tina shook her head and closed her eyes.

“Your mother?”

“No! Last night . . . Miss Samuels . . .” she struggled to talk through the suffocating tears. “She told me . . . he was dead.” The last vestige of control collapsed and she gave in to it, allowing Rachel to hold her, until finally she fell asleep, exhausted.

TWENTY-TWO

“Doctor,” Emma Sutter came up beside her. “Your uncle is in with the Thomas boy, and he’d like your assistance.”

“I’ll go right in. There’s an order for continued sedation for Mrs. Cruz; please make sure that she gets it on time.” She handed Emma the chart and walked down the hall to 107.

“Good, you’re here,” Nathan looked up when she entered. “I’m having a hell of a time with this boy’s veins. They keep closing up on me.”

She crossed to the bed and turned the boy’s limp hand, running her finger along the inside of his arm. “They’re tiny,” she agreed, and searched the IV tray for a butterfly. “What’s happening with him?”

“Temperature is up to a hundred and four.”

“His skin is very dry.” She wiped the arm with an alcohol swab after tightening the tourniquet. She covered his hand with her own, making it into a fist and pumping.

“I’ve got the blood work running through the machine right now, but there’s nothing remarkable on physical exam. Except the fever.”

“And dehydration.” The needle punctured the smooth skin and she probed gently. “Ah! Got it.” The needle penetrated, a drop of blood welling from the shaft. She attached the tubing after running a few drops of the solution. Nathan handed her a strip of clear tape, and she secured the needle to the arm, and then the arm to an armboard.

“You have such tiny hands,” he said. “I’m afraid I stuck him twice without hitting the mark.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Something viral, I suppose.” He picked up a Frisbee from the bedside table, turning it in his hands. “Hospitals are hothouses of germs.”

“Or he brought it in himself.”

“Well, maybe I’m jumping the gun, but I’m going to run blood cultures on him. See if I can’t isolate it.” He tossed the Frisbee onto the foot of the bed. “By the way, I’d like you to check on Mr. Tyler . . . see if we agree what his problem is.”

Wendall Tyler was still, his eyes open and fixed. The leather restraints limited the movement of his arms and legs but he appeared unaware. She moved closer to the bed until she could see his eyes, and presumably he could see her.

“Mr. Tyler, can you hear me?”

A slight flicker.

“I’m Dr. Adams,” she said, her voice quiet and low, her face composed in case he should look at her. “I’d like to talk to you about the accident.”

A rapid eye movement, a perceptible contraction of the pupil. His body remained motionless.

She took his wrist, finding the pulse. A slight increase in heart rate.

“Can you tell me about the accident?” She waited a full minute before speaking again. “When you were walking along the road, when the deputy found you, who were you looking for? Was it Louisa?”

His pulse was racing, his eyes blinking rapidly.

“Tell me about Louisa.”

He turned his head a fraction of an inch, his mouth opening. She could see the muscles in his throat moving, his jaw unclenching, but no sound came from him. Under her fingers she felt the tension in his arm, and the strain as he pulled against the restraints.

Still he did not speak.

“We heard him,” Nathan said later in his office. “Joyce was in the room, and Jon and I heard him all the way down the hall in the lab.”

“But he was dreaming, or having a nightmare.” Rachel paced. “I think he is hysterically mute.”

“It could be one explanation,” Nathan agreed.

“He wanted to talk to me, I think.”

“You know, there is a possibility that he killed his wife before the accident. She was dead in that car with him when it ran off the road.”

“Or he saw her killed, and it so traumatized him that he can’t talk.”

“So . . . what do you suggest? If the man is a killer, I’d rather prefer to know.”

“Hypnosis?” The pacing stopped and she faced him. “I studied hypnosis in my last year of med school. I think I could do it.”

“But is it safe? I don’t like the idea of you unleashing all of his tortured memories.”

“Someone can stand by, outside the door, just in case.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. But I think we should give him another day or two . . . he might come out of it on his own.”

Rachel nodded. “I don’t want to push him into remembering before he is ready to deal with it, but if he didn’t kill his wife, and he knows who did, we need to know as soon as possible.”

As soon as she left Nathan’s office, Rachel headed toward Nora Samuels room. If the woman had overheard someone talking about Randy Cruz’s death Rachel wanted to know about it. The fact that she would tell Tina, based essentially on hearsay was inexcusable. And if any of the nurses were talking about sensitive subjects too close to the patient rooms, they would have to be warned. Privacy and confidentiality were too easily violated in hospitals, even more so, perhaps, in a town where everyone knew everyone else.

Nora Samuels was not in her room. Rachel turned and went to the nurse’s station. Reverend Frey was standing at the counter.

“. . . and she’d like her usual room,” he was saying to Emma, who smiled painfully at him and nodded.

“Excuse me,” Rachel said, interrupting. “Emma, have you seen Nora Samuels?”

“No, but she does tend to wander around.”

“Thanks.” Rachel started down the north hallway.

“Do you think,” Reverend Frey was saying behind her, “that the cook might serve chicken on Sunday night? Amanda does love chicken on Sunday.”

She walked through the entire hospital and the courtyard, looking for Nora Samuels, then returned to the woman’s room on the chance she might have returned. The room was deserted.

She opened the small closet and checked the drawers. Empty. Even the personal items supplied by the hospital were gone—tissues, toothbrush, soap, hand lotion.

And in the waste can—Nora Samuels’ hospital ID bracelet.

TWENTY-THREE

The body of Randy Cruz lay naked on the autopsy table and Nathan, standing at the door, frowned. The world was going to hell in a handbasket. Two people killed within hours of each other.

He had lived in Crestview for thirty years, coming to escape the insane slaughter in the cities, freed from financial concern by his own innate investment expertise. He couldn’t recall another murder in all those years. He’d thought he’d left this behind.

The body was covered with stab wounds and slash marks, dozens and dozens of them. He took a couple of photographs and then rinsed the dried blood off the body.

He’d delivered Randy Cruz, and his brothers as well. Held him up by his heels, again naked and bloody, full of life and pinking as the air filled his lungs.

Nathan made the incision in the chest.

He was washing up when Rachel came in, lathering soap up beyond his elbows.

“Nora Samuels has disappeared,” she said. “She’s not in the hospital, and her things are gone from the room.”

“How long ago?”

“Emma said she was in her room for lunch at 11:30, and it’s one now.”

“Then she can’t have gotten far. Hand me a towel, would you.”

“Has she done this before?”

“Once or twice. She’s probably headed home. I’ll call the sheriff’s office and get them to look for her.”

“I already did.”

Nathan suppressed a smile. “Good. They’ll find her.”

Rachel looked at the table. The body was covered with a sheet. “Any surprises?”

“He had ninety-one knife wounds on his body. And . . . he lived for quite a while. The fatal wound was to the heart, but he’d already been cut to pieces when it came. It was a painful death. And . . . there are no defense wounds on the hands or arms.”

“None?”

He shook his head.

“You mean, he just let someone stab him to death and he didn’t fight back?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Well, you’ve both managed to miss lunch,” Emma said as they approached the nurse’s station.

“As usual,” Nathan said. “How’s Peter Thomas?”

“Better, I think. He’s down to one hundred point eight, and he’s well-hydrated.”

“Good. Any other crises?”

“None that I know of, but it’s certainly been a day already.” She looked at Rachel. “Aren’t you glad to be back in the peace and quiet of mountain living?”

“Words can’t express.”

“I think I just might run into town and have lunch,” Nathan announced. “Care to join me?”

“I’m not even hungry yet.” She stretched. “I think I’ll just go relax in the courtyard—get some sun.”

“She’s in the courtyard,” Emma said. “Did you find Nora yet?”

“No, but Earl’s out looking for her.” Jon paused. “How’s Tyler doing?”

“Same as he has been . . . quiet.”

He started back down the hall.

Rachel was sitting with her eyes closed when he saw her and he crossed the yard quietly. He watched her for a moment before speaking.

“Rachel.”

Her eyes opened slowly. “I was just about to fall asleep.” A smile and she raised her arms above her head, stretching. It was as familiar to him as the sound of her voice and he watched, fascinated.

“Something I can do for you?” she asked.

“The autopsy on Cruz?”

The smile faded. “Nathan just finished it right before he left. It was pretty bad.”

“He went down hard.”

“Yes.”

“How’d his wife take it?”

“That’s what I’d like to talk to Nora Samuels about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somehow, she found out that Randy Cruz was dead, and during the night she sneaked into Tina’s room and told her.”

“Why on earth would she do a thing like that?”

Rachel stood. “She’s dying. Maybe she resents anyone else’s peace of mind.”

They started walking back to the entrance.

“One thing bothers me,” Rachel said. “What time did you find the body?”

“A little after three a.m., why?”

“That’s very strange, because Tina was medicated last night, and the nurse’s notes say she slept very soundly after two.”

“And . . .”

“From what I can gather, Nora Samuels told Tina that her husband was dead before you found the body.”

TWENTY-FOUR

The Reverend Martin Frey pulled up in the driveway which ran between the church and the house, his mind full of Sunday’s sermon. He needed an ending, a careful blend of condemnation and forgiveness, to illustrate the complex mercy of God. He sighed. It was much easier before the advent of television preachers.

Amanda was in the kitchen, as usual, and his lunch was under covered dishes on the table. He kissed her on the cheek and sat down to eat.

“How did your visits go, dear,” Amanda asked, rolling dough out on a floured board.

“Quite well.” He lifted the cover off the largest plate. His favorite egg salad and black olive sandwiches, made on white bread with the crusts cut off. Cherry tomatoes, celery and carrot sticks. He smiled and lifted the smaller cover. Bread pudding. A perfect meal.

Amanda came to the table and poured steaming water into the teapot which sat beside the fruit bowl. Lemon wedges were arranged on a crystal plate to the left. “Anything else you need?”

He beamed at her. “Thank you, no.” She really was the perfect wife, and he watched her fondly as she returned to her baking. Pies, today.

He turned his attention back to his lunch and indulged himself in guiltless appetite. Amanda continued to bustle about, shaping pie crust into the glass dishes, lined two deep along the counter. Then she began to fill them from an enormous mixing bowl. Apple, what, with raisins?

“You really shouldn’t work so hard,” he admonished as she manhandled the large bowl, scooping the apple mixture into the pie dishes.

“We have the potluck tomorrow afternoon,” she reminded him. She finished filling the dishes and lugged the heavy bowl to the sink. For a second she leaned against the cabinet. “I’ve done the gelatin salads,” she counted on her fingers, “the banana nut bread and the noodle casseroles, and now the pies. All that’s left are the hams, and I’ll put them in as soon as the pies are done.”

“You must remember your health. Dr. Adams has arranged for you to have another transfusion Sunday evening.”

“I’d almost forgotten . . . is it time again?” She looked around the kitchen.

“Yes, and the rest will do you good.” He finished the last of the bread pudding. “By the way, were you able to find the wax Mrs. Price was telling you about? The altar is sadly neglected.”

“I’ll do that this afternoon.” She rushed back over to the pies.

“And Tina Cruz has lost her husband. Maybe you could take a hot dish by the house.”

She latticed the pie crust strips over the apples, her fingers working furiously.

“The poor child . . . whatever comfort we can offer . . .” He poured another cup of tea. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it?”

“The water’s gone cool, I’m afraid.”

She turned the fire on underneath the kettle, and put the first two pies into the oven. She stood for a moment, putting her hand to her head.

“Are you feeling faint?”

“I’ll be fine.” She began to clear the table in front of him.

He stood. “Well, I’d better get over to the church and work on my sermon.”

The kettle whistled behind her. “But your tea . . .”

“My dear, I think you should have the tea. You look very pale . . . it will do you good.” He paused. “Did you ever finish hemming the choir robes?”

“Oh, I’d forgotten . . .”

He smiled his kind smile. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have them done by tomorrow. You always take care of things so well.” He kissed her again. “Maybe you’ll learn to take care of yourself.” The door closed behind him.

TWENTY-FIVE

Rachel placed the stethoscope on Peter Thomas’ chest, listening to his heart. No murmurs. Strong, steady beats. She shifted it, listening to the lungs. Good exchange of air, no rales or signs of congestion.

He was sleeping and she didn’t want to disturb him so she carefully rebuttoned his pajama top, pulled up the covers and left him alone.

“His mother’s gone home,” Emma told her. “Her youngest has come down with the flu.”

“Maybe that’s what he has.” She tapped her pen on the chart.

“Maybe. He sure got sick in a hurry, though.”

“Kids do. And they can get better in a hurry, too.” She looked at the closed door to the boy’s room. “I think he’s through the worst of it.”

Emma nodded. “His temp is down to ninety-nine six.

“Good.” She picked up Wendall Tyler’s chart. “I’m going down to my office—call me if you need me.” She found the textbook on hypnosis among the medical books and opened it, smiling. It hardly seemed possible that she had finally finished with school, after so many years of concentrated effort. Her name and student ID number were printed on the title page and she could almost remember doing it. Every semester, the long lines in the bookstore, and then the ritual of labeling her books. The first hectic days of classes, waiting to find out if the instructors were of this world.

She sat behind the desk, flipping the pages of the book. Underlined sentences, notes in the margins. Assigned reading, and she was always behind. But she’d wanted to finished college in three years, to get into medical school as quickly as possible. The best years of your life, her counselors told her. What a depressing thought.

All she wanted was to get out, get her MD and come back to Jon, who was managing to control himself.

Hypnotism. She returned her attention to the book.

Nathan was at the door, a paper bag in his hand. “I brought you a sandwich.” He put it on the desk in front of her and looked to see what she was reading. “Any good?”

“I’m refreshing my memory on theory.”

“And practice?”

“It’ll come.” She closed the book and took the bag, opening it and looking in. “What is it?”

“Bacon and avocado.”

“Avocado? All the way up here?”

“Do I detect a note of city snobbery?”

“Not at all. I’m thrilled.” She opened the sandwich. “Real avocado.”

“Eat your lunch; we’ve got work to do.”

Nathan pulled the culture dishes out of the incubator, handing her one. “Look at it.”

The bottom of the plate was covered by whitish organisms.

“What is it?”

“Haven’t identified it yet. Look.” He handed her another dish, sectioned off for sensitivities, each section with a tiny white disc. The organisms covered the discs. Three other dishes, similarly prepared, identical results. “It’s not responsive to any of the common broad-spectrum antibiotics. In fact, it rather likes Erythromycin and Tetracycline.”

“Whose is this?” Her eyes widened. “Not the Thomas boy . . .”

He shook his head. “No, it’s Wendall Tyler’s.”

“Tyler?” She looked at the plate. “But he has no symptoms of infection.”

“And, his blood count and chemistry are normal.”

“Do you think this blood sample was contaminated?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” He put the dishes back into the incubator. “I have some other tests to run, some specialized chemical levels. Long shots.” He shrugged.

“It’s very curious,” Rachel remarked.

“But an indication that there might be something physically wrong with him . . . it might not be a psychosis.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

Nathan wiped a small spot off the countertop with the sleeve of his lab coat. “I can hardly wait to really use all this equipment.”

“Well, you’re going to wait. You promised to take tomorrow off.”

“I think maybe I should delay my fishing trip until we have a better idea what we’re dealing with here.”

“Nothing is critical right now, Tyler is stable. Peter’s improving rapidly.”

“There’s Nora . . .”

“Until they find her there’s not much you can do.”

“And Amanda Frey is coming in Sunday night for a blood transfusion . . .”

“Nathan . . .”

“And you’re not even settled in yet. I’d hate to abandon you. It can get hectic.”

“What can happen in one day?” She smiled. “Do it for me.”

TWENTY-SIX

They expected her to go home. They expected to find her as easily as that.

Nora Samuels walked determinedly toward safety, back from the road, her movements hidden by the dense trees. The ground was not level and she had to be careful but she was making progress.

They’d watch the house, probably, as if she would be fool enough to go in it. Everything she needed she had hidden long ago in the cabin. They didn’t know about that.

The small carry-case was getting heavy and she stopped to rest, setting it on the ground. The strap had worn a welt on her wrist and she rubbed at it. When she started walking again she just dragged it along the ground behind her. Looking back, she was pleased; it wiped out her footprints.

Not that they’d look for her in this direction.

Just because she was dying they took her for a fool. Dying only simplified things—it hadn’t made her helpless. Without distractions—details, the future, decisions—her mind worked with total clarity.

All she wanted now was a peaceful death. Let the cancer grow to strangle her quietly in her sleep. Some pills for the pain, but nothing else. Nathan Adams understood; that’s why she’d gone in the hospital in the first place. Just for the pain.

But now it wasn’t safe there.

She was nearing town and she stopped again to rest. She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs, pushing this hard. There was still a long way to go.

An occasional car passed on the main road, sunlight glinting off metal and glass, sending prisms of color among the trees. She lowered herself to the ground, watching the road.

She needed a pain pill and she dragged the carry-case to her. The bottle was hidden in her underwear and she twisted the cap off, spilling the pills into her hand.

If she took them now, she would never make it to the cabin. She hesitated. The ache was not as bad as it had been before. But knowing how much worse it could get was not pleasant.

Reluctantly she rolled the pills back into the bottle. It was a struggle to get back to her feet but she did and started on her way. She crossed behind the small general store when she got to town and headed for the trees. No one saw her, but when she looked back she saw the Sheriff’s truck pull up beside the store, not five feet from where she’d been.

Then she turned her back on the town and went to hide.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Calvin Price was sorting mail into cubbyholes when Jon entered the general store.

“One minute,” Calvin called out, not looking up from his chore.

“It’s just me, Calvin.” The wood floor creaked as he crossed the room.

“Don’t break my concentration,” Calvin warned. The letters shot into the slots. When the last envelope was in he turned and nodded. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“You know Nora Samuels?”

“Everybody knows Nora,” Calvin said dryly.

“Well, she’s walked out of the hospital . . .”

“Don’t blame her. Not that I have anything against the doc, but hospitals . . .” he shuddered.

“We’ve been looking for her all afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye out, mention it to your customers.”

Calvin gestured at the empty store. “What customers?”

“Anyone who comes in, then.”

The door opened and Earl Wagner entered the shop. Calvin looked at Jon.

“You figure he knows?”

“He knows.” He turned to Earl. “Had any luck?”

“Not a sign of her all afternoon.” Earl opened the lid of the cooler and pulled out a bottle of Pepsi.

Calvin nudged Jon. “You want your mail?”

Jon held his hand out and looked back at Earl. “You’d think someone would have seen her. She can’t have vanished into thin air.”

“Don’t know . . . Nora’s a pretty sharp old lady.” Earl put his head back and let the bottle empty down his throat.

“She’s also a pretty sick old lady. I wonder what made her decide just to take off like that?”

Calvin cleared his throat. “Probably they were going to try some experimental medical hocus-pocus on her. Drugs and x-rays.” He nodded knowingly. “Torture, I call it.”

Jon considered. “Maybe I’d better go talk to Nathan.”

Earl selected another bottle from the cooler. “It’d be just like Nora to take off to the hills if they came after her with something new. I never saw anyone more suspicious of progress in my life.”

“As long as you’re heading out toward the hospital,” Calvin began, taking a stack of envelopes from their slot, “you might as well take their mail.” At Jon’s look he continued: “Since I’m doing your work for you, and all, looking out for Nora Mae.”

Jon took the mail without answering.

“Nathan’s not at the hospital,” Earl said, digging in his pockets for change. “I passed him on my way to town; he’s probably home by now.”

Calvin took back the hospital mail and handed Jon a smaller stack. “Personal.”

“Thank you, Calvin, for everything.” He waved at Earl and went out the door. He stopped at the house to take a quick shower and put on a clean shirt. He’d only managed a little over four hours of sleep but the water revived him and he felt almost human.

He checked in with dispatch. Still no call from the San Diego police, who were looking for Louisa Tyler’s relatives, and no sign of Nora. The official typed report on the Cruz autopsy had arrived, and was waiting on his desk.

On the way over he glanced at the letters. One was from a familiar name, for Rachel. Kelly Hamilton, her almost bridegroom.

What kind of a name was Kelly?

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Jon,” Nathan held the door open wide. “Come on in—can I get you a drink?”

“I’m technically on duty.”

“Aren’t we all. A small one won’t hurt, for medicinal purposes.”

“If you insist.” Jon held out the letters. “I’m delivering the mail now as well.”

“That settles it, then. Mailmen are notoriously heavy drinkers.” He looked at the letters, took one and thrust it back into Jon’s hand. “You give it to Rachel when she comes down. I’ll make the drinks.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Rachel came down the stairs wearing a robe and with her hair up in a towel, hesitating only slightly when she saw him standing in the hall.

“Where’s Nathan?”

“Making drinks.” He handed her the letter and watched her face as she looked at it.

“I’m going to need one.” She put the letter into the pocket of her robe. “Have you found Nora Samuels?”

“Not yet. That’s why I’m here. Was Nora having any medical treatment that she might have wanted to avoid?”

Nathan came through the kitchen door carrying a tray of drinks. “What’s this?” He handed Jon a glass and offered one to Rachel.

“Nora’s medical treatment,” Jon repeated. “Was there anything painful or . . .”

“Not in the least.” Nathan said. “Come on in and sit down, I’ve got a fire going.”

“I hate to be dense,” Rachel said when they were seated, “but what does her medical treatment have to do with finding her?”

“There’s a difference between just walking out of the hospital for no reason, and wanting to hide to avoid being found. And it appears to me that she’s hiding. I’d like to know why.”

“Well, it isn’t her treatment,” Nathan said, “because she isn’t having any. I put her in the hospital to adjust her pain medication—it was making her groggy—and to make sure she was eating right. Malnutrition is often a contributing factor in cancer deaths.”

“Unless she’s hiding because of the Cruz thing,” Rachel said. She looked at her uncle. “She told Tina Cruz that her husband was dead, sometime in the middle of the night. But, I still don’t know how she found out.”

“Nora knows things,” Nathan said.

Jon and Rachel exchanged a look. “How do you mean?”

“She claims to be a psychic.” He sipped his drink. “She’s always been a little spooky.”

“Then why run away?” Rachel asked.

“And where did she go? She hasn’t been to her house, and no one’s seen her.”

“She’s lived up here for a long time,” Nathan said. The phone rang and he stood to go answer it. “If Nora doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find her.” He left the room.

“This is all very strange.” Rachel finished her drink and got up, walking slowly back and forth in front of the fire. “Why would she want to hide?”

Jon watched her, keeping his eyes from the glimpses of bare leg which showed as she paced.

Nathan came back into the room. “I’ve got to go back to the hospital,” he announced. “Why don’t you stay for dinner, Jon? I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“No, I can’t. I’ve got to get back out there. Got a lot to do.” He looked at Rachel who was standing in front of the fire. She smiled.

“Another time, then.” Nathan walked over and kissed Rachel on the cheek.

“Another time.”

She was still standing there when he glanced back as he followed Nathan out the door.

TWENTY-NINE

Another time.

Jon drove along the old timber road, his eyes scanning the trees. The sun was setting and he turned on the headlights but it wasn’t yet dark enough so he pushed the knob back in with more force than he had intended. He realized that he was afraid. Of being alone, there in that room, where it had happened before. With Rachel.

He pulled on the wheel, making the turn onto the ridge road, and gunning the engine. Clouds of dust rose in the rear-view mirror, looking ghostly in the fading light.

The road dead-ended twenty yards from the boundary of the state park and he cut the engine. The dust settled.

Another time.

He’d been staying at the house while Nathan was in Houston at a medical convention. Rachel was seventeen. It was all right at first; he was working a lot and she was busy with school and getting ready to go to college.

But Friday night he was off, and she was down the hill at a spring dance. He sat in the living room, in front of the fire, and began to drink, slowly, steadily. After a while he got up and turned out the lights, then sat, staring into the flames, watching time burn.

Much later he heard a car door slam and he got up, drink in hand, and went to the door. He could see her walking up to the porch with Eric Wilson, whom he’d never liked. She was smiling and laughing and the boy took her hand, pulling her toward him.

Jon finished the drink.

The boy caught her other hand and held it behind his back so that she was up against him, and he leaned down, kissing her on the mouth.

After a few seconds Rachel pushed away and the boy attempted to pull her back but she freed her hands and reached for the doorknob.

Jon turned and went back into the living room, refilling his glass before sinking down on the couch. He heard the door open and the murmur of voices. Then the door closed and in a moment she came into the room.

“Jon?” She stood on one foot, removing her left shoe, and then the right. “What are you doing in the dark?” She moved toward the lamp.

“Leave it off.”

She looked at him. “All right.” She reached up to let her hair down, loosening the clips. She ran her fingers through the twists and then turned a circle on her toes. “I could have danced all night.”

“Where have I heard that before.”

“Cynic.” She continued to move, dancing lightly. She neared him and put her hands out. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance.” He took a drink.

“Everybody dances. Come on.” She grabbed his free hand and pulled. “I’ll teach you.” She took the glass out of his hand and put it on the table.

He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “I’m lucky if I can walk, Rachel.”

“I’ll hold you.” She put one arm around him and took his hand, placing it on her waist. Then she reached up and put her hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes. “Dance with me,” she repeated.

Incredible gray eyes, he thought.

They danced very slowly, barely moving. Rachel sang softly, but it was an old song, a love song . . .

“. . . finally found . . . somebody who . . .”

Without knowing that he was going to, he lifted her off her feet and spun around, in slow motion, and felt her perfumed arms which were somehow around his neck.

And he put her down.

“I have to sit down.” He sank onto the couch, reaching automatically for his drink.

She sat beside him, tucking her bare legs beneath her. “Can I have a taste?” She put her hand out for the glass.

“No.” He put the glass on the table.

She leaned across him and picked up the glass. Her hair brushed against his arm. “I’m not a child.” She raised the glass to her lips and tasted it.

He watched her mouth and thought of Eric Wilson. Then he took the glass back from her and emptied it. And poured another.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head and looked at her, at the firelight reflected in her eyes. She glowed, her skin golden and soft and fragrant. He reached up to touch her face. Her eyes began to close and he moved his fingers toward her temple and then into her hair. Her lips parted and he kissed her, gently, just brushing her mouth with his.

He started to move back but she followed and he felt her hands clench in his hair and the flick of her tongue as she kissed him. He put his arms around her and pulled her across him, answering her insistence with his own. Then he released her, and got to his feet, slightly unsteady.

“Jon.” She was in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She just stood there, looking up at him, her mouth looking bruised but very young and he leaned down, unable to stop himself from kissing her. Her arms snaked around his neck and the full length of her body pressed against him. He ran his hands down the curve of her back, feeling the heat of her through the thin dress. She arched her back and stood on her toes, her mouth still hungrily searching his. He tried to think.

She bit his lower lip and then ducked her head and began to kiss his neck and he felt her fingers at the buttons of his shirt.

He tangled his fingers in her hair and forced her head back, and bent to kiss her while his arms went under her knees and he picked her up.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice husky and urgent.

He covered her mouth with his, not wanting to talk now, not wanting to think anymore about what he was doing. Just the incredible heat of her and the taste of her mouth, there was nothing else.

Except the sound of a car coming up the drive, and the shine of headlights flickering through the front windows.

He put her down. “Nathan’s home,” he said.

Nathan wanted him to stay the night, but he had to get out of there, get away from her, so he could think clearly.

By the time he got home, he knew every reason why it was wrong. And there were so many reasons. Nathan’s trust, his own role as surrogate brother to her, her age, his strong belief in the law.

He made a point not to be alone with her after that night and when she left to go to college he was almost relieved. He gave her a brotherly kiss goodbye.

If it took a while before he could forget the taste of her mouth . . .

He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that he’d been parked on the ridge for over an hour. It was completely dark now and he was hungry. He started the engine and put the Bronco in reverse, backing up slowly until he got to a place wide enough to turn around.

It was still there, though.

He was more in control now, fascinated but able to control that fascination. Time had helped him insulate his feelings. They could be friends. The only thing he had to watch out for was proximity; if she got too close he might not be able to turn away again.

THIRTY

“I got here as fast as I could,” Rachel said, coming up to the nurse’s station. “Where is he?”

“Dr. Adams is in with him now, room one oh eight.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Only that his housekeeper found him on the bathroom floor, covered in blood.”

Rachel hurried down the hall and into 108. Nathan was standing beside the bed and Franklin Dunn lay still as death, his eyes closed.

“Nathan,” she came to his side. “How is he?”

“Holding his own.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “He’s been unconscious since they brought him in.”

She lowered her voice. “Do you think he attempted suicide?”

He didn’t answer, adjusting the flow rate of the plasma being administered.

“Are you going to report it?”

“Not until I have a chance to talk to him.” He looked at his friend. “He has no reason to . . .” his voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Nathan.”

“If his housekeeper hadn’t found him, he probably would have bled to death.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve worked on someone this close to me.” He looked at her ruefully. “I’m afraid I lost my professional objectivity.” He put his arm around her. “I’m glad you came in.”

“How is Peter?”

They left the room and walked toward the station. The hall lights were dim and all was quiet.

“I think he can go home in the morning.”

“And Mr. Tyler?”

“I haven’t seen him. I was just about to go in when Franklin arrived. But the progress notes indicate that he’s about the same.”

Rachel stopped opposite Tyler’s room and looked through the observation window. “It doesn’t even look like he’s moved since I last saw him this afternoon.”

“Laura.” Nathan addressed the relief nurse. “Anything we should know about before we leave?”

“No. Mr. Hunter’s family picked him up at seven; he was feeling fine and anxious to get home. Tina Cruz’s mother is asleep in the chapel; I think she’s praying in her sleep.”

“If Mr. Dunn’s condition worsens, call me immediately. Check his vital signs every half hour. And thank you; you did a marvelous job helping me sew him up.”

“Good night,” Laura said and watched them walk down the hall.

Laura Gentry made her rounds at ten p.m. as was her custom, taking vital signs on all patients, dispensing sleeping medication to Brown and Nelson, giving Peter Thomas his fourteenth glass of water and simply staring at Wendall Tyler. She checked Mr. Dunn’s IV lines and checked his wounds for oozing blood. Both hands were warm and pink; Dr. Adams had restored circulation completely.

She went back to the nurse’s station and sat down, graphing the vitals and making notes on Dunn’s IV sheet. The paperwork did not take long with only six patients and when she was finished she went back to stand in front of Tyler’s door.

There was something about him. As she watched him she became aware that her left hand was itching. While she’d been helping Dr. Adams sew up Dunn’s wrists she’d accidentally nicked her palm with the scalpel blade used to excise the wound edges. It hadn’t bled much, or she thought it hadn’t, it was hard to tell with all of Dunn’s blood all over her. Now it itched like hell. She would wash it with antiseptic, and get a tetanus shot, or gamma globulin, or . . . She could not take her eyes away from him.

Shortly before Joyce Callan arrived for the night shift, Laura Gentry slit her wrists with a bloodied scalpel.

THIRTY-ONE

The house was dark and silent and Rachel inched her way down the stairs to the kitchen. With everything that had happened, she had never gotten around to eating, and now she was hungry.

There wasn’t much in the refrigerator, but she found a hard-boiled egg and her favorite, cold macaroni and cheese. She stood for a moment in front of the refrigerator, eating the macaroni delicately with her fingers before deciding to take it upstairs.

It was time. She had to read Kelly’s letters. She took her fortification and went back to her room.

She checked the postmarks on the letters and opened the first one, dated ten days after her disappearance. It was thick, five full pages and she settled back to read.

Undying love and devotion. Confusion. Hurt. Not a word of anger.

How could he not be angry with her? She had lived with him for eighteen months and was minutes away from becoming his wife only to walk out on him, leaving him standing, in front of friends and family, without a word. Not even goodbye.

She hadn’t answered his letters. She told his friends that if he came to South Africa, she would refuse to see him.

But how could she tell him? That everything they had was a lie? That she’d never loved him?

She did care for him, and for the first few days, when she cried, it was for him, at how he must feel. She thought of him alone, in their apartment, the empty rooms, the silent phone. She did not like to think of him, alone.

It had always been Jon. Since the first day, when he walked up the drive alongside Tim. Tall, slim, striking in the dress uniform. He stood at parade rest while Tim introduced them, smiling politely, and she knew, in an instant, that this was the one. She was obsessed, as only an adolescent female can be, and he was oblivious.

Only once had she ever managed to break through his reserve, and she still wasn’t sure if it was because he had been drinking. Whether she was an available body. It was because of that doubt that she’d stayed away once she was in school. She didn’t want to come back for the summer and be a fling for him. She didn’t want to be torn away if they were together. She couldn’t afford not to play for keeps.

And Kelly? He was a moment of weakness when she was feeling sorry for herself. He was a physical attraction. And if she was very honest, it might be that he was to make Jon jealous. Which hadn’t worked.

In her fantasy, Jon came to the city for the wedding. He politely greeted Kelly and wished them luck. And, as she walked down the aisle, radiant and beautiful, he stood up, grabbed her, and ran.

He didn’t come to the wedding. So she ran off without him.

But how to tell Kelly this? She needed to convince him that there was no hope for them. And she knew that she would have to see him.

She finished the last of the macaroni and put the container on the floor. Kelly’s letters went back on the dresser and then she turned out the light and got under the covers, shivering at the cool sheets.

That was all there was to it. She would ask Kelly to come up to talk, and she would tell him the truth. He would get over her, get married and have kids. She would pine away after Jon and sleep on cold sheets.

“And I thought life would be simple after I got my MD,” she said to the silent room. “But then, I’ve been wrong about everything so far . . .”

THIRTY-TWO

“Are you feeling better now?” Joyce Callan asked, handing Laura Gentry a cup of black coffee.

Laura took the cup and held it in both hands, looking again at her bandaged wrists. Then she nodded slowly.

“I don’t know what happened to me.” There was no self-pity in her voice, just confusion. She looked up at Joyce. “Thank you for not calling Dr. Adams . . .”

“He’d understand, you know.”

“I don’t understand. I really don’t.” She lifted the cup to her mouth with trembling hands.

“You don’t remember cutting your wrists?”

Laura shook her head. “I don’t even remember walking from the hall into the utility room. The last thing . . . I was standing in front of Tyler’s room, and . . .” She frowned. “That’s all.”

“And you haven’t been upset?”

“I’ve seen too many suicide attempts to want to try one of my own. And I’m not fond of pain.” She looked at her wrists. “I certainly didn’t do a good job of it, anyway.”

“Well, you’re lucky the wounds were so superficial, or I would have had to call Dr. Adams.”

“But don’t you think that I would know if I were suicidal? I mean, it’s supposed to come as a surprise to the family, not to the victim.”

Joyce smiled. “You’re right, and I’m sorry if I’ve been implying that you’re off the deep end. You said you were outside Mr. Tyler’s room, watching him.”

“There’s something about him . . .”

“I agree with you there. Do you remember what you were thinking? While you looked at him?”

Again she shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s all a blank.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Go home and get some rest.”

“That sounds like a very good idea.” Joyce stood and finished her coffee. “Looks like I’ll be wearing long sleeves for a while.”

“Listen,” Joyce hesitated, “if you think of anything, remember anything, that happened tonight, I want you to call me. Or if you just need to talk.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“But most of all, I want you to know, that no matter what happened, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever happened, I’m on your side.”

“Thank you.” She put on her sweater and gathered up her purse and keys, starting down the hall. She stopped and turned back. “Joyce? Do me a favor. Don’t get too close to Mr. Tyler . . . don’t stay in there too long.”

THIRTY-THREE

Candy Burroughs giggled softly, crawling on her hands and knees in the dark. It was after midnight and the ground was damp and cold but she didn’t care. David was willing to play spy.

Somewhere in the dark, he was looking for her.

She had already captured him twice, springing out of the dark to surprise him. If she caught him again . . . he would pay the price.

It was her favorite game.

Once he had been caught for the third time, he was at her mercy. He had to do whatever she said. The penalty for spying was total subservience. She knew she was going to win.

But then, he liked her to win.

When they’d first met, she could tell that he thought her little games were silly, but he’d gone along because it was the easiest way to get her into bed. Now, she could tell, he liked it.

She stopped, listening. The brush was rustling over near the fire. Was he over there?

Her lower lip pouted. She didn’t like to catch him in the light. It was much more exciting to get him in the dark, and stand above him in the shadows, ordering him to do what she liked. It was better in the dark.

She waited. It was going to be her way, or no way.

He was making enough noise to raise the dead.

He must want to get caught very badly to make that much noise. He was not playing fair. He was not supposed to make it that easy for her to win. Maybe he still didn’t understand why she played the game.

Well, she wasn’t going to fall for it. The only way she could really enjoy it was if she won fair.

She settled more comfortably on the ground; her knees still hurt from when she’d fallen on them last night. Strange how she’d almost forgotten about it.

Finally the rustling stopped. It was very still now and she turned her head, trying to determine which way he had gone.

It was quite a while before she heard another sound and then, surprisingly, it came from directly behind her.

She smiled. So, he wanted to play. To capture her once, or even twice, so that the final time would be more . . . interesting. Or maybe . . .

The second time he had played spy with her, a long time ago, he had suddenly pounced on her, ripping her clothes off and forcing her down. She was mad as hell, he had broken the rules, but it had been as good as she could ever remember it being.

Maybe David was going to break the rules again.

She moved stealthily along the ground. She had to make it worth her while. The longer it took him to catch her, the more heated he would be.

And. She began to unzip her pants. She would show him a thing or two about frenzy. She sat down and began to work her tight pants down her legs. Then she folded them very neatly and put them under a bush. The dirt was very cool on her tender knees.

The blouse next, since it cost thirty dollars and she didn’t want it ripped.

Now she was ready. For whatever he had in mind.

Twigs snapped behind her and she waited for him to come closer, tensing her muscles, planning to spring at him in all her glory, making him have to take her down hard.

Very close now, she could hear him breathing.

She turned and looked over her shoulder.

And opened her mouth to scream.

THIRTY-FOUR

Hudson stepped over the body of the woman and looked at the man, nudging him with his boot. It was strangely satisfying to see them there, dead.

They did not belong in his woods. Nor did the others.

They were ignorant.

They came, loaded down with the trappings of their other lives; radios, microwave ovens, refrigerators, miniaturized versions of what they claimed to leave behind. They brought dissonance into the natural tranquility and could not see what they had done. They sought a sanitized wilderness yet they soiled it with their very presence.

They could not co-exist—they had to conquer.

They respected no boundaries and left their mark on the land, and deluded themselves with meaningless challenges, hoping to feel strong. But they were not.

In their excesses they were worse than ignorant—they were dangerous.

He was strong. And he alone.

He looked around the campsite, trying to remember. He had come here for a reason . . .

He kicked out the dying camp fire, shoving mounds of dirt over the flames and then without a look at the bodies at his feet, he turned and disappeared into the trees.

Sunday

THIRTY-FIVE

“What do you make of it?” Malloy asked.

Jon squatted down, examining the bodies. “I’m not a doctor, but I’d say they both were strangled.” The faces were dusky and the features distorted. Both had dirt in their mouths.

“Where’d the blood come from then?”

“Maybe the killer.” He stood, brushing his hands on his pants. He turned to the ashes. “He put out the fire . . .”

Malloy was staring at the woman’s body. Reluctantly he turned his attention to the sheriff. “How can you tell?”

“Blood in the dirt covering the ashes.” He bent down and carefully ran his knife blade along one of the blood stains. “Maybe the man cut him.”

“I hope so.”

They both looked up as Earl pulled up, lights flashing in the early morning air.

“Got here as soon as I heard,” Earl said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His face looked puffy and half-awake. His eyes widened as he took in the bodies. “Wow,” he said. “Two of ’em.”

“I want you to back the truck down here,” Jon said, pointing to a spot about ten feet from the campsite. “And bring the camera with you; it’s under the front seat.” He handed Earl the keys to the Bronco.

As Earl trudged back up the hill, Jon turned to Malloy, who was again staring at the woman.

“Something wrong?”

Malloy bit his lip and nodded slowly. “She stopped me, yesterday afternoon, and told me some wild story about being chased the night before, somebody tracking her in the woods. I thought it was wishful thinking on her part, she talked like she was trying to turn me on . . . kept playing with her buttons, running her hands over her ass . . . you know the type. Making him jealous, maybe. Playing a game.”

“And now you think it was true.”

“That and something else . . . Friday morning a family checked out, I’d have to look up their name, the wife was very nervous. She said she heard someone prowling around their trailer.”

“And?”

“Well, it was obvious to me that her husband didn’t believe her, he was pretty pissed off; they had reservations through the week-end. But she was determined to go and she was scared. This was their campsite.” He looked down at the bodies. “And now this.”

“It would appear that we have a killer prowling about the park.”

“And Cruz? Do you think the same one got him?”

Jon didn’t answer.

They loaded the bodies into the back of the truck after taking photographs of the scene. Earl found the woman’s clothing under a bush and they collected the other items at the campsite. The sun was fully in the sky and other campers were beginning to move about.

When they saw the two police vehicles and the ranger’s jeep they formed a silent line along the road, watching, hoping for a glimpse of something even if they didn’t know what.

Jon was relieved when they were finished with the death site and were ready to go. He did not consider murder a spectator sport.

Dispatch had notified the hospital and Emma Sutter was waiting by the morgue entrance when they arrived. She watched as they unloaded the bodies.

“Is Nathan here?” Jon asked when they had finished.

“No, but Rachel’s on her way. She’s actually gotten him to take a day off and go fishing.”

Jon grimaced. “Then she’ll have to do these.”

Emma held his eyes. “She is a doctor. You’d do well to remember that.”

“I’m not questioning her ability . . .”

“And it’s a good thing; from what I’ve seen and from what Nathan’s told me, she’s as good as they come. Maybe better, because she’s always having to prove herself . . .”

“. . . to people like me,” Jon finished for her. “I know. I don’t like to think of her having to deal with something this ugly.”

Emma smiled, her eyes knowing. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

“Like what?”

“Never mind.” Rachel was pulling into the parking lot in her little Porsche, and Emma gestured in her direction. “You just do your job, Sheriff, and let Dr. Adams do hers.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Jon to look after her.

He watched her circle the bodies where they lay on the stretchers.

“I see you’ve bagged their hands,” she said and looked up at him. “Very nice work.”

“Standard procedure.”

“In the city, maybe, but small town police department?”

“You can take the cop out of the city, but not the city out of the cop.”

She smiled. “I’ve noticed that.” She gestured at the bodies. “Do you want to observe?”

“Why not?”

He remembered why not as soon as she picked up the scalpel. Then she put it down again.

“May as well do the hands first.” She removed the plastic bag from David Burroughs’ right hand, her own hands in sterile gloves. She turned the hand over. “There are no contusions or abrasions and no swelling. I don’t think he was able to strike whoever attacked him.” She picked up a curved instrument and began to scrape underneath the fingernails, carefully putting the scrapings into a glassine envelope which Jon held for her.

“Look like anything?”

“Not to me.” She paused. “You’ll need a microscopic exam to be sure.” She finished the right hand and gently put it down. “Let’s do the other.”

He followed her around the table.

“Same story here. Nothing to indicate that he fought his attacker. At least, not with his hands.” She looked up. “Like Randy Cruz?”

“Could he have been tied up, maybe, and the rope removed after his death?”

“I don’t think so. Again, there are no marks on his wrists, no edema in his hands.” She looked at him. “Just nothing.”

“What about drugs?”

“Maybe. Although I’m not familiar with any drug which would make someone allow themselves to be killed. Strangulation is not pleasant.”

She finished with the second hand and returned to the right side of the table. “Are you ready?”

“Go ahead.”

She opened the chest with a long clean stroke.

He swallowed.

Her hands moved quickly, laying open the chest, retracting the ribs, each accomplished with a minimum of effort.

“Well, he was alive when the dirt was stuffed into his mouth; it’s aspirated into the lungs.”

“This gets nastier every minute,” Jon said.

“A lot of power exerted on the throat. Massive edema, the trachea is crushed, what a mess.”

“Was it manual strangulation or did the killer use something—some leverage on the throat.”

“Clear indications of both. Impressions of fingers, externally, but also a straight edge.”

“Jesus.”

She returned her attention to the internal organs and began to remove them, measuring and weighing each in a scale that reminded Jon of a butcher shop.

She took samples of the stomach contents, fluid from the lungs and urine from the bladder. When she was finished, she straightened and looked at Jon.

“You see this?” She pointed to some discoloration along his sides and ribcage.

He was momentarily disjointed; he’d been concentrating on the internal examination since she’d opened the body.

“What is it?”

“Soft tissue swelling, hematoma. On both sides, at approximately the same location.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I’d say these marks were caused when his attacker straddled him and strangled him.”

“And?”

“Look.” The largely emptied chest cavity glistened. She pointed along the rib cage. “Fractures. Dozens of them, on both sides. One, these fractures were inflicted while the victim was alive and must have been incredibly painful, yet we still don’t have any indication that he made any attempt to defend himself. He just lay there, on his back, and let someone kill him. And two, very few people have leg muscles which would be able to exert this kind of pressure. Inward pressure.”

“So we’re dealing with . . .”

“A madman. Superhuman strength.” She looked down at the body. “And helpless victims.”

The woman’s body was on a stretcher and had to be transferred to the table. She took up a great deal less space than the man had.

“I need to know . . . if she’s been raped.”

“I hope I can tell you. With sexually active women, it’s often impossible to tell.”

She began the dissection as before, the organs much smaller this time, the results much the same.

“I’d say this one was with the hands only,” she paused in her examination of the throat, pointing with the scalpel at the marks on the skin. “And, by the looks of the bruises, he kept letting her go, letting her breathe, and then he’d get another hold. There appear to be four areas here, four sets of marks.”

“Why do you think he did that?”

“Probably wanted her to live for a while. Maybe for a sexual reason, maybe just to make her suffer.”

Jon stepped back, ran his hand through his hair. “Damn.”

She opened the trachea. “The swelling alone could have killed her . . .” She sighed. “But it wasn’t that easy.”

Jon was pacing now, not looking at the body.

She watched him for a moment and then returned to her work.

Later, when she had finished, she washed up and went to her office where he was waiting.

“So?” he said when she came into the room.

“So. We have the same rib fractures. She also had aspirated dirt in her lungs. She had engaged in sexual relations just prior to her death. There were numerous small contusions . . . vaginally.” She looked at him. “I’ve collected swabs, done a vaginal wash, and so on. Essentially a complete rape exam.”

Jon was quiet, nodding slowly.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Go look for a killer.” He met her eyes. “How is Tyler doing?”

“The same, why?”

“I think he killed his wife right before the accident.”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing. I’m just thinking out loud. Cruz disappeared about the same time as Louisa Tyler was killed.”

“You don’t think he had anything to do with Cruz’s death, do you?”

“Maybe Randy came upon Tyler as he was killing his wife. And Tyler knifed him . . .”

“I think you’re stretching it.”

“Let me finish. He’s catatonic, supposedly, and he’s crazy. He sneaks out in the middle of the night, when the nurse is busy, and kills two more people. Then back into the hospital.”

“I think it just snapped. I don’t believe you really think that’s what happened.”

“Nothing has happened in this town in years. He shows up, and now four people are dead.”

“May I remind you, I came home the same day. Or am I a suspect too?”

“All right. But I think he killed his wife. The odds on another killer showing up at the same time, same place . . .”

“The odds on a catatonic patient being able to remove his restraints and go out to kill everyone in sight are a little long, too. Why go out to the forest? There are people in the hospital, other patients, the nurses. Me.”

Jon turned to face her. “I’m going to get a deputy down here to guard his door.”

“Look, we’ll go down to his room and take a look at him. If he’s been out, he’ll have dirt on him, and you said you thought the killer was bleeding. There’ll be evidence. Not supposition.”

Tyler was in his bed, restraints in place and with no visible cuts. His hands were clean and unmarked. “Are you satisfied?” They were walking back down the hall toward her office.

“I still think he killed his wife.” When they got to the office, he held the door open for her. “And he’s hiding, right in front of our eyes.”

“Well, we’ll find out soon.” She sat on the edge of her desk, rubbing her neck.

“How will we find out?”

“I’m going to hypnotize him.”

“What?”

“Hypnotherapy, to bring him out of it.”

“Now wait a minute.” He stood only a few inches away, his look incredulous. “You’re going to bring a probable killer ‘out of it’?”

“It’s a very valuable therapeutic tool,” she began.

“The man may be crazy.”

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“That’s a judicial problem, my problem is keeping anyone else from getting hurt.”

“What if . . . he only saw his wife get killed. What if he saw your killer. He might be able to tell us . . .”

“And he might just snap your neck for you.” He was shouting now.

“He’s in restraints . . .”

“I’ve seen people do things you wouldn’t believe . . .”

“You think you have a corner on experience, don’t you?”

“I don’t think your college and medical school can compare to the streets. Oh, you see them in here, in your antiseptic little rooms, but you don’t find them in the alleys, they don’t die in your arms . . .”

They stared at each other, the silence deafening.

“You’re thinking of Tim, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft.

“People kill other people. And some people die because they don’t expect it. They’re not on guard. They take chances.” His face was pained. “I don’t want you to take any chances.”

She slid off the desk and stood in front of him, searching his face, drawn into the deep green of his eyes. She put one hand on his arm, her pulse quickening. “Why?”

He did not answer.

Her phone rang. She made no move to answer it, wishing desperately that it would stop, that she could go on, to drown in his eyes.

Then he stepped back, reached and picked up the phone, handing it to her. She took it and listened to the voice at the other end, not taking her eyes from his face, thinking only that she had to make him stay.

As he left she agreed to wait until Nathan was back before she attempted to hypnotize Wendall Tyler.

THIRTY-SIX

Amanda Frey sat at the back of the church, listening to her husband’s sermon, trying not to think of the stack of dishes in the kitchen sink, and trying to ignore the exhaustion that haunted her every waking moment. There was still so much to do. The potluck.

Martin’s voice droned and she gave up trying to understand him. She had told him once, when they were first married, that his voice had a tendency to be a monotone. He reacted with such wounded pride that she had never mentioned it again, even as she saw his congregations falling away, or worse, falling asleep.

She had learned to think of something complex, a problem, a crisis. Something which required a great deal of thought. And, over the years, she had solved a lot of problems during the sermon. She had never told Martin, but she was sure that the Lord would approve.

This time it was her summer school. Every summer for the last three years, she had run a school at the church. Eight weeks, Monday through Friday, eight in the morning until four. The response was nothing short of astonishing.

Not that there were that many children living in Crestview, for there surely weren’t. But summer almost doubled the population in town, and the parents who could afford two houses, one in the city and one in the mountains, were not usually inclined to put up with their children’s demands. For time or entertainment.

What she had initially planned as a break for the year-round residents had turned out to be a summer camp for the rich kids. And the rich kids weren’t easily amused. Finger painting and nature study was fine for the quiet, polite town kids, but the others . . .

It was a constant worry to come up with something different. Last year she had kept them occupied all summer by staging a play. They rehearsed, built stages, sewed costumes, hung lights and made up posters and handbills. They were busy, and challenged, but she knew better than to suggest another play for this summer. It was exciting the first time, the second time it would be a bore.

How quickly they ran through life’s experiences.

She was at her wit’s end. And now, to top it all off, she had to go into the hospital for that blood transfusion. With school set to start on Tuesday.

She needed an inspiration. At least she was in the right place for it.

She tuned back to Martin’s sermon, trying to gauge how much longer before she had to get up and get things going in the hall. Maybe fifteen minutes, depending on how many meaningful pauses Martin inserted.

She had been considering a week-long camping trip, to get things started and to break the kids out of their cushioned lives. Without the distractions of television and that rather violent music, they’d be easier to calm down. The first week was often the hardest.

But everyone was buzzing about the murders of a young couple, and speculating about the violation of the woman. The woods were no place to be, right now.

What else, what else? Her mind was blank. If you eliminated the outdoors, there was very little left in town. The quarry had been closed for years, ever since the owners had discovered how hard it was to take the rock down the mountain. The lumber mill was in ruins, probably not even safe to walk though.

The industry, if you could call it that, was recreation. People vacationed here; there were some people who made things—quilts, ceramics, wood carvings—to be sold to the tourists. Yet none of the crafts were big enough, or organized enough, to be a field trip for the kids.

The hospital employed the largest number of people in town but somehow she couldn’t see inflicting sick people with the rude exuberance of the kids.

She sighed, and quickly looked around her, hoping that no one mistook her utterance for boredom with her husband’s sermon. No one seemed to have noticed.

Then she heard her warning phrase, and slipped from the pew, back through the side door and into the hall. As she worked she found herself planning still.

She would have them plant a garden. A big one, in the field beside the church. She would unpack some of her old dresses, from the war, and Martin’s uniform, and she would read them stories, and somehow make them feel nostalgic for something they had never experienced. She would fix up the basement to serve as a bomb shelter, and read them biographies, of Churchill and Roosevelt, and show them what made a real hero.

Martin could help her, if he would. Could make the sacrifices real, the casualties staggering. Stories of boys, not much older than they, but grown and grand, tall and straight, and most of all knowing. What they were for and what they were against.

She began to feel better, almost invigorated. Still tired, but that would change.

And when she’d had the transfusion, she would be a new woman.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Rachel sat at the desk in the nurse’s station, reviewing the patient charts. It had been a quiet night, according to the progress notes, with no unusual occurrences. No one spiked a temp, no one was any sicker than they had been, and no one went for a walk.

Franklin Dunn was sedated, per Nathan’s orders, and was resting comfortably. His wounds showed no signs of infection.

It had taken some doing to get Nathan to go on his fishing trip after his friend’s mishap. He had in fact been dressing to come to the hospital when she had knocked on his door to announce breakfast. But she had stood her ground, insisting that if he really had faith in her as a doctor, he would go. And reminding him that there was little else he could do for Franklin Dunn.

She assumed that he was at the lake by now, and that he would gradually relax.

Wendall Tyler.

“I’m going down to the lab,” she told Emma who nodded without looking up from her embroidery.

She removed the culture dishes from the incubator and opened the first one.

Covered by the whitish organism. Whatever it was, it was growing fast.

The samples from the autopsy cases were in a rack on the counter. It had been some time since she had set up for culture and sensitivities; at a certain point in her training she was no longer required to do what she and most of the other student doctors considered “scut” work. Now she wanted to do it.

It was amazing how fast it all came back to her.

She did cultures in chocolate agar on her two cases, and then, for the hell of it, did Cruz and Louisa Tyler. Four autopsies, four C & S’s.

She wondered briefly if Nathan had put Tyler’s last blood sample through the machine, but decided that he would have told her.

When she arrived back at the desk Emma was waiting.

“I just had a call from Reverend Frey; he’s bringing his wife in—she fainted at the Sunday potluck. She’s already scheduled for a transfusion.”

“Nathan mentioned it to me.”

“I’ll go down and get the blood,” Emma continued. “And I’ve got it all set up in 106.”

“Thanks, Emma.” She watched as the woman hurried off down the hall. “It was too quiet to last,” she said to herself and decided to wait in ER for the Freys.

They arrived twenty minutes later, Reverend Frey solicitous if scolding.

“I’ve been telling her to slow down,” he informed Rachel. “Haven’t I?”

Amanda Frey nodded weakly. “Yes, Martin, you always tell me to slow down.”

Rachel detected an undercurrent but Mrs. Frey’s appearance was so alarming that she shoved the thought aside and concentrated on getting the woman into the hospital room.

“We’ve had these episodes before,” he continued, walking alongside the stretcher. He patted his wife’s hand, his smile exuding warmth and concern.

“Reverend Frey, would you mind waiting outside?” Rachel positioned herself between him and the door, his wife already inside.

“I think she’d rather have me by her side.”

“Soon. After I get the transfusion running.” She smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to wait in the chapel.”

“I . . . I . . .” he stuttered, at a loss for words.

“Thank you.” Rachel went into the room and the door swung shut in his face.

Emma came out the door minutes later to find him, still standing in the same place, his face still showing his amazement. Emma gently moved him aside.

“Is Amanda all right?”

“She’s doing fine. Don’t worry so.” She tried to give him a little push down the hall in the direction of the chapel. “Dr. Adams is taking very good care of her.”

“Is she calling for me?”

“Who, Dr. Adams?” Emma’s face was innocent.

“Amanda. She must be beside herself. She needs me with her.” He twisted his hands.

“I promise,” Emma said, giving him a firmer push, “that I’ll come and get you as soon as Amanda is settled. She needs her rest.”

“I always tell her that.”

“I know you do. And I know how much your concern means to her. But . . . she cannot rest with you hovering at her side, asking her every ten seconds how she is.” There was a firmness in her tone that he had never heard from Emma before.

He waited in the chapel.

“Thank you,” Amanda Frey said. “He means well, he really does, but he doesn’t see the connection between all of his requests and this.” Her eyes began to close; the quiet was so peaceful. She was infused with warmth and as she fell asleep, a kind of tingle . . .

THIRTY-EIGHT

As soon as Jon walked in the door of the sheriff’s office the dispatcher called out:

“That you Sheriff?” And without waiting for a response: “San Diego PD on the line.” The phone on his desk began to ring.

He put the package of evidence for the crime lab on his desk and picked up the phone.

“This is Sheriff Scott,” he said.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to get back to you on Louisa Tyler . . .”

“What have you got?”

“Okay, let’s see.” The rustle of papers came clearly over the line. “Next of kin, Thomas and Mary Fletcher, her parents, are currently traveling in the Far East. Her sister, Vanessa Fletcher, has been notified, and is probably headed your way. Mrs. Tyler had led an exemplary life, from all accounts.”

“And?”

“Not so Wendall Tyler.”

Jon grabbed a pad to write while the papers rustled some more.

“Mr. Tyler has a few near misses. An assault charge dismissed on technical irregularities in the arrest—not us, by the way—a drunk and disorderly, no-show witness and the arresting officer had lost his notes . . . unbelievable.”

“Anything else?”

“When we were looking for the family, a neighbor told us that Tyler had recently been hospitalized for mental problems. No verification of that, but who can tell?”

“Why on earth would she put up with that?” He remembered the wedding picture, the glow on her face.

“Who can tell? Anyway, there’s nothing outstanding on him; he might have cleaned up his act.”

“Or gotten better at it.”

The other cop laughed. “Even odds.”

“Well, this gives me a place to start.” He tossed the pen on the desk. “Thanks.”

He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair to think.

Earl knocked on the opened door.

“Jon? Got a minute?”

“What is it?”

“Look what I found.” He upended a paper bag and a woman’s shoe landed on the desk.

“Louisa Tyler’s missing shoe.” He looked at Earl. “Where did you find it?”

“Out along the lumber road, in the bushes. I was half-afraid for a minute that Nora was going to be attached to that; I’ve about had my fill of dead bodies.”

“I know the feeling.”

“So what do you think it means?” Earl was gazing at the shoe as if he expected it to talk.

“How far away from the accident scene did you find this?”

“Over two miles.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s been chewed on, like an animal found it and carried it off. So . . . it looks like Louisa Tyler was only wearing one shoe when her husband put her in the car.”

“I looked around a bit, didn’t see any signs of a struggle or anything.”

“I don’t think a woman who thought her husband was giving her a tender little neck massage would put up much of a fight. And death was instantaneous.”

“You think he did it.”

Jon nodded. “Did you get anyone to go over to the hospital to stand guard?”

“Andy’s there now, and I got Eric Wilson to take the second watch.”

“I thought Eric was living down the mountain?”

Earl shrugged. “Well, he’s back now.”

“All right, things are under control then.”

“Still no sign of Nora,” Earl said. “I wonder where she got to?”

“No telling.” Jon stood and picked up the package from his desk. “I’m going to drive down and give this to Calvin so he can ship it out first thing in the morning. And then I’m going home to sleep.”

“Anything special you want me to do?”

“Just keep a lid on it.”

He was so tired by the time he got to the house that he drew the blinds without a moment of regret at shutting out the sun and the clear blue sky.

He fixed a drink while waiting for the shower water to get hot enough and tossed it down in one swallow. The liquor burned his throat pleasantly and as he got into the shower he was beginning to feel the tension ebb.

There were so many details, so much work to be done. Finding and notifying next of kin on David and Candice Burroughs. Filing reports, obtaining the crime lab reports. Keeping it all up in the air, missing nothing.

And Nora Samuels to add to it all. The fact that a little old lady could successfully elude a police search was bothersome. She could be anywhere by now.

But as he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes it all slipped away and he was asleep.

THIRTY-NINE

“Excuse me.” A well-dressed woman approached the nurse’s station. “I’m looking for a Dr. Rachel Adams?”

“Dr. Adams is in her office,” Emma replied. “Back down the hall and to your left. Is she expecting you?”

“I don’t think so. Thank you for your help.”

Emma watched her for a moment and then returned her attention to the charts, preparing for the afternoon.

“Dr. Adams?”

Rachel looked up at the woman standing in the doorway. “Yes, I’m Rachel Adams.”

The woman entered the room, holding out her hand. “I’m Vanessa Fletcher, Louisa Tyler’s sister.”

“Miss Fletcher?” She took the woman’s hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I only heard last evening and I came as soon as I could. A gentleman at the sheriff’s office told me I should talk to you.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, but if you don’t mind, I’d like a cigarette.”

“Go right ahead.” Rachel watched as Vanessa Fletcher arranged herself in a chair and took out a cigarette from a gold case, tapping it smartly before placing it between her lips.

She lit it with a thin gold lighter and took a deep draw. “Thank you,” she said as she exhaled. “I needed this.” She gestured with the cigarette.

“What can I do for you?”

“The police only told me that there’d been an accident, and that she was dead. My parents . . . our parents are vacationing, one of those tours. I’ve wired ahead to their next confirmed stop and I expect they will call me to find out the details.” She held her hands out. “I have none.”

“I see. Your sister was involved in an auto accident on Thursday night, with her husband Wendall. She was dead at the scene and our first impression was that she had been killed in the crash.” She paused but Vanessa Fletcher was silent, waiting patiently. “On autopsy, we found that she had in fact been killed before the accident occurred. Her neck was broken.”

“And Wendall?” Vanessa Fletcher squinted through the smoke drifting up from her cigarette.

“He has been in a catatonic state since shortly after the accident. He doesn’t respond to stimulus and he doesn’t speak.”

“How convenient for him.” The words were clipped and she put one cigarette out, quickly lighting another.

“That’s not for me to judge,” Rachel answered and got up to pour herself some coffee.

“Let me tell you a story. Louisa was born when I was fourteen. We’ve never been very close but she was a pleasant enough girl, and I was fond of her. My parents, who had been eagerly awaiting my eighteenth birthday so that they might begin to travel alone, were fond of her. But she never fit in. Wendall was her childhood sweetheart, an irritating boy on his best days.” She paused, her eyes flashing, to puff furiously on the cigarette. “She was obsessed with him.”

“Obsessed?”

“She refused to see him for what he was.”

“Which is?”

“A fortune hunter.” A look of smug satisfaction. “You might not guess by looking at her, but Louisa was an heiress. On her last birthday she assumed control of her inheritance from our grandparents.”

“You think he killed her for her money.” It was not a question.

“It’s obvious. She made him her beneficiary and now she’s dead.”

“Tell me about Wendall.”

“He’s crazy.” The stone face held a hint of fear. “He’s been in and out of institutions since he was sixteen.”

“What type of institutions?”

“Mental.”

“Do you know if he’s been seeing a psychiatrist? It would be very helpful to me to talk with someone who knows his background.”

“I’m sure he does, off and on, but I don’t know the name. I try to stay away from him.” She shuddered.

“You’re afraid of him,” Rachel said.

“All of us are. He has a terrible temper. When he loses control there’s no stopping him. He once beat up a man nearly twice his weight—put his face through a plate glass window.”

“But your sister loved him. Were there any signs of trouble between them?”

“She wouldn’t tell anyone even if there was. Louisa was rather old-fashioned. She would rather die than . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You know that there may not be sufficient evidence against your brother-in-law.”

“Ex-brother-in-law. I think I can speak for the family; if he does get off, and it wouldn’t be the first time, he can have the money. It would be worth it to be rid of him.” She stood and turned toward the door. “I’ve made arrangements for my sister’s body to be picked up. Thank you for your time.” She paused at the door. “If I were you, I’d be very careful in my dealings with Wendall Tyler.”

The afternoon wore on. She discharged Peter Thomas and Tina Cruz, watching as Tina cradled Baby Boy Cruz protectively in her arms.

“Susan, I thought you were off this week-end,” Rachel said to the nurse as she signed the discharge orders.

“I was, but Laura called in sick. Poor thing, Emma said she sounded terrible.”

“Something must be going around.” She handed Susan the charts.

“Well, at least it’s quiet right now. Mrs. Frey is sound asleep—she didn’t even wake up when I removed the needle. Mr. Dunn looks better.” She looked across at the guard outside Tyler’s room. “Anyway, why don’t you get out of here for a while? Emma said you’ve been here since early this morning.”

“I was just thinking the same thing. I’ve got to go into town and buy something for dinner or I won’t eat.”

“You don’t think Dr. Adams will bring you a fish?”

“I hope not. Anyway, he’s not due back until tomorrow morning.” She handed Susan the stethoscope. “If I work it right, the refrigerator will be so full of food there’ll be no room for fish.” She wrinkled her nose and turned off down the hall.

FORTY

“Rachel won’t be disappointed if you don’t bring home a fish?” Joyce sat up in the bed, pulling the covers along.

“She hates fish.” He ran a finger along her arm.

“Isn’t that kind of sneaky, pretending to go fishing?”

“No.” He kissed her elbow. “This is more fun anyway.”

“Then why didn’t you tell her where you were really going?”

“She wanted me to get some rest, and if she knew where I was . . . she’d know I wasn’t resting.” He pulled her back down on the bed.

“Nathan.” Joyce laughed. “Let me get my breath.”

“In a minute.”

“Look at that; the sun is going down. You’ve been in bed all day.” Joyce got up and put on a terrycloth robe.

Nathan sighed and sat up. “It’s age, I guess.”

“What’s age?” She regarded him suspiciously.

“A few years back it would have been until the sun came up.”

“God, you’re smug. Now get out of bed—I’m the one who worked all night. If I can get up, so can you.”

“Heartless woman.”

“Of course I am, you ripped it out.”

He followed her into the kitchen, pulling his pants on. “God,” he said, stretching, “I feel like a new man.”

“So do I,” she said into the refrigerator.

“What? Dissatisfaction? Would you care to accompany me back to the bedroom?”

She turned to face him. “I want to get married.”

“Ah, that again.”

“How long has it been, Nathan?”

“I know, but . . .”

“Four years.”

“Joyce, this isn’t the time.”

“It’s never the time. Never. You’re busy with the hospital, the patients, Rachel’s problems, it’s always something.”

“You knew when we started that it had to be this way,” he reminded her.

“Do you love me?”

“You know I do.”

“No I don’t know. I can’t read your mind. I don’t know what you’re feeling. There was a time, not so long ago, when I thought you started this just because you needed nurses.” A tear rolled down her face. “I’m tired of being alone.”

He crossed to her and put his arms around her. “You’re not alone.”

“Yes I am, when it counts.”

“But there’s still so much to be done.”

“It’ll never all be done. You’ll always be working on projects, always tied up with details and plans . . . and I know that it’s important to you. But what about me?”

“I love you.”

“Yes, in the dark, where no one can see. We don’t even go out together.”

“I find it a little ludicrous to think of dating at my age.”

She moved away from him, her arms at her sides, her chin tilted upward. “All right, you don’t have to marry me, but at least let me move into your house. Make it public. Everyone does it.”

He brushed the tears from her face, smiling gently. “I’m not . . . we’re not . . . everyone.”

“Nathan, I love you. From the moment we first met. But I want more. And if you can’t give it to me, I’m going to have to leave.”

A slight frown on his face. “This is not a good time. And Rachel . . .”

“Rachel is a grown woman. She’s bound to find someone of her own, and she’ll be gone again. You told me that she lived with her fiancé—she certainly will understand about us.”

“You’re right, of course.” He took her hand and led her over to the table, sitting down on a chair and pulling her onto his lap. “There are other things. Our ages, for instance. I’m fifty-five, you’re a very young thirty.”

“People don’t care about those things anymore.”

“This is a small town.”

“I’ll put gray streaks in my hair.”

He laughed. “And a shawl and a cane?”

“Whatever it takes. But I don’t think anyone will care. It’s just you and me.” She kissed his mouth and he could taste the salt of her tears.

“You’re sure,” he asked.

“I want to be with you.” She kissed him again, and ran her fingers down his naked back. Then she stood and put out her hand to him while loosening her robe with the other.

“It may be rhetorical,” he said, getting to his feet. “Tonight could be the end of me.”

“There are worse ways to die.” She took him in the bedroom and closed the door.

FORTY-ONE

Rachel walked along the narrow aisles in the general store, trying to determine if she’d forgotten anything while Calvin Price rang everything up at the front. It was an entirely different experience, shopping in the tiny store. No convenience foods but in place of them, Calvin stocked fruits and vegetables put up in jars by the local housewives.

And the smell in the store was heavenly, home-grown herbs and spices and fresh bread made at the restaurant down the road.

There were bolts of material along the back wall, and a glass-covered display case filled with local curios.

Now, with Calvin boxing her groceries, she made her way back to the display case and leaned over to look in. The case was lined with a black felt-like material, and the items were arranged in groups. Arrowheads. Small semi-precious stones, and some clay figures.

“Anything you like?” Calvin had come up beside her.

“Those figures—can I see them?”

He pulled a ring of keys out of his apron pocket and looked them over intently before selecting one and fitting it into the lock. It was the right key and he folded back the glass door.

She reached in and picked up one of the small forms, turning it over in her fingers. It was very light and fragile, and the features were fine-drawn. A wolf. She looked at the others.

“Where did you get these?”

“Guy came by, a while back, sold them to me.”

“Someone from around here?”

“Nope. Never saw him before.”

She picked up a second figure, a coiled snake, its fangs meticulously delineated.

“These are very good. Did he do them himself?”

“Never asked.” Calvin nodded at the figures. “Want ’em?”

“How much?”

“Maybe . . . ten bucks each.” His eyes shifted.

“All right.”

“You want all five?” He was as close to being startled as he would ever get.

“Yes. Do you have a box, or something sturdy so they won’t be crushed?”

“I’ll look in the back.” He disappeared through a door to the right.

She gathered up the remaining tiny figures—a bear, a hyena and a lizard—and took them to the front of the store.

It was some time before Calvin reappeared carrying an empty cigar box. “Found it,” he said simply and put it on the counter in front of her.

She flipped the box and tapped it, emptying it of tobacco remnants. She put the figures in and looked at him. “He just came once and you never saw him again.”

“No, I said, I never saw him before he came to the store. I saw him plenty of times after.”

“Where?”

“Out. Walking. Used to eat down the road once in a while.”

“These are really remarkable. If you happen to see him again, I want to find out where he’s staying. I’d like to know where he got these if he didn’t make them himself. And if he did make them . . .”

“Hasn’t been around in some time.”

“Do you think he was vacationing in the park? They might have a record of his name.”

“The man wasn’t vacationing, I can tell you that.”

“How do you know?”

“He looked like he was starving. Thin and pale, and weak on his legs. Sickly.”

“Didn’t you offer to get some help for him? If he was sick . . .”

“There’s people you just don’t mess with.” Calvin lifted one of the boxes. “And he was one of them.”

FORTY-TWO

Jon bumped into Eric Wilson as he arrived at the office, almost knocking him to the floor. He reached out a hand to steady him.

“Sorry.”

“Just on my way to the hospital to relieve Andy,” Eric said.

Jon nodded and went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.

Notes from Earl. No sign of Nora Samuels, the Burroughs’ next of kin had been located and arrangements were being made to claim the bodies, the typed reports were in from the autopsies, and no new bodies were found.

Another note, from dispatch. Rachel Adams had called twice.

He looked at the note. Her home number was listed but it might be about one of the cases. He hesitated and then picked up the phone.

She answered on the second ring.

“Rachel, it’s Jon. I got your message.”

“Can you come over to the house?”

“Ah, I just came on duty, I’ve got some things to clear up here . . .”

“I had a visit from Louisa Tyler’s sister this afternoon. She had some interesting things to say.”

“Hm. I talked to the San Diego PD—probably more of the same.”

“But even more important, she called and talked to Susan at the hospital a little while later. She gave her the name of Wendall Tyler’s psychiatrist. And I just got off the phone with him.”

“It’ll be an hour.”

“That’s fine, I have a few things to do.”

He listened to her hang up the phone and slowly returned the receiver to the cradle.

Proximity.

Rachel opened the door to let him in and then began to pace, taking sips from a glass of amber liquid.

“I think I’m on to something,” she said and looked at him. “Want a drink?”

He shook his head no. “Talk.”

“Right. Wendall Tyler has been in trouble for most of his life . . . he’s been arrested a couple of times and gets turned loose. He begins to feel invincible, like he’s beyond the reach of the law . . .” she looked at him, “above prosecution. He has a vicious temper and never starts anything he isn’t sure that he can finish.”

“Until now.”

“Just listen. He’s had a rotten childhood, been a juvenile delinquent and an adult criminal. His in-laws think he’s a fortune hunter, and none of them will have anything to do with him. Now . . . there’s Louisa.”

“Louisa was too good for him.”

“Her family thought so, maybe Wendall thought so, but Louisa didn’t think so. She loved him. She chose him over her somewhat stuck up family. How does that make him feel?”

“You tell me.”

“He loves her. She stands by him every single time that he gets in trouble, she defies her family and she believes in him. She’s the only good thing in his life.”

“Go on.”

“He wouldn’t hurt her.” She stopped at the fireplace and finished her drink. “He would protect her. Remember, he thinks he is invincible. Now, they’re up here for a drive because Wendall likes to drive when he’s feeling pressured. They stop and get out of the car, maybe they’re a few yards apart. And someone attacks Louisa, snaps her neck right in front of his eyes—he can hear it crack.” She crossed over to the chair he was sitting in and sat on her heels in front of him. “And in one stroke he’s lost Louisa and the precious illusion of power.” Her voice was a whisper. “He wasn’t strong enough to protect the one person he truly loved.”

The silence lengthened and they held each other’s eyes, Rachel’s hand on his knee.

“Does the psychiatrist agree with your theory?”

“He agrees that Tyler had an Achilles complex, and that Louisa was his vulnerable spot.”

“You really don’t think he did it, do you?”

“No.”

“His temper . . .”

“. . . was never directed at his wife.”

“Did you talk with his psychiatrist about hypnotizing him?” Her hand was distractingly warm.

“He agrees it might work, although it would be very stressful for the patient.”

“Dangerous you mean.”

“There are always risks.”

“But are they justifiable?”

Rachel nodded. “I think they are. If I prepare him to re-live Louisa’s death and try to suggest that he give up his pain, it’s possible that he’ll be controllable.”

“Do you mean more than one session?”

“It will take several, I think, depending on his response. But he needs to work this out as much as we need to know what happened. It will be a relief for him to discharge everything that’s pent up inside him.”

“But it could explode.”

“Not if I . . .”

“Just give me a straight answer.”

“It’s almost impossible to predict how a given subject will react under hypnosis. Yes, he might become violent.”

“Then the only way that I’ll let you hypnotize him is if I’m in the room with you.”

“He is my patient,” she reminded him.

“And I can arrest him and take him out of the hospital.”

“You’re very good at imposing restrictions and conditions, aren’t you? First Nathan had to be there, and now you. If I wait much longer it’ll be so crowded in the room I’ll have to call it in.”

“Rachel, I’m not backing down. Either you agree to my terms right now or I’ll start making arrangements to have him transferred to a locked facility. This is murder we’re talking about.”

She put her hands up in surrender.

“You win.” She rose and turned in one graceful motion, walking back to the fireplace. “Might makes right, is that what they used to say?”

He got out of the chair and looked at her for a moment before extending his hand.

“Friends?”

She put her hand in his. “God knows, I’d hate to be your enemy.”

When he got back into town he was flagged down by Malloy, and he pulled the Bronco to the side of the road and got out.

“Not another one,” he said as Malloy came up to him.

“No, but something peculiar. I haven’t been able to raise Hudson over in Tower One in a couple of days. I didn’t think much of it at first, because we’re both in and out a lot.”

“But now it’s peculiar . . .”

“I drove on over this afternoon, had a look around. The tower was deserted, and wide open, which is against our policy. The jeep was parked, keys in the ignition, and I could tell by the moisture pattern on the soil that it hadn’t been moved in days.”

“He’s disappeared.”

“It sure looks that way.”

“It’s pretty rugged up there. Maybe he took a fall.”

“That could be, he’s in a much denser forest, and there are rock formations, cliffs, caves . . . I don’t know. Anyway, I want to set up a search for him.”

“We’re still looking for that old woman who walked out of the hospital on Saturday. There are a lot of places we can be pretty sure they’re not.”

“There’s a lot of territory still to cover, though.” Off in the distance a dog barked and Malloy jumped, startled. “I’m kind of jumpy lately,” he said.

“With reason.” Jon swung the Bronco door open.

“It’s a funny thing. I’ve always liked the isolation and the solitude of working up here, and I never minded about the bears and the wildcats or anything else. But I’m scared at night, when I go to sleep. I lock the doors and sleep with my rifle in my hand. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m an intruder, and there’s something that wants me out.”

He drove along the back roads, his headlights off, relying on the faint moonlight and his night vision to keep him from straying.

The radio was static, unintelligible, the faint green light of the dials like a pair of eyes watching him. It hissed.

“You’re spooked,” he said to himself and pulled up at a turnout in the road.

He got out of the truck and walked a short distance away, one hand on his gun. Listening.

And on into the night, while the storm clouds gathered in the west.

FORTY-THREE

“Emma, what are you doing here?” Susan Donlevy said, looking up from her paperwork.

“I traded with Joyce—she had something going this evening.” Emma put her bag of needlework on the counter and slipped out of her coat. “It’s certainly cool tonight.”

“I know, it’s been chilly in here too. All those windows in the patient rooms—I had to close the shutters.”

“Well, it’ll warm up soon,” Emma held up a key. “I’ll turn up the heat.” She went back into the utility room where the controls were.

Susan followed her back and watched as she fiddled with the switches.

“I think we’re in for a summer storm,” Emma said, peering at the thermostat dial.

“And Nora’s out there in it.” Susan rubbed her arms. “All of the patients have been restive this evening, even Tyler.”

“You know, it’s a funny thing.” Emma paused, the adjustment forgotten. “There’s something about a summer storm in the mountains. The wind sort of whistles through the trees, and the sky looks close enough to touch and there’s something almost brutal in the rain. And the lightning . . .”

“Now you’re making me nervous. I hate thunder.”

Emma smiled. “It passes quickly. And if you’re not out in it, it’s really quite splendid,”

“I’d prefer to just sleep through it.” She gathered up her belongings. “I just hope I get home before it breaks.”

“Oh you will, it’s still off in the west. It’ll be daybreak before it starts.”

It had been a long time since Emma had worked the night shift and it took a bit of getting used to. The halls were dark, with every third fixture lit, and the soft background music was off. Everything was locked up, the phone was silent and there was no one to talk to.

For a while she worked on her embroidery—flowered pillowcases to match her flowered sheets and towels. There were few items in her home that weren’t flowered. Tablecloths and napkins, dishtowels and potholders.

Then there was her knitting, and her crocheting, and the quilts and patchwork. Collages on the walls and lately she’d been thinking about pottery. Or maybe stained glass.

Emma Sutter did not believe in idle hands. Or idle minds.

Still, it was an effort to keep finding things to do or make. The linen closet was bulging at the seams, full to overflowing with her handiwork. She gave gifts for every conceivable occasion, and pushed the point once or twice. The grandchildren were covered in sweaters, caps and mittens. She was nearing total saturation.

She sighed and put the needle through the material, laying the hoop on the counter. Thousands of roses and daisies and violets.

She went to the medicine cabinet to fix the medication tray, wondering if there was any way to do small watercolor pictures on the tiny paper cups. A whole new art form.

Franklin Dunn was awake when she came into his room and she smiled sympathetically at him.

“How are you feeling,” she whispered, setting the tray on his bedside table and picking up his paper cup. She handed it to him and poured a glass of water from the insulated decanter.

“Like a fool.” He accepted the water and took the pill.

“Nonsense.” She watched him crush the little pill cup. “It was an accident, I’m sure.”

“How does one accidentally attempt suicide?”

“An impulse?”

“After being an attorney for so many years, I no longer have impulses . . . they’re too dangerous.”

“Well, whatever it was, I’m sure it’s over.” She patted his hand.

“The way you’re keeping me drugged, I’m sure I couldn’t harm a fly.”

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Where is Nathan, anyway? I thought he would be in to see me . . . or is it worse than I thought, and he’s been here while I’ve been in a drugged stupor?”

“His niece actually got him to take a day off.” Emma fussed around the bed, straightening the covers.

“Good for her.” He paused. “When do you think I might get out of here?”

“When you’re better.”

“Then what?”

“Save your cross-examination for the doctors. I’m only the nurse . . .”

“Huh, and Patton was only a soldier.” He crossed his arms in front of him, looking like a spoiled child.

“Goodnight,” she said and closed the door.

The deputy was asleep in a chair at the back of Wendall Tyler’s room, and she tip-toed in but he started and opened his eyes, sitting upright.

“Sorry,” she said. “Mr. Tyler’s medication.” She held up a syringe.

“Go ahead.” He settled back comfortably in the chair.

She gave the injection intramuscularly, jabbing the needle deep into his hip. The patient did not move.

“Really out of it, isn’t he?” the deputy asked.

“Yes.” She looked at him. “Eric Wilson, isn’t it?”

“I’m surprised you remembered.”

“I’m not as old as I look,” she said dryly. She gestured at the patient. “You’re getting paid to keep an eye on him? The man doesn’t move half an inch a day.”

“He might be dangerous.”

She snorted. “In that case there ought to be two of you, ‘cause you don’t look like you could handle him.”

Wilson patted the gun on his hip. “There are ways to handle trouble.”

“Or start it.” She hustled out the door.

Amanda Frey was as still as death when Emma looked into the room so she closed the door gently and went along the hall. Nelson was sleeping but the other flu case, Brown, complained of nausea and after checking his chart she gave him his pm Donnatol.

At four a.m. she started vitals and when she got to Amanda’s room she noticed a thin line of dried blood running from the corner of her left eye. She wiped it off, thinking that it must have spattered from the IV, and thought no more of it.

Monday

FORTY-FOUR

They began to arrive in the emergency room shortly after six a.m., even as the storm swept in. By the time Emma had the first group situated in the examining rooms, another wave descended. She put in a hurried call to Rachel Adams and then rolled up her sleeves and went back to work.

Their complaints were identical: elevated temperature, nausea and vomiting and severe headaches. She handed out all of the emesis basins that she had on hand and then had no choice but to let them puke into reasonably clean bedpans. The sound of retching drifted down the halls.

Rachel arrived at six-forty and even forewarned she was surprised at the numbers.

“I’ve had to open the west wing,” Emma said. “I’ve got them two to each examining room, and three in each patient room. I’ve kept them out of the east wing because I didn’t want to expose the other patients.”

“Good work.” Rachel hung her coat over a chair and put on a lab coat.

“Some of them are so sick they can’t sit up to vomit—they just lie on their sides and try to hit the pans on the floor.”

“We’ll just have to set up an assembly line treatment, starting with the sickest. I hope we have lots of disposable syringes, and Vistaril and Atropine.”

“Buckets are what we need,” Emma said and was off.

Rachel rapidly established a routine; physical examination, a short history where possible and administration of appropriate medication. After the first four or five patients, she could supply the history herself; sudden onset of severe headache, including dizziness and some visual distortion, and intolerance of bright light. Stomach cramping and nausea followed by forceful episodes of vomiting. Elevated temperature not responsive to aspirin. Generalized weakness and muscular aches. Most had woken from a sound sleep feeling a general malaise which accelerated to misery when they got out of bed.

The sickest among the twenty-two victims were elderly and, as Emma had said, lay inert, eyes begging for relief, vomiting every few minutes.

She was almost finished with the preliminary exams when she heard more arriving.

Joyce Callan arrived at ten minutes after seven and didn’t ask any questions, just began taking care of the people, working alongside Emma.

“How are the in-patients?” she asked after a minute, finished filling a line of syringes with Atropine.

“Gussy’s here,” Emma said, referring to the aide who assisted on days. “She’ll be all right for a while. What we really need is more basins for these patients.”

“Wastebaskets?”

“I’ve got what I could find. We can’t strip all of the patient rooms . . . we’re going to be admitting a few of these people.”

“Wait a minute, I’ve got an idea.” She held her hand out. “Give me the keys.”

Emma handed her the key ring and watched her run off down the hall.

In a moment she was back with six gold-colored plastic buckets. “Voila.” She distributed them to the new arrivals.

“Where did you get those?”

“From the chapel. Reverend Frey uses them to carry donated flowers from the patients out to the cemetery.” She smiled. “We’ll just collect another type of donation.”

“The last thing we need,” Emma struggled to keep a straight face, “is holy barf buckets.”

“I’m just going to draw a little blood, Mrs. Ragusa.” Rachel approached the bed with the venipuncture tray and the old woman began to moan.

She tied the tourniquet around the woman’s thin arm. “Make a fist, please.”

The tiny gnarled hand clenched.

She ran her fingers along the inside of the arm, feeling for the vein. It was a roller; she could have guessed as much. She wiped the arm with alcohol and picked up the needle. The skin punctured easily and she paused before beginning to probe for the vein.

“Oh no, oh no,” the woman moaned.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, “it’ll just take a minute if you’re still.”

“Oh no.” The woman licked dry lips.

The vein was tough and it took some skill to be able to exert enough pressure to puncture it without passing through and blowing it. She did it, though, and quickly pushed the first tube into place, watching the blood fill the tube.

The woman had begun to cry, a high keening wail.

“Almost done,” Rachel said and pushed a second tube onto the needle. The blood was slowing, the pressure in the vein barely enough to keep it moving.

She didn’t want to stick her again.

Finally there was enough blood and she pulled out the needle. Another alcohol swab, a bandage and she was out the door before the woman realized she was gone.

“Nathan,” Rachel came up to him, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“We’re having some sort of a crisis?”

“An epidemic . . .” they were walking toward the lab and she held up Mrs. Ragusa’s blood samples. “I want you to run these through your magic machine.”

“Certainly.” He took the vials from her. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“A straw in the wind.”

“Look at this,” she said. She held an open culture dish in her hands.

“Mr. Tyler’s culture? Still growing like mad.”

“But this isn’t Tyler’s. I did four cultures yesterday,” she was pulling more culture dishes out the incubator and opening them, “and all of them are the same.” She looked at him. “What does this mean?”

He bent over, looking at the dishes, each with a heavy growth completely covering the nutritive base. “Well, it might mean that we have a defective shipment of culture dishes, some impurity or contaminant.”

She waited while he picked up one of the dishes.

“Or we might have an extremely virulent form of organism on our hands.”

They prepared the specimens for shipment to the CDC in Atlanta, working hurriedly, aware of the patients waiting down the hall.

“Do you think they’ll be able to identify it?”

“I imagine so.” Nathan sealed the box with tape. “Although there are new mutations occurring all of the time. Still, they have a better shot at it than we do.”

Rachel took the box after he’d finished marking it and headed back toward ER where Earl Wagner was waiting to drive it down the mountain for immediate shipment to Georgia.

Then she went back to work.

By ten a.m. the storm had arrived in full force and the patient influx had stabilized. The majority of patients had improved following medication and were discharged to their homes with prescriptions and orders not to eat and to take fluids slowly.

They had admitted only four of the twenty-nine and all four were considered isolation cases.

Emma went off duty shortly after ten, three hours late. Her shift report was shorter than was her practice, but she was too tired to search her mind for details.

On the way home she thought that something was waiting to be remembered but she couldn’t make the effort. It would wait.

FORTY-FIVE

Rachel was standing at the window in his office when he returned from making his rounds.

“Look at it rain,” she said, looking out into the courtyard. “I’d almost forgotten rain.”

Nathan pulled a book from the shelf and sat at his desk. “It’s the last thing we need right now. Some people who need medical treatment will stay home because of it, the older ones especially.”

“And Nora.” She turned to face him. “Earl told me they’ve had to postpone the search for her . . . I hope she isn’t out there in the cold.”

“I’m sure she smelled it in the air long before there were any storm clouds.”

“You’re lucky it didn’t rain while you were at the lake.”

He swung around in his chair. “I want to talk to you about that.”

“What?”

“We’ve always been honest with each other,” he began, and then paused, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t go to the lake.”

“Nathan . . .”

“I spent the day with Joyce Callan.”

“Really?” She had to work to keep from smiling.

“We’re very close friends.”

“How long,” she said, “has this been going on?”

“Years. Actually ever since we first met at one of those medical conventions, I think I wrote you about it . . .”

“About the convention, yes, but not . . .”

“I wasn’t sure whether it would last. But it’s been four years now . . .”

“Four years,” she echoed.

“Anyway, I thought it was about time you, and everyone, knew.”

Now she smiled. “I’m happy for you.” She crossed the room and kissed him. “It’s about time.”

“You approve?” He held her away to look at her.

“Nathan, it’s time you stopped worrying about me. Of course I approve, but that shouldn’t be a deciding factor. If you’re happy . . . I’m happy.”

“Joyce thought you might feel that way.”

“I do,” she said firmly.

He hugged her. “I’m relieved. It’s been you and me since Tim died and I didn’t want you to think I’d abandon you now.”

“I’d never think that.” She held his eyes. “And I’m grown up now . . .”

“And you’ll probably be getting married before too long.”

“Well . . .”

“Oh, don’t think I don’t know, I’ve got eyes in my head.”

She blushed. “Know what?”

“About Jon.”

She looked at him. “You know what about Jon?”

“You’re in love with him. Have been since you were a little girl. And that he’s the reason that you didn’t marry Kelly.”

“But how . . .”

“I know you. I can see it in your face.”

She sat down, digesting this information. “Like a lovesick adolescent.”

“Oh, you’re better at hiding it now than you used to be.” He smiled at her fondly. “But I can see it.”

“A transparent lovesick adolescent. Except, sometimes, he makes me so mad . . . it’s as if he doesn’t even see me at all.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I can tell you, he sees you.”

“I wonder.”

“Jon is a complicated man. You have your work cut out for you.”

She nodded slowly and looked back out the window.

“But he’s worth it,” she said.

FORTY-SIX

“Mrs. Frey,” Joyce stood in the doorway. “I just had a call from your husband, and he’ll be down to pick you up in a few minutes.”

The woman sat, very still, in a chair by the bed.

“Thank you,” she said finally, and gave a little nod.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, I’ll just wait for Martin.” She folded her hands in her lap.

Joyce watched her for a minute but she seemed lost in thought and did not look up.

“Mrs. Frey’s very quiet,” she said when she got back to the desk.

“Amanda’s not very outgoing, at least with adults.” Nathan finished writing orders, closed the chart and looked at Joyce. “She’s great with kids.”

“Well, she looks better, anyway. The last time I saw her at church I thought she was too pale.”

“She’ll be fine if she takes it easy. Not that I expect her to.” He searched the chart rack. “I’ll go talk to Frank now.” He started to walk away and then stopped. “By the way, I told Rachel about us.”

“What did she say?”

“That it’s about time.” He looked either way down the hall. “Nobody’s looking.” He grinned and came back to her, leaning down and kissing her lightly on the lips.

“That’s nice.” She put her arms around his neck for a second kiss, and lingered.

“Ahem.”

They parted and turned.

The Reverend Martin Frey bowed and gave a thin smile. “Good morning. I’ve come for my wife.”

Rev. Frey assisted his wife into their car and tucked a blanket around her legs. “Now we’ll be home soon,” he assured her, getting into the car and starting it.

“Yes dear,” she said. She kept her eyes straight ahead on the way home.

“Don’t worry about making lunch, either, there were plenty of left-overs from the potluck. Not as many people came this year,” he sighed and glanced at her. “Not that it has anything to do with the food, I’m sure, but maybe we could do something a little different for our next one. Beef Wellington, I was thinking. Something with a little sophistication.”

“Yes dear,” she said.

“I’m glad you agree. I have to tell you, I was a little worried that you might take it personally. But, I understand that down in the city they’re having great luck with stuffed grape leaves.” He reached out and patted the blanket where he estimated her hand would be. “It is a shame, but we do have to compete.”

“Yes.”

“And the summer camp. I’ve talked to some of the parents and they think you’re doing a marvelous job—I reassured them that you wouldn’t delay opening—but I’ve been thinking that maybe we should concentrate on more substantial matters. I told them how well you speak French and they were very enthusiastic about a French theme. You could give lessons, and cover a little history, cook them genuine Gallic meals . . . I know this doesn’t give you much time to prepare, but you can start out simple with just a few flashcards, some slides, maybe crepes suzette . . .” Another sideways glance.

“It sounds wonderful.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Oh, and one other thing. A few of the parents were wondering if they might leave their children overnight on occasion. A little vacation away from the kids.” He looked at her again. “And you’re so good with them, all of the kids love you. I didn’t think you’d object . . . ?”

After a moment: “No.”

FORTY-SEVEN

Melissa Davis flounced out of the living room and made her way noisily up the stairs and to her room.

Summer school. Just what she needed.

She threw herself dramatically on the bed, burying her face in the pillow while listening for the sound of footsteps, but apparently no one was following her.

They didn’t want her around, that much was clear. She was in the way. Not that she hadn’t expected it because the moment her mother had announced that she was marrying Tony, Melissa knew things were going to change.

The fact that Tony was only twenty-two and her mother was thirty-five had a lot to do with it. Eliminate the fourteen year old daughter and suddenly mother could pass for . . . twenty-nine? By all means, eliminate the daughter. Ignore that fact that her new step-father was a lot closer to her age than her mother’s.

Not that they would admit to it, but Melissa’s budding figure was the fly in their ointment. She got off the bed and stood sideways in front of the full-length mirror, sucking her stomach in.

As if she could help it. Was she supposed to stop puberty?

When she exercised, as she did every day, in her leotard and leg warmers, Tony was always around. Her mother objected, but not openly. Even at her tender age Melissa knew that her mother could never come right out and accuse Tony of ogling. No, mother was more subtle; a new sweatsuit to cover every young inch of her, errands to get Tony out of the house and even—this was the lowest—tempting her with chocolate and pasta, designed to make her pudge out.

Her own mother!

And lately Tony had started with the games, rough-housing and tickling her, chasing her until she collapsed, giggling helplessly while he made her say uncle.

So. . . summer school.

She flopped back down on the bed, covering her eyes with her arm. There had to be a way to get out of it. She and Jennifer were the oldest kids last year, and she hadn’t seen any new male blood in town.

There had to be a way to make her mother see that she was too old for Play-Doh and fingerpaints.

Then she knew. She wouldn’t ask her mother at all. She would ask Tony—he was her step-father, after all.

Tony made her feel funny. Kind of nervous and squirmy, like waiting to see the dentist when you know you need a filling. He had brown liquid eyes and curly black hair and he was always tan. He wore pants without rear pockets and expensive leather shoes and he smelled . . . none of the boys she knew had ever smelled like that.

He kind of smoldered, throwing hot glances at her and smiling with perfect white teeth, looking hungry. She thought he could teach her a lot more than summer school could.

She got up and put on her tightest jeans and the blue sweater that Jennifer said made her eyes like sapphire. And went looking for Tony.

Jennifer Rogers looked at her father in disbelief.

“French? You want me to learn French during my summer so-called vacation?” She groaned and sat back, throwing her fork on the plate.

“A little education wouldn’t hurt you,” Stan Rogers said. “Heaven knows you get little enough during the school year.”

“But Daddy . . .”

“You’re going.” He took a sip of wine and regarded her over the rim of the glass. “You can get into too much trouble without supervision.”

“Like what?” It came out more sarcastically than she had intended.

“Don’t ‘like what’ me. Or do you think I’ve forgotten your little hitchhiking episode? If Mrs. Freeman hadn’t come along, who knows what might have happened? You could have been . . .”

“Raped and murdered . . .”

“. . . raped and murdered.” He pointed a finger at her. “There are men out there waiting, and the way you dress . . .”

“Everybody dresses this way.”

“They most certainly do not, and I’m not going to let you spend the summer hanging out, half-dressed, while some crazed sex-killer . . .”

Her mother, who had been more than willing to stay out of it, looked up from her plate and cleared her throat. “Stan, not at the table, please.”

“The point is,” he continued, “I want you where you’ll be safe . . . and the church summer school is just the place.”

Jennifer looked at her mother pleadingly.

“I’m sorry, Jennifer, but I agree with your father. It isn’t safe for a girl your age to be wandering about. Besides, you enjoyed yourself last summer . . .”

“The matter is settled,” her father interrupted. “You’re going.”

They finished the meal in silence.

Later Jennifer sat Indian-style on Melissa’s bed and watched admiringly as Melissa tried on a pair of jeans she had altered into very short shorts.

“Your rear end is hanging out,” Jennifer said.

“Fantastic.” She looked over her shoulder into the mirror. “Mom’ll split a gut.”

“My dad would kill me.” Jennifer took a pack of cigarettes out of her clutchbag and put one between her lips. “Got a lighter?”

“There’s matches in the drawer.” She faced front, her legs spread and her hands on her hips. “Wow,” she said to her reflection.

“It’ll really impress all those nine year olds in summer school,” Jennifer coughed, exhaling.

“I don’t plan to go to summer school.”

“What? You just told me your mother . . .”

“. . . wants to get rid of me. But I’ve got a way to get out of it, at least part of the time.”

“What? Burn down the church.”

“Watch.” She opened the bedroom door and stuck her head out. “Tony!”

“Rattle the windows, why don’t you.”

“Well, I can’t exactly walk out there dressed like this.” She looked out the door. “He’s coming.”

Jennifer ran a hand over her hair and moistened her lips, lounging as seductively as she could on the bed.

Melissa left the door open about an inch and moved to stand in front of the mirror, then reached down, touching her toes.

“Not fair,” Jennifer hissed, “Rosy cheeks!”

Tony Buono came into the room, hesitating only momentarily at the sight of his step-daughter’s derriere. He smiled at Jennifer.

“We were just having a drink,” he said to Melissa who had stopped exercising and was facing him, her hair wild about her face.

“We want to ask you a favor,” Melissa said, “but it has to be a secret because Mom wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh?”

“Tomorrow’s the first day of summer school, but we were wondering if we could get you to take us swimming instead.”

A flicker of something in his eyes.

“We know this great place, real secluded, but it’s too far to get there on foot.”

“Can’t it wait until the week-end?”

“It’s only private during the week . . .”

“It’s the best place to go skinny-dipping,” Jennifer added, her heart racing. She caught Melissa’s look of approval.

“What if it’s still raining?”

“That’s even better, swimming in the rain.” Melissa smiled secretively.

“Like Gene Kelly,” Jennifer put in, and then blushed.

“I don’t know . . .”

Melissa threw herself at him in a way that had been beneath her dignity since she’d turned ten, hanging on his arm and bouncing. “Please, it’ll be so much fun, I promise.”

“All right.” He disentangled her from his arm. “But just this once.”

“Oh thank you.” She kissed him at the corner of his mouth.

They watched him go and waited a minute to be sure he was out of listening range.

“Oh, Melissa,” Jennifer gushed, “I don’t know how you can sleep at night with him here under your very roof.”

“All he has to do is call Mrs. Frey in the morning and we’re free.”

“For tomorrow, anyway; he said just this once.”

“After tomorrow, he’ll want us out of school as much as we want to be out.”

“Melissa . . . what do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t wait.” She sat at the foot of the bed.

“He sure is gorgeous.” Jennifer closed her eyes and sniffed. “I could go crazy just from his aftershave.”

“Jennifer.” Melissa was very serious. “You won’t ruin everything, will you?”

“Ruin everything?” She was wounded.

“By being such a good little virgin. I mean, Tony’s a grown man, he’s gonna expect something . . .”

“You mean . . . ?”

Melissa nodded.

“How do you know?”

“I’m not a kid, you know.”

“But you’re a virgin too.”

“It’s different with me. I mean, I’m not a good virgin, I’m sort of a reluctant one.”

“That’s so cold . . . and unromantic.” Jennifer regarded her friend. “Like blueprints. I want to be swept off my feet.”

“You watch too many movies. It’s gotta happen, and it might as well be someone like Tony. I mean, would you rather Todd Lane put his disgusting hands on you?” Her lip curled.

“But you know what happens to those girls in those movies . . . after they’ve, you know, done it, and they’re still naked . . . wham! The mad slasher.”

“Grow up, nothing like that ever happens in real life.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Earl returned from down the hill just as Jon arrived at the town hall and he waited for Earl to catch up to him before entering the sheriff’s office.

“Nice drive in the rain,” Jon said and looked up at the sky where the clouds were beginning to break up.

“I never seen such a mess in my life,” Earl said. “I took the stuff for the crime lab and those samples from the hospital straight over to the air freight service, and you’d think I wanted the guy to flap his arms and fly off with them himself, the way he acted.”

“Well, at least they’re on the way,” Jon held the door open.

“I do believe that guy better hope I never catch him breaking no laws up this way.”

“Any laws,” Jon corrected.

“I honestly don’t know how you lived all those years in the city; I’ve never met so many rude people.”

“Calm down, you’re gonna blow a gasket.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Some people aren’t worth getting mad over.” He poured coffee into a mug. “You think it’ll be clear enough tomorrow to go out looking for Nora and that ranger?”

“Well, I think we’re going to have to whether it’s stopped raining or not.” He sorted through the mail.

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

He went into his office and sat at the desk, opening the mail and separating it into stacks according to urgency. Considering the number of unsolved murders, very little of it seemed pressing.

The typed reports on the latest victims were in. He skimmed through the technical terminology, which was somehow more brutal for all of its detached stance. This had little to do with those agonized faces.

He tried to imagine how it must feel to have someone’s hands closing off the air, the certainty of death, the frantic need to breathe. Who had been killed first? Most probably the man. He must have known that his wife was in danger, and yet, had he called out? If he did, why didn’t she escape?

The brief interviews conducted with the neighboring campers gave no indications that anyone had cried out. No screams, no shouted warnings.

Why were all of these victims going silently to their deaths? Cruz was carrying a rifle, but he hadn’t fired it, nor used it as a club.

He wasn’t sure, despite Rachel’s insistence, that Louisa was one of them. Wendall Tyler was almost a classic sociopath, caring little for others. Did he love his wife, as Rachel proposed, or was he after the money? Never discount the money. People killed for seventeen cents, savagely. So, perhaps, had Wendall.

He looked at his watch. He had promised to meet Rachel and Nathan at the hospital at seven to stand by while she tried to hypnotize Tyler. If he could be hypnotized.

Admissions made while under hypnosis were not looked on favorably by the courts. Still, if it broke through the man’s transfixion . . .

A last memo from Delia Naughton, the head of the town council, suggesting a meeting soon to discuss the current problems and their fiscal impact. Money again. He made a note on his calendar to call her in the morning before he went off duty.

Then he got up, unplugged the coffee machine, locked his desk drawer and strapped on his gun. He had every intention of spending the night patrolling the roads. The storm may have been the reason no one was out last night but he had little reason to doubt that whoever was out there would strike again.

He wanted to be ready for him.

He turned off the lights and called out a good-night to the dispatcher, then went to his truck and headed toward the hospital.

FORTY-NINE

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Jon spoke in a quiet voice so that Nathan and the guard wouldn’t hear.

“Your confidence in me is touching,” she answered softly and smiled. “Just warn me if you decide to shoot him so I can duck.”

“I’m serious.”

“If this is going to make you nervous, why don’t you wait outside?” She checked the wrist restraints on Wendall Tyler.

He watched her for a moment. “You won’t admit that this could be dangerous.”

“Yes, it could be. Now are you satisfied?” Her look softened. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue with you, but unless I feel that the hypnosis is detrimental to Mr. Tyler, I’m going to do this.”

“Stubborn.” He turned and walked over to the far wall, leaning against it, arms crossed in front of his chest.

She turned her attention back to Tyler, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his right arm.

When she was ready she faced the observers.

“It is very important that the only voice that Mr. Tyler hears is my own. If I succeed in establishing a state of hypnosis, the sound of a strange voice could be very upsetting to him. If anyone,” she looked pointedly at Jon, “feels a need to ask a question, please write it down and give it to me. I will decide whether or not to ask Mr. Tyler as I see fit.”

Nathan nodded and the guard returned her look blankly.

“Sheriff Scott?”

“Doctor Adams?” An insincere smile.

The room was darkened and Rachel began to talk, her voice soft and even.

“Mr. Tyler, I’m Dr. Adams and I’d like to help you. I think I can help you feel better. I’d like you to feel better, you’re very tired, and you need to rest.” She took a small penlight and held it in front of his face. “Can you see the light?” She moved it slowly from left to right. “Concentrate on the light. Watch it move, that’s it, follow the light with your eyes. You can hear me, Mr. Tyler. Listen to my voice, and watch the light.” She put her hand on his wrist, checking the pulse.

“I’m going to help you relax, so you can rest. Watch the light and feel how heavy your arms are, feel how heavy your legs are. While you watch the light a warmth is beginning to spread through your body, through your arms and legs. Can you feel it? Blink slowly for me if you can feel it.”

His eyelids began to close.

“Very warm and very heavy, relaxed. You can feel the heat spreading, spreading, and you feel very good. Very safe. You are safe and warm and relaxed and as you close your eyes, you can still see the light. You can see the light even though your eyes are closing. Follow the light, Mr. Tyler, and let the warmth flow through you.”

“The warmth is all through your body, you are warm and relaxed and safe. Nothing can harm you now, you are safe. Follow the light, concentrate on the light.”

She paused and nodded to Nathan who took Tyler’s blood pressure while she continued to pass the light in front of his closed eyes. Nathan wrote the BP on the sheet: 110/70.

“You are falling into a deep sleep. You can still hear my voice as you sleep, you can hear me, and you can answer me. You are completely relaxed and warm and safe and you want to tell me something.”

She waited but Tyler did not speak.

“You are asleep and warm and safe and you want to tell me what happened.”

Nathan took the blood pressure again. One thirty over eighty. He shook his head at her.

“You still can see the light, even though you are asleep, the deepest sleep, where nothing can harm you. You can hear my voice. You can hear me, and you can answer me. What is your name?”

Choked: “Wendall Tyler.”

She exchanged a look with Nathan and heard Jon moving behind her, coming closer.

“Your name is Wendall Tyler. Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me your wife’s name?”

The muscles in Tyler’s throat were working, knotted with the effort but he made no sound. He tried to raise a hand to his throat but his arm flopped uselessly by his side.

“I want you to concentrate on warmth, Mr. Tyler, I want you to feel it, spreading through your body. You can feel it in your throat. Feel the heat in your throat, and your muscles will relax, and you are safe, no one can harm you. As you swallow, the warmth flows through you.”

Tyler swallowed repeatedly, the corded muscles slowly relaxing. His body eased.

“Is Louisa Tyler your wife’s name?”

The man’s face contorted and he shifted in the bed.

“Do you know Louisa?”

He lunged forward, suddenly, sitting upright, the restraints holding, his body thrown forward with such force that it wrenched his left shoulder with an audible pop.

“No! Louisa! No!”

Jon shoved Rachel out of the way and grabbed Tyler by the shoulders, slamming him back onto the bed. “Take him out,” he ordered her, still restraining the struggling man.

“Mr. Tyler, you hear my voice, you see the light. When I count to three you will come awake and you will feel very rested and very calm and you will be safe. You will remain aware of the light, and the next time you see it, you will relax and sleep when I command you, using the letters, ABC. You are calm, one . . . two . . . three.”

Tyler slackened at the command.

Jon let go and straightened up. “Damn.”

“Very good,” Nathan said to Rachel and then put the stethoscope in his ears to listen to the blood pressure.

“Good?” Jon looked at her. “I want to talk to you.”

He waited until they were in her office, the door closed.

“I don’t want you to try that again.”

She looked at him, unbelieving. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“I can help him. The fact that I was even able to hypnotize him in his state of mind indicates that I can get through to him.”

“Wait a minute. You got through to him and he almost came off that bed. He could hurt somebody.”

“All that means is that I’ll have to be more careful asking him questions. If I approach it the right way . . .”

“That man is about to explode . . . His jaw was tight with anger. “Whatever it is he’s hiding.

“You saw the look on his face, do you really believe he killed his wife? That . . . anguish?”

“Or anger. Even regret. Whatever feelings he can’t face . . .”

“Oh that’s right, I should listen to you, the authority on hiding your feelings.” She faced him squarely, head high. “Let me tell you, you’re the one you should worry about. I can help him . . . you won’t let anybody help you.”

She watched his anger turn to icy control. Then he turned and walked out of the door, leaving it open.

Nathan came in later and handed her Tyler’s chart.

“Jon leave?”

She nodded. “Damn him. God damn him, he always walks out.”

“You did a nice job with Tyler.”

“He doesn’t want me to hypnotize Tyler again.”

“Did you explain to him about the prognosis without treatment of this sort?”

“I tried to. But he’s already made his mind up. He thinks Tyler killed his wife.”

Nathan sighed. “The thought crossed my mind once or twice.”

“I’ll never understand why he can’t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Always suspicious. Thinking the worst.”

“That’s what policemen do. It sometimes saves their lives.” He reached over and patted her hand. “Tim would have been the same way by now.”

“But Nathan, the look on Tyler’s face! It wasn’t hatred or anger or rage. It was fear and pain, and hopelessness. Why can’t Jon see that? Why can’t he see the hurt and loss in Wendall Tyler’s eyes?”

“What he saw,” Nathan said gently, “was a man whom he considers to be dangerous make a sudden movement which threatened you.”

“I don’t . . .”

“He was protecting you. Defending you. Reacting on instinct. He wasn’t willing to take a chance that you’d be hurt.”

A slow smile. “He was pretty impressive.”

“Next time . . . watch Jon’s face. Look into his eyes. It’s there. Just keep looking.”

FIFTY

“Frank, you asleep?” Nathan leaned into the room, holding the door frame.

“I’m slept out,” came the hushed answer. “Come in.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Honestly? My wrists are throbbing and I need a drink.”

Nathan switched on the headboard lamp, put a finger to his lips and held up a paper bag which obviously concealed a bottle. “Don’t tell anyone.” He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Bless you, bless you.” Frank struggled to sit up.

“Hold this,” Nathan said, shoving the bottle into his hands, “and I’ll roll up the bed.” After he finished he went to the small bathroom and brought back two paper cups.

“This makes the second time you’ve saved my life,” Franklin Dunn said as he watched whiskey being poured into a cup. He took the drink eagerly.

“To inebriation,” Nathan toasted.

“To intoxication . . .”

“In moderation,” they proclaimed jointly, and downed the whiskey. After the second cupful they were content to sip it.

“What was all the ruckus going on tonight?” Frank asked, savoring the burn of the liquor as it ran down his throat.

“Ruckus? Oh, that. Nothing much, just a patient reacting rather violently to a hypnotic question . . . no wait, a hypnotic patient to a violent question . . .” Nathan stared down into the small cup. “I didn’t have dinner.”

Franklin nodded knowingly. “Broccoli.”

“Anyway, my question is . . . how are you?”

“Better.” He sipped.

“I’m gonna let you go home in the morning, but I want you to take a mild tranquilizer for a while.”

“What, those elephant tranquilizers you’ve been giving me?”

“It’s a little tiny pill . . .”

“That could stop a bull elephant at twenty paces.”

Nathan laughed.

“I told the nurse, even if I wanted to hurt myself, which I don’t, I couldn’t work up the energy. I feel . . . very mellow.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me, then, how you managed to cut your wrists in the first place? Since you’re not currently in pain?”

Franklin looked at him, his face rearranging itself into a serious expression. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“I’ve thought that for many years.”

“Ha! Presumption of guilt.”

“No, more like a preponderance of evidence.”

“Jesus, now you sound like a lawyer.” Franklin finished what was left in his cup and held it out for more. When it was filled he held it in both hands, silent.

“I remember,” he said after a minute, “sitting in my study. It was dark out, and I had a fire burning. I’d had a brandy after dinner and I was feeling a little sleepy, there in front of the fire.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember. “I began to feel a little warm, but I didn’t think anything of it . . . and then I began to . . . tingle. My whole body was prickling and . . . it felt very strange. It felt like a dream. It felt like . . . an absence of feeling. No sensations. All of a sudden I was just sort of numb. I think I got up, and I remember being surprised that I could stand. It was very dreamy and unreal, and I went into the bathroom.” He took a long swallow of the whiskey, his eyes troubled. “I saw my face in the mirror, but I had no feelings for it. Just a face. And then I opened the medicine chest and took out my straight razor . . . and I put it to my wrist. It was cool metal on my warm wrist, but I didn’t care if my skin was cut. It was even . . . fascinating . . . to watch the skin part. It didn’t bleed immediately, seemed like a long time before the blood began to run down my arm. And . . . that’s all.”

“A dissociative episode.”

“Does that mean I’m crazy?”

“No . . . no. But it does indicate maybe a deep depression, or some intense emotional conflict.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m speculating. Was something bothering you, or were you working out an emotional problem?”

Franklin shook his head. “I can’t think of another time when I’ve been so settled in my life. I have no financial worries. I have a successful career. I have friends. I keep busy.”

“Sometimes it’s something that you only think you have under control, and you’re repressing it, even from yourself. But the subconscious mind is harder to fool.”

“What do I do?”

“That depends on what you want to do.”

Franklin finished the whiskey and crushed the cup, then looked at it. “Anger I don’t know about?”

“Analysis might help.”

“I think that frightens me more than anything else. Except . . .”

“Except what?”

“I don’t want it to happen again. I don’t want to die . . . but that face in the mirror . . . it didn’t care, at all.”

FIFTY-ONE

Amanda Frey sat at the kitchen table looking at her folded hands. There was still a lot to be done. She had the French dictionary and several textbooks from when she had taught public school, and a stack of handmade flash cards. The slides were in a big box, mixed with hundreds of unlabeled vacation pictures, and she needed to sort them out.

Still she sat, unwilling to move. Her arms and legs were heavy with fatigue and her back ached from carrying the boxes down from the attic.

Water dripped in the kitchen sink.

The dough for making long loaves of French bread sat rising beneath the linen handtowel, the room fragrant with yeast.

Upstairs Martin slept.

The skin on her hands was chapped and tender, her knuckles red. Her wedding ring dug into swollen fingers. Strong, sturdy hands, not at all the hands of Amanda Sue Johnson. No polish on the fingernails anymore. No time to be idle.

She looked around the kitchen; it was alien to her. She did not belong here, she thought. The feel of it was wrong.

All day she’d had the feeling that she was seeing her life for the first time, an endless parade of baking and serving and doing what was expected of her. Little things that had never bothered her before now rankled.

The garbage container, full to overflowing, and not emptied since she’d done it on Saturday. Sitting full, drawing flies, waiting for her. Martin had always implied that garbage was not a concern of the ministry, and she had acquiesced.

Other things. His refusal to accept wash and wear shirts, preferring cotton, not caring if the ironing was yet another burden on her. His hatred of canned foods, requiring her to make everything from scratch. Even his bedtime, which was nine-thirty sharp and carved in stone, never to be changed for anything as minor as her needs.

As he was asleep now.

Something in her recognized the injustices she had endured uncomplainingly for all these years. Something protested. Something demanded retribution.

It was not only Martin. The mothers and fathers of her summer students, confident that she would care for their sad neglected children. And not caring, really, whether the child enjoyed or understood being cast off. Rich parents. All that money could buy, everything but time.

And she . . . she had wasted more time than anyone.

Tuesday

FIFTY-TWO

“All right,” Jon said, holding his hands up for silence. “We’re going to break up into three groups, headed by Malloy, Earl and myself and we’ll be in radio contact at all times. You won’t want to get too far apart or you might get lost as well.”

“How about using whistles?” someone asked.

“The problem we have there is that Nora Samuels doesn’t want to be found, and if she hears you she might go further into the woods. There are plenty of places to hide and she’s lived here a long time, she probably knows them all.”

“What do we do then?” Calvin Price asked.

“Keep your eyes open and move as quietly as you can. No yelling back and forth.” He hesitated, looking at Malloy. “What complicates things is Dan Hudson. We think he might be injured. We can’t call out to him because if Nora is in the vicinity, she’ll take cover.”

“What if he’s yelling for help?”

“That’s what we’re hoping for. If he’s been making noise, chances are Nora won’t be anywhere around him.”

“Huh, you’d think she’d get help for him if she heard him hollering,” Calvin said.

“If I know Nora, she’d think it was a trap,” Earl put in.

“Anyway,” Jon continued, “the important thing is to not make any unnecessary noise. If you do locate either one of them, alert the closest co-searcher and he’ll get back-up for you.”

“Quietly?”

“At that point, our priority is to help whoever we find. There are two lives at stake here and there’s no need to endanger one by making presumptions about the other. If we find Hudson and he’s hurt, then we’ll have to do what’s best for him immediately.”

“Nora could be injured, too,” Earl said.

“That’s always been a possibility. Any questions?” He waited, surveying the group. “All right, then, let’s get started.”

He waited until the other two groups had taken off to their start points and then headed toward the lumber road, a trail of vehicles following behind. At the turn-off back into the woods, he pulled into a small clearing, signaling the others to park.

He checked his hand-held radio which was, for now, receiving, and turned to the waiting men.

“We’re going to fan out and work a line through the brush, but try to keep visual contact with the person next to you. If you do get separated, just backtrack.”

Just then a car turned into the road, slowing as it came upon them, the driver rolling down the window.

“Morning,” Tony Buono said, his eyes taking them in.

Jon looked in the car at the two passengers and back at the driver. “Where’re you headed?”

“Just going for a drive,” Tony answered and smiled guilelessly.

“We’re conducting a search,” Jon said. “You can drive through but I’d prefer if you didn’t go into the woods.” He watched as the driver exchanged a look with the young girl beside him. The girl noticed him watching and widened her eyes in innocence.

“That’s okay, I know another place.” She looked directly at Jon. “We’re doing a nature study project.”

“For school?”

“No . . .” Her face brightened suddenly. “It’s like an independent study. I want to be a botanist.”

Jon looked at the other girl whose face was flushed but she avoided meeting his eyes. He looked back at the driver. “All right, but please be careful: we already have two people missing.”

“Don’t worry,” Tony Buono said. “I’ll be very careful.” Then he smiled, rolled up the window and began to turn the car around in the clearing.

Jon could see the girl in the middle laughing as they drove off.

FIFTY-THREE

“I almost died,” Melissa said, looking back through the rear window as they pulled onto the main road. “The sheriff, no less.”

“I think I will die,” Jennifer moaned. “He’s gonna call my parents, I know it.”

“No he won’t. You heard him; they’re looking for somebody in the woods. He won’t have time to bother about you . . . and anyway, what makes you think he knows who you are?” She looked to Tony for agreement but he was concentrating on driving.

“He doesn’t, but how hard could it be to find out?” She slumped down in the seat. “My life is over. They’ll put me in a convent.”

“They don’t do that anymore. Don’t be silly. Anyway, it’s actually better. I know this place . . .” she leaned forward, peering at the road. “It’s almost overgrown with bushes, but there’s a dirt road that goes back to an abandoned cabin. I know it’s around here.”

“How do you know all these places,” Tony asked and glanced at her sideways.

“Nature study.” Her mouth twitched. “The one good thing that’s come of all these summer school classes.”

“A botanist,” Jennifer said and looked at her friend. “You’ve flunked every science class you’ve ever taken.”

“There are some things,” Melissa said slowly, placing her on Tony’s knee, “that are natural instincts.” She winked at Jennifer. “I just know I’m going to be good in . . . I mean at . . . the bushes.”

Jennifer stole a glance at Tony, who did not react to Melissa’s comment, and back at her friend. Then she turned to look out the window, confused at the turn of events. It didn’t look like they were going swimming after all.

“There it is,” Melissa squealed and pointed at a thickly overgrown road on the left.

Tony stopped in the middle of the road, looking at the turn. “It’s going to scratch the paint.”

“We can park on the side and walk in,” Melissa insisted. “Wait until you see the cabin. It’s got furniture and everything.”

Tony pulled the car off the road about a hundred yards up from the entrance, turned off the engine and looked at them. “Are you ready?”

“I can’t wait,” Melissa answered.

Jennifer just kept her eyes averted and reluctantly got out of the car, followed behind as they headed back to the dirt road.

“Didn’t I tell you.” Melissa stood, hands on her hips, facing the cabin.

It was almost hidden from view, built flat against a rock wall, flanked by trees and camouflaged by dark colored paint. The windows were shuttered and the total effect was of blending into the background.

“Nice,” Tony said and looked back the way they had come. Much of the road had been taken over by the weeds and bushes and there was nothing along the way to indicate that the cabin was there.

“Very secluded.” Melissa toyed with the buttons on her blouse, her eyes now following Tony.

“Let’s look inside,” he said and put an arm around Melissa as he passed. “Come on Jennifer.”

She hung behind but then the isolated silence threatened her fragile self-control and she ran to catch up.

Melissa found the key under a disintegrating floor mat and handed it to Tony. As he worked the key in the lock she smiled at Jennifer and winked again.

Jennifer returned the look without enthusiasm.

Inside, the cabin was remarkably clean. A fine layer of dust coated the wooden furnishings.

“You sure nobody’s living here?” Tony drew one finger across the large round table in the east corner of the room.

“I’m sure.” Melissa looked around. “It’s exactly the way I left it.” She went to a door in the rear of the room. “Look.” She swung the door open, revealing a small bedroom.

Jennifer turned and walked back toward the front door. “I’m going to get a little air—it’s stuffy in here.”

“Jennifer?”

She paused in the doorway but didn’t turn back. “What?”

Melissa giggled softly. “Knock before you come in, okay?”

She left without answering.

She stomped through the woods, angry.

“What did you expect?” she asked herself out loud, kicking at the dirt.

Melissa was going to do it. With Tony.

She sat on a big rock and forced herself to look at the beautiful countryside. It was very peaceful. And quiet.

Melissa was her best friend in the world, maybe her only friend, and that was the problem. She couldn’t even tell her what she thought about this whole thing without taking the chance of spending the rest of her school days as an outcast.

She understood about Melissa, and knew why they were friends. It was very simple; Melissa was pretty and she was not. She was not a threat to Melissa’s ego and when they were together around boys, they paid attention to Melissa. Except for Todd Lane, who Melissa professed to despise, no doubt for being guilty of liking Jennifer best.

She sort of liked Todd. He was shy and intelligent and had a nice dry sense of humor. He had a mild case of acne, but to hear Melissa tell it, his face was marked by craters. Still, she knew better than to defend him to Melissa. She even knew that all of the insults her friend directed toward him were meant to keep them apart. She could never admit that she liked a boy who was so soundly disliked by her best friend. And Melissa preferred it that way.

She might never have a boyfriend. Melissa got the cute ones, and the others weren’t good enough to be bothered with. Two categories of guys: cute and disgusting. She’d noticed, though, that as disgusting as Todd might not know he was, the last weeks of school he’d been seeing Debbie Smith.

Now this thing with Tony.

It had played in her mind. Tony would look at Melissa in disgust. “But you’re almost my daughter,” he’d say. And cruelly: “Besides, you’re a tease and you’re not very smart.”

Then he turned to face her, his face soft with love.

“But Jennifer is nice and bright and sweet. I know I’m older than you.” He would take her hand and bring it to his lips. “And I’m married, but I’ll give it all up . . . just say the word.”

“The word,” she’d say, and, Melissa forgotten, she would be wrapped in his arms.

But he respected her too much to expect her to go to bed with him before they were married. And when their wedding night came at last . . . the screen faded, like in the old movies.

As an afterthought, she’d come across Melissa five years later, on a street corner, where Melissa couldn’t even give it away.

It was a very satisfying dream.

Except that Melissa and Tony were together in the cabin. Alone. She’d made it easy for Melissa again.

She thought she heard the faint sound of laughter on the wind.

She looked at her watch. Two hours. What could they do that would take two hours?

It didn’t take much imagination to guess. Tony couldn’t get enough of Melissa’s little body. Or he couldn’t . . . at all. In which case Melissa would have been tearing the walls down by now, so it had to be the other.

She got up, rubbing her rear end, her eyes searching the woods.

Had something moved?

FIFTY-FOUR

Jon moved silently through the trees, his eyes scanning the area. Off to his right he could see one of the searchers, almost even with him. The road was up two hundred yards to the left.

It had been several hours and they’d seen nothing. No tracks; if there’d been any they were probably washed away by the rain. Still, it was almost impossible to move through the forest without leaving some sort of sign. Snapped twigs, upturned rocks, crushed leaves.

He had checked with both Malloy and Earl shortly before, and they had nothing to report. It did not look good.

He stopped and squinted, looking at a densely-packed growth of bushes. Sunlight streamed through the branches overhead and something was reflecting the light, if dimly.

Nearing, he could make out a structure of some kind. There were no signs of life, no movement, but he approached cautiously.

Aluminum siding.

He looked back toward the others and when the nearest one looked his way he waved an arm, signaling to come over. When he was sure they had seen he circled around and came up on the entrance of the shack.

Flies swarmed around the entrance, almost covering the canvas tarp that served as a door. He could smell it now; the unmistakable odor of death.

By the time the others had arrived he had already looked into the shack and stood waiting a few feet away.

“Whew!” one of the men said, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Something dead in there?”

“Somebody. It’s not Nora or Hudson.”

“Another body?” They looked at each other nervously.

He nodded. “I’m going back up to my truck to drive it down here. Don’t let anyone go in there. I’m going to have to take pictures and I don’t want anything disturbed.”

“Nobody wants to go in there.” They all settled away from the shack.

They didn’t look like they had moved an inch when he got back. He carried the camera and some collection envelopes and began to take pictures of the outside of the dwelling.

“One of you go wait up by my truck. I’ve called Dr. Adams to come on out and take a look at this, maybe determine a preliminary cause of death.”

“Does it look like another murder?”

“I don’t know.” He took a deep breath, pushed the tarp aside and ducked through the opening.

The camera flashes began.

FIFTY-FIVE

“Tony, where are you going?” Melissa sat up on the bed, watching him pull on his pants.

“Just to have a cigarette.”

“You can do that here.”

“I’ll be back,” he said and left the room, closing the door behind him.

She brushed the hair back out of her face and lay back, a smile on her face.

So that was what it was all about. She arranged her blouse over her upper body, slightly chilled. She considered putting her pants back on but decided that she wasn’t ready to stop yet.

No wonder grown-ups don’t want us to do it, she thought. Afraid we’ll like it. Jealous, like her mother.

She’d read an article once which said that the lowest incidence of teen-age crime and delinquency was found in those cultures which allowed their young to engage in sex without making a big deal of it.

It was clear to her that her mother would rather have her turn into an ax murderess before consenting to this.

She smiled. Things were going to change around the house. Starting immediately.

Tony wouldn’t want her to tell and now he’d have to be on her side. He’d have to make her mother see that it wasn’t right to treat her like a child. He would have to make sure that she wasn’t hidden away like some snot-nosed brat at the summer school.

And this . . . this would continue.

She stretched, flexing even her toes. She felt good all over.

He was strangely quiet, though. He’d hardly spoken during the whole thing. It was probably something to do with her mother; she couldn’t imagine him saying the same things to them both while making love.

“Making love,” she said to the room. It even sounded good. She lifted one leg off the bed, extending it straight in the air, feeling the play of muscles in her thigh. Aching.

If nothing else, it was good exercise.

What was taking him so long? A cigarette took three minutes; she’d timed it once when she was in junior high school.

She got off the bed and slipped the blouse on, not buttoning it and letting it hang open to expose her breasts. She looked around for her panties but didn’t see them.

Footsteps in the other room.

She put her ear against the door and listened. He was moving around in the outer room. Had he put on his shoes? It sounded like . . .

He was coming toward the bedroom door.

FIFTY-SIX

“Rachel, I thought Nathan was coming.” Jon said as she approached them.

“He wanted to drive Franklin Dunn home.” She looked at the search party. “No sign of Nora yet?”

“Nobody’s seen a thing. Except this.” He gestured at the small shack. “Poor guy.”

“Well, may as well get at it.”

Jon held the tarp back. “Ladies first.”

Rachel bent over, ducking through the entry. Just inside the doorway she stopped, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light.

The body was in the corner.

She felt Jon beside her, kneeling in the dirt, and they exchanged a look. Then she looked back at the corpse.

“Delightful,” she heard Jon say and then he moved off a little way to her right.

She sat on her heels, taking it all in.

In the middle of the dirt floor was a candle which had been stuck in a small tin cup. Around it, etched in the dirt, were strange hieroglyphics, interspaced with tiny figures made of sticks and straw.

A circle had been drawn around the figures, and a triangle enclosed the circle. At the points of the triangle sat small clay animals; one a bird, another a short-tailed cat, like a lynx, and the third, at the apex, a horned creature of some sort, much like a mythical demon.

Sprinkled along the lines of the triangle was a white powdery substance.

She looked back at the body, and, careful not to disturb the markings on the floor, she moved closer, bracing herself against the stench.

There were no marks visible on the body, and indeed, no signs of a struggle of any sort within the room. She took one of the hands and moved the fingers easily; rigor mortis had passed.

She lifted the eyelids and noted the eyes were glazed and filmy, the eyeball itself was mushy.

Strangely, although the air was filled with the buzz of flies, none were on the body, and there were no maggots as might be expected. The smell resulted from the involuntary defecation at the time of death.

She looked at Jon.

“How many days do you think he’s been up here?”

“Maybe a week. It’s hard to say.”

“Why isn’t there more decomposition?”

“That I can’t even guess at. He should be bursting by now.” She shook her head.

“Natural causes?”

“Well, I think you can rule out murder.”

“That’s encouraging. People are starting to get a little nervous with all of these killings going on.”

Rachel moved away from the body. “I don’t blame them. I’d think twice before wandering around in the woods after dark.” She indicated the camera in his hand. “If you’ve got all your pictures, you can move him out of here.” She looked back at the clay figures on the floor.

He followed her look. “Something interesting there?”

“I have some clay pieces like those.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“Bought them at the store in town. Calvin said a bum sold them to him.” She looked back at the body. “Him, I’d guess.”

“Do you make anything of these markings?”

“Not offhand. But it looks like some kind of ritual . . . is that salt?”

“It is. How did you know?”

She shrugged. “A guess. But in legend . . . he wanted to keep something away.”

“What?”

“Evil spirits maybe.” She watched him as he bent down and gently eased the figures into an evidence bag. “Or death.”

“Didn’t work, did it?”

FIFTY-SEVEN

Jennifer watched as Tony came toward her, barefoot and shirtless, his golden skin reminding her of the Greek gods.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” Her voice was choked and she cleared her throat. “Where’s Melissa?”

“Inside.” He sat on the rock where she’d spent the last two hours and looked up at her, his hair mussed, a tiny smile on his face.

She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she just looked at him, admiring the trim lines of his body and the finely-boned angles of his face. He was beautiful, she thought, finding even that word inadequate.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he said after a minute.

“What?”

“Melissa. I shouldn’t have done that.”

She wouldn’t ask what ‘that’ was. Turning her head, she looked back in the woods.

“Why did you?” She worked at keeping the disappointment out of her voice.

“Ha!”

Startled, she turned to face him, but she couldn’t read the look in his eyes although they held her own.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” She sounded very mature, she thought.

“You know what I am.” It was not a question.

“I think you do. I think you’re very bright.”

She blushed.

“You know why I married Melissa’s mother?” When she did not answer he added: “Think about it.”

“For her money.”

“A lot of money,” he confirmed. “I like money.”

“You don’t love Mrs. Davis, I mean, Buono?”

He shook his head. “But I am very fond of her checkbook. This . . .” he gestured toward the cabin, “could be the end of it.”

She hesitated. “I would never tell.”

His smile was genuine, warm, very unlike the ones she’d seen him flash at Melissa and her mother.

“I know you wouldn’t. But Melissa . . .”

“Oh, but she couldn’t . . .” Jennifer began and then caught his eyes. Melissa was her only friend, but there was no use in denying what she knew to be the truth. Melissa would tell if it suited her purpose, or even on a whim.

“We both know it’s only a matter of time.”

“But you knew . . . how she is . . . before you agreed to come up here with us. You must have known what would happen.”

“I guess I did.” He sighed.

“Then why?” The anguish in her voice was real.

“She’s very pretty.”

That again. “She is pretty,” Jennifer agreed, thinking of the fawning teen-age boys. “And small-minded, and jealous, and selfish and every other thing you can imagine.” She kicked at a clump of weeds. “I guess if you’re pretty you can be all of those things, and men will still like you.”

“Jennifer . . .”

“She’s my best friend but sometimes,” she paused and looked him directly in the eyes, “she’s a bitch.”

“Well, it won’t happen again.” He looked at the cabin. “It won’t.”

“You live in the same house,” Jennifer pointed out. “She’s not going to let you dump her.”

“I probably won’t be living there much longer.”

“What are you going to . . .”

A scream pierced the air and for a second they were still, unable to move. Then they ran toward the cabin, Tony six feet ahead.

When she caught up with him he was standing in the door to the bedroom and she grabbed his arm. He turned and pulled her into a hug, not letting her look into the room.

“What is it?” She thought perhaps Melissa was playing a game, screaming to draw them to the cabin, and then standing naked, flaunting her daring.

He was shushing her, brushing her hair with one hand, rocking her. It was then that she knew something was wrong.

“Melissa?” She raised her voice. “Melissa!”

She struggled to see.

“No, Jennifer,” he protested, but she slipped out of his arms, ducking and she looked into the room.

Melissa was dead on the floor, face up, her throat slit from ear to ear.

“Oh God.” She covered her mouth with her hand, feeling the urge to vomit and looked at Tony who was pale beneath his tawny skin. Then she turned and ran out the door, bending over and gagging.

“We have to get help,” she said a few minutes later.

Tony was sitting at the round table and he looked at her, shaking his head.

“They’ll think it was me.”

“No . . . I’ll tell them you were with me, she screamed, we both heard her.”

He stood and went into the bedroom, picking up his clothes and bringing them out in the front room to dress. There was something about the way his face looked that made her know he planned to run.

“Where will you go?”

“Don’t know.” He buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his pants then sat down to put on his shoes and socks.

“What are you going to do about money?” she asked absurdly.

“There’s some cash in a safe at the house. I’ll stop by on my way out.” He got up and looked around the room. “I haven’t touched . . .”

Their eyes met.

“The sheriff saw us all together,” Jennifer said, hating herself for saying it. “But, after I tell them . . . I mean, there are all those other murders. They’ll find the guy.”

“I can’t go to jail.”

“But . . .” she began and then saw the truth in his eyes.

“I’m wanted in Texas for statutory rape.” He grimaced. “Another Melissa.”

He started toward the door, stopping at her side and raising a hand to her face. He stroked her cheek. “Thank you,” he said.

She waited until he was out the door and with a final glance at Melissa she followed, closing the front door.

“I’m going with you,” she said.

FIFTY-EIGHT

By the time she got back to the hospital it was almost noon and after checking in at the nurse’s station, she found Nathan in the lab, peering intently into a microscope.

She sat on a lab stool and waited. After a minute he looked up. “Another one?”

“In the morgue. Although this one, at least, doesn’t look like murder.” She motioned at the microscope. “What’re you looking at?”

“Our little white friends. Remarkable.”

“I guess it’s too early to hear anything from Atlanta.”

“Probably by the end of the week.”

She fingered one of the culture dishes which were lined up along the counter. “You got Mr. Dunn home all right?”

“Yes.” He looked at her curiously. “What’s on your mind?”

“Something’s bothering me about this whole thing.” “Something specific or just a general feeling?”

She smiled. “Right now it’s just a feeling. But don’t you think there’s something very odd about all of the things that have been happening?”

“I certainly do. I can’t say that I’ve ever seen such strange occurrences in all of the time I’ve been in practice.” He picked up one of the culture dishes. “And this . . . this is inexplicable. All of the blood I’ve tested is growing these white organisms.”

“The patients are getting better, though.”

“Most of them, yes. But I would still like to know what this is.” He tossed the dish on the counter and stood up. “Who wants to do this autopsy?”

“I could do it in my sleep,” she said, “and if things keep up this way, I may have to.”

This time she found him in his office and she poured herself a cup of strong coffee before sitting opposite the desk.

“Well?”

“Things are getting stranger every minute.”

“Doesn’t sound promising.”

“I don’t even know where to start.” She looked around the room, gathering her thoughts. “At the beginning. Okay, the subject is a white male, approximately forty-five to fifty years of age. He is malnourished, dehydrated and emaciated. He is post-rigor mortis. There are a few bruises on the body, and scrapes, but none of these are fresh. No internal injuries, no fractures. There was minimal arteriosclerosis but no evidence of blockage or infarct. No masses in any of the organs, no sign of pneumonia, no nothing.”

“And?”

“The body is in remarkable condition, very minimal decomposition. And . . . the only outstanding finding is a rather copious amount of blood beneath the corneas.”

“No puncture in the eye?”

“No.” She sipped the coffee. “I’ve taken fluid and tissue samples for analysis, but I don’t think it was drugs. There were none in the shack, anyway.”

“There’s something more?”

“Maybe. He had set up some type of ritual, or ceremony, probably right before he died. Very precise and even including some hieroglyphics . . . I couldn’t translate, naturally, but from what I know about superstitions and tribal myths, it looked like he was trying to keep something away.”

“Go on,” he prompted when she fell silent.

“I can only guess, but I think this one died of fright.”

“Fear of someone? Real? Or imagined.”

“I don’t know. Jon said that it didn’t look like anyone else was in the shack when the man died, and I have to agree.”

“Which means that whatever it was . . .”

“Was in his mind.” She leaned forward in the chair. “But it was very real to him . . . it killed him.”

They looked at each other, not speaking.

FIFTY-NINE

At three o’clock Amanda Frey sank into a cushioned chair, unable to stand for one minute longer. She had let the kids go an hour early, which was bound to bring some complaints from the parents, but she knew she couldn’t last. The kids were frantic with excess energy and the noise level had been high all day long.

She allowed her eyes to close. Blessed silence.

Her mind raced even as her body became still. More lessons, French pastries, wash the sheets from the cots where the younger kids napped. Dinner for Martin. Dishes. Sewing.

She could feel something harden in her mind.

It had been under control during the day, held in check by the very rush of work that needed to be done. She had smiled, and comforted, and answered questions, and listened, and watched. It could not make itself known with so many distractions.

But now she felt it.

She forced herself not to think of the other things, the old concerns. Now there was only the clarity of knowledge.

She began the preparations for Martin’s dinner, peeling potatoes and slicing them into the roasting pan. Then onions and sliced ham, butter and milk. She didn’t cry when she diced the onions.

She put the roaster into the oven and checked the temperature, then began washing dishes. She worked slowly, her reddened hands scrubbing the plates. When she heard Martin approach the back door, she had a knife in her hand.

He didn’t complain that dinner was going to be late, just looked at her and went off to his study. She held the knife behind her back until he went through the door.

Then she held it up to the light. It was clean, and very sharp.

At five-thirty she put dinner on the table and watched as Martin served himself a heaping plate full of scalloped potatoes and ham.

“Aren’t you eating?” he said, his fork poised near his mouth, waiting for the food to cool.

“I’m too tired to eat,” she answered truthfully, but she sat and watched, amazed that he could breathe between bites.

He continued to shovel it in.

“How was school?” He gave her an encouraging smile and then immediately turned his attention back to his plate.

“Fine. Hectic.”

“You really should take better care of yourself. You should eat something.” He dug the serving spoon into the roasting pan again.

“Maybe later.” If there was anything left.

He began to slow down, on his second serving. “I have another idea for the school.”

“Oh?”

“I think you should make Friday a parent’s day. I know that it’s early yet, but I think it would impress on them the amount of work you’re putting into this. Maybe loosen some purse strings.”

She waited.

“So . . . your best French recipes. A table full of breads and pastries and hollandaise sauce and bouillabaisse . . . anything you can think of. Crepes.” He waved his fork in the air. “Maybe a bombe for dessert. What do you think?”

The doorbell rang as she considered the bombe.

“Mrs. Frey?” An anxious woman stood on her doorstep.

“Yes?”

The woman tried to look around her into the front room but she held the door tight against her hip.

“I’m Mrs. Rogers, Jennifer’s mother . . .”

Amanda looked at her impassively. “Yes?”

“I was wondering, is Jennifer here?”

“Why would she be here?” Amanda asked softly.

“I . . . she.” The woman blinked, clearly confused. “She’s a student in your summer school.”

Amanda nodded.

“I thought maybe she stayed late, to help clean up, or something . . . she hasn’t come home.”

“Jennifer wasn’t in school today.”

“What? Oh you must be mistaken. She was going to get a ride over with Melissa Davis.”

“Melissa wasn’t in school either.”

Something dawned in Mrs. Rogers’ eyes. “They didn’t come at all?”

“No. I had a call, from Melissa’s step-father. He said neither one of them would be in, something had come up.

A subtle change in the woman’s face, concern giving way to annoyance. “I see. Well, I’m sorry I disturbed you.” She turned and hurried down toward her car.

Amanda watched her drive away, thinking that she had never seen one of these parents so concerned before.

“Who was it,” Martin asked when she returned to the dining room.

“Nothing of importance.” Her eyes were untroubled as she watched to see if he would lick the plate.

SIXTY

“Hey, look.”

The light was fading as the sun set but in the shadows they could see the small cabin.

“I didn’t know this was back here,” Jon said, walking toward the building.

“You couldn’t get up here by car,” someone pointed out.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Jon agreed, then put his finger to his lips to call for silence. It had been a long day for all of them, with nothing to show for it, and he was looking forward to a few hours of sleep. Still, it looked promising.

He was careful to step lightly on the boards of the small porch, not knowing if they’d creak. He put his hand on the door handle and twisted slowly, feeling the catch release. The door opened.

In the fading light he could see through the front room and into the bedroom, where something lay on the floor. White flesh.

“Nobody move,” he said and walked just inside the bedroom, squatting by the body. It was very clear there was no help for this one, the head was almost decapitated.

He went back to the door.

“There’s a body in there,” he said to the silent faces. “A young girl. I want somebody to stand guard at this door while I go get my truck.” He held his radio to his mouth, depressing the talk button. “This is Scott to dispatch,” he said, and waited for a reply.

Fifteen minutes later Earl arrived, grim-faced and silent. They worked, taking photographs, drawing rough sketches of the building layout and taking measurements to be used in determining the probable positions of killer and victim.

“I saw this girl earlier today,” Jon said after the lights were hung, bringing her face out of the shadows.

“It’s Melissa Davis,” Earl said. “Summer people.”

“She was with another girl, about the same age, not as pretty, and a guy, maybe twenty, twenty-one.”

“What do you think? It could be the guy?”

“Never can tell. But I think we’d better search around here in case the other girl was attacked too.”

Earl straightened. “I’ll get someone on it.”

Jon nodded and continued examining the room. The thin layer of dirt showed no prints but he still had to dust the other surfaces. There was no weapon in sight, naturally, but at least this one was inside where there was a better chance of getting physical evidence.

They loaded the girl’s body into the back of someone’s station wagon. It was now completely dark and most of the search party members had drifted away, shaking their heads and looking wide-eyed at each other.

Jon sealed the bedroom door with tape. They had lifted several prints off the door frame and one off the bedpost, but that was it. What they needed to do was to get a top-rate crime scene team in to vacuum for fibers and hairs and whatever else might be evading their notice. He had done what he could do with the limited equipment available but it didn’t feel like it was enough.

“You going over to the hospital?” Earl asked, hitching up his gunbelt.

“I’ve got to go tell the mother,” he said.

He knocked at the door of the Davis house. After a moment, when he didn’t hear anything, he pushed the bell, hearing the chimes ring. The clatter of heels.

The door swung open and a pleasant-looking woman in her thirties looked at him, a glass in her hand.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were my husband.”

“Mrs. Davis . . .”

“It’s Mrs. Buono. Mrs. Tony Buono. Davis was my . . . other husband.”

“You have a daughter, Melissa?”

The glass tilted and splattered martini on the tile floor.

“Yeah, Melissa. What’s she done now?”

He hesitated. “When did you last see your daughter?”

“What time is it now?” She narrowed her eyes to look at a diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist. “Hm. She’s late from school again.” The glass made it to her lips, and her eyes settled on his badge. The color faded from her face. “What . . .”

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m afraid Melissa is dead.”

The glass splintered on the tiles.

“Where the hell is Tony?” the woman cried.

When he got back into the Bronco he heard Sally’s voice over the radio, calling him.

“We’ve got a missing child,” Sally informed him. “Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Rogers, their daughter, Jennifer. That glass house out on the ridge road.”

Mrs. Rogers handed him a picture of Jennifer. “This is last year’s, but she’s the same, her hair might be a little longer.”

It was the girl he’d seen with Melissa Davis. He had known that it would be, but it took him a moment before he could take his eyes from the photograph and look at her parents.

And then, there was nothing he could tell them, except that their daughter had been seen with Melissa in the morning, and now Melissa was dead. And there was no sign of their child.

The mother sat on the couch, crying into her house-dress, mumbling something about keeping her off the streets.

By the time he was able to check out and go home, it was nine p.m. and he had been on duty for twenty-seven hours. Earl agreed to work until three and then Andy was going to cover from three to ten a.m. the next day.

He unlocked his front door and went straight to his bed, not even bothering to turn on the lights. He undressed and slipped beneath the covers, letting his exhaustion take over.

It had been a long time since he’d slept during the dark hours. He preferred to work the night shift, and when he actually managed a day off, he usually kept to his schedule, staying up at night so it would be easier to sleep.

Now, though, he was so tired that nothing else made any difference.

But even as his eyes closed and he sought sleep, the savage wound on the girl’s neck haunted him. Human flesh, and the fine edge of cold steel.

Her laughter echoed in his dreams.

SIXTY-ONE

She had seen him.

Nora huddled in the small basement under the cabin, listening for the return of the footsteps, but they did not come. There was nothing.

She lit a kerosene lamp, keeping the wick small so that it wouldn’t throw too much light, and went to the shelves on the wall. Some canned food, and jars she’d put up of jelly and fruit. Small tins of evaporated milk.

She took a can of hash and a jar of peaches and sat down on the bottom step to open them.

Years ago, during the bomb scare, she’d dug this small shelter, working feverishly, feeling the hot breath of destruction at her back. It was only eight feet by six feet, and could be entered only through the bedroom closet floor.

She’d used the dark dirt in her garden on her other property, and she’d never told anyone. The cabin was secluded and, she thought, a better place to wait out the end of the world.

So she’d dug, and put up the first brick walls, with another layer of dirt between the first wall and the heavy concrete blocks she’d bought down the hill. Then she’d fitted one wall with shelves and stocked it with food, constantly replacing cans and jars as they became outdated, waiting for the flash of brilliant light.

Time passed, and the light did not come, but she was hiding from something just as deadly. If only she could know for sure that he wouldn’t find her place.

She finished the cold hash and loosened the seal on the jar of peaches. The air in the small room was getting sour and she knew that she would have to use the manual air pump, but she wanted to finish eating first. She speared a peach half with her fork and bit into it, juice running down her chin. It was salvation.

When she finished the peaches she drank their juice, the liquid soothing her dry throat. She still had enough food for another three weeks but she’d gone through the canteens of water much faster than anticipated. She could sneak out and fill them from the water pump in the kitchen but she did not feel that it was safe.

She crossed to the hand-cranked air filter and firmly grasped the handle, setting to it with determination.

Her watch said it was three a.m. and she had not heard a single sound in hours. She gathered up the canteens and climbed the short staircase, reaching with her free hand to dislodge the door bolts.

The door opened easily enough, hitting with a thud against the closet wall, and she climbed up. The closet door was closed and it was very dark but she had kept the light so dim in the basement that she was able to see fairly well.

She pushed the closet door open and stood looking into the bedroom. An outline in chalk on the floor and blood stains. She stepped cautiously into the room.

The presence of evil was so strong that it made her reel. It hung in the air like layers of smoke and stung her lungs with its acrid taste. It swirled at her feet, cold and wet, drawing energy from the drying pools of blood on the floor.

She shuddered and turned her glance inward, unable to control the rapid, violent images that it threw at her eyes. She placed her fingertips on her temples and blocked with all of her might.

It recoiled and she moved quickly to the closed door, turning it and shoving, but something held it back and she saw in her mind the hands as they had taped the door closed, thick reinforced tape.

If she pushed through, they would know. They might not think to look beyond the obvious places, but she could not take that chance. She was only safe here. She would have to take a chance that they would remove the tape soon and until then drink the thick milk and fruit juice. She had no choice.

Wednesday

SIXTY-TWO

Rachel woke, feeling warm, and pushed the covers aside, her eyes still closed. The house was silent and the alarm had not rung, and she ached. She did not want to get up, did not want to move, in case the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach was a warning.

After a few minutes she realized that there was no avoiding it and she opened her eyes, sitting up carefully and feeling the increased pressure behind her eyes.

She was sick.

“Oh no.” She put a hand on her stomach and the other to her head and eased back down on the bed.

It had been a long time; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been ill. She had an unusually high resistance to colds and all types of flu, not unlike most health professionals. She’d been exposed to so many contagious diseases that her natural immunity had grown.

But the throbbing in her head and her aching stomach were witnesses to her downfall. If she lay very still . . .

She was almost asleep again when Nathan came to her door, tapping lightly and when she didn’t respond, looking in. Through half-opened eyes she saw his concern.

“Got it, don’t you?” He came to the bedside and put his hand on her forehead and face.

“Aspirin,” she said, feeling the word rebound inside her skull.

“Yes, aspirin, and you’re staying in bed today.” He took her wrist.

“No,” she tried to lift her head from the pillow.

“Bed here or bed at the hospital,” he said firmly. “You know yourself that it’s fairly quick to pass. And I can’t have you contaminating the patients.”

“But . . . they have it.”

“You’re staying home, in bed. Any further arguments and I’ll be forced to find my dullest needle for an injection of antibiotic.”

She tried to smile but her face felt tight.

He disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a tray. “I’ve got aspirin, water in a pitcher, orange juice . . .” he read her look, “for later, and Amoxicillin.” He shook a couple of aspirin out of the bottle and two antibiotic tablets, offering them to her.

She had to sit up to take them, swallowing with as little water as possible to avoid upsetting her stomach any further.

“Now don’t forget to take more later on. I want you to rest, and call me if you need anything. I’ll try to get by early this afternoon.” He leaned down and kissed her. “Take care.”

Nathan lowered the shades, blocking the morning light. He closed the door behind him, leaving her in the silence.

It was so much like her memories. Nathan gone, the house still, the marvelous novelty of spending daylight hours in bed. She missed that, strangely, as an adult.

Theoretically, she could choose to stay home as she pleased. In practice, once in college she had been compelled to stay well. And on the infrequent occasions when she had stayed home, cutting class, there were always things that did not respect her ill health. Trips to the post office, the bank, buying groceries, even just answering the phone.

Just staying in bed, cushioned from the world, was a luxury. Even feeling so bad.

She tried to ignore the aching discomfort of her body by thinking of more pleasant things. The last year, spent in Africa.

There they’d risen early, often four a.m., to work by the glow of lanterns, before the unbearable heat of the day. As doctor for the group she had tended sunburn and insect bites, scrapes, and the like. Not challenging but the fascination of the dig was enough to make up for the tedium of her practice.

In the afternoons, they worked with their discoveries, often just shards and fragments, under canvas canopies. It was all incredibly detailed work, and every piece had to be cataloged and precisely described. Often it was like putting together a large jigsaw puzzle.

By the end of the year she had been spending a great deal of her time working with them, re-building the past. The thought that the pieces of stone were remnants of a crude weapon, or that a blackened bone was from a human leg made her more aware than ever before of her own mortality.

She felt for the covers, beginning to feel chilled, and in a few minutes she fell asleep.

The second time she awoke, she was covered in sweat, her mouth dry and her throat aching.

She sat up slowly and reached for the water pitcher, pouring with an unsteady hand. Her headache had subsided a little and she took two more aspirin from the bottle. This time when she swallowed them and the antibiotic tablets she drank the full glass of water.

When her stomach was quiescent she drank the orange juice.

Maybe she wasn’t as sick as she thought.

She got out of bed a little while later and walked down the quiet hall to the bathroom. Since she was feeling better, she decided to enjoy the best of it, and ran hot, scented water into the tub.

SIXTY-THREE

Joyce Callan was waiting in the office when Jon arrived shortly after ten a.m. and Andy was looking slightly overwhelmed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Andy said, following him into his office. “Things are going crazy.”

“Had any action on the APB?”

“No. No one’s seen Tony Buono or Jennifer Rogers, alone or together, and her parents have been calling every half hour. But that’s nothing. We’re swamped with calls about suspicious men lurking in the bushes . . .”

“Is that why Joyce is here?”

“No, she’s come to file a missing persons report, but I’ve been too busy to get to her.” He sighed. “I’m afraid, with everybody jumping out of their skins, that somebody’s gonna get shot.”

“Anything else?”

“I called the guys who were in the search party, to try and organize for this afternoon, and none of them were willing to go. They want to be at home with their families.”

“I guess we really can’t blame them for that.”

“And I talked to Malloy; he says the campers are leaving in droves.”

“I’m surprised they waited this long. Why don’t you go on home and get some rest. I’ll take the missing persons report.”

Andy nodded and turned to the door.

“You know,” he said, his hand on the doorknob, “I was scared stiff being in here last night. Even with my gun and the doors locked, and the dispatcher ten feet away. I was scared.”

“Joyce, come in, have a seat.”

She came into the office and perched nervously on the edge of the chair.

“I don’t know where to start,” she said in a soft voice.

“Andy said you wanted to report a missing person.”

“Yes. One of the nurses I work with, Laura Gentry.”

“Why don’t you just tell me about it?” He leaned back in his chair, hoping she would relax if he appeared at ease.

“I . . . last saw her at work on Saturday. The next day Emma Sutter worked for her, and she had Monday and Tuesday off. And no one has seen her.”

“You don’t think she went away on her days off?”

“No . . . not without telling someone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, she has a cat, and whenever she’s going away, I take care of it for her.”

“You don’t think she might have asked someone else?”

“I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “I have a key to her house. I went over there this morning after I finished work. Her cat was crying at the door, and obviously hadn’t been fed. And her luggage was still in the hall closet.”

“I see.”

“If something has happened to her . . . all of these awful killings . . .”

He nodded and opened his desk drawer, searching for the form.

“And one other thing . . .” Joyce frowned.

“Yes?” He could see she was uncomfortable about what she was going to say, much more than anything else.

“On Saturday, when I saw Laura at work . . . she had injured herself.” When he didn’t comment she continued: “She had slit her wrists. The wounds were superficial, but she was quite shaken. Disturbed.”

“Do you think she might have run off to avoid having to face you again?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, really. It’s not something I can put my finger on, but she didn’t strike me as being someone who would run . . .”

“All right. I’ll need to get a description of her.”

“Here.” Joyce handed him a small framed picture. “I took this from her house.”

He looked at the photograph, into the eyes of a sensible young woman. Everything about her said practical and levelheaded.

After Joyce Callan left he sat back down with a pad and began to list events. Five unexplained deaths, a vagrant dead of natural causes, and the growing list of the missing. Panic was building and the quiet little town of Crestview was under siege.

The evidence that he had collected was being analyzed but was essentially useless without a suspect.

Tony Buono was beginning to look interesting. A run through the computer by the state had shown a trail of minor offenses and, surprisingly, a charge of statutory rape. It was a charge he hadn’t seen in a while, probably because the kids were better at hiding their sexual experience, or the parents were more lenient in their retribution.

In any case, Buono was not the perfect man that his wife seemed to think he was. Mrs. Buono was more upset about her husband’s disappearance than the death of her daughter.

So much for mother love, he thought.

A knock at the door and Calvin Price stuck his head in.

“Got a minute?”

“Come on in.” He tossed Buono’s record face down on the desk.

Calvin moved the chair closer to the desk and once seated, he leaned forward.

“What’s on your mind Calvin?”

“We’ve got to do something.”

“We’re doing a lot of things . . .”

“I want you to block the roads going out of town. Set up a barricade, tell the people that no one’s allowed to leave until they’re questioned.” He nodded once to emphasize his point.

“I can’t do that.”

“You’ve got to. Business has been slow, but if all those tourists leave, it’ll be dead.”

“Calvin . . .”

“No, I mean it. Next, the summer people’ll leave, just watch, and the rest of us . . . huh! Eighty percent of my sales are to outsiders.”

“It’s unlawful detainment.”

“You have the right to question them.”

“The most I could do would be to conduct short interviews and maybe search a car or two if there’s reasonable cause.”

“But this is an emergency. You might be letting a killer go.”

“I can’t violate everyone’s rights. Not even for eighty percent of your profit.”

“Sheriff, be reasonable . . .”

“I’m sorry Calvin.” He watched as Calvin stood and went through the door, slamming it behind him.

At noon he drove out to the main road and watched a steady line of cars head down the hill. He parked along the side and got out.

Most of the cars carried families, a few were couples. He wasn’t sure whether he would stop a lone man, or even two men. He had so little to go on still and anyway, names and license numbers were on record at the park.

Besides that he had a gut feeling that whoever it was who was committing these murders was from around here. It had to be someone who knew the forest very well, someone familiar with places to hide. Someone quick.

He could eliminate the men on the search party since all had been under someone else’s eye during the time the last killing was done.

There really weren’t that many others to consider.

He got into the Bronco and headed for the hospital. Nathan had promised him the Davis autopsy and although he didn’t expect any surprises, he wanted to see the report before he went back to the cabin for a final run-through.

SIXTY-FOUR

Amanda Frey watched the children at the table eating their French lunch. She sat off to the side drinking cold tea, cold because they had upset the tureen of vichyssoise and she had had to clean it up, including a fresh table cloth and place settings.

Little pigs, she thought.

The class was smaller than yesterday, with several parents calling to say that they were returning to the city. Some just preferred to keep the children home.

When the phone had started ringing, at six a.m. that morning, she’d had a momentary hope that they all would stay away, and that she could relax in her bed. But the calls tapered off by seven-thirty and she reluctantly began the preparations for the day.

She took another sip of the tea, her eyes watching the little faces, ferret-like in their cunning. Tiny hands, always clutching, grabbing. Selfish, self-centered little beasts.

She wondered why she’d never noticed it before.

One of them was looking at her, a new one, a girl of nine. When their eyes met the girl smiled, her teeth buried in a slice of bread.

Amanda did not return the smile.

SIXTY-FIVE

“Well?”

“Ah,” Nathan sighed. “I can’t get used to this . . .”

Jon waited, respecting Nathan’s need to organize his thoughts.

“Of course, the cause of death was the wound in the throat. Her windpipe was severed, and blood loss from the jugular . . . it was fairly quick, but she knew what had happened to her.” He sat down heavily.

“Anything else?”

“She’d had intercourse shortly before death, her first time. She hadn’t eaten a meal in four to six hours, before death. Otherwise, she was a perfectly healthy normal female. Fourteen years old.”

“Nathan, I don’t mind telling you, I’m running out of time on this. This whole town could erupt into a shooting match if I don’t come up with a suspect.”

“Have you heard anything about the other girl you saw with . . . Melissa?”

“We’ve got an APB out, but no sign of her yet. She could be dead somewhere . . .”

“God, I hope not.”

“And now this thing with Laura Gentry.”

“Emma told me about that.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ve always had a high regard for Laura; she’s an excellent nurse.”

“Which makes it a little unlikely that she’d just disappear.”

Nathan looked closely at Jon, considering. “I want to tell you something, off the record.”

“About Miss Gentry?”

“No, but it might be related. I know Joyce probably told you about her . . . accident.”

“That she slit her wrists? Yes, she told me.”

“Well, the night that Laura cut herself, Franklin Dunn was brought to the hospital after a suicide attempt.”

“Before or after?”

“Before. Laura assisted me when I sutured his wounds. She was very much in control, not depressed, certainly not obviously suicidal. And Joyce tells me that Laura had no idea why she cut her own wrists.”

“How does this relate to Dunn?”

“I’m not sure I know. Except he indicated to me that he was likewise not thinking of suicide. I think that he suffered a dissociative episode, from what he told me, and I think that’s what happened to Laura.”

“You don’t think she was copying him, that something triggered her attempt? I’ve seen some very calm people who all of a sudden lost control.”

“I agree, it can happen without warning. But there’s something more . . . both Franklin and Laura are extraordinarily controlled people. Franklin recalls seeing himself do it, but Laura told Joyce that she couldn’t remember a thing. In either instance, it takes even a determined suicidal individual some conscious effort to actually cut themselves.”

“I can understand that.”

“But neither of them suffered the type of incident shock which I would expect from the act. Even if they felt nothing up to the moment when they . . . sliced their wrists, there should be some strong emotional response to the wound. Franklin thought it was interesting. But only mildly. There was no revulsion, no nausea, which often occurs in these types of injuries, and, no fear.”

“Fear of what?”

“Often it’s fear of more pain. If the first wounds aren’t deep enough, they might have to make another cut. The usual pattern is to make new marks, above or below the original wound. But both of them did make second cuts, and both right on the original. That kind of . . . sawing away at their wrists is very indicative of a major dissociative event. I cannot believe that within the space of a few hours, a highly respected attorney and an extremely competent nurse would both suffer such an attack.” He paused. “Unless . . . something drove them to it.”

After Jon left, Nathan went to the lab, taking the cultures out of the incubator and checking the rate of growth. It was phenomenal, beyond anything he had ever seen before, beyond anything he had read about.

All of them had it, probably Rachel as well, and soon he would too. He had taken fresh blood samples from Tyler and spun the tubes in the centrifuge, until the blood serum separated from the platelets, and now he had a ten cc syringe full of a potential serum.

Inject it into himself? The idea was to give the person receiving the serum a mild case of the disease but at the same time, the antibodies which had already built up in an earlier victim. It would have a high degree of success, but he was beginning to suspect that the disease, while being mild physiologically, might somehow be acting on the mind.

Things he’d read and forgotten. His own belief about the chemical make-up of insanity.

It was an interesting supposition.

But with Rachel ill, he could not risk becoming ill himself. The town was in danger of an epidemic, and medical care was of primary concern.

As soon as Rachel was recovered he would experiment on himself. He gathered up all of the culture dishes and carried them down to the incinerator.

SIXTY-SIX

He put the Bronco in four-wheel drive and turned up the overgrown dirt road leading to the cabin, driving slowly, his eyes searching along the underbrush, half expecting to see the body of Jennifer Rogers, and grateful when he didn’t.

The cabin did not appear to have been disturbed, and he unlocked the front door to go in. The windows were all secured and he figured he had overestimated the public’s curiosity about murder scenes.

He removed the tape sealing the bedroom door and rolled it up, noticing flakes of paint adhering to the adhesive. The flakes crackled when he squeezed the tape into a small, hard ball.

There was nothing else to keep him from going into the room.

All Earl had brought was pink chalk and it looked frivolous and out of place but he knew it didn’t matter. It wasn’t meant to last, and it would look white in the black and white photographs of the scene.

Still . . .

He surveyed the room. The girl’s clothes had all been bagged and blood samples taken off the floor. The prints, what there were of them, were lifted, and the mattress ticking had been carefully removed.

There was nothing left in the room to tell him what had happened. Nothing more to show for the violent death of a young girl.

He stepped by the outline and looked out the small window at the rear of the room. White curtains beginning to lose their shape, stretching under their own weight. Yellowing. Giving off a stale odor.

There was only a small distance between the cabin and the mountain behind and he looked down at the earth beneath the window, hoping for a footprint in the dark soil.

That would be too easy, he thought.

The earth was packed solid. Even if someone had stood outside and looked in on the girl, there would be no prints.

Unless?

He knelt in front of the window, trying to see if there were fingerprints on the glass. It was grimy with dirt, both inside and out, but the dirt was undisturbed. Again, too easy.

What happened in here?

He stood, trying to get a feel for the place. Melissa Davis had come in here willingly, undressed willingly, as evidenced by her carefully folded pants, the bra tucked in one pocket. It was not the sort of a thing that a man would do. She was waiting, standing at the foot of the bed. For Tony?

There were no answers in this room. He turned to leave and stopped, his eyes resting on the open closet door. It looked wrong to him; he was sure that it had been closed.

He walked to the closet and examined the door latch. It was not worn or loose and when he closed the door the catch held fast.

He was almost certain that the door had been closed. Still, maybe it hadn’t been shut tight and during the night the weight of the door had pulled it loose. The fine dusting powder was still on the knob.

With one final look at the room he turned and left. He had requested the records clerk to look up the owner of the property and when the information came through he would notify them. From the looks of things, it had been a while since anyone had stayed in the cabin; it might even have been abandoned and forgotten, an unclaimed refuge. To him it was one more detail.

The radio was spewing static and it wasn’t until he reached the main road that he could pick up dispatch.

“I have something on your missing person,” Jean Sykes, the day dispatcher said, and the static returned.

“Which one?”

The reception was weak. “. . . Gentry . . . can you hear me?”

“You’re breaking, I’m on my way in.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

The younger children were napping while the others worked quietly on a modeling clay replica of a French villa. Amanda circled the table, watching the little hands force the clay into shapes, kneading, tugging, flattening, making it suit their wishes.

It was much like she felt about her life. Others, always others, pushing her into a mold.

She left them at their work and went down the hall to check on the little ones. As soon as she left the room she could hear the noise level increase, an argument breaking out, the sound of a slap, but she did not look back.

By the time she had reached the back room she had decided. She looked at the resting children and did not see faces made innocent by their slumber. Even sleeping, their grasping hands clenched into fists. They were amoral.

She lifted a five year old boy from his cot, amazed at the heavy weight of him. His eyelids flickered but he did not waken, and she turned and carried him from the room, turning toward the side kitchen door.

It took her a moment to open the door leading to the basement, her arms full of sleeping child. She reached with her foot behind her to pull the door shut and moved very carefully down the stairs.

SIXTY-EIGHT

In the afternoon Rachel ventured downstairs and found her books on ancient history and mythology, carrying them to her room and covering the bed as she spread them out. She took the clay figures that she had bought and began to look through the catalogs of artifacts, certain that she had seen similar pieces before.

The feelings invoked by the assortment of creatures were largely negative. The wolf was a flesh-eating animal with a reputation for fierce cruelty. The hyena was a scavenger, an eater of carrion whose shrill cry sounded like fiendish laughter.

The snake, moving soundlessly, watched with lidless eyes, fanged, dripping venom, disengaging the jaw to swallow its prey whole. Some species of lizards, the Gila monster in particular, were poisonous, and there were reports that the monster’s bite was so ferocious that even beheaded, it clung to its victim.

And bears, shaking the ground with their rage, killing for the smell of food. Brute strength and soulless eyes.

The other pieces, found at the shack, were equally evocative. The lynx had shining eyes and keen vision, the bird—which she took to be a raven from its straight sharp beak and its peering look—was both a symbol of flight and voracious appetite.

But it was the horned creature which bothered her most, and it was the one she searched for among the pages of ancient totems. It looked like nothing she had ever seen, neither human or animal. From the eyes ran tiny drops of something she instinctively knew was blood. Jon had given her the figures on the understanding that she was not to remove them from the plastic evidence bags, but now, wanting a closer look at the creature, she considered breaking her word.

She examined the bag, which was sealed by a thick strip of adhesive about an inch from the top. If she was very careful she could re-close it and he wouldn’t have to know.

But . . . what it if was only able to be sealed one time? Evidence in a death would seem to require a way to check that nothing had been tampered with. She wasn’t willing to interfere with his investigation.

Sighing, she put the bag on the bed and picked up another book, leaning back on her pillows and letting her eyes linger over the words on the page. She began to get sleepy and in the warm quiet room, surrounded by books and symbols of savagery, she rested.

SIXTY-NINE

Jon dialed the number at the hospital and listened to it ring, trying to make some sense out of the notes he’d made a few minutes before.

“This is Sheriff Scott, I’d like to speak with Dr. Adams,” he said when the phone was answered. Two minutes of hold and then a series of clicks.

“Jon?” Nathan sounded harried.

“I’ve just finished talking to the Ridgmont Police about Laura Gentry,” he began.

“They’ve found her, I hope.”

“Yes, they’ve got her . . .”

“She’s alive?”

“Alive but not well. She was found wandering, stark naked, along the interstate about sixty miles north of here.”

“My Lord, what on earth happened to her?”

“She hasn’t been able to tell them. She had no ID with her and she couldn’t tell them her name. If we hadn’t sent out a description it might have taken them weeks to trace her back to Crestview.”

“The poor girl . . .”

“She’s in the hospital, suffering a bit from exposure, but she’s apparently gone off the deep end.”

“Have they found her car? I mean, sixty miles . . .”

“No one’s located it yet, at least, not in Ridgmont.”

“Well, she had to get there some way.”

“Someone could have given her a ride. The car could have been abandoned anywhere along the way.”

“Oh!” Nathan was suddenly agitated. “Did they check her for sexual assault?”

“I asked them, and apparently she was not molested.”

“Thank God for that. I’d like to talk with the doctor in charge where she’s been admitted. How much could they tell you about her condition?”

“Just that she’s incoherent and they’ve got her on a seventy-two hour psychiatric hold.”

“When did they pick her up?”

“Monday.”

“So . . . if things weren’t so confused around here, I’d see about getting her transferred.”

“I think she’s better off where she is . . . at least she’s safe.” Jon hesitated. “We still haven’t heard anything about Rogers and Buono.”

“I saw Mrs. Rogers this morning, gave her a sedative. She’s frantic with worry.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about Melissa’s mother; the last time I saw her she was doing a very good job of drinking herself into a stupor.”

“As we all might be before this is over.”

“If it’s ever over.”

The road was deserted as he drove out to the ranger’s station, the parksites empty. Plumes of dust rose in the hot dry air behind him and he licked his lips. Summer was back with a vengeance.

Malloy had not answered his phone or the radio all afternoon. With the exodus of campers there would be little reason for him to be out of the office for that long, unless he was looking for Hudson on his own.

Jon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He did not need another person lost in the woods.

The gate was closed and locked, the small Quonset hut which served as information center and reservation check-in was vacant. He jimmied the lock and went inside, picking up the phone to check for a dial tone. It was working.

He looked around but there were no clues to the whereabouts of the ranger. No notes, no schedules listing outside duties, nothing.

He walked the few yards from the hut to the tower and began to climb up the ladder.

No one was in the tower and he stood looking down at the park, searching for movement. The forest stretched out below, hiding its secrets, basking in the heat of the day.

SEVENTY

Rachel woke with a start; someone was knocking on the door. She glanced at the clock and was surprised to see it was after five.

She put on her robe as she started down the stairs. Her headache was gone and she felt only slightly warmer than usual. A little groggy still, she hid a yawn behind her hand while opening the front door.

Kelly Hamilton stood outside.

“Kelly!” She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face.

“Hello Rachel.” He waited, hands in his pockets, unsure of her reaction.

“How did you know I was home?”

“I saw Mike; he told me you were back, too.”

She held the door open. “Come in.”

They sat in the living room, strangely silent.

“How have you been?” she asked finally.

A quick smile. “Name it. I’ve been angry, lonely, depressed, relieved, hurt . . . and confused.”

“I’m very sorry. I know that doesn’t help, but I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“There was just no other way out . . .”

“You could have told me about your doubts,” he said gently.

“They came and went. Sometimes I was fine. But that day I wasn’t.”

“We should have just eloped.”

She smiled sadly. “I don’t think it would have made any difference. I couldn’t marry you.”

“Because of him?”

She looked at him closely, curious. “What do you mean?”

“Your brother’s friend, Jon, is it?”

“Jon Scott is a family friend,” she began and then stopped at the look on his face.

“I guessed a long time ago,” he said. “From a lot of little things. The look on your face when you mention his name, the tone of your voice. The picture . . .”

“Of Tim . . .”

“. . . and Jon. It became very clear to me after a while.”

“But there’s nothing between us,” she protested.

“Except memories and feelings. When you would talk about your brother, somehow Jon always came up. When you called your uncle, you always asked about Jon.”

“I’ve known him since I was thirteen.”

“And loved him just as long?”

She did not answer.

“And the picture. It took me a little longer to figure it out, but finally I saw the resemblance. I’ve got his coloring. We could be brothers.”

She frowned, looking at her hands folded in her lap.

“You bought me clothes that you’d seen him wear, the same colors, same styles. We probably use the same aftershave. Every similarity between us . . .”

“And you knew this?”

“After a while I did. Not at first.”

“I can’t believe you’d let me do that to you, make you over in his image . . .”

“I love you, Rachel. If I had to be like him to keep you . . .” he shrugged.

She buried her face in her hands, shaking her head.

“I thought that, maybe after we were married, you would forget about him.”

“God, I’m sorry . . .”

“Don’t be sorry that we were together. Even if you were thinking of him, you were making love to me.”

She looked at him with tortured eyes. “Kelly, I used you. How could you let me do that? How could you settle for so little?”

“Because I love you the way you love him.”

Tears threatened. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

There was little else to say.

She offered him coffee and he declined, and they walked to the door, standing there and looking into each other’s eyes. It had not been that long ago that they had shared so much; he was her first lover. But even that was unreal to her now.

“If you ever change your mind . . .”

She let it hang there between them, unanswered.

As she let him out the door he turned to her, leaning quickly, brushing her lips with his own.

“Does he know?”

She shook her head.

After a last lingering glance, he walked away and she watched until the car tail lights disappeared.

She took three aspirin and went back to bed, pulling the covers up to her neck and willing herself to go to sleep.

In a way, it was a relief to have it over. Kelly would get over her and find someone to love, someone who loved him in the way he deserved. It might take a little longer for her to get over the guilt of knowing what she’d done to him.

SEVENTY-ONE

Amanda Frey was locking the basement door when her husband came home and she pocketed the key before turning her cold eyes toward him.

“Dear.” He kissed the side of her mouth. “Dinner ready?” He rubbed his hands together, sniffing the air for clues.

“Liver and onions,” she said and went to the stove to fill the serving dishes.

He went immediately into the dining room and sat down at the head of the table, humming under his breath.

Amanda came through the door carrying the liver and a large bowl of whipped potatoes which she set on the table before returning to the kitchen.

He usually preferred to wait until everything was on the table before he began to dine, but the liver was too great a temptation and he stabbed the serving fork into the meat which was sliced thin, the way he liked it.

She returned with a gravy boat and a platter of her home-made biscuits, melting with hand-churned butter. Another quick trip through the door and his meal was complete: steamed cauliflower, broccoli and carrots.

“Lovely,” he said and took his first bite of liver which was remarkably tender and mild-flavored.

It was a little while before he noticed that she wasn’t eating, although she watched every bite he took.

“Don’t you feel well?” he inquired, sopping up gravy with a biscuit and taking it whole into his mouth.

“I’m a little tired.” Her face was expressionless.

“You should eat something,” he said when his mouth was empty.

“I’ve had my fill.”

“Oh yes, you always did nibble when cooking.” He clicked his tongue. “I remember when we were first married; you were in danger of becoming a little dumpling.” He turned his attention back to the food.

Her mouth twitched and she got up from the table, standing with hands folded near the door to the front room.

When the doorbell rang she walked quickly to answer it. A minor adjustment of her dress and she opened the door.

“Mrs. Frey, I’m Billy’s dad,” the man standing there said.

“Billy, of course.” She waited for him to continue.

“I’m looking for him, he didn’t come home from school.”

“Why, I’m sure he left with the others.”

“You didn’t see him lingering around?”

“No.” She took a small step backward. “But you know little boys . . . I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”

She watched from behind the curtain as the man drove away, the car moving slowly along the road. Then she smoothed the fabric back in place and turned out the porch light, locking the double-locks.

“Another child missing?” Martin said when she told him. “Just terrible.”

“Children like to hide,” she observed and settled back into the chair across from him.

“The poor parents. Imagine how frantic they must be.”

She nodded.

A sigh. “I hope this won’t interfere with your school. You’ve been doing so well.”

“. . . so well,” she echoed.

“I guess we’ll just have to work harder. Perhaps you could pick the children up in the morning and take them home every afternoon. That would surely put their minds at ease.”

“The parents . . .” she began.

“The parents will surely see that there’s no safer place for their children to be than here on the church property with you. Like being in the lap of God.”

Again she nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.”

SEVENTY-TWO

“Dr. Adams.”

He looked up from the microscope, startled. “Susan, I didn’t hear you.”

“I thought you left hours ago,” she said, coming further into the lab. “It’s after seven.”

“So it is.” He switched out the light on the scope. “Rachel was expecting me . . .”

“She called a little while ago, said she was feeling much better.” Susan watched him put away the glass slides. “Still waiting for an identification on the bug?”

“I might be on to something here.” He put the slides into a locking cabinet. “I’ve managed to isolate the invasive body in the blood.”

“It can’t be too soon for me. I’m a little out of practice, taking care of so many patients.”

He smiled conspiratorially. “So am I.” He put an arm around her shoulder and walked her from the room.

“We’ve turned the corner, though,” he said, locking the lab door. “Almost all of them have shown some improvement.”

“Except for Tyler.”

“Ah, the enigmatic Mr. Tyler.”

“I call him spooky.”

“Close enough.”

“Actually, he’s a little more restless today. When I was in his room earlier, I noticed he was following me with his eyes.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“Medically yes. But . . .” she shivered.

Nathan regarded her. “You know, I never thought about it before, but all of you nurses have the same response to him.”

“I’ve never reacted this way to a patient before. There’s just something about him that makes my skin crawl.” She turned and started back toward the nurse’s station. “I’ll be glad when he’s out of here, one way or another.”

He got into his truck and started it, letting it idle for a few minutes to warm up.

Gradually he became aware of his wrist itching and he scratched it, surprised to find that it was very tender and warm to the touch. He held his arm up, trying to catch the light from the mercury lamps in the parking lot, and rolled up his sleeve.

His arm was swollen around a two centimeter superficial cut on his wrist. He’d slipped while autopsying the Davis girl earlier but the blade had barely sliced the skin and it hadn’t bled at all. He’d washed with betadine and thought nothing more of it. Now it . . . he, was infected.

SEVENTY-THREE

“So you’re what Rachel wanted. Jon Scott?”

The voice came from behind him in the darkened office and he turned, reaching to turn on the desk lamp.

“I am. Something I can do for you?”

The man smiled. “A lot of things . . . I’m Kelly Hamilton.” He rose to his feet and extended a hand, which Jon took. “I’ve just come from seeing Rachel.” He sat back down and looked over his folded hands.

“I’m a little busy right now,” Jon said, “so if you’ll tell me what you’re here for . . .”

“Came to see the prototype.” Another smile. “It isn’t every day that you get to see the original.”

“I’m not following you.” Jon said, puzzled.

“Oh, but you are. I followed you and now you follow me.” His hands, still clasped, moved through the air. “We’ve come full circle.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Rachel. She’s in love with you.”

Jon did not answer immediately, but sat behind the desk and evaluated Hamilton’s condition. “Have you been drinking?”

“Of course I’ve been drinking. But it has nothing to do with what I’m saying. Rachel is, and always has been, in love with you.”

“Rachel and I are family friends.”

“God, you even talk alike. Family friends.”

“I think you’re drunk.”

“Spoken like a true . . . policeman. Don’t worry, I expect the rest of this conversation to sober me up before I drive down the hill.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want her to be happy. You can make her happy.”

“So you’re telling me this . . .”

“Because you can’t see what’s been in front of your face for the past fifteen years.”

Jon paused. “How do you know so much about it?”

“She told me. Oh, not in so many words, but I’d have to be a fool not to see it.” He took out a cigarette. “You know what that makes you?”

“Look, I can see you’ve got a problem here and I know what happened between you and Rachel, but there is nothing going on . . .”

“Only because neither of you have started it.” He flicked the lighter and watched the flame. “Like this . . . the fire’s there, just waiting for the right touch.”

“Even if you’re right, what makes you think it’s any of your business?”

“Because I spent eighteen months trying to make her happy, living in your shadow. I have an investment here.”

“If you still feel that strongly, maybe you should . . .” his voice trailed off.

“Try to get her back? What, you can’t even say it. But don’t worry about me, because I know something about Rachel. This is your last chance. If nothing happens between you, she’ll leave again, and she won’t be back.”

Jon lifted his eyes.

“She’s loved you all these years but it won’t be the same if you turn her away again. Those were her dreams, and she had to come back before she could let herself let them go. But this is reality, and this time it’s for good.”

“Has she told you this?”

“She didn’t have to. I know her and I know that she won’t ruin her life waiting for you to come around. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but one of these days she’s gonna see for herself, and then she’ll cut her losses and leave. And I’ll be waiting when she does.”

“And you think she’ll come to you?”

Hamilton nodded. “It’s your move.” He stood, still facing Jon. “I’ll tell you something else. It’s not easy for me to think of her and you together, but I know that’s how it’s always been in her mind. Even when we were in bed . . . making love . . . it was you. Look at me! I’m as close as she could get to having you.” He took a last draw on the cigarette and leaned down to grind it out in the ashtray. “I think it’s time you gave her what she wanted.”

Then he was gone.

Jon sat for a long time before picking up the phone and dialing Rachel’s number, but just as it began to ring Earl stuck his head around the door.

“Shit, we’ve got another missing kid.”

Five year old William “Billy” Mitchell had not come home from summer school. It took the boy twenty minutes at most to walk the quarter mile to his home, and when he hadn’t made it by four-thirty, his mother had gone to stand at the end of the drive, looking for him up the road.

A little after five, the father began to search the woods along both sides of the road with no results. At six he called on Mrs. Frey to see if Billy was there, or if she’d seen him go off with another child.

Now it was dark and both parents were past worried and working on hysterical.

“Call some of his school friends,” Jon instructed Earl. “See if anyone saw him wander off after school.” Then he sat down and took the report.

Thursday

SEVENTY-FOUR

Nathan Adams woke from a sound sleep at two a.m., drenched with sweat and wracked with pain. His left arm throbbed and he sat up in bed, turning on the bedside lamp and rolling up his pajama sleeve to look at it.

The arm was puffy with edema, markedly warm and tender to the touch. Fine red lines extended from the wound up the inside of his arm and when he palpated, he could feel the swollen lymph nodes in his armpit.

He sat, holding his arm to his chest, waiting for the hot stabs of pain to ease.

It had been a long time since he’d last been a patient and he didn’t make a good one. He was irritated by the intrusion of a factor which he did not control, more so because he knew it would be a mistake to ignore it. He had seen people die of blood poisoning because they came too late to seek help.

He got to his feet and walked slowly, quietly, down the hall to the bathroom. Rachel had been asleep when he’d arrived home and he saw no point in disturbing her, especially now, when it seemed she might have to take over for him.

His medical bag was downstairs, but the bathroom cabinet was usually well-stocked and he carefully closed the door before turning on the light and checking it.

What he saw in the mirror stopped him.

His face had a grayish cast to it, sickly and drawn, and the whites of his eyes were streaked with thin red lines. Deep furrows were etched across his forehead and along both side of his nose. The overall effect was one of advanced degeneration.

He turned his head slowly, watching the face in the mirror, his face.

When he reached to open the cabinet, finally, his hand was shaking.

After he had taken two tablets of penicillin, he went back to his room, feeling with every step a shock of pain in his arm. It was a relief to lie back down, holding his arm cradled across his chest, and close his eyes against the images which taunted him.

He had seen that face before, years past, in the person of a Michael Harilty.

It was not a time that he liked to remember, having made a fool of himself by falling in love with his brother’s new wife and having declared the same. With Kathleen’s gentle rejection still smarting, he’d taken off and had accepted a position at a small private hospital which treated wealthy alcoholics.

Harilty was the wealthiest and the nastiest, a man who had devoted his entire life to the indulgences of the flesh. He was a big man, six foot four and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. It was never clear whether he was in the hospital to dry out or to get in shape for another fling at debauchery. Nathan was inclined to believe the latter.

As the junior doctor on staff, Nathan was assigned the patients that no one else wanted. The others had tried to treat Harilty in view of his potential gratitude, but within the course of a week they’d retreated. Nathan was not to be allowed that luxury; it was him or no one.

It didn’t take long to discover what had discouraged the others; Michael Harilty was determined that whoever put him through the hell of detoxification was going to suffer a similar fate by whatever means necessary.

In Nathan’s case, it took the form of constant verbal baiting, testing his professional composure, challenging his competence and in fact, daring him to care. Under the watchful eyes of the administration, Harilty unleashed a constant stream of abuse.

Kathleen, unknowingly, had provided Nathan with the answer. He was so absorbed in his psychic wounds, losing her to Joshua, that nothing could reach him. He was able to take the barrage because the insults were nothing more than what he was doing to himself.

Harilty was released within three months and they heard nothing more from him until one day Nathan got a call from the San Pedro police, asking him if he knew a “Big Mike.”

When he went to the small jail, there was Harilty, looking as if he had aged twenty years in the space of six months. He was drinking again, without restraint, and when Nathan examined his abdomen, he found the liver to be enlarged and hardened, in advanced stages of cirrhosis.

They took him back to the hospital but it was clear there was no drying out to be done. He lingered for a month and died, and it was his face, gray and haggard, that Nathan saw in his own. The unmistakable look of death.

He shook his head, annoyed with the memory. Fears of death were common in the still hours of the night. A poem of Rachel’s—he knew it by heart:

At two in the morning,

I’m afraid to close my eyes,

A shadow in the corner,

Waiting.

The rhythm in my wrist
is keeping quarter-time,
no fever now, (the body cools),

In no acute distress.

But symptoms, I have read,
precede the exquisite blade.

And if I close my eyes . . .

It was a long time before he closed his eyes to sleep.

SEVENTY-FIVE

Jon waited in the kitchen while Mrs. Boone went to wake up Celia. It was almost eight a.m. and they had yet to find a single child who could remember Billy Mitchell being among the group as they walked home.

Their questions were hampered by the fact that many of the children who would normally be enrolled in the summer school had been pulled out after the events of the past week. Those who were still going were not able to give the full names of their classmates, and no one answered at the Frey residence, so it had largely become a matter of knocking on doors and asking.

Celia Boone entered the kitchen, her face flushed from sleep, rubbing at her eyes.

“You said I didn’t have to go today,” the child whined and then she looked at Jon. A slow look took in the uniform and the gun and her face screwed up into tears. “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!” She flung herself at her mother’s legs.

Mrs. Boone smiled, embarrassed. “I’m afraid her father has told her that a policeman would come get her if she misbehaved.”

Jon came over and knelt down beside the sobbing child.

“I’m sure you didn’t do anything bad,” he said and was rewarded with a baleful look. He had to repress a smile; somewhere inside, Celia Boone was hiding a misdeed.

“I just came to ask you a few questions about Billy Mitchell. Do you know Billy?”

A cautious nod.

“Did you see him in school yesterday?”

“Yes,” she said in a quivering voice.

“Now this is very important; did you walk home, even part of the way with him?”

“He’s a boy.” Her five year old face exuded disdain.

“But did you see him while you were walking home?”

She shook her head no.

Jon looked at Mrs. Boone and back at the child, trying to gauge the best way to approach Celia’s literal young mind.

“Okay, you didn’t walk home with him, and you didn’t see him along the way. Do you know who he usually walks with?”

“Jeffy Thomas.”

“Did you see Jeffy yesterday?”

“Yes.” She made a face. “He can burp whenever he wants to.”

“Did you see Jeffy on the way home?”

Again she nodded.

“Was Billy with him?”

“No.”

“Celia, honey,” Mrs. Boone interrupted, “you’re sure that you’re thinking about yesterday?” She looked at Jon. “Sometimes she gets a little confused.”

“It was yesterday,” the little girl said and she frowned with concentration.

“Just one more question. When did you last see Billy?”

Her face cleared. “When I went to sleep.”

“I’m sorry, when was that?”

“At school. The little kids take a nap. Billy and Jeffy were throwing things . . . and Mrs. Frey told us to go to sleep, and when I woke up, Billy was gone.”

Jon radioed to dispatch, asking Earl to meet him at the church. He backed out of the Boone driveway, his mind going over the implications of what Celia had said.

If the child disappeared during school hours, why hadn’t Amanda Frey reported it? It was common knowledge that she was in poor health and worked too hard, but was it possible to forget the number of children she’d put down for a nap in the span of an hour?

He exceeded the speed limit on the way over.

SEVENTY-SIX

“Shouldn’t we wait for the other kids?” Debbie Sykes asked, allowing Mrs. Frey to assist her in putting on her sweater.

“You’re the only one coming today.”

“Why?” Little blue eyes peered at her.

“Because of Billy Mitchell.” Amanda went to the closet to get her cloth coat.

“But they’ll find him, won’t they? I know they’re looking for him, ‘cause my dad’s helping them.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up.” She ushered the child toward the back door.

Debbie hung back, her eyes wide and fearful. “I don’t want to go out there.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Something got Billy . . .”

“I won’t let anything hurt you, and we’re not going far.” She avoided meeting the child’s questioning look.

“Where are we going?”

“Why, we’re going to help them look for Billy. In the woods.”

Debbie looked around the kitchen, which was filled with morning sunshine. “We’ll be coming back?”

“Of course,” Amanda said, opening the door.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Jon parked the Bronco on the far side of the church where it would not be visible from the house and waited for Earl. He studied the house, looking for signs of movement behind the starched curtains, finding none.

As soon as Earl arrived they went up to the porch, standing on either side of the door.

“Sure you don’t want me to go round the back?”

Jon shook his head. He pushed the buzzer and heard the bell ring in the recesses of the house. After a minute he lifted the heavy brass knocker and pounded.

A sleepy-eyed Reverend Frey opened the door a minute later, dressed in pajamas and a robe.

“My goodness,” the Reverend said, looking at their serious faces. “What is it?”

“I’d like to speak to your wife,” Jon said.

“Well, come in.” He watched them closely as they passed into the hall and through to the living room. “I must have overslept,” he muttered and left them waiting while he searched.

When he returned his expression was perplexed. “This is very strange; she’s not in the house.” He ran a hand through rumpled hair.

“May we look?”

“By all means.” Martin Frey slumped into a chair and watched with amazement as they proceeded to do so. Jon followed the phone cord along the baseboard, finally looking up.

“The line’s been cut.” Then they were out of the room and searching the dining room and kitchen.

Martin followed behind and stood in the doorway as they checked the pantry and closets until finally the sheriff attempted to open the basement door.

“Do you have a key to this?”

“Well, yes . . .” He crossed to a cabinet and swung it open. There, on the inside of the door, were several keys hung on hooks and clearly labeled. He took down the key to the basement and handed it to Jon.

There was a great deal of blood coagulating on the basement floor and the three men stood, silent, taking it in.

“What does this mean?” Martin asked, looking from one to the other. A look of comprehension came into his eyes. “This is something to do with that boy . . .”

Jon stepped around the puddle of blood and looked around the badly lit room. He took his flashlight and pointed it into the dark corners.

A deep freezer took up most of the space along the west wall and Jon moved in that direction, exchanging a troubled glance with Earl.

Martin caught it. “What?” He looked from the pool of blood at his feet to Jon to the freezer.

Jon stood in front of the freezer and took a deep breath. He lifted the lid.

He let it close almost immediately and turned to face the others. “I’m afraid we found Billy Mitchell.”

“My God,” Martin Frey said, over and over.

Jon nodded to Earl who went out to use the radio to inform dispatch.

“Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“No . . . no . . . how could she . . . do that?”

Jon shook his head.

“My God, that little child . . .”

“We’ve got to find her, Reverend.”

Martin Frey leaned back in the chair, eyes closed tightly, his hands reaching up, entreating his God. “This can’t be happening . . .”

Earl burst through the door. “Jean . . . sent Debbie to school this morning. She must be . . .”

“Damn!” They were gone in an instant.

Martin Frey got up, took the rifle he had never shot a deer with, and followed them out the door.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

“Nathan, why didn’t you tell me about this?” She looked at the angry red swelling on his arm.

“I’m telling you now,” he pointed out and closed his eyes, wincing as her fingers prodded his flesh. “It hurts a little,” he admitted.

“A lot—it’s necrotic in places.”

“Just excise the dead tissue and I’ll take some more antibiotics; I’ll be fine.”

“You think you’re going to work?” Her look was incredulous.

“I’m getting close to something with the organism. I don’t want to lose any time.”

“Would you rather lose your arm? If that infection continues to spread . . .”

“Look at you,” he retaliated. “Yesterday you couldn’t hold your head up and now you’re proclaiming a miracle cure.”

“But I stayed home. And so will you.” She stood and walked to the phone, picking it up and dialing.

“Now who are you calling?”

“Joyce. Maybe you’ll listen to her.”

She found him in his room, dressing slowly and with obvious difficulty, having only limited use of his left arm. She watched in silence for a moment before coming into the room and positioning herself in front of him.

“She’s on her way.”

“What?”

“She told me to tell you that doctors make the worst patients . . .”

“Nurses are always telling me that, and it won’t work. It’s out and out intimidation.”

“Which everyone knows is a doctor’s best weapon.” She looked at him sternly. “You look like hell.”

He sighed. “I feel like it too. All right, I’ll stay home, but only until the swelling goes down.”

“Good.” She kissed his forehead. “And don’t worry; if anything comes up, I’ll give you a call.”

“Thanks for coming right over,” Rachel said as she let Joyce in.

“Is he cooperating?” Joyce removed her cape, revealing a uniform. Catching Rachel’s glance she added: “I thought he might take me more seriously if I dressed the part.”

“Could be. He’s not thrilled about staying home but I’m pretty sure he’s feeling worse than he’ll admit.”

“Considering what’s been happening, I would think being holed up at home would be the best place to be.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“They found Billy Mitchell’s body in a freezer at Reverend Frey’s home.”

“Oh no! Who do they think . . .”

“Amanda Frey. Now she’s disappeared with the little Sykes girl . . .”

“That sweet quiet woman?”

“They’re scouring the woods for her. I just hope they find them before something happens to the little girl.”

She pulled up in front of the hospital and parked, making sure to lock her car door. Whatever was happening to Amanda Frey, it was obvious that the woman could not be responsible for the other killings. With the woods once again crawling with searchers, there was no telling who might be flushed out of hiding.

In the emergency room, Emma Sutter tried to calm an incoherent Jean Sykes.

“Don’t worry,” Emma said, “they’ll find her, she’ll be all right.”

“She’s just a baby,” the woman moaned. “Not my baby, don’t let her hurt my baby . . .”

“Ssh,” Emma hushed her, stroking her hair and rocking gently. “Everything will be all right.”

SEVENTY-NINE

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jon stood along the side of the road, high-powered rifle in hand.

Martin Frey nodded. “I am responsible for Amanda.”

“I don’t know about that but I want you to know what might happen out there.”

Groups of men were gathering nearby, all carrying weapons, grim-faced and silent. One was Billy Mitchell’s father.

“Thank you, Sheriff, I know.”

“Do you?” Jon regarded him skeptically. “I want to make sure you understand, the little girl is our first priority. If Mrs. Frey refuses to surrender the child, we might have to use . . . force.”

“I understand, but please, please, let me try to talk to her. I know she’ll listen to me.”

“I can’t promise anything.” He looked at the others. “All right, let’s go.”

They moved through the underbrush and fanned out.

Jon positioned himself to the left of Mitchell, keeping a watch out for signs of cracking. The man was too much in control; his face expressionless, his eyes empty of anger. It wouldn’t take much to put him over the line.

It might just take the sight of Amanda Frey.

He couldn’t take a chance on Mitchell flipping out; a wild shot could hit the girl or start a barrage of fire from the others. He was ready, if necessary, to take Mitchell out.

Frey was another matter.

The minister was probably suffering from the delusion that his wife was going to be receptive to his forgiveness, that a blessing would redeem her. That the Bible could reclaim her soul.

After looking at Billy Mitchell, Jon doubted that she had one.

Amanda Frey could feel them breathing down her neck and she hurried forward, pulling the child behind her. She could feel the burning in her lungs as she gasped for air but she dare not stop.

Debbie had stopped fussing and now followed meekly, white with shock. Amanda had shown her the knife, the edge still smeared with blood. She didn’t tell the child what the knife meant, just held it inches from her face and twisted it slowly, letting the light catch the blade. The child was not dumb.

She was not familiar with this part of the woods; it was farther than she’d ever gone before. She was not sure she could find her way back but somehow she thought she would not be going back.

A place to rest, but where? She now had a piercing pain in her side, like she used to get when she was a child and had run too far too fast.

Pushing, going forward, finding safety. She had always pretended that she was being chased, throwing glances over her shoulder, waiting for the lurking beast to overtake her. Laughing and gasping and finally crying in pain, letting it punish her, for she deserved to be punished.

A willful, disobedient child. Her father had told her. She knew.

Always the guilty glance at her reflection in the mirror, careful not to feel pride or pleasure in her countenance. She had paid the price for vanity; she would not pay again.

She stopped and leaned against a tree, her eyes searching for a place to hide. No one must find her.

The child cried out and she looked in surprise at the small face. Who . . . ?

Birds fluttered through the trees and she forced herself forward, wrenching the child along behind.

A whistle cut through the silence and Jon looked in the direction from which it had come.

Earl waved from about five hundred yards off.

“Look,” Earl said when he got there, leaning down and pointing to footprints in the soft dirt.

Jon nodded. “She’s running; look at the depth of the heel. And . . . Debbie’s with her.” A smaller set of scuff marks to the right.

Mitchell came up then and looked off in the direction the prints were heading. “How far ahead are they?”

“There’s no way to tell . . . Earl and I are going to lead and I want the rest of you to stay back; she’d hear us if we all came together.”

Mitchell opened his mouth to protest but Jon turned and was off.

Martin Frey hurried after him, the others behind.

She could hear the gurgling of a small stream and she headed for it, her mouth unbearably dry.

Sunlight dappled through the trees, catching the fine dust in its rays, creating a smoky haze. It cushioned her from eyes and she smiled, lifting her face.

The water was cold and clear, running quickly, twirling leaves along, polishing the stones along the bed. She fell to the ground, pulling the child with her, and put her mouth to the water. It numbed her teeth and she stopped drinking to run her tongue across them.

The child moved beside her and she looked through her tangled hair, watching as the tiny mouth tasted the water. Her eyes narrowed. Who was this with her?

Then she lowered her face into the water, letting it wash the sweat and dirt from her skin. It cooled her skin, swirling and pushing hard against her face and she wondered if in time it would polish her features until they were smooth and shiny like the stones.

Reluctantly she drew back, getting up onto her hands and knees, the child’s hand still clenched in her own.

And on to her feet.

She could smell the beast coming behind her.

The tracks were no longer going in a straight line but twisting and turning, off to the left and again to the right, the smaller tracks occasionally disappearing, like the child was being lifted off her feet.

“She’s getting tired,” Jon said.

He stopped and motioned for the others to come near. When they had gathered around he spoke:

“It’s not going to be much longer. She’s stumbling and changing direction every few minutes. I want all of you to understand that I’m in charge here, and there will not be a vigilante action. We might be able to talk her into giving up.” He looked at Mitchell. “Anyone who shoots without provocation will be dealt with by the law.”

He stared into each face in turn until satisfied that they understood his position.

“All right.” Another hard look at Mitchell. “Let’s go.”

They had always made the mistake of underestimating her, even as a child.

She had her second wind. Strength flowed through her body and she ran lightly, making no sound. She felt the pull of the child’s weight on her right arm but it did not matter. She was strong enough for them both.

For it was herself that she pulled along behind. The young Amanda.

She held onto herself tightly.

They had never wanted her to have a self; she understood now. She had defied them at first and they had made her pay by introducing her to guilt. Everything that was pleasurable was not allowed. Her needs were of no importance. The only true goodness was in denial.

They had hidden her away.

But she was too clever for them.

Ahead the mountain rose up in the forest and she ran toward it, exulting in the test of her will. Up she ran, slowing a little but feeling the earth draw her, promising safety.

“There she is.” Jon sighted her as she was beginning to climb up the mountainside, dragging Debbie behind. From a distance it was impossible to tell whether the child was injured and they increased their pace, gathering speed as they neared their quarry.

Suddenly, halfway up the mountain, she turned and looked down at them. Jon held his arms up, stopping the others, and stepped forward.

Always, it was the men.

Hounding her, restricting her freedom, denying her the right to be. Her father and now . . . she looked down at the figures below.

She would not be denied.

She felt the breeze blowing her hair and she held her head up. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she could feel the tingle of blood in her hands and feet.

She looked down at the small hand in hers, noticing for the first time that her nails had drawn blood. It saddened her.

The child hung limply, eyes closed, face streaked with dirt and tears, the nose clogged with thick green mucous.

They were calling to her, she could hear their puny voices, raised as always in indignation and condemnation. They held the power, and kept it from her, and she knew that it would be that way. They had taken everything of value that she’d ever had, even as they promised to protect and keep her from harm.

They were beginning to move up the mountainside.

She pulled the child up and held the tiny form to her chest. She could feel the warm breath on her throat and smell the damp hair as it lay against her cheek.

She would not let them have the child.

“What is she doing?” Earl hissed.

Jon could not take his eyes from her. Debbie was not moving—Amanda held her as a shield but the child’s head was angled and her body appeared to be limp.

Martin Frey came up beside him. “Is the little girl alive?”

“I can’t tell. Call to your wife,” he ordered. “Make her put the child down.”

Martin looked up at his wife and nodded.

There were so many of them. They moved like an army of ants, mindless, relying on their instincts, knowing from past experience that she was not equal to their attack.

Was that her father with Martin?

Wasn’t her father dead?

But that was the way they worked. Confuse her, divide her loyalties, demand her allegiance. Force her to bend and threaten to break her if she didn’t.

She had broken their rules by considering herself to be important and fighting to keep whole. That she had splintered under their pressure was not as important as the fact that she had found the child again. The child was what they wanted.

She drew the knife from her coat pocket and held it up for them to see.

“Damn.” Jon raised his rifle to his shoulder.

Ahead of him Martin Frey fell to his knees, voice cracking as he implored his wife to put down the child and throw the knife to the side.

She could no longer hear them, just the rasp of her own breath and behind, coming near, the sound of the beast.

She kissed the child’s head.

And raised the knife higher, the child sliding a few inches down the front of her body. The knife began its descent.

She heard the crack of a rifle.

She knew, then, that she was the beast.

Martin Frey lowered the rifle, deaf from the sound of the gunshot. He watched as the child slipped from Amanda’s grasp and fell in a heap on the ground.

Amanda let the knife fall from her fingers and put her hands to her chest.

Through his tears he thought he saw her smile, and then she slumped to the ground.

Jon knelt beside Debbie Sykes and put his fingers along her neck, feeling for a pulse. Then he looked up.

“She’s alive.” He picked her up, cradling her head, and started down the hill.

He passed Martin Frey who stood, head lowered, sobbing openly.

The others parted as he came near, letting him through. No one spoke and Mitchell was nowhere in sight.

By the time he got back to where they’d parked the vehicles, Debbie’s eyes were fluttering. He placed her on the seat and got into the truck, reaching for the microphone even as he turned the ignition.

He drove with his hand covering hers.

EIGHTY

“Put her in here,” Rachel said, holding the door for Jon to carry the child into a small treatment room.

He placed her gently on the gurney and stepped back out of the way, watching as Rachel ran her hands along the child’s arms and legs, examining scrapes and checking for further injury. Then she took a wet cloth and began cleaning the hands.

“How is she?” he asked after a minute.

Rachel looked up and nodded. “She’ll be fine. Why don’t you go tell her mother while I finish cleaning her up?” She returned her attention to a series of welts on the left wrist. Jon did not move.

When she had finished she looked up at him expectantly and was surprised by the look on his face. He had been watching her, not the child, and now he held her eyes.

“Rachel,” he began.

The door opened behind him and Emma rushed in.

“You’d better come quick, Tyler’s taken a turn . . .”

Wendall Tyler was rigid, his jaw clenched and the muscles in his neck were tense. He was bathed in sweat and was breathing rapidly.

Rachel moved to his side and grasped his head, attempting to turn it, trying to determine the cause of his rigidity.

“His blood pressure’s dropping,” Emma announced, and pulled the stethoscope from her ears.

“Set him up for a spinal tap,” Rachel ordered. “And ask Jon if he’ll give us a hand.”

Emma nodded and left the room.

“All right,” she said when Emma returned with a lumbar puncture tray and Jon. “I want you to get up on the bed and we’re going to turn him on his side. Then I want you to draw his legs up and push his upper body toward them.”

Jon complied and Tyler was forced into a fetal position.

Emma opened the tray and painted the lumbar region with betadine.

Rachel injected Xylocaine as a local anesthetic and then took the spinal needle. “Don’t let him move,” she said to Jon, and she carefully inserted the needle into the elongated space between the discs. She prodded, feeling the way, and was rewarded with an audible ‘pop’ as she punctured the spinal cord.

She took three small vials of spinal fluid, moving quickly and passing each in turn to Emma. Emma stood them in a small plastic holder.

She withdrew the needle carefully and placed it on the tray. She took a fresh betadine swab and wiped the back.

“You can let him go,” she said and stood away from the bed. She picked up the holder with the vials and held them up to the light.

“Well, the fluid’s clear, anyway. That’s a good sign.”

Emma adjusted the bed covers around Tyler. “Do you want me to begin cooling measures?”

Rachel nodded. “I’ll take these down and run them myself.” She looked at Jon. “Thank you.” Again their eyes held.

They walked toward the lab, Rachel’s white coat flapping behind.

“What do you think it is?”

“The rigidity in his neck and throat could indicate meningitis, or, except for the fact that I’m sure it isn’t, tetanus. I don’t know; the fluid is clear.” She shook her head. “I’ll have to run some tests, do a specific gravity, look at it under a microscope.”

“How long will that take?”

“Not too long, why?”

He didn’t answer immediately but when they arrived at the laboratory door he stopped and regarded her.

“I think we need to talk.” His face was serious.

She did not ask about what, just read the expression in his eyes and permitted herself a hint of a smile.

“Anytime,” she said.

She ran a routine spinal fluid analysis, including cell count, glucose and protein, as well as the specific gravity. All were within normal limits and for a minute she sat back, considering the medical alternatives.

It was possible that this was another stage of what she considered to be psychic shock. His body might still be reacting to the powerful influences of his subconscious mind. The fact that his neck was stiff, when his wife’s neck had been broken, might provide the connection.

If so she had to break through to him. She had heard of cases where people died following the death of a loved one, sometimes suddenly, sometimes wasting away despite the most vigorous treatment medicine had to offer.

She had to do something. If she was unable to heal his body she must try to soothe his mind.

As she started out the door she recalled an article she had read, about the suspicion that low levels of the brain chemical serotonin might be related to the incidence of suicide. Perhaps administering a dose of the chemical might help alleviate Tyler’s depression. She knew the definitive test was run on spinal fluid and she looked back at the remaining fluid in the vials.

It was not something she could do without consulting an expert, but she put caps on the vials and stored them in the refrigerator, just in case. Then she was off.

She got no more than ten feet up the hall when they arrived with the body of Amanda Frey. Earl Wagner spotted her and ambled toward her.

“How’s the little girl?”

“She’ll be all right; her mother’s taken her home.” She indicated the body. “I never would have believed that she was capable of killing a child.”

“You should have seen her on that hill; she looked like a crazy woman.”

Rachel pulled back the tarp, revealing the peaceful features. She looked frail and somehow pitiful, streaks of dirt on her pale face.

“Take her down to the morgue,” she instructed, and then watched as they rolled her away.

She continued down the hall, heading for Tyler’s room.

Emma was at the bedside, hooking up the fluid-filled mattress which was used to reduce body temperature.

“How high?”

“A hundred four point four.”

Emma connected the last hose and plugged the machine into the wall, circulating cooled liquids through the mattress. A steady hum filled the air.

Rachel palpated his neck and along the spine. “He’s a lot less rigid.”

“I’ve never seen anyone so stiff that their back began to arch,” Emma observed.

Rachel eased him over until he was lying on his back, and lifted one arm clear of the bed, letting it drop. “Very strange. Fifteen minutes ago he was inflexible and now he’s flaccid.”

“What does it mean?”

“It supports my impression that what’s wrong with him is not physiological.” She pulled the sheet up to cover him, leaving the blanket at the foot of the bed. “Now I’m going to take a look at Amanda Frey. Call me if his condition changes.”

She realized that, more than any other time, she was dreading going into the morgue.

They had brought the body of the boy earlier in the day and now he and his killer lay, only a few feet apart, waiting for her.

She was beginning to wish that Nathan was here. It was never pleasant facing the aftermath of death but it was always worse when it was a child.

There was nothing she could do about him yet; his body was still contorted into its frozen shape.

And there was Amanda. Even with the body of her young victim close at hand, she was a human being and she had died a violent death. Whatever she had done, for whatever reason, her last moments were filled with pain. The gunshot wound disfigured her upper torso.

Rachel began the exam, concentrating on the chest. The bullet had entered at an upward angle, right between the ribs, through the right ventricle and exiting beneath the pulmonary artery. The bullet continued its upward path, not deflected by bone, until it passed through the left scapula and exited the back.

Very quick, lethal shooting. An instant of pain, and awareness, then death.

She noticed the almost healed puncture wound from the blood transfusion and multiple small abrasions and contusions. She looked again at the face, surrounded by matted hair.

A thin trickle of blood ran from the left eye. She moved to the head of the table and lifted the left eyelid.

The pupil of the eye bulged.

She frowned and lifted the right lid. The second pupil was also distended. She returned her attention to the left, looking for a source of the blood. Folding the lid back she searched for a nick or scratch but found none. She took her penlight and examined the eye.

The pupils were fully dilated but when she flashed the light she could discern fluid beneath the anterior chamber. She straightened and turned to a tray of instruments, selecting a clean scalpel.

She made a tiny incision, applying the smallest amount of pressure possible. Thick blood oozed from the eye. She took a moistened swab and pushed on the conjunctiva. Blood welled, gelatinous clots of it.

The other eye yielded the same result.

She stood back, still holding the scalpel, and slowly turned. The John Doe they’d found had blood in his eyes. Was there something else she hadn’t seen?

The refrigeration part of the morgue was a walk-in unit rather than the sliding drawers preferred by bigger hospitals, and the body of the unidentified man was nearest the door. She pushed the stretcher back into the examining area and pulled the sheet down, looking at him intently.

The body was covered with a layer of grime, making it look even grayer than normal. As she bent closer she heard the morgue door open behind her.

“Dr. Adams,” Emma said, “I think you’d better come and look at Mr. Tyler again.”

“Is he worse?”

“I think he may be having a seizure.”

She left John Doe behind, running down the hall after Emma.

Susan Donlevy was in the room with Tyler and she looked up when they entered. Tyler was in the throes of a minor convulsion, his legs and arms jerking spasmodically.

“What’s his temp?”

“Still one oh four.”

“Let’s pack him in ice, I think it’s his temp that’s doing this. But in case he has a history we don’t know about you’d better draw up some Dilantin.”

Susan nodded and rushed from the room while Emma went after the ice.

Rachel stood at the head of the bed, ready to protect his head should he begin more severe thrashings. She put her hand against his face and thought his temperature might be higher than they knew; his skin was desperately hot. His eyes opened for a split-second she thought she saw him in there, the real Wendall Tyler.

She understood it to be a plea for help.

“Well,” Emma said, a half hour later when his condition had stabilized, “nobody’s having any iced tea tonight.” She looked at her watch. “It’s after four, I’d better get going.”

“Is it that late?” Rachel looked at her own watch.

“You should take some time to eat,” Emma said, “I know you didn’t get lunch.”

“Who could eat? But I will sit down and give Nathan a call, see how he’s doing.” She picked up the phone.

“Oh, the phones are out,” Emma said over her shoulder. “Since about two. But don’t worry; I reported it to the sheriff’s office by radio and they were going to look into it.”

“Ah, well.” Rachel replaced the phone in the cradle. “Maybe I will eat something after all.”

She unlocked the door to the small kitchen and cafeteria and went into the back. The cook, and there was only one, came at mealtimes and left right afterwards, so she was on her own.

She found some sliced cheese and an apple and took one of the small cartons of milk expressly reserved for patients only and went to sit down along the window that looked into the courtyard.

It was blessedly peaceful.

The late afternoon sun softened the sky and it was difficult to imagine dying on a day like this.

After a while she got up, mindful of the work she still had to do. The patient load was down, and Tyler was the only complicated case but she wanted to finish in the morgue and, if the phone was fixed, call Craig Johanson in Washington and see what he could tell her about serotonin.

EIGHTY-ONE

There was the problem.

Jon stood along the shoulder of the road, looking up at the dangling telephone wires. They were tangled among the tree branches and at first he thought they had just snapped, but as he moved closer he realized that he was wrong.

The insulated cable had been cut. The edge along the break was smooth and the casing showed no signs of wear or stress.

Someone had climbed up the pole and severed the wire on either side of it.

He walked back down to the telephone pole and examined the ground beneath it. The loose top soil was unmarked; no footprints or scuffmarks. How on earth? The packed dirt, where someone could reasonably stand without leaving marks, was a good three feet back. And the first metal rung up the pole was itself forty inches off the ground.

He looked back at the forest, feeling, suddenly, that he was being watched. Absolutely still, he waited. Nothing.

The sun would be down soon and he needed to report the downed wires. The only solution was to drive down the hill and make radio contact with county communications. He turned and went back to the truck.

He drove slowly along the road, noticing that the general store was closed and there was no traffic to be seen.

People were scared.

Most of the summer people had gone, now, and even the locals were shipping off the kids to family down the hill. Others were just staying in their homes, behind locked doors.

He couldn’t blame them. Murder was never pleasant but senseless, brutal slaughter was incomprehensible. If anything, people were even more upset by Amanda Frey’s death. If she, a minister’s wife, could do such a thing, then who among them could not? Neighbor looked at neighbor, wondering.

He increased his speed as the buildings receded in the rear-view mirror.

Other things. Rachel.

He needed to talk to her. He wasn’t sure that he believed Hamilton, but . . .

There was something between them, something he felt whenever he was near her. Something he had always evaded.

It was not an easy issue.

She was Tim’s little sister, and he had intended to come and take Tim’s place. That did not include carrying her off into the night. It would be a betrayal of trust.

He could not deny his attraction to her but it wasn’t as simple as that. He had convinced himself that her feelings for him were nothing more than an adolescent crush. The night of the dance she had been taken with the magic of the music and he had just been the one who was there when she wanted to be in love. He had never thought that she’d meant it—just that they both were drunk, she on romance.

But now? Years had passed and she was no longer a child. If, as Hamilton had said, she had come back for one last try . . .

He would not let her go away again.

All of a sudden there was no road ahead.

He pulled hard on the wheel and the Bronco veered to the left, going over the embankment as the rear of the vehicle swung sidewise.

It only took seconds.

Everything was still. He sat behind the wheel, waiting for the dust to clear. His right ankle had cracked into the floor gear shift and he rubbed it absently.

Then he opened the door and climbed out of the truck which was facing up toward the road.

Favoring his ankle, he moved up the embankment and walked to the edge of where the road used to be. And looked down at a precipice thirty feet across. An entire section of the road had collapsed, leaving a sheer cliff face.

There was no way to get across. They were cut off.

EIGHTY-TWO

Even as she walked down the hall toward the morgue she knew what it was about the John Doe that had been eluding her.

The wounds on his arm.

There had been a bandage on his arm covering what looked to be puncture marks. She had thought initially that he’d probably had a series of blood tests and had allowed the wounds to become infected. But where would a man who lived on the fringe of society get blood tests?

It was painfully obvious. The man had been selling his blood. And, Amanda had received blood.

It was almost too impossible to believe.

She pushed the door open and went directly to the man’s body, turning his arm and examining the wounds.

They still had no name on him although Jon had taken fingerprints for identification, which were probably en route to the FBI. He was just a man who had died.

Except, maybe he was not.

She hurried to the lab, mind racing.

The records were kept in a file just inside the door and she opened the drawer, thumbing through the pink slips of paper.

Blood given to Amanda Frey, bought from Aid Services. The donor number was 82-563. The company would have a name for the donor, although it might be a false one. Blood was too valuable a commodity to be too particular about details. If the donor denied having hepatitis and other communicable diseases, by and large, anyone would take the blood.

The phones were still out or she would call the company and ask them to look up the name of 82-563. There was a slim chance she might be able to find some sort of medical history on him. Something to give her a clue as to what she was dealing with.

There certainly was a possibility that the man had been the donor whose blood was given to Amanda Frey.

Yet even if that proved to be true, what form of insanity was transferable through blood? She shook her head. Jumping to conclusions. She had no proof that the man was anything more than a bum. Certainly she could not presume the state of his mental health from a rather tenuous connection with Amanda.

It was entirely possible that Amanda had just been disguising an increasing emotional problem. That, much like the copy-cat killers who emulated bizarre murderers, she had been pushed over the edge by the events of the past days.

Still . . . the odd scene at the man’s death. The absence of decomposition. The clay figures and signs of ritual. The lack of a clear cause of death.

“I’m getting nowhere fast,” she said out loud, closing the file cabinet. She looked around the lab and went over to the incubator, opening the door and pulling out a stack of culture dishes.

These were the post-mortem cultures she had done this morning, having found the other ones missing. The sensitivities were as before: resistant to Ampicillin, Carbenicillin, the Cephalosporins, Erythromycin, Gantrisin, Gentamycin, and on through the list.

She closed the dishes and dumped them into the trash. If there was nothing to which the organism was even moderately sensitive, she was wasting her time running the same tests over and over.

Nathan’s black leather notebook was on the shelf above the counter. She took it down and flipped through the pages—his tiny precise printing throughout.

The most recent entries detailed the existence of 10 cc’s of serum, and, interestingly, a carefully-worded description of the isolation of the invasive body of the organism in the blood taken from Wendall Tyler.

He hadn’t mentioned it . . .

It all seemed to come back to Tyler. Maybe the real answer was there.

She replaced the notebook and turned to leave. Maybe between the two of them, they could make some sense out of it. One thing she was sure of; she’d never heard of anything like it outside of superstition.

Superstition . . .

A tap at the door and she looked up, surprised. “Earl,” she said, “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“I wonder if you could take a look at Jon . . .”

Her heart began to pound. “Why, what’s happened?”

It was an eternity before he answered. “He had a little accident, hurt his ankle.”

“That’s all?” Relief flooded her.

“The nurse is putting ice on it now, she told me to see if I could find you.”

“But he is all right?”

“Oh yeah. He wouldn’t have come in if I hadn’t insisted.”

“Well I’m glad you did. With everything that’s happened, it won’t hurt him to take a few hours off to rest . . .”

“I don’t think he knows how to rest. He’s always working, never takes a day off . . . no, I take that back. About a year back he cut loose, got drunker than I’ve ever seen him, and could hardly walk the next day.”

“Hm?” They started down the hall toward Emergency.

“And Dr. Adams was out of town, so there was nothing to do for him but let him sleep it off.”

She stopped, something clicking in her mind. “A year ago? Do you by any chance remember the date?”

“Sure, June 12th. The first and only time since I’ve known him that he’s missed a day’s work.”

“Really?” She permitted herself a tiny smile. June 12th was the day that she was supposed to marry Kelly. “Well, we’d better not keep him waiting.”

Jon was sitting on the bed watching as Susan tried to balance an ice bag across his ankle. He looked up when Rachel entered.

“This is ridiculous,” he said and pointed at the ice bag.

Rachel came up beside Susan. “It would work better if you would immerse the ankle in cold water for a while.”

“He refused to put on a gown,” Susan smiled grimly. “This is the best I can do if he won’t cooperate.”

Rachel met his eyes. “Aren’t you cooperating?”

“Not if it means putting on a gown.”

Earl snickered from the doorway and all three of them turned in his direction.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said and disappeared.

The ice bag slipped to the floor, scattering ice across the room. Susan sighed and picked it up.

“I’ll have to get another one,” she said.

After she left Rachel stood, hands on hips, facing Jon.

“What is a gown between friends?” She tried to restrain her smile but found it impossible.

“Just look at my ankle.”

“Yes sir.” She ran her fingers along the ankle, making him flex it, feeling the play within the joint. It was somewhat swollen but not obviously deformed. “I don’t think it’s fractured, but I’d better take an x-ray.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes.” She paused. “What happened?”

“I ran the truck off the road.”

“On purpose?”

“It was that or else.”

She opened her mouth to ask what he meant when Susan returned with a second ice bag.

“Bring him down to x-ray,” she said to Susan, “I’ll go warm up the machine.”

She positioned the machine over his ankle and put a fresh plate in the slot in the table.

“I’m going to take a series just to be on the safe side. It won’t take long.” She went behind the radiation shield and snapped the first exposure.

In fifteen minutes she was done and she had him wait in the small anteroom while she developed the x-rays.

“Well?” he said when she came out.

“Nothing broken, but you’re probably going to have some tenderness until the soft tissue swelling goes down.” She sat opposite him and regarded him in the half-light.

“Thank you,” he said. He made no move to leave.

“Don’t mention it.” She didn’t want him to leave. There was nothing more than the look in his eyes.

“Rachel,” he said.

“What?”

He stood up, putting out his hand to her and helping her to her feet.

“We need to talk.”

She could not speak because, incredibly, he was kissing her, his arms around her tightly, possessively. When he released her she stepped back and looked up at him, trying to read his eyes.

“Can you leave?”

“Yes, but I’ll need to tell Susan.”

“I’ll be outside,” he said and walked away.

She felt as if she couldn’t breathe until she went outside and saw that he was waiting for her.

“Where are we going?” she asked a minute later as he pulled the Bronco onto the main road.

“My house.” He picked up the microphone and began talking to the dispatcher.

Rachel leaned back in the seat and tried to stop smiling.

She was still smiling when he held the door open for her and helped her out of the truck. She stood waiting for him to lock up and stared up at the night sky. Black velvet with millions of stars.

He began to pace the moment they were in the house, casting glances at her, limping only slightly. She was tempted to tell him to sit down, not to stress the leg but she could sense that whatever it was he was thinking needed an outlet.

She sat primly on the couch and watched him.

Finally he stopped and turned toward her. “How do you feel about me?” He shook his head and held up a hand to keep her from answering.

“I love you,” she said anyway.

He looked at her hard, nothing in his expression to reveal how he felt.

“You were gone for eleven years,” he said then.

She nodded and waited for him to continue.

“And you were very young when . . . that night.”

“I’ve always loved you.”

Again she could not judge the impact that her words had on him and again she waited for him to continue.

“There are things . . .” his voice faded.

“Nothing that matters,” she said.

“But it does. We’re so different . . .”

“Don’t try to be logical, the only thing that’s important is how we feel.” She stood up. “You haven’t said how you feel.”

He didn’t speak and they stood, six feet apart, time passing slowly as she waited.

“It isn’t that simple.” His voice was so quiet she could barely hear him.

“It is.”

“No. It’s not right . . .”

“Damn what’s right; it’s you and me, how we feel. You’re always walking that thin line of what’s right or wrong. It only matters in theory. In practice . . . how do you feel?”

“I love you.”

“Then it is right.” She smiled. “What are we going to do about it?”

He crossed the room and stood before her and she reached up to touch his face before moving to unbuckle his gunbelt.

She looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Hussy,” she said but she couldn’t stop smiling. She ran a comb through her hair and then took a deep breath, turning to the door.

Opening the door, she arranged herself in the doorway, dressed only in Jon’s windbreaker and waited.

He was pacing again but he stopped when he saw her.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“You look beautiful,” he said, still standing halfway across the room.

“I’m supposed to slink over to you but I’m afraid if I try to walk that far my legs will give out.” She pulled the windbreaker zipper down an inch. “You’ll have to come get me.”

Then he was there, lifting her effortlessly up into his arms and carrying her toward the bedroom.

Her body was pliant, moving with his, straining to be ever closer, luxuriating in the feel of his skin against hers. She ran her hands over the lean muscles of his back wanting to memorize every line but he was distracting her and she turned her attention to the insistence of his body.

“Jon,” she said once, just to hear his voice and then she raised her hips to meet him, wrapping one leg over his and there was nothing else.

Friday

EIGHTY-THREE

She watched him sleep, her eyes caressing his face. A remarkable face, strong-featured but capable of expressing such depth of emotion and sensitivity. Kept, most of the time, in check, but there nonetheless.

His hair was tousled, making him look younger and more vulnerable and she smoothed it back from his forehead. Soft, as she remembered it, from all those years ago.

She could hardly believe that it had finally happened.

She smiled and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Moving carefully, she sat up in bed, and pushed back her own hair. She was desperately thirsty but she didn’t want to wake him just yet so she slipped off the bed and walked toward where she thought the door was, hoping that she didn’t run into the wall.

The door was where it was supposed to be and she closed it behind her, groping around the wall for a light switch. Finally, finding none, she started out across the room.

Just as she reached to open the refrigerator door he grabbed her from behind, lifting her off the floor.

“Going somewhere?” He buried his face in her hair, kissing the back of her neck.

“You scared me to death.”

He let her down and turned her to face him. “Hungry?” He kissed her soundly.

“Maybe,” she said. “What’ve you got?”

“What do you want?”

“Dessert.”

This time was slower, more tender, as they learned each other’s bodies, kissing and whispering endearments, melding together until they were one. Afterward they lay, still entwined, kissing until neither could breathe.

“God, I love you,” he said into her neck.

She ran her tongue over his collarbone, tasting him. Her hands explored his body.

“This is assault on an officer,” he said and tried to grab her hands. He caught them and held them behind her back.

She looked at him through a wave of her hair.

“Consider it performance above and beyond the call of duty . . .”

He laughed and let her hands go.

“You’ll get a medal for valor,” she said as he pulled her on top of him.

“Posthumously.”

Now she drifted toward sleep, her body wrapped in his arms, his breath warm on her shoulder. She was warm and relaxed but her mind was not ready to relinquish control and she began the deep-breathing exercises that she used to induce sleep.

If nothing else she had to get a few hours’ sleep so she could function in the morning. Nathan would probably still require medication and further treatment before he could return to the hospital, and she would be little good to him or anyone else if she didn’t rest.

Still, she wanted to savor the realization of her fantasy. How strange that she never would have thought it would happen this way.

She focused her thoughts inward in the form of self-hypnosis, suggesting that she sleep as deeply in the few remaining hours before dawn as possible. Deep, comfortable sleep, emptying her mind of distractions, just sleep.

The animals danced in her dreams.

Hazy, filtered light, like late afternoon, the sun a vivid red ball in the sky.

A flute, the melody somehow more threatening than the shadows behind her.

There he was, drawing the shapes in the loose soil, his hands shaking and unsteady, chanting something unintelligible under his breath.

He looked at her with eyes that glowed red in the thick air. He looked at her and smiled, beckoning to her, come closer, come see and understand.

She could see, now, the circle and the triangle, and the strange markings, which he dug with a grimy finger into the earth. He opened a small pouch and poured the white powder onto the ground.

The straw figures he fashioned from handfuls of the bedding, his fingers stroking the forms into life. He smiled at her slyly and nodded and then brought out the clay figures.

He had all of them again, and he placed them along the triangle, the horned creature at the apex of the shape.

She was there, somehow, in the small shack, watching as he waved his hands and lit the candle. The flute fell silent and a tendril of smoke drifted up from the flame.

Now the chant was merely a series of sounds and she could sense the urgency in his uplifted hands which darted back and forth in the air as if drawing the signs there.

She looked down and saw that the figures were moving, the snake uncoiled and slithering through the dirt, the lynx with opened mouth crouched, ready to spring. The creature bared its fangs, head back, blood streaming from each eye, staining the dirt.

She tore her eyes away and looked back at the man. He showed her a copper box and nodded, then turned his face upward and felt the hand of death.

EIGHTY-FOUR

The sun was just coming up as they walked toward the truck.

“You want me to take you home or back to the hospital for your car?”

“Can you wait for me at the house while I change?”

He smiled and helped her up into the truck. “Anything you want me to do.”

“Then I’d like to stop at the house. Nathan’s probably worried . . .”

He got in the truck and started the engine, reaching for the microphone to check in.

“Sheriff,” came the voice of Sally Rose. “There’s a body in the middle of the street, right outside. Nobody’s come along . . .”

“I’ll be right there.” He turned to Rachel. “I have to do this first.”

Ranger Malloy was dead in the street, his body ripped open and gutted.

Jon bent down, grimacing.

“My God,” Rachel said, and reached, putting her hand against Malloy’s neck. “He’s still warm.”

“He disappeared two days ago . . .”

“Well, he wasn’t killed until a short while ago.” She stood and rubbed her arms. “It’s cool this morning; if he’d been lying there very long, dead.”

“I don’t like this.” He straightened up, looking down the road, first in one direction and then the other. “It takes a lot of guts to leave a body in the middle of the street—someone could have seen whoever did this.”

“What do you think it means?”

“That he’s getting bolder. The phone lines are down, the road out of here is cut off . . .”

“You think he did that? The road and the phones?”

“Who else would?” He reached a hand toward her. “Come in while I ask Sally a few questions.”

Sally Rose had the office barricaded and they had to wait while she moved the furniture from behind the door.

“I want a gun,” she said when she opened the door.

“All right.” Jon went to the gun cabinet and unlocked it. “Tell me what you saw or heard.”

“Well, I can’t see much from here but I heard a . . . wet noise, like a watermelon splitting open. It was still dark, the sun just barely showing, and I opened the door and stuck my head out. At first I couldn’t make out what it was, there was . . .” she shivered, “steam rising from it and then I could see a hand. I slammed the door and started praying.”

“You didn’t see anyone else?”

“No, and I didn’t want to.”

He took a rifle from the rack, checked the chamber and handed it to Sally.

“Just don’t shoot me,” he instructed.

“It was a good thing you came on the radio,” Sally said and looked at Rachel. “I was about ready to send up one of those flares.” She indicated a box of phosphorus signal flares.

“Hm.” He opened the box and took several flares. “I wouldn’t try to use these without the flare gun.” He looked at Rachel. “I’m going to load Malloy in the back of the truck. Why don’t you wait here?”

She nodded and watched him leave.

After another curious glance, Sally turned and went back into the dispatch office.

Jon had left the gun cabinet unlocked, and there, on a side shelf, was the copper box.

She crossed quickly to the cabinet and took the box out. Keeping her back to the door to block her actions from view, she opened the ornate lid and looked inside. She hadn’t seen it at the shack nor did she have a clue from her dream as to what was in it but she was only moderately surprised at the thick wad of bills. The money didn’t interest her, though, and she pulled out the small black book.

She could hear Jon coming back to the office and she pocketed the book, closing the box and shoving it into the cabinet. She was several steps away when the door opened.

“All right,” he said, “let’s get out of here.” He saw the cabinet still open and went to close it, pulling the flare gun out as he did so.

“Now you come in,” she said when they arrived at Nathan’s house.

“Don’t you think this could be awkward?”

“Only if you let it.” She got out and started up the stairs and he followed slowly.

The house was quiet and dark and Rachel hurried up the stairs to her room. Once inside she took out the notebook and glanced through the pages. Nothing struck her immediately, so she quickly changed into fresh clothes.

“Just one minute while I look in on him,” she called down the stairway and then tapped on Nathan’s door.

Joyce was asleep in a chair but Nathan’s eyes opened as she came near.

“How do you feel?” she whispered, and kissed his cheek.

“I’d have to die to get better,” he grumbled.

“Let me see your arm.”

He complied and she touched gently, her fingers moving along the length of the wound.

“It looks a little better,” she said. “Nathan, I have a question for you. What do you know about Serotonin?”

He hesitated. “It’s funny you should ask.”

“Why?”

“Yesterday, while I was being kept here against my will, I came across a study on the effects of Serotonin deficiency on patients suffering from depression.”

“Which was?”

“It seemed to increase the severity of the depression, increase suicidal acts, and . . . acts of aggression.”

Rachel nodded slowly.

“What are you thinking?” Nathan watched her closely.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, patting his hand. “But you’ve been a great help.”

She kissed him again and turned to leave.

“Rachel,” he called as she reached the door. “Be careful . . .”

“I will be.”

Jon was standing in the living room, looking at the pictures on the wall.

“Everything all right?” he asked when she came into the room.

“I think . . . I just might have an answer for what’s been going on,” she said and looked at her own image behind glass.

She was silent as they drove toward the hospital, her mind evaluating the direction of her speculation. If she was right . . .

It would explain a lot of things.

He put his hand on her arm as she started to get out of the truck.

“I want you to make sure that the hospital is locked up. Doors, windows . . . use the radio if you need to reach me.”

“What about Malloy’s body?” She looked into the back at the shrouded form.

“Ah . . . right.” He switched off the engine. “I’m getting a little tired of all these bodies.” He smiled at her but she was lost in thought, looking toward the woods.

EIGHTY-FIVE

She went directly to the lab and began to search for the syringe full of serum, opening all of the drawers and running her hands along the insides, pushing papers up and out of the way.

She should have just asked him where it was but she didn’t want him to know what she was planning to do. She was not even sure that she could explain to him the rationale for her thinking.

A wild guess, perhaps.

A gut feeling that it had started with the man in the shack.

She finished with the drawers, having found nothing, and turned to the glass cabinets, looking around for something to stand on so she could see the back of the shelves. She found a cardboard box full of scratchpads and pushed it across the floor.

Just barely. Her eyes scanned the shelves. Still nothing. She turned and surveyed the room, trying to imagine where Nathan would put something he wouldn’t want found.

Of course, it would need refrigeration. She was more tired than she thought.

She opened the door to the small refrigerator and knelt in front of it, moving bottles to the sides. There it was: clear fluid in a capped syringe. It was labeled “Blood serum—Tyler.”

She held it in the palm of her hand.

There was only one way to find out.

There was only a small amount of blood left to test and she took the vial and squirted half a cc of serum into it.

And waited.

If she was right, the thick blood would react to the serum. Something out of science fiction.

She drew a small amount of the blood-serum mixture into a fresh syringe and squeezed a few drops onto a glass slide, which she placed under the microscope lens.

She watched as the red blood cells imploded, falling inward on themselves. She sat back, shocked.

It was not possible.

She was turning the vial of blood in her hands, mind working furiously, when she heard the commotion in the hall.

“Dr. Adams,” Emma burst through the door. “It’s Nora Mae.”

Nora was very still on the gurney, her eyes closed and breathing very shallowly.

“She just walked in,” Emma said.

“Nora,” Rachel said, and touched the woman’s thin arm.

Her eyes opened and she turned her head toward Rachel, and attempted a smile.

“How do you feel?”

The voice was raspy and weak. “I came back,” she said.

“We’re all glad you did. We’ve been worrying about you.

“No need.”

“Where did you go?” Emma asked. “There’ve been men out looking for you . . .”

“Right under their noses.” The smile was better this time. “But they didn’t see me.”

Rachel exchanged a look with Emma.

“We’re going to take you back to your room,” Rachel said, “and then you can tell us all about it.”

They settled her into the bed, removing her stained dress and underclothes. She smelled slightly sour and Emma washed her, dismayed by the obvious deterioration of her body. Soft skin, wrinkled and spotted, hung on her bones, her ribcage prominently delineated.

She was able to take some apple juice by mouth and then, satisfied, she lay back.

“Tell me,” Rachel said, sitting next to the bed and holding the woman’s small bony hand.

Nora looked at her sideways and her mouth twitched.

“Nora, why did you run away?” Rachel kept her voice soft and for a moment she thought that the old woman hadn’t heard.

“Someone is out there,” Nora rasped.

“And you knew before any of us.”

“I knew.” Her head turned so one eye could see Rachel.

“You told Tina Cruz that her husband was dead before anyone else knew it.”

“And . . . I warned Reverend Frey.”

Startled, Rachel stood up so she could see Nora’s face. “How do you know these things?”

“I see things sometimes. I tell people,” she gasped and a moment passed before she could continue. “They don’t believe me.”

“But you try to help them . . .”

“Some can’t be helped.” The eyes began to close.

“Nora, can you help me?”

“He’s still out there.”

“Do you know his name?”

She shook her head. “I don’t always know names.”

“What else can you tell me? How did all this start?”

“You’ve got him here,” Nora said, and coughed, her body wracked with spasms.

“The man in the shack?”

A barely perceptible nod.

Rachel leaned toward her. “You can tell me,” she said.

“You’ll know, soon.” Her voice was getting weaker.

“Please, tell me. What can I do?”

“You’ll know when the time comes,” Nora said.

Rachel watched her for a few minutes until she fell asleep.

Emma was waiting outside. “How is she?”

“Weak.”

“She told me . . . she came back to die.”

She stood just inside the door of Wendall Tyler’s room.

His condition had improved markedly. His temperature was ninety-nine point two, blood pressure 120 over 70, pulse and respiration normal.

It was frustrating.

Somewhere in his mind was an answer. He could not tell her—just as Nora would not.

She wanted to hypnotize him again, to delve into the secrets behind those closed eyes.

Before anyone else lost their life.

She had sent the deputy on an errand, to find something which wasn’t where she’d told him it would be.

She didn’t have very much time.

“Mr. Tyler, I want to know if you can hear me . . . open your eyes.”

His eyes opened but he stared straight ahead.

“Mr. Tyler, listen to me . . . A . . . B . . . C . . .”

She could see the relaxation in his body as his eyes closed again, his breathing deep and even.

“It’s very important that you listen to my voice. I’m going to take you back in time, back before the accident . . .” His face tensed suddenly. “Mr. Tyler, listen to my voice, you are completely relaxed, you are deeply asleep, and when you go back, it is only a dream. Only a dream and it can’t hurt you . . . nothing can hurt you.”

She looked at the small observation window; half-expecting to see a face looking in at her but there was no one.

“I want you to tell me, about your dream. All the pain that you remember in the dream is locked up, now, it’s in another room and there’s no way the pain can get to you. You can tell me the dream without being frightened, and without any pain. You are safe and I am with you. Do you feel safe? Nod your head if you understand me and you feel safe.”

She held her breath until he slowly nodded.

“Tell me about the dream, Mr. Tyler.”

There was a long pause.

“Louisa,” he said.

“Tell me the dream about Louisa.”

“She . . . wanted to look . . . for pine cones. We stopped.” His face changed, the corners of his mouth turning down.

“Go on,” she prompted, again looking at the door.

“Louisa . . . no . . . please?”

“Mr. Tyler, listen to me, you are safe and nothing can hurt you . . .”

“But Louisa! He’s got her . . .” Agony contorted his features.

“Don’t look at Louisa, look at him, tell me what he looks like . . .”

“No . . . no . . .” Tears rolled down his face.

“Listen to my voice. You are asleep and you are relaxed. The pain is gone . . .” She watched his face, looking for a sign that he was going deeper under but his features were grief-stricken. “Mr. Tyler, you must listen to me, it’s the only way I can help you. Look only at the man. Only at his face . . .”

“I can’t see his face.” His voice was marginally calmer.

“Then tell me what you can see,” she insisted.

“He’s . . . wearing a uniform . . .” He gasped and lunged forward. “His hands . . . on her throat . . . I can’t move . . . I can’t stop him, he . . . he . . . the sound, my God, the sound . . .”

“Mr. Tyler, one . . . two . . .” he was coming up, “You will feel very relaxed and very good . . . three.”

For a moment he stared straight ahead and then his eyes closed. Within seconds he was asleep.

When the deputy returned she apologized profusely for having sent him for something she just remembered she’d left at home. On the way out she looked back at him, at the uniform he wore.

She sat at the nurse’s station while Emma went down to unlock the Emergency door for the cook.

It wasn’t coming together.

She drew circles on the back of a vitals sheet, letting her mind work.

The man in the shack had some type of virus which acted on the chemical balance of the brain, possibly destroying the Serotonin. Without it, the brain became over-stimulated, producing depression, suicidal impulses and aggressive behavior.

For some reason, certain victims, like Amanda Frey and the man in the uniform, became dangerously aggressive and impulsive, while others, like Franklin Dunn and Laura Gentry only became destructive to themselves.

Of course, Amanda received the blood containing the virus directly . . .

She sat up, breaking the point of the pencil.

“That’s it . . .” She got to her feet and started down the hall to the lab. The man could have received the blood by transfusion also.

If the phones were working, she would just call Nathan and ask. Emma . . . even if Emma could tell her who else had received blood within the past two weeks, and there couldn’t be that many who had, it wouldn’t mean anything unless it was the same donor.

She ran the rest of the way.

She flipped through the pink slips, her eyes scanning the donor identification line.

“Eighty-two, eighty-two . . .” There were several slips for Amanda Frey and she put them aside.

And there it was, Donor number 82-563.

Recipient, Daniel Hudson. Administered on the day that Louisa Ann Tyler had been killed.

She had to get this information to Jon. Something about the name was familiar but only vaguely.

She damned the phones once again and as she started down the hall to use the radio, the lights dimmed and went out.

EIGHTY-SIX

Jon had just arrived back at the office when the lights failed.

“What next,” he muttered and went to the windows, pulling back the wooden blinds and letting sunlight into the room. He stood, looking out.

Whoever it was wanted to play.

He could feel anger building and he repressed it. He had to remain in control, to keep his head, to be effective. Not that he was doing that well so far.

He looked at the stack of papers on his desk. Without much interest, he picked up an envelope from records and opened it.

A copy of title for that abandoned cabin where Melissa Davis had been found.

Owner was Nora Mae Samuels.

She was in the house.

The closet door had not just fallen open; somehow she got into that bedroom. A hidden door? It had to be.

She probably was hiding when the Davis girl had been killed; she might have seen the whole thing.

It was suddenly urgent that he find Nora Samuels.

EIGHTY-SEVEN

Joyce watched from across the room as Nathan slept fretfully, tossing and turning, his face damp with sweat. He had seemed to be better for a while but now there was little doubt that it wasn’t over yet.

She’d been giving him aspirin for the fever, and Penicillin for the infection on his wrist but she knew it was more than that. There was a look about him.

He belonged in the hospital. Particularly now, with the phone and the lights out, he needed to be somewhere with more sophisticated methods of treatment than she could provide.

She sensed that he was nearing a crisis point.

His blood pressure was up, his pulse quickening, his respirations rapid and increasingly labored.

He was quiet now but she knew better than to assume he would stay this way long.

But now, while he was still, she would go out to his truck and use the radio to call the hospital.

She crossed the room to the door and reached for the doorknob, looking back over her shoulder at him. He was not moving but she sensed an awareness, as though he knew what she was doing.

It frightened her. She pulled the door open and stepped outside, leaning against the door when it was closed and wishing absurdly that there was some way she could lock it.

There was no time to waste.

She went outside into the sun, somehow surprised that the morning could be so clear and beautiful even as she felt an increasing sense of danger.

The truck was unlocked and she climbed in, closing the door behind and now locking both doors, taking a second to look out at the world from her new-found haven. Nothing was moving; no wind-stirred branches, no birds in flight, nothing.

She picked up the microphone and turned the radio on, listening for a moment to the dead air.

What if she had to drive up the road to use the radio? She closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat.

As much as she loved him, she wasn’t sure she could go back in the house to get the keys. She could not deny her own fear.

Then she noticed that the band-indicator was on “comm” and she switched it to the hospital band, hearing at once the broken voices. She couldn’t really understand much of what they were saying but she hoped she would be able to transmit.

If not, she was staying where she was.

There was nothing she could do for him now.

EIGHTY-EIGHT

Rachel was half-way up the darkened hall when the emergency generator clicked on, supplying power to essential equipment and only a small number of lights.

“Dr. Adams,” Emma came out of Nora’s room, peering down the hall towards her. “Is that you?”

“What is it?”

“Nora . . . she’s worse.”

Light from the courtyard shone into the room, bathing Nora in a golden glow and Rachel stopped for an instant, struck by the sight.

“Nora,” she said, coming to the side of the bed and taking the frail wrist. The pulse was irregular and bounding. She turned to Emma. “Get the cardiac cart in here.”

Emma ran from the room.

“Don’t,” Nora said.

“Nora, I can help you.”

“No . . . it’s time.” She smiled weakly. “And . . . I don’t like needles.”

Rachel searched her face and was satisfied by what she saw. Emma burst into the room, pushing the metal cart and Rachel caught her eyes, shaking her head.

“Do you want something for pain?” Rachel asked, moving her hand down to cover Nora’s.

Nora’s lips moved, forming the word no.

“Then I’ll just wait with you.”

Nora didn’t answer and her eyes closed. Her breathing began to slow.

Emma stood at the end of the bed, her hands clasped in front of her, a smile on her face.

The light brightened, Nora’s white hair appearing like spun silver, the fine lines of her face softer and now she turned her head toward the light, toward Rachel.

Nora opened her eyes, which sparkled with curiosity and held no fear. She squeezed Rachel’s hand.

“I give it to you,” Nora said.

Warmth spread through Rachel’s body and she gasped.

Nora smiled and stopped breathing.

Rachel laid the lifeless hand beside the body and stood, waiting for the light to fade.

Emma was at her side and neither spoke, knowing no words equal to the moment.

Finally, they left the room, closing the door behind.

Then Emma went to tend the other patients and Rachel went to the radio console, preparing to call Jon with the name of the man she somehow knew without question was the killer in the woods.

EIGHTY-NINE

The cabin was exactly as he had left it and he went directly into the bedroom and opened the closet door, barely looking at the blood-stained floor.

He stepped into the closet and began to run his hands along the walls, feeling for a seam or a crack. The hinges obviously had to be on the other side. Nothing.

He looked down at the floor. If he hadn’t known what he was looking for, he would never have seen it.

The floor of the closet was wood squares, parquet, carefully inlaid into a bordered plank. It was almost impossible to see the lines along the hidden door.

He looked around the room for something to pry the door open and then smiled. Hanging on a hook at the back of the closet was an old-fashioned shoe horn. Just like Nora to leave it staring him in the face.

It was a perfect fit and he lifted the trap door and looked down into a very dark basement.

He went back to the truck for a flashlight and to check in with dispatch but the radio was silent.

He half-expected Nora to come darting out the door but there was no movement or sound as he re-entered the house.

As long as she wasn’t dead down there.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs and flashed the beam of light around the small room he was both relieved and puzzled. Relieved that she wasn’t dead and puzzled that she wasn’t there.

It was clear that she had been hiding in the room; cans and jars were opened and the remnants of the food were not spoiled yet.

He shone the light along the walls, wondering if she had yet another secret room but the bricks were solid when he tapped them.

Where had she gone?

As he turned to go back up the stairs he noticed some markings on the wall beside them. He stood and ran the light across them.

It appeared to be some sort of a code, with shapes and strange lines representing words. He read the words but there was no sense to them and he shrugged.

Nora and her magic.

He went back up the stairs, leaving the door open. The air was a little stale and he would give it a while to clear out before he came back and took a set of pictures.

Meanwhile, he would drive back down to the road to let them know where he was and what he’d found. Or didn’t find.

NINETY

Rachel pumped the accelerator in the Porsche, coaxing it to start. It caught once and died and she thought briefly that she should have bought something a little less temperamental. Then it caught again and the engine purred.

She waited impatiently for it to warm up.

Joyce had sounded panic-stricken over the radio. Little of what she said made sense but the desperation came through.

She should have known.

She eased the gearshift into reverse and backed up slowly, feeling the slight hesitation that warned her the car was not ready to be driven. But she gave it a little more gas and shifted to low, taking off with a spray of gravel behind.

Nathan’s infection was not airborne, as were the milder cases. The point of entry was the wound on his arm; very likely it was contaminated by the blood of one of the victims.

He would be in much more danger than the others.

Why hadn’t she realized this before?

She pushed steadily on the gas and began to speed down the deserted road toward the house, hoping that she’d make it in time.

Joyce was waiting, as she’d said she would be, in Nathan’s truck in the yard. Rachel parked alongside and got out, taking her medical bag with her.

“I’m sorry,” Joyce said, getting out of the truck.

“He hasn’t come out?”

Joyce shook her head no. “Are you going in there without help?” Her eyes were wide as she looked at the house.

“I don’t think I have any choice.” She put the medical bag on the car and opened it, reaching in and withdrawing a sterile-pack syringe. She tore the paper off and then looked through the bag for an eighteen gauge needle which she attached.

“What are you going to give him?” Joyce sounded a little calmer.

“A very strong sedative.” Rachel met her eyes. “There’s nothing else I can do, really, except keep him from hurting himself, or anyone else.” She withdrew a vial and pushed off the thin aluminum guard with her thumb. She pushed the needle through the rubber stopper and turned the bottle up, injecting air into the liquid to form a vacuum. Then she drew the drug down into the barrel of the syringe.

Joyce watched in silence.

Rachel capped the syringe and tossed the vial back into the bag.

“Do you want me to come?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Rachel slipped the syringe into her pocket, and felt the small black book there. She had almost forgotten it.

“I’ll come.” Joyce looked at the house and back at Rachel. “I don’t think I could wait out here, not knowing.”

Rachel pushed the front door open and stood listening. When she heard nothing she nodded at Joyce and stepped into the house.

There was, as Joyce said, a feeling in the air.

They moved stealthily up the stairs, taking each step slowly, careful not to make a sound. When they reached the top of the landing Rachel took the needle out of her pocket and shielded it in her hand.

Now they stood in front of the door to his room. There was little light in this part of the hallway and they were still, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dimness.

Rachel put her hand on the doorknob and twisted it slowly, hoping to muffle the click when it released. She felt it give way and she looked at Joyce whose face was deadly pale, and then she pushed the door open.

He was not in the bed.

She heard the sharp intake of breath beside her as her eyes searched the room. Joyce’s cold fingers closed around her wrist.

He was standing in the corner nearest the door, only a few feet away. His face was blank of recognition and his hair spiked wildly about his head. There was nothing in his eyes.

“Nathan,” Rachel said and stepped into the room, facing him.

He didn’t move.

She heard Joyce moan deep in her throat but she did not take her eyes from Nathan’s face.

He did not seem to see her.

In his hand he held a broken glass, the edges ragged and deadly. She could see blood running from a cut on the palm of his left hand.

She did not believe that he meant to use it as a weapon. She moved slowly toward him.

“Nathan,” she said again.

Now he looked at her as she came closer, making no move to raise the glass but not seeming to recognize her. Little drops of blood were dripping onto the floor.

She smiled at him and lifted her left hand up, open, drawing his eyes with it. She was very close now and she slipped a fingernail under the needle guard and pushed it off. Then under his dead gaze she took his right arm and injected the drug directly into the vein. Then she stood back.

The glass dropped from his hand as he slumped to the floor.

NINETY-ONE

Jon pulled out onto the main road, driving up until there was a clearing of trees and stopping there. The radio was now giving off the fine static of an open band. As he reached for the microphone he looked in the rearview mirror and was startled to see Earl driving up behind him. He pulled the emergency brake and jumped down from the truck.

“Jon,” Earl called out the window, waiting for him to walk back.

“What’re you doing out here?” Jon asked.

“I put those barricades up where the road gave way and while I was snooping around, look what I found.” He passed out a metal case.

Jon looked at him and took the case, flipping the catches and opened it up. A single stick of dynamite.

“Someone blasted the road,” Jon said.

“I didn’t think it had rained enough the other night to cause a slide,” Earl said. “But look at the case.”

Jon examined it. “Forestry?”

Earl nodded. “No seal but that’s what it is all right.”

“Interesting.”

“That got me to thinking; there’s a forest access road which runs down the back side of the mountain. I think I can get down that way to report the power failure and the rest of it. Maybe get a crew up here . . .”

“Go ahead, then.”

“The only problem is, if I go, you’re on your own. Neither Andy or Eric are radio-equipped, and with no phones . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. The sooner we can get some service restored the better.”

“All right . . . just don’t go taking any chances.” Earl shifted into reverse and pulled back, turning in the road and driving off with a wave.

Jon looked at the metal case.

He got back into the truck and put the case on the seat, hesitating as he reached for the radio mike.

Things seemed to be pointing toward the park.

He called dispatch, repeating his destination twice but there was no response. Sometimes the console was left unattended for a minute while nature called, but seldom longer.

He released the brake and began to turn in the road. He would start toward the park station, and call dispatch from there.

Nora’s secret would have to wait.

NINETY-TWO

After they got Nathan back into bed and Rachel had dressed the cut on his hand they went through the room, removing sharp objects and the glass items they found.

“Will he be all right?” Joyce whispered.

“I think so. I’ll keep him sedated until I can talk to someone who knows how best to counteract his illness.”

“It is an illness?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She looked at his still form. “It might be as simple as giving him a chemical supplement. Or . . . he might require dialysis to remove the impurities from his blood. I don’t know.”

“Thank God you were able to stop him . . .”

“I’m going to leave you the sedative,” Rachel said, going to the door. “I have to get in touch with Jon . . .” She paused. “Do you know who Daniel Hudson is?”

Joyce nodded. “One of the forest rangers. The one who’s been missing.”

“Of course, I knew I’d heard the name . . . listen, come down to the car with me. He’ll be all right alone now.”

Once at the car Rachel handed Joyce two bottles of Nembutal and several disposable needles. “I gave him a substantial dose, so you may only need to give half as much.” She closed the bag and tossed it into the car.

“Thank you,” Joyce said and watched as she got in and started the engine.

She switched from the hospital band to emergency and called the dispatcher.

“This is Dr. Rachel Adams,” she said. “It’s important that I reach Sheriff Scott.”

The nasal voice filled the car and she turned the volume down. “He’s off the air . . . ten-twenty is near the junction of Crest Road and the state park . . . looking for Nora Samuels.”

There was no point in telling her that Nora was dead so she acknowledged and turned back to the hospital band.

She drove slowly along Crest Road, hoping to catch sight of the Bronco. Nothing. She was near the boundary to the park and she turned around, going back for another look.

Fresh tire tracks going off to the left.

She stopped opposite them and looked up an overgrown dirt road. This had to be it.

Her car would not make it over the brush and she got out and locked it, looking both ways down the deserted road before crossing.

There was no sound to be heard.

It was quite a distance back to the cabin and when she reached it, it was at once obvious that Jon had been and gone. The door to the small building was standing open and she debated going in.

It was important to find him and let him know about Hudson, but there was something about the gaping door.

She looked around the clearing, still hesitant. There was nothing to be gained by wasting time, she thought, and started up the steps. A few minutes, no more.

She stood looking at the bloodstains on the wood floor. This was where the Davis girl was killed. Why would Jon look for Nora here?

Then she saw the opened trap door in the closet.

She stepped into the darkness, depending on her sense of touch as she felt her way down the stairs and into the small room.

If someone was hiding down here, they would have to have a source of light.

She moved her hands along the walls, along what was a bed of some sort and there, hidden beneath the folds of a blanket, was a lantern. She knelt and swept her hands across the floor just under the bed, and was rewarded by the discovery of a book of matches. She struck one and lit the lantern. Then, holding it up, she turned around in the middle of the floor, watching as the light cast its glow on the meager furnishings.

And on the wall.

Immediately she recognized the markings as being identical to the ones found at the shack. She crossed the room for a closer look, holding the lantern high. Her eyes darted from one sign to another, reading the words beside them.

Her free hand went into her pocket and she pulled out the black notebook, but there was not enough light to read the small print.

She stared at the figures on the wall, committing them to memory, at least until she could get back to the car and write them down.

She ran to the car, fumbling with the key when she got there, her breath ragged. When she got it unlocked, she was in the seat and starting the car in one fluid motion. She had to get back to the house and get the clay figures, and then she had to find Jon.

But first . . . she shifted back to neutral . . . she had to draw the figures in the little black book.

NINETY-THREE

Jon parked the Bronco and sat for a moment, surveying the empty lot, trying to decide the best way to get to the supply building which was situated a good thirty feet back from the Quonset hut.

There wasn’t a best way. He would just have to take his chances. With luck, no one would be watching.

He looked up at the tower. If someone was up there, it would take them a while to get down, and they would be in clear view along the way.

It would be better if he acted as if nothing was wrong, so he got out of the truck, gun still holstered, and walked at a normal pace toward the hut. There he checked the door, which was locked as he’d left it, and then headed back to the supply building.

The door opened and he stepped inside, leaving it open and crossing to the security trunks in the back. Where the dynamite was kept.

He had known it was here, under lock and key, since if by chance a fire swept through the area he would have to keep people out of an explosion zone, but the threat was somehow more benign then.

One of the trunks was opened, the lock on the floor in front of it.

He picked up the lock and turned it over in his hands. It had not been forced, nor could it have been picked. Someone had used a key.

Malloy’s keys had not been found.

Malloy . . . or Hudson.

He reached into the trunk and lifted a metal case of dynamite, hefting it, then looked back out the open door. He tucked the case under his arm and closed the trunk, fitting the lock in place and securing it.

When he left the building he put his own lock on the door and then he walked back to the truck, making no attempt to hide the distinctive metal case in his hand.

He climbed back in the truck and closed the door, picking up the microphone to radio dispatch while scanning the area as discreetly as possible for any signs of movement.

He began his preparations.

When he had finished he got back out of the truck, taking the metal case and the rifle from the side mount alongside the front seat. He put extra ammunition into his pockets, and walked toward the woods.

NINETY-FOUR

There wasn’t time to tell Joyce what was happening and she was grateful that she didn’t bombard her with questions.

She threw everything into her medical bag after having emptied it of most of its contents and hurried back down the stairs. She’d left the car idling and now she pulled a tight turn, heading back for the main road.

She didn’t slow down as she made the turn from the driveway onto the road and the little car hung close to the road as she floored it.

Jon was at the park.

She parked alongside the Bronco and got out, grabbing the medical bag and trying to guess which way he had gone.

If he didn’t suspect Hudson, and came upon him, he would probably not have his guard up. But Jon always had his guard up and for once she was grateful for his lawman’s discipline.

Now, all she had to do was find him in a deserted national park.

She decided to go west, toward the sun, which was beginning its descent.

She and Tim had played hide and seek in these woods, so many years before. The strong fragrance of the evergreens, then as now, filled her with a heightened awareness of being. There was no rush of time, of minutes passing too quickly, only the joy of now.

She could feel her feelings of long ago, held captive by the rich combination of earth and sky and the forest. Exhilaration and wonder, lungs aching with fullness as she gulped the fresh air.

It was the best place to hide.

She must think of it now, as a child. All of the places to hide. How had she found her brother?

It all came flooding back to her and she turned her eyes to the ground, looking for signs that someone had passed this way.

He was moving very carefully, barely leaving any signs at all but before long she could almost anticipate what his next move would be.

She sat on her heels, examining a small seedling which had two tiny branches caught together. She separated them gently, seeing which way the branch had been pushed.

He was moving more or less in a straight path, deviating only when required by the trees. Going somewhere, not just wandering, his stride long and even.

She was getting close.

She had to be careful that he didn’t hear her following. The deeper they went into the forest, the thicker the layer of needles on the ground. There was always the chance that something was beneath the pine needles; cones or dead branches from the small trees and brush.

She chose her footing cautiously and continued along.

She was not afraid any longer.

Finally she could see him in the distance, still moving purposefully ahead.

They were not far from the old quarry.

There was not much farther to go.

The caves honeycombed through the granite face of the cliff, dug, it was thought, by ancient Indians.

She saw him stop suddenly and turn around, looking in her direction but she was too quick for him and she took cover behind the brush.

Then he disappeared.

Into the caves?

It didn’t matter.

He would come back when she called.

When she felt the hand touch her, she smiled and turned.

“Jon,” she said.

NINETY-FIVE

“How did you know it was me?” he asked when they moved back to the cover of the trees.

“Your aftershave.”

“And . . . what in hell are you doing out here?”

“You know who that was?”

“I can guess—Hudson.”

She nodded. “I know what’s been happening, the whole thing started with that John Doe . . .”

“Him?”

“Look.” She dug the black book out of her medical bag and flipped open the pages. “These are the dates and places he’s been . . . Brisbane, 1980, Cape Horn, 1981, Johannesburg, 1981, do you see a pattern there?”

Jon considered and shook his head. “Nothing except that he got around pretty well for a bum.”

“He wasn’t a bum, he was a sailor. But that’s not important. In every one of these places he lists in here, and it goes back to 1967, there’s been an outbreak of sorts.”

“Outbreak?”

“They’ve blamed it on the flu virus of whatever season, but it was no ordinary flu . . .”

“He was a carrier of some kind?”

“The carrier. I know about the epidemics because that’s what interests me, but I would bet anything that if you looked at police records for the same period of time, you’d find an increase in violent crime. Murders, in particular.”

“I don’t see . . .”

“There’s a legend that turns up in culture after culture, generation after generation . . . it’s the taint.”

“What?”

“The taint . . . bad blood . . . the evil . . . there are people who are shunned by their neighbors, because the mark is upon them.”

“Superstition, do you mean?”

“Legend, superstition.” She leaned forward. “In some cultures they would kill the infant if a seer determined that the blood was tainted.”

“And you’re saying this is fact?”

“I’m saying that the man brought whatever it was with him . . . and that’s what happened to Hudson, and Amanda Frey.” At his look, she continued: “He was selling his blood, the puncture wounds on his arm were made by fairly large bore needles. Both Hudson and Amanda received blood transfusions from the same donor.”

“But how do you know it was him?”

“You remember the markings on the dirt floor of the shack?”

He nodded.

She opened the book to the last page where she had crudely drawn the markings on Nora’s basement wall.

“These were at the cabin . . .” he said.

“And . . . they were at the shack. Nora drew these without ever having seen them.” She paused, looking toward the setting sun. “Maybe she was a seer.”

“But they don’t make any sense,” he protested.

“Not if you try to read them clockwise, which is the way most people would read a circular drawing. But . . .” Her finger ran a geometric design. “He suffers the taint, he calls the beast.”

“Rachel,” he said, “none of this is proof.”

“That’s what he was doing when he died, those shapes on the floor, the markings, the clay figures—he was calling the beast.”

“But he died . . . why would he bring on his own death?”

“Just like Nora . . . she came back to die.”

“Wait a minute, Nora’s dead?”

“Yes. She knew it was her time . . . and so did the sailor. He performed a ritual to summon the beast.”

Jon was silent, watching her.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but humor me. There is something in the blood which somehow interferes with the production of a chemical in the brain called Serotonin. If there isn’t enough of the chemical in the brain, the brain becomes overstimulated. The person can react in several ways; they can become depressed, suicidal, impulsive, and . . . aggressive.”

“This is fact or . . .”

“It’s not a product of my fevered imagination.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “None of this is.”

Finally he nodded. “You’re the doctor.”

“It explains everything . . . a lot of people just got sick but those who were most directly exposed were most adversely affected.”

“What about the victims? Why didn’t they fight back or scream?”

“That I don’t know. It might be fear, or the certainty that they were going to die . . .”

“Then there’s a chance that we could react the same way if he got close enough . . . just let him kill us.” He looked at the caves.

“No,” she said softly, pulling the clay figures out of the bag.

He turned back to look at her, eyes questioning.

“I’m going to call the beast.”

NINETY-SIX

They waited until the sun had set and then Jon left, disappearing into the dark.

Rachel sat, smoothing the loose soil with the blade of a knife, over and over until she was satisfied with the evenness of the dirt.

She took a small white candle and lit it, dripping wax on a flat stone until there was enough to make a bond, and she held the candle while the wax cooled.

She had gathered a small bundle of dried grass and now she separated it into piles, taking the first and first wrapping a single length of it around the rest midway along the bundle. Her hands moved quickly, shaping legs, arms, weaving strands of it until she had the body. Then she placed it on the ground and began a second one. A piece of grass sliced into the tender skin beneath her thumbnail, drawing blood and she sucked it briefly before finishing the body.

Now she took the knife and began to draw the triangle, cutting deep into the soil, making it as straight as she could. Then the circle, carefully encompassing the points of the triangle.

She could hear the song in her mind, the lilt of the flute and she made the sound in her throat. The darkness deepened.

She reached into the bag which was at her side and drew out a small bag of salt, sprinkling it three times around the circle, and in the triangle as well.

The candle flickered and she stuck the tip of the knife into the dirt, beginning the first symbol. Her movements were precise and sure and she made them according to the order.

Now the clay figures.

First the snake, coiled and treacherous.

The lizard opposite, the monster’s jaw.

The hyena, eater of carrion and coward.

Foam dripped from the wolf’s fangs.

Mindless rage pulsed from the bear’s red eyes.

Now, at the corners of the triangle:

The raven, the omen of evil and flight from retribution.

The lynx, keen shining eyes keeping watch.

And the beast, blood dripping down its face from each eye, horned and terrible.

Now it was done. She leaned forward and blew out the candle, sitting in the dark, waiting for him to come.

NINETY-SEVEN

Jon waited until he saw Hudson come out of the cave and head for the flickering candlelight before he moved.

He couldn’t see the face as Hudson passed by him but he thought he saw a glistening in the eyes.

The man walked lightly, sure-footed even in the dark.

When he was gone, Jon went into the caves, working quickly, feeling the need to finish and get back down to where Rachel was.

He didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone but they had agreed that they had to draw Hudson out to them, to meet him on their terms, and not to be taken by surprise.

He was unable to clear his mind of the image of Randy Cruz letting the man hack him to death.

Now he stood at the entrance of the cave, looking out, trying to determine if Hudson had turned back and might be lurking outside.

David Burroughs had been killed first, leaving his wife to Hudson. His stomach twisted.

Nothing was moving so he left the cave, keeping low to the ground, half-running as he headed toward the light.

Then he stopped, dropping to his knees.

Hudson was just ahead, standing only twenty feet to the right of the candlelight, which suddenly was gone.

NINETY-EIGHT

She sensed him and her heart began to pound. She could not let him see her fear and she swallowed hard before getting to her feet and turning to face him.

He was in the shadows.

“I know who you are,” she said, surprised that her voice was steady.

He did not move.

“I know what you’ve done.”

Her words hung in the air between them, unanswered. He was still.

She searched her mind for something to draw him in.

“They will find you,” she said then.

He took a single step closer, face still in darkness.

“They will destroy you.”

He laughed then, a wild, unbelieving laugh, and the three-quarter moon peeked over the treetops, bringing his face into view.

She didn’t know what she had expected but except for the eyes and the twisted smile, he looked like anyone else. He was wearing the ranger uniform and until you looked into the eyes, he was . . . normal.

She found that as frightening as anything else.

It meant that he could be anonymous. He could disappear in a crowd.

He took another step and the laughter stopped, his mouth straightening into a determined line. His eyes glinted in the moonglow.

She stared into his eyes, watching as he approached her.

Jon appeared from nowhere.

“Stop,” he commanded.

Hudson hesitated but kept on walking toward her, his eyes seeming to glow red.

Behind them, the caves rocked with an explosion, black smoke billowing from deep inside, fragments of stone hurtling through the air.

Hudson turned and directed his gaze at Jon.

“There are other places,” he said mildly.

Jon held up the metal dynamite case. “That was only part of it. I’m ready to kill us all to keep you from getting away.”

Hudson looked at Rachel and back at Jon.

“I think not.”

Jon knelt, keeping his eyes on Hudson and opened the case, extracting one of the sticks packed inside.

“Try me.” He flicked a cigarette lighter and held it six inches from the fuse. The flame moved with the night breeze.

Hudson took another step toward Rachel and Jon touched the flame to the fuse, which caught, sparking brightly in the silent clearing. Jon held it away from his body.

“It’s only a minute fuse,” he said. And he drew his gun, leveling it on Hudson who now turned toward him.

Rachel reached into her pocket and drew out the thin-bladed scalpel, moving quickly up behind Hudson. She grabbed around him, pulling his head back and exposing his neck, the scalpel slicing cleanly across the jugular vein.

Hudson’s eyes widened and he sank to his knees, watching as Jon tossed the burning stick a short distance away.

Then the phosphorus signal flare began to burn, its smell filling the air.

Hudson closed his bulging eyes and died.

The flare cast brilliant white light across the scene.

They hung him upside down and let the blood drain from his body, spilling into the earth.

Then Rachel shattered the clay figures and kicked the soil, covering the shape and symbols. She tossed the grass to the wind and ripped the pages out of the black book, handing them to Jon who burned them in a pile above the blood-dampened ground.

NINETY-NINE

They did not speak as they walked back through the forest, listening as the night came alive with sound. The crickets’ song filled the air.

He took her hand and brought it to his face and then stopped, pulling her to him and holding her tightly.

She listened to the beat of his heart and cherished the sound of it.

When they got, finally, to where they had parked she got without comment into the truck.

He stood for a moment, looking around the abandoned park and then climbed up into the truck and turned to her.

“It is over, isn’t it?”

“Soon. I may have to take Nathan for treatment, but I think he’s the last one.”

“What about Tyler?”

“It may never be over for him.”

He examined her face. “You took an awful chance out there tonight.”

“I couldn’t be sure whether he could control both of us at once. I didn’t know how long we could resist.”

“But you were right . . . I don’t think I could have pulled the trigger. I was . . . numb?”

She kissed him gently.

“I know,” she said.

He started the engine and turned around, the headlights casting shadows through the trees.

The town was dark, no lights visible anywhere. There were no cars on the roads and no one about.

Behind the locked doors they slept, lightly, ready to wake at the faintest sound, ready to shoot whoever would be so foolish to venture out in a town under siege.

But it was over, for here, for now.

EPILOGUE

(AP) San Francisco—A nineteen year old hemophiliac patient in Mercy General Hospital is being held in connection with the slayings of three nurses and one patient. Kurt Evans was removed to the county jail prison ward following what authorities termed “the worst carnage this city’s seen in twenty years.” A witness who requested anonymity reported that the victims were mutilated beyond recognition. Evans was hospitalized for a routine blood transfusion when the slayings occurred.

Cemetery Dance Publications

Be sure to visit CemeteryDance.com for more information about all of our great horror and suspense eBooks, along with our collectible signed Limited Edition hardcovers and our award winning magazine.

Our authors include Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Ray Bradbury, Peter Straub, William Peter Blatty, Justin Cronin, Frank Darabont, Mick Garris, Joe R. Lansdale, Norman Partridge, Richard Laymon, Michael Slade, Graham Masterton, Douglas Clegg, Jack Ketchum, William F. Nolan, Nancy A. Collins, Al Sarrantonio, John Skipp, and many others.

www.CemeteryDance.com

Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Thursday
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Friday
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Saturday
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Sunday
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Monday
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Tuesday
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Wednesday
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Sixty-nine
Seventy
Seventy-one
Seventy-two
Seventy-three
Thursday2
Seventy-four
Seventy-five
Seventy-six
Seventy-seven
Seventy-eight
Seventy-nine
Eighty
Eighty-one
Eighty-two
Friday2
Eighty-three
Eighty-four
Eighty-five
Eighty-six
Eighty-seven
Eighty-eight
Eighty-nine
Ninety
Ninety-one
Ninety-two
Ninety-three
Ninety-four
Ninety-five
Ninety-six
Ninety-seven
Ninety-eight
Ninety-nine
Epilogue
Cemetery Dance Publications