WISHES

WISHES by G.W. Huber

WISHES Published by Gregory W. Huber Copyright Š 2011 by Gregory W. Huber, Allentown, PA., USA No part of this eBook may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to huber.gw@gmail.com The author encourages comment and correspondence to huber.gw@gmail.com

WISHES by G. W. Huber

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CHAPTER ONE

Morgan McGlade sipped Jameson from a rocks glass as he made his way through the upstairs hall of his home. The doctor lived in a large Victorian on one of the oldest streets in Hampton.

The estate had been in his family for generations. In his younger days, he had devoted much of his time to its repair and renovation. After medical school, he'd relegated most of that effort to landscapers and contractors. These days, the lawn and garden were mostly overrun while a cleaning lady tended to the rest.

Autumn was fast taking hold and Doctor McGlade was turning on the heat in unused rooms.

The day's high had peaked at more than sixty, but tonight's low promised to be in the thirties.

Earlier, he had seen fit to cover the inside of some windows with plastic insulation. That left the evening for making the trek to turn on radiators. Even if these rooms were empty, he couldn't risk the cold settling in.

He supposed, as he stopped to fight off the stiffness of old bones with a bite of his Irish whiskey, that this was a rite of sorts. Not something to be consigned to others, this tradition of stoking the heat room to room was meant for the master of the house. Indeed, he could recall

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accompanying his father on such excursions many years ago. There had been a new furnace or two since then, but he rejected the idea of central air conditioning. The practice in summer had always been ceiling fans and open windows, except in his office and a few other rooms where he had, in recent years, conceded to window a/c units. This minor acquiescence to cooling kept things comfortable enough in the warm season and the bulky old radiators could not, in his mind, be beat even by the two fireplaces he would tend later in winter.

So, here he was, reduced to menial labor in order to heat rooms that had long ago given up their occupancy to silence and vacuity. Stooping to turn valves with bony fingers and complaining wrists, he was forced to suffer worse indignities. Moving from empty space to empty space brought him near quarters that, although unoccupied for some forty years, had never fallen silent. Day after day, the simple constant existence of those rooms fueled unbearably painful memories. The past pressed upon him more forcefully than the present, as his duties brought him to the second floor parlor.

Draining his glass of the courage he would need to face this particular chamber, he fumbled for the old brass key in his pocket. He carried this token with him everyday–-a talisman, a reminder, a penance–-although he rarely used it. Remembering he kept a bottle in there, he hurried the opener to the lock. He would twist valves and test temperatures, and then he would drink booze and reminisce with ghosts. It was the very least atonement he could make.

When he opened the door, he was immediately met at the threshold. Ages gone by gripped him and yanked him inside. Instinctively, he closed the door behind him. It was a directed effort to keep the past and present apart. Possibly, this quarantine was the only thing that had let him live and had allowed him to function in a seemingly sane life all these years. Be that as it may, he was wan to escape the specters. They had hold of him every time he stepped in here.

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The inside was different than it had been all those fateful years ago. Still, the arrangement of new furnishings and carpet mimicked the placement of the old things. It was not hard for his mind to see the room as it had been, superimposed over the reality of new wood and fabric. No one except himself and a scant few workmen had ever seen this new interior. Access had been denied since the day he and Tony Stahl had set it right and sealed it shut.

It was not unusual that the doctor and the carpenter had known one another. After all, he'd been the physician for nearly the entire town as had been his father and grandfather before him.

He had birthed the younger Stahl who Tony had called Anthony because, he'd said, calling him Tony would be too much like talking to himself and Junior was not a real name. As well, Tony Stahl was the best carpenter in two counties despite his reputation for drinking and being too quick to put his fists to people, including his wife.

Being otherwise occupied, Doc McGlade had handed over a large part of the care and maintenance of his home to Tony. It was only logical that he'd chosen the best woodwright around, and it afforded him an opportunity to keep a close eye on the man. The latter was practical because McGlade was having an affair with Stahl's wife and had been, in fact, for years.

The arrangement between the doctor and the carpenter's wife had been born of love, at least on Morgan's part. McGlade had fallen for Kay Stahl at first sight. Fighting the attraction, for him, had proven futile. Kay was a lovely blonde with eyes the depth and color of the sea. Given to migraines and bouts of depression, she had often fallen under his care. He was tender and compassionate. Kay, for her part, was needy.

It had been the late sixties, but still, in those days, especially in towns like Hampton, Pa., one did not take their emotional strains and stresses to a counselor or psychiatrist. That sort of

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remedy was found either at church or the office of your general practitioner. For Kay, it was also found in his bed.

Marrying Tony Stahl had given Kay an escape from some prior unhappiness to which she had never put a definition. It hadn't taken long for her to become unhappy in her marriage to Tony, as well. She found her husband to be brutally boring except for the times when he was violent.

He was miserly with money and when she would threaten to leave he would beat her and lock her in the attic. Jumping into the doctor's arms was not so much an act of love for her as it was an act of survival.

McGlade paid substantial wages to Stahl and kept him inordinately active with the business of the house. Of course, all the overtime was a diversion so he could rendezvous with Kay as often as possible. However, if the affair with the doctor was anything more than an arrangement of convenience, Kay never told. Even in the throes of passion she never pledged her heart to Morgan. All the same, Morgan was smitten and his heart was on his sleeve. Tony Stahl could not help but see it there.

In the second floor parlor, where an old Morgan McGlade now sucked greedily on whiskey, they would most often come together. Like a love-struck teenager, he simply could not get enough time alone with her. On that terrible day, that lived on and on in his memory, she had come to find him. # Kay was breathless, flushed with anxiety.

"I can't take it any longer, Morgan," she'd said. "He's cruel and abusive, and he's started turning the boy against me."

"Anthony?" The doctor was astonished.

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"Yes. Anthony, my son."

"How is that possible?" he asked. "The boy is only three years old, Kay. How could Tony turn a three year old against his mother?"

"I can't say exactly how or when," she responded. "But he's affected my son. He's changed towards me because of something Tony's said or done. I just know it."

She shook and tightened herself as Morgan attempted to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Guilt, he knew, was eating at her. Perhaps the stress of her relationship with Tony and the deceit of their affair was becoming too much. At that moment, all he could do was to medicate the symptoms as he'd been doing for some time.

"Okay, my darling. Try and settle yourself. I've got something in my bag for your nerves.

We'll figure it out. Everything will be all right. You'll see."

Morgan handed Kay a small white envelope filled with little blue pills. He realized that she was probably becoming dependent on the drugs, but it seemed a small habituation in comparison to his addiction to her. If she unraveled, it all unraveled and he couldn't risk losing her in the entanglement. With her sedated, he could mollify her fears and convince her to continue the affair. It was a sinister manipulation, he knew, but he couldn't help himself.

She refused to leave Tony. Although she never said why, he supposed she feared his violence. At times, he had been forced to consider it himself, so it was a small wonder it might be pivotal to Kay. Therefore, thinking he understood her reluctance, he felt there was no choice for them but to stay their present course. Anything else risked exposure, revenge, or separation.

Against his advice, Kay chose to chase her dose with a tumbler of scotch. Having become somewhat calmed, her next declaration was resolute. "He knows about us," she said. "I'm sure.

I didn't want to tell you, for fear of what might happen, but I'm sure he knows."

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"Has he said something?"

"Innuendo."

"What sort of innuendo?" Morgan asked. This was all sounding a bit melodramatic, but she seemed genuinely disconcerted, shaken over something Tony had said or done.

Watching the combination of drugs and alcohol take effect, he hoped to uncover what, specifically, was disturbing her. Certainly, he'd often seen her upset over Tony. He had treated her for bruises and black eyes but she'd never seemed as unraveled as she did now. Always, she'd had the tenderness and comfort of his care. Always, she'd had his promise to take her away. Always, she'd refused to go. This time, however, he sensed that something was different.

Something more than slaps and accusations had transpired. After allowing her to quiet for a time, he took her hand.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yessh." Her voice slurred slightly.

"Good. Now, you said Tony inferred something?"

"About our affair."

"Yes?" Morgan asked.

"Yes," she repeated more clearly.

Morgan decided to prod a little less gently to get beyond her haze. "What, precisely, did he say? What, exactly, was it?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, I told him I wanted to leave and he asked if I'd be running off with you."

"Really?" Morgan was astounded that, after all this time, she might actually quit her husband.

"Yes," she responded. "And when I told him no, I wouldn't be off with you, he said I'd be on my own then. He said that he'd never let me take Anthony away."

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Morgan tried to ignore the portion of her narrative that tore at his heart and concentrated on what, he supposed, was most important to her.

"He would let you go, but not the boy."

"He didn't come right out and say it, Morgan. He didn't spell it out like that, but he did say I wouldn't take Anthony from him. So, I asked him if he'd let me go if I left the boy behind." She began to sob.

Morgan took another blow; that Kay would leave her son to the likes of Tony Stahl.

"My God, what did he say?" The doctor asked.

"He hit me and told me that he might consider it, but not until he was through with me. Then he had his way with me and he hurt me. Oh Doc, he hurt me really bad this time!" # Choking down the fill of his glass, Doc McGlade broke off his contemplation and strode to the bar. He kept a gun here, as he had all those years before. Bending to take it from the shelf, he considered opening his mouth. He would receive it like the kiss of a lover: warmly, wantonly.

Instead, he reached for the whiskey, as had become his habit.

He remembered not being able to stop Kay's crying. He recalled, having come to the terms of her distress, settling her back on the couch and removing her skirt and panties in order to minister to her injuries. He remembered her blood, and his anger at her having been so savaged.

Then, he recollected how the parlor door had burst open, and in walked the devil himself. # Tony Stahl held a hammer in his right hand. He was dirty, and sawdust speckled his coveralls. Smashing the doctor on the shoulder with his tool, he drove him from where he'd been kneeling before the half-naked Kay.

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"No more! No more fucking my wife!" Stahl shouted.

"I wasn't. I was– " Doc McGlade started then stopped, when another hammer blow brought him to the ground.

His left ear was bleeding and there was a ringing and rushing in his head that threatened to drown out the words of the enraged carpenter.

Kay didn't move, not even to pick up her clothes that Doc had folded and left in a neat pile on the floor, at her feet. She just stared up at her husband and the weapon in his hand as he turned away from the doctor and bore down on her.

Morgan's first instinct was to place himself between Tony and Kay. He even attempted to move forward and make a barrier of himself, but when he fell backward against the bar, he knew what he had to do. Just as he made to grab his gun, he saw Kay lash out at her husband's arm.

She had plucked a scalpel from his medical bag. Unable to take his eyes off the pair, he reached around for the lower shelf where he kept his revolver.

Suddenly, there was a moan of pain from Stahl. The carpenter dropped his hammer and Kay lunged at him a second time. While Morgan found his gun and leveled his sights, Stahl stumbled a few feet away from Kay. The doctor had a clear shot. As he shouted some indecipherable war cry, Kay realized his intent.

"No! No Morgan!" She screamed and threw herself in front of her husband, taking the bullet meant for him.

The scene that followed was nothing like that of the dying beauty in some romance novel.

Kay caught the round in her throat. Arterial blood sprayed a mist on the walls, ceiling, and floors. She clamped both hands to her neck in a vain attempt to keep her life from gushing away.

Finally, she fell to the floor, where she writhed on her back, spasmodically arching her hips as if

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in some grotesque parody of sexual vigor. She spit blood, choked blood, leaked and spurted blood through a series of unintelligible shouts, gasps, and gurgles.

Morgan, having seen death, but never dying, was transfixed in his sprawl against the bar. The gun lay on the floor between his legs, having done its deed in fractions of a second while the dying took a little longer. He looked across the room, away from the struggling death-hump of his beloved, to catch the eyes of Tony Stahl.

The carpenter was slack-jawed and ashen, his own gaze turned to meet the doctor's. Their stare could have lasted no longer than mere seconds, but in its duration they caught the tick of eternity. As if cuing one another, each man made for the now still, bloody form on the floor.

"You killed her," Stahl said as he wrapped a kerchief around his injured hand. He seemed unable to lift his eyes from the sight of his partially clad, dead wife, in order to fix his accusation.

"I did not," retorted McGlade.

"Okay, then. Let's just say you shot her, and now she's dead."

Stahl's concentration settled on the doctor without his knowing. Morgan was beginning to kneel beside Kay's body, when her husband's words caught his attention.

"I wouldn't get all full of that," Tony said.

"What?"

"I wouldn't get her blood all over me, if I was you."

"I have to do something."

"I think you've done enough."

"I didn't mean it. I was trying to shoot you. You son of a bitch!"

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McGlade's grab at the other man failed when his shoes slid on the blood-soaked hardwood.

He went down on his ass. His head hurt. The ringing and rushing returned. He saw stars. Time stretched to unbelievable lengths. It seemed the whole incident was days long already.

"I told you to be careful." Stahl offered his good hand, but Doc pushed it away and stared up at him in disbelief. "We need to figure out what's next, Doc. And I don't think you want to do that sitting right there."

The doctor held his glare.

"Christ, we at least need to cover her with a blanket or something. Just look," Stahl continued.

Morgan did look, and the sight spurred him to action. This was something he was trained to handle. This was dead, not dying. He had experienced dead several times in his practice and he could act on instinct. He accepted Tony's hand up.

Then he left the room to get sheets to cover the body. It was easier to think of her as the body. He could deal impersonally with the body, he done it before, in his role as physician. On his way to the linen closet he heard Stahl talking as if finishing his earlier sentence.

"She's a mess," he said.

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CHAPTER TWO

He was dreaming again, and in his dreams he ran. He was running for the sheer pleasure and exuberance of the act. It was a hot day and he could feel the cleansing warmth of the sun spread inside him and find its home in the rhythmic labor of his lungs.

He started to move up a slight grade. Detecting the fragrance of flowers in the slow breeze, he came to see long rows of bright colors and pastel hues as his climb steepened. There were so many flowers that he felt intoxicated with the rich scent.

There was a familiarity to these surroundings but he could not recall when he had last been somewhere this beautiful. Paradise, he thought, I must be running in paradise.

He cleared the top of the hill and stopped short. Instead of the clear pristine view he had expected to find, his environment was somehow decomposing. A peculiar fog was settling upon the scene, filling him with a sudden and strange exigency, as if he must take immediate action against the mist before it blotted out the landscape. His breath caught in his throat. There was an extreme pressure in his chest and he struggled for air.

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He looked to the previously blue sky above and could see nothing but the same muted gray that seemed to be enveloping everything. He tried to scream--to hold back the deterioration with loud protest, but his voice came back to him muffled and without strength. He felt something give and he knew that he had passed from his paradise. # Michael Forcade came awake instantly recognizing the nature of the sun slanting in his bedroom window. It was the same sunlight as in Paradise. It had been another dream--another disappointing reverie induced by dozing at his window. These dreams were his fault. They sprang from the wishes he conjured so strongly from this vista.

He focused his gaze outside and tried to remember running. It had been a long time since he'd actually moved his legs. He stayed by the window until his frustration forced him to wheel away and face his easel. The painting propped there bore no more than one or two strokes beyond what it had yesterday. There was no form, no color, and no theme in the muted shades before him. "Art reflecting life," he said to himself and swung the wheelchair to look out his window again. He longed for the night, when he could more faithfully return to his window and his wishes. Day, with its brilliance of light, drove home the inadequacy and deficiency of everything around him. In the sunshine, he could see everything all too clearly--including that which was missing.

The things he missed most were those things to which a person cannot put a firm definition, yet feels more sincerely than the easily interpreted. His vitality had been replaced with infirmity, his talent with inability, his love with estrangement, and his life with lingering. Sighing heavily and raising a shaky hand, he moved to touch the canvas.

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He tried to paint but he had no patience for brushes and pigments. It was as if they demanded his attention and he could not give it. He had no desire for their intercourse. The burning to create no longer existed, nothing existed except his reality. It was a reality wherein he could not walk, could not paint, and could not make love to his wife.

There had once been places to wander when he was so distressed, places outside amid the smells of grass and greenery and beyond the asphalt road that wound the perimeters of their property. His access to such places was now limited and he could not peruse the warrens and dells, streams and duck-ponds as he previously had done. He would need a companion to help him navigate the chair that carried him. Such would not be true solitude or honest reflection. He wheeled himself out of the room and down the hall.

The house had a lot of space. At first, it had seemed a maze of rooms. Compared to the cramped quarters of his newlywed days and the small roommate-shared dwellings of college, buying this home had almost appeared an extravagance. He'd grown up not far from here, in Pen Argyl. He supposed his return to the area had been a response to his history. Michael's mother had run off when he was just small and his father raised him the best he could. His mother's desertion had broken his dad and, from early on, the son had understood. Still, the sorrow and desperation of it all had tainted his life.

The old man had earned periodic jobs amid a haze of alcohol and grief. Without much money and with occasional penniless periods, father and son had moved often. As a child and teenager, Michael had never known the security of a stable environment or the comfort of large, well appointed rooms. He'd followed a calling back to the place of his youth beyond a reason he could fully comprehend, but he'd understood his intent when buying this farmhouse and its acreage. The desire to sprawl out and take root was easy to define. While the farmhouse was no

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mansion, he and Bev had hired contractors to expand its proportions and applied her design and decorating talents to richly adorn the interior.

Downstairs was a huge living room connected to the rear through the dining room, which emptied into a large working kitchen with pantry. The first floor was balanced out by an overlarge study with mahogany doors and dark wood confines, a long vestibule, and a spare bath.

The stairs wound to a large landing that was like a room itself, decorated with eighteenth century paintings and a table bearing antique brass candlesticks, and then to the second floor.

This middle floor boasted four rooms and two baths. The master bedroom was unused since his injury. The room next to it was his wife's parlor. Bev furnished it in antiques she'd garnished from local shops and second-hand stores. Most of these items had been restored and rehabilitated by her own loving hand. These days, the parlor doubled as Bev's bedroom. They kept a media room up here as well, with a surround-sound television, stereo, computer, fax, and all the resplendent gadgetry of the technical age. He slept in the guest room across the hall, which had been outfitted for his special needs.

The entire third floor had been redone as his studio. There were all the tools of his craft. The Grumbacher paints and sable Windsor-Newton brushes lay amid easels and canvas. Large windows graced the artist with a view of the surrounding countryside in a panorama and paintings and lithographs framed the walls around sleek leather couches and chairs. His private gallery. With the prices Forcade art was fetching in New York and L.A., there was easily 250,000 dollars worth displayed there.

Now, room into room, Michael Forcade rumbled in his wheelchair. He found some of what he himself had caused to be forgotten. Bits of recollection scrabbled back from each doorway like the object one may seek in dreams, but is constantly unable to find. Bits of life. Scraps of

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purpose. Some of the rooms seemed still occupied, although the sounds had long ago died from within. In that silence there was knowing, a remembering.

There was so much he wanted to give Bev. Material things were a part of that, but only a small part. The crux of what he wanted for her was the other, less defined things. Love.

Happiness. Peace of mind. What were her chances of attaining those with a man so unsure of himself? What sort of happiness came with adultery? Michael knew of Bev's unhappiness. He knew of her infidelity.

He had done this to her as much as she had done it to herself--as much as the drunk in the bakery truck, who had struck him head-on more than a year ago, had done it to them both. He drove her away with his refusal to be physically close to her. He drove her away with his selfabsorbed thoughts of loss and lack. He drove her away with his sexual inability. What else could he do? To hold her, to even think of holding her, was to tease himself with something he could no longer have. # In another part of town, Stewart Stahl listened to Paramore on his portable CD player. It was the middle of the afternoon and he was stretched on his back, caught by a shaft of lazy sunlight, settling upon his bed. The CD was a good one. The music was loud, just like he enjoyed it.

He should have been in school, although he wasn't. If his father caught him cutting again he'd be dead, but his father was more than forty miles away installing windows for Sears and was not expected home until well after dark. For now, it seemed safe enough to let thoughts of Dad drift off to the "Land of Little Concern." That was, until the man came home and became the "Menace of the Moment."

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That last little quote made Stewart laugh and wish that the funny things he came up with would come out of his mouth as well as they wound up in his head. But that was not possible for "Stuttering Stewie Stahl."

His stutter was the reason he was home instead of at school with the other kids. Even though he'd just begun the term in a new grade, he knew he hated his classmates. After all, they had hated him first. They hated him for something he couldn't help. It was only fair that he should loathe them for their purposeful cruelty. His parents said that he was different and that was why the others tormented him. Well, that wasn't true either. He wasn't different. Not one bit.

He was not stricken when he was alone in his thoughts. A person doesn't stutter in his head.

It's your mouth, he thought. Your mouth betrays your brain. He tried to tell them all that. He tried to get them to understand that. Of course, he never got very far because his mouth would turn on him part way there. Then, they would just make fun. They never paid attention to what he fought so hard to say. They would just laugh at the way it curled up on the end of his tongue.

Stewart glanced out the window by his bed and thought longingly of the night. Not the evening, when his father would come home and strut about the house, barking commands at his mother and himself, but the night. Not even later, when the house would settle down and his father drifted into dozing before the television. He thought of the night much later than that, when he would move to the edge of his bed and settle before this window.

He wasn't sure when he had first started making his nocturnal trips. It had surely become a routine over the last few months. A lot of what happened while he sat at the embrasure was unclear. He did, however, know how the time spent there made him feel. It made him feel equal. He felt just as good as everybody else.

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That was Stewart's dream come true; for him to be the same as everyone else. Triumph would be simply to fit in with the crowd. Stewart's conquest would come in being overlooked.

Not to be gawked at every time he opened his mouth would be achievement of the highest caliber. For the words to roll off his tongue pristine and without hesitation, he would surely give anything at all, but Stewart had learned better than to hope for that. He had tried and tried for years now through speech therapy classes and doctors his parents couldn't really afford.

The stark reality of his hopelessness had been driven home to him in a conversation with his father.

"Stewart, there are things in life a man must bear. Now, God knows your mother and I have tried our best, but we just can't see trying no more. There's no money, as you well know, for any more fancy doctoring and never was any for that special schooling. So, as it is your problem, you will just have to face up to it and make best." Stewart had clouded over at this point as a single tear trickled out the corner of his eye.

"That crying stuff is not going to do you any good either, boy," his father continued. "You just learn to tough it out." Stewart's father turned to walk away. In a mechanical sort of forced motion he put a hand on his son's shoulder and said, "You buck up now son. You buck up."

Stewart was still unsure whether he should laugh or cry when he thought of his old man spouting his feigned emotion and coming out with nothing better than, "buck up." He did recall laughing when, at that moment, he had thought; "You screwed up Dad. You screw-up."

When he considered that conversation, he remembered it was the first night he had gone to the window. Long after everyone was asleep and the house lay dark and still, the pounding upset of his heart wouldn't allow him to settle. He thought about spending his entire life the way he was now, broken somehow. Forever, he would be forced to choke and chew on the most simple

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sentences without the ability to get them right. His strongest wish was that he might strangle to death on one of those words as it tried to get out.

He remembered leaving his bed as the thought of death occurred to him, the thought of some final release from his torment. Still, he did not recollect purposefully setting out to the window as much as he recalled being somehow drawn there and compelled to stare out into the night.

Not unusual, he thought, to be driven toward darkness with things such as self-destruction on your mind. Yet, conjuring up that first night in detail, the skin crept at the base of his neck.

Before he had time to more fully contemplate his first sojourn to the window, he heard the slam of the back screen door. His father's heavy tread was coming up the stairs. Stewart remembered that his bike was out front, leaning against a cherry tree, and his father knew that he never went anywhere without his bike. As the adult's persistent stride grew nearer, Stewart's mind shrieked with deliberate precision: "You screwed up Stewart Stahl. You screw-up!"

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CHAPTER THREE

Bev heard Michael's movements from her spot downstairs, in the kitchen. She washed the dishes by hand in the sink while she pondered her husband's unease. He still spelled his distress clearly in his meandering. Certainly, the wheelchair had not changed that. She could read discontent in this restlessness as readily as she had ever read it in the sounds of his pacing.

Artists are notoriously temperamental and Michael had never been good at containing his moods. He'd often been given to hours of roaming at random throughout the house and the grounds beyond. He could not relax and take a break from a project until the problem or the block sorted itself. He had to physically work it out--walk it out. Only the exertion would clear his head and correct the fault.

The temperament and the sometimes strange hours were just part of what she accepted as Michael's gift. He was, after all, an exceptionally talented artist. She had always known that, even though she had never known much about art. It had taken years for the public and the art community to appreciate her husband's caliber. Through the lean times and the tough bits, she had always known that such acceptance would come.

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Michael was far less sure. Even at the apex of his success, he harbored doubt and insecurity.

She supposed that was just part of the dual edge of blessing and curse that seemed to accompany such a faculty. Many artists, writers, musicians, and other creative people with whom she was familiar seemed uncertain in success. Had she possessed such ability, she often thought, she would rather revel in it than lament it.

Michael was the gifted one in their relationship. If that talent sometimes caused him to be sullen or moody, she could deal with it. Her expertise was in dealing with people. She made friends easily, and her manner with strangers almost always worked for her. The fact that she was very attractive didn't hurt either.

She knew this was true, not because she saw it in the mirror, but because she saw it in the actions of all the men she had ever encountered. When she did look in the mirror, searching for her beauty and sexuality, she saw only herself. That special nuance in her smile or in the point and heft of her breasts was completely lost to her upon study of her own reflection. She had always been curious as to what all the fuss was about.

That there had been fuss was, to varying degrees, absolute. The attention of men was something that she could recall far back in her childhood. Friends and relatives constantly commented about her looks. Just into high school things had gotten steamy with a particular older cousin who had become far too attentive to her needs. She had gotten to French kissing him before intervention had turned asunder any of the more carnal plans he may have had.

That attempted tryst had thrilled her to a greater extent than she ever admitted. She played it out in fantasy for years to come. Indeed, sexual experimentation and adventure had proven vital parts of her personal evolution. That was up until she'd met Michael Forcade. Whatever experimentation or adventure occurred thereafter was solely limited to partnership with him.

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That she loved Michael beyond any and all limits was without doubt. She had known that after their first date. That they would marry was as undisputed as the sunrise. It had taken him a little longer to realize the inevitability of it all, but he had come around in the end, professing no less love for her. That one day she would be fornicating behind his back with a lover almost indecently younger than herself had not been foretold.

It wasn't so much that she had to have the sex Michael's condition would not permit, but at least the closeness and comfort of intimacy. Michael could give her that if he chose, but there was no physical contact with Michael at all. No kissing. No handholding. No touching.

Nothing. As much as Michael's psychological condition resisted such familiarity, hers insisted on it.

She had simply gone on longer than possible without the intimacy of another human being.

There were things Michael could do to her, with her, upon which impotence had no bearing.

They had done those same things together before the accident had afflicted him. She thought that it would help. Closeness and the desire for the other's flesh was an important part of their marriage. Rekindling his passion could only help save their union. Even the doctors felt it was important that he try. It was necessary to his recovery that he be interested, but he wasn't. His desire seemed as dead as his legs. Perhaps his heart had died as well.

Not knowing if there was any love left in Michael, she had sought another man. At least in him there was affirmation of a caring, a tenderness for her. Maybe that was why she carried on with a boy so young. She figured a young lover would possess more sincerity than the simple perversions of an older man. What she needed was not so much the act, but the warmth and compassion that for all her years with Michael had been part and parcel of that act.

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She felt at times as if she were in a movie or one of the novels she read. She would come to a juncture in those stories where one of the characters was about to do something that made her want to scream at them to stop, but they never did. Whatever fate the director or writer had planned must be played out.

Now, she wanted to scream at herself to stop. Revise the scene. Rewrite the dialogue. She, however, was helpless to change the plot. She was playing from a script she had not written. So she stuck with Michael by day and, at night, fled to the arms of a boy she did not love. # Michael again came awake by his window. He couldn't recall where the day had gone. The dials on his old alarm clock pointed to 9:48. The absence of light bespoke evening. A glass of water sat on the nightstand and there was a note beside it. By now he knew her lines by rote.

There would be some lame excuse about needing to get out for a short while and her reassurance that she would soon return. He read it anyway. This time she also asked if he had stopped sleeping in bed entirely, preferring to slumber in his wheelchair beside the window. She suggested this might be a bad idea and promised to help him to bed upon her return.

"How gracious," he commented aloud. He felt the hot rush of blood in his mouth and wheeled off for the bathroom, to wash it away.

Returning from the bathroom, he rolled back to what he now thought of as his wishing window. The wishing had begun as a sort of psychological tag in the early days of his injury. It was a game he played to envision the future, to picture himself fully recovered and back about the normalcy of life. The doctor called it recuperative therapy. Michael called it bullshit because it had failed. All the recuperative therapy did was point out and magnify what was not normal in his life. While he'd given up on the therapy, the wishing itself had not died out.

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His wishing had taken on a sort of spiritual aspect. He trained all his energy and force into a kind of prayer, a silent cry into the night. It was a plea to find something stronger and greater than himself. He was searching for a way to restore what he had lost. Whatever this wishing was, it was far from the therapy of its origin. # As Michael was repositioning himself beside his bedroom window, Bev's car sped through the darkness. She had almost turned around half a dozen times trying to convince herself that the only thing to come of this would be pain. She loved her husband and knew she could never love this boy. She tried to think what this would do to Michael if he ever found out. What sort of setback would she add to his recovery? She tried to think about what this was doing to her.

What had she become? An adulteress? A temptress? A degenerate?

Michael, however, had become something even worse. Adulteresses and temptresses had passion. He had no passion at all, at least none he would show. It was as if some leech or vampire had sucked all the feeling out of him since his accident. He was more dead to her now than if that truck had crushed the life from him on that fateful morning. Who could blame her for wanting to lie with a warm living body after so much time spent with the dead?

She steered her car into the motel parking lot and notched the windshield wipers up all the way. While they worked well on the rain, they did little to clear the cloudburst spilling from her eyes. She steeled herself against a rush of emotion as she watched the rain and her tears turn the red vacancy light into a bloodbath.

She really didn't want this. She didn't want this dreary, rain-slicked drive to a deserted locale, but that was exactly what her life had become. This same ride. Alone. Empty. Her life was as washed out and bogged down as this parking lot, as seemingly lost in the dark, directionless.

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She turned the car away from the motel and the massacre of her fidelity and she headed for the home she shared with her husband. She wasn't sure what decision she had just made.

Whether she had abandoned her young lover for good or just for this evening remained to be seen.

But none of this made sense. She was running back to the same place that she had, only hours before, fled. She pulled to the side of the road and wept some more. Her tears seemed only to soil her face. So much dirt. How had she gotten it all over herself?

Where would she go to get right? Her refuge was gone. Her once beautiful, light-filled home was cold and dark. Even if everything suddenly, miraculously righted itself, it would not be the same home it had once been.

She considered that in becoming an adult she had given up the enchantment of childhood.

Stupidly, she'd sacrificed those things in the name of growing up. The magic, which once told her that things could be all right, had been replaced by the world of newspapers and nightly news; the world that told her nothing, ever, is all right. She had traded her simple faith for cynicism, and her dreams for a working reality. She had lost the magic simply by failing to believe in it.

Now, sitting in her car and crying, Beverly Forcade struggled with that betrayal. She could not truly believe that everything would be all right, because she had relinquished that faith long before.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Stewart's sobs caught high in his chest and, fortunately, died there before they gained voice.

If his father heard him crying it would only make things worse, and he had no desire to make things worse. Things were bad enough already.

Stewart's dad had burst into his room. As usual, his tactic was to hit first and ask questions later. The sudden violence had so shaken Stewart that he had answered his father's questions honestly. That was far from standard policy.

It wasn't as if he enjoyed telling lies, it just seemed the only way to deal with his father. He would do anything at all to keep the man from blowing his lid. Once, it had seemed awful to betray his father's trust in such a way, but the man had betrayed him long ago, blow by blow.

Evening had come and he lay on his bed, surveying the damages. His ears were still ringing from the open-handed slaps to his head as he counted the holes in the wall where his father's fists had repeatedly landed. His CD player was smashed to bits in the far corner of his bedroom. The Paramore disc lay in scattered pieces all about the floor. He hugged himself and muttered. He shook.

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The confrontation hadn't been too bad until he'd been asked why he had skipped. He was so scared that the truth had just spilled out.

"I don't like school, Dad," he said.

"There's lots of stuff in life people don't like, Stewart. Like I don't like this damn music," his father had retorted while destroying his CD player. "But you've got to do them anyway."

"But they don't, don't like muh, muh, me." Stewart's tongue was stalled.

"Like you? Like you, Stewart?" Anthony punched the first hole in the wall. "How can they like you? People can barely understand what you say!" His fists slammed the wall twice more.

"Bah, bah, but Dad," Stewart began to cry. "The, the, they hate me!"

Anthony Stahl turned to face his son, fists clenched by his side. The boy wept and hitched.

Tangled in the sheets of his bed, he slid back from his father's glare. He moved out of his father's reach, out of his father's range.

Now, well after the rampage, he could hear his mother's voice raised in pain or anger.

Apparently, it had gotten worse after all. His father was home from the bar and would make his mother pay for his transgression.

Stewart cried some more and thought about how his dad had looked at him, with angry hands fisted at his sides, when he'd told him how the other kids hated him. He thought about the words the enraged man had not spoken, but they both knew were true. He thought about how his father hated him, too. # Edith Albrecht smiled as she gazed out into the night. The bay window was beautiful, all glass and mullions. The last project her husband, Clarence, had undertaken was the installation of this wonder.

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Clarence had been so good around the house. He could fix anything. His expertise was especially noted after his loss when all the repairs and maintenance had become Edith's lone responsibility.

There was so much to be done around the house that Edith was constantly in a tizzy attempting to keep up. There was an array of problems with which she still hadn't dealt. The roof needed repair, part of the gutter had fallen down at the back of the house, and water leaked into the basement when it rained. It wasn't as if she didn't have the money to attend to these problems. Clarence had been a good provider up to and beyond the end. She just hated the idea of someone else working on their home. It seemed somehow immoral to let another man put his hands on the house her husband had nurtured.

Strange, she thought, that her favorite time to come to this window was so late in the evening.

Its design was for allowing as much light as possible to enter their breakfast nook; but here she stood, enveloped by darkness instead.

So what if she made night pilgrimages to this particular aperture? Here, she could think about Clarence while permitting her focus to scan the void beyond the glass. There were no clearly defined objects or scenery to blunt her scrutiny. She could concentrate fixedly on her late husband and how much she wanted him back.

"Oh, my dear," she said to the moonless night. "I'm so lonely theses days. You see, all our friends are gone. Some of them have moved off to those new retirement villages they're building around here. They promise to stay in touch and all, but some time after they settle in I hear from them less and less until they're just a card at Christmas or a phone call on my birthday.

"We've laid Herb and Tillie to rest. They died within days of one another. Marge Wilson and her husband Bob were in a car accident. She died and he's got a room in Manor Care. I guess

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I'm an unfaithful friend, but I haven't gone to see him. It's too sad is all. You remember how those two were always just the life of the party. I can't bear to go to that institution and see him, as he must be now.

"I am glad that I'm able to stay here, though. I try hard to keep up with everything, but I do so wish you were here to tend to the repairs and all. You were always so good at that.

"Now don't you worry too much about me, Clarence. I've got a new friend. She's a wonderful young thing. You'd like her. Pretty as the dickens and very sweet to me. She works for Attending Nurses, the caregivers. Sure, it's her job to look in on me and run errands. She doesn't act like that, though. She's more like a daughter of sorts, I guess. Kind of like the child we could never have.

"Darn, if I can't think of her name! Isn't that something? There I go, Clarence. I've spoken so highly of her and now I can't even tell you who she is. You must think I've lost it.

"Simple things like that just seem to slip away from me now and again. Its in here," Edith pressed her index finger to her forehead. "I know. Just let me sit here and think a few minutes.

It'll come. It's just slightly out of my grasp is all."

Edith stared more intently out the window and after a little while the girl's name became clear to her.

"Amy," she said aloud. "Amy, the homemaker from Attending Nurses is my friend."

That settled, Edith smiled, sighed, and sipped her tea. # Bev returned from her forsaken rendezvous and made upstairs for her husband's room. His form was cast in darkness before the window. She had suspected he would be there staring into the night. It had become his preoccupation in life. It seemed to replace his painting and his time

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for her. She worried that his life was being substituted for this loitering. She called his name softly, so as not to startle him.

"Michael."

He gave no indication of having heard, so she moved closer.

"Michael, hon," she petitioned a little louder.

Still, the figure in the wheelchair did not respond. Eerily, the image of this moment reflected the truth of their lives together; Michael was off somewhere in the darkness while she called to him with scant acknowledgment.

She stepped directly behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you sleeping, babe?" She spoke gently in his ear.

"Ah, I guess I must have dozed." He stirred and looked up at her as she stepped fully to his side. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Earlier than you think. I wasn't gone long."

"Oh. Okay."

"I need a shower and I thought you could fix us drinks while I'm in there."

She could see that he was having trouble tearing his gaze from the window. She wondered what fascination held him so strongly and vowed that, tonight, she would undo its grasp.

"You're not too tired. Are you?"

She turned pouty, stepped fully in front of the glass and, while leaning against the sill, began unfastening the buttons of her blouse.

"No, I could go for a drink, I guess."

His attention was successfully redirected as she continued unbuttoning all the way to her slacks.

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"Wonderful. You get drinks and music and I'll make myself presentable."

She stretched one leg around the front of the chair, effectively straddling him. Placing a hand on each armrest, she leaned forward and kissed him. Their lips lingered without mouths pressing for more, but he did not withdraw, and when she moved away he followed her forward for the finish. More intimacy accomplished in the last ten minutes than in the last ten days, she thought, as she disrobed along the hall to their bedroom, leaving him a trail to consider on his way to the media room.

Michael stared after his shapely wife. He wondered if she had seduction in mind and what she thought that might accomplish. She had returned too early from what should have been a hot time with her grocery boy. Was she so overheated that, without the satisfaction of her lover's fevered thrusts, she was going to settle on him for consolation? Or, having been ignored so long, was she simply vying for his attention?

Whatever, he had just been wishing for something like this. Hadn't he? In what life was it a bad thing for a beautiful woman to want to spend time with you?

"Maybe in mine," he thought aloud as he rolled into the hall and contemplated the garments (bread crumbs?) left verifying her route. As he went into the other room, he considered that she couldn't be after sex. They both knew he couldn't perform. That's why she was sleeping with her young lover. So, what was with the flirting and the striptease bit? Hell, it came to him as he filled rocks glasses with scotch and ice, even he knew that you sometimes had to hit a jackass over the head with a two-by-four just to get its attention. Now that she'd gotten his, he'd have to wait to find out why.

Starting a drink ahead, he told himself to be calm, even though there was no chance for composure in Bev's presence.

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Bev wondered at this intimacy she was about to attempt with Michael. It wasn't about sex, although she'd used a little to draw him from that window. It couldn't be about that right now, even though that was for reasons more of his emotional state than his physical state. No, this had to be about them and where they were going. They had to discuss what was, and was not happening in their marriage. This had to be about surmounting bigger obstacles than an injury and a wheelchair. This was about saving their union and banishing her want and need of Derek.

This was to prove that his coldness and isolation could be lifted by her touch and compassion.

This was a last ditch attempt that had better work on some level, because the alternative was more than she could face right now. # Michael really thought she looked beautiful as she walked into the room in a cotton top, blue jeans, and no shoes. She was wearing a tee shirt he had gotten her when they'd gone on a spontaneous weekend to Barnegat Light and Cape May, New Jersey. It was a cut off that showed her midriff. He'd always found that simple flash of navel enticing.

"Remember this?" she asked. She tugged at the shirt while taking the drink he'd prepared for her.

"Sure. Sunset Beach."

"What a wonderful weekend," she commented and took a seat on the leather chair nearest him.

"Dolphins. Cement ships, and sausage and cream cheese sandwiches." He smiled.

"Well, there are always dolphins, silly."

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"They are lured by your great beauty." He toasted her, beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol.

"Do you think?" She teased, pretending to actually consider the possibility. "I always imagined that my husband arranged them, called to The Point at least once a visit, because he knows how much I adore them."

"How do you think he manages such a feat?" He played along.

"By being wonderful, I suppose. They know, somehow, that he's wonderful, and so they come."

"Well, I still think they come because of you. Music all right?"

"What?" She knew he had changed the subject on purpose.

"The music I put on? Is it okay?"

"Sure. Its nice, Michael."

"I picked a few CD's. I don't much care for the radio these days."

She almost asked what he did care for these days, but she bit the words back with a gulp of booze. It was amazing how bitter his insulation and aloofness had made her, even at times when she wasn't giving it consideration. Her mind adrift, an uncomfortable quiet passed between them. She barely noticed Michael back at the bar before he was beside her, holding the bottle above her glass. His raised eyebrow asked the question.

"Yes. Please," she said.

He poured, and then returned the Johnny Walker to its place.

"You never painted them for me. You know?"

He fixed her blues with his browns. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, she saw.

"That was before." He looked down at his legs.

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"You could start." She took his hand.

He held her hand for a bit, and then he let it fall and he wheeled across the large room. When he reached the stereo, with its amp and components shelved between books and memorabilia, he turned to face her.

"What makes you think I haven't tried?" he asked.

There was so much he was avoiding these days, a laundry list of things he was barely attempting or giving up on altogether. She unwittingly allowed her irritation to slip into her tone.

"Have you?" she asked. It came out accusatory and she watched the sadness in her husband's eyes turn to stone in a flash.

"If you uncover the easel in my room, you'll find an amateurish swirl of blue, green, and aqua. That sorry effort is as far as your dolphins got."

Bev felt a great uncoiling in her guts, as if her intestines had been cut and were falling in ropey twines inside her. This was not what she wanted. Why did she say the wrong things?

How could she reach him any longer? How much harder could she try?

"I can't paint! I can't walk! I can't make love to my gorgeous wife!" Michael was shouting now.

Bev stared at him from her spot on the other side of the Persian carpet. Michael continued.

"Oh, Bev, I don't want to be like this. Can't you see? I just wish. Don't you know how much I wish?"

He wheeled out of the media room and back to his window. Bev called after him.

"Michael! Michael, don't do this. Don't lock me out. I can't be locked out anymore. We have to face this. Together. Michael, I can deal with the accident, but I can't handle being shut out. Oh Michael. Please. Michael. Please!"

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She knew he could hear her, but doubted that he would listen. She had said it all now. For better or worse, she'd admitted her inability to cope without him. She waited until it was long clear that he would not respond. Then, she drank herself to sleep, realizing the decision that had been made.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Amy Lauder liked the homemaker job. A job like this afforded a sort of freedom that went hand-in-hand with its responsibilities. She was entrusted with duties and errands that ran her all over the county. She liked meeting new people and seeing different places. It helped her to lose some of the loneliness she suffered.

It was difficult being raised by strict parents. Her father and mother were people of faith.

She felt that she had faith as well and that faith did not call for the restrictive yolk placed upon her by her folks. Indeed, the one thing she desperately wanted to accomplish with this job was the real freedom of a life independent of Mom and Dad. All through high school and even up to the time she'd gotten this job, Amy had been kept on a tight leash. It was the reason she refused to carry a cell phone, although everyone else in the world seemed to own one. The pager provided by her employer was as close as she would get.

She'd refused her parents' request for its number by telling them it was strictly for business purposes. That had put them off the subject for a while. She was old enough to drink. She ought to be old enough to be left alone as well.

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Sometimes it got so bad that she thought of running away. That's why this job with Attending Nurses was so appealing. It had lent her a dose of independence. Sure, it wasn't like doing what Sissy Grant had done, landing that modeling job in Philadelphia and changing her name to Claudette something or other, but it was enough for Amy. She had never been that much like Sissy anyway. They'd been fair enough friends through their grammar and high school days. They had shared their small town frustrations and their itch for bigger and better things. However, Sissy's means of escape had proven much more grand and controversial than anything Amy felt capable of attempting. Sissy had simply up and left.

Just out one day, big as you please. She left her family and all her friends behind without any goodbye. Amy couldn't help thinking the way she'd done it was wrong and disrespectful, but that was the difference between her and Sissy. Sissy just wanted what she wanted without consideration for others or for the consequences of her actions. Consequences had been drummed into Amy since early childhood. Being wary of her impulses had become natural to her.

Certainly, Hampton, Pennsylvania wore on her more and more every day. There were too few jobs, and fewer eligible men. She felt smothered by the redneck ways and intolerance of the country folk. The people who owned the fancy, facade-fronted stores on Main Street were mostly from off. They were antique collectors and gift dealers from somewhere else originally. The artificial quaintness of Hampton had been created to cash in on its country appeal. Interstate 78 had brought New York closer, and its city-rich shoppers were prime for over-priced goods tendered in a rural setting. The original townsfolk were far more reserved and less trusting. The face of Hampton was much different from its heart, and that was part of what made Amy uncomfortable here. Still, she stayed.

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She supposed her mother and father's non-stop lessons on dependability and responsibility had taken even if they were paranoia-skewed. That was why Amy liked Edith Albrecht so much.

She wasn't anything like the cranky, stubborn folk Amy often encountered. Edith was openminded and abiding. She was genial in a grandmotherly sort of way that Amy found comforting.

Yes, Edith Albrecht was one of her best people. She never thought of those for whom she worked as her patients, as she herself was not a nurse. Most of them, however, were patients, and she often worked in tandem with a nurse or physician's assistant from the home office. She couldn't think of them as customers, since they were the customers of her employer, the Attending Nurses Association. So, she simply thought of them as her people.

Her people were almost all elderly. Some of them were severely disabled and needed help with every imaginable human function. Others just needed chores done, errands run, and meals cooked. A few, like Mrs. Albrecht, who insisted Amy knew her well enough to call her Edith, had been left alone after the death of a spouse and needed to be checked on from time to time.

Amy redirected her concentration to driving. Thinking of Sissy had, strangely enough, made her feel more content. None of her plans for the future involved big city modeling or changing her name. She supposed it was good luck enough that one of them had broken out big, but it would be impossible to imagine that it could happen to them both. Opposed to upsetting her, this realization allowed her to imagine her own smaller dreams to be that much more attainable. For now, she had her freedom with this job and the contentment of knowing that her dreams were realistic and within reach.

Edith's home was out on the Rural Route. The places back here were only accessible via a dusty drive down rutted dirt roads, but Amy wasn't bothered to take an early morning drive to the

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elderly lady's home. She just hoped she never had to come out here in torrential rain or deep snow.

The house was always well kept; a deed, Edith said, made easier due to the attentive care of her deceased husband, and Amy enjoyed visiting. Perhaps she was early enough to cook them both a nice breakfast. She was running late this morning and only had time to grab coffee on the run. Her stomach growled as if in protest, but her concern turned away from herself and toward the woman in her care. Edith seemed uncharacteristically distracted as of late and, among other things, Amy worried that she did not bother cooking often enough. This morning's visit was a fine excuse to make certain the old gal got at least one good meal.

The car turned onto the flat grass track that served as a drive to the Albrecht home. In truth, it had once been a carriage track to the tack house at the rear of the property. As Amy pulled closer to the house, a strange unease crept over her. She accredited it to early morning hunger, until she noticed the screen door ajar. Anyone could accidentally leave a door open, but Edith was so tidy and careful about everything related to her home that this sort of negligence was disconcerting. Amy felt her stomach roll slightly as it growled again.

She left her car parked and was making her way along the slate walk to the front door when a soft keening sound reached her ears. Gooseflesh popped up on her arms as she stopped to listen more closely. It was a muted sort of whimper, and it was coming from outside the house. Had Edith gone out for some reason and hurt herself? She followed the noise around the corner of the property, urgency and apprehension rising to equal measures in her chest.

The grass was still wet with morning dew and it quickly seeped inside her canvass sneakers, chilling her feet. She felt a peculiar mix of curiosity and dread as she rounded on the backyard.

The sound grew more pronounced and Amy felt like she would pass into some foreign territory

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beyond the bend. Her breath was sharp and shallow, her senses tuned for something only her subconscious fully acknowledged. Something bad was up ahead and, as the grounds came fully into view, she pulled up and peered out on the lawn. What appeared to be a gray sack lay huddled next to the gazebo.

The beautiful white-latticed structure had always awed Amy for its intricate woodworking.

Never had she seen anything quite so solidly built and delicately ornate as this. She and Edith had sometimes sat sipping tea and appreciating the day from within its parameters. Now, its beauty seemed in opposition to the scene before her. Edith, for that was who it certainly must be, cried out much louder. Amy snapped from her paralysis and hurriedly made her way to the form on the ground. # Choices. That's what she had said; "We both have some choices to make, Michael."

"I want to know what choices," Michael demanded as he wheeled down the second floor hall, behind Bev's angry trot. She made him feel like a puppy, yapping at her heels.

"They should be fairly apparent," she answered.

"Well, forgive me. I haven't been myself lately, if you haven't noticed. Apparently, I'm missing the obvious."

She stopped and set her bags down at the top of the steps. Michael would have to attach his wheelchair to the stair-climbing contraption here and then re-harness it at the landing. It was a clumsy set up, but the best they could do without changing the floor plan. She could easily out run him but that would just humiliate them both.

"I have to make choices about things like this. About whether I can stay here fighting you and your attitude." She was crying.

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"How can you choose whether to stay when you're leaving?"

"I guess I've already decided that one."

"Where will you go?"

"I've made arrangements."

"So this choice was decided earlier." It occurred to him that she'd been planning this for some time. After all, they had argued only just last night.

"I kept the option open."

"Really? How long?"

"You see, Michael," she flung her arms in the air. "I can't do this."

"You can't give me a chance."

"Yes, Michael, I can." She wheeled on him, totally exasperated. "I want to try! You're the one who doesn't want to try. The only way I can keep trying is to get away from you! I don't know what's making you this way. It's not the accident. It's something else. You've changed, Michael, and I'm afraid you might not change back."

Then she left. With a few things already packed as though they had been waiting in some corner of the house for that call, she had gone. Maybe her stuff had been sitting, plain as day, right out on the carpet of their bedroom waiting for that signal, that word. Choices!

Michael felt the rage swell within him. It was as if someone was filling his body with a vile fluid that started at his feet and rose through his insides, filling his chest cavity and threatening to drown his heart. He seethed with anger and trembled from heartache. It was all because he loved her; he realized he still loved her. It seemed to him that her choice had already been made.

She wanted out. She wanted to get away from him and she had. She wanted to get away from the cripple who could no longer use his legs, the artist who could no longer paint. There was no

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sense in having a husband who could not make love to his wife or a provider who could no longer earn a living.

Actually, she made it easier for him this way. Didn't she? No longer need he be confronted by her sad eyes and piteous stare. He would not have to look at her, and want her so much anymore. He would not have to walk. He would not have to paint. He would not have to make love. With her gone, all that desire could surely, would surely, die.

He wanted those desires dead. That persistent little voice that brought him to his window each and every night needed to be silenced. He was sick of the dreamy eagerness that filled him when he wished, prayed, and begged the darkness. He wanted that bit of himself dashed to pieces, and perhaps Bev had given him the instrument of its death.

He yearned for death or the strength to end his life. Yet, every night at that window something held him and turned that desperate desire to another thing altogether. It was that thing that both terrified and enthralled him. It was that thing bringing him to his view.

What struck him was not something he saw from his spot behind the glass. There wasn't much out there apart from the lights of a few neighboring homes and the stars on cloudless nights. If there was anything out there, any covert movement in the bushes or trees about the house and grounds, it was beyond his scope. His attention was called elsewhere. It was what he felt above anything at all that kept him coming back to that window and that view. It was the sentience at those times adrift in the dark that kept him clinging. To what he clung, he was unsure. Faith had died in him long ago, and yet this thing tugged and pulled at him. It willed him on and on through each despairing day. That call awaited him, that entreat to his window. It was for that alone he lived, and he was not at all certain that was a good thing. #

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Bev watched the house fade to obscurity in her rearview mirror. She cried because it hurt so very much. Michael had been angered by her pronouncement. She'd assured him that she had made arrangements for his care. She had called an association named Attending Nurses and arranged for a therapist, visiting nurse, and homemaker. He would still refuse the therapy, she was certain, but the nurse and homemaker would care for his physical and hygienic needs. The homemaker would cook, clean, and run modest errands. The supervisor had told her that any accommodation could be made to insure Michael's comfort. While they usually cared for the elderly, they had experience with the infirm as well, and the girls were friendly and helpful.

She had difficulty thinking of Michael as infirm, and the term had haunted her all through her packing. Could she really leave him in his condition? Was it responsible to trust his care to strangers? Was this just another, further step in her betrayal of her husband?

She knew he had followed her out the door and down the wheelchair ramp to the drive while she loaded the trunk. Still, she had not looked back. She was afraid she might find something in his eyes that would make her stay. If she looked back at him or the home that had now completely faded from inside the mirror, she was sure she would find herself trapped in a life she'd come to loathe.

Never, since first they'd met, had she contemplated life without Michael. Not once, in the entire duration of their marriage, had she honestly wanted to spend a night apart from him. Now, she felt she had no choice.

She wanted to help him, truly, she did. She still loved him deeply and sincerely, but she felt that love being driven from her day by day. She did not want to be robbed by confusion and despair.

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Her husband was still back there, she knew, but he was buried beneath the husk of another Michael. That other Michael kept her from the man she loved. Maybe her leaving would weaken the imposter's grip and the real Michael would exert himself, wanting desperately to be with her. Maybe this would help. God, she prayed this would help.

Running away. Was that what she was doing? Somehow it didn't seem so. Gathering strength was what her mother would call it. But was that all there was to it? How could she, ethically, leave her invalid husband? How could she make his care someone else's responsibility? Was she just pawning him off to a wage earner like some sort of errant chore?

How much of this was simply her own selfishness, tied to her desires, her wants and worries for herself? Was she such a spoiled woman that she couldn't bring herself to suffer for the man she loved? So many shifting emotions were steam-rolling her heart. Her entire being felt like some great spicy stew of reason and imbecility.

She considered a Biblical definition of love that she had applied to her relationship with Michael since first coming across it, years ago. "Love is long suffering and kind, it does not keep account of the injuries, it bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things, and love never fails," it said. Everything she'd done felt like a betrayal of that love.

Leaving her home and husband behind was hardly enduring all things. Her marriage vows were broken, first by her affair with Derek and now by her desertion of Michael. If love never fails, perhaps it was simply she who had floundered.

Bev slowed her car and pulled it to the shoulder. She'd driven further than she'd planned and must've been getting close to Reading. Here, the countryside would still be dotted with farms and roadside stands. An occasional diner or rest stop might offer Pennsylvania Dutch cooking to drivers along Route 222 but few cars drove past as hers sat beside the highway.

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It was a quiet night. The stars were bright and Bev felt a sort of peace settle on her as she gazed into the darkness. She wished she could feel better about what she'd done. She wished she'd made the right decision.

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CHAPTER SIX

Edith hated the hospital. Even though St. Luke's was much larger and nicer than the bit of a clinic they had over in Hampton, she couldn't stand being fussed over, told what to eat, when to pee, and being poked and prodded as a constant matter of course. She detested the sound of the place; the echo of footfalls down the hall and the periodic metallic clinks and clacks, as some sort of medical machine was engaged or disengaged. Muted conversation seemed to spill from every alcove and periphery.

All of it made her feel trapped within some great chaotic organism. It really spooked her here. Lots of people her age came into this place and never came out. Fed to the belly of the beast. Clarence had been one of them. But how could he really be dead? She knew it must be true. She had his death certificate. She had been to his funeral. She had picked the suit and tie he'd worn inside his casket. Her eyes had watched his body, encased in an ornate mahogany coffin, placed in the cold, unrelenting earth. It was her heart that died in her chest that day as she'd felt the finality of it all pin her to destiny. Yet, she could remember seeing him just a few nights ago, outside her bay window.

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It was far from perfectly clear but the fact that she had seen her Clarence, her dead Clarence; beckon to her from beyond the panes of glass was a pristine recollection in her head. It was also clear that her recall of that visitation did not frighten her anywhere near as much as the impersonal, gleaming halls of this institution.

She heard her doctor talking just outside her door. It was unclear to whom he spoke; a nurse or another doctor, she supposed, but the conversation was certainly about her. The gist of his litany was that she had been found in her back yard, semiconscious and suffering from shock.

They were planning to do this series of tests, that series of tests, and tests on top of those series of tests.

"Well," she said aloud, "If they're planning to test my brains out, at least they can skip the hearing tests. As far as shock goes, let one of them get a visit from their dead spouse in the dark of night, and see what kind of shock they get."

Thinking back, she felt she could remember most of what had happened. She'd spent the earlier part of the day reminiscing, browsing through old magazines and scrapbooks. Words and photographs had spirited her off somehow, taking her back to better, fuller days, days of life and love. As always, her feelings drifted back to her husband.

Clarence was such a handsome man, so sturdy and strong in his youth. He had always been so compassionate to others. It was his kindness, not really his countenance that had first attracted young Edith. He seemed endowed with a gentleness and patience rare for the men of his time. Simply, he possessed a tranquil potency that cast him the winner through every hard thing he faced.

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The tears came when she realized how often she had taken his calm reserve for granted, how faithfully and fully she had allowed his broad shoulders to bear the brunt of every burden. He had spoiled her.

How many times might he have felt overwhelmed? Had she leaned on him too heavily, made him her champion too frequently? He had never complained but then, he never would.

The years had treated them well and they grew together. They were not rich folk, but Clarence was a hardworking man. Diligence to his job was well rewarded in overtime pay and bonuses. He provided Edith with a comfortable life wherein money was sometimes a concern but never an overriding worry.

Edith, for her part, was a good wife. She kept their home immaculately clean and cooked a hot meal every day except for every second Sunday when Clarence would treat her out on the town. She was faithful and God-fearing as was he. She did not, even now, trick herself into romanticizing that everything had always been perfect, but compared to many other marriages she knew about it damn near had been.

Even aggrieved, Clarence was even-tempered and slow to anger. He seemed truly concerned for her happiness and she had tried to please him in every way possible. Sexually, they had both been–-initially–-a little hesitant and clumsy. Easily, they had grown experimental and libidinal.

She had never strayed from their bed for want of another man or experience. Clarence, she felt certain, had been equally devoted and gratified.

His death had left her entirely alone and in her grief and solitude she despaired. A heart attack had felled her love at the age of seventy-three. The time she'd spent as his wife and bride had passed so easily that every comparative moment without him seemed to drag on forever. To her, all the good days had lapsed and time was now spent waiting for when she could join him in

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death. She could not, however, hasten that day by her own hand. Her religion would not allow it and her faith promised that if she did such a thing she could never reside in peace with Clarence again. His love for her forbade such an act, as well. He would never condone harm to her in any form, by any hand.

So, she waited. She tried to fill her days with more than lingering. Tending to her house seemed a ceaseless activity that took more of her time than it had in her youth. It wasn't just the simple fact that she was older and slower. Her tasks often set her to picking up an object or walking into a room where a memory would coalesce and send her on a journey of reminiscence as had happened upon her seeing Clarence through the window.

She felt, however disturbing the sense might be, that she had not just imagined him there. As her recollection of events gathered, she became more certain that he had genuinely come to her.

Of course, she couldn't explain how such a thing would be possible and she would be wan to attempt to tell any of this to anyone else. She wasn't about to be locked up like some crazy old coot. They weren't going to begin testing her head like they were preparing to test the rest of her.

She determined to keep her mouth shut and be as pleasant a patient as possible. Something told her (something a bit like Clarence's voice in her head) that she could sort this all out if she could just get back home. She would diplomatically campaign for her release. After all, old ladies occasionally wander off, lost in thought, and get dizzy. Just then, she heard a friendly voice in the hall, and knew one person's aid she could enlist directly. # Amy chatted briefly with the doctors outside of Edith's room. The ride from Hampton to here, off Route 309 just outside of Allentown, had been pretty direct and without incident. Still, she just wasn't comfortable in this setting. Professional people made her nervous, but she knew

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Doctor McGlade from his work with Attending Nurses and she liked him for his amiability and concern for his patients. All in all, his general exteriority was kind and attentive. Amy was glad that he was one of the doctors looking after Edith.

"Well, Miss Lauder, it is," Doctor McGlade greeted her.

"How is Edith doing?" she asked.

"We'll have her home soon. I'd have her out even sooner if my colleague here wasn't so fond of running tests."

"Just precautions," a much younger man dressed in hospital greens from head to toe noted.

"Yes, well I have a few more rounds to make before heading back to Hampton. Tell the old gal to hang in there. Will you?" Doctor McGlade asked.

"Sure thing," Amy answered.

Edith was sitting up like an expectant puppy when Amy entered the room. She looked much better. A lot of the color had been restored to her face and, of course, she wasn't shivering and wet like the last time the young homemaker had seen her. She was happy to see the smile so instant and easily played across the older woman's face. Amy always considered Edith a friend and in the old gal's countenance there was now testimony that she felt the same. Amy walked to the bedside and took her pal's clammy hand.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I really feel good. I'm just a little unsure about what happened."

Amy pulled a chair next to the bed and sat, still not letting go of Edith's hand.

"How can I help?"

"They said you found me?" Edith inquired.

"That's right. You were lying in the grass, near the gazebo. You were crying."

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"I must have given you quite a start."

"You sure did. I wasn't certain at first."

"Certain of what, dear?"

"Well," Amy started, as she shifted her head and inhaled the medicinal scents of the room.

"Mostly of just what to do, I guess."

"You did fine." Edith relinquished her hand from Amy's grasp and used it to pat a reassuring tattoo on the girl's knee nearest her reach. "You saved me. You comforted me all you could and got help."

"But I'm afraid I didn't react as quickly as I should have. I got nervous. I hesitated." Amy lowered her head, shamefaced with this revelation.

"Nonsense," Edith said resolutely. "You gathered your thoughts and your courage and took action. You probably saved my life."

Amy's head popped up. Visibly relieved by Edith's account of her decisiveness she asked, "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. You are a good friend and an asset to your employer. I intend to tell them just how heroically you acted if they don't already know."

Amy stood, bent over the bed, and hugged her elderly friend. There were tears in her eyes.

"Thank you," she said.

"Goodness no," Edith replied with a pat on her back. "Thank you, Amy. Very much. Now sit down," she continued, tugging the covers back in around her bony body. "And tell me, please, all you can, in detail, about finding me. It's still a bit foggy in my mind, and I'd like to clear it up so I can get these doctors to stop testing and set me free." #

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Michael thought the house seemed emptier than ever before. He'd been alone here many times but this was different. Somehow the place lacked anticipation, as though the roofing and rafters realized Bev was not returning and so refused to wait. He'd always found it strange when people attributed emotional states of being to their homes. Now he could see some sense in it.

Michael had little doubt that his wife meant to be gone a long time, if she meant ever to return at all. The house knew it as well. The creaks and groans, normal of settling, cooling, and heating in a home this size, became exaggerated cries of loss and lack. The silence between these usually ordinary reverberations seemed to stretch itself limitless and empty. Michael knew that their home wanted her back as much as he did.

He had followed her out the door and to the driveway. He had hoped to make eye contact with her and to hold her with a physical expression of the emotions he could not give voice.

Inside himself, he knew that he didn't want her to leave even as he was driving her to it. Why didn't he just ask her to stay? Maybe that was all she wanted. Perhaps she just needed to know that he wanted her here.

He just wasn't sure that he did. He knew he wanted certain things. He wanted to walk and to be strong and able as he'd once been. He wanted to love her again in their home and in their bed.

Without those things in his life, he really didn't want her or anyone underfoot.

He knew he had this all turned around. The strength to count his blessings and get on with his life had always resided within him but he could not call on it now. Anger and resentment had taken the place of his determination and eaten away at his hope and resolve until all he could seem to do was despair and agonize.

He'd been cheated. That was how he saw it. Why should he have to lose anything at all?

He'd worked very hard to get where he was. A poor kid, raised by an alcoholic father and

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abandoned by his mother, he'd put himself through college. He had been teased and ridiculed for his decision to become an artist. It was an impractical dream, the notion of a spoiled child and not the career path of blue-collar progeny. No one realized his potential but Michael loved his craft and remained devoted to it. He could not imagine a life without his art.

In the early days he, quite literally, suffered for it. There was little or no money back then and his father and his peers often rebuked him. They'd had a talent for making him feel like some silly romantic. None of them believed that there was a respectable living to be earned at painting. Unless you were Picasso or Rembrandt, the real money was in graphic arts and advertising. Certainly, no one they knew could aspire to a loftier reality.

Michael held fast. He was totally dedicated to his life's ambition, his art. He thought of himself as a painter and not an insurance salesman, clerk, landscaper, or any of the countless jobs he'd taken on to make ends meet. His entire value system was built upon Michael Forcade, the artist. If it turned out that he had no talent and his work wasn't any good, then he was nothing.

This need to be a painter was both the drive that spurred him on and the fear that held him back. Those who saw his determination and fixedness as some sort of obsession weren't that far off the mark. At times it seemed, even to Michael, that he had inexorably tied himself to a dream too grand to fulfill. Then, he picked up a brush and knew the truth no one else could know.

Painting was as essential to him as food and drink is to other men. He simply could not live without the easel.

Notoriety and prosperity seemed slow in coming but in essence, in a career where few achieved either and fewer both, he gained a following and impressive earnings in relatively few showings. Forcade art did not flood the marketplace and few people realized the artist was truly

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prolific. Several patrons had complained that there were not enough exhibits and that to own one of Michael's pieces had already become a collector's coup.

Michael Forcade was a copious man. Many works which otherwise might grace some galleries' halls or fetch a pretty penny were scrapped or set aside because they failed to meet his vision, or he thought them flawed somehow. It was little wonder he could barely deal with what he saw as this marred caricature of himself.

Only he knew the severity of conscience with which he judged the quality of his work. No one knew the sleepless nights and tormented days spent wondering if he had gotten it right. Not one other person, not even Bev, was aware how much he anguished over everything he did.

Every piece seemed to create itself. He was only a medium for the brilliance or brooding that wound up in the light. He did not create it so much as convey it. Like some sort of interpreter; he portrayed a kind of meaning or moral in silhouettes of color and shading. The struggle was to honor the message of the muse. He strived for absolute perfection, but felt that he had not once attained it. What he saw with his eye or felt in his heart could never be truly duplicated.

Perhaps, it was not meant to be.

Still, he was very proud of his body of work to date. He was proud in the same way a father must be proud to see his children grow from small, incomplete forms to healthy maturity. He often thought of his paintings as his children. He struggled with their growth when they were young and was somewhat saddened to see them leave, but happy to know that they were well loved, appreciated, and looked after.

Now, he wondered if he would ever again realize the joy of his life's work. Had his brilliant gift come to an end? Had the accident taken his ability to paint along with his ability to walk?

Why couldn't he paint? Where had his desire gone? How could he get it back?

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With the coming of these questions there also came the onslaught of night. He took his burdens to the window and, once again, wished for the return of all he'd lost. He didn't know what possible good it could do, what hope could lie in that darkness, but he was compelled to search there.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Hampton, Pennsylvania is unobtrusive and mostly quiet. The town itself is small with a much larger outlying rural setting, spaced apart from the sprawl of contemporary suburbia. The police force is steady and competent. They vigorously deal with occasional troublemakers who sometimes steer themselves in from the much larger, and severely more distressed, city of Allentown.

Serious crime is exceptional and the State Police pitch in during times of crisis. The Hampton Fire Department is strictly volunteer, and its members must occasionally be pulled from B.J.'s Bar on a Friday night to fight a barn or brush fire. The Fire Hall is the social setting for The Ladies Auxiliary, Saturday Bingo, and The Annual Ice Cream Festival. The townsfolk, if a bit aloof to outsiders, are generally conscientious and law-abiding.

The Dairy Queen and Acker's Market compete on sales of ice cream in the warm season.

The best candies, and somewhat dated paperbacks, are found at Gleason's Pharmacy. Main Street is filled with false-fronted stores guaranteed to reinforce a modern shopper's sense of small town propriety.

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Most merchants, as well as the Chamber of Commerce, consider it a matter of pride that you have to travel well outside of Hampton Township to find an Acme or anything approximating a mall.

The village proper boasts three antique stores, two boutiques, and a set of art galleries. There are three restaurants apart from the Hampton Diner, a Pizza Hut, one barber shop, two beauty salons, The Roxy Theater, a used car lot, and The Old Mill which doubles as a bonafide National Historic Landmark and gift shop.

It is usual, in a setting such as this, that an artist-in-residence might become a frequent topic of conversation among the locals. Indeed, a number of the townsfolk felt a certain kinship to Michael Forcade. He'd been born just a few towns over and through him they were vicariously talented and celebrated.

Edna Audley summed it up succinctly when she said, "We all realize celebrities can be a real curse to a town, why just look at Hollywood in particular, but he seems a nice, quiet man, and it's not like he's in some rock band or something. He does a lot of pretty country settings and things, I've seen. He even donated a painting of his for an auction to benefit the firemen."

Edna was in her fourteenth year as head of the Ladies (that's what the locals call the Ladies Auxiliary, for short) at the time of this statement, which was as high a compliment as anyone has ever gotten in Hampton.

So, it is without wonder that the news of Michael and Bev's split was to reach scandalous heights amid the talkative of the town. Some were even fanning the fires about a possible intimate relationship between Mrs. Forcade and a certain stock-boy at Acker's Market. This bit of gossip did not escape the attention of Pat Acker himself, the rotund and devoutly born again owner of the store.

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It was a busy day at the market and Derek Connor was more than just a little pissed that he'd been stuck alone with the bagging and stock work. He wouldn't get a lick of help today because Mark and Ruth had gone on that bible-thumping youth hostel trip sponsored by old Pat's church.

They got to hike and picnic while he busted his ass working just so they could scream, "Praise Jeeessuss!" until their throats were raw.

Derek had never been big on church and he supposed he'd never realized what a blessing that was until he had started working for Pat Acker. Every other word from the guy's lips was; "God Bless," or "Thank the Lord," "Praise be to Jesus," or some such shit. He supposed the man's material was endless as long as he could stick a "Lord," "Father," or an "Amen" in somewhere.

His kids were even worse; carrying around that Jesus loves you crap in school, and knocking on neighbors' doors asking for donations to the Youth Retreat.

Now, the two of them had left him alone to work their father's store on a day he was so upset.

Bev hadn't shown up at the motel as planned and she wasn't returning his calls. He'd already had to hang up twice after ringing through. Listening to her husband's voice on the recording hadn't cheered him any. The toll made him curse a blue streak as a can of peas toppled off a high shelf.

And Pat Acker walked in.

"You'd do better not to defile any part of this store with that foul language, young man." The words sprang from the doorway as if God himself had been eavesdropping.

But God didn't waste time listening to people and Derek had known that since his father died when he was just eight years old.

"Sorry Mister Acker. Don't know what got into me, sir."

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"Well I sure do know," said Acker from behind his mock-Christian benevolence. "Was the Devil himself, Derek. And I believe you and he have been into more than just this, here of late."

Derek wasn't sure exactly what was up, but from the glint of those cold little eyes Pat Acker hid so well behind his Jesus loves you smile; he knew it couldn't be good. He held his patience and waited. He didn't like doing obeisance to this pious fraud but he and his mom needed the money that came with this job.

"I need to speak with you in my office, Derek."

"Okay Mr. Acker," Derek responded. Then he followed the fat man to the back of the store and up a staircase to the second floor. They walked through a large storage area until they came to a small office space that overlooked the parking lot at the front of the building.

Acker lowered his considerable bulk into a chair behind an old, battered desk. He motioned, with his hand, for Derek to take a seat. The young man found a metal folding chair and opened it.

"I've been hearing some disturbing stories, Derek, and I wondered if you'd like to comment on them."

"What kind of stories?" Derek asked.

"Stories about you and another man's wife."

"What about me and another man's wife, Mr. Acker?"

Acker opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a large binder. It was the kind where businessmen keep their checks. Derek noticed his time card on the blotter.

"It seems you've been seeing each other, inappropriately."

"And that's your business how?"

Acker smiled. "Okay, so you don't deny it," he said.

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"I don't have to. I don't see that it's any of your business," Derek continued.

"But that's precisely the point, Derek. This is my business." Pat Acker encompassed the entire space surrounding them with a sweep of his ham-sized hands. "My business cannot afford to have an adulterer working here. You know, that's what having sex with a married woman makes you, Derek. An adulterer."

"Who says I'm having sex with a married woman?"

"It's too late for denial now. That won't help you."

"You're judge and jury then, Pat?" Acker jerked in his seat at the sound of his first name. It seemed Derek had slapped him with it.

"I'm still your employer, until I hand you this check, and I'll have you treat me with respect, young man."

"The same kind of respect you're giving me. Right, Pat?" "Look Derek, you're a good worker, but I represent a standard in this community." He reached across the desktop and handed Derek the draft he'd been writing out. "All your current hours are in there, and I've added two weeks severance while you look for something else."

Derek stared at the check in his hand. After all his hard work, overtime, and covering for the fat man's kids, he was getting the boot.

"I don't think you can do this."

"What do you mean?" Acker asked.

Derek folded the check and stuffed it in a pocket. "I don't think it's legal," he said.

Acker stood from behind his desk.

"Then sue me," he said.

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"Yeah, I guess that's the standard you represent," Derek answered and walked away.

Derek left via the back door. He'd worked here for three years and there was no one to whom he wanted to say goodbye. He was headed to Ernie Brach's, to enlist the man's aid in acquiring a bottle of Jack Daniels. Then, after he was sufficiently fortified, he would head on to confront the only person who could have given him away to the Bible-Thumper.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Being alone in the house made Michael uneasier than he was willing to admit. As a result, he slept away as much of the day as possible. He'd been awakened several times by someone refusing to talk into the answering machine. He knew it wasn't Bev because she'd already left a bunch of messages. "Strange woman," he muttered to himself. "Leaves me, and then spends the next day calling to see if I'm okay. How the fuck does she expect me to be?"

He wasn't about to get out of bed to speak to her. If she was calling, he reasoned that yesterday's scene might've been staged to bring him around, or she was having second thoughts.

Part of him wanted to seize at either of these possibilities with relief, but the other part was bitter and indifferent as ever.

Certainly, he shouldn't have to get out of bed. He shouldn't have to struggle with chrome grab bars and slip proof grips in order to dress himself and take care of all the other functions of life; what they called at the Re-hab, A.D.L.s– Activities of Daily Living.

No activities of any sort seemed all right by him. As he lay there, he let Bev talk on about some nurse or housekeeper. Someone would be coming by tomorrow. So, she wasn't coming

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back after all. Well, he didn't care. Let tomorrow creep in its petty pace. It seemed as far off as next year or the year after that. Now, it was best to simply sleep and dream of better days gone by or imaginary futures in which there had never been an accident or argument and no need for terms like A.D.L. # Bev wasn't concerned about her husband's refusal to answer the phone. She felt certain it was just a reflection of his anger with her, his stubborn retribution for her desertion. She supposed he had a right to feel betrayed. She felt it too. Maybe a better wife or a stronger person would have stayed. Perhaps she should just go back to their house, to their lie of man and wife, and allow his bitterness to gnaw away at the little remaining love in their union until it finally and fully destroyed everything they had ever been together.

Surely, such destruction was the only other choice beyond the one she'd made. Desertion or destruction, she thought. Almost interchangeable words. If you moved a few letters around, added or subtracted some more here and there, you had either word, but neither described her actions of the previous day. She had not deserted her husband and she had not acted to destroy their marriage. She had gone in a final effort for him and herself, to salvage their love.

Now, she had to commit another potentially destructive act to the same ends. She had to end her liaison with her young lover. Derek must be told it was over. He had to be made to understand that none of it should have happened in the first place. It was her fault. Her weakness had driven them to one another. It had to be her strength that saw to this dissolution.

She had to inflict more injury in an attempt to salve an assuredly mortal wound. She thought once more about love and its difficulty in definition.

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Just days after his father found him skipping school, the changes in Stewie Stahl were apparent to everyone. The near total disappearance of his stutter had created a new boy. This boy was born of a better, more whole cloth. His new self possessed confidence and had friends and opinions. He openly and easily expressed the ideas and rationales he had so long harbored in his head. Stewart was smart, with a quick wit and a sharp sense of humor, and now everyone knew.

His burgeoning was a sort of resurrection for his mother, also. She was coming out of a selfimposed shell. Pam and her son spent all their spare time together. They attended movies and plays. They read poetry aloud and expounded on a wide variety of topics. The woman blossomed and seemed younger. She wore a bit of make-up, when once she'd worn none. In any local group, she and Stewart were suddenly the center of attention. Stewart's remedy was infectious, and it was transforming Pam back into the vital and gregarious woman she'd once been.

If Stewart's rally was the cure for his mother's melancholy, then it had become wholly the opposite for his father. Anthony Stahl's life had been altered as assuredly as anyone's. It was not a change he relished. He was losing control. His wife and son were no longer intimidated by his boorish behavior. They had found the capacity to stand up to him. Self-reliance and confidence are the bane of any bully and Anthony Stahl had been a bully all his life.

He was a hard drinking carpenter who had been raised by a hard drinking carpenter.

Anthony was a man who instinctively knew the mathematics of angles and stress factors, while his social skills were barely rudimentary. To him, book learning held no appeal and he believed

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that any man in a suit and tie knew nothing about hard work. Never mind that, as hard working as he honestly was, he was saddled with a smart-ass wife and an afflicted kid.

That he was mostly dissatisfied with his life seemed normal to him. His father had been a seriously unhappy man who carried a cloud of discontent and violence that had rained down on everyone everywhere he went, and Anthony Stahl was exactly like his father. He liked to tell people, "Yeah, I'm an ass hole. Everybody knows it," and then dare them to do something about it.

He lived for his simple, brutal routine. Work and drinking were at the crux of his existence.

Everything else was secondary. His workweek was six days long and, as he was in construction, it could run upwards of ten hours per day in season. Lunch was eaten on the site, aided down by a couple of beers if he could get away with it, until it was time to head home for BJ's Bar, which is where he went, directly, at the end of every workday. Once there, he would drink shots and beers for several hours before heading home for supper. The house was usually quiet by the time he arrived. Pam would remove his warming food from the oven and place it before him, on the kitchen table. Rarely, was he home before 8 p.m. Pam's consolation to her husband's remoteness was to sit and serve him. It was a routine worked out through years of estrangement.

The family ate together only on Sundays, except during football season when Anthony would carry a tray into the living room and eat alone.

Most nights after supper, Anthony would retire to his Lazy-boy to watch television and doze, while Pam sat in her rocker and read a book. Sometimes, if there wasn't anything good on the tube, Anthony would go back to the bar. Other evenings, he might try to talk his wife into having sex with him. If she resisted, and he was drunk enough, he hit her until she relented.

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While it was a traumatic experience for his wife, Anthony found that he enjoyed it more when he had to strike her in order to get what he wanted.

That she cried when this happened and seemingly had no appetite for the act at all, didn't disturb him. A man worked hard and drank hard, if a wife did not willingly offer her favors, then a man could take them with all the violence and fervor he desired. Tenderness was for a woman who cooperated, and Anthony couldn't remember the last time Pam had been accommodative. A beating was the law, according to Anthony Stahl. He was, therefore, content that in his life and in his actions he was 100 percent justified.

His contentment had, however, died shortly after his son's stutter had vanished. Anthony felt that the difference in Stewart was more than just his ability to speak plain and clear. There was something else new and unsettling about the boy.

Anthony worried that he was the only person who seemed to find it strange that a boy who had stuttered and stammered all his life had suddenly awakened one morning with speech as precise and slick as a politician's. All around, friends, relatives, doctors, and clergy were talking in terms of miracles and remission. It was not unusual, said the doctors, for a child to stop stuttering in adolescence. It was, however, practically unheard of it happening so fast and fully.

Stewart's speech was not only unhampered, but it was uncannily articulate for a young man with his history. Even so, Anthony was the only one regarding these events as weird or unnatural.

Everyone else dismissed his opinions as openly as they, these days, dismissed him.

All of these thoughts and problems swirled in Anthony's head. As he took his accustomed seat at B. J.'s, he acknowledged their presence with the need for a drink. A shot and beer was placed before him faster than you could blink. They didn't mess around here. They got right down to business, and that was one of the reasons he'd kept coming here for all these many

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years. This was a drinking man's bar. Sure, it had changed some but basically it was the same.

You couldn't find any of those fancy electronic games at B. J.'s, it was strictly darts, pool, and a jukebox. The lights were kept dim no matter what the sky outside, and you could curse and smoke to your heart's delight.

Most nights the crowd was like it was tonight, with a scattered line of solitary drinkers stringing the length of the old oak bar. Here and there, a couple of buddies sat sharing pitchers and stories at a table. A young couple Anthony had never seen before was shooting darts and the girl was apparently winning. Women weren't rare enough to be an oddity, but they were usually out numbered six or seven to one. The televisions at either end of the bar were each featuring a different sporting event. You would never catch a soap opera or movie on these sets, although someone would sometimes tune in the news.

The place had the right feel and the right smell for sitting down and belting them back.

Somewhere below the dim lighting wafted the tang of acrid old draft–-a bitter lingering of the past. Anthony caught its whiff and he thought of ghosts. The dark held the uncommon close and, through the years, the uncommon had sometimes made special appearances at B. J.'s.

"Anything new happening? You old fuck." Anthony addressed Bud Junior, whose initials were the same as his father, who had owned the bar before him.

"You know Stahl, I can't be no more an old man than you, since we grew up together as kids," came the reply from the burly bar man.

Anthony knew this statement to be true and accurate even though he could not recall Bud as a kid, not even vaguely. He supposed he'd blocked out the memory as he had blocked out most of his childhood. He didn't really have any friends from back then besides the shaggy,

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overweight bartender and that was fine with him. He didn't run with anyone and he supposed he thought of Bud as his friend simply because of all the time he spent in his tavern.

"Guess I can't really be considered a fuck either," Bud continued with his retort. "Least not in comparison to you. Everyone in the township knows you're the real fuck." Bud junior burst out laughing.

"To your health, pecker head," Anthony replied. As he hoisted his sweaty glass of brew, he slid the middle finger of his right hand along its side.

Bud was laughing and starting to turn a shade of red that seemed to have more to do with his heft and the amount of drink he'd put away than his sense of humor.

"How's the family?" he asked as he poured another shot for Anthony. "Seems Stewart's the hottest thing in town."

"Ain't he just, though." Anthony swallowed the rest of his beer and answered. "A regular dang Wunderkind."

"You don't sound too pleased there, old buddy."

Anthony sipped the fresh draft Bud had just set in front of him and seemed to measure his response. "A father's got to be pleased enough when a sick kid gets well, I suppose. This is a different thing though, I guess."

The bar owner filled himself a glass and leaned against the liquor counter to take up the conversation. "How do you figure this is different?"

"Well, first, it happened so damned fast. The boy just woke up one morning talking clear as can be, and a damned lot fancier than me."

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Bud seemed to search for a response at the bottom of his beer glass. "Well, far as the fancy talking, you aren't exactly a man of learned education. No more than myself, that is. Our daddies taught us that hard working was all we needed."

Anthony looked up from his own glass. "You think our daddies were wrong, do you Bud?" "No, not wrong for us, Anthony. We've done okay. But it seems to me that there was a very smart person in Stewart all along. Just none of us knew it till he could talk better."

"Refill these drinks, Mister Psychologist."

"Now don't go getting all testy, Stahl." Bud pulled another draft and poured another shot. "I just think your kid might have some real opportunity, is all."

"Opportunity for what?"

Bud Junior winced, considering what he was about to say next. "Opportunity to become something better," he answered.

"Better than a carpenter." Anthony glared.

"Or better than a bartender."

"And I should want that for him. Right, Bud?" "That's all I'm saying," the barkeep answered.

Anthony leaned as far forward as his stool would allow and fixed his eyes firmly on the other man's. "What the fuck makes you think I don't?" he asked.

"Look, I'm not trying to make you mad. It's just that with all the going on about Stewart, I didn't think we could just skip over it."

Maybe I came here to try and skip over it, old buddy." Anthony smiled and something in Bud ran cold. "Suppose, I'm here drinking long after my regular hours cause there's nobody home but me. Suppose, I'm here drinking because all I have at home is a cold dinner and an

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empty house. Suppose, that's all because my kid is the hottest thing in town and my wife is too busy busing him around, showing him off to people only too happy to trade tea and sandwiches for a chance to hear my kid prattle on like some kind of trained parrot. Meanwhile, I'm the red headed stepchild, left behind to a cold dinner and an empty house night after fucking night. Me! The guy who's out there busting his ass for years to feed them, house them, clothe them. I'm the guy who's left behind hungry and looking like some dumb ass compared to his over-bright son.

I'm the guy who's offered them every opportunity they should ever need and this is what I get!"

Bud lifted his arms as if in surrender. "Easy," he said. "Easy does it Stahl. Sorry if I spoke out of turn. You are, obviously, a troubled man. Let me get you one on the house."

He trotted down the bar to have another pull at the Yuengling tap, wondering at the fact that Anthony Stahl could take this kind of blessing and turn it into a curse. It was, truly, a dark gift.

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CHAPTER NINE

Bev had spoken to Michael often enough since her leaving to know that, although he still refused therapy and often fought his nurse, he was pleased with the young homemaker from Attending Nurses.

Michael was notoriously particular when it came to the care of his artwork, personal collections, and even the bric-a-brac Bev had scattered throughout various rooms of the house. It was praise, indeed, that he was truly happy with the girl's work. He described how carefully and competently she handled their precious items. "It's as if she's in awe," he said. "Like I'm some sort of celebrity or something."

"Well, Michael," Bev replied. "You are. Or have you forgotten your own notoriety?"

Complete silence followed from Michael's end of the line.

"Yeah well, who knows how much longer that'll last," he finally answered.

Their conversation was now turning in a direction Bev sought to avoid. She intentionally steered things back toward a more positive path.

"Well, it seems you still have at least one avid fan," she said.

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"What? Oh yeah, Amy." He laughed. "She's more sort of fascinated, is all."

"You can be a very fascinating guy." It was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and it hung in the stiff silence between them like the flat, tacky sort of sentiment it seemed.

She was working too hard to keep the talk light, keep things upbeat. They weren't going to reconcile soon and she was struggling to stay shy of bitterness and recriminations. So, on that last weak note, the dialogue dwindled to vague niceties and polite grumbling. Michael seemed all right without her or, at least, no worse. He refused to discuss his nocturnal sojourns to the window or anything that might touch upon the nature of his physical or psychological health.

All in all, it had become a courtly colloquy between two people with little desire for meaningful conversation.

Afterward, Bev found herself inordinately pleased with one thing she'd learned. She was happy Amy, the homemaker, was taking such an interest in Michael's work. It was her feeling that he needed the outside attention. He had refused all offers of personal appearances and gallery showings since the accident. But now, the old awe had been in his voice, if only fleetingly.

Michael was, mostly, a modest man. He had, however, an astonishment and pride for his work that made him shine under his most public scrutiny. If only she could have seen his face for that brief beat when she'd sensed his ego renewed. She closed her eyes and recalled how he looked when he spoke of his work and his life as an artist. His countenance, she remembered, aglow and alive, as if bathed in some magical light by the purpose and effectuation of his devotion.

Her breath slowed, and her heart beat rapidly as she lost herself to the imagery. Michael, at a cocktail party, surrounded by admirers and well-wishers, blowing her a kiss from across the

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room. Michael, at home and holding her hand as he guides her upstairs to the studio to show her a piece he's just finished. Michael, atop her, inside her, as he fills her with wave after wave of pleasure, telling her how much he needs her, how much she inspires him. Michael, always at those moments with his merry look of awe and resolve.

Once, he had attempted to tell her how he felt at those times. He'd said that he could only equivocate it with the realization of a destiny; a calling. It was, he said, a sense of something greater than himself using him, using his talent to achieve a grace he could not find without its direction. It was, simply put, at those times his Muse filled him.

She cried for the man she missed her Michael; the man she so clearly saw as trapped within the bitter, sullen husk of another Michael. She cried for her still unrealized desperate plan to rescue him. She despaired for what her life had become, but she could not sustain such hopelessness. This was the very sort of grief that had led to her disastrous liaison with Derek.

Her will could not afford to be thwarted. Her life had to go on, and she had to get stronger if she was to save all she held dear.

She had taken a small apartment in Fleetwood. The lease was month-to-month and enabled her to return to her real home speedily, should her hopes be realized. Meanwhile, this building that had once been a three-car garage, was home. The owner, a widow who lived in the house fronting the property, had done a more than satisfactory conversion.

She felt a need to put down some roots no matter how temporary. She had been made to feel second-hand and inconsequential for too long. There had to be a place for Bev. Since Michael made it impossible for that place to be with him, then it had to be here and now.

She waved to her landlady, who was in the yard tending to some urgency, as she made her way down from the second floor landing. The remodeling had resulted in a unique floor plan.

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Her living room and kitchen were upstairs, while her bedroom and bath were downstairs. This arrangement secured a very spacious bedroom, while the bath was somewhat cramped. It was a challenge to her sense of style she relished.

It would be good to turn her head to a little decorating. There were some antique dealers in town with whom she'd previously dealt, and a few quaint looking places she had recently spotted. She'd drive around and shop until she had finally, faithfully, filled her new home with everything it needed. She clutched her purse in an act of regard for her checkbook and credit cards. A smile crossed her face when she realized that she had enough money to buy whatever she wanted. She had almost forgotten how good that felt. # Derek's resolve had been failing him despite its almost constant plying with Jack Daniels.

Shortly, he would have to tell his mother that he'd lost his job. He'd managed to save a little, and he would hold on to what Acker had paid him in severance. That was how he'd be able to fool Mom for now, but word was bound to get around in Hampton. He preferred all the news come from him.

The job was bad enough, but he would have to tell her about Bev as well. She wasn't going to take to him fooling around with an older woman, much less a married one. His mother was a tough, independent woman who took the job of raising her son seriously. While he knew he was going to pay a big price for his indiscretions, he thought Mr. Acker's expense might figure even higher. He'd worked very hard for the old Bible Thumper. Last minute fill-ins for his lazy kids, early mornings, and late nights had been commonplace. His mother argued more than once that her son's employer took advantage. Now, she was bound to square off with the pompous

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dogmatist, no matter what his excuse. That made Derek laugh, as he bit down another gulp of whiskey.

He had little experience with drinking but it seemed to be helping him through this bad time.

Jack Daniels was like one of those switches for the dining room light because it dimmed everything down for him. Sure, it placed a gauzy sort of haze over reality and left him a bit bewildered, but it did the same for his pain and that was fine with him. Hell, life was easier when you didn't have to look straight on at it. Yeah, staying drunk was fine with Derek. It was just what the doctor had ordered. Doctor Ernie Brach, that was. Doctor of booze was the title Derek had given the older man who was, for all intents and purposes, the town drunk.

Ernie was buying the booze for Derek, in exchange for a bottle of his own, each time he ran.

Sure, the Jack was costing him twice as much as if he got it himself, but he wasn't quite old enough and everyone in Hampton knew it. Besides, it gave him someone to drink with, and that was better than drinking alone. Ernie was no role model, he knew, but he did offer him manly advice. He didn't treat him like a kid, he didn't condescend. Other folks, it seemed, just didn't know Ernie like he did. They didn't understand his humor or listen to the stories of his life as Derek had. As funny as it might sound to some, he thought Ernie had some sage advice for him.

He'd been considering some of Ernie's wisdom about his current situation. He had instructed him to stop waiting around for this woman and just go for it. It seemed that a lot of Ernie's instruction was to just go for it. Derek thought maybe Ernie had seen too many Nike commercials in his day.

They agreed that Derek's lover must have spilled the beans. What they couldn't figure was whether she had repented to her spouse or if she may have been provoked to reveal Derek in the midst of some quarrel. Derek was holding out for the latter circumstance, while Ernie just stared

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resignedly to the bottom of his bottle and said, "Women always give ya' up, kid. They always give ya' up."

Ernie also suggested that, since the town was talking, her husband knew enough without her confession. Derek knew that Michael Forcade was some sort of famous artist. Bev wouldn't talk much about him, but the guy was known throughout town in abstract form. Ernie had never heard of him, but Ernie wasn't acquainted with fame outside of NASCAR and CMT. He was clear, however, that this woman was lost to Derek. He had been a mere dalliance, and now she was bored or guilty, or any one of a hundred different things that cut Derek out.

Hence, no meeting at the No-Tell Motel and his calls went unanswered. She was older, much more sophisticated, and not about to leave high society and big bucks for a twenty-year-old small timer. Derek felt that there was only one way he might come out of this with his dignity intact and that was more than he had gotten out of his confrontation with Pat Acker. # Amy was really busy these days. Her time was divided between Edith and Mr. Forcade.

Attending Nurses had assigned another girl to the rest of her people. She didn't mind, because Edith and Mr. Forcade had fast become her favorites. The hospital had succumbed to Edith's constant lobbying and released her after guarantees of Amy's close supervision. Mr. Forcade, likewise, had requested Amy's services exclusively. Her boss was so impressed that she was given a raise in recognition of her good work.

She was somewhat pleased with herself as she set aside her duster and made to answer the Forcade doorbell. This was a task she'd never undertaken, since no one had come to visit in the time she'd been working here. She thought she might save Mr. Forcade a trip downstairs on the

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special lift he used to traverse from the second floor, thus making a further contribution to her good works.

The young man standing in the doorway reeked of booze and swayed slightly as he spoke.

Amy wondered what he could possibly want with Mrs. Forcade. She wasn't about to let him in, no matter how harshly he insisted.

"I want to see her now!" The shouting drunk scowled and tried to push inside the Forcade residence. "No goddamn maid is going to stop me. No one barred the door when I was bending her over and putting it to her, and no one is going to stop me now!"

My God, Amy thought, what if Mr. Forcade hears this? Almost before she completed her cognition, Michael's voice called her away from the door.

"Let him pass, Amy. In the Forcade household, bending my wife over and putting it to her grants a security clearance beyond the vestibule," Michael directed.

This self-righteous prick is starting out all high-and-mighty already, Derek thought. I'll just have to kick his ass and find Bev on my own. Even if the girl calls the cops, it'll take them at least ten or fifteen minutes to get here, just like Ernie said.

Amy stepped away enough to allow Derek access. He stopped short when he was confronted with the sight of Michael Forcade.

"I see my wife neglected to tell you about this." Michael motioned at the wheelchair. "Well, I guess you can't trust someone just because they let you bend them over, can you?"

The guy was in a wheelchair. A fucking wheelchair! Sobriety struck Derek like a frigid wind in July. He stared at Michael in total disbelief. Bev had never mentioned anything like this. She talked a little about her dissatisfaction with a neglectful, insensitive husband, but never this.

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"Put your eyes back in your head, son. You can still take a poke at me later, if you like.

You'll just have to swing a bit lower than you thought." Michael turned from the entrance and led the way inside. "Amy, please close the door. Derek and I are going to the study. He looks as if he can use a drink. I know I certainly can."

Amy shut the door in a motion not unlike the disbelieving, tentative steps Derek took behind Michael's wheelchair. The boy gave her a glance over his shoulder. They were about the same age. Derek might be a year or two younger, was all. He looked like a deer caught in headlights and all she could manage was a shrug back at him. After all, he was no innocent, even if he hadn't known about Mr. Forcade's condition. If he was looking for help, there was certainly nothing she could do.

Michael, however, seemed to have it all well in tow. In a similar instance, Amy could never have proved so calm. She marveled at Michael's reserve and wondered how much he'd already known and for how long. Poor man, she thought, first to lose the use of his legs, and then to be made a cuckold by his wife. Even with all of his travails, he seemed kind. She knew he fought his nurse tooth and nail, refused his therapy, and spent most evenings propped before his bedroom window, but to her he was not difficult. She wondered if Mrs. Forcade couldn't see it as simply as she did. The man's heart was broken. And now, as she watched him struggle to open his study's double doors, she couldn't understand why she felt more concerned for the boy, Derek, than Michael.

Derek vaguely perceived that this was a big, beautiful house. Bev had often talked about her home, and he'd imagined something like this, but everything was happening too fast for him to take it all in. Big as the place was, he felt claustrophobic. He kept thinking he should help Mr. Forcade with those doors.

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"Well, Derek. It is Derek, isn't it?"

There was an audible gulp. "Yes, sir. Derek Connor."

"Well then, Derek Connor," Michael began, as he wheeled himself to a well-appointed bar off to one side of the room. "What's your poison? I rather prefer a little Jack Daniels this time of year."

"That's f-f-fine, sir." Derek stammered.

"No need for the sir. In this sort of situation, it's a bit vulgar to be called sir."

Michael had filled two very large brandy snifters about halfway, and sat holding one extended to Derek as he delivered the rebuke. He paid no attention to the boy's reply because he kept thinking that this was going to be too easy. The kid was a lamb. He was hoping Derek wouldn't take the fun out of it for him.

In truth, he had considered this very scenario many a night, while seated before his window.

In fact, it had become one of his wishes. It was one of the things he prayed to the night to accomplish. He could never have imagined Derek would come to him so easily.

Derek's hesitation faded when the glass was offered to him. He was sober, violently so. The sight of Forcade in his wheelchair had completely cleared his head. Despite all the whiskey he'd consumed in order to bolster his courage, he was dry and frightened. The call of the drink was like the open-bloused beckon of a beautiful woman and he could almost taste its promise before he got it down his gullet.

He never quite got his hand around the glass. As he bent slightly and reached for the object of his desire, Michael Forcade leaned forward and splashed the contents straight up and into his face. It was a bull's-eye and the sticky liquid shot into Derek's eyes and nostrils. Before Derek could rise to full height, Michael tossed the glass, rolled forward and beat Derek with powerful

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blows to the his lower body. He proceeded to sweep the kid off his feet with a potent roundhouse that brought him crashing to the floor on top of the snifter.

The sound of breaking glass was muffled by Derek's mass landing on the carpet and his cry of surprise and injury. Michael speedily maneuvered so that the wheels of his chair straddled Derek's splayed left leg. One of the small front wheels was at a point above his chest. The left rear wheel was dangerously near his groin.

Derek’s world had tilted precipitously. The cripple had tossed the precious Jack into his face. Even then, he had thought he probably deserved this; to be messing around with an invalid's wife. A hard life's recognition told Derek that it didn't matter that he hadn't known the guy was a gimp. It should have been enough to stay away from a married woman. One of old man Acker's bible quotes even had time to begin running in his head, "The wages sin pays."

Then the room somersaulted.

In the few seconds it took for violence to happen, Derek Connor had a vague perception of what was going on. He perceived that he had been beaten and knocked fully to the floor, but not until his hard landing had blown the breath from his lungs and his back registered a sharp, penetrating pain that seemed to steal some other vital function.

"Listen to me, you country-ass little punk." Michael was speaking forcefully, but he hoped he wasn't being so loud as to alarm Amy from the other side of the mahogany doors. "Don't pass out, you fuck. Look at me!"

Michael had to get his point across. He had to keep the little scum conscious for this. Derek was definitely down for the count, but his eyes seemed alert and alive.

"I'm tired of having drunks fuck with me. I'm tired of women leaving me! It's not going to happen anymore. Got it?"

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Derek nodded his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, and with that, Michael rolled slowly forward. He wasn't sure if he actually heard a pop, or only imagined it as the large wheel crushed Derek's testicles. The doors could not stifle the agonized screams and Amy burst in the room as Derek simultaneously vomited and passed out.

Michael was struggling against a smile.

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CHAPTER TEN

The sun slanting through the new draperies and curtains made the apartment very homey.

Bev was tired and she should have been able to relax within the confines of new furniture and window treatments, but she was ill at ease. A cup of tea and a light snack sat cooling before her as her thoughts passed into vexation. There were certainly enough problems to cause her discomfort, but this impression seemed different from the host of other ills tugging at her so insistently. She'd been preparing to hang pictures and make touches to the general ambiance.

Then, she had felt a need to rest so urgently that she could only equate it with having her feet knocked out from under her. It was something short of miraculous that she had been able to get tea and some oatmeal together before desperately needing to sit.

As she rocked lightly in her new reading chair, she couldn't help but feel that she was crossing some supposed line. These purchases and this entire place were hers alone, unseen and unaffected by her husband, they stood as a symbol of her insularity. Though haunted almost constantly by the circumstances that had brought her here, she was physically far removed and

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untouched by them. Yet, instead of feeling at peace and able to think objectively, she felt as if she was a fugitive strained and coaxed by her dodge.

Forcing herself to remain calm and sip her Earl Gray, she considered all the work ahead.

She'd held off contacting Derek and saying her goodbyes. He was surely feeling abandoned by now and she was loathe to consider his reaction. He was only twenty and, before their tryst, little experienced in the pains of lust and love. If he believed he loved her, he would not allow a diplomatic ending. There was no way she could break it off without hurting him and she feared her procrastination had, no doubt, already made things worse.

His was another casualty to count. That he would request a final face-to-face was practically assured. Whether it would be to confront her in accusation and condemnation or to beg for reunion, she simply could not know. No matter, she would not acquiesce. It had been hard to decide whether to talk to him or to simply allow her absence to speak for her. She knew she owed him some explanation and apology, but it would do no good. It was over, and her silence might speak better to that than any words could hope. Acceptance, she knew, must come when forced upon us.

As Beverly Forcade struggled to deal with her decisions, Michael Forcade answered questions from doctors and police officers seeking information regarding Derek Connor's injuries. Mostly, the inquiries were the same; What had happened?

Michael was calm in spite of the situation. In fact, his imperturbability called for him to feign concern during the police questioning. One of Hampton's own was questioning him under the scrutiny of a Pennsylvania State Trooper. Derek had been brought to St. Luke's Hospital because Hampton's facilities were very modest and Derek's injuries were too traumatic for

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treatment there. The trooper was a sort of courtesy, Hampton's officer now being officially outside his jurisdiction. Michael was certain that his presence was also an intimidation ploy.

So, Michael found himself in a small waiting room the cops had appropriated for their impromptu interrogation. Amy held his hand as they sat on a leather couch amid brass and glass tables, light fixtures, and the prerequisite magazine racks. The Hampton Policeman sat, leaning forward as if riveted by their every word, while the trooper chose to stand sentinel just inside the room's entryway. Good cop, bad cop, Michael thought. The State Trooper was a large man and his stance was as to block their escape, while the other leaned in with friendly anticipation.

Standard police games.

"Does he need to call his attorney?" Amy asked the trooper.

"He certainly can, if he would like." He answered with a barely perceptible smirk that Michael was sure he would have missed, had he not been looking for it. "But seeing as this was just an accident," he continued, with his gaze set firmly on Michael. "Mr. Forcade here's got nothing to worry about. What do you say, sir?"

He must actually practice that simper, Michael thought, as the Hampton P.D. chimed in.

"Look, if anything, Mr. Forcade is the aggrieved party here. What with the Connor kid drunk and forcing his way in like you both say, Miss Lauder. We just need to get it down, as it happened, is all. We certainly appreciate the trouble you've both gone to in order to cooperate."

His attention settled solidly on Michael. "What with following me here in Miss Lauder's car and all. So, Mr. Forcade, we can finish up right here, or call in the legal eagles and meet back in town. Up to you, sir."

"Won't I need to make an appearance back in Hampton anyhow?" Michael asked.

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"Seeing what you've already told us, and Miss Lauder's corroboration, I'll be pressing charges against Mr. Connor for defiant trespass, assault, battery, and the like. We shouldn't need you two until trial or hearing. Isn't that right, Trooper?"

"Unless something changes. Drastically."

"Okay," Michael said. "What more do you need?"

"I hate to ask you this sort of thing, here in a waiting room. It's kind of personal." Now, it seemed the Hampton cop had become Columbo. He was looking uncomfortable and forlorn with the prospect of delving into intimate topics.

"About my wife?" Michael asked.

"Yes, sir." The Hampton lawman nodded.

Amy rose from the couch, squeezing Michael's hand. "This is none of my business." She addressed all three men, but especially the State cop who seemed, for reasons of rudeness or theatrics, still unwilling to relinquish his post on the threshold.

"Thank you," Michael offered. "This seems to be taking a delicate turn."

"I'll be just down the hall." Amy tilted her head toward Michael's wheelchair, propped against the brown, cracked leather of the couch. The officers had asked if he might not be more comfortable out of it. A ploy to make him feel trapped? She wondered. Through conversation, she had become less and less trusting of these men, especially the trooper. It was like he had it in for them.

She didn't like the tone of the questioning, although Michael seemed to deflect it quite well.

She was more impressed with him every day. He seemed to take difficulty in such great stride.

Perhaps, he'd found none of it added up to much, given his physical infirmities. #

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Bev set aside her apprehension in favor of a second cup of tea. She stood at her landing, staring out from behind the screen door. The days were beginning to turn colder and the breeze bore a chill. There was a park less than three blocks away that had an old-fashioned band shell.

She briefly considered a stroll there, where she could stop to feed the squirrels and walk along the path between sunshine tinged trees, but these thoughts were stolen as if on the wind.

She became aware only of the colors in her landlady's yard and the pungent scent of hot tea.

All the shapes and sounds around her seemed melded. Individually, they had become indistinct, and then, uniquely unambiguous in a solitary co-mingling. The world melted before her, and she was pleasantly lost in the dullness of her perception. Seemingly, she had gone to that place so diligently sought by opium users. She had landed at a spot where there is no consideration of past, present, or future. It was a state of being enveloped by a simple singular fascination.

Nothing demanded her attention. Her grief had vanished within contemplation and she was not oppressed by guilt or fear. She knew nothing but the colors and her tea, until the shrill ring of the telephone brought her back.

There was an almost audible pop as the world filled in around her. Void and vacancy were instantly replaced with the substantial. Bev shook her head and wondered where she had been.

She answered the phone with a question.

"Hello?" For some reason she expected the speaker on the other end to have the explanation as to what had just happened. Instead, she was faced with another question.

"Mrs. Forcade? Is this Beverly Forcade?"

"Ah, yes." She still was, wasn't she? Certainly, the strange fugue she'd just suffered hadn't changed that. She answered more assuredly. "Yes. This is Beverly Forcade."

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"Mrs. Forcade, this is Amy Lauder. I, uh, sort of work for you. That is, I work for Attending Nurses, over in Hampton."

"What is it, Miss Lauder?"

"Well, it's Mr. Forcade. He's okay. He was great, actually! Is great, I mean. Mrs. Forcade, I'm sorry. We're at St. Luke’s Hospital."

"Oh my God," Bev cut in. "Is Michael all right? Is he okay?" The voice on the other end had brought clarity, no matter how stumbling and stinted. It brought her all the lucidity that accompanies apprehension and fright.

"Yes ma'am. He's fine. Don't panic, please. He's not hurt or anything like that. There's hardly a scratch on him. It's that boy, Derek Connor. He was hurt at the house. I think you know him. Don't you know him, Mrs. Forcade?"

That there was accusation in Amy's voice did not occur to Bev. She had slipped back into her previous chasm. The phone receiver was out at arm's length and she stared at the thing as though she had no idea what it was or how it had come to be in her hand. A buzzing sound seemed to come from one end.

"Derek? Derek?" she asked when she had finally found enough sense to rejoin the conversation.

"Yes, Mrs. Forcade. Well, there was an argument at your home and Derek was injured."

"How?" Bev's voice was barely a whisper and she trembled at the edge of her cognitive abyss. "How was he injured, Miss Lauder?" She raised her voice in an effort to save herself.

"He pushed his way into the house and demanded to see you."

"I see." Bev felt herself at the pit.

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"I think you should get the details from Mr. Forcade. I don't think I should get involved in that. I just thought, you know, someone should call you."

Bev didn't answer.

"Mrs. Forcade. Mrs. Forcade? Are you okay? I was afraid I'd mess this up. I'm sorry," Amy lamented.

"Don't be sorry, Miss Lauder. I'm the one who messed up, not you. This is my pickle.

You're sure Michael is all right?"

"Yes. He's in a waiting room with the cops."

"Okay."

"Mrs. Forcade?"

"Yes." "I think I should go to him."

No, Bev thought, I should go to him. But which one would it be? Would it be her long ago injured husband who had now undergone the additional humiliation of a physical confrontation with her ex-lover? Or was it that seeming freshly injured lover, whose plight pulled at her instincts demanding her attention, her explanation, her atoning?

"Yes," she said to Amy. "Do that and I'll-" She hadn't a clue what she might do. "I'll digest this and decide what to do."

Before Bev could say anymore, Amy hung up. Bev had been abruptly dismissed. In that curt rejection was all the denunciation she'd missed earlier. But what was she supposed to do?

Certainly, Michael knew it all by now. There was absolutely no reason in the world for an argument between him and Derek except for her infidelity.

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She wondered if her husband now supposed that her leaving had more to do with Derek than anything else she'd professed. How was he considering her choice of a much younger lover?

With it all exploding in her face, she feared Michael might finally be lost to her for good. How could she explain? How could she seek his forgiveness, when she was hardly able to forgive herself?

What about Derek? He was really still just a boy–-a boy seduced by an older, experienced woman who had only wanted the comfort of his flesh and who had never held any true interest in his heart. Derek had deserved more, and better. Now he was in some hospital, hurt on yet another level because of her.

She noticed the phone, ice in her hand, and hung up. Once again, she stood behind the screen door and stared out at nothing. This time, however, she did not allow herself to slip into the void. Instead, she wished. She wished long and hard. She wished she knew what to do next. # After Amy left the room, Michael decided to become assertive. "Gentlemen, let's do this quickly and politely." He glared at the State cop, who had been glaring at him more intently since Amy's departure. "I have had an entirely unpleasant day and I'm tiring."

"Your wife." The Hampton cop began.

"Was apparently fucking that kid," Michael responded.

The local policeman was taken aback with the bluntness of Michael's speech. Without skipping a beat, the State Policeman stepped in to continue as Michael had assumed he would.

"And you didn't know?" he asked.

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"Depends what you mean by didn't know. Know she was fucking someone? Yes. I was pretty sure. Specifically? No. I did not specifically know it was him," Michael lied. He made a gesture outside the doorway to indicate Derek, who was still undergoing treatment.

"That kid's hurt badly," the trooper pressed.

"He fell under a wheelchair," Michael retorted.

"After struggling with you." The trooper made a point of studying Michael's useless legs.

"Struggling or stumbling?" Michael perched his chin between thumb and index finger, considering. "Lurching, might actually be more accurate, given his state."

"His intoxication?"

"Exactly, Trooper. Which I am sure, you will confirm with blood tests."

"He asked for your wife."

"He demanded to see my wife."

"Who's left you?"

"Yes." "Because?"

"Of the obvious."

"Sorry sir, but it may not be so obvious to me," the Hampton Officer cut in.

"My accident has put my marriage adrift."

"And it wasn't before then?" asked the trooper.

"No, it wasn't."

"Not because of Amy?" "What?"

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"I think maybe you’ve been carrying on with sweet Miss Lauder. Then, when your wife finally got a little of her own, you got pissed. You steered Derek into a compromising position somehow and ran him down with your wheelchair."

Michael burst into hysterical laughter, so hard it brought a disconcerted Amy rushing down the hall, as heads turned at the nurses station. Secretly, he couldn’t believe the cop had come so close to the truth, at least about him attacking Derek.

"Help me in." Michael grabbed a handle of his wheelchair and motioned for the Hampton Policeman.

"Sir?" "This is over. The trooper can find out how ridiculous his questions are by checking my medical records. I intend to contact my attorney and see that charges are pressed against Mr. Connor by the D.A.'s office."

As Michael wheeled away, the State Trooper failed to yield his position in the doorway.

"Medical records?" he asked.

Amy's voice, raised loud enough for anyone on the floor to hear, turned the cop from his barricade.

"Leave him alone! Enough is enough. He was attacked, in his own home, for God's sake.

How long are you going to keep bullying a man in a wheelchair? You, you fucking flatfoot!"

Michael pushed through as Amy's tirade attracted attention from doctors and nurses hurrying about to care for patients. As she took charge of the contraption and moved him speedily down the hall for the elevators, the Hampton cop could be heard calling out. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Forcade. We'll be in touch!"

Inside the elevator, Michael doubled over. "Oh my God," he said. "Oh my God, Amy."

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"What is it Mr. Forcade? What is it?" Amy was stricken.

"Flatfoot. Fucking flatfoot," Michael guffawed. "That's so hilarious. So damned, hilarious!"

Later, with Michael and his wheelchair tightly packaged inside Amy's little hatchback and heading for home, he asked; "With all we've been through recently, don't you think it's time for you to call me Michael?"

Amy didn't respond immediately, and Michael counted the silence in the slaps of the windshield wipers working against the start of a steady soaking.

After a little while, she answered. "If that's what you'd like, sure," she said. That would be nice, unless."

"Unless, what?"

"Unless you're going to be upset about the thing I did while those two policemen were hassling you, Michael." She was shy and flinchingly effective with the use of his first name.

Considering the pout she had just turned on him, he thought he could never be truly annoyed with her. She had backed him in what, he was certain, had been a tough situation for her.

Standing down two officers of the law could not be easy for Amy. It had become obvious she was devoted to him. Now, sitting so close to her in the car was suddenly becoming an erotic experience for him. He was feeling stimulated in ways he had not considered for quite some time. Today was fast becoming a revelation, and Michael was sure that whatever lay within Amy's latest disclosure couldn't be that bad.

"What did you do?" He used a slightly reproving tone, like a mother with a child who has been a bit naughty, or a lover with a playful partner whom he wishes to become a bit naughty, he thought.

"I called your wife."

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Edith warmed tea and baked biscuits, and considered the events that had brought her to now.

She recalled occasional glimpses of her husband at the window. The sightings were little more than vague spectral appearances just beyond the glass. She remembered the morning when Amy had found her and she'd been taken to the hospital.

There had been a misty start to the day and she had been at the window in order to watch for the sun. It was stubborn in coming and its lazy shafts seemed to tangle and hang in the gazebo at the rear of the property. Something else struggled there as well. She went to the kitchen counter for her glasses and upon her return she saw her husband standing at the center of the gazebo, seemingly tethered by morning light. He waved to her and she felt her breath catch in a hitch at her throat.

Before she stopped to think, she was out the back door. His voice propelled her across the wet grass as he called out for her. After that, everything had gone gray and strange until she'd come around in a hospital bed and been told the story of her collapse.

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Things were better now. She was home, puttering away in her kitchen and listening to the rain singing off the window glass. Never mind that her sane mind had been chewing away at her since all of this had happened. Never mind that she could not have possibly, logically, seen her husband out beyond this very same glass in full features just a couple of days ago. Best to ignore the tapping of the storm against the house that now seemed more like a subdued, but insistent rapping at the back door.

"Edith. Edith, please let me in," came the soft call against the wood frame.

She couldn't be hearing that any more than she had seen Clarence beneath that gazebo and heard his call then.

"Oh God," she said aloud. "There has to be something very wrong with me. Doesn't there?"

The knock became louder, stronger, and more distinct. It was impossible to dismiss it as part of the storm. The voice was brawny now.

"Just a brief visit, Edith. A stopover, please."

The shock of his first visit had sent her to the hospital for a spell but she would not allow that again. She gulped a large breath of air, turned and tugged the chain off the back door, grasped the handle firmly and pulled with all her might. Her husband stood outside the threshold, his hat and coat were rain-soaked. He smiled at her.

"May I?" he asked and gestured inside.

Edith's mouth hung open as she stared at the man. Rain slashed in at her from the open door and she allowed his admission.

"Perhaps you had better close that, dear," Clarence suggested.

"Oh, yes." Edith reacted almost involuntarily to close the door.

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She did not, however, move out of the corner by the doorway as Clarence pulled a chair from the kitchen set. She noticed he was no longer wet and there were no streaks of water across the floor from the door to the table. Everything was dry except for the spot at the door where she stood, momentarily mesmerized.

"You're not going to remain in the corner. Are you, dear?" Clarence asked.

"Please," his hand patted the seat next to him. "Come join me. It's been so long."

Edith looked down at the wet floor and back to the man seated at her dinette set. Tentatively, she made her way for the table.

"I tried not to startle you. I know I was a bit of a nuisance, knocking at the door and all."

Edith slowly took a seat across from him.

"It's just that I had to see you," he said.

"How?" Edith asked very quietly. "How?" she said, speaking up a bit. "Is this possible?"

"You wanted very much to be with me, to see me again. Didn't you?"

"Yes, but not like this. This isn't what I imagined."

"Things seldom are as we imagine."

"I know, but this? This just isn't possible," she responded.

"Yet, here I am." Clarence smiled and made a gesture of expanse with his arms.

He reached across the table and took her hand. His was warm and held hers tenderly, as she remembered. His smile was sincere and disarming as ever. She smiled, despite her dismay, and returned his grip.

"But why?" she asked.

"Perhaps, simply because you wished. Please, tell me that you are well," he implored.

"Well." She allowed herself a laugh. "That may now be debatable. Don't you think?"

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Clarence smiled some more. "Please know, my dear, that this is no trick of the mind, no breakdown, no crack-up."

"Easy for you to say, especially if it is."

"It isn't. It's just a visit. A stopover, if you will."

"A stopover from where? My God, Clarence, is there really a heaven?"

"Are those your buttermilk biscuits baking? I think they're about to burn."

"Oh goodness," Edith said, as she rose to go to the oven.

After the baked goods were rescued, she served tea and food. Clarence took a cup and brought it to his mouth. Did he swallow? She wasn't sure. Did his Adam's apple move up and down when he tilted the cup? Had he picked up and eaten any of his favorite biscuits? She couldn't be certain. She didn't know. She was too enthralled.

They talked of their past life and of hers now. They remembered tenderness and recalled old friends and good times. She did not sit next to him, although they held hands across the table.

She didn't press her previous questions about the impossibility of his visit or the probabilities of after-life. She felt it somehow discomforted him and she was too delighted with his visit to make things strained.

After some time, he excused himself and opened the back door. Edith put her arms around him and pressed her head to his chest. He felt solid, vital. She did not attempt to listen for a heartbeat.

"Will I see you again?" she asked.

"I hope so," he answered.

With a smile and a gentle hand he released her and walked out into the yard, toward the gazebo. Edith watched his form as he slowly faded into the rain.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

Michael had once again fallen asleep at his window. His dreams replayed variations on his encounter with Derek. In most of them he was physically capable, able to walk and, appropriately, beating Derek senseless. He jumped from his wheelchair and pursued the young fornicator on a chase through the house. They burst out the front door and onto the grounds.

Just as the dream Michael caught his prey, the real Michael came awake in his chair.

He felt strange. These window-seated dreams always left him disoriented but this time was different. Somehow he had slouched in his wheelchair. It was uncomfortable and he corrected his posture. He felt pins and needles in his lower body all the way to his toes. Amazed, he realized he had just corrected his seating by pushing up with his legs instead of using his upper arms as his paralysis insisted. Carefully, he attempted to straighten his left leg and stretch it out before him.

Slowly, reluctantly, it responded. It took minutes for him to fully extend the limb, his face sweaty with effort. He was breathing hard and he forced his lungs to take deeper more meaningful inhalations. Determining to settle himself, he took time to consider if he might still

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be dreaming. Sometimes dreams were like that; you could stop in the midst of some terror or unbelievable event and remind yourself that you were only dreaming. With this in mind, he studied his surroundings.

He was in the guest room, which had become his bedroom since the accident. He insisted the conversions be made here because he wanted to return to the master bedroom only when he could move about without rails and grips, pads, and special bath fixtures.

It was dark except for the small desk lamp he'd left on by his bedside. Its weak circle of light barely reached him. He perched on the perimeter of illumination, draped by shadow, touched by the uncertainty of the miraculous. It was dreamlike.

The house was quiet, as it should've been at this early hour. He listened intently for the occasional ticks and moans of cooling, heating, and subsidence. The familiar noises were there.

He caught them on the periphery, coming from empty rooms and dripping pipes, fluttering winds from outside, even the sporadic and almost undetectable groans from the internal mechanism of his ancient alarm clock.

He laughed at himself for his confusion and his inability to recognize his own consciousness.

For a long time now he'd been floundering in a sort of coma. Stupefied by lack, he'd failed to recognize anything around him apart from loss and inadequacy. Shaking these revelations, he concentrated on straightening his right leg.

This limb was less willing than the left. While straining to lift it, he once again felt the strong sensation of pins and needles throughout his trunk and legs. The prickling sensation passed from his right side, where it was intense, to his left, where it became less so. As he gained precision at raising and lowering his right leg, the feeling faded. Again bathed in sweat,

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he kicked back the footrests of his wheelchair. He tested each leg in turn before attempting to rise.

He pressed down hard on the arms of the wheelchair. Slowly, his body rose out of the seat.

His butt hung suspended as he attempted to shift support of his body weight to his legs. He shook violently and sat down hard.

"Calm down, asshole," he scolded himself aloud.

With the culmination of the most fervent of all his wishes, the wishes he made right here at this window, Michael wasn't sure getting calm was a possibility. How might he stifle the emotions that expanded behind his chest like some great balloon of joy, expectation, and fear?

Regaining function to even this degree wasn’t reasonably explained. He'd suffered a severe spinal cord injury. His SCI cut completely across the Upper Motor Neurons and injured the Lower Motor Neurons as well. It could not regenerate, yet it apparently had. He'd been told that his sacral injury was spinal shock and that sex function might return. However, his lumbar was a complete injury, assuring he would never move his legs. How could he keep from trembling, knowing all this?

This blessed return of function was immeasurable and beyond his ability to express. Still, he had to press his resolve to stand. And to walk.

He breathed deeply, rhythmically. Allowing the adrenaline to rush through him, he shook some more. Willing his heart rate to slow, he applied his concentration to visualize standing and walking. He pictured himself coming out of the chair on strong limbs, fully able to support his weight. In his mind, he easily turned from his window and ambled to his bedside where he lifted the grumpy old alarm clock and laughed.

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Continuing to breathe deeply and with slow resolve, he sensed another change in himself.

Something deep and elemental pulled at him and triggered a darker element, an element of will and anger that rose to the surface of his awareness. Laughter, unlike his own, rolled out his mouth.

"Quit fucking around and walk," he said aloud.

Almost without will, his hands tightened on the rests of the wheelchair and his arms and legs straightened in an effort to stand. He swayed slightly as he came fully erect. Then, gaining balance, he took two single steps away from the wheelchair. He did not teeter or stumble. He released a whoosh of air from his lungs, not realizing he'd been holding his breath during the attempt to stand.

"My God," he said, with something more like his own voice. "Oh my God!" With tears streaming down his face, he took two less tentative steps away from the ambulatory contraption he'd been forced to rely upon. With several more steps, he wondered what might happen if his newly imbued limbs suddenly gave out and he fell. He was fully one third of the way across the room from the wheelchair.

Continuing for the doorframe and the hallway beyond, his strides became more confident and his walking more assured. Gaining the hall, he felt pressure in his bladder. Laughing almost uncontrollably, he increased his pace for the bathroom. He wanted very much to piss while standing up.

After a period of wandering the hall and rooms of the second floor, his legs seemingly gaining ability with every step, he found himself back in his makeshift bedroom. He stood before the window. As happy as he felt, he also felt bound by the reverse of that joy.

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There didn't seem to be any atrophy in his muscles. His legs had regained their agility and strength. It was the culmination of all his wishing. It was as if a healer had touched him. Yet, the impossibility of it all played to his reluctance to reveal the miracle.

He remembered reading about religious healers and those they had affected. The faith of the healed was key to maintaining their renewal. If they stopped believing, the tendency was for them to relapse to their former bodily state. He did not care to risk his cure. Perhaps, seeking to name it was a faithless act.

Logically, there had to be a medical reason for his recovery. The doctors had simply overlooked something or some sort of medical miracle had occurred. They might be able to figure out exactly what was what through testing and evaluation. Although he didn't enjoy the thought of poking and prodding anew–-he'd gone through more than his fare share already–-he thought he might happily run, jump, skip, and hop all they wanted in an effort to find the cause for his rejuvenation.

But he dare not tell his doctors. For now, he had to hold on to his secret a bit longer, play the cripple a while more. Part of his wish had come true; the part where everything was restored.

The rest would come true soon enough; the part where he shared his recovery with everyone.

He imagined showing his walk to Amy, sneaking up on her with the stealth of his step and the ease of his gait. He felt seductively enticed to show her his penis as well, and explain how it had begun to stiffen at the thought of her sweet young ass. He had become infatuated with her, but the reality of his inability had stifled his fondness. Now, with his body regenerated, his desire was aroused.

There was something building between them and he could sense it in her as well as himself.

Since the debacle with Derek, she had begun to take more personal note of her charge. She often

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touched him when they spoke. She made light brushing gestures or quick, fussy adjustments of his shirt collar and buttons. Friendly pokes and punches when he joked with her and made her laugh had been added to their repertoire.

It wasn't simply that she had become less shy and more comfortable with him. There was a casual intimacy in the way she would take a chair or squat down in order to be eye-level with him when they spoke at length. There was a consideration greater than respect given when she would reach for his hand and give it a squeeze for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Some of this was in response to the incident with Derek. Perhaps she felt that he needed soothing or comfort of a sort. Maybe the episode with Bev's lover had lent her a new perspective of him. It was possible that she now saw him as more of a man and less of a gimp. Certainly, she'd become curious about him. She asked questions about his life before the accident. His art had always interested her, and now she had become enamored of his third floor studio.

He felt a darker, other side of himself step to the surface with these thoughts of Amy. Why wasn't he thinking of Bev and of loving her? Almost instantly upon this reconsideration, he felt the density in his pants withdraw. There might be many physical and psychological reasons for that, but he didn't want to stand here engaged in an intellectual debate with himself. The simple matter was that thoughts of Bev left him slackened, while thoughts of Amy brought him rearing.

Now, he deliberately considered the sexual conquest of young Amy. After all, Bev was gone to who knows where. Perhaps she was, even at this moment, beside her lover Derek considering how to proceed given his injuries. Besides, what was he supposed to do? He couldn't exactly call her on the phone and say, "It's okay to come home now, honey. I can stand and I can walk, and I've gotten a really big boner thinking of Amy Lauder's naked ass."

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He'd already indulged in his restored abilities to stand and walk. How could he not consider engaging his other, now obviously, restored capacity?

He wanted her. His organ, which only a short while back he'd pronounced dead, was steel in his pants. There was interest implicit in her manner. He was certain. She had attempted to test boundaries by commenting on his marital status. He'd dismissed limits by commenting on Bev's absence. Wouldn't he be an idiot to turn down such an opportunity?

He needn't worry about the same sort of embarrassment he'd suffered when Bev had asked to be held, because he was capable now. However, it was risky business, nonetheless. He wasn't sure how many of his limitations had been discussed with Amy, and to what degree. Surely, his impotence had been none of her business. People talked though, that he knew. He just didn't know if anyone had talked about him. Had she been present when he'd told the state cop to check his medical records? Would she have caught on if she were? Considering this, he felt certain that she had been in the hall when the cop had slung his accusations.

Withholding the fact that he could walk would be daunting enough business. Restraining himself from the act of using his legs was something he could only accomplish when there was an obvious risk of being seen. In the dead of night and early morning, he would wander every inch of his home upright and fully mobile no matter if the new voice inside him objected or not.

His marriage was a shambles and he didn't know if Bev would ever return. Their telephone conversations were strange and had dwindled in occasion since she'd first gone. She hadn't even called to discuss the fight with Derek. Then, there was Amy. Warm, reassuring, and attentive, she appealed to his wounded ego. She was young and pretty, and she was enthralled with him–he knew. He ached for a woman. He had filled some nights with screams of longing. That craving; that need for her sweet, amorous flesh, went beyond his ability to measure. He simply

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could not resist. But how could he play the cripple while pursuing her sexually? Could he pretend to be afflicted but virile? This thing he wanted so badly could undo him.

As he contemplated all of this, a strange feeling enveloped him. It was a feeling he associated with that new voice inside him. He knew the surety of his guile and felt the confidence of his duplicity. Funny, he thought, I never used to be a good liar. Here, inhabiting the room as certainly as himself, was the validation of ensuing acts; he could be stalwart, an excellent lover, even while feigning the cripple.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Derek had really never known pain, until now. His groin was one huge blue-green mass. He felt warm down there, warmer than anywhere else on his body. There was another feeble heat at his back and the slight itch of the stitches that held together the wound from Michael Forcade's bar glass.

He was taking strong drugs to knock down his ache and he realized, with trepidation, the return of sensation meant the effect was wearing off. He didn't understand why he wasn't given relief often enough to carry over from one cycle to the next. Even at the hospital, he had been

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allowed to suffer between doses. Now that feeling had begun to return to the injured parts of his body, he knew actual hurt was not long away.

Worse yet, his mother had been required to sign pre-trial papers in order for him to return home from the hospital. Therefore, she was in charge of his physical self, including his medication. She had a deep fear of addiction and, upon learning of his drinking, that fear had escalated to full-blown paranoia. In her attempt to wean him from his pills, his pain would be allowed to build until he'd have to plead for respite. When relief did come, it was short lived because she was cutting the dose. Therefore, his span of agony lengthened each time.

One would never guess from the degree of pain spreading within his sack that he was one ball shy down there. The doctors had removed his left testicle due to a condition called torsion.

The cord, on which the testicle drops like a yo-yo into the scrotum, had been savagely twisted.

The ballock was unsalvageable, and the doctors had operated to remove it. Against the lacerations, torn ligaments, sprains, and bruises; the torsion was the worst of his trauma. The doctors said he had been lucky not to lose it all.

As the heat and ache of his loins increased, so did his anger. He thought about how the cripple, Michael Forcade, had made him a cripple as well. He considered how the docs had told him that there was no dysfunction associated with being one nut shy. While he would definitely be able to achieve erection and orgasm, there was a chance that some other, less obvious result of the incident might leave him sterile. Only time and testing would tell.

He smiled as he wondered if Forcade would ever have children. Derek knew that the man had not gotten it up since his accident. That was the reason Bev had started with him. Would she go from one cripple to the next?

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He couldn't take the pain any longer, so he called down the stairs. "Mom? Mom, I'm really hurting here!"

He heard her tread on the steps. She wouldn't respond verbally. She had this thing against shouting. After a few minutes, she appeared in the doorway.

"Isn't it time for my pain medicine?" Derek asked.

"If we're not careful, you can become dependent on those things, Derek," she answered.

He tried a smile behind gritted teeth. He knew from experience that arguing with her would get him nowhere. "Right now I do depend on them to keep from hurting so much,� he replied.

She moved to his bedside with a glass of water and a plastic bottle. He silently thanked God for the relief that was soon coming.

"What are these?" he asked. The pills she'd placed in his hand were nothing like the ones with which he'd become accustomed.

"That's acetaminophen. It's a pain killer," his mother informed him. Derek felt his heart sink.

"Yeah, but isn't this just Tylenol or something?"

"The doctor said I could cut your doses by interspersing acetaminophen, Derek."

"He said when the pain lessened. Then, we could reduce down to Tylenol. Tylenol won't do squat for me now!"

"Listen to me, young man." His mother pointed a stiff finger in his face. "All of this shit you've been into." Derek notched up higher against the headboard. His mother rarely swore.

"It's all got to stop. The drinking, carousing, sex with married women. My God, Derek. What could you be thinking?"

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"The sex came before the drinking. I don't know what carousing means." Somehow, he couldn't resist the sarcasm.

Margaret Connor's right hand lashed out so quickly that her son had no chance to avoid it.

The sound of the slap seemed to reverberate and fill the room. Derek's face went red. It stung.

"It's the Tylenol or nothing for now, boy." Derek noted that his mother had become very calm. "I wish they made something, anything at all, for the pain you're causing me."

As she turned to leave the room, Derek called out from behind her. "I am not a boy," he said.

Margaret Connor paused on her way out the bedroom door. "Fucking a woman doesn't make you a man. Neither does fighting a cripple," she said.

Derek listened to his mother descend to the first floor. He swallowed the red and white capsules she'd left him. They might be better than nothing, he reasoned. Still, as his hurt deepened to a nauseating, wrenching agony, he smiled again. Amid his pain, there was arousal.

He knew that his next time with Bev would be better than all the previous times combined. # Craig Wirestock felt the air whoosh out of his lungs as he was slammed, face first, into a row of metal lockers. Blows came to his kidneys with precision force, as if machine-driven pistons were delivering his beating. He was pinned, breathless, by the barrage of his assailant's attack.

Kids were lining the school's halls and shouting almost as short breathed as him. Their encouragement, however, was not for him. In his entire life, he had never been on this end of a thrashing. Never before had he been the recipient of the trampling and the ridicule.

He realized, almost ridiculously late, that the tables had turned. With this humiliation, his bully career was over. His years of physical intimidation and psychological demoralization were through. The hunter would now become the hunted, for the prey had successfully struck back.

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From kindergarten to sixth grade, in all the classes they'd shared, he had been Stewart Stahl's chief nemesis and tormentor. The stuttering geek had always been such an easy target. He had no friends, no one ever attempted to stand up for him, and he was physically and verbally incapable of a comeback. The best part was that Craig rarely had to raise a hand to intimidate him. Just getting Stewart to open his mouth in retaliation to some scorn or mockery had guaranteed Craig's triumph.

Now that Stewart's stuttering had stopped, Craig had simply counted on his physical brutality to prevail. Once he dominated some dweeb, the dweeb never stood a chance, no matter what.

He'd simply figured to beat the hell out of Stewart like he did all the other losers who were too smart to be outwitted but too weak to stand up in a fight. It was unimaginable that Stewart would fight back−but he had, and he was much stronger than Craig. Impossibly strong.

As Wirestock's head banged against the lockers, Stewart's head filled with red rage. In a flash, he recalled all the times he'd been the whipping boy for Craig and his friends, his own father, and all the other abusers in his life. With every punch and body slam he leveled at this victim, he won back something from all of them.

Inside him, he knew that he could beat this pathetic lump of flesh to a bloody stump. If he allowed himself, he could strike again and again until Craig was dead and no one could stop him.

Indeed, he felt that was what he really wanted. The hell with an eye for an eye. Damn equality in retribution. He wanted revenge. He wished he could have payback in spades.

What would that take? He wondered, as he watched blood spray the tiled walls from the right hook he'd just thrown to Wirestock's nose. What sort of compensation could repay the years of betrayal, humiliation, and scorn? What adjudication righted the injustice of all his tears and self-loathing?

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Bev floundered in a morass of desperation and indecision. She hadn't spoken to Michael since Derek had been taken to the hospital, although she had attempted phoning the house a hundred times. Always panicked, she would hang up after just a few rings. Each instance left her tightly coiled and shaky, feeling as though she'd just cheated the hangman's noose.

She would have to face Michael inevitably but in her mind she relentlessly worked through a string of scenarios in which she faced him and lost him every time. The realization that her ennui could destroy everything she'd plotted to regain still did not stir her to action. Looking around her comfortable little apartment with its wheat colored walls, white ceiling tiles, tufted upholstery, and antique touches, she always decided to lay low a while longer.

After all, she was comfortable here. The little yard her apartment shared with the back of her landlady's home was kept tidy; and there was a small garden where she could sit in the slight chill of the early autumn afternoons and warm herself with scotch and soda. She would take this time to attempt to decide what to do, all the while deciding to do nothing at all She had managed to put together her own small art collection, and she was proud of the sophistication of tastes it bespoke. Her pieces were all impressionistic, surrealistic, and abstract.

There was not a Forcade among them, or anything roughly indicative of his style or influence.

Seated before her paintings, she was pleased to lose herself in brooding for hours on end over nuances of color and shading, determining the mood or emotion depicted. Without doubt, her interpretation of a piece could change from one day to the next, even one hour to another. Like her paintings, she felt her life was a collage of color, texture, and shading–-never precise or exact in its variance. Her interpretation of her next move was ever changing. Without knowing, she

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sat lost in the deep emotion and abstraction of her paintings as she sat lost in the emotion and abstraction of her life. # Edith and her home were in disarray. Amy had gently mentioned this on her last visit.

"Don't you think you and the homestead could use a little tidying?" she had asked.

By now, Edith couldn't recall how long ago that had been and whether any cleaning of residence or resident had been done. It was hard to judge because Amy hadn't been by for days.

Edith knew she was muddled, but beyond that she could not seem to focus. She shook her head trying to clear some fresh space, then ran a comb through her wet hair. At least she'd had a shower and changed into a fresh dressing gown today.

Small wisps of dust scuttled across the hardwood floor of her bedroom as she searched for her slippers. Good lord, it was messy beneath the bed as she lifted the edge of the comforter to look there. How had this gotten away from her? It was her responsibility to keep the place livable. She always insisted, even prided herself, on maintaining the household. What was wrong with her? Through all the years, she had never been lax in caring for this place. What would Clarence think? Certainly, he would not be pleased with this sort of lassitude. The thought of Clarence made her somehow more confused and a bit dizzy. She sat on her bed in order to catch her breath.

This room was painted a pale pink. It was a ladylike color, and through the years Edith had found it comforting and companionable. She recalled how her husband had first responded upon seeing the color she'd chosen.

"Edith?" he'd asked. "How do you expect a man to sleep in a pink bedroom?"

"The same way he would sleep in any other colored room," she had responded.

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"But, dear," he'd whined.

"But what? You don't like pink? Don't lie to me, Clarence Albrecht. I know you like pink.

You like my pink parts just fine."

After that he had acquiesced, with his face turning a shade of red to rival any pink she might have picked.

Now, all her home's colors carried a film of dust and disuse. She had spent very little time upstairs as of late. She was often too tired and baffled to even think of cleaning and tidying. It was better to lie around and daydream of Clarence and his next visit. She didn't much care about anything else.

These days, her life was given to her dead husband's arrivals and departures. Giving up on any attempts to gain insight about the means and methods of their reunions, she'd decided to simply accept them. Still, on days like this one, her nagging sense of reason lent its opinion to her condition.

Whatever the visits were, they were wholly unnatural. Couldn't she feel the effects on her mental and physical well-being? This debilitation she felt was just part of the price that might be exacted for fellowship with an aberration. What else might come? After a visit from Clarence, she was bewildered and would roam her chambers barely cognizant of where she was or what she was doing. She was in a dream state for most of her real waking hours, and more fully aware during the rendezvous with Clarence. Reality was slipping from her and being replaced with something she could only be imagining. After all, the Clarence she saw couldn't really be anything other than an apparition. He certainly could not be her dead and buried husband. He had to be someone's--or some thing's--imitation. No matter how real or substantial he seemed, it just couldn't be him.

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Edith sprawled on the dusty covers of her bed, in her neglected room, as the sane part of her brain argued with its delusory fellow. All she had to do in order to realize what trouble she was in was to look around her. Her home had never been in such a state. Not a single time in her life had she neglected her dress and hygiene. She had never felt so dispirited, so down-to-the-bones tired as she was when the Clarence-thing was not in proximity. It wasn't difficult to see that she was acting spellbound.

Her eyes watered and she was given to tears when, after prying herself from bed, she investigated the rest of the upper floor. There was more than tidying to be done. There was plenty of real work, and she meant to set about doing it. She was not going to give up her hold on life in favor of an existence only in the context of Clarence's visits. She hoped that her day and night realities could coexist because she was unwilling to trade one for the other.

Along those lines, she wondered what might happen if she refused Clarence's next call.

Would he just go away and return at some later date? Would he leave and never come back at all? Could she put him off temporarily until she regained some of herself, her strength, and her order?

Looking at all the work that needed to be done and realizing she couldn't answer these nagging questions on her own, Edith picked up the phone. She decided she needed to drum up some help.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Anthony Stahl didn't bother knocking on Stewart's bedroom door. He never paused to announce himself in his own home. Instead, he stood in the doorway and declared his presence with a loud smack of the big leather belt he held wrapped around the knuckles of his large left hand. He pulled a length of it sharply taut with his big fisted right hand. It made a distinct slapping sound.

"Hi, Dad." Stewart regarded his father from where he sat reading on his bed.

"You got yourself suspended from school." The gruff man emphasized his words with another flick of the strap.

"Looks like you're angry about that, Dad." Stewart's voice was calm, conversational. He thought he saw the second bully on his list flinch.

"I'll be less angry after I beat your ass, son." Anthony's face stretched in a sarcastic grin.

"Aren't you even a little proud that, for a change, I was the beater as opposed to the beaten?"

Stewart asked. "I used to get my ass kicked by that kid." He casually rose from his bed and took more than enough time to measurably straighten the books and writing papers he'd strewn about.

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"Still, you did wrong." Anthony Stahl took a solitary step into the room.

Stewart stood with his back to his desk and the wishing window, effectively blocking his father's advance by placing the bed between them.

"How can I do right?" The boy asked. "When I stuttered and sniveled, that creep beat and embarrassed me. When I came to you about it, you said to tough it out and stand up for myself.

Now, I stand up and you say; 'Still, you did wrong.'" He mocked his father, sticking his chest out exaggeratedly and speaking in a flat, dumb monotone.

"Don't sass me!" The elder Stahl shouted.

Stewart held his ground and lowered his voice, forcing his father to consider every word.

"That kid is a bully. He has abused me for the hell of it, for years. He got less than he deserved," he said.

The hall light flashed on and off and Stewart and his father both heard Pam Stahl's determined tread on the stairs. "If you touch that boy," her voice was as calm as Stewart's own but somehow more menacing. "So help me, Anthony Stahl. I've got the cordless and I'll call the cops. You hear me? Stewart, what's going on?"

"Just another fucking bully," Stewart answered.

He was a little out of his mother's earshot. She'd stopped halfway up from the first floor with the phone extended in one hand. Only his father could clearly hear his response. "Just another dumb, ugly bully who wants to kick my ass no matter what."

Stewart anticipated Anthony's lunge. He leaned back and grabbed the edge of his desk, as his father made for him. He shoved his bed with his feet, as hard as he could. The base of the bed caught the charging man between knees and shins and spilled him hard over the footboard and onto the floor.

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Stewart was wearing a pair of Doc Martens he'd gotten at the Army/Navy store. They were favorites with some of the tough kids at school and he had wanted them on a whim. He hadn't realized their potential until now. He stepped around and kicked his father in the head with everything he could muster. Any NFL punter would have been proud of his form.

He didn't stop until he saw blood. The sight of it seemed to bring his mother's cries to his ears. When he looked up, she was standing in the doorway. He put in one last boot for good measure. # Amy didn't want to leave Michael and go to Edith's but the woman was her responsibility.

Besides, she was her friend and she needed help.

That Michael had become the focus of her attention seemed natural enough. He was handsome and charming. Even trapped in a wheelchair, he exuded a sense of raw masculinity.

In him, she saw an intellect and capacity beyond that of any man she had ever met. He was traveled, wealthy, and experienced to an extent she had only ever dreamed of in romance novels.

Truth be told, she had been enamored of him from the start. She was excited at the idea of being employed by such a talented artist. In the time since Derek had come on the scene, there had been a shift, a barely perceivable change in Michael's manner and mood. Somehow, this altercation had drawn her, magnified her motivations. It was obvious that Michael had undergone a transformation, and perhaps his own awakening had triggered an ambition in her.

Nevertheless, she'd promised Edith she would spend a few days helping her get a handle on things. #

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Edith had to press ahead, with Herculean effort, to undertake the task of cleaning her home.

Amy had finally been reached, and she had agreed to come and help. She would arrive sometime this afternoon and stay the night. The girl had, however, been woefully unclear about the time she proposed to show. It was obvious that she had some other business. As Edith considered why her otherwise conscientious helper had become slipshod as of late, a smile crossed her face and a warmth momentarily lit her gray eyes.

No doubt, Amy had found a young man or one had found her. She was a very pretty girl and so sweet and kind. Some lucky boy was bound to sweep her off. She should have realized sooner that no other priority would cause Amy to shrug her duties. Edith knew a bit about preoccupation with a man. At least Amy's was bound to be of the flesh and blood variety. Hers was something else altogether.

Edith sprayed Windex on the glass of the mirror and studied her face behind the mist. She'd thoroughly vacuumed the upstairs and was beginning the dusting and wiping. Her old lady body was tired, as she studied the details of her old lady face. She tried to figure where the years had gone. Mathematically, she knew just how many had been spent from her birth until now, but emotionally it felt as if time had conspired to steal from her. The measure of age seemed spelled across her face. Her once bright eyes were dulled. The flesh of her neck was taught over straining cords and a patch of loose skin hung where once a bit of double chin had seemed healthy.

As she wiped the film of cleaner from the glass, her reflection clarified. She was old, but she was essentially the same. Within her lined face still lived the little girl, newlywed, and young woman Edith Albrecht had once been. Her honesty, integrity, and devotion were interwoven

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there along with her wrinkles. Age had not withered her soul but had, rather, molded it into the vibrant being who was the essential Edith.

A pall was, in whatever manner, draping itself over that vibrancy. She had allowed her days to dim and muddle. There was a drain pulling on her like a car battery running down in a rainstorm. She knew the source of her depletion but she was at odds to remedy it.

She cleaned diligently and the process helped her think. She refused to set her thoughts to Clarence as she was convinced it would defeat her resolve. "No," she said. "Let's not go there."

It was a contemporary expression and saying it aloud made her feel modern and vital.

Next, she took a rag and a can of Pledge from her basket. As she began dusting the windowsills and frames, she decided to open the house to some air. The breeze through the windows might prove a little chill, but that was all the better to keep her alert and clear thinking.

Besides, the house needed light and fresh air as desperately as she needed it.

After a time, she decided that they both ought to have music as well. There was a station on the radio dial where they still played her favorites: Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey. There was no melancholy or remorse in this nostalgia. Indeed, the songs lifted her spirits and mingled their stir with the morning air. The crisp air, brassy tunes, and the combined scents of Lysol, pine oil, and ammonia were brushing back the veil.

Morning gave way to early afternoon in a span of hearty work and pungent aromas. When she became tired, she closed most of the windows and headed for the shower and a change into fresh clothes. She had almost finished the entire second floor. Later, after Amy arrived, they could set their combined efforts to the downstairs.

In that mood of exertion and camaraderie, she would put to Amy the quandary of Clarence's visits and her lethargy in his absence. Together, they would await his arrival and the

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confirmation of her haunting or hallucination. In either outcome, she was sure Amy would do her best to help.

After cleaning up, Edith settled herself to rest. She didn't want to take to bed as Amy might arrive any time now. So, she quieted in her arrow back rocker and sipped tea. With rest, her mind turned toward Clarence and the pivotal importance of their next rendezvous. If he came and Amy saw him, there was affirmation. If he came and Amy did not see him, then she had spent weeks in the company of empty air and delusion.

But what if Clarence didn't show at all? What if he flat-out refused to come with another person present? Then, she would be no less afflicted than she was now. She would have told Amy the mad story to no avail whatsoever.

Apprehension coiled tightly within her. Its presence was like a snake set in anticipation of a strike. A chill crept from down the staircase. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

Perhaps she should have closed the rest of the windows but she was loath to move from her cover. She closed her eyes. Amy would come soon. Then they would see or not see, together. # Derek wasn't healing as quickly as he would like and his pain was very intense at times. His small ration of pills hardly helped him through the day, but he'd found a trick to get him through the night. It was a game of concentration. He remembered hearing people refer to "mind over matter" and he guessed that was close enough. Certainly, it was mind over pain.

He'd read stories that elaborated on similar themes. FIRESTARTER and CARRIE by Stephen King came to mind. It seemed there were documented cases of spontaneous combustion and telekinesis in real life as well. Given such examples, he ventured, it was no big deal that he had

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discovered a method of conquering pain through an act of will. He just wanted it to work as well during the day as it did at night.

He wasn't sure how or when it had all started; so much of his time in pain was swathed in a gauzy haze, but he had begun a routine that placed his focus on the two windows near the foot of his bed. It was a small room, and allowed just enough space for someone to pass between the bottom end of his bed and the wall. Two large double-hung windows were set in that wall, overlooking the back yard.

When the shades were raised there was a good view of the Connors' plot and the neighbors to each side. The Connors' yard ended in a dense growth of tall hedgerow. Beyond that, there wasn't much visible because a large thicket backed the hedgerow. Brambles, berry bushes, and several trees totally obscured the property beyond the thicket.

The neighbors to the left and right had lawns as scant as Derek's own. The soil granted thriving life to crabgrass and dandelions but seemed to choke short the span of any decent turf.

Folks around town called it scrub-yard. It was a sad enough sight by the full light of day and there was no reason for it to hold his attention at night.

Pain and discomfort had kept Derek from resting easy. Reading, watching television, and listening to music were tentative distractions whose merits were short-lived. His concentration fixed on the people who had wronged him and who, in his opinion, were responsible for his sorry state.

The undoing of Pat Acker, Michael Forcade, and Bev became the pinpoint of his engrossment. At night, looking out those twin windows, he thought about those yet to face his wrath and dreamed of their penance. Their individual punishments were planned. He transferred

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the physical reality of his pain to images of their suffering and cranked the anguish higher, notch-by-notch, until his suffering did not exist at all in comparison to theirs.

He wanted these torments realized so badly that the intent roiled and churned within him like the molten core of a volcano. He prayed, cajoled, and wished. The energy of those desires was forced down the length of his body. Through concentrated will, he pushed this power to the foot of his bed and out the windows. In this manner, his pain passed along with his wishes into the night.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Edith dreamed of a long, dark train. Its passengers were indistinct shadows caught in immaterial relief against the drawn shades of their various compartments. As the coach rumbled on its track, she realized that her right arm was raised in a beseeching signal. Whether she was waving hello, goodbye, or motioning for a stop was unclear. She was confused. She was caught up in some urgency she didn't understand.

Something about this express was hugely important. Its cars seemed to stretch down the tracks for an unbelievable length. Its pace changed often. At times it was rushing by her at

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breakneck speed. Then, it slowed to a point where the passengers' silhouettes where recognizable as man, woman, or child.

At these times, when she could discern form and function behind the compartment glass, she was compelled to move closer to the mammoth conveyance and search for familiarity in the indistinct outlines of its travelers. She didn't know whom she sought but she cast her look around anyway, hoping her surroundings might lend a landmark or accustomed aspect to view.

The terrain, however, was the unfathomable void of dreams. It was dark and empty, a place without depth or dimension. While her footing felt solid and substantial, she couldn't make out whether she traveled upon macadam, turf, dirt, or the thin air itself.

The only manifest element was the passing train. At once, it was luminous. Then, it was dark. Now, it was speeding on. Then, it almost came to a stop. In its variance it did not lurch or grind. It simply moved along brightly, darkly, quickly, or slowly. # Amy let herself into Edith's house. The front door had been slightly ajar and she had glimpsed Edith's sleeping form from her view through the screen. The old woman's cleaning basket sat on the floor near the rocker where she rested. A stab of guilt jabbed Amy. Edith had started the housework without her, probably not trusting her arrival, and the strain had tired her.

She looked around the first floor, searching for a spot to deposit her overnight bag. It wasn't as bad down here as she had figured. There were cobwebs at almost every angle where the walls and ceilings met. The place settings, which Edith insisted must always be stationed on the dining room table, were covered by a film of disuse. The blades of the ceiling fan were crusted in some sort of hairy growth. It all needed doing, but it wasn't out of hand. Endust and the Hoover would tackle it all, she thought--until she walked into the kitchen.

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This room was a shambles. It was as if a dozen bakers had gone mad here. Cookie sheets and pie pans covered the little dinette in the breakfast nook. Crumbs littered the counter tops and floors. Dark syrupy liquids congealed on the stove and ran in smears and splatters down the front of the oven door. Cakes, biscuits, croissants, donuts, cobblers, and half-eaten pies were strewn everywhere in sight. A bag of flour was scattered across the top of the center island, torn open and sprawled as if it had been attacked and eviscerated by the rolling pin and knife stuck out its side. Cups and glasses, half full of milk and a dark liquid that could have been coffee or chocolate, were sitting about in quantity. One cup, in particular, refused to budge from the spot where it sat sticking to the seat of an upholstered chair.

Amy was overcome by the enormity of the mess. "Poor Edith," she mumbled under her breath. "Poor, dear Edith."

Her friend, her charge, her person must be really sick. She had to be crazy to create a spectacle like this on her own. A kindergarten class of frenzied five-year-olds with a directive to make whatever mess they could, could not create a delirium like this.

Amy found a teapot, there were four or five scattered around, and made just enough room at the maniacally over-stacked sink to run water in it. All she could think to do was boil water.

Some tea, if she could find a single clean cup, would help her think where to start. She came up with two reasonably unscathed mugs from the back of a sideboard.

Edith would need something as well. Leaving the kettle to boil on low heat, she moved quietly into the living room and toward the stairs in order to check out the second floor. She couldn't wait for the water to reach temperature in the kitchen because it was too berserk in there.

Quickly sneaking a look at Edith in her rocker, she hoped the upstairs was less crazed. #

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Edith tried to focus on the train and its details. She couldn't catch a gleam of rail as it moved over the tracks. There was no platform she could detect. No lights shone on the periphery, no daylight revealed itself. Nothing was suggested in foreground or back. No forms of mountains, trees, or outcrops arose amid the nullity.

The train rolled on as Edith struggled for comprehension. She wondered how much longer it could be until the last car came along. It seemed an impossible wait. Her anticipation was both hopeful and forlorn. She wanted this nightmare to end, for a small part of her realized that this was surely a dream, but not before she caught a glimpse of who or what she was meant to see. # Amy was deeply relieved when she reached the second floor. The rooms up here were colorful and vibrant. There was a clean smell of pine and the subtly lingering scent of ammonia in the air. A breeze stirred the curtains and blinds as she moved to lower sashes against a growing chill. Clearly, this is where Edith had been working with her cleaning basket.

Whatever malady had afflicted her friend, she had been in an effort to overcome it. Surely, that must be a good sign, Amy thought.

Perhaps, whatever had brought on the distress of the kitchen had been some sort of temporary fugue. Maybe, Edith had already come out of it and her call for Amy's aid and her exertion at cleaning was evidence of that. With luck, there was some sort of drug or therapy that might prevent a recurrence of the sort of thing that had happened downstairs. Before she headed for the kettle that must have been near whistling by now, Amy stopped to study her reflection in the clean glass of the bedroom mirror.

She was scanning her face for some recognition of change. Something about her must be different because of how she'd been thinking lately. Lust had to mark a person somehow and she

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had been lusting after Michael Forcade. Perhaps her parents might perceive her wantonness simply through a subtle change in her aspect. Her passion had to have branded her physically, as it had emotionally.

Still, all she could note was a slight flush at her cheeks and throat. Her eyes seemed wide, but not panicked. Even though the absurdity of the kitchen had raised her pulse rate, she felt calmed by the neat, clean condition of the upstairs and the idea of a rational explanation to what she'd encountered a few moments before. She was, however, reluctant to return downstairs.

Amidst all the havoc, she felt there might be less resolution presented, and more mere madness. # The train was slowing dramatically and Edith was filled with the premonition of something about to be revealed. She moved closer to the rear of the express, intuiting that this was where her revelation would come.

Sleeping cars, dining cars, and private coaches slid by at a coast. The train was moving without a clack or clatter. Her chest pulled tight as she sharpened her intensity. A fog rolled in and surrounded her, hampering her view for several strained moments. The sluggish machine reduced its speed even more. A gusty breeze came and blew the fog to wispy tendrils. Then, the train stilled before her like some steel predator set on its haunches. She reined in her discontent and progressed within arm's reach of the monster's flank toward the last car.

As she strode along the track, she noticed the train’s occupants were raising shades. Faces were backlit and illuminated by interior lighting. It was so dark outside that these images seemed projected onto the compartment windows. Edith realized that it was this luminance that had allowed her to perceive the arrival and departure of the fog.

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There were men, women, and children, all staring confusedly out the glass with the same fixed expression of anticipation she knew must have been painted on her own face. No one gave her an inkling of acknowledgment and none felt inclined to affirm her presence with so much as a wave or a nod. In all these many aspects, there was not the single simple recognition of eye contact. They seemed to look through her, beyond; to whatever it was they all, ultimately, awaited.

The train seemed familiar as she reached out to touch it. The steel plating and rivets felt surprisingly cool and wet with whatever moisture had clung within the rapidly dispersing fog.

This was no modern bullet train. This was an express of decades prior. She continued to walk along its lee, occasionally stopping and overtly scrutinizing its passengers.

The occupants’ disregard of her presence and the expectant deportment on every face were coupled with another oddity. The people seemed to be outfitted by individual compartment in period pieces. Some wore the resplendent digs of the eighteenth century, while others might be wearing the tie-dyes and beads of the 1960's or 70's. This pattern repeated itself, car to car, along the length of the train. Edith spotted children attired as she would have been when she was a little girl and others dressed in garb she vaguely recalled from antique shops or history books.

Was this some sort of elaborate costume party? Before she had time to consider this strange new addendum to her circumstance, she caught sight of the train's end.

As she tried to make out details of the form beckoning to her from the last car, she realized why the train seemed familiar. In outfit and design, this was the exact same type of streamliner she and Clarence had taken on excursions to New England.

Edith had never learned to drive. After they had married, she and Clarence had sought to do some northward travel to see the sights of Maine and Vermont. Rather than allow her husband to

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drive for long unrelieved periods, she'd suggested they ride the rails. That way they could both enjoy the sort of scenic, tractable journey they were after. Over the years, those trips had become one of the great pleasures they'd shared as a couple.

As she made her away along the flank of this mysterious but acquainted beast, recollections of those journeys flashed and danced in her mind. Her visage assuredly matched the strangely bewildered look of the boarded travelers she passed en route to the end of the line.

The mist, which had earlier obscured her sight, still clung toward the back of the long line of cars. As she neared, the wind seemed to once again thin the fog and disperse it in patches and fragments. So, while her vision was not totally clear, it was accurate enough for her to discern certain features of the figure beseeching her from within the haze. She purposefully slowed and wondered at this being some sort of trick. He seemed to materialize from the gloom in a manner similar to the way he materialized in the backyard. There was no doubt that it was Clarence.

Still, she did not wish to rush to him.

Hadn't she decided on some sort of rest from their recent assignations? Hadn't she wanted to spell herself from his company, if only briefly? She stopped to clear her head even as Clarence stepped from the last car and stood facing her in the gravel beside the tracks.

The fog evaporated and he was there, youthful as her memories, features illuminated against the pall background as if by some trick of lighting. This was not the same Clarence who visited her to sip coffee and eat sweets in the kitchen. This was the young Clarence, the freshman of their dating and early married years. He was so bracing and handsome, dressed in the tweed sport coat she remembered buying for him at Hess's Department Store.

Her heart was in her throat as she took a single tentative step forward. She felt something change. Some elemental part of her being shifted. She looked down to see that she was dressed

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exactly as she would have been for one of those train trips so many years prior. She raised her hands to her face and instantly knew that her appearance was now as fresh and youthful as the form of her husband, who stood just twenty feet away.

"C'mon, Edie. Let's go!" He called to her, gesturing enthusiastically. "There's someone you have to meet." She looked at the faces behind the glass. She reviewed the inhabitants inside their respective compartments. The sight of them was so bizarre, with people wearing the garb of different eras, sometimes centuries removed from one another. Looks of urgency and expectancy painted every face.

They're wondering why it stopped, she thought. They don't know why the train quit moving.

"We have to get you on board, darling," Clarence called to her as if completing her thought.

"You don't want to miss the train."

She peered more intently at the puzzled commuters. Their dress and countenance were enough to root her where she stood.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To meet someone very important. Someone I should have told you about in life. But you must hurry, my love!" Clarence didn't move any closer to her position but he fixed her with an expression so urgent that it almost broke her heart. "Please hurry, Edie!"

Edith nearly stepped toward him again, but she caught herself. Stopping to point at the windows, she asked, "Where are they going?" The question seemed to catch Clarence off guard.

"I don't know. They have their destinations," he answered with a dismissive wave of a hand.

"I have no baggage," Edith commented. With a look at her feet, she almost expected a suitcase to appear there. Instead, Clarence pressed on.

"All you need is already on board. Now come, Edith. Let's go!"

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Just as she began to relent and move nearer her husband, a shrill whistle blew. The train began to pull away and the misty obscurity renewed itself, filling the shortened space between them. The decibels of the whistle rose and she noticed Clarence moving hastily behind the hazy veil.

He was calling out to her but his voice was unsure, halting. She supposed it was because of the damned piercing toot. The train was leaving sluggishly but with steady determination. She didn't know what to do. Then, Clarence reached for her through the fog.

The intermittent mist had rolled in thick as pea soup. She could barely make out Clarence's features even as he grasped her forearm from a foot or two away. The train's trill had stretched itself to a constant, unrelenting cry. Against its voice, she attempted to call to Clarence to protest his force. He didn't answer. She supposed he couldn't hear her above the bawling train.

His grip became like iron bands on her arm. He tugged at her savagely. There was desperation in that clutch and she fought it instinctively. She didn't understand why he was grabbing at her like this, refusing to respond to her worry. She felt she would be broken in two, between his brutal maul and the soul-rending shriek filling her ears.

Suddenly, the movement of the express displaced the heavy mist that had enveloped them.

Clarence's countenance became clear. The reason for his limb-crushing grip on her was revealed. The hand clasping her was skeletal, unrelenting as the bone of which it was solely composed. The beautiful tweed coat she'd recognized was tattered, and it flapped loosely amid their struggle. A few patches of dead skin hung from the cheekbones of his face, like loose parchment from an ancient text. His eyes were gone, and he seemed to implore her with dark, empty sockets. He hadn't replied to her urging because he had no lips, no tongue, and no soft palate with which to make utterance.

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As Edith fought to rip free of the Clarence-thing, she glimpsed the train passengers from the corner of her eye. She noted that they still seemed to convey puzzlement in their manner. That was to say, if bone and rot can imply expression.

They were carcasses, every one. Some of them were so decayed as to be reduced to a sort of primordial ooze before her sight. Others were the newly dead, their clothes freshly frayed and their features devoid of tender parts. Their seeming smiles were the rictus of their recent death.

Just as they had represented various periods of time in their dress, they expressed almost every imaginable degree of decomposition in their manner of deterioration.

Still, the Clarence-thing pulled at her. It was determined to get her on board. Her ticket would be punched for what could only be a one-way journey to the land of the dead. Surrounded by corruption and in the apparently unyielding grasp of The Ferry Man Edith raised her voice to surpass the shrill of the whistle. # The high warble of the teakettle brought Amy out of her trance. She'd been gazing in the mirror, lost in thoughts of concern and consternation. Her guilt was apparent, even if invisible.

Perhaps her inattention to Edith was reflected in the mess downstairs. She moved for the hall and the steps that would return her to her charge. She was moving quickly because she didn't want the noise of the teapot to startle Edith. She needed her rest.

Unbelievably, a sound rose to overtake the pitch from the kitchen. It was Edith, screaming hysterically.

"Oh no! Oh no! I don't want to go!"

My God, Amy thought. What could be happening now?

She broke into a run down the stairs.

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Pam Stahl stared in disbelief at the sight of her son standing over the still form of his father.

Anthony was sprawled on the floor near the foot of Stewart's bed. A thick leather strap lay in his outstretched hand. Stewart looked up at her, a smile briefly flicking at the corners of his mouth.

As he looked down at his father, he seemed to become bewildered, surprised. Pam continued her own ogle as she took in the smears of blood at her husband's ears and mouth. Something similar appeared to congeal in a puddle at the back of his head. She also noted the dark specks and splatters on Stewart's boots and slacks.

"Oh, Mom." Stewart fixed her with shocked eyes. "I," he started, as he bent over the big man.

"Don't touch him!" Pam snapped.

Stewart gave her a quizzical look and rose from his crouch.

"Is he?" she asked.

"He's alive. Breathing," Stewart answered.

"Okay. Walk around him, carefully, and come to me," Pam instructed.

Stewart continued to gawk at the man on the floor.

"Come to me son. Be careful where you step. Come to your mother." The calm of her voice surprised Pam. She attempted to be reassuring. "You just defended yourself, Stewart. You didn't kill him. You just stopped him from hurting you."

"What?" Stewart asked as he stepped around the bed, still unable to lift his gaze from the floor.

"You defended yourself. He was going to hurt you. I heard it all."

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Stewart wrapped his arms around his mother and pressed his head against her shoulder. She stroked his hair and stared at Anthony. The stricken man did not move. She wondered if Stewart was right, if he was alive, if he was still breathing.

"We better get out of here before he comes around," she advised. "He'll be madder than hell." She tiptoed to get a better look at her husband's head, where the blood had congealed.

"And sore. Yeah, he'll be real sore."

Shockingly, she smiled, as she remembered all the times she'd had to hold ice packs to bruises and black eyes, swallowing Tylenol to lessen the ache of countless beatings and kidney punches.

As they made their way down the hall and began the descent to the living room, Stewart kept his arms wrapped tightly around Pam, his head lolling against her. She reached up with her right hand, realizing that she still held the cordless in the white-knuckled grip of her left, and touched her son's brow. Stewart's forehead was slick with perspiration, but cold. Shock, she thought, the poor kid's in shock.

"What are we going to do?" Stewart reluctantly loosened his grasp on his mother in order to question her. Pam held him firmly and squarely at each shoulder. She stared deeply into his eyes in order to be sure she saw the light of recognition in the glazed orbs. "I'm going to take your father's cell phone with us. As we drive away from the house, I'm going to call Doc McGlade. I'm going to tell him that there's been an accident and that your father is unconscious."

"What will he do?"

"I imagine he'll ask if I've called an ambulance."

"What about the po-po-police?"

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Oh God, Pam prayed internally. Don't let his stutter come back. Not over that miserable piece of shit lying up there. Not over a man who has beaten and abused us so many times that no one would be surprised if it was one of us sprawled on that floor.

Stewart's head had gone leaden and he hung it as if in shame or the dire burden of its weight.

Pam lifted his chin and forced him to look at her. "Don't you be concerned about the police. The police will not be involved in this. Understand? I am going to tell Doc McGlade that this is a family matter. You know, like your father tells him when he's hurt one of us badly enough to need medical attention."

Perception lit the boy's face and he nodded absently. Pam thought she caught the ghost of that earlier smile at his mouth.

"That old man has kept your father's secrets for years. Now, he'll keep ours."

"What if he doesn't?"

"I'll fix his ass so he will."

"Can you do that, Mom?" Something like awe glittered in Stewart's eyes.

"You bet I can, son. You bet, I can."

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Edith thrashed about wildly, half falling out of her rocker as Amy attempted to calm her. In the kitchen, the overheated kettle was letting loose an awful shriek. Edith kept insisting that she didn't want to go wherever it was she thought she was being taken and she shoved Amy away.

Amy decided that the piercing cry of the teapot was somehow making Edith crazy and she moved off to deal with it.

When she rushed into the kitchen, she nearly collapsed. The sudden jolt she experienced there did not come from a re-acquaintance with the kitchen from Hell but from an unexpected and immediate introduction to something from House Beautiful. She stopped and stared, even as the kettle cried on, fit to burst.

This couldn't be the same room. She had somehow stepped into someone else's kitchen, even though she'd hotfooted across Edith's threshold. That was the only possible explanation. The floors sparkled. The counter tops glistened and the cabinets shined as if freshly oiled. Dishes, cups, saucers, pie plates, cake tins, measuring cups, glasses, knives, forks, and spoons had been

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returned to their respective compartments. The lambent glow of clean shone on every surface and nowhere was there a crumb in sight.

Amy slumped against the far wall, feeling as though she'd been struck between the eyes by a powerful fist. The teapot continued to holler, as Edith burst into the bright, shiny space.

Screaming every bit as madly as the kettle, the old woman ran to the stove. She grabbed the handle of the wailing thing and, in a motion as smooth and deft as that of any Major Leaguer; she threw the hissing, spewing cauldron in the direction of the bay window. Glass cracked and scalding water flew in every direction.

The two women stood glued to their individual spots and stared, transfixed, at the embrasure.

Neither one of them spoke for a span that may have stretched for only brief seconds or stood for protracted moments.

Finally, Amy pointed and said, "Your hand."

"I think I burned it some." Edith examined a livid red splotch that had begun to cover the back of her right hand, and was now traveling to her wrist and a slight way up her arm.

"Are you all right?" Amy asked without moving from her position against the wall.

"I think this burn could be the least of my worries." The old gal moved to the sink and started running cold water from the tap. "But right now, it demands immediate attention. Can you go to the bathroom and get the first aid kit, please?"

As Edith concentrated on her injury, Amy's eyes scanned the gleaming surfaces. Swirling soft grays inlaid with the off-white of the linoleum tiles suggested themselves more positively than she had ever noticed. The pale yellow walls appeared cleaner, scrubbed. The curtain sheers at the windows were whiter. The stove, which earlier had been smeared by streaks of nasty black ooze, was so spotless that its glare almost made her squint. At the double sink, where

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Edith sluiced her burn with cold water, the chrome sparkled like fine silver. Amy had never experienced such a tangible, intense perception of color and texture. It was uncanny.

"Amy?" Edith grimaced in a combination of pain and concern. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, dear. Are you all right?"

With her eyes still scanning the kitchen, Amy directed a question to her friend at the sink.

"Did you do it?" she asked. "Did you clean the kitchen, Edith?"

Her worsening burn diverted Edith’s attention and, as she held her arm to more closely examine the swelling redness, she answered the young girl distractedly. "Of course not. I worked on the upstairs, washed myself, and then fell asleep waiting for you." Edith set her arm down and managed to focus her intensity on what Amy was implying. "Goodness, girl. You cleaned the kitchen. I'm a little amazed that I slept through all the work it must have taken. I'm afraid it was a bit of a mess."

"It was a total disaster, Edith. I've never seen such a mess in my life. It was, literally, like an earthquake struck."

Only Amy's lips and mouth moved, otherwise she was stone. Her features were fixed on the unnaturally pristine room and its spellbinding assortment of shine and color.

Edith's pain was worsening and she needed burn ointment badly, but she was too disconcerted by Amy's manner to pay it much attention. She stood stock-still and peered about the room as if the younger woman's behavior was catching.

"It's so clean. I can't remember the last time everything sparkled like this. You did such a fine job. I'm sorry I burst in and frightened you, but it's okay now. I was just having the most terrible dream is all."

"You didn't frighten me," Amy answered. "This did." She pointed all around the kitchen.

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"I'm sorry if it was really messy," Edith replied guiltily. "I've been out of sorts lately. I was going to try and explain it all to you later, after we finished cleaning and had a nice dinner."

"I'm not talking about the mess, Edith, although that shook me up, initially. I'm talking about the clean."

"The clean?" Edith asked. "I don't understand. Maybe it's because of my arm. It really hurts, Amy." Edith held up her scalded limb for inspection and Amy could see the onset of tears in her eyes.

"Your arm! Oh my God! Let's get you upstairs, now." Amy took Edith's good arm and tenderly led her to the stairs.

In the bathroom, Amy sorted through the first aid kit while Edith sat on the closed toilet lid and attempted to sort things out. As Amy dressed her friend's burns and listened to her talk, she noted the peach and white shadings of the room. This space, although recently attended, was not so sharp and disturbing as the kitchen.

Edith told Amy that she'd had a horrific, lengthy nightmare. Before she'd realized what she was doing, she awoke and silenced the teapot in a fury. She did not go into the details of her ghastly fancy except to explain that the unearthly warbling had carried over into her dreams.

Details could come later, as it seemed her young friend was troubled enough for now. Several times, Amy had Edith recount the events before she'd fallen asleep on the rocker. Seemingly satisfied, she perched her small bottom on the lip of the bathtub and stared off as if lost to the stripes of the wallpaper. Finally, she glanced at her watch and then spoke.

"I've been here a little over an hour, Edith. I'd been here about twenty minutes before the kettle boiled."

"But," Edith began.

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Amy silenced her with a raised finger.

"Do you remember just how bad the kitchen was? Do you really remember, Edith?"

"Well, I haven't been at all myself, lately. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Things have been getting out of hand. We need a long chat, my dear."

"Yes, we need to talk." Amy's senses drifted for several seconds, then she recovered. "We need to talk about what caused all that mess. But, just for now, do you have any idea how awful that mess was?"

"Honestly, Amy," Edith said. "I only have a hint. I haven't been alert to much around here.

I've fallen into a strange routine. I know a lot of things were strewn about and that I'd done plenty of baking and almost no cleaning. It had to have been a wreck but I'm at a loss for specifics."

The old woman hung her head as if weighed down by the admission of her dotage. As Amy filled in the details as to the precise condition of the cook room prior to its miraculous restoration the rest of Edith sagged perceptibly. Feeling sorry for her embarrassment and pain, Amy helped Edith from where she sat and led her, reassuringly, downstairs. They decided to move into the living room to talk.

"Something very strange is going on here, Edith," Amy began. "Something very strange."

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The parking lot of Acker's Market was empty except for a single car. Inside, a few scattered fluorescent lights shone above each aisle, illuminating the store enough for security but not enough to attract customers or run up the electric bill. Upstairs, a desk light burned feverishly.

Within its glow toiled Pat Acker.

The market's second floor was three quarters stock and warehouse space. The rest of the place was Pat's office. Sparsely furnished in gray metal filing cabinets and desks, an old IBM Actionwriter, several mismatched chairs, a love seat, and a Procter Silex coffee maker, it was Pat's home away from home. This was where he crunched numbers every day, squeezing them until they bled. Here he sat, attempting to stretch his profit if only marginally.

Sweat ran down the fat man's face as he figured his take from the Gospel Goods display. He smiled as he recalled how ingenious, inspired, his idea had been.

The problems with aisle five had been pestering him for months. Along its flank was eight to ten feet of wall space dominated by a faded brown water fountain and the bakery day old racks.

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Hardly anyone bought the stale goods and the water fountain only offered to give away something that he touted for sale on the shelves and in coolers.

The decision to remove the water fountain had been a no-brainer, but he struggled with ideas to make better use of the space. Then one Tuesday night, he found himself too busy to leave for his family bible study and had chased his wife and children to the store for the teaching. The kids never liked to come to the store after hours since they expected to be put to work beyond the weekly hours their father insisted they devote to the family business. That night Pat's son, Mark, had sarcastically suggested that, if they were going to meet here regularly, his father might as well install a chapel in aisle five.

The remark struck Pat as less ridiculous than it seemed. For weeks thereafter, he mulled over what might be done with the bland space that could mix piety and profit. He conferred regularly with the elders of his congregation until they approved his idea for the Gospel Goods display, along with a tithe from the proceeds.

The water fountain and bakery racks were cleared out, the small area was repainted, refurbished, and shelves were filled with Christian talismans, trinkets, and bric-a-brac. They sold everything from Bibles to Footsteps posters and bumper stickers.

He and the church made a solid profit on the items, since the mark-up was 300 percent and more. Now, he smiled in the glare of his desk lamp as he thought how much better it was than free water and stale bread. There were two important things in his life and, if pressed to absolute honesty, he would have a difficult time telling which had highest priority, money or religion.

He drank more coffee and wiped sweat from his brow. Perspiration seemed to stream from him lately no matter how cool or temperate the setting. His doctor had told him that the problem

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was a combination of stress and girth, and it could lead to things far more serious than copious lather.

Well, there wasn't much he could do about the stress. After all, he was a Christian man living in the biblical End Times. He was battling the devil in all his capacities as merchant, father, and husband.

The store was barely a source of consistent revenue these days. What, with the increasing cost of stock and produce, the constant rise of taxes, insurances, and utilities, he felt Satan's hand on his wallet every time he powered up the calculator. Sure, he could make more money if he sold pornographic magazines, sleazy tabloids, violent movies, cigarettes, and condoms like all the other stores, but his was a Christian endeavor. There were times when religion and profit collided, and at those times Pat Acker gave religion sway. He felt compelled this way, not because of an abiding regard for faith, but in order to remain in stead as a pillar of the community.

It was important for the success of his business that he be regarded as a pious man. In this conservative community, piety was a commodity that paid real dividends in dollars and cents.

He knew that many of his customers offered their patronage in response to the fact that he kept sordid items off the shelves. Certainly, many members of his congregation who resided in closer proximity to other stores, but chose to shop a Christian concern supported him. All that, however, did not stop the temptation of those high profit, albeit spiritually tainted, items from playing on his thoughts and causing him stress.

Then, there were the duties of marriage and parenthood. He'd like to ask his doctor how to handle that stress free. Keeping up the facade of blissful family life was important to his position in the congregation, which was important to his station in the community, which was important

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to the success of his business. He'd like to explain all of that to his doctor, but he couldn't risk the exposure. So, he did the best he could with his wife and kids, and attempted to hide the flaws.

His children had recently become teenagers. Even with their enrollment in a Christian Academy, it was like combat to keep them from enticement. There were a million ways for a kid to backslide these days. Thus, there were a million ways for them to ruin their father if they weren't kept well reined. He sent them to camps, retreats, hostels, and trainings sponsored by the church. This also projected his children as zealots in an environment where devotion fueled hierarchy, therefore moving children and parents up the ladder. Still, the church charged plenty for his kids' activities, and doling out cash was another stress on him.

His coffee cup empty, Pat moved to a folding table upon which sat the Procter Silex machine.

He scanned the unlit storage space beyond, as he refilled his cup and grabbed a large square of Entenmann's crumb cake. Examining the dessert like a jeweler sizing up a diamond, he considered the second half of his doctor's health care warning.

He'd always been meaty, but in mid-life he'd gone fat. There was a satisfaction from food that didn't come in any other aspect of his experience. Apart from Bible Study, church services, and the couple hours a month he had them help out here, he rarely saw his children.

Most days, he was out the door before they rose, and home long after lights out. His marriage was just as estranged, but that seemed to work for its perpetuation rather than its dissolution. He supposed that he and Mary were more alienated than the majority of their married peers. He couldn't seem to move toward her on any important issues and her disinterest only acted to bolster his incapacity. Feeling his life was a catch 22; he took instant gratification where he could and indulgence and addiction where they seemed less sinful; in food.

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Before he moved off through the claustrophobic darkness of the warehouse, he grabbed another wedge of cake and freshened his cup. He hummed lightly, over and around his chewing, as he made for the bathroom at the back hall. Once, he had priced the idea of moving the toilet nearer his office, but he gave that up when his plumber revealed the detail and expense involved.

For now, he simply had to silence his nerves and make the walk. No one else knew that he often got a little freaked when he was alone in the warehouse at night. He refused, however, to give in to his fear by burning unnecessary lights. Besides, a single switch lit every fluorescent in the storage area at once. This was a necessity when searching boxes and bins for product, but an absolute waste of electricity if you were just headed to the john for a dump.

It was strangely silent here after store hours. When not absorbed with scouring through invoices and paperwork, he couldn't help but feel awed by the sheer quiet.

Even though he knew there were countless cartons and crates stacked through thousands of square feet, the darkness behind him felt empty, like some sort of void, nebulous and incessant.

There were few sounds to filter in from outside. Autumn had just begun and daylight receded much sooner than it had in summer. When darkness fell in Hampton, no matter how early, everything quieted.

The store below him was utterly eerie. For twelve hours a day, every day except Sunday, the place teemed with people and activity. Trucks arrived at the bays, ready to relieve their burdens of merchandise. Manpower was expended, in proportion, to unload, stock, price, tag, and sell that merchandise. The market was a constant mechanism of receipt and delivery. Cash registers beeped, bells rang, shoes clacked, and sneakers squeaked throughout every second of that bustle.

Then, after the doors were locked and the last employee sent home, it all just stopped.

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Linoleum floors and tile walls had given voice to the single staccato sound of his solitary footsteps. The hollow ring of his own movement had followed him up to the office and storehouse, where the acoustics were less given to reverberation and more adept to reticence.

The muteness and dark of the stilled workplace did not unnerve him every night. He realized, however, as he listened to the muffled crunch and slurp of his own snacking, that tonight was fraught with expectation. The sound of his chewing filled his ears to the point where it seemed some great predatory beast stalked his steps, wheezing and smacking its scorn and threat down the back of his neck.

He stopped about midway to the bathroom and listened. Flanking him was a blackness deformed by the shapes of heaped bundles and splayed boxes. Urging him through this malign corridor was the faint glow cast from the light at the bottom of the hall stairs, and the persistent press of his bowels. The safety of his bright desk lamp lay behind, beckoning failure and incontinence. This was the height of his anxiety and he could not compel himself beyond its hand. His last swallow of food and drink seemed to gulp down every evidence of existence, as if he'd feasted the last of verity.

He was caught, listening. It was so quiet that, at times, he found himself straining to hear.

On these occasions, he could not be put to ease until he gained comfort from the sound of something familiar. All his effort was expended listening, until a knock, bang, or flush would reveal its ordinary intonation and release him from his fright.

So, there he stood, in the midst of his dark warehouse, frozen as if paralyzed, physically straining to hear some common noise that would assuage his fear. No logical ground could be gained, because he was uncertain as to the cause of his dread. Sweat ran down his face in rivulets and he could feel it puddling beneath his arms and at the small of his back.

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He turned and looked over his shoulder, casting his vision back towards his office and its feeble illumination playing across the expanse of black. He cajoled himself to move, to finish his journey to the bathroom or return to his desk and make some noise of his own, like calling a shrink from the Yellow Pages and asking exactly how he had managed to trap himself in the middle of his aphotic, mute warehouse, about to shit in fright or necessity of function.

Then, two things happened almost simultaneously. The light in his office blinked out, and he heard a noise. It wasn't the common sort of sound that he'd been straining to hear. This was alien, unrecognizable. The illumination of the entire floor now came from only the weak reflection of the bare bulb at the bottom of the hall stairs, a full flight down. His heart pounding to burst, some instinct instructed him to squat down and make himself a smaller target.

Attempting to keep himself focused on his now darkened office as the source of the strange sound, he stumbled backward off the balls of his feet. Like some freakishly fat, awkward crab, he fell against a row of stacked cartons and knocked them over, domino style.

His fall took out a pile of boxed goods, twisted his ankle, bruised his ass, and dumped him several feet shy of the center aisle. Disoriented, frightened, and angry, he kicked and punched his way to his feet. None of it mattered now, not the blown bulb in his office or the strange, unidentifiable sound that had come from there, there was only his injured pride from his stupid, ungainly, fat-assed tumble. Even all alone in this empty place, humiliation tinged his cheeks.

He felt the unspoken rebuke of his family and peers. He felt his own guilt and disgust for his gluttony and greed. Flailing his arms and smashing cartons askew everywhere around him, he bulldozed his way back to the middle of the floor.

Introspection didn't come to him easily, and his enlightened Christian peers would tell him that epiphany came at unlikely times, and that God moves in mysterious ways. The insight

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enveloping him was long overdue. He had known deep in his heart for a length of some years, that Margaret Connor's words of a few days prior had been scathingly accurate.

She'd called him a fat, pompous, over-bearing, bullying fraud. Angrily, he'd reacted by scolding her for the way she must have raised Derek, without Christianity and regard. All too enthusiastically, he had pointed out her son's flaws; one by one, on the count of his fingers.

Well, she had taken those fingers and bent them back so hard his eyes teared. Raising her voice just enough so that anyone in the store with a mind to listen might, and anyone obliged to mind their own business could, she'd said, "Doesn't your Bible say, 'Judge not, lest you be judged.' Don't you think a real man might see, in my son, a boy crying out for the love and attention of a father figure? Don't you think a better man might render care and attention to such a boy, even without that exact admonishment from his so-called savior in his very own Bible?"

Then, with a smile full of charity and goodwill, she had pried his digits even harder and continued. "And don't you think, Brother Pat Acker, that you should take your gossip, rumors, and high-mindedness, along with your fingers, and shove them straight up your fat ass, where they belong!"

No, this humiliation and disgust had not come out of the darkness and charged him because of his clumsy fright. This frustration, this repulsion had been with him for a long time. He'd known it in his store, his home, and his church. He'd felt it behind the faces of his family, his employees, and his fellow parishioners. Perhaps, it had taken Margaret Connor to drive the truth home. Maybe it was his scorn and contempt for himself he felt as his cowardly butt sprawled in the dark of his warehouse.

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Whatever, it was enough to send him, hell bent, storming down the pitch-painted blackness of the center aisle toward the puny glare of the hallway bulb, until a nebulous form, darker against dark, stepped from behind some cartons and grabbed him.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Derek was preparing for his ritual before the windows. The days were painful, but more tedious for their isolation and restriction. His mother had taken control, not only of his pain medication, but of his life, as well. Given the limitations of his physical condition, he had been wan to struggle against her severity. She was zealously determined to get him off booze, even when he protested that he'd never really been on it. He was going to learn respect for women, she'd said–-the kind of respect that would keep him out of adulterous affairs. He was going to take classes at Northampton County Community College and find another, better job, working for someone less hypocritical and reproachful than Pat Acker. Of course, he would do all this if he wished to “continue living under her roof.”

In actuality, he knew it wouldn't be a bad thing to meet his mother's demands. After all, most of those things he wanted for himself, anyhow. Needing a new job was a given, and he'd been promising to take college courses since graduating high school. He could take or leave the Jack, he figured, as long as he could sneak an occasional nip now and then, like the occasional toke of weed he'd been sneaking for years without her knowledge.

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Derek had long ago realized how much his mother needed him, even though she threatened him with eviction if he didn't tow the line. Without his help, the upkeep and the bills would prove too much, even with all the hours she put in at the factory where she worked. He had feigned compliance all the years since his father's death and it would prove no hardship to continue. Let his mother have her pride. Besides, there were times when she actually did intimidate him. She was a strong woman whose husband had died young, leaving her with a child to raise and a mortgage to pay. She didn't take crap from anyone. He was certain Pat Acker had found that out the painful way. Yes, he smiled; he could do worse than to abide his mom.

His grin widened as he considered Pat Acker being forced to oblige Margaret Connor. He had caught some of the story from her, but the more interesting parts had been relayed to him by Ernie Brach, who would still run Derek's errands in exchange for booze money. Mom had been very confrontational during their face-to-face. She had, apparently, gotten her point across with little diplomacy and a bit of physical intimidation. Certainly, Acker had deserved more, and it was with that rationale that he pressed on to his nocturnal rites.

A routine had developed that was loosely based upon books he'd been reading regarding meditation and centering methodology. His was a bastardized version, mind you, but it had yielded intriguing results. Its basis was simply to open his energy to wherever it might be directed, by whatever force. It was a sort of mystic reception he felt he must train in order to learn to delve deeper, to travel further.

The first time he had consciously practiced this way, rather than simply sitting before his windows drifting and slipping into dreams, was the first time he had left his body. He'd found the act extremely unsettling. One second, he'd been focusing his vision on an imaginary point on

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the wall and using controlled breathing exercises and then, suddenly, he'd been looking down at himself from a spot upon the ceiling. Almost instantly, he was back in his corporeal body, staring at the place on the wall, in the exact position he had just witnessed from a perch above himself. His breathing became erratic and he got up and ran around the house, turning on every single light in absolutely every room. His mother was back on graveyard shift, so she wasn't around to wonder over his alarm. He'd been so freaked out that it had taken until dawn for him to settle down.

Never forsaking his window ritual, he'd lapsed back to his wishing until he could learn more about his out-of-body experience. His reaction, he'd concluded, was more from a fear of not being able to return to his body rather than the sensation of astral travel itself. Research provided a means for a more secure type of experience. He was to imagine a cord or rope fastened between his material form and his traveling self. The lead was of infinite length, its slack playing out, eternally, against every pull of time and space. Therefore, no matter where his journeys might take him, he was assured safe return.

This was the method he currently employed. He still did a couple of nights a week of his standard wishing, since gratitude seemed to dictate that he not abandon his original ritual altogether, so most of his evenings were made up of these new rites. Repeatedly, he took a cross-legged position at the foot of his bed with the room reduced to silence and dark. He fixedly concentrated on the imaginary point between the windows. Slow, cleansing breaths and a soft hum or chant added to the rhythmic cadence that would pull him into meditation.

Something beyond the meditation would then pull him from his body to another point, usually on the ceiling of his bedroom.

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He took care to unravel the infinite line, and he found that it swiftly and smoothly returned him to his body, every time. Confident and practiced at this elementary level, he began to will himself to other parts of the house. The instant he completed his thought of where he wished to be, he was there. From his mother's bedroom to the laundry room, to the kitchen, to the rooftop near the chimney, which was his first foray beyond the walls of the house. He was there as quickly as he could think. And with every nervous start or unwarranted worry, a tug on the celestial cord returned him to his spot at the ceiling so he could inspect his material form.

Another tug sent him gently back inside his body.

Feeling secure in his ability to leave his body and safely return, Derek began pondering ways to use this new ability to his advantage. Even as he healed and his need for pain medication dwindled, he aided his recovery with his wishing and his traveling. While walking became an improved physical transit, he endeavored to make traveling a more precise conveyance.

One evening, while his mother was at work, he'd decided to devote the night's ritual to his exlover. Spread out before him, at the foot of his bed, he'd placed many souvenirs and mementos of their time together. He'd kept a lacy pair of black panties, a few locks of Bev's hair, a tube of her lipstick, a half melted candle, and the place mat from a diner where they had shared morningafter breakfast.

There were no photographs of his blonde haired, blue-eyed lover, but he didn't need any. He could call up her face in memory. Her dimples, her hairline, the long sensuous curve of her neck and fullness of her lips were like a map of a beloved landscape. He conjured her face in every detail, as if she sat, entranced, before him. His hands recalled the warmth and wonder of her pale, tender body. Her kiss was firm against his mouth; pressing, seeking out his tongue. Her scent was in the air and a single breath filled his nostrils, threatening to singe his lungs. Even as

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his penis engorged and the erection poised to spread a familiar pain in his groin, he reached for her, strained for her.

Almost before he could fasten his conceived cord, the imagery pulled him from his body more swiftly and directly than ever before. There was never a traveling state in this process for Derek. There was never any scenery, no sense of passing along a route or corridor, no landmarks, no way stations. He was there, in a matter of no time, to him. Measuring the incidents, the trips, had never occurred to him. Whatever space in time they held was beyond his meter or measure. How did you time a single heartbeat or the snap of a finger?

Suddenly, he was there. But where was he? It appeared he'd come to the backyard of someone's house, between the rear of their home and their garage. It was late night and the air was damp with autumn. As he looked around, nothing appeared to be familiar. He'd come to a place he had never been before. It was the first time a trip had taken him somewhere wholly unknown.

Studying the surroundings, he took more precise note of the garage. It was dark, but there was a light lit atop a set of wooden stairs that ran to the second floor of the structure. Derek moved cautiously, while he didn't think anyone could see him in his projected state, it was hard to dismiss the physical reality of his trip when he could feel the cool and dankness of the air around him.

As he got closer to the building he realized that it had once been a garage, but that a second floor addition and some other remodeling had, apparently, converted it into an apartment. He stopped, just as a hand parted the curtains at an entry door at the top of the steps. As he watched, a face pressed itself there, peering into the dark. Even from a level below and twenty feet away, he knew that face. It was the one he had called forth mere moments before. It was Bev.

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His intuitive response was to run away and avoid discovery, but his trip had brought him here and he wasn't about to leave in the midst of a new traveling experience. This was an awesome variation on the usual theme. Instead of thinking of a particular destination and arriving there, which was thrilling in itself, he had concentrated on Bev and had, obviously, been directed to her.

The gossip in Hampton confirmed that she'd left Michael, but no one knew where she'd gone.

He had to laugh, realizing that he'd found her, but that he didn't know where she was either. This could be any town in the Northeast. There was a way to find out which one it was, he felt certain, but for now his interest was fixed on the face at the glass. There was Bev, his lover, his friend, and his betrayer.

From this far away in the dark, it was a strain to make out her features. She appeared concentrated, but not concerned. She was training her view out over the yard, but Derek did not feel as though she was looking for anything or anyone in particular. The body language of her head and shoulders lent toward the aspect of an informal perusal. Her lack of focus emboldened him.

He stepped from a slight cover and moved for the stairs. He continued to a point a few yards before the base of the steps. This, he surmised, was the best observation point. Any closer, and the pitch of the stairs would block his view of her face, and any further back the darkness would obscure her expression.

She was staring, but her gaze looked empty. Wherever her concentration, it was far from the pitchy landscape where he stood. He wondered if she was wishing, as he still did on nights his meditation did not take him traveling. It occurred to him that, if she was, then she might find her own method of journeying as he was now. That was something he absolutely did not want.

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Although he knew that other people could travel this way, he did not want Bev to be one of them. This power over her, this ability to come to her without her knowledge, was something he wanted for himself, alone. Imagine the implications in his dealings with Bev, Michael, and Pat Acker, if he could fine-tune this talent.

The idea that his ability might not prove exclusive in this circumstance violated his sensibilities to the point that he lost hold of his trip.

Abruptly, he'd found himself returned to the spot on the ceiling of his bedroom. Trying to direct himself back to Bev did not work, and he finally gave up and returned to his corporeal self at the foot of his bed.

He hadn't projected since then. Now, he meant to set out on a different visit via a similar route. He would consciously construct the mood and focus; in reproduction of the night he'd visited Bev. However, different scraps of nostalgia were unrolled at the foot of the bed near the windows. A box cutter, pay stubs, a cap with ACKER'S MARKET printed on it, key rings, and a few other assortments of his working life lay there, as he closed his eyes and began to chant.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Pat Acker was spun violently, like an absurd, ungainly ballerina. He felt his breath caught high in his chest by the tug of the other's hands. His attacker stood before him in the spot where he had formerly stood behind. In a single graceful flurry, the interloper produced one of the day old racks as though he were some sort of magician. Pat thought he recognized the stranger's profile, but it was too dark to be certain. It was as if the man's presence had stolen all the light left to him. In reality, the trespasser's jostling had placed the fat man's bulk between himself and the feeble hall light. Pat's back was turned around and he faced his office through unrelieved darkness.

The intruder placed his right hand on Pat, at the point where his chest pained him. "Have a seat Mr. Acker, before you drop," he said.

There was nowhere for Pat to sit, accept near the spot where he had so recently tumbled. His heart was in a tightening vise, and when he attempted to ask the questions he knew he must, Who are you? What do you want? How did you get in here?, the only thing that escaped his mouth was spittle.

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"Now, now, Acker. Don't be so afraid. Have a little faith, why don't you?"

As the figure loomed before him, Pat was almost certain it was Derek Connor's features he'd glimpsed in the gloom. Then the form bent over, pressing Acker to a sitting position on the warehouse floor.

"A little faith is all that's left, isn't it?"

Pat was again uncertain about this person's identity, because it was definitely not like Derek's voice at all.

"You look in dire need of assistance, Acker. How about a little drink? You must be dry, what with all that slaver running out of your mouth."

Pat's hot coffee carafe was forced against his lips. The Pyrex burned his mouth and the searing liquid spilled over teeth and tongue, down his throat and steaming into his stomach. He gagged reflexively, and clenched his jaw against a stinging drench of his face and neck. Looking up, beyond the presence that was assailing him, he noticed a bright flicker high at the ceiling, in one corner of the warehouse.

Perhaps it was a byproduct of the searing pain in his chest. No matter, he could not cry out for help. All he could seem to do was think that his Procter-Silex could not make coffee this hot.

It had never made coffee this hot.

A little later, his tormentor grabbed his hair and raised his head from where he'd left it hanging. "How about a little dessert with your coffee?" he asked.

Again, it seemed to be Derek Connor's face he saw in silhouette, but the voice was all wrong.

A trick, he wondered. The cover of dark to protect the boy's identity and some sort of electronic gizmo to change the sound of his voice? Could this be retribution for his firing?

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The intruder yanked the squeaky-wheeled rack of baking trays before the sprawled merchant.

"Perhaps this will do," he said, as he once again forced open Pat's maw.

Pat couldn't help but think how impossible this was; he didn't sell day old bakery anymore.

A powdered cruller, dry as scorched earth, was shoved to the back of his throat. His air was cut off by sugar dust and stale dough. Acker chewed quickly and swallowed, to avoid choking.

Coughing and gasping, he spit remnants of the donut on the pants of his aggressor.

"Fuck you! Fuck you!" Pat managed his first words since the madman's intrusion. His coughing turned to convulsion, and he was allowed to choke and hack until he settled.

"Fuck me? Fuck me?" The intruder laughed. "Oh, Brother Acker. What have you done?

The first time this evening you bless me with words, and you choose to speak such filth.

Perhaps, another chance. Forgiveness, after all, is divine. Is it not?"

As the intruder went silent, Pat looked up and caught the strange flicker at the ceiling once again. Maybe it's fire, he thought. Maybe the burning in my chest has set the building alight.

"What the fuck are you?" he asked the intruder.

"Before I can answer that, if I can answer that, we need to adjust your attitude."

The words, �adjust your attitude,� were spoken in Mary Acker's voice. Its tone and manner were exact. It was the voice of Pat's wife. There was no mistaking. Pat had lived with that particular voice in his ears, day and night, for more than two decades. This was not some person or gizmo doing an imitation. It was so real that he looked around for her.

"Such obscenity is vile and dirty. The mouth that speaks it must be made clean," said the Mary-voice.

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Pat was familiar with this particular litany. He had heard his wife address the children in this manner many times over the years. It was her proclamation against swearing. Knowing Mary's disdain of cursing, and her reaction to it, he again attempted to clamp shut his mouth.

Almost at the instant his brain directed his jaw to lock down, there was a powerful simultaneous smack to both his ears, as if God had made to clap His Hands and Pat's head had gotten in the way. His ears rang, his nostrils flared full of snot, and his mouth fell open.

Automatically, it filled with soap and warm water. He was caught, drowning, against a sudsing flow with the power of a fire hose. He crab-walked backward on the floor and his left arm went numb as he spilled onto his side, vomiting bile and bubbles.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

It took Edith quite a while to recount all of Clarence's visits and the details of her nightmare.

She and Amy had to turn on lights because darkness had settled during the course of the story.

Amy felt certain that the telling would have affected her differently had it not been for the incident with the kitchen. Without such a personal experience of the unexplained, right here in this house, Amy may have been highly skeptical of Edith's tales. The events of the kitchen added a weight of authenticity to the rest of Edith's narrative that might have been sorely absent otherwise. She shuddered to think just how quickly she would have pronounced it all as the product of delirium and senility.

"All right," Amy said while letting out a deep breath in order to still shaking hands. "You are not crazy. Whatever happened to that kitchen, happened with me as a witness. I believe that it may also, somehow, support the notion of visitations."

Amy gulped down a tiny bit of bourbon. At Edith's request she had poured a small measure of booze from a decanter kept on a sideboard in the dining room. They may have preferred tea, but Amy had prohibited that much time being spent in the kitchen.

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"I think I should stay here a few days, like you suggested. Maybe I can experience some of what you've been experiencing," Amy told Edith.

"Then what?" Edith asked.

"I don't know. We'll have to take this one step at a time. First, I need to freshen up a bit.

Then, I'll call Michael and tell him how long I'll be."

"You can use the phone in my bedroom after you're finished in the bath."

"Thank you."

After some time, Edith heard Amy's tread on the stairs and her youthful friend soon appeared at the bottom of the banister. She held something in her right hand and had her head bent in consideration of the object.

"Michael's a sport," she began. "He says he can get along without me for a couple of days.

I'm going to send one of the nurses to check on him, anyhow."

"That sounds like a good idea," Edith commented. "But are you sure you're okay with it?"

"Oh, yeah. Fine."

"Well, what is it then? What's bothering you, dear?" Edith asked. "You look positively distressed."

"Oh, my. Do I?" Amy asked as she made her way to have a seat in the living room. "Not distressed, really. Sort of curious, confused, I guess."

"Tell me, Amy. We can scarcely afford secrets at this point." Edith's words came out sounding more like a rebuke than she'd intended. She felt tired and a bit tipsy with the alcohol she'd drunk. "What is it?" she inquired more gently.

"This." Amy handed over the item that she'd been so intent on upon coming downstairs.

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"No," Edith mumbled under her breath. "This just can't be." She looked up, tears beginning to well in her eyes. "Where did you get this?" she asked.

"That's the weird part," Amy explained. "I sat on your bed and used the phone to call Michael. I played out the cord and sat with my back against the headboard. I kicked my shoes off and put my feet up."

"I sit just that way myself, sometimes," Edith interjected. "It's okay girl, go on, do tell." Her earlier tone had been replaced with calm reassurance. The magnitude of the thing she now held in her hand, the object Amy just handed over, had stunned her to resolve.

"Well, we were talking and that just sort of fell onto my lap," Amy explained.

"It fell on your lap?"

"Yeah, sort of like someone had tossed it to me. You know? I have no idea where it could have come from. It's a tie pin, isn't it?"

"Yes, dear. It's a tie pin."

"I know because my Dad has a couple. Most, you know, younger men don't wear them, do they?"

"I think you're right, Amy," Edith replied while examining the button-sized adornment.

"Nowadays, most men don't wear them. Back in my husband's day, though, they did."

"It's Clarence's?" Amy asked.

"Yes, dear. It's his."

"Edith?" Amy was holding her head cocked to one side like the dog in the old RCA ads. On her face, it was a look of total bewilderment. "Where was it? I mean, where did it come from?

It seemed to drop from above me, but there's no way it could have. There's no shelf above the

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headboard. There's only that framed print you have hanging there. You didn't have it on the headboard, or something. Did you?"

"No, Amy. I did not."

"That's what I don't understand. Where did it come from, Edith?"

"Amy, right now I'd like some more of that bourbon, please."

"But−" Amy protested.

"Do you drink much, girl?" The old lady asked stoically.

"Well, no, not really. A little wine. Never much of this stuff." Amy pointed toward the decanter, while going after Edith's glass.

"Good girl, then. I want you to pour a large dose for yourself, as well."

"But I just said," Amy retorted.

"No. No opposition, Amy," Edith cut her off. "Just do it. Then come in here, so we can drink."

Amy returned with two glasses of booze. "I don't understand," she said.

"Of course you don't, my dear friend." Edith reached up and took one of the glasses from Amy and squeezed the young woman's hand. "Just drink about half of yours. Big gulp, like medicine."

Amy did as she was told, corkscrewing her face against the bitter taste. Edith matched her and bade her to take a seat.

"This item has not been in this house since my husband's death. It was pinned to the tie he was wearing when we buried him." #

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The motel wasn't much, but at least they were away from Hampton and Anthony, Pam reasoned. Stewart sat on one of the double beds, using the remote to flip through television stations. The neon sign outside had promised HBO in every room and Pam had told her son he could watch. Normally, he wasn't big on television, preferring books and music instead, but the promise of a broken taboo seemed to help pull him from his shock. Now, all she needed was something for hers.

She didn't need a confirmation of her husband's injuries from Doctor McGlade. That Anthony was badly harmed had been apparent. Just how Stewart had bested the big man was far less obvious. She was counting on that quandary and McGlade's tactics to buy time from the authorities. Her phone call to the doctor had gone better than expected. She'd told him that there had been an accident and that her husband had been hurt. The doctor instructed her to call an ambulance and he would meet the paramedics at the house. Clearing her voice, and adding as much authority as her state of mind allowed, she had continued.

"Doctor, this is a family matter," she said.

"Well, yes," the physician answered. "I imagine it is."

"I don't think you understand, Doc. This is a family matter of the type you've treated, here, before."

"But," "This time the patient is Anthony," Pam informed him. "I expect him to receive the same sort of treatment and decorum you have extended to myself and my son for all these many years."

"I understand, Pam. He is alive, isn't he?"

"He's alive and breathing, but he's hurt. He's in Stewart's room, on the second floor."

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"I'll come right away, alone. I may need the ambulance."

"If you need medical assistance, doctor, I expect you to get it."

"What about the police?" he asked.

"My husband fell over the bed in my son's room. The police are not needed."

"You'll attest to that?"

"No, you will attest for me, old man. Just like you've always attested for him. Now, you had better get your ass in gear. He's bleeding. Like I told you, it was a bad fall."

"All right, I'm on my way," the doctor answered.

"Good thing."

"Pam?" "Yes, McGlade."

"For what it's worth, I told him this could happen one day."

"What it's worth, Doc, is this house call and your particular brand of protocol."

"Of course."

Recalling the conversation sent shivers down her spine. She'd had no idea how Doctor McGlade might respond to her insistence. Of course she'd done her bit of arm twisting, reminding him of the services he'd clandestinely performed on Anthony's behest for so long.

Still, why did he agree? Why had he kept Anthony's nasty secrets all these years? What sort of person was this Morgan McGlade? How had he come to be so respected in the community?

Was it through this very conduct of keeping family skeletons tucked away in their respective closets? How dare he! For that matter, how dare she. She was as guilty as anyone of keeping this particular family's skeletons closeted. Why had she taken it for so long? Why, in God's name, had she allowed her son to suffer as well?

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Realizing that she might never know the answers to those questions, she attempted to concentrate on the present. Watching Stewart doze in the blue strobe of flickering television light, she swore to protect him from here on. Finally, they were away from their tormentor, and she would keep them away. Doc McGlade would hold his tongue and keep the cops at bay for as long as he could, possibly indefinitely. His word would go a long way as to the cause of Anthony's trauma. He could probably see to it that there was no investigation at all. He would only risk compromising himself otherwise. But could he, would he, keep Anthony at bay?

For some unknown reason this doctor, this Morgan McGlade, had an allegiance to her husband that caused him to take unreasonable risks. He'd been placing himself and his medical practice in jeopardy for years in order to cover for Anthony. Surely, her husband would persuade his aid in acting out his revenge. Once again conscious and coherent, Anthony would be in a rage over what had happened. He would press the doctor and the doctor would turn.

Then, she and Stewart would become liabilities to the two worst men she knew.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Michael had already covered every inch of the house since Amy's departure, walking roomto-room and floor-to-floor. It struck him hysterically funny to think that he could take a fall and hurt himself. How would he get back to his wheelchair and reset the scene if he took a tumble two stories away from the contraption? Still, he didn't want the damn thing anywhere in sight when he was feeling so powerfully able. It would just be a reminder of the disability he no longer had but must pretend still afflicted him. Meanwhile, he didn't care about caution or prudence.

The only thing that interested him right now was walking. The sheer act filled his mind and soul. In motion, he was blissful. Nothing could intrude on the absolute glee that soaked his senses. Striding, even stumbling, he was filled to the brim by this ability to move on his own two feet.

After a few more circuits inside the house, he was bored. He wanted to do something more strenuous. His dreams were calling him to complete the fulfillment of wishes made by his

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window. He longed to be outside, amid the trees and foliage, onboard the grass and dirt tracks of his property, alive within the reality of that one recurring dream; astride in paradise.

Certainly, the few acres of his parcel were not nearly akin to the paradise of his dreams, but it would do. The risk of taking a fall in the now dark was greater than in full day but the chances of being seen were far reduced. The house and its grounds were adequately screened from easy view by trees and scrub, so there was little danger of his being spotted. Still, he decided to wait for the hour to turn truly late, wherein he would stroll instead of run and exercise clandestinely, if not vigorously.

To kill time until then, a drink seemed in order. A toast. He walked to the bar and poured a Jack Daniels. The drink of my nemesis, he thought. As the smooth liquor warmed and eased him, he considered young Derek and the price the lad had paid for messing in his life. Very briefly, something tugged at him, and he remembered compassion. He recalled that, before the accident, he'd possessed the trait aplenty. Even afterward, when he'd initially learned of his paralysis and struggled through torturous therapies and adjustments at the hospital, he had seen people worse off than himself and he had felt compassion for them. Why hadn't he been able to muster a little for Derek?

After all, upon reflection, Derek was less responsible for his wife's infidelity than either he or Bev. He was a young man seduced by a beautiful, intoxicating older woman. Derek's response to her had been biological. What guy his age would have been able to resist? Michael had seen his wife's effect on men over the years. Business associates, acquaintances, and even friends had often been captivated by more than her intellect and social graces. His wife was a magnet that drew attention. When she'd turned the heat of that allure on an inexperienced local boy, it had proved too much to resist. Certainly, his inattention and refusal had pushed her toward the

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liaison, a stronger impetus than any lure Derek could have dangled. As he poured more of the potent booze into his glass, he struggled to consider it all more objectively.

Derek had clearly been surprised to find his lover's husband astride a wheelchair. Michael could be certain of that because he'd become familiar with the expression. Derek's face had been an exact replication of the look he'd seen on the faces of people he'd known before the accident, and who had somehow come in contact with him afterward. It was a combination of surprise, puzzlement, and pity that created a facial contortion Michael believed must be unique in society.

At least, he hadn't been familiar with it prior to his injury. As guilty as Derek was of fucking his wife, he was innocent of any knowledge of Michael's affliction. But how much did that count?

Of what other things might Derek have been innocent?

He topped off his glass and moved to sit behind his desk. There was plenty to consider.

Why hadn't he thought this over more? He'd been ignoring his own uncharacteristic behavior for far too long. Lost, first in consideration of his lack, then in enthrall to his regeneration, he'd slipped away from himself. With all his wishing he'd lost control.

It felt, at that very moment, that something was attempting to push back the charity he was contemplating. It was a physical presence within him, a pressing and a voice. Too much bourbon, he thought, and laughed as he considered how typical he'd become. An angry, drunken, cuckold husband. Certainly, he'd had the right of the wronged party to attack his wife's lover.

Still, a young man seduced was hardly deserving of what had amounted to near castration. Bev was, doubtless, just as accountable as Derek, if not more so. Yet, where was his retribution against her? And since when had he begun to think in terms of revenge?

Until recently, he'd scarcely been known to hold a grudge. Patience was the lot of the artist, not intolerance. His father had been an uncharitable drunk. The old man had often ranted

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incoherently about one imagined suffered injustice after another. His mother's walking out had, supposedly, driven his father's irrationality. Had Bev driven his? Was that where this violence and vendetta had come from?

"You know. You know," answered that previously incidental voice inside his head. Even amid the slow effects of alcohol, he felt the crowding of its presence grow beyond that little commentary we regard as conscience or clarity. "It comes from being hit head-on by a drunk in a bakery truck," it persisted. "It comes from being robbed of your life. It comes from pledging anything and everything you have in order to get it all back!"

That was not entirely true, and he shook his head, as if to dislodge those words and gage things more clearly. There had been a time, shortly after his mishap, that had burned with hope.

It had been an initial time, when he'd believed that therapy and positivity could regain his legs.

It wasn't until his fevered research and reluctant doctors had confirmed that his Spinal Cord Injury was so severe as to never warrant recovery that he'd despaired. When all the talk, conditioning, and therapy had turned to coming to grips with his situation, he had begun to tune everyone else out and something else in.

That was when his wishing had begun. When the anger and depression grew, he'd channeled as much of it as he could into his wishing. It was then that some insistent force, no doubt the same force that was now striving to eradicate his objectivity with its utter volume threatening to press all thought from his mind, had begun luring him to his window. This force, this vengeance and vendetta had built itself from there. It was a force violent enough to premeditate his attack on Derek as requital against his wife.

Retaliation and reprisal, however, had not given him back his ability to walk. Something else, altogether, had done that. It was the same something that insisted he not reveal his

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rediscovered aptitudes. The something that, this very second, was screaming in his head to quit such ludicrous thinking. The something that was warning him how dangerous this train of thought could be and how lucky he was to get everything he'd wished for and how stupid he'd be to mess it up. The something that turned up its din to a maddening pitch and drove him running through the house and out the front door, pulling his hair and shaking his head from side to side with a ferocity of purpose so as to liquefy his reason. # Derek's trip had transported him where he'd wanted. His astral self had taken a position high up in one corner on the second floor of Acker's Market. Old Pat had been his focus, and here he was. Even though there was little light in this part of the store, he could clearly make out the fat form of the storekeeper, crouched at the center of the storage area. He was slightly bent, with his attention turned over his shoulder, back along the corridor leading to his office. Derek heard sounds of movement from there. Apparently, so did Pat, and his obese Elmer Fudd parody was exchanged for a flat-out fall. Derek moved to stifle his laughter, in spite of his trip to Bev having taught him that it was unlikely anyone could see or hear him while he was in this state.

Old Pat seemed perfectly pissed, as he kicked and shoved his way from the pile of boxes he had knocked over upon landing. Gathering himself up, the merchant headed for the far end of the warehouse. Derek figured that he was making his way to the bathroom atop the hall stairs.

Just as he began to deal with his amazement at being here and witnessing the fat man's embarrassments, a dark form flashed down the center aisle behind the Bible Thumper. As Derek's breath caught, the apparition grabbed Acker and spun him like a top. He watched with rapt attention as the grocer was made to cower and suffer unimaginable assaults.

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While Derek's vision was unhampered by the dark surroundings and he could clearly make out every insult Pat suffered, his sight of the attacker was obscured. It seemed a solitary gloom surrounded it as it made sport of assaulting Acker. While it was true that very little illumination was thrown upon the intruder because the office light had gone out and fatso's own bulk blocked the feeble hall light, there still seemed an unnatural blur surrounding the aggressor. Also, Derek's instincts had him thinking in terms of it rather than him, despite its distinct male shape.

Derek felt a chill and wondered if that was even possible, as he was out of body.

As the dark-thing, this was how Derek had begun to think of the mysterious presence, slung insults and physical abuse at its victim, Derek became uneasy. This was not how he'd expected to feel upon seeing one of his enemies bested. He considered if this disquiet might be conscience, then he dismissed it as feeling jealous that he couldn't be putting it to the old lard-ass himself. Beyond that, he felt that the tormentor perceived his presence in the building. There was a strong sense that the showman realized it was playing to a larger audience than the lone Acker. Intuition appealed to him to yank on the astral cord and go home to his body, but the intrigue of this abnormal molestation held him riveted.

There was a supernatural element being played out that far surpassed his ability to project himself. The dark-thing was pulling solid physical props out of thin air to use against the defenseless fat man. The coffee pot it held in its outstretched hand had appeared out of nowhere.

Perhaps in his suffering, Acker had imagined that it was his own, taken from his office and used as an instrument of torture to burn his throat and scald his flesh.

Derek felt his skin turn to goose bumps. He noticed Acker's pleading eyes upon him, as if he also, was aware of his essence as he lingered near the ceiling. The dark-thing continued to rebuke Pat and stuffed his mouth with stale baked goods from a tray it had conjured into being.

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Almost simultaneous to Derek's own thought, Acker asked, "What the fuck are you?"

This was the third or fourth time the otherwise prudish Christian had cursed. Derek wondered if this was a habit Acker had hidden in secret or the result of tremendous stress. Either way, it felt good to see the piety being driven from the hypocrite. Granting that he was not personally raining these atrocities upon his foe, he took great delight in watching the man who had been his boss reduced to crawling and sputtering. After all, it was what he had wished.

Now, hopes realized, perhaps he would just sit back and enjoy the show. Acker was getting exactly what he deserved; even if it was being doled out by some mysterious dark-thing he could barely comprehend. It was better this way, anyhow. Now, there was no need for him to get his hands dirty. He didn't have to plot and hatch some scheme to get even with the grocer. His retribution was being handed to him, and he had a front row seat for its deliverance.

Still, he wondered about this dark-thing. What sort of being was it? Had he somehow summoned it through his wishing and wanting? Its unnaturalness was evident. Ruthlessly, it bullied and brutalized Pat Acker. Had he simply stumbled upon its unholy aggression? Could it be coincidental that he'd picked this particular time to travel here? If what he was witnessing was unrelated to his own desire to vanquish the merchant, then what was going on? Just as he struggled to consider all this, his contemplation was interrupted by the shrill holler of a female voice.

Even though the timbre and inflection was exactly that of Mary Acker, the speech was produced from behind the lips of the dark-thing. Derek quivered as he realized that this was something much more than impersonation. It was sinister. Mockery, it might be, but it was more like the dark-thing was channeling Acker's wife. Its manner took on the gait and attitude of a woman. With a jutting chest and a swivel of its hips, it delivered a stinging denouncement

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against swearing. Its scorn was directed at Pat, who suddenly clamped shut his jaw and pressed both hands over his mouth.

Shaking his head from side to side, Acker was struggling to get away. He crawled from the feet of the dark-thing, crab-walking backward in a desperate attempt to flee its reach, to get out of its range. In the midst of his effort, Acker's mouth fell open. Water and foam gurgled forth in a stream down his chin and onto his shirt. He appeared to be puking a colossal amount of liquid, until Derek realized that the foaming solution was being forced down the man's gullet in a spray, without benefit of hose or high pressure.

The dark-thing was drowning Pat Acker in soap and water. Like all its tricks so far, it magically produced the flood from nowhere. Derek was amazed, as the murderous gush pursued its intended despite all his effort to escape. He wondered if the water and lather were real or just some extraordinary illusions with which to undo Acker. For all he knew, the dark-thing was swamping the grocer in nothing.

What he'd witnessed would have seemed impossible a short time ago, but a new aspect had been lent to his life, first with his wishing and then with his traveling. Reality, he had come to understand, was far more fluid than he had ever thought possible. He never considered that he might, somehow, be imagining all this. As far-fetched as his ability to move outside of his body might seem, he'd learned to accept its validity with some small adjustments. As he watched a man he loathed being forced to suffer cruel, supernatural atrocities, he'd begun to accept this reality as well.

He felt he'd been made privy to some other, but just as valid, side of life. Few could have knowledge of the sort he'd gained so far. Perhaps he'd finally found his place and it was of this

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disparate realm. Whatever the case, he felt certain that Pat Acker was just as dead in both realities.

The high-minded purveyor lay on his left side with that arm stretched fully out along the floor. It was extended at an angle, as though something that may have saved him was just beyond his reach. His right hand was pressed, fingers splayed, tight against his chest. His clumsy crawl had not gotten him far enough to survive. It appeared that his heart hadn't been up to the strenuous workout the dark-thing had put him through.

The drowning pool of wetness that had soaked the dead man and the floor beneath him began a supernatural quick dry. As though through reverse photography, the water that had gushed onto Pat and everything around him was evaporated to nothing in the span of mere minutes. All signs of struggle disappeared and the light in Pat's office had come back on. Here, simply, was the sprawled corpse of an overweight grocer who had finally taken the heart attack everyone had warned him of for years, late at night in his warehouse, knocking some boxes askew as he dropped dead.

Derek had just witnessed the perfect crime, except for the fact that the murderer had not yet fled the scene. Instead, the dark-thing turned itself to directly address his ethereal presence still lingering high up, near the ceiling.

"Come down here, boy," it called. "I do so hate voyeurs."

Before he could think to do otherwise, Derek Connor stood before Pat Acker's killer. Even face to face and in better lighting, he still could not discern its features.

"You're looking for a face?" it asked. "I can give you any face you like, Derek." Its aspect roiled and contorted until Derek was looking at his mother. After a bit more undulation, its visage became that of Ernie Brach, then Michael Forcade, and finally, Bev. It finished up with

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the blue, bloated, black-tongued death mask of the man it had just murdered. "But I prefer my true nature," it said and returned to its authentic, nebulous form.

Derek, scared witless by this ghastly bit of face trading, moved to yank his astral cord.

"I'm afraid that isn't going to work," the dark-thing informed him. "You see, you are already back in your corporeal body. I moved it, and stuck you back in it between there and here." It pointed to the ceiling, and then to the spot where Derek stood. "Didn't you feel the returning?

Perhaps you just didn't notice. There has been a lot going on tonight."

Derek put his hands to his chest, feeling the solidity of his shape. He touched his hair, his face, and reached down to his legs. He even gave a grab to his injured ball sack, as if his deformation might confirm the truth of what the dark-thing had said. Of course, since he had never subjected himself to this sort of scrutiny at any other time while traveling he could not be sure if the seeming substance of his form meant anything at all.

"Oh, come on," the dark-thing said. If I have to prove it to you, it's going to hurt."

Derek gawked at the insubstantial being.

"Don't go into shock, boy. You can't speak if you are in shock, and I loathe silence as much as I loathe snooping. And you have been snooping on me. Haven't you, Derek?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Very good, boy. I believe you and I might have rapport, unlike that piece of work." It pointed to Pat Acker's unmoving form. "I know the names of everyone with whom I connect.

People define themselves by their names. It's very important to know them."

"What are you?" Derek asked.

"Bravo, young man. Another good question. It may take some time in answering. Let's get comfortable, shall we?"

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Without waiting for Derek to reply, the dark-thing clapped its hands. Immediately, the room in which they stood changed. Derek found himself inside the study where Michael Forcade had run him down. Behind an expansive mahogany desk that he only vaguely remembered from his first visit here, sat the dark-thing. Its face was still mostly undefined, but it clearly wore an ironic expression that made his guts roll.

"Familiar?" it asked.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Anthony Stahl was bleary. He didn't just feel bleary; somehow he had become its definition.

Nothing in his life was the way it was suppose to be, the way it had always been. His wife had run away and his once solitary stuttering son had, apparently, beaten the beejesus out of him. He lay in a hospital bed, attached to tubes and bottles, hardly able to see out of his blackened eyes, talk out of his puffy mouth, or breathe out of his broken nose. Bleary. Unreal.

"Nebber mind the shid aboud a fall," he said from behind missing teeth and a swollen tongue.

"I god the crab kicked ouda me," he told Doc McGlade.

"Kicked, I believe, is the most accurate probability, Anthony. However, it would seem you took a header prior to your beating. Otherwise-" "Udderwise, my punk kid beat me in a toe to toe."

"Precisely." Morgan removed a flask from inside his jacket pocket. "Possibly, you tripped while going after him and he took advantage."

"He cand take abwantage," Anthony garbled. "He's nebber lifted a fisd in his life."

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"I thought there had been a recent incident in school. Seems to me, I had to repair a young lad by the name of Wirestock who claimed Anthony had induced his injuries. All the same, he did not use a fisd on you," the doctor mocked him. "It appears he merely used his foot."

"He kicked me."

"Like a seventy yard field goal."

"How manee dimes?"

"Many, many dimes."

"You thin dis id funny?"

"Actually, no." Doctor McGlade took on a serious tone. "Deep in my dark, pathetic heart, I think it's deserved."

"Wad da hell's godden inda you?"

"Conscience, perhaps. And a good deal too many ghosts."

"Ghodes?"

"Do you know where I was when I got the call that you had regained consciousness and that you were raising a fuss, Anthony?"

"Ad home?"

"Yes. On the second floor, in the parlor."

"I dun thin you wand to talk aboud any of dat crab oud loud here, Doc." "Maybe I do."

"Id's your funeral, I guess."

"I suppose. At least I'll have one. Won't I?" "Maybe soomer than you thin," the patient mumbled to himself.

"Whatever," Morgan continued. "But she never got one."

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"Listen Doc, are you dwunk? Dun answer dat, you're always dwunk. Bud you bedder be careful wad you say."

"Why, Anthony? How can it possibly matter?" Morgan took a few more slugs from his flask, before returning it to his pocket. "Nothing has mattered to me in so long," he said. His back was to Anthony's prone form on the bed. He slowly turned around and, with fingers kneading his brow; he appeared to make a painful study of the other man. "What matters to you, Anthony? I'd be curious to know."

"Wad madders id findin' dat wife and kid of mine. And you're goin' to helb me, Doc." "I don't think so, son. Not this time. Not any longer."

"C'mon Doc. Leds nod go through thid again."

No, let's not," replied McGlade, as he fisted his hands at his sides. "Let us make this the very last time, Anthony."

Anthony couldn't believe Doc was talking to him like this. He'd had the old guy by his nuts for most of his adult life, his father had seen to that. There was no way the alcohol soaked geriatric could opt out of his clutches. This was bull, and Anthony Stahl was in no mood for more unwarranted bravado.

"So be careful what exact extortion you attempt on me," the medical man warned. "You had better make it the one that holds the most threat!"

Anthony Stahl, bruised purple and plugged into intravenous drips, didn't know what to say.

The old bugger was serious. He was calling his bluff in public, at volume. Anthony cocked his head and made to respond, but no sound came out. Morgan strode to the very foot of the bed, pulled his bifocals to the end of his nose and continued with a level voice.

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"Is it the intimidation that I accidentally shot and killed your mother in the midst of a lovers triangle some forty-odd-years ago? That her husband and I kept her demise a secret from the authorities? Or is it the fact that I am your true, biological father?"

The third pronouncement had been kept secret from the man in the hospital bed. It had been Doc's trump card, and now he was playing it. He moved to study his patient's reaction, but had a hard time finding one. Anthony Stahl was frozen cold, and all he could think was, “Bleary.”

“Unreal.” # Sometime in the very early A. M., a phone rang in a budget motel many miles from Hampton. Pam Stahl stirred and hesitantly reached for the receiver. "Hello," she said, as quickly as she could. She did not wish to lend identity to her intonation.

"Mrs. Stahl?" came the voice from the other end. "This is Doctor McGlade. Your husband is conscious and asking questions. I've answered as few of them as I can. Certainly, I have not told him where you and Stewart are staying."

"Okay," she said.

"Pam, what are your plans from here? He's hurt badly enough to keep him down for several days, but he has a wickedly strong constitution, and he's through listening to my advice. He means to come after the two of you and he'll drag himself from bed as soon as he can."

"I understand. I have a plan," she lied.

"I'd like to help," the doctor responded.

"Why?"

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"That's a very good question, Mrs. Stahl. You've certainly had every reason until now to see me as part of the opposition--the enemy even. I'd like to change that if it's not too late. If you'll indulge me, I believe I can explain, in detail."

She thought about this for quite some time, letting the doctor hang there in silence as she pondered his, seemingly sudden, conversion. The fact was she didn't really have many options.

She could take Stewart to her mother, but that was probably the first place Anthony would look for them. The tough old woman would assuredly stand firm against her son-in-law, but Pam would have to deal with another sort of reprisal. Her mother harbored a great deal of resentment over her marriage to Anthony. At one point, she had even stopped talking to her daughter for a period of years, promising not to speak until she'd divorced him.

Pam's father had finally patched it up between the two women, for Stewart's sake, he'd said.

Now Dad was gone, the victim of a heart attack she knew her mother blamed, at least in part, upon the stresses of his daughter's volatile union. She had never let her father know of any physical injuries inflicted upon her or Stewart, but he'd long suspected there was more than emotional violence in their home and he'd called Anthony on it a number of times. No, while she would keep her mother in the loop and please her with the news that she had finally decided to leave her husband for good, she couldn't seek sanctuary with her. It was possibly too dangerous and, definitely, too painful an alternative.

So, here was Doc McGlade offering help. Why? He said he had his reasons and could explain in detail. She considered if this might be some sort of stalling tactic. She wondered if Doc might have already given them up and was merely holding her on the phone with some diversionary tale of aid while her husband zeroed in on their location. She'd given the doctor the number here, deciding she needed to know how badly Anthony had been hurt. In addition, she'd

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figured she would relocate Stewart and herself immediately after contact from McGlade, therefore not risking being found.

Recalling her concern about her husband's endurance, she remembered how he'd looked on the bedroom floor. No one, not even someone with a wickedly strong constitution, would be up and around this fast. She had at least enough time to hear McGlade out, and then they'd relocate just to be safe. Now that she and her son had gained freedom, she would be careful not to lose it.

Meanwhile, Doc had done well to advise her so far, and now he'd offered help. She was in no position to refuse it out of hand.

"Why not?" she finally came back on the line. "Stewart's asleep and you say we have some time. Go ahead. Explain to me why you would help us, Doc." "Okay," McGlade answered. "Here we go."

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Even though she had now become the body, the young Doc McGlade averted his eyes from the sight of Kay's face as he draped a cotton sheet over her form. Tony Stahl was at the bar, pouring two large glasses of whiskey. Doc tore a portion of one sheet and handed it to Stahl to help stifle his bloody hand. The gun was still on the floor where Doc had left it. Neither man was in a hurry to pick it up.

"Better have at least one of these before we do anything, Doc." "I guess so," Doc responded, while slowly reaching for Tony's offering. "Might be a while before we get a chance for another."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I plan on plenty more in the time to come." Tony lifted his glass and nodded.

"I mean, you know," Doc hesitated. "Who knows? After the authorities and all. Hard to say when we'll get the chance."

"What authorities?" Tony asked.

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"The police," Doc responded. "Specifically, Chief Mitchell. I suppose I might call in a few favors. My attempt was, after all, self defense. Even though the result was . . ." He trailed off as he noticed the red blossoms that were appearing at one end of the makeshift shroud covering Kay. "Was an accident," he finished.

"Cops might not see it that way."

"What?"

Stahl grabbed the bottle and topped off their glasses. He added no ice whatsoever.

Cops don't always see things for what they are. Most times they change things to suit themselves, Doc." McGlade could hardly believe that they were standing at his bar discussing police procedure with a corpse in the room, Kay's corpse nonetheless. Everything, however, had become so unbelievable so fast that it didn't matter what they discussed. Tony was pressing toward a point, and he thought he'd better hear it.

"What purpose could they have to alter the truth of this mess?"

Stahl leaned his elbows on the bar and turned his deadpan eyes on the doctor. "I suppose, first of all, it depends on what they perceive the truth of the matter to be. In this case, it seems the truth might just be what I tell em."

"Jesus man!" Doc shouted. "Your wife is dead. You know it was an accident!"

"Do I?" Stahl lifted one eyebrow menacingly.

"Oh, fuck it all!" Doc bellowed as he smashed down his glass and moved for the weapon on the floor. He was barely conscious of the blow Tony dealt him before he was sprawled on hardwood. His shoulder and arm ached terribly where, earlier, the hammer had done its dirty work.

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"Listen." Stahl spoke from a point above him. "If you kill me now, everyone will figure you murdered us both. Freaked out jealousy, I'd guess. Scorned lover. I've even been cut by your own damn scalpel."

Doc tried to make it to his feet, but Tony kicked his shoulder. He howled and lay back down.

"You're better off right there, for now. Anyway, it's obvious you won't get to shoot me. You already tried once, and look what you've done."

Doc grunted and fluttered his eyelids. He couldn't take getting kicked again.

"And now that I'm not as angry as I was when I came in here, I will not do attempted murder for either of you," Tony informed him.

That said, the carpenter walked over to look at the blood-soaked sheet on the floor. He didn't speak or move for a long time. Doc stayed quiet on the hardwood. There wasn't much else he could do. He was helpless in more ways than one.

Finally, Tony came back to where McGlade was stretched out and got him up. They both looked toward the gun, as the medical man slowly regained his feet. Doc shook his head side to side, and went to the bar. Refilling the glasses with his good arm, and grimacing against the pain of the other, he asked, "What's your plan Tony, and how much will it cost me?"

Stahl bellied up, smiled, and drank. "Now we're getting to the practicality of matters, Doc. First, it won't cost you much. Silence, and a little more. The rest is simple."

"Go on." The Jameson was helping Morgan's pain, and he was beginning to see the police in all of this to be as bad a proposition as Tony had suggested. They would bring scandal, loss of his medical license, jail time, financial ruin, and maybe worse.

"I think I see the glint of sense in your eyes," Tony commented.

"Fuck you. Let's just, like you said, press on."

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"Sure. Sure. Fine. Did she tell you she was leaving me?"

"She said you'd discussed it. You raped her and beat her for it, too."

Tony was sitting turned around in his stool, his back to the bar. Doc stared straight ahead, facing the opposite direction. He had one arm bent at the elbow and up on the bar while the other dangled, not quite as dead as Kay, at his side. Neither man faced the other as each spoke to the air directly in front of him.

"Never supposed how a man could rape his own wife, but I--What's the word? Digress, that's it. I digress. Anyway, there's a letter. It could get both of us out of this, I think."

"What sort of letter?" Doc managed a glance at the back of Stahl's head. He might have turned fully around upon hearing this news, but his good hand was full and his injuries would not allow a push off with the other.

Seeming to intuit Doc's dilemma, Tony turned and faced him with a smile.

"Letter's right here, in my pocket. Says she's leaving Anthony with me. Says I should take good care of him."

"Let me see it."

"Not yet, Doc. Later, maybe. For now, we get agreed on the rest.

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Amy came awake in darkness, unsure of her location and unaccustomed to the parameters of the space in which she found herself. She felt dizzy and her head ached. She had to forcefully press for a clear thought. Then, she remembered Edith and the drinking they'd done.

After the older woman had revealed the details surrounding the tiepin Amy had found in her bedroom, they had boozed in near silence for an hour or more. Edith had then suggested they consider the alcohol a sedative and retire to sleep. With the morning, and lots of coffee, they would determine how to proceed.

Amy realized that she had come to rest on the day bed in what Edith called her spare room.

It would have been a nursery and, eventually, a child's bedroom her friend had once explained had she and Clarence created progeny. Perhaps, in this day and age, someone else might have had made it a home office but Edith preferred a sewing room. The day bed was for resting, when she tired of crafting.

Amy recalled that Edith had wanted her to sleep on the pull-out in the living room, but after all the day's creepiness, the clean-itself kitchen and Clarence's buried tie pin, they'd decided not to have an entire floor separating them. Amy had fixed on the day bed and decided it would do fine. Finally, she could plainly recall tucking Edith into her own bed and stumbling down the hall to sleep here.

Only half-able, Amy rose and headed for the bathroom. On the way, she checked on Edith and found her gently snoring beneath a quilted comforter. Edith had apparently been right about the bourbon as a sleep aid for herself, but Amy determined that her aching head would not allow her the same comfort. With her stomach almost as unsettled as her skull, she copped a bottle of

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aspirin from the medicine cabinet and decided to get a glass of milk from the refrigerator.

Needing the medicinal, acid settling components of moo juice nearly as earnestly as the pain relieving properties of aspirin, she deemed to risk the kitchen.

When she reached the downstairs, she began creeping stealthily and cat-like. Laughing at herself, she resigned not to sneak about, but to hold herself alert and proceed with her usual stride. All this crazy stuff wasn't going to spook her any longer. There had to be some logical explanation for the things that had happened.

When she flipped the light switch in the cook room, the space unveiled itself in all the crisp tints and warm glows of its revitalized self. Nothing had changed in here and no new madness had presented itself. They had cleaned the glass from the cracked window and rigged a repair of cardboard and duct tape that was still holding firm.

After downing a cold glass of fresh milk and swallowing four aspirin, she set the formerly thrown kettle to boil for instant coffee. While always preferring the comfort of tea, she chose the standard therapeutic she had heard widely prescribed--hot, black coffee. Having no experience with hangovers, she could only hope its recuperative powers had not been overblown. When her drink was made, she settled in the breakfast nook near the bay window. Sitting here reminded her of Edith's freak-out with the screaming teapot, and she settled her focus on her friend's mental state.

It had occurred to her, before she'd allowed the alcohol and Edith's stories to wash her in a spooky ambiance, that Edith was simply mistaken about the tiepin. Certainly, Clarence had several and the old lady had confused the one Amy had found with the one actually buried with him. She still couldn't explain the way it had fallen onto her lap from seemingly out of nowhere.

However, she considered that there must be a more practical accounting than some magical

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manifestation, which was the way she felt Edith's opinion inclining. Perhaps, the thing had been left behind after having been accidentally discarded during a hasty rush to dress. Then, in the way she had sat and fidgeted with the phone, she had dislodged it in a manner that had caused it to spring up and fall on her lap. Certainly, no spirit had chucked it there in some simulated astral coin toss.

As for the kitchen, that was less easily reduced to rationality. She had come upon such a mess in this room, where she now sat sipping coffee and spinning theories of reason, that it was impossible that anyone could have restored order before she'd returned from upstairs. The elapsed time had been that of a full kettle coming to a screaming boil. The kitchen had cleaned itself, no other explanation existed, unless a band of Phillipino cleaning women had snuck in the back door and silently put to while she wandered upstairs and Edith slept. Then, they had just as silently and mysteriously slipped away.

Amy stared out the window into the darkness of the back yard. The fine hairs on her arms did a slow rise. That spooky ambiance was returning, along with the realization that a house whose kitchen could clean and restore itself, could easily manifest a buried heirloom from out of thin air onto her lap. It did not escape her attention that all of this strangeness had begun out on the lawn on the day she'd found Edith sprawled by the gazebo.

If she squinted hard enough against the dark, she might make out some of the shape of that structure. It was a sort of gray against black form in the night. Just knowing it was out there added another degree of unease to things. Looking around the room, she decided to douse the lights so she could see better out the window.

She began to feel that she was being watched. With the interior lights off she could not only see out more clearly, but she wouldn't be aiding anyone who might be trying to see in with a

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better view than she cared to offer. Perhaps she was scaring herself with all her eerie contemplation, but that didn't make the impression any less poignant.

Staring back out into the Nox, she couldn't stop her reckoning. Was this place haunted? She wondered. Was Edith really being visited by her dead husband? Were the earlier incidents--the restored kitchen and the manifested tiepin–- evidence of spirit presences? Did she even believe in spirits? If she did, then how did that influence her consideration of these things?

This was fast proving too much for her, sitting in this darkened room that had somehow improved itself and thinking thoughts of spirits and haunts. Her skin tingled with gooseflesh.

The coffee tasted acrid and the feeling that someone was watching her became more persistent.

She considered going to the phone and calling her parents, but she thought better of it.

They'd been concerned enough about all her time away from home. This type of thing could only prove unsettling for someone already paranoid about her welfare. They would tell her she was working too hard and press her to get herself home. She and Edith were the only ones in this, whatever it was. They would have to solve these mysteries and odd-goings-on.

Determining to strive on to tomorrow, she began to rise from the table, intending to pour the dregs of her cup down the sink and return to the small comfort of the day bed and the spare room. Then, something out on the back yard caught her attention.

Practically pressing her face against the glass of the bay window, her vision was called to the strange mist rising off the lawn and settling upon itself again and again; calling some shape into being in the far periphery of the dark.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Back in time, Morgan McGlade and Tony Stahl had more to agree on than either of them might ever have imagined. Continuing to drink at the doctor's bar with the blood-soaked body of his wife sprawled just a few feet away, the carpenter ticked off the points on his fingers. "One," he said. "We'll have to dispose of her body."

Until now, McGlade had been pushing through on a combination of adrenaline and revulsion.

As he slowly sipped down his own measure of alcohol, he realized that he would soon submit to shock and the pain of his injuries. "How are we going to do that?" he asked.

"Temporary, for now. Get her down to the basement."

"What then?" The doctor winced through his hurting and the haze surrounding the incredibility of their conversation.

"Something more permanent. I suppose, you bein' a doctor an' all, you know ways. You know . . . to preserve things." Tony acknowledged the subject of his discourse with a nod in the general direction of the makeshift death shroud.

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"Well," Morgan replied with a calm and detachment he would later attribute to the onset of fatigue. "I'd have to do a thorough embalming. I can get all the chemicals and I have most of the surgical instruments."

"Would that be enough to keep it from going noticed?" Tony's shrug once more indicated the sheeted corpse.

"A much better than average embalming can slow decay for decades, sometimes centuries."

"Okay then, that's number one," Tony said, back to his fingers.

"Where?" Doc asked.

"What?"

"Where do we bury her, Tony?"

"Seems to me, with all the rippin' up and excavating we're doing-" "Where, exactly," Doc pressed.

"Have to figure that out later. Looks like you're hardly goin' to hold up to help me drag her downstairs."

"I'll make it."

"Won't be much good if you pass out or puke."

"Okay. Let's do it now, then."

"First, we get agreed, Doc." "The money?"

"That'll be part of it."

"Fucker," Doc mumbled under his breath.

Stahl heard, but paid little attention. The doctor was going green and fading fast.

"Second point is you." Stahl ticked off another digit.

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"Me?" "Yup. Standing here, talking and all, you're a tougher guy than I ever thought. But you're hurt pretty bad, busted up, and it ain't the kinda' injury you could set to mending yourself. Am I right?"

"Yeah. So?" "We'll have to get you to the hospital, after we get Kay tucked away. Tell em you took a nasty fall helping me with some work on the house. People have seen you with a hammer before. Shouldn't seem unusual."

"No. You're right, it wouldn't seem unusual. My injuries could be consistent with a fall. I really don't think anyone would question it, but-" "But your conscience bothers you, Doctor." Tony rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Yes. I just think that if we come clean−" "Where was your conscience before?" Tony cut in.

"What?"

"When you were fucking my wife, doctor. Where was your conscience then?"

The carpenter's diction was perfect for a change, his meter precise. Doc was halting and inarticulate.

"I. Well. It wasn't what you think. How you see it, I mean."

"You loved her?"

"Well, yes, I loved her."

"I see," Tony responded. "And now you need redemption. Atonement. Now, your conscience kicks in. When, if you had listened to it in the first place, neither of us would be here."

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This time Tony Stahl turned to fully look upon the ruined body of his cloaked-over wife. He paused for a long beat, full of contemplation. "None of us would be here," he said.

Silence hung, thick and humid, over the two men. Finally, Doc had to speak simply to remain conscious.

"I don't know what to say to you."

"Nothing to say, Doc. Life's just what it is. Death, as well, I suppose. It's all kinda’ simple.

For the record, I loved her, too. With all the stories she told you, I don't expect you to believe me. I don't much give a shit what you think, now. Never really did, at that.

"You see, I came here to end it. The triangle thing, I mean. Came here with bloodlust.

Bloodlust for you, not her. I didn't come here to hurt her. Had been enough hurtin' already, back and forth between us. I came here to stop you from foolin' with her. It wasn't right. She was my wife, and no matter what, it wasn't right. So, if killing is what it took, I was willing. Still am, I suppose. You see it's still a triangle; you, me, her. And I am still determined for it to end."

The doctor stared straight into Tony Stahl's eyes. He was fighting to keep the sweat out of his vision, but he meant to see all the way to the man's soul if he could. Doc believed he was speaking truthfully.

"See," Tony continued. "I think she was counting on my determination. She was like that, more plotting than I'm sure you knew. Not to talk bad of the dead, but I think she was counting on my killing you. We'd both be out of the way then, and she would have Anthony free and clear. What, with me in jail, and you in a grave.

"Maybe she even knew where you had a little something stashed away. Some cash you might have kept for the two of you, you know, for an emergency or such. I'd gamble that she may have even suggested it to you.

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"Doesn't matter about that now. She was right about my determination, though. Knew me pretty well after all, I guess. Because, if it takes murder to finish this strangeness between the three of us, I am still willing. How about you?"

"No, there's been enough killing for me, Tony."

"That's why I said we have to get agreed. If we can't get agreed−" "You'll kill me," the doctor interjected.

"And I'll use the letter to suggest you ran off together. Her family won't question her disappearance. Won't care, really, at all. Your family's all gone, your mom and dad. All you've got is this place and her."

"But why would we leave my home and my practice?"

"Afraid of me, probably. I do have sumthin' of a reputation."

"But, you'd be a suspect."

"Damn certain."

"You wouldn't get away with it."

"Maybe not."

"You'd get caught."

"Might get caught even if you and I get agreed."

Tony broke off the conversation by smiling and pouring another drink. He didn't offer any to Doc, and McGlade didn't think he could read the other man's eyes any longer.

"Then, why help cover for me? Why let me live? You say you've got this letter to aid the set up."

"Got the letter, ain't got enough of this." Tony held up his right hand and rubbed its thumb and index finger together.

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"Money," Doc said. He was shaky, sweating and catching chills. He stood and clung to the bar for support.

Stahl was still telling the truth. Money was the only thing that could guarantee Morgan's survival.

"Look, McGlade, you and I are very different," Tony continued.

"I'll say."

"Different don't make better." Tony's temper was rising. "You think you're better than me.

You think your betterness gave you the right to do the things you done with my wife. But you ain't better, you’re just different.

"For instance, I can handle this. All of it, including killing you, if I have to. You can't handle it. You're going to need me and I'm going to need money. Not a lot, just enough to make things easier, is all. Maybe not much more than that stash you might have tucked away for you and Kay. Just a fee for crisis management."

"Crisis management?" Doc asked.

"Yeah. Most of my life has been one crisis after another. My balls have been to the wall since the first time my daddy backhanded me. Seems somebody's been tryin' to slap me silly in some manner or another ever since. But I'm still standing. No one has bested me, yet.

Certainly, it won't be you, and it won't be the cops, either. I can tough it out. I'm used to it.

"You, on the other hand, well, your daddy was kind to you. Your momma was sweet. You were raised in a grand, quiet house. There was very little trauma, not much stress, surely no violence. You were shielded, protected. Therefore, you have no crisis management skills."

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"Okay. So, if we do this? If we enter this unholy alliance, what makes you think I won't go to the authorities at some later date? Tell them you blackmailed me. What's your guarantee?"

Doc asked.

"Our singular similarity."

Morgan was drenched in flop sweat. His vision was tinged with gray. He and Tony both knew he would black out soon, but he had to get to the meat of it all. They had to get agreed, like they both knew they would.

"Which is?"

"Selfishness. You will not allow your esteemed ass to wind up in the dregs. Not over murder. Not over love. Not even over her."

Tony stopped talking for a few minutes, allowing his assessment to sink in. Doc no longer clung to the bar. He sagged against it, pale and wrung out.

"I will not lie down," Stahl continued. "I'll do whatever I must. I'll take down whoever I have to. I'll do whatever I got to, to survive. Crisis management."

He finished his drink in a single gulp. Then, he embraced Doc in a tender, familiar manner, aiding his sag to the floor. "Before you pass out, we have got to get agreed," he reminded the medical man.

"Yes." Morgan's reply was weak, but resigned. "Do you want money, now?" he asked.

"No," Tony answered. Then, he crouched down to face Morgan eye to eye. They were sitting on the exact spot from which McGlade had fired the gun, fatally wounding Stahl's wife.

"We'll settle all of that after you're back home. I imagine they'll want to keep you at the hospital for a short spell."

"Yes," Morgan agreed.

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"Okay then, here it is." Tony spoke evenly and clear. "Number one, I'll take Kay downstairs and put her well out of sight. Later, you'll take care of that embalming real good and we'll make a permanent arrangement for her. Got that?"

"Yes. Number one is take care of Kay, temporarily, then permanently."

"Good. Keep following me, Doc." Tony smacked Morgan's face to keep him alert.

"Okay. Number two is me."

"Right. You are a smart man, Doc. We get you to the hospital, after I've settled her downstairs. Then, when you come home to do the medical stuff, we make financial arrangements for my future and the future of my son."

"Third point?" Doc asked. "We never discussed the third point."

"Third point is the letter, Doc," Stahl explained. "I keep it and use it to cover our asses, if need be."

"The cops?"

"I'll handle them with the letter, if it comes to that." # Pam Stahl felt as assuredly in shock as had Doctor Morgan McGlade all those years prior.

Here he was, on the other end of the connection, confessing the killing of her mother-in-law.

With rapt attention, she had listened to his story of love, betrayal, death, and blackmail. She couldn't help but feel that part of the tale was hers, also. Like some secreted heirloom, the legacy of these deeds had been handed down to her husband. A dark inheritance had secured the doctor's silence and enlisted his aid in the abuse of herself and her son.

"Anthony has the letter," she said into the phone.

"Yes," the doctor responded.

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"Does he know what's in it?"

"Absolutely. He's read it."

"Do you know what's in it?"

"Yes, it was a short note. It basically says that she's leaving Tony and not taking Anthony with her. It asks him to care well for the boy. It warns him not to attempt to find her and promises that he'll never hear from her again."

"Do you think it's authentic? Did she write it?" Pam was now inextricably drawn into the story.

"Yes, it's in Kay's hand. It was distinctive. Personally, I believe she wrote it before coming to see me that day. The day of her death.

"From what you're telling me," Pam commented. "There's nothing in there that can incriminate you. It's the same story Anthony's told since I know him."

"You're right, Pam. The service of that letter was to perpetuate the lie Tony and I told about Kay's disappearance. It worked well in that regard. I spread the gossip to my patients and colleagues. Tony told his woeful tale to bar mates and co-workers. Only one member of Kay's family ever showed up to inquire after her and, when shown the letter, he went off satisfied. It was her older brother as I recall, and Tony was right--he seemed hardly to give a damn."

"Then, Anthony's been extorting you with an empty threat all these years?" she asked.

"No, it's the second letter that has all the power."

"Second letter?"

"Yes, the one Tony wrote just before he died," McGlade answered.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Bev was drunk. She'd been drunk for days, or at least it seemed. She had sequestered herself away in her neat little apartment with no desire for interaction with the outside world. The time had begun in depression and slid from there to alcoholic haze, and then to some bizarre hallucinatory state wherein a young blonde woman had begun to pester her as she moved about her rooms.

When had she let the stranger in? She couldn't recall. She didn't want company as she had begun to work on a solo binge. Where had this interloper come from? Why did she keep talking about a big house? Was it Bev's own house, in Hampton, to which she kept making obscure references? If so, how did she know she had a house? Certainly, she was no one Bev knew from Hampton, and no one in Hampton knew she had moved here. Only her parents were aware of her new address and Bev fought almost daily battles, since her leaving Michael, to keep her wellintentioned folks at bay. Why would she welcome a stranger when struggling for isolation from her own family? Besides her mother and father, only Michael and Attending Nurses knew to call here and Bev felt certain this person was not a caregiver.

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But what if she was wrong? What if this outsider was from Attending Nurses and she had let her in on that premise and she was now simply too loaded to remember? She knew too much booze could bring on black outs and lapses of memory, even if she'd never experienced them before. What if the woman had come to tell her that something had happened to Michael?

Again. She hadn't even dealt with that other incident, the one that had sent both her lover and her husband to the hospital. Had she?

Something strange had happened to her here in this new place. She'd somehow lost track of time, so much time that she felt as if she had nearly disappeared. When she left Michael, she'd felt as though she was taking appropriate measures, as though she was acting for a resolution of things. Since coming here, however, she had taken precious little action at all. Sure, she had furnished her apartment, shopped for antiques and sat outside sipping scotch which was now an occasion her landlady had begun to refer to as her tea time whether from the belief that she was actually sipping tea or the imperative to be polite, Bev was not at all certain, but she had done nothing about the circumstances of her life or the events that had unfolded since her desertion.

Her head spun with thoughts of loss and lack. All she seemed able to do was stare out doors and windows, catching the wisps of specters in the back yard, but never focusing on a single, deliberate course of action. When had she become this weak, indecisive woman? Constantly, she pondered and weighed every option until the circumspection itself exhausted her to the point of immobility. If only she could find the strength to do something.

She staggered to the door to open the blinds and look over the small lawn she shared, but it was too dark to see. Her home in Hampton sat on a lot that dwarfed this enormously. Soon, the leaves would fall off the trees and the raking would need to begin. Where would she be then– in a few weeks time? She took another gulp of the drink fisted in her right hand and couldn't taste

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it for melted ice and diluted content. What was it she'd been having? Scotch, she thought, as she moved for the open bottle on the kitchen counter.

Scotch, oh yes, it certainly was scotch. She was drinking Johnny Walker Blue, at well over a hundred dollars per bottle. She had emptied out the liquor store supply by buying three.

Remembering there was no ice; she'd long ago reduced the two small trays in her freezer to tiny limpid pools waiting to stiffen, she ran tap water into a glass full of fresh booze. She began laughing out loud, as she wondered how many people who could afford this expensive a drink might cut it with spigot water. Then, a sound from the living room distracted her. It was the noise of movement, verification of another presence in the home she shared with no one.

She had an idea who it was even before she peered through the archway separating the kitchen and living room. Her hunch proved correct. Sitting there, on her couch perched the form of a young woman. She was blonde and slender and wore blue jeans and a peasant blouse. She was perhaps five or six years younger than Bev herself. That would place her age at nearly thirty. Her hand kept moving sporadically to her neck. She stroked her throat in the manner of someone meaning to touch a necklace or pendant and remembering it wasn't there. It was a graceful search that, all the same, revealed an air of panic.

Bev had been dealing with these intrusions for a day or two. At first, she had considered only rational explanations for the other's presence, blaming her lack of understanding on her own wretched drunkenness. Then, she had begun to ask questions of her visitor. When her inquiries were met with stubborn silence, she'd commanded the other to leave. This, the trespasser had done in a manner not possible of a corporeal being; by moving through walls, dissolving, or simply ceasing to be.

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Two and a half bottles into her stash and a couple of days into her binge might be, in itself, an explanation of the stranger's materialization. Loneliness, depression, and spree drinking could probably conjure up some hard-core hallucinations. So why this annoying, but perfectly docile, woman? Why not Jason in his hockey mask, freshly returned from a murderous rampage in outer space? Or Leatherface, full of fury and wielding his Texas Chainsaw? Bev decided to try direct questions again.

"Who are you?" she asked the interloper.

The woman looked across the coffee table at the point where Bev had taken a seat opposite her and smiled. There was no other response. Bev crossed her legs and kicked off her shoes.

She determined to do this more calmly than the other times. She would get answers. This was her home. Uninvited guests needed to explain themselves.

"What do you want?" Bev continued.

"To go to the house," came the reply.

"What house?" Bev asked.

This query was, once more, met only with a smile. The quality of her countenance, Bev had to admit, was nearly beatific. Still, she sensed something wretched beneath its manner. It was as if she was looking at some market fruit, seemingly ripe and delicious on the outside, but hiding rot and spoiled juices at its heart. The intuition raised gooseflesh on her arms, but she pressed ahead with her interrogatory, no doubt bolstered by the expensive booze buzzing through her system.

"Where is this house?"

"Hampton."

"Whose house is it? Is it your home?"

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"Yes, my home. And the Doctor's."

"Which Doctor? What's his name?" She and Michael had doctors over in Allentown. Since his accident, they'd dealt with doctors as far away as Philadelphia, but they'd never gone to any local doctor in Hampton.

"Are you ill? So you need to see the doctor?"

"No and yes," the stranger answered.

No and yes. Bev kicked the answer around in her brain, as the blonde gazed straight ahead, intently focused on nothing. Bev's thoughts had become like slippery rocks and she stumbled and slid along them until she came to a place of reason. Then, she realized she had asked two questions at once, and had gotten two distinct answers.

"No, you are not ill. And, yes, you need to see the doctor?" Bev wasn't feeling as though her second perception made much sense.

The woman's grin remained as if painted on by an archangel. "No and yes," she confirmed.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The phantom shape lingered behind Michael's desk.

"Where is he?" Derek asked.

"Who?" "Forcade."

"Oh, yeah. I almost forgot about him. He's out. Touring the grounds as it were."

This was absurd, dealing with some unimaginable specter, much less having the thing become glib. Derek looked around and spied an old friend at the bar. He continued to question the dark-thing as he made his way for the bottle of Jack Daniels.

"How can he tour?" he asked while pouring. "He's in a wheelchair, you know. And it's dark out there. Is someone else here? Someone pushing him around?"

"Questions. Questions. Questions," the dark-thing replied. "First I had to suffer that intolerable bore, Acker. Now, a chatterbox. Oh my, what is a--dark-thing? Is that how you see me? Interesting. What is a dark-thing to do?"

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Derek drank in heavy doses. Occasionally, he pinched himself or tried a tug on his no longer existent astral cord. He had to get out of here before Forcade came back. This was already the strangest one of his trips so far, there was no telling what might happen if Michael found him here.

"He's touring without the wheelchair." The dark-thing had apparently decided to provide some answers. "He's walking. A small miracle, quite a trick really. No one else is here, yet. No one is pushing him in his contraption, least of all the lovely Bev. That is what you were hoping, wasn't it? Wishing she was here. So you could see her. So you could do things to her."

Derek rubbed his forehead and took a seat in a leather club chair angled across from a chocolate brown sofa of the same material. Just looking in the direction of his preternatural host gave him a headache. The thing behind the desk was still nebulous in form. It seemed to roil and move within itself, as if undecided how to appear.

"Can you read my mind?" Derek questioned it some more.

"Oh, I scored on one of those deductions. Didn't I?" "Maybe."

"Poker face, eh? Good try, young Derek. I do admire your spirit."

Suddenly, the dark amber liquid in Derek's glass disappeared. The bottle of Jack Daniels he'd left sitting on the bar burst in a shower of glass shards and sticky bits of booze.

"Shit!" Derek jumped from his seat.

"I don't want you drunk for the proceedings. Didn't your mother tell you about drinking?"

"How do you know about my mother?"

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"Sit back and I'll explain a little while we wait." Its shimmer seemed to settle for a moment before it returned to its carnival mirror trick. "You see, I can read your mind, to an extent. The things that motivate you are visual. I can latch onto those images."

"You can read my wishes."

"I suppose, as an elementary explanation."

"What are you?"

"You cannot grasp what I am."

"Why not?"

"You lack the capacity."

"I'm not so dumb. I learned how to travel. How many people can do that?"

"Actually, everyone can. Most don't, is all."

"I don't understand." Derek had been attempting to get drunk, and now he worried that some of the conversation might get over his head. He didn't think it would be good to allow that.

Didn't it say somewhere that you should not engage demons in discourse? But then, he had no idea if this was a demon or something else, entirely.

"Okay, then. Simple fare.� The dark-thing gave the impression of being amused. "Let's return to the matter of your nemesis, shall we?"

"My nemesis."

"Yes, Michael Forcade. Aren't you even a tad surprised to find out he can walk?"

"I haven't found that out. It's just something you told me."

"Bravo. Well done, Derek. I thought I was losing you there for a spell. It could have gotten boring far too fast. What you lost in rapport, you made up in cynicism. I like that. What do you think makes you that way? Distrusting."

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Derek had to think how to continue. If this creature became bored with him it could do a lot worse than explode some bottles. Pat Acker had been an abject lesson. "I don't know," he said.

"Just learned early, you have to see things with your own eyes."

"Like you're seeing me now?"

That internal part of the phantom, its insubstantial, meandering center, latched onto solidity.

It shifted in fits of expansion and contraction. Its effort contorted the very air around it. When it gained structure, it spoke.

"Is it, do you think, because I was taken from you when you were so young?" the dark-thing asked from behind the lips of Derek's father.

Derek had not been so young when his father died that he couldn't remember the man.

Indeed, he sometimes recalled absolutely everything about him down to his smell. Certainly, he remembered the trust, the love, the enthrall of his early self with that good man. He would not allow this abomination to taint what he had left of him.

Derek sprang to his feet and tossed the now empty rocks glass at the head of the dark-fatherthing. It ducked effortlessly.

"Now don't get violent, son," it said.

"I am not your son!"

"Don't you remember me?" it asked, sounding wounded.

"Of course. I mean, no. You're not my father!"

"Don't you remember the firehouse? The glass?"

"Don't do that. Don't be pulling that kind of shit!" Derek blubbered and howled, as he made a rush at the desk. It was extracting a memory from his head, he told himself as he moved to attack it, barehanded if he had to.

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It had been in the spring, at the end of May about twelve years ago, when Derek and his father had gone to pitch ball. The temperature was mild and the blue sky boasted puffy white, low slung cumulus clouds. Derek had gotten home from school about fifteen minutes before Rob Connor was due home from the cement plant where he worked in Nazareth. He'd be covered in the familiar chalky dust of the quarry pit and Derek knew he would have to wait a little while for his father to shower and change. Anticipation coursed through the boy as he retrieved baseball mitts and balls from the garage.

Soon, he heard the sound of their Ford pickup crunching its way down the gravel drive. A few seconds later, his father was outside the vehicle and standing by the driver's side door. As expected, he was prematurely grayed from head to toe. His moppy shock of brown hair was dulled and matted by the efforts of his day's work. Still, he wore his typical ear-to-ear grin.

Rob Connor was a large man, with a long stride and an easy gait. Derek was disappointed to see his father's pace shortened by a limp he'd been suffering the last several days. He felt a lump in his throat when he realized his dad might not be up to the game that day. Rob looked over his property with the eyes of a contented man, before spotting Derek by the garage.

"Hey, son," he called.

"Yes, Dad." "No bats today, okay? Your old man's knee is acting up. I won't be able to chase down balls.

It's got to be just pitchin', sorry."

"That's all right." Derek swallowed down his worry and ran to his father. He hugged him, despite the dust. Somehow, he loved the feel of his Dad just fresh from work.

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"You got the balls and gloves ready to go?" Rob tussled the hair on top of Derek's head, the same exact shade as his own.

"Yes, sir."

"I've got to get cleaned up. Why don't you run and tell your mother our plans? Tell her she'll get her hug as soon as I'm presentable."

"She'll be looking for a kiss, too, Dad." Well, I'll have to wash this face really good, then. Won't I? Now, run on, son.

I'll be cleaned up in a few minutes."

Derek ran to find his mother.

After Rob had cleaned up and they'd spent a few minutes in the kitchen with Mom, father and son walked down the drive.

"I thought we'd go over to the firehouse." Rob Connor was a volunteer fireman, as were many of the young working men in Hampton.

"I drove by the ballpark on the way home and it was pretty filled up with uniforms. Your mother's afraid for her flowers if we pitch in the yard, so I thought we'd play by the old garage.

The boys should have boarded over the door there, so I can use it as a backstop, anything gets away from me with this knee. What do you think, Derek?"

"Sure, Dad." Derek canted his head to look all the way up to the tall man's face. "But hardly anything ever gets away from you."

Rob's chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, and his breath caught slightly as he put weight on his bad leg. "Something might slip by today, boy. Just might."

"What about the door, then?" Derek asked as they wound up and down streets on their way to the old firehouse.

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"Oh, nothing we throw will hurt that old door. Boys said they were boarding it up really solid. Put about four coats of thick white paint on it. It doesn't need to open since we don't house the trucks there anymore. Just storage is all it is now, since the new firehouse.

"Anyway, I'll stand a little ways down the lot, with my back toward where the old door was.

The way that pull-up is pitched, a missed ball should roll right back to me. It's almost as good as a backstop at the park. If we mark the paint up any, I'll just touch it up next time maintenance is my turn. Don't worry about that, Derek."

As they got to the angled drive of the old firehouse, Rob patted Derek on the back. "You just show me what you got," he said.

A few minutes later, the smack of a ball into a glove could be heard all up and down the streets surrounding the old firehouse. Reassuring banter filled the air.

"C'mon son, chuck it in there!" Rob took the catcher's stance, no matter how irritable it made his knee. Making a target of his mitt, he let loose traditional chants on themes that had been familiar to him since he was a boy. "Put it in there. Put it in there, pitcher. Humm, babe.

Humm, babe."

Once in a while, Derek would unleash a wild one and his father would spring up to catch it, with an arm stretched high above his head. Other times, the ball might spray into the dirt and saddle past Rob, banging into the freshly painted door with a thick chucking sound before rolling back down the drive to his feet, as predicted. Rob Connor quickly forgot the discomfort of his aching leg as the customary routine of sport settled in "Crash!" The sound of broken glass filled the air.

"What the hell?" Rob asked as he looked over his shoulder at the building behind him. He followed the trajectory of the high, wild pitch his son had uncorked over his reach.

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There, at the top of a perfect rectangle of bright white, gaped a jagged, round hole.

"Well I'll be," Rob commented. "How about that?" He broke into laughter as he stood more closely upon the fresh maw.

Derek approached with awe and marvel, thinking that he'd have to learn a little better control but, if he had the power to pop a pitch through solid wood like that, he was on his way to The Majors. No wonder Dad seemed so happy.

He came to stand next to the big man, who was half bent over with a broad smile spread across his face. "I really put the heat on that one," he said. "Didn't I, Dad?" "You sure did, Derek. Got a little too high with it, though."

"Yeah, but I chucked it right through the wood!"

"Well, you chucked it right through the glass, anyhow."

"Huh?" Derek didn't understand. There wasn't any glass to be seen in this new, perfectly white geometry.

"They sorta' fooled us." Derek's father pointed to the hole where the ball had gone through.

"See." "Not really," Derek replied.

"They just painted over the old door, Derek. It's still glass along the top. Same door it ever was."

"What?" Derek felt his chance at The Majors slipping away, as two huge, but gentle hands hoisted him up. With his face level to the hole, he could see the sharp shards surrounding the puncture. "Glass," he commented.

"Right," answered his father while placing him solidly back on the ground. "The guys must have decided to just paint over the glass instead of boarding it."

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"Why did they paint glass?" Derek asked.

"Didn't want people peeking in just to see a bunch of piled up boxes and junk. It was different when the trucks were there for everyone to look at."

"What about the hole?"

"Well, why don't you stay here? I'll run back to the house for some tools and plywood. I'll ask your mom to hold dinner a little longer, while we fix it."

"Why do I have to stay here?"

"You don't. I just thought, in case anybody comes around, you'd be here to tell them that I'm coming right back to fix it. That way, no one will think that somebody busted the window and just ran off. You know?" “Won't they be mad, if they know I did it?"

"Nobody's going to be mad at you, son. We made a mistake. You and me, both. Now, we're going to fix that mistake." Rob Conner knelt down, to be eye-level with his boy. "I want you to remember this, Derek. You will make mistakes in life, most will be a lot worse than a broken window. Your measure will be made by standing up and admitting to those mistakes, and then doing everything you can to fix whatever harm they caused. That's what we're going to do now, by repairing that hole. No one can fault you for cleaning up your messes. Most will even regard you well for it. You think you can understand all that?"

"I guess so."

"Good. Now, are you coming with me or are you waiting here?"

"I'll wait here and stand up for what I did."

"Good fella. You're standing up for your dad, too." Rob Connor laughed. "Because this was mostly my mistake."

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Momentarily, Derek considered all the mistakes he'd made in his life since that day, along with the ones he was still making. Filled with red rage, remembering the closeness he and his father had shared on that long gone afternoon, he flew at the form of his tormentor. He knew that he was not attacking his father, that this dark-thing was hiding behind a perverted portrayal.

Still, he hesitated for an instant, before making the leap at Michael Forcade's desk in order to grab the imposter by its throat.

In that short span of indecision, the dark-thing that had become his father vanished. Derek landed in empty space and crashed to the floor with a scream of frustration and fury. He lay on his side heaving but unhurt in a tangle behind the big, dark desk. Adrenaline plowed through his veins like pure junk, cramping his guts and setting the room to a crazy spin. From somewhere in that dizzying tumult rose a laugh with eerie similarity to the baying of a hyena.

"You are so entertaining."

Derek pulled himself from the floor and stood the chair he had spilled back at its position behind the desk. "You mean the way Pat Acker was entertaining?" he asked.

The dark-thing was now seated in the same leather chair Derek had occupied before his vain assault on the desk. "Heavens no, dear boy. I find you far more interesting than that fat bag of bones. You and I are going to have fun."

Derek was wrung out and suddenly depleted by his earlier adrenaline rush. He didn't want to have fun with this thing but he did want to live. He allowed himself to collapse into the chair he had just straightened. "Hell of a rough way to play musical chairs," he said.

"Small trick, this trading places." The dark-thing noted the slightness of the maneuver with a wave of its nearly immaterial hand. It had relinquished its Rob Connor form. "Parlor games."

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"Really? What else can you do?"

"I should think you've seen plenty enough."

"Yeah. I guess. Okay then. What do you want?"

"All right," the roiling form answered. "You're sporting, so I'll give you a few clues. The things I want are very nearly the same things you have wished for in the night, by your windows.

They are the same things that fueled your intensity to the point that your desires drove you to out-of-body trips, as you call them. The most delicious of things, Derek; retribution, revenge."

Before Derek could ask about this revenge, against whom it would be taken and why, the dark-thing flickered like the image on a television screen and was gone. Seemingly, it had disappeared entirely, leaving him alone in the home of his enemy with no way to exit except under the power of his own two feet.

Suddenly, Derek caught the scent of perfume in the air. The afterimage of a young woman appeared in the seat the phantom had formerly occupied. She was an attractive blonde wearing a peasant blouse, blue jeans, and a most appealing smile. She wasn't Bev, Derek thought as he tried to bring her into focus, she was better. Then her figure clarified. It went suddenly bright and she too was gone.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

According to Doc, Tony Stahl had spelled everything out in his deathbed letter to his son.

Surprisingly, he had embellished very little in defense of himself. He'd even admitted that the blackmailing of Morgan McGlade had been his supplemental income for decades. Perhaps, Morgan had mused, his impending demise had affected his otherwise unscrupulous character.

Stahl had pointed out that while the money had added up well over the years it had never risen to such a princely sum that it threatened the doctor's lifestyle or put him into bankruptcy.

The payments were made in the sort of amounts that would not raise an accountant's or banker's inquiry. Always, Doc's records reflected that the monies were paid for some sort of remodeling or repair work to the big house, although Tony had only once gone there after Kay's death. The carpenter even paid income taxes against his blood money, reporting it as earnings for the fictional home improvements.

The letter explained all of this to Anthony, Doc told Pam Stahl. The details of his mother's death, embalming, and subsequent burial, must have proven a horror even to the likes of her brutal husband.

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"Have you been paying my husband since his father's death?" Pam wanted to know.

"Some, but not very much, all in all. He's never asked for large sums of money. I suppose I would have given it to him. It would have been better than the favors he had me perform."

"You mean covering up his violence."

"That was the major thing. I can't ever tell you how sorry I am."

"We've gone way beyond sorry, doctor."

"I know you're right."

"I mean for both of us." Pam made a fist of her hand not holding the phone.

"You must never blame yourself for the way he's treated you. He's been twisted from the start," Doc noted.

"I know that, Morgan. I meant that I cannot begin to apologize to my son; for all that he's suffered. I have as much complicity in this as anyone, I let him get by with as much as you have."

"We need to put an end to it then," Morgan concluded.

"Only I can do that now, doctor. Only I can keep my son safe."

"All right, but you'll need help. I can give it to you."

"What sort of help?"

"Money? Certainly, you need cash, on the run like this."

"I took quite a bit of cash out of the bank, before leaving Hampton. That's another thing that is going to set Anthony off."

"You didn't use a MAC machine did you? They can be traced easily, and credit cards. Don't use credit cards if you can help it, Pam."

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"No Doc, I didn't use a MAC or any of my plastic. The police aren't involved in this already, are they?"

"No. They won't be involved. Anthony's sticking with the story of a fall. His pride won't allow him to admit what really happened, and he doesn't want them to get into this any more than we do. It's just that he will be determined and, in this day and age, you can track people so easily. Computers and all. Also, like you said, the missing money will push him harder."

Indignance filled Pam's tone. "I didn't steal it, Doc. It belongs to me and Stewart, as well."

"I know that, but you don't really expect Anthony to see it that way, do you?"

"No. No I don't." Pam began to cry with the realization that her husband would see her as a common thief and hunt her down like one.

Doc tried to calm her. "Steady now," he said. "You've done well for yourself and Stewart, just to get away. Anthony has no idea where you've gone, and no one in Hampton knows you've left."

"Except for you."

He couldn't ignore the accusation. "Whatever it takes to prove you can trust me, I'll do it.

Whatever you need, Pam, I'll help. It's the absolute least I can do."

"Are you looking for atonement, Doc? Because, I'm afraid I'm in no position to offer forgiveness to anyone."

"I gave up on exoneration a long time ago. Look, I've helped Anthony all these years because I feared exposure, because I was a coward. He can't play those cards against me any longer because I don't care what happens to me. I cannot begin to tell you how much I don't care.'

"Doc?"

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"Yes." "You're not exactly reassuring me."

Despite the seriousness of it all, they shared a laugh.

"I do care about you and Stewart."

"Which keeps bringing me back to the same question," Pam said. "Why?" "Let's just say, for now, that I have a responsibility to the two of you."

"For now?"

"I can provide a better explanation later."

"Later?"

"Yes. After both of you have a safe place to hide."

Pam found herself reflexively peeking out of the two small windows bracketing the door of the rented room, even as the conversation continued. The parking lot was unlit and she realized that she was scouting for familiar vehicles. Her car was parked directly in front of their room.

Maybe Doc was right, and she needed to learn to hide better−or this was how paranoia started.

Doc had to be a pretty paranoid guy, after all. What with hiding an accidental killing, a secret burial, and decades long blackmail; he might just be an expert at concealment.

"What's wrong with this place?" she asked.

"Well, for one, I know where you are."

"Let's say, for the moment, that I'm not concerned about that."

"I won't take that as an endorsement just yet. To get on with it. You checked in with cash?

No credit cards?"

"Right. I watch the television too, you know."

"Okay, but you probably had to sign in?"

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"Of course."

"You had to show identification. Your driver's license?"

"You must, in order to get the room." Pam understood where this was going; they weren't hidden at all.

"When you signed the register, you had to write in your license plate numbers."

"Jesus Doc, Anthony can't trace all this!"

"Maybe not. Maybe it would take more than a couple of phone calls and a few favors.

Maybe he'd have to hire someone."

"My God. Did he say he was going to hire someone?"

"No. He's said nothing of the sort. He is, however, very angry. And he doesn't even know about the money yet."

"You're scaring me."

"I thought you had a plan."

"I lied."

"All right. So you could use some help?"

"I'll have to think about that. You've given me a lot to consider."

"I know you don't trust me, Pam. But that doesn't necessarily mean you have to turn down my assistance."

Pam bit her lip, hard. She and Stewart were far more exposed than she had thought. If she had refused to hear McGlade out, she may have never discovered how really vulnerable they were until it was too late. He had already helped them. Still, she was loath to rely on this man who, until now, she had considered as much a threat as her husband.

"What do you have in mind?"

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"I suggest that when Stewart awakens you check into a different motel. Any one.

Anywhere."

"Why?" "Because, as you so clearly pointed out, I know where you are and I think we should proceed as though you can trust me only marginally. Until you feel you can trust me more."

"Okay."

"Good. You're sure money's not a problem for now?"

"Certain."

"Did you tap him out entirely?"

"Not even close, but I got enough for awhile."

"Smart girl."

"So I'm told."

"Do you have a cell phone with you?"

"I took his."

"Has he tried calling you?"

"Plenty of times. There's caller ID, so I don't answer. I haven't answered any calls."

"Good. I'm going to give you my cell number but I want you to call only from a pay phone, preferably one some distance from wherever you're staying. I'll call you back on Anthony's cell.

I don't want to risk anything that can give a location on you and Stewart. Are you following me?"

"Yeah, Doc. This way you can help without jeopardizing us."

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"Exactly, and you don't have to worry about me giving you away. We've still got several days before Anthony can even think about getting up and around. A motel will be safe until then. It'll give us time to figure out where to secure the two of you thereafter."

Pam sighed heavily. "This is all so complicated," she said.

"I know," Doc answered. "But it has to be done to keep you and Stewart safe."

"I agree. There's just so much, like Stewart's school."

"I hadn't thought of the school. Without an excuse, they could arouse the suspicion of the authorities."

"Any ideas?"

"Well, I am your doctor. I'll just call him out sick. I'll say that you couldn't because you're sick as well."

"Won't that seem suspicious?"

"Not at all, my dear. How many times have you and your son shared contagions?"

"You're right. Families pass colds and flu back and forth all the time."

"Certainly, I'll just make it something that'll keep the two of you out of action for a week or two, without being grave. It's a technicality I can handle. Anything else?"

"Nothing I can think of."

"There will, no doubt, be other things. You need to take this reprieve before your husband comes around to do a lot of hard thinking. See if you can come up with a place to go where he won't have a clue. Not a single, simple hint. It can't be friend or family he'd consider, and it has to be a place where you and Stewart can stay out of sight comfortably for a time."

"I'll try."

"I know you will."

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"And Doc?" "What?"

"Thank you."

"You certainly don't owe me thanks, Pam. If you and Stewart are all right when this is over that will be enough thanks."

"Doctor McGlade?"

"Yes?" "How do you think all this is going to end?

"With all of us better off. With all of us better off, Pam." He hung up without saying goodbye.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Bev removed tea lights and votive candles from a plastic Wal-Mart bag. As she moved around the living room, placing the little luminaries on bookshelves and tabletops, she considered how nice it felt to be hangover free. She hadn't been sober very long and she considered it a wonder her head wasn't pounding. Perhaps, that explained the high cost of the scotch she'd drunk. She had never boozed with that sort of resolve before and had sworn never to do it again.

The night was pressing at the outside of her small apartment. Gooseflesh raised slightly on her arms as she contemplated the task she was about to undertake. Most recently, she had caught nothing more than brief glimpses of her spectral visitor. The blonde would suddenly appear in one room or the other, blinking out with something like the afterimage of a bright flashbulb left to burn on Bev's retinas. There had been no more communication, no conversation. She had begun to think that the visitation might have been hallucinatory, after all. She'd even considered getting drunk again, just to see what would happen in regard to the ghostly stranger. However,

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sober thought had prevailed and she weighed other option, if one could consider her final determination clearheaded.

She smiled, considered the placement of the candles ringing the area where she was about to sit, and dug to the bottom of the shopping bag. She pulled out the flat rectangular box and took a position, cross-legged, before the coffee table. The lid was blue/black, done in ominous mystical designs. She tore free the clear plastic wrapping, lifted the box top off and placed it out of the way. The game board was strict black and white, in deference to its glow in the dark capacity.

She unfolded the flat stock and removed the planchette piece from the bottom of the container.

Her guts rolled slightly in anticipation of intimacy with the Ouija board.

She had experimented with similar renditions of the mystifying oracle in high school and college. Silly girls with too many drinks and too much THC in their systems, they had consulted the board about everything from grade point averages to true love. Never had she taken its advice, or lack thereof, too seriously. Still, something in the nature of the thing had always made her slightly uneasy. Hives seemed to rise when the lights were lowered and the message indicator did its dance through the alphabet, numbers, yes, no, or good-bye printed on the flat.

Perhaps the recollection of this unease, corresponding to her initial distress whenever her visitor appeared, had caused her to consider this method to reach out to the blonde woman.

She had thought about conducting a sĂŠance, or calling in a mystic; she had the money to spend. However, her feeling of personal connection to this being forbid the intrusion of others.

As well, mystics were by reputation, rather unscrupulous. She didn't want anybody chanting and channeling simply in an effort to drain her wallet. Something about this young woman had touched her on an intimate level. She needed to know if that was because her drunken

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subconscious had called her up from its depths, or because this was some sort of genuine haunting.

It was late night, and that realization brought out the goose bumps. The wavering candlelight added a sense of instability to her surroundings. In the flickering dark, this space could easily become something alien, something more sinister and unknown than the friendly parameters of her warmly decorated home.

She was spooking herself and she hadn't even gotten started.

She placed the three-sided planchette beneath the word Ouija, top and center of the board with the message window resting between the letters "G" and "T" of the alphabet. This was the traditional starting position she recalled from her youth. It had been many years since she had done this and the game itself came with only the most ambiguous directions. She felt uneasy.

Directing her fixed concentration on the question she meant to ask, she lightly placed two fingers of each hand on the indicator. She remembered to be simple with her questions, preferring a "YES" or "NO" response in favor of spelling it out. Also, it would work better if asked out loud. Closing her eyes, in an attempt to keep herself from anticipating the movement of the planchette across the board and to better concentrate, she addressed the indistinct atmosphere.

"I wish to contact the entity who appears here in my home. Are you willing to respond?"

Without her purposeful direction, the triangular piece of plastic set at her fingertips began to move. First, it did a sort of wide circle around the flat. Then, it came back to the point from which it had started and rested a brief second or two before veering up and to the left, where it stopped with its message window over the word "YES".

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This was the stage at which her goose bumps multiplied and the chills ran through her. She had always been able to get the planchette to move without too much difficulty. Some people, she knew, were better at doing it in pairs or couldn't get the thing to go at all. Others, it seemed, took a while to warm up, perhaps asking better questions until the indicator decided to travel.

For her, it had never taken much coaxing.

Was she cajoling it with her mind? She wondered after the results. For the time she was using the board, she seemed able to disconnect from everything else. She was able to apply her concentration so fixedly on the question at hand that she was undistracted. Perhaps, that's why she was so good with the Ouija. Still, the feel of the planchette reacting beneath her slightest of touch disturbed her. She was not consciously directing it, and the thought that she might be able to unconsciously cause the message indicator to dance was as troubling to her as the thought that it might be guided by a "mystical oracle".

She took three deep breaths and gained control of her butterflies. "Who are you?" she asked.

Almost instantly, the planchette began its rove on the board. Moving down and swinging to the right, the indicator stopped at "M". It progressed for several seconds, indicating U-R-D. Again, it returned to its starting place and quit moving.

"Murd?" she asked.

Before she even realized she had spoken out loud, the indicator began moving. It stopped on "YES" and settled itself once more. Bewilderment replaced her anxiety. She considered what to do next. The same line of inquiry might irritate her contact, she recalled impatience sometimes being a feature of Ouija, and cost her the connection. She decided to continue on course.

"Can I help you?" Bev asked.

Speedily, the planchette raced to "YES".

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"What can I do?"

Even more quickly, the indicator spelled M-U-R-D. Making a faster chase of the alphabet, it continued with M-U-R-D. Going through the letters so rapidly that Bev had difficulty keeping her fingers on the triangle, it spelled M-U-R-D. Losing contact with the planchette completely, Bev slid back from the board. A groan escaped her as she watched the message window repeatedly flash M-U-R-D, unaided.

She was up and running from the room in no time. In her haste she almost knocked several candles to the floor. With her back to the Ouija, she scratched her finger over the switch plate until steady illumination replaced the undulant candlelight. Gathering deep breaths and courage, she turned around.

The blonde apparition was sitting on her couch, gazing down at the Ouija positioned on the coffee table. She spoke, looking up to consider Bev. "Annoying device," she said. "Really, as tedious as rapping on walls or rattling chains."

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CHAPTER THIRTY

Michael had come to rest on a stump just inside a wide stand of trees that separated his property from that of his nearest neighbor. The area was about a quarter mile wide and, in actuality, he and that neighbor each owned part of it. They'd made a gentlemen's pact some time ago that neither of them would touch any of the segregating woodland, in order to preserve their privacy and the natural setting. It was dark, and he wasn't concerned that anyone might spot him.

The rushing and ringing in his head had lessened, although it had not disappeared entirely.

The accompanying voice had gone silent. For now, he was able to contemplate things in a vague prospective. Applying focused concentration, he determined, would most likely encourage another onslaught. He wiped a trickle of blood from his left nostril onto his sleeve.

The recriminations of the psychic attack he'd suffered when fleeing the house were still with him. He shook against the early chill of autumn. He knew that he must soon return to his home and his wheelchair. For now, however, he wanted to stay and enjoy the sensation in his lower body. Something, like a premonition, told him that he didn't have long to appreciate it.

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He realized that his rediscovered abilities had not returned naturally. He had not been healed and he had not been cured. He had simply been allowed to do the impossible. Something had granted the return of functions that the physical condition of his body denied. That something did not appreciate close scrutiny of recent events. It had sought to drive rational thought from his mind through an intense barrage.

While running, stumbling, and staggering along his grounds, he had been battered by powerfully painful images and impressions. For barely endurable hours, these spectacles had blazed through his brain like fire. Every part of his life, from childhood to his time with Bev, had spun within his being in disjointed, random flashes. He had been forced to confront every emotional extreme in blinding intensity. Like a marionette on the string of some maniacal puppet master, he'd been yanked and jerked through each scene, with real physical pain pulsing inside his skull.

His nose continued to bleed as he lowered his head into his hands. He was mad or this thing he'd allowed to infect him with ability had driven him mad. Once again, he considered the antitypical things he'd done beginning with his attack on Derek. With these thoughts, the pain pressed harder and the voice inside his head began to speak up. # Amy had a stiff neck and a backache. She had fallen asleep, head cradled in her arms, at the breakfast nook. The new day was going to take plenty more coffee and aspirin.

She could remember seeing Clarence at the back of the yard, near the gazebo. He'd materialized on that spot in the same manner in which Edith had described his earliest appearances. She didn't recall falling asleep, but she did have a vague recollection of watching Clarence enter the house. As she fumbled with the aspirin bottle she had removed from the

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bathroom last night and decided to forgo tea in favor of black coffee, she struggled with that recollection.

She'd experienced a strange evening and her perception of dreams and reality were intermingled. A tangle of senses and images danced behind her eyes in unfocused kaleidoscope.

Amid everything else, her impression of Clarence was strong−one with the power of clarity and emotion.

After he had manifested in the yard, he'd approached the house. The moonlight was bright and she was able to clearly define his features the closer he'd come to the big window. Edith had plenty of photos of her husband on display around her home and she had often shared the study of many more she kept secreted in drawers and albums. Amy knew this was Clarence, or a near perfect imitation.

She remembered her trepidation and the cold, clammy feeling that pervaded the room and seemed to grab at her heart as she watched him advance through the dark. Feeling she could not avert her eyes until the light and proximity distinguished his features absolutely, she had held on despite her fear. Heart pounding and body trembling, she studied his steady gait.

His stride was confident, a balanced swing of his arms and a purposeful march on his destination. He seemed a deliberate being, assured of his stroll to the rear of the house. Outside of intense scrutiny, he was just a guy walking to his back door. There was nothing out of the ordinary here except, perhaps, the lateness of the hour. Amy, however, had been fixedly studying his every move. Under such observation, it became increasingly clear that he was not moving in a regular manner. Rather than walking through the night, Clarence had been floating.

Although lending the appearance of a long, determined stride, his feet did not actually touch the

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ground. When he finally reached the door his form bobbed like a helium filled balloon on a tethered lead.

Amy had gasped and jumped from her seat. Clarence peered in against the darkness of the room. Shaking almost uncontrollably, Amy stretched over to check the chain and lock on the back door. After hearing a slight scratching at the outer glass, she bolted for the living room. At the front of the house, she double-checked window and door locks. After calming a bit, she hesitantly made her way through the gloomy interior and back into the kitchen. Keeping the lights out, she made a frightful cursory inspection and found the Clarence-thing had abandoned its stalking at the back door. Of course, that didn't mean it was gone, and so, she had kept a dedicated vigil by the window until falling into fitful dozing.

Sipping instant coffee at the sink, Amy searched her recollections of last night in an effort to sort fact from fiction. Some of her memories were certainly the residue of restless dreams and uneasy sleep. With the light of sunrise leaking its brilliance through the windows and pressing at the backs of closed curtains and blinds, it was enticing to dismiss all of the night's events as part of some bad dream. Still, she knew that much of it had been real even as she fought to relegate at least that one imprecise recollection to delusion– the one where Clarence had entered the house.

After directed action to keep him out, she wouldn't have simply opened the door for him.

With her senses on high alert, instinctively directing her to check bolts and latches, she would never have assisted his access. That fuzzy, uncertain half-memory of watching him walk in tugged at her retention. Was this a real recollection fighting for clarity, or was it some bit of an obscure dream lingering in her psyche?

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As Amy reconsidered her memory of events, she made her way through the downstairs rooms of Edith's house. At every opportunity, she opened drapes and drew back curtains.

Attempting to banish the stygian happenings of last night with the brightness of the growing day, she worked her way toward the second floor.

On her way, she decided not to upset her elderly friend with an immediate telling of her latest travails. Instead, she would allow a warm breakfast to add its sort of lucidity to things. Later, she hoped Edith might find at least a modicum of comfort in the knowledge that she was not the only one having these experiences. Talking it out in the reassuring daylight, they would find a way to handle it all, be it haunting or hallucination.

Amy was feeling reassured until she reached Edith's room. At first, nothing appeared amiss.

The daylight was weaker in here because the window coverings were still in place. This was the last room on Amy's light gathering excursion.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," she called as she moved to introduce the dawn.

No wonder it's chilly in here, she thought, as she noticed that one of the windows had been left open. Then, as she turned to face the foot of her friend's bed, she realized she'd been speaking to the empty damp. The sheets and a comforter were spread in a mad tangle to the floor. One of two night stands was lying on its side with a broken lamp tumbled over it. Shards of glass and ceramics were scattered on the carpet. There was a vicious crack, cutting a fortyfive degree angle across the mirror of an antique vanity. Bottles of perfumes and ointments lay spread around like bowling pins after a strike. Pictures had been knocked askew on the walls and smaller frames were scattered from previously arranged positions atop a chest of drawers.

The room was wrecked, most of its contents helter-skelter, and Edith was nowhere to be seen.

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Wondering how she could have failed to hear the commotion this sort of upset must have caused, Amy called out for her friend. "Edith! Edith, where are you?" Rushing down the hall to the bathroom, she kept pleading. "Edith, honey. Are you all right? Where are you, Edith?"

It seemed ridiculous to search because she had been through these rooms on her way to the woman, but she knew she must. Room to room, closet to closet, and back to the bedroom again, she searched every place a person might be concealed or overlooked. First upstairs, then downstairs, even the attic and the dirt-floored cellar were thoroughly inspected.

After wringing herself out with worry and the physical exertion of a protracted search, her trek returned her to the kitchen. Sweaty with nerves and effort, she settled in the nook with a glass of ice water. The soothing early light of day was gone. Gloom had entered the house and seemingly conspired to stunt the rising sun. Panic was spinning inside her, as a glut of possibilities played out in her head.

She felt crazed, very nearly out of her mind with a combination of fear, guilt, and worry.

Searching the house had occupied her utterly. Sitting here thinking it out made her head spin in ever widening patterns of lunacy. She couldn't decide her next move.

Then, a plaintive wail broke the air. Amy, momentarily, thought it was her own. She held back her weeping to spasmodic sobs, in case there was something to hear besides the strains of her own despair. There was. The cry came again, and Amy's glance through the glass pinpointed its source.

She catapulted from her seat and broke for the back door. After grappling with the deadbolt and chain, she burst out into the yard and scrambled madly, as fast as she could go, for the gazebo.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Michael staggered back to the door of his home. The day had come in with brilliance, but the glow had fast turned wan. He'd been out on the grounds all night, half mad with voices and noises in his head. All he wanted to do was rest and stop thinking. Gaining the foyer, he set off for the bar in his study. He was so singularly focused that he almost didn't notice Derek at all.

Sighing heavily, and slugging some booze from the glass he had just filled, Michael turned to find Derek Connor sitting behind his desk. Their eyes locked and Derek moved to bolt.

"Holy shit!" Michael hollered before the young man could gain his feet. "What the hell are you doing here?" the artist asked.

Derek was a deer frozen in headlights. He couldn't breathe, think, or move.

"Don't run, Derek." Michael dropped into one of the leather chairs, drink in hand. "It is you, isn't it? I mean I'm not imagining this somehow, am I?" The defeat and bewilderment in Michael's manner lent Derek some resolve. He wondered how fast he could move if he had to. The dark-thing had placed him back in his corporeal body, and he was still injured. So, he had stayed all night with no reasonable option for flight.

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"You're walking," he said to Michael.

"You don't seem surprised."

"Nothing surprises me much these days, Mr. Forcade."

Michael considered all the truly unusual things that had been going on in his life.

"Has weird shit been happening to you, Derek?" he asked.

"Unimaginable."

"Why don't you sit down and tell me about it."

"I, uh don't think I'm supposed to be here."

"I know you're not supposed to be here," Michael replied. "But given current circumstances, I'm willing to let by-gones be by-gones. Are you?"

Derek just stared at his former attacker.

"I'm not going to call the cops and I'm not going to hurt you, Derek. Actually, I'm sorry about the last time."

"You are?"

"Yes, I am. You might say that I haven't been myself lately."

Michael's ironic laughter made Derek reconsider his idea of running away # Bev studied herself in her bathroom mirror. Or, was she studying her selves? Since her time with the Ouija board, she was aware of becoming two. Somehow, the influence of the essence she now knew to be Kay had entered her. She supposed it was a possession, although the other in her fought against thinking of it in that manner.

Kay's history was superimposed over her own, much in the same manner as her image in the mirror would change to that of the blonde in the peasant blouse before resolving back to Bev.

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She knew that Kay had been killed by the doctor who had been her lover. His name was Morgan. Kay's husband had been present at her murder, as well. Tony, was his name, and he had since died. Bev occasionally caught the sense of him trying to reach out to her, to Kay, to both of them; Bev and Kay. It was hard to know exactly who she was any longer, or when she was.

She was moving in two times at once, in two personas at once. At any moment, Kay might remove her from the current and take her back to some event in her past. Bev, as Kay, had already experienced a dizzying array of sensation. Morgan's gentle strokes and tender lovemaking had come to her as she'd dozed upon her couch in the material now. This tenderness was followed by Anthony's animal, fevered passion. She had known Kay's heat for both men.

She'd felt her power in the deceptions she'd used to control them.

These were not vicarious experiences for Bev; they were events in something different from actual time, where she lived them as Kay. With every new happening, she felt her essential self slipping away. More and more, each of Kay's incidents pushed out part of Bev. She was not so much being painted over as she was being erased. # When Amy got out the back door and down the porch steps, the dinginess of the day became palpable. Shadows chased her in long strides across the lawn, as if meaning to slow her progress. Her heart pounded and fluttered in her chest. Upon reaching the struggling forms at the gazebo, haphazard patterns of clouds added movement to the gloom, canting her perspective and making the structure tilt like a carnival ride.

"Amy! Amy!" Edith cried out. "He wants to take me with him. He won't listen."

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Amy stepped up and into the shelter. Edith's abductor had forced her back against the rail, as far from Amy as possible while still on the platform. He stood behind Edith with his left arm slung tightly around her waist, and a white-knuckled hand firmly gripped her shoulder.

"Stay calm, Edith," Amy instructed. "I'm here now. He can't hurt you."

"The hell you say!" Edith snapped. Twisting her head to address the man behind her, she shouted. "Let me go! Damn you!"

Amy took a step closer and the man's clutch on Edith tensed. "Clarence?" she asked.

"No," responded Edith. "It looks like him, but it's not my Clarence. He would never do this to me."

Amy's heart seized with the realization of her friend's feistiness, even in the grip of this unnatural imposter. She resisted her instinct to rush in, claw at his eyes, and tear Edith from his grasp. Her intuition told her it wouldn't be that easy, it would just be another trap.

The pretender loosed its hand from Edith's shoulder and pressed it over her mouth. "Why don't you run along, Miss Lauder. Edith and I have unfinished business here."

"What's your business with my friend?" Amy asked as firmly as she could.

"That's for me to know and her to find out." The Clarence-thing smiled.

"I won't let you take her."

"What makes you think that you can decide, Amy?" "Do you know me?"

"Better than you can imagine."

"How do you know me?" She was hoping to turn its attention from Edith, who remained fully in its hold and effectively gagged by its hand.

"Mutual acquaintance."

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"Who?" Never loosening its grip on the old woman, the Clarence-thing shifted and shuffled in a series of stops and starts that seemed to uncoil its very essence. Then, just exactly as it had been Clarence, it became Michael. Edith's face had gone to parchment and her eyes bulged with panic. Even though the elderly woman could not see what her captor was doing, she responded by kicking and struggling, as if on cue.

Amy, upon seeing Edith's struggle, hollered at the Michael-thing. "Let her breathe! You let her breathe, you fucking abomination!" Lost in her rage, she flung herself at it.

Suddenly, the abductor released Edith, and the impression of a blonde woman dressed in a simple top and jeans hung suspended in its spot. Then, it disappeared. Unable to stop, Amy slammed into her fragile charge. They broke through the rail and it split with a gunshot crack.

Edith shrieked in surprise, as Amy's angry blitz bulldozed her and sent both women hurtling off the gazebo and onto the lawn. Edith landed hard on the broken banister; the younger woman's weight forcing the breath from her body and cracking her bones against the wooden balustrade.

A single grunt escaped her upon impact.

Amy came around dazed and shaken. She lifted herself off her friend and removed the broken remnants of railing from beneath her. She was not breathing and Amy began CPR. "C'mon Edith. C'mon Edith." Amy repeated the mantra through tears, as she worked to restore her friend.

With a cough and a hitch, Edith's heart and lungs went back to work. Breathing on her own, she spit and hissed for air. Amy sprawled beside her, one arm flung protectively across her chest. She cried and vomited into the grass. Edith was conscious, although not responsive.

Amy had to get help. She felt the useless press of her pager against her hip and thought she

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should have gotten a cell phone, after all. She had to call the paramedics, but she did not want to risk leaving Edith. The Clarence-Michael-thing might return while she was in the house. Even though it went against all her training, Amy began dragging the barely breathing old woman across the yard.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Stewart kicked his way across the parking lot toward the motel room he and his mom had most recently found themselves occupying. After spending quite a while on the phone, she had ordered him to help load up the car. They'd driven about an hour to this new place. Mom had parked the car out back this time, and he realized they must be on the run from his father. It seemed his entire life had been spent keeping away from the man one way or another. In the days since their escape, he had become increasingly agitated. Being on the run was an adventure for him but the isolation it required was fast becoming tedious.

He had no sooner come into the warm, lighted circle of his peers than to find himself excluded again. The nature of their dodge placed him and his mother in unfamiliar territory amid strangers. Just a short time ago he would have welcomed such reclusiveness but now it seemed a betrayal to the new boy he'd become.

He wondered where his father was and what he was doing. The thrashing he'd dealt his dad somehow seemed unreal, as though it were a fantasy or something he'd witnessed without being a participant. The anger that had rushed out of him was different than the rage he'd unleashed on

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Craig Wirestock. He'd never contemplated a physical attack on his father; it was too far-fetched.

He would have gotten his ass kicked severely.

He felt certain something stronger and darker than himself had arisen to hurl its own animosity at Anthony Stahl. He had been its conduit somehow. Willing enough though he'd been, he shook when considering what revenge the elder Stahl might seek.

At least his stutter had not returned. There had been several times since his attack on his father that the old cat had got his tongue. He was immensely relieved that its grip had slipped.

However, he found it remarkably unfair that now, when he could easily carry on conversation, there was no one but his mother to talk to. # Anthony Stahl hated the hospital. He wanted out so badly he could taste it. He was walking to the bathroom when the nurse entered. She was big breasted and matronly. Absently, he wondered why Doc couldn't have assigned him one of those twenty-something hotties he'd glimpsed rushing up and down the hall with a wiggle and a jiggle where it counted. Instead, he'd been stuck with this dragon lady or any number of her equally goose-stepping counterparts. She announced herself with a loud clearing of her throat, as though the mere movement of her considerable bulk into the small space could go unnoticed.

"What do you think you're doing, Mr. Stahl?" she asked.

"I think I'm heading to the john. Don't you have some sheets to change or something somewhere, Sarge?"

"My name is Marie, or Nurse, if you prefer. Orderlies change sheets, not Registered Nurses.

They're also capable of physically placing uncooperative patients back in their beds and strapping them down. Would you like to meet one of our big, strong orderlies, Mr. Stahl?"

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"No." "Good, then I advise that you allow me to help you back into bed, where you will use the more manual equipment." She moved over to Anthony and reached out to grasp his arm by the elbow. He twisted it away from her.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped. "I don't need you handling me, like some invalid."

She took a single step back and stood with both hands on her massive hips.

"Invalids can't even get out of bed, much less back-talk their caregivers and raise their voices in a hospital. I definitely don't think of you as an invalid, Mr. Stahl."

Anthony made it to the bed on his own and sat heavily. He felt surprisingly weak and a bit dizzy. He hoped the nurse didn't notice the relief on his face.

"Is that what you're attempting to make of me, then?" he asked.

"No. I was attempting not to make an invalid of you, by not having you take a fall in the bathroom." She pulled the sheets over him as he settled on the mattress. "I see your intravenous was removed today."

Yeah. So?" "It means you're getting better. You should be walking to the bathroom on your own and leaving us soon." The thought made her smile.

"So why not let me go now?"

"Doctor's orders. You do your duty. I'll give you privacy. I'll send an orderly in a few minutes to fetch your bedpan."

"Nurse?" he said softly.

"Yes, Mr. Stahl."

"If you talk to Doctor McGlade, I'd like you to give him a message for me, please."

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She wondered at his seeming recalcitrance. Sometimes patients had the ability to become quickly cooperative. He must have to go very badly, she thought.

"Certainly."

"Tell him I want the fuck out of here, now!" He smiled sardonically.

She waited two hours before sending an orderly to his room. Let him put up with some of his own shit for a change, she figured. # Michael got up from his seat and moved to refill his drink at the bar.

"Sure you couldn't use one of these, Derek?" he asked.

"I could use one all right, but I'm gonna' pass."

"Bad memories, I guess," Michael commented.

"Huh?" "Bad memories. Me handing you a drink. Awful joke, Derek. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, really bad joke."

"So," Michael returned to the leather chair. "How did you get in here, anyway? Guess I left the door open?"

Derek swallowed hard and looked Michael in the eye.

"I'm not sure," he said.

"Not sure if I left the door open?"

"I'm not sure how I got in." Derek felt the urgent desire to run return.

Michael rubbed his forehead. It hurt, and the inner voice seemed ready to speak up some more.

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"Look Derek, I'm not going to turn you in for trespassing or anything. I'm just curious, is all.

I went outside in a bit of a hurry, so it's quite possible that I did leave the door open. Naturally, upon finding it that way, a person might step inside."

"Yeah, I suppose. Look, Mr. Forcade, I shouldn't be here at all. I could get in a lot of trouble for being here."

"Then, why did you come?"

"I didn't have a choice."

Derek stood to go. Michael rose, as well.

"I want you to tell me why you're here. Then, you're free to go. No trouble, I promise," Michael vowed.

Derek noted that Michael Forcade was a big man, risen to full height. His time in the wheelchair had not appeared to turn him soft, and he knew first hand that the artist could hurt him.

"Aw, shit," Derek commented.

"Derek, this doesn't have to be a problem. Just tell me why you came and it will all be okay."

"I didn't intend to come here. Somebody brought me. It never occurred to me to come back here, not ever."

"Someone brought you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Against your will?"

"More or less. Yes." "Is that person still here?"

"No. I don't think so."

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"Did that person enter my home, as well?"

"Yes, he did. Look, Mr. Forcade-" Michael held up a hand in order to silence Derek. He rubbed his forehead with more resolve.

Derek thought the artist didn't look well as they each stood their ground, confronting one another.

"Let's get this straight, so far," Michael offered. "You and some other guy came here and entered my home while I was . . . out on the grounds."

"Yes, but it wasn't my idea."

"Right, it was this other guy's idea."

"Yes." "He was here with you, but now you think he's gone."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"Okay. Why did he bring you?"

"I'm not sure."

"C'mon, Derek!" Michael shouted.

"It's the truth!" Derek fired back.

"Which part? The part about you brining back-up? The part where he took off? Maybe those things are true, but certainly not the part where someone forced you to come here and you don't know why. I come in from outside and find you, of all people, sitting behind my desk. I offer to be fair about it, not call the cops, and all I get in return is some shitty story."

"It isn't a shitty story."

"Well," Michael laughed. "You'd have to agree that it isn't a very believable one."

"It's the truth you wouldn't believe."

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"Try me."

"Why?" "Because I'm insisting."

Derek considered Michael's substantial bulk and the fact that the man was becoming more and more visibly annoyed. He remembered Michael's earlier comments about weird shit happening. He supposed he stood a better chance with Forcade than he did with the cops.

Running away was still an option. After all, how fast could the guy move? Until very recently, he'd been strapped in a wheel chair. Then, a sharp pain in the groin reminded him that running might not be an option at all.

"Okay, but can I have that drink first?"

"Sure."

Michael turned to move for the bar.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather get it myself."

"Yeah," Michael smiled. "I guess you would." He sat back in the chair, keeping his focus on Derek in case he decided to run.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Tom Merkel was new to policing here in Hampton, although he was not new to police work in general. Still, he was anxious about doing a proper job.

"Did you notice if the intruder was on foot, or if he got away in a car?" he asked the pretty young girl.

"I'm not sure," Amy said. She wondered if it would be better to have them chasing after some nondescript sedan or tearing through the woods in an effort to find an equally nonexistent trail.

"Well, Miss Lauder, did you hear a car engine or the spinning of tires?"

"It's Amy, okay? I don't feel anywhere proper enough to be called Miss right now."

"All right, Amy." The fresh-faced cop blushed a little as though she had granted him some personal intimacy in asking to be addressed by her first name. "It would really help if we knew if he escaped in a car or on foot."

"I suppose it would really help if I had been conscious when he took off as well. But I wasn't."

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"The fall from the gazebo knocked you out, right?"

"Yes. I'm not sure for how long, probably just a few seconds."

"And the man was gone when you came around."

"We should get you to the hospital," a lanky EMT interjected. He looked even more youthful than the cop. "You could have a concussion." # Amy was sitting on the bumper of a Hampton Fire Department ambulance. The rangy young man had been treating some lacerations and facial abrasions she'd suffered. The cop was taking her statement as her injuries were attended.

She was very nervous. The statement she was giving was false. She couldn't very well tell the truth. The truth, it seemed, was madness.

So, she had told the story of Clarence's overnight attempt to gain access to the house, substituting some unknown prowler for the Clarence-thing. She hadn't called the police, she'd said, because there had been no actual break-in, and she had only gotten the impression of a person in the yard. She hadn't clearly seen anyone, she'd lied. Being very tired at such a late hour, she was concerned she might be overreacting and she hadn't wanted to distress Edith for nothing. Obviously, the day's events had proved that she should have acted otherwise. The cop seemed to accept all of this absently enough, only stopping and questioning her for clarification.

"Amy? Miss Lauder? Are you all right?"

With a touch of her arm, the police officer brought her back to the now.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Maybe we'd better let this wait until you've been checked at the hospital," the cop suggested.

"No, really. I'm okay. I just spaced a little is all. I do that sometimes."

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The policeman's radio crackled loudly and he raised a finger to indicate she should wait. He turned his back to her and walked a short distance away. Amy could see that he was occasionally pushing the button on the mike attached to his uniform shirt in order to speak with someone. Maybe it was the dispatcher. Perhaps the cop had another call and would have to leave her alone for a while. She could hope, but in a town like Hampton it was unlikely that something more pressing than the assault of an elderly woman and her homemaker could be taking place at this very moment. Hers was the crime wave of the day.

As she waited for the officer to finish, the EMT had begun doing things to her. He was shining a pen light in her eyes, asking her to touch her nose with the point of her finger, and openly staring at her chest as she performed for him. She was developing a headache. She asked the ambulance guy for a couple of aspirins and a drink of water.

While he was gone, she struggled to better close her shirt, which had lost two buttons at strategic points. She was wearing a bra, but the EMT's gaze had left her feeling naked. She looked around for the cop, but couldn't see him anywhere. She wondered if she would be allowed to go back inside and get another top from her overnight bag.

The EMT returned with a pill packet and a bottle of Aquafina. He had her sign a form, basically verifying that she had refused a ride to the hospital for an exam, and if she dropped dead at anytime hereafter, it was on her. He had a difficult time making eye contact, but was happy to take another gander at her chest before dispensing final advice.

"Don't go to sleep right away. Wait a couple of hours before napping, and if you feel badly fatigued or dizzy call your doctor or the hospital. All right?"

She moved her hand away from her blouse in order to shake.

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"Thank you for all your help," she said. "For me and my friend." He had briefly treated Edith before another ambulance had driven her away.

"Your welcome," he responded. Taking the hand she'd offered, he looked her straight in the eye, without a peek at her attributes. "Your friend was suffering from shock, but you did good to get her breathing again. I think, given a little time, she'll be okay. It's hard to know with old people." He was genuinely compassionate. "I thought maybe you could fix your top with this."

He handed her some all-purpose type of double-backed tape. "I, uh, noticed you lost some buttons."

"Thanks again," she said. She fixed her shirt as best she could and walked onto the front porch. She felt a little dizzy and wondered at the EMT's advice. He'd said that– from the field examination he'd given her– she appeared to be okay, but sometimes things cropped up later.

She felt a goose bump shiver through her as she considered things that crop up seemingly out of nowhere.

Before he'd walked off, the Hampton cop had been concerned about where their assailant had gone. Amy was more concerned over where it had come from, and exactly what it was. Edith had told tales of visits from Clarence, but she had never mentioned him turning into someone else. While, in the short span of her experience with this Clarence-thing, it had changed its appearance from that of Edith's dead husband, to Michael, to some faint after-image of a young blonde.

She stood in front of Edith's door, pondering the lone cruiser car parked in the drive.

Distractedly, she wondered why they always left the lights flashing and engine running. Some sort of official police procedure, she supposed. As if in response to her query, the young officer appeared in the threshold. He was stringing yellow tape across the entrance.

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"The technicians are coming, so I need to seal the scene."

"The ambulance left," she told the officer. She wanted to get on her way without seeming overanxious to leave, but his police unit had her car parked in.

"I noticed that. Did he say you're okay?"

"He made me sign a form, because I didn't want to go to the hospital. I feel fine, just a little shook up. Concerned about Edith. I didn't want to take up his time. There might be someone who needs him worse than me." She was beginning to babble, uncomfortable and frightened by the situation, along with the necessity to lie.

"I can radio in and get the latest on your friend," the policeman suggested.

"I was hoping I could go there myself."

"They'll probably tell me more than you. I mean, you not being family and me being a cop and all."

"You're right. Thank you. I'd like to know how she's doing," Amy answered.

The officer seemed to be stalling her departure, but why? They certainly didn't consider her a suspect. She hoped this was, at least, an official delay. This was no time for him to be playing up to hit on her. She noticed that he had walked away to get on his radio again.

When Officer Tom Merkel walked back toward Amy, he cleared his throat to get her attention. She seemed off somewhere and he hoped the EMT had been thorough. She sure was the prettiest thing he'd seen in Hampton. Cute dimples. Great ass. He wondered if she liked men in uniform, and then he became upset with himself for thinking this way about someone in distress. The least he could do was give her some good news.

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"Mrs. Albrecht is in stable condition. There's been no further incidence of cardiovascular trauma. Her tailbone was broken in the fall, probably from landing on that banister, like you said. No other broken bones and she's resting quietly," he told her.

Amy couldn't stop the tears from flowing. "Thank you," she said. "I was so worried I'd hurt her. Dragging her across the lawn like that."

"That was a tough call. I'm glad I didn't have to make it."

"Really?" she asked through a sniffle.

"You had to protect her. I think you did the right thing."

"Yeah?"

"You didn't know where the guy had gone. You had to call for help, but you couldn't leave her exposed."

"Right, but do you think there might've been another option? One I missed."

"I'm kinda' new at this exact situation. They left me to take your statement because I'm the rookie. The others are searching the woods and looking for suspicious vehicles. But I was in the Army in Iraq before I took this job. They trained us never to leave a downed soldier, and to drag them to safety if we had no other choice. I sorta' figure that's what you did. You know?"

"Yes. Maybe. At least I didn't hurt her."

"You did more than that, Amy. You saved her life." He smiled. He wanted to reassure this pretty young woman, not just because he wanted her to think well of him, but because he believed it was his duty.

"Thank you, Officer. Now, when do you think I can get out of here?"

"That'll be up to him." Tom Merkel made a motion over her right shoulder and behind her, at the grass verge.

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A second car was parking behind hers. A State Police cruiser pulled beside the Hampton unit.

"What?"

"State Police almost always help on this sort of thing. They patrol a couple of the outlying townships. This Trooper was available. On his way back to Bethlehem Barracks, I'd guess. He just wants to talk with you, check over the statement I took."

"Okay."

Amy was shaky. Her only experience with the police, other than Officer Merkle, had been at St. Luke’s Hospital after Derek Connor's confrontation with Michael. A Trooper had been involved in that, she thought, and it hadn't gone well at all.

Apparently, Officer Merkel had felt her stiffen.

"Don't be nervous, Amy," he said. "It'll be all right."

"I just want to go home." She found herself meaning it. She wanted her Daddy.

"Let's get this over with, then." Merkle smiled at her, but he seemed edgy too. "You wait here, I'll be back in a second."

The flashing bar atop the State Police cruiser was on, Amy noted. The engine was running as young Merkel approached the driver's door. He extended his arm through the open window and the two cops appeared to shake hands. Tom Merkle gestured to Amy without pointing, something Amy found courteous and somehow reassuring, and removed a notepad from his back pocket. She recognized it as the one he'd been jotting in while taking her statement. He handed it to the State Police Officer.

After a few minutes, Office Merkel motioned for Amy to come off the porch and down to the car. As he did so, he stepped back from the driver's door. It opened and a large man in a gray

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uniform unfolded himself from the interior. She remembered hearing somewhere that you had to be at least six feet tall to become a Pennsylvania State Trooper. She imagined that was an exaggeration, but this guy was easily larger. He hooked his thumbs behind a large belt buckle and Amy distinctly heard the creak of his black leather holster. As she came closer, her dread rose. The Trooper spoke before she had a chance to gasp.

"Well. Howdy, Miss Lauder. You remember me? The fucking flatfoot." # Pam had accepted Doc McGlade's advice and acted on it. She and Stewart were in their second motel since he had suggested changing location. She listened closely to his voice over the new cell phone she'd gotten at Kmart.

"How's Stewart doing?" he asked.

"I think it's getting to him a bit, but he's a good kid. I sent him out for some air. There's a deli. He went to get us some food."

"Has he begun to stutter again?"

"For the first few days after we'd gone, the difficulty would creep back in on him. Since then, nothing's recurred. Do you think it might?"

"It's impossible to know anything about stutterers with certainty. I was concerned the emotional stress might effect him negatively."

"Then, it could come back?"

"It could come back, even under the best of circumstances. Surely, the doctors you consulted advised you of that possibility, Pam." "They were flabbergasted by his recovery. The consensus was that it was remarkable. God Doc, it was literally overnight."

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"I know, and they were right, it is remarkable, but not unheard of in children or adolescents.

What is so intriguing about Stewart's case was the immediate quality of his speech and his ability to articulate on a level very much exceeding that of his peers."

"Anthony thought it was weird."

"Weird?"

"He said it was unnatural. He said it was like some high-minded force was influencing Stewart. He said that there was no way to explain how a child that had stumbled and choked on his words since he first began to form them, could one day start speaking like a college professor." Pam's voice was shaky.

"He was wrong," McGlade responded.

"Was he, Doc? Sometimes, I think I see things. Catch glimpses."

"Of what, Pam?" "I'm not sure."

"Look, I can tell you that Stewart's case is exceptional. It is not unnatural. There is nothing weird about your boy. He is extraordinary, in his ability to cope with cruelty and recover from a traumatically induced disability. You're pretty remarkable as well. There is no doubt that what makes Stewart special springs from you. Whatever you have seen or think you've seen could be explained in a dozen different ways, psychological and otherwise. For now, we need to concentrate on the immediate and material. Are you with me?"

"Do you think I'm becoming a hysterical woman, Doc?" she laughed nervously.

"No, not at all. I believe you are a deeply intuitive woman who has seen swift changes take place in her young son. These very changes are the reason the two of you are on the run. We need to find a safe place for you both to rest and have time to adjust."

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"I haven't been able to come up with anywhere, Doc. I've racked my brain and I'm getting antsy, changing motels at the drop of a hat. I just don't feel safe anywhere. Anthony knows everyone I might turn to for help. All I can think to do is to get really, really far away. Another state. The west coast, maybe. I don't know."

Doc McGlade didn't have to have any special analytical skills in order to realize Pam was nearing panic.

"Listen, I have the makings of a plan, and what I think would be a very good place for you and Stewart to lay low," he said. "But you are going to have to trust me now."

"I believe I'm ready for that, Doc." She sounded relieved.

"You are going to have to trust me more than you've ever trusted anyone. Are you ready for that?"

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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The State Trooper sat at Edith's kitchen table, directly across from Amy. Officer Tom Merkel stood in a corner near the doorway. He didn't appear pleased. He had led the other policeman on a tour of the house and grounds, inspecting areas that would be perused by the crime scene technicians. On several occasions, the other officer had commented on Tom's inexperience and mismanagement of the scene. Tom had reminded him that his duty had been simply to secure the perimeter, take Amy's statement, and wait for him. The CSI guys would be sent from the state. The trooper had dismissed him with a raised hand, and Tom had banished himself to his position across the room.

Amy was exhausted. The day had passed in a blur of insanity. She'd come awake at this very table after a remarkably strange evening that had included the proposition of Clarence scratching at the kitchen door, found Edith missing at daybreak, and embarked on a frantic search that culminated in a confrontation with some shape-shifting entity. After giving Edith CPR and calling an ambulance, she'd spent more time in the company of EMT's and police. The morning had fled and the two police cars outside now sat silent and unlit, signaling a lengthy

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stay. She was hungry and tired, and she had little patience for this uniformed bully across from her.

"I think I've had enough," she said, as she rose from the table where she'd had such an uneasy time the night before.

"Whoa, whoa." The state cop held up his hand in a motion like he was stopping traffic.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.

Tom Merkel roused from his ennui.

"Home. I've had enough. I barely slept. I haven't eaten. I've pissed my own pants and I've chased an intruder off after he attempted to abduct my friend," Amy answered.

"I've still got some questions about all that."

"Ask me tomorrow."

"I don't think so, Miss Lauder. Somehow you've managed to involve yourself in two incidents of assault in a short period of time, in a town where things of this nature rarely happen."

"Mr. Forcade's fight with Derek Connor wasn't uncommon, even for old backwoods Hampton," Officer Merkel interjected.

"Well, the Army brat has a voice after all," the trooper retorted. "In your vast experience here, Officer Merkle, is what happened run of the mill for old backwoods Hampton?"

"No, this is unusual."

"So," the state cop continued to question Amy. "How did you manage to turn up the witness to the first, rather common, commotion and the witness-victim to the second?"

"Luck," she answered.

"Not bad luck?"

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"I suppose. The same kind of luck that has me here answering to you, anyhow."

"You don't like me. Do you, Miss Lauder?"

Tom Merkel's ears perked up and he took several steps out of his corner and toward the vicinity of the conversation he now saw as declining into an argument. True, he didn't have a lot of experience being a local policeman, but he did have plenty of training in criminal justice in college and first hand in country. This interrogation was turning hostile. It seemed the State cop was just picking a fight. Neither he nor Amy had commented on the "flatfoot" remark, but Tom had assumed it was a result of their earlier confrontation. It really was bad luck for Amy that this guy had been called out here as well.

"I don't like your innuendo," Amy told the trooper.

"What innuendo?"

"Your innuendo at the hospital. You know what I'm talking about." Amy was still standing.

She turned her attention to Tom, rolled her eyes, and addressed him next. "Do we really have to play these games?" she asked.

"He can't help you, Amy. I'm in charge here." The trooper made no attempt to hide his haughtiness.

Officer Merkel now stepped beside and behind Amy and, cupping her left elbow in his left hand, he gently turned her so that they both faced the State Police Trooper.

"That's technically incorrect, Trooper," said Officer Merkel. "This is my jurisdiction. You're presence is a courtesy."

Amy felt Tom gently draw both her arms behind her back. She did not resist.

"What?" the trooper asked. He rose abruptly from his seated position.

"I am the officer of record, in my jurisdiction, and I'm placing Miss Lauder under arrest."

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"What?" the trooper and Amy asked simultaneously.

"Amy Lauder, I am placing you under arrest for trespassing." He slipped handcuffs over her wrists, loosely, Amy noted. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you--" "That's bullshit," the state cop growled.

"Perhaps," Tom responded. "But it's probably less bullshit than you've been pulling."

"Trespassing?" Amy asked.

"Yes." Tom was unable to keep the smile from his face, even in the presence of the other, agitated lawman. "You walked up on the front porch when I was sealing the perimeter.

You trespassed on a crime scene." Tom began leading her out of the room.

"I'm going to report this!" the trooper called out.

"Of course," Officer Merkel answered. "Better yet, follow me to HPD headquarters and report me there."

"I don't have time for this penny ante shit," the other cop spat.

"Certainly, Trooper, but please secure the crime scene before you leave. I have a prisoner."

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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Stewart had never been in a house this large. They had entered through the ornate front doors, not one, but two doors, and into a grand marble hall. Their footfalls echoed as Doc had them set down their bags. The staircase leading to the upper floors was marble as well and even the banister was made of the same stone. This place would have amazed him under any circumstances but after dizzying days spent traveling from one seedy motel to another, the prospect of staying here left him awestruck.

After leading them through the many rooms of the downstairs, Doc suggested he and Stewart traverse the steps to the bedroom the older man had done up especially for him.

"Stewart, if it's all right, why don't we head upstairs so you can inspect your room?"

The boy's gaze fell upon his mother.

"Doc tells me he has quite a set up for you," Pam told him.

"Really?"

"When I learned of your interest in computers and music, I outfitted your new digs for you," Doc responded.

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"Digs?" Stewart asked.

"Your room," Pam smiled. "Doc got some equipment for your room here."

Stewart looked up at the old man. "Wow. Thank you," he said.

"Don't thank me until we've checked it out and made sure it's okay. Meanwhile, your mother may peruse down here as she likes. Pour yourself a drink, Pam. Go to the kitchen and have a bite, if you want. I'll find you once Stewart is settled and we'll have that chat we promised one another." Doc looked back and forth, between mother and son. "Is that okay, guys?"

"Sure," Stewart said.

"That's fine," Pam answered. "Thank you, Doc. Stewart, please behave yourself."

"Yes, Mom." "Grab your bag young man, we'll drop your mother's things in her room. It's just down the hall from yours."

When they reached the top of the landing, Stewart stopped. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Doc?" "Stewart, please feel free to ask me anything you like, whenever you like. I want you to get to know me."

"Okay," Stewart commented as they resumed their walk to the bedrooms. "I was wondering if you're rich."

Doc was still laughing when they reached the suite of rooms that would be the young man's quarters. "Maybe by some people's standards, but not by most," he answered.

"But this place must be worth a fortune." Stewart was wandering the two large rooms and bath that constituted his new personal living space.

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"This home has been passed down through generations. I simply inherited it." Doc sat on the bed, bouncing slightly to check the mattress.

Stewart sat directly beside him, keeping a steady bounce himself, as though a requirement of the guest. "It must cost money to keep this big place going. I know that stereo and the Dell computer weren't cheap."

"Whatever I provide for you here is for your comfort. I'm sorry that you won't be able to move about outside as freely as a boy your age should. I'm sorry you can't ride your bike around.

Your mother tells me how much you enjoy it."

"That's okay. For a while, anyway. It won't be long. Right?"

"It may seem long for someone as young as yourself. I won't try to fool you about that, Stewart. In the end though, it will work out."

"Do you really think she'll do it?" They had stopped moving on the bed and Stewart regarded his elder seriously.

"Your mother is determined to make a better life for you, and I'm afraid that means leaving your father," Doc answered.

"I know that, but she's talked about leaving for a long time."

"Okay, that's fair enough. But this is the first time she's really gotten away, isn't it?"

"Yes." "So what makes you think it might not last?" Doc asked.

"I guess I'm afraid he'll find us and force us back, like he's always forced us."

Morgan McGlade put one arm around Stewart's shoulders and pulled him close. "Let's make a deal right now, if we can. Okay?"

"Okay."

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"This is all very difficult for your mother, just like it is for you. It's going to be a very important task to keep her spirits up, keep her smiling, and thinking happy thoughts. She needs to know that the future holds hope and promise for you both, instead of the oppression and despair the two of you have suffered for so long. I know that you're very smart Stewart, and that you understand all I'm telling you."

"We can't let her get too depressed," the boy responded.

"Exactly." Doc smiled brightly. "So, I need you to promise to help her feel good. Help me take good care of her, as she's always cared for you, and I'll handle your father. You needn't worry about him finding you or your mom, and forcing either one of you to do anything."

"Really?"

"Really, Stewart. I can handle Anthony Stahl. I promise. Can you handle helping your mother be positive?"

"I think so."

"Good man. Now, I want you to check out your equipment here. In the morning, you can let me know if it's satisfactory. We'll talk more, but I think we'll give ourselves a break from the real serious stuff for awhile."

Stewart wiped his brow dramatically, only half teasing about the gravity of it all. "Good," he said.

"Your mother will be up in a bit. She'll want to check on you."

"Yeah, she'll want to make sure I don't stay on the computer too long."

"No doubt. You and I can talk more later on."

"Okay. And Doc?" "Yes?"

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"Thanks. For everything."

"You're very welcome, Stewart. I hope you settle in all right." # Pam was surprised with the elegance of this place. Certainly, she'd known that Doctor McGlade's home was one of the finest and oldest in Hampton. Everyone in town knew that. She had simply never considered what it might be like. Doc's initial tour had been very cursory.

Given some time on her own, she was able to take in the spectacle of the place.

Everything bespoke a glamour of age and sophistication. She wandered through rooms fashioned with art nouveau screens and sculpture. She found a study done in rich male tones of chocolate leather and dark cherry and mahogany woods. There were grand hall lion legged coffee tables, stunningly carved heraldic crests, Versailles clocks, and candelabrums. She found a gryphon library table and ornate cathedral chairs in a space that had its walls adorned with thick tapestries featuring a variety of medieval coat of arms.

It was absolutely splendid, but here and there she was assailed by the scents of dust and disuse. Surely, Doc had someone come in to keep after the place. It must take an entire crew to clean it all, she thought. Maybe Doc's funds didn't allow for an overhaul as often as they once did, or he simply didn't care. She tried to imagine what it must be like for him to ramble room to room in this huge space, knowing what she did about some of the memories it contained.

His disclosure of many of those secrets had helped her to learn to trust him in a very abbreviated span of time. Ordinarily, it may have taken years for her to set stock in someone the way she was doing now. Anthony's endless betrayals, by fists and scorn, had left her loath to rely on anyone's word.

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This thing she'd given him was not, however, a blind allegiance. He had proven himself to be her only port in this storm. The fact that he was her husband's biological father did not so much count to him, as the fact that he was Stewart's granddad. Anthony was lost to him, he explained, from the very start. It had taken him many years to even consider the possibility he might be the father of Kay's child. Blood tests had been very inconclusive things in comparison to the explicit revelations of DNA. With Anthony as his patient, it had been an easy thing to test.

He had withheld the information until recently. He could not come to grips with having spawned an abusive husband and father, the kin of a blackmailer, and the true progeny of a killer.

He'd put that room together for Stewart on just a couple hours notice. He said that his grandson's welfare was paramount. He didn't want the boy to suffer any longer under anyone's oppression. Still, she wondered at his conversion.

Maybe he was trying to redeem himself, she considered as she sat at the huge island in the middle of the surprisingly modern white and chrome kitchen. Why not? Wasn't she trying to redeem herself and Stewart from a life she'd mistakenly gotten them into and then refused to leave? Perhaps there was a high-minded hand at work, as her husband had suggested. In any case, she would save Stewart. With Doc's help, she was sure to save Stewart.

Anthony Stahl had left the hospital and come immediately to this address. He was soaking wet and the old bitch blocking the door wasn't about to let him inside. "Listen," he said. "I just want to know if they're okay."

"If they're away from you, I imagine that they are quite all right."

Pam's mother stood strong. Not allowing him to see inside might, she supposed, led him to suspect that her daughter and grandson were hiding out here. That might help to distract him

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from finding their true location, of which she had not a clue. If stalling bought her loved ones time to get further away from this awful man, she could play this game all day.

"Mona, come on. It's raining cats and dogs; you've got no overhang at this stoop. I'm getting soaked," Anthony complained.

"You haven't been welcome in this house ever since the day of my husband's funeral. Why Lou allowed you here, I never understood," she shot back.

"Why shouldn't I be allowed here? What did I do, Mona?"

"You've treated Pam like dirt since just after your marriage. I know you've abused her, and God only knows what you've done to Stewart."

"That's bullshit!" Anthony hollered from beneath a sheet of rain. "I only expected what a husband deserves. Maybe Lou realized that. You just wanted her to stay the spoiled little princess."

"Kiss my ass," Mona spat back. "My Lou confronted you on more than one occasion. He'd bust you up now, if he was here."

"Yeah. Sure." Anthony Stahl lifted his head and laughed into the downpour. "He backed down every time we squared off. If he thought I was hurting his little girl, he never did much about it."

Mona's five-foot, four-inch tall frame shook. Her grip tightened on the cordless phone she held in her right hand. Her eyes momentarily lit on the baseball bat she'd propped at the inside corner of the doorframe. After talking to Pam, she'd prepared for this bastard.

"He wanted her to ask for help. He said that she'd chosen you, and the rest wasn't any of our business unless she made it so."

"Did she?"

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"Did she what?"

"Ever make it your business."

"No, but I'll be happy to make it my business now."

Anthony smiled his brightest. "How will you do that, Mona?"

The gray-haired grandma shifted her eyes to look to the corner of the door. She didn't think she could physically bar him, so she pressed a speed dial button on her phone. She didn't budge for a few seconds, trying to time the connection.

"Well?" Anthony prodded. "What are you going to do?"

Holding the phone so he could see it, she spoke very loudly. "I'll have the police remove you from my property," she said.

"Give me that!" Anthony lurched forward and grabbed for the phone. His momentum brought him over the threshold.

Mona screamed her name and address into the mouthpiece. "Hurry! He's going to hurt me," she added. Then, she dropped the receiver and, in a move of grace and agility belying her years, she swung the bat for her son-in-law's head.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Edith was roused by an antiseptic smell. Without looking around, she realized where she'd settled. From the staccato sound of footfalls in long linoleum halls, to the bleeps, blats, and whistles of countless contingents of mechanized life-support, she recognized the hospital without seeing it. She was, once again, in the belly of the beast– where the human element was swallowed by the gigantic, corporate organism of Medicine.

Finally, facing her fears and turning her gaze from wall to wall, she determined that she must be in a semi-private room. The curtain was drawn around the bed next to hers. She could hear an occasional dry cough or pained breath from behind there. That person sounded worse off, though thinking so gave her no comfort. There were a couple of bottles hanging by her left side, strung up by a special stand that positioned them upside down so gravity could deliver their contents. She traced the trail of plastic tubes snaking a route to her arm where they brought liquid to her veins that would relieve her pain or feed her system without the necessity of consciousness.

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The room was mostly dark, its primary light shone in the door, from the hallway. The drapes were drawn tight. There were a couple of nightlights placed in sockets at floor level. Their green gleam elevated the eeriness of the place. Light gave way to shadow. There was no way to tell if it was day or night. She had no idea how long she'd been here. Still, it seemed not a good while. She sighed deeply as she recalled what had brought her here.

There had been another sighting; a haunting, a manifestation, a materialization. Only this time, the visitor had not been Clarence. Oh, it had pretended to be, all right. However, it had been an imposter. Clarence would have never handled her, in life or death, the way this thing had.

It had broken into her bedroom, smashing glass and destroying heirlooms, as she lay. From the start, she realized it was not Clarence or, at least, not the Clarence of earlier visits, even though it came in his form. It had railed at her in some indecipherable language, slipping into starts and glitches of English now and then. The thing seemed to be accusing her of some complicity, the nature of which she could not comprehend. After destroying much of her bedroom, it had snatched her up in an enormously powerful clutch and charged through the second floor window.

To Edith's utter amazement, and relief, they did not fall. Instead, they seemed to land with no harder an impact than if this Clarence-imposter had jumped from atop a footstool with her in its arms. After that, her recollection became less clear.

She remembered Amy coming to her aid at the gazebo, but that had to have been hours after her abduction. Time in the grasp of the kidnapping entity passed strangely. She recalled being carried through the streets of Hampton and visiting familiar sights. Sometimes the places appeared current, but they often seemed to have traveled back to earlier days, into past times.

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None of this was reflected in specific memory. Only the period before it took her from her bedroom and the appearance of Amy at the gazebo were particularly unmistakable. Edith struggled with her cloudy recall.

Such concentration seemed to call forth the form that stepped into her room. She sensed him before she saw him. It was a feeling akin to thinking about someone mere moments before the phone rings and, upon answering; they are on the other end. The presence did not distress her.

She knew this was not the one who had abducted her. This was the one who came as her Clarence.

He moved slowly and gracefully to her bedside. The hospital sounds dissipated, but they did not disappear. It was not a supernatural trick, she realized. It was a matter of focus. He took her left hand and gently cupped it between both of his. His grasp was warm and reassuring. She smiled and looked up into his face.

"Hello," she said.

"My dear," he said. "I am so sorry."

"Why?" "For this commotion. I didn't mean for it to come to all this."

"It really is you, isn't it?" she asked.

She wished she could see him better. The dimness of the room and a lack of focus teamed to obscure him. Then, like an answered prayer, a sort of gleam softly suffused his face. It peeled away a layer of the dark and gently illuminated his features.

"Essentially, me. Yes," he answered.

"Essentially? I'm confused."

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"Of course you are. It's my fault, you see. I should not have reached out after all this time. I should not have done that to you at all."

"Oh, but I'm glad you did."

"Perhaps," he responded. "But look what it's led to."

"I'm not badly hurt. Am I?" "Well, your butt is broken."

In his smile, Edith saw the warmth and good humor of the man she had loved so well, and for so long. She laughed with him.

"My butt," she said. "Is it, then?"

"Your tailbone is fractured. And your heart took a scare."

Edith tried to lift herself lightly off the mattress and felt a dull pain for her effort. "Of course, I took a scare," she continued. "Do you know what happened?"

"Yes, I do."

"Who? What was that thing that grabbed me?"

"It's the reason I've come back." He squeezed her hand a bit harder. "You and I are in danger."

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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tom Merkel looked around. He'd driven his unit a few miles away from the Albrecht house and pulled over so he could release Amy from the handcuffs. They were standing at the rear of the police car amid the dust of a secondary road. They had stopped at its intersection with Creekside Drive. This was where the paving picked up again.

Thank you," Amy said.

"Sorry I had to do that at all. Jim's pretty much of a jerk, even for a State cop," Tom commented.

"Seems he had it in for me since we met."

"When was that, exactly?"

"You know about the incident at Mr. Forcade's home?"

"A little. Forced entry, then an argument between the artist and Derek Connor from Acker's market. Somehow Derek got the worst of it."

"Do you know him?"

"Which one?"

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"Derek."

"Just from around, you know, the market and such."

"Well, anyway," Amy continued. "I was there when it happened and I drove Michael to the hospital."

"Michael?"

"Mr. Forcade. He's one of my assignments with Attending Nurses."

"Okay."

"There was a Hampton officer and a State cop there when we arrived."

"Do you remember the Hampton guy?"

"No, I can't recall his name. He was okay, though. The State cop was the mean one."

"And that was Jim." "Yeah, one and the same, I'm afraid."

"You called him a flatfoot?" Tom smiled.

"Yes, I did."

"You could have called him worse," Tom noted.

"I wanted to," Amy answered.

"Well, at least the ride gets better from here.�

"Why? Where are you taking me?"

"Anywhere you'd like."

"I thought I was under arrest."

"Nah, I was just getting him to lay off.�

"Won't you get in trouble?"

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"Can't imagine a State Trooper without something better to do than stick his nose in this.

He'll just sign off on my report."

"Really?"

"Really, Amy. Now where can I take you that you'll be safe until I see you again?"

As she stepped into the passenger side of the police car, Amy realized she didn't know where she wanted to go. The safest she'd felt all day was in Tom Merkel's company. As they pulled onto the tarmac, the only thing she knew for certain was that she wanted him to keep his word about seeing her again. # Derek's bourbon had gone warm. There was ice in a decanter at the bar, but he didn't move to freshen his cocktail. He was resolutely sober and he doubted that any amount of alcohol could intoxicate him. Anyhow, he didn't want any more Jack. Maybe he would never want any again.

He had finished telling Michael Forcade his story, almost his entire history as it turned out.

He'd begun with how he'd learned to travel, so he could explain how his essence had come to be in Acker's office witnessing the man's demise at the hands of the dark-thing. This had led to his telling of his hatred of Acker for firing him over his affair with Bev. That, in turn had led him to recount his first meeting with Michael's wife, and how they'd gotten involved. This led to perfuse apologies for what he'd done and an explanation of how he'd been raised so much better than to take up with someone's wife. Then, he'd talked about his dad, the man's death, how much he missed him, and the dark-thing's awful parody. Finally he'd confessed to hating Michael for hurting him, Bev for leaving him, and his dark desires to see them undone.

Michael Forcade had remained quiet all through Derek's diatribe. Occasionally, he would ask a question or he would encourage the younger man to continue, but that was hardly

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necessary. Everything flowed from Derek like a swelled river overrunning its banks. After a long time, Derek had quieted. He was exhausted, but somehow lightened of a great burden.

Michael had excused himself from the room with a promise to return shortly.

When, finally, he did return, he threw a set of car keys across the room to Derek.

"You'll need those," Michael said.

Derek set down his tepid glass. "What are these?" he asked.

"My car's in the garage. My second car, actually. The one from the accident was totaled."

"You're giving me your car?"

"I'm lending you my car, Derek. It should start okay, but it's bound to be pretty filthy.

There's a hose and a bucket, all the stuff you should need to clean it up is out there somewhere. I haven't been tooling around out there for a while."

Michael patted his legs.

"Why are you doing this?" Derek asked.

"You need to get home, don't you? And even though I can walk around in here, I don't think I should risk people witnessing my rejuvenation just yet. Hell, I don't even know if it will last."

"You believe me, then. About Acker, about the dark-thing and how I got here."

"You were very convincing, and my own experiences indicate that extremely strange things are happening. Besides, I made some phone calls while I was out of the room."

"Phone calls?"

"Yes. I have a few contacts in town. It seems you're on the money with Pat Acker. He was found earlier today. If you hadn't noticed, time has worn on through our morning's testimonials. Anyway, the authorities believe he had a heart attack last night, up in his office.

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There are, apparently, no signs of a struggle or forced entry and everyone including Acker's own doctor saw it coming."

"Wow." Derek slumped to a chair and went gray.

"I guess revenge isn't tasting so sweet," Michael commented.

"I didn't do anything to him," Derek responded defensively.

"I know, but you did wish him ill."

"Yeah." Derek was despondent. "But you can’t kill people with wishes.�

"Look Derek, I'm beginning to see that wishes can be very powerful things. I don't know what's happening here, how this dark-thing has come to be, but I believe that it has and that it has something to do with our deepest desires."

"Just yours and mine?"

"I don't know. I do know that I wished to walk, and here I stand, and walk. I know that you wished harm on Pat Acker and harm has befallen him."

"Shit. Do you think we might be able to un-wish it?"

"Not in a manner that might help Mr. Acker."

"But what about Bev, and you?"

"I'm not so worried about me right now. But did you wish, you know, anything specific about Bev?" "I was really concentrated on Acker this time, wanting to get to him. I only concentrated that hard on Bev the one time, and all I wanted to do was see her."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"See her, Derek. The time you concentrated on seeing her, did it work?"

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"Yeah, well, sort of. I wound up in her yard or something. In front of this little building. An apartment, I'm pretty sure."

"She has taken an apartment out of town. That's right, but I don't know where."

"Do you think something's going to happen to her?" Derek asked.

"I don't know, that may depend on us. Look, your mom will be home by now won't she?"

"Unless she worked a double. She's been doing that a lot."

"Okay, you need to clean up that car in the garage and get home."

"What if Mom asks where I've been or how I got your car."

"Tell her I called you. I wanted to apologize for hurting you. Tell her you got a ride here and we mended fences. I offered you the car in order for you to get back."

"Okay, but why didn't I just drive here myself, in my own car?"

"Can you tell her it's not working?"

"Sure, I can tell her anything, but you don't understand how hard it is to lie to her."

"I know it's difficult, but I don't know what else to do, for now."

It's not that it's so difficult, Mr. Forcade, it's that she knows, somehow she figures it out. It's always better to tell her the truth."

"Have her call me if she gives you a hard time. My word on it ought to help. All right?"

"Okay, but what then?"

"I don't know, Derek. Wait to hear from me. Call me if there's any trouble."

Michael walked Derek to the front door and pointed out how to get to the garage, which was an out-building behind the main house. As the young man trudged out onto the lawn, Michael called out.

"And Derek, be awfully careful what you wish for!"

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Doc McGlade stood at the threshold to Anthony Stahl's hospital room. "Perhaps we should arrange a room for you permanently," he commented. "You should have never left here without my permission."

"I'm going to press charges against that bitch."

"Oh yes, trouble with the in-laws, I hear."

"She hit me with a baseball bat." Anthony squirmed beneath the covers.

"Gave you a concussion, and fractured your nose some more. Pretty soon, you're going to look like the most losing prize-fighter in history." Doc stepped more fully into the room.

"Maybe you should give up on all of this."

"Give up searching for my wife and kid? No way, Doc." McGlade calmly slid a chair to Anthony's bedside. "All this damage, doesn't it tell you something, Anthony?"

"Yeah. I've been letting my guard down."

"Really?" Doc considered the answer.

"What's up with you, anyhow? You seem different," Anthony said.

"Sober."

"Oh yeah. It can't be just that, though. I've seen you sober before."

"Well, I've decided to remain sober this time."

"For how long?"

"Time in memoriam."

"Forever?"

"Indefinitely."

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"Why? Have you forgotten what a piece of work you are? I can remind you, if you like."

Doc smiled wryly. "I quit drinking in order to more fully remember what I am, what I've been. I need no reminder from you."

"But I have one, Doc. A reminder, that is. All handwritten by my dad, in black and white."

"Maybe the latest whack on your head caused more damage than I thought. We already had this conversation, in this very hospital. I'll remind you once again, but no more. No more blackmail, Anthony. I don't care what you've got in writing. Also, I am your biological father.

Tony Stahl, God have mercy on his soul, raised you, but I am your father."

"That's bullshit!" Anthony hollered. "You are not my father, and that letter marks you as my mother's killer."

"I believe that letter also accurately describes her death as an accident."

"Are you willing to bet on that, Doc? You've never read all of that letter."

"You and Tony have always used my knowledge of that letter as part of your bargaining. Or did that smack with the bat finally do in your last remaining brain cell?"

"Maybe I'll let you read it, and then you can really know what it says, but only in good time, Doc, and only if you knock off that shit about being my father."

"Do you think I'd make up such a distressing thing? You're nothing to be proud of, we both know that."

"I don't know. You've gone nuts, maybe. You've gone off the booze, and it has made you nuts."

"I can prove it. Actually, I can prove you're my son more absolutely than you can prove I killed your mother."

"Don't test me," Anthony warned.

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"Hah!" Doc laughed. "I already have. I'll drop the results by tomorrow. They are positively conclusive."

"You know what I mean. Don't push me on this, Doc. They could put you away for a long time."

Doc McGlade steepled his hands beneath his chin. He had given all of this great consideration, but he wanted Anthony to be certain of his resolve.

"That's a valid possibility, son. But you'd be going away, as well. Wouldn't you? Accessory after the fact. Obstruction of justice." Doc made a dismissive wave of his hand. "There's probably a few other charges in there as well. I just can't take all that legal lingo."

"She was my mother."

"That doesn't make you any less a collaborator, Anthony. In fact, I think it might add a bit of moral indignation in the minds of the authorities or even, let's say, a jury."

Finally, Doc thought, I've got him. Perplexity was spelled clearly across Anthony's features.

He had no response. He sat, silent and brooding, as Doc pressed on.

"But enough of that, for now." Doc stood and moved the chair back to the corner from which he'd taken it. "Let's not give you any worse a headache than you probably have. The problem at hand is that I've heard from Pam." "Where is she?"

"She won't disclose, but she sends a message."

"You're not helping her. Are you?"

Doc made as derisive a laugh as he could. It came out a snort and he hoped he was a better actor than he felt.

"Now whose nuts, son? Your wife hates me nearly as much as she does you."

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"Did she say that?" Anthony asked. "That she hates me?"

Doc was literally taken aback by the sound of hurt in the other man's voice, and he almost lost his footing. Funny, the things we can't know, he thought.

"No. We didn't get into judgments. She said to tell you that they're gone for good and she wants a divorce."

"Anything else?"

"As a matter of fact, she asked that you stay away from her mother."

"She doesn't know?" Anthony asked.

"It's not exactly public knowledge."

"You didn't tell her?"

"No. Why should I?" "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, you've still got a little loyalty left." Anthony smiled.

This was exactly what Doc wanted. He didn't want to drive a wedge so deep that Anthony removed him from his confidence. If he knew his son's plans in advance, he could better protect his grandson and the boy's mother. For now, he had to keep Anthony trusting him.

Doc momentarily considered such treachery, and wondered if Anthony's dark heart had developed strictly as a result of so many years at the hands of Tony Stahl or if heredity might have played a part, as well.

"What?" Anthony asked.

"Huh?" Doc responded.

"Something else, it was there, on your face."

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Doc turned and started to leave. He stopped halfway to the door. "Oh, yes," he said. "I arranged a lawyer for you."

"Forget it," Anthony replied. "I won't give her a divorce. I'm going to find her."

"Oh, not for that." Doc smiled. "For the District Attorney. They're arraigning you in five days. Defiant trespass. Simple assault. Terroristic threats, and some of the other awful things you did at Mona's. On the other, however, I'd consider giving up your pursuit. You know, before some child or old lady winds up killing you." # Doc was right, Pam thought. The house was in more disarray than it seemed. With Stewart busy at his computer, she had decided to earn their keep by tidying up. The cleaning woman who normally came in every two weeks or so had been paid a month's wages as severance, until arrangements were more permanently made. Doc wanted as little chance as possible of her and Stewart's presence here becoming known. "Poor old gal can barely see well enough to dust any longer, anyhow," he'd commented.

Her own efforts downstairs had validated that point. Now, she'd headed to the second floor with a vacuum, rags, and furniture polish. She had decided to work on the rooms below, and then the ones she knew were in use up here. She felt a little like an intruder, settling her equipment on the floor in Doc's bedroom, but it was the messiest area in the place. The least she could do was give Stewart's grandfather a cleanly place to lay his tired head.

As she started about her task of cleaning up an old bachelor's clutter; over-filled ashtrays, cigar stubs, wadded Kleenex, out-dated medical journals, magazines, and remote controls. She considered her new found affection for that grayed hair. Funny, she thought, how fast you could find feeling for someone. Being around him, in his home, for the last several days had

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intensified that emotion. Sorting obvious trash from the scattered items he might want to keep, she considered how it was sort of like falling in love.

True, Doc was her father-in-law, Stewart's granddad, and old enough to be her own father.

Still, she could see in him the charm, intellect, and allure that had affected Kay Stahl. He had, somewhat in the same regard as he had with Kay, become her confidant and protector.

Certainly, there was no physical attraction between the two of them. However, no man had treated her as so valued a woman as this old doctor, this grandfather, this former enemy had in a very long while. They also shared a white-hot desire to see Anthony Stahl brought down, and an abiding love and devotion for the same young boy.

She supposed it was Doc's obvious love for Stewart that had won her over in the long run.

When he spoke of his grandson and confided to her the pain of seeing, first hand, Anthony's deplorable treatment of them over the years, it was his love for Stewart that shone through. He had tearfully admitted to being a coward, not standing up against Anthony's intimidations and threats. He had, he explained, wanted to believe the man when he'd told him that he would get his temper under control, that he wouldn't hurt them again. He had begged her forgiveness, their first night here in his house, as Stewart explored his new rooms. She'd cradled the old man and comforted him.

"Doc," she'd said. "I understand. No one could understand more. I was just as cowardly. I allowed myself to be fooled just as much."

"But you're his wife." He lifted his gray head from her shoulder and stepped away from her embrace.

"And you're his father. No matter how much you've detested him. You are still his father.

He used that love against you just like he used mine against me."

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"But I never told him, until recently."

"I know, but there's always been a bond, if you think about it. Hasn't there? Even when his father was alive?" she asked.

"Yes, I suppose. Tony commented on it near the end. He said it was like Anthony had two fathers."

"If he sensed it, then you can bet Anthony did as well. And he used it. He used your loyalty, your devotion, and your guilt. He used it to turn you against your own will, your own sense of right and wrong."

"The guilt was certainly the strongest tool."

"He perverted us, Doc. You and me both." She'd hugged him again.

"No more, Pam. No more," he'd responded.

"That's right, Doc," she'd agreed. "And never Stewart. Never Stewart." # Now, she realized that had been the moment she'd let the old gent in her heart. There would be no getting him out. They were victims of the same abuser and devotees of the same love.

Their passions had bonded them forever.

As these feelings and considerations stirred within her, she stumbled and unwittingly knocked some photos from a bureau. Upon picking them up, she scanned them for the younger countenance of her old friend. The majority of the pictures were black and white and seemed to catch Morgan in a particular period of life. She supposed these were taken before Kay's death. In one of the few color shots, he was on board a skiff in a rather large body of water. The back of the frame had loosened and she carefully removed it, so as to secure the photograph inside. On the back of the picture she noticed a practiced scrawl, no doubt the doctor's own, which read;

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Lake Mercy, 1967. Curiosity grabbed hold of her, and she found herself pulling all of Morgan's pictures, one by one, from their frames.

She was attempting to learn as much as she could about this man in whom she'd placed her and Stewart's safety. At least, that's what Pam kept telling herself as she rifled Doc's personal photos for hints of his past. Mostly, they were shots of a handsome, fit, reasonably contented man of his early thirties. There were pictures of him on vacation, at a local hospital, with friends; always in groups or among couples, never alone with a woman, or on the grounds of his home. Then, she found the snapshot she supposed had been the object of her search all along.

A lovely blonde woman stood before a large clapboard farmhouse. She held a bundle in her arms. Her right hand drew back a blanket to expose a sleeping baby. The child was very young.

Newborn, Pam surmised. The back of the photo revealed the now familiar handwriting, which read; Kay and Anthony Stahl. 1966. Pam studied the picture resignedly. The house was different than the one she and Anthony had shared since their marriage. Her husband had sold the family home sometime just after his father's death, almost immediately upon its inheritance it had seemed to her. He claimed it was too large for him alone, before they'd been married, and that too many memories were buried there.

Still, she wondered about this woman in the photograph; her son's grandmother. Even with age, the picture revealed a remarkably beautiful creature, but there was a cruel set to her face.

Her posture seemed to say that she knew something the photographer didn't suspect.

She moved to put the still back. It was easy she reasoned, to see something in an old photo that really wasn't there, and it was catty to regard Kay this way. Hindsight was a twenty-twenty thing, and hers had been influenced by Doc's stories. For some reason, however, she knew it would be difficult to ever absolutely consider Kay the victim, having seen her this plainly.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Doc saw that Pam was crying as she got off the phone with her mother. Upon his return home, he'd informed her of Anthony's assault and Mona's defense of herself with a baseball bat.

"She says she's fine." Pam sniffled. "Says it's lucky for him that the cops turned up quickly."

"Well, I've seen him, and I believe she's right." Doc smiled slightly.

"Mom's a tough bird, all right."

"Now I know where you get it from."

"If I had her kind of guts, I'd have taken a bat to him long ago," Pam commented from a seat before the kitchen table.

Doc poured iced tea from a pitcher. He filled two glasses, one for each of them, and handed Pam hers. "Bravery isn't always a type of physical action," he said.

"I know, I just-" "Have regrets," the older man interjected.

"Yes." Pam's green eyes spilled more tears.

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"Listen to me." Doc reached across the table and took her hand. "You've left him. That is a physical action, and it is brave. You've got to continue to be brave and press on. You can't wallow in the despair of 'what if'. It will just mire you down, hold you back. I know."

In his resolve, Pam once again found her strength. He was right, and he certainly knew. She lifted her gaze and smiled. "You're right. We can't afford to be held back any longer," she said.

"What did he have to say for himself?"

Sipping the cold brew, Doc responded. "Mostly, the usual bravado." He paused to consider if he should tell her of the pain in her husband's eyes when he'd asked if she hated him. "Empty bluster. He won't give you a divorce. He'll find the two of you."

"Exactly what we expected," Pam said.

"More or less. I think Mona, the baseball bat, and the D.A. are going to slow him down."

"Does he have a lawyer?"

"I got him one."

Pam felt her chest tighten. Her throat constricted and, for a moment, she couldn't breathe.

She stepped out of her chair, stood up and spun on Doc. "You did what?" she shouted.

"Calm down, Pam. It's part of the plan."

"What fucking plan is that? The one where you betray us?"

"No, no, my dear."

McGlade was standing, too. Pam backed away from his hands as he tried to touch her shoulders.

"It's the plan for the divorce. You go to an attorney now, just as we discussed. By the time the papers are drawn, Anthony will be dealing with the counsel I retained and I can pressure him to contend with it legally. It'll be much easier if he has a lawyer in place."

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Pam wasn't convinced, but she sat back down. "But won't a lawyer help him get off these charges more easily?" she asked.

"Not necessarily," Doc explained. "No one ever knows how a prosecutor will handle a case such as this. Sure, he attempted to assault a citizen. Certainly, he forced his way into her home.

But, this particular citizen is his mother-in-law and he's looking for his wife who has run off.

They'll probably see it as a domestic case and consider it little more than a family squabble. The likelihood is that he really doesn't need a lawyer at all. I saw a chance to progress your divorce action, so I took it."

Pam was composed, but disappointed. "So, he won't go to jail?"

"That was never very likely. He'd make bail or recognizance on his own, I'd guess."

"You're setting him up with the lawyer." The ends of her mouth turned up.

"I'm attempting to steer him in a certain direction." Doc smiled.

"Have you found a lawyer for me?"

"I have a referral for an attorney over in Allentown. I hear she's excellent. Local, but away from Hampton seemed best."

"And in what direction am I being steered?"

"Toward safety, my dear. Only ever, toward safety." # Edith sat up in her hospital bed. Her deceased husband had returned to her side after a brief absence. Her expression was quizzical as she stared into Clarence's eyes. "There is so much I don't understand," she said.

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Clarence patted her hand. "I know," he said. "And this is a terrible imposition. Some of the things I have to tell you are not natural for you to know. They're things you should be able to find out on your own, after."

"There is life then, after death?" she asked.

"There is existence," Clarence replied. "There is a collective consciousness. All I can really tell you is that I have been with those I love; I have felt them all around me. I have felt the love of others, who I did not know. I have felt your love even though I thought I passed from it."

Edith was crying. "We will be together then, after."

"I believe so," Clarence answered. "It's what I wish for."

"Then, what danger are we in? What can happen?"

"Well, it seems there is another consciousness. One apart from that which I've attempted to describe."

"Another consciousness," Edith repeated.

"Yes," Clarence said. "One not as blessed."

"Hell?" Edith asked. "There is Heaven and Hell?"

"I don't know."

"But you just said-" "I said there's another consciousness," Clarence interjected. "I didn't attempt to define it.

Definitions are not important."

"All right, then. What about this consciousness, this other place? Is this where the danger comes from?"

"Yes," Clarence responded. "The danger has arisen from that place and the past."

"What past? Whose past?"

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"Our past, dear, but more specifically, mine."

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't. You couldn't understand. It's the one thing, the only thing I ever kept from you."

"Well, this is a grand time to tell me," Edith said.

"It's why I had to come," Clarence told her.

"Then, do tell."

"I had a sister."

"A sister," Edith commented. "Really?"

"Yes, she was always a problem, a real trouble maker for my parents. None of us were ever close to her. She wouldn't allow it, actually. She was younger than me. When she was in her teens she ran off and wound up marrying a man in Pen Argyl."

"She wasn't far from us, then," Edith offered.

"Especially not after she left her husband in Pen Argyl and came to Hampton."

"Oh my," Edith shuddered. "You really did keep this from me."

"After that, she married again. I don't even know if she got a divorce from her first husband."

"My goodness," was all Edith could manage this time.

"I didn't find out about it until later, after she had apparently moved on, again."

"How long was she in Hampton?"

"A number of years."

"Whose wife was she, Clarence?" Edith was adamant.

"Tony Stahl's"

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"That woman who ran off and left her son behind. That was your sister?"

"Yes, Kay was my sister, and that wasn't the first child she'd left behind. Please forgive me."

"I don't know what there is to forgive, except for you keeping a secret. How has that put us in danger?"

"The danger is from Kay. The danger is Kay, really."

"How? Why?" "She wasn't at rest. Her death was violent. She blames me."

"Why?" "I sort of kept tabs on her. I was the one who knew about her leaving Pen Argyl, about her coming to Hampton and disappearing. I approached Tony Stahl about it. Something wasn't right about the way she'd simply vanished the second time. Kay was very disruptive. She never moved on without leaving ruin in her wake."

"What did he say?"

"Not much actually, but he did show me a letter."

"A letter?"

"Yes. She wrote it, telling him she was leaving him with the boy; Anthony."

"Did you believe the letter was authentic? Did you think she really wrote it?"

"I didn't bother to analyze it. I was too pleased that she was gone. I supposed she's judged me for that."

"That's why she's coming after us," Edith offered.

"She already has."

"The thing that took me from my room. Stole me off and to the gazebo?"

"Yes."

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Edith noted that Clarence's expression was extremely sad. She squeezed his hand harder. It was warm, substantial. It was not ethereal.

"Was it Kay?" she puzzled.

"I don't think so. There's another aspect involved."

Edith heard footfalls in the hospital corridor. They seemed to pause outside her room.

Clarence brought his index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. The hall walker moved on and they resumed their conversation.

"What other aspect is this?" Edith asked.

"It appears there is a strong, let's say dark, element at work and it's using Kay." "Your sister?"

"Yes. She apparently passed to this other place. Something there used her anger, her resentment–-whatever–-to help propel it into the material world. Kay came with it."

Edith's head spun. "It sounds like we're talking demons and ghosts. Poltergeists and hobgoblins."

"It's more serious than that," Clarence responded. "Those things are superstitions. These are real."

Edith felt a shiver of dread. "What can happen?" she asked. "What do these beings mean to do?"

"Kay wants revenge. She did not die naturally. She was forced over."

"Murdered?"

"Killed, somehow. Knowing my sister, her history, it's absolutely possible that it was nasty."

Clarence hung his head.

"Do you think it was Tony Stahl?"

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"I don't know. I don't know anything about it."

"But it wasn't us. We had nothing to do with her death," Edith remarked.

"That doesn't matter. She feels betrayed by everyone in her life. She wants revenge for her existence as well as her destruction."

Edith considered all of this. "I never even met her," she said simply.

"That may be part of it," Clarence concluded.

"What do you mean?"

"I was ashamed of Kay," Clarence admitted. "She was an embarrassment. A willful young woman. Immoral. Profane."

"She was your sister. I wouldn't have judged her," Edith told him.

"I know, but I did."

"Now, she's judged us both," Edith determined.

"And found us lacking."

"What will she do?"

"I don't know," he answered.

"What can she do?"

"I'm not certain. Something impersonated me and attempted to harm you."

"Could she get into my dreams?" Edith asked.

"Why?" Clarence countered.

"I had a dream, the day before I was abducted. You were in it. You tried to get me onto a train, a train filled with dead people."

Clarence was openly distressed. "You know that wasn't me, in that dream, really."

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"Of course," Edith reassured him. "But I'm wondering if that train might have taken me away, had I gotten on board."

"There's so much I don't know, Edith. I don't think Kay knows much beyond rage, herself."

"Do you think she means to kill me?"

"I just can't say anything with certainty, and any more of it I could reveal I don't think you could understand. We're not really meant to understand. I just wanted to be with you, to help you, to protect you. I should have told you immediately. I'm so sorry."

Edith wept openly. "Oh, my darling," she said. "We can't have regret now. Not after such a wonderful life together. I won't allow it. Don't you see the miracle of this? Of our being together. How did it ever happen?"

"I don't have the foggiest. You needed me, and I came. There were no mechanics to it."

"Then, stay with me, my love. Just stay with me, until whatever must happen does. Don't leave."

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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Amy knew her father was annoyed with her. He'd told her enough times over the last few days that she needed to get out of her room and at least see some daylight. He'd attempted to reach Doc McGlade, whom he knew from years back, in order to get her examined, but the service said he was unavailable and the doctor filling in for him certainly did not make house calls. Now, he was banging on her bedroom door, insisting she come to the phone.

"Amy, you have got to take this call," he said.

"I told you, Daddy, I don't want to talk to anyone just now," she called from behind the door.

"Listen, I've already put off that place where you work. I'll not put off the police as well."

"The police?" she asked as she stepped into the hall.

"Yes. Someone named Officer Merkel, or something like that. It's about the third time he's called."

"The third time? Why didn't you tell me?"

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Don Lauder simply handed his daughter the cordless and shook his head side to side as he descended the stairs to the first floor. Amy heard a sound like the buzzing of a fly and lifted the receiver to her ear.

"I can just try back again," she heard Tom explaining. "I mean if she's resting or something.

Hello?"

"Officer Merkel?"

"Yes?" "Hello. It's me, Amy." "Oh, good. I've called a couple of times. Are you all right, Amy?" "Yes. I mean, I guess. It's hard to tell, really. I didn't want to talk to anyone for a while is all."

"Well, that's completely understandable, given what you've been through. I'm sorry if I've disturbed you."

"Oh no, not you. I mean you're not one of the people I didn't want to talk to. I've forced my dad to screen out work and calls like that. I didn't know you'd been trying to reach me. I wanted to-I mean, I don't mind talking to you."

"I'm glad." Tom was still speaking in her ear, as her thoughts had drifted.

"I'm sorry," she responded.

"I'm glad I wasn't one of the people you've been avoiding."

"Oh no, absolutely not."

"Amy, are you sure you're okay? Your father told me that he's been wanting you to see the doctor."

"That's just Dad, he worries too much. Is there anything new? I mean with the case and all."

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"No leads, if that's what you mean. The guy who attacked you and Mrs. Albrecht seems to have come out of nowhere and disappeared right back to nowhere. The State CSI has, so far, come up empty handed. Oh yeah, they wanted me to ask you about gloves."

"Gloves?" Amy was bewildered.

"Yes. Did you notice if the man, the intruder, wore gloves at all?"

Amy suddenly realized that she had been having this conversation from the parameters of the hall outside her bedroom. She hadn't moved since her father had handed her the phone. She wondered if Dad was listening from the foot of the stairs. Surely, he hadn't gotten that bad. She purposefully turned in her room, for the sake of privacy and the glass of water at her bedside.

Dousing the frog in her throat, she continued talking with Tom. Amy's mind returned to her witness of the form changing Clarence-Michael thing, and she hesitated. Certainly, it hadn't been in need of gloves.

"Amy?" “Yes. I mean, no. I didn't notice. I'm sorry, I really can't say."

"It's okay, Amy. Really, it is. I know you'd probably like nothing better than to forget all about this."

"Yeah, I sure would. But I can't. Can I, Tom?" She was crying now.

"I don't know, Amy. I wasn't calling to continue some line of questioning, if that's what you think."

"Why?" The question was all she could manage just now, as fears of phantom attackers and concerns for Edith tightened, constricting her.

"I just wanted to talk to you, to hear your voice. To know if you were all right."

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Smiling at what he'd just revealed, she said; "I meant the gloves, Tom. Why did you ask about gloves?"

She heard him choke a little, as well, before he answered. No doubt, his disclosure had caught him off guard.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Of course. Well, there were no fingerprints, apart from yours and Mrs. Albrecht's. We would normally find prints, unless he wore gloves."

"Is that strange? That he may have worn gloves?"

"Not if he had planned his invasion, and not if he's a felon with his prints on record."

"Invasion?"

"That's what their calling it, I suppose. A home invasion. He had to have broken in at some point. In order to grab Edith, I mean."

The term invasion carried Amy off to "other-worldly" thoughts again.

"I see." It was the only thing she could think to say.

"Listen, Amy. Do you have any ideas on that at all? On how he got in?"

"What do you mean? It must have broken in, just like you said. Right?"

"That's another sort of problem we're having. There doesn't seem to be any sign of forced entry."

"I don't understand."

"The only real damage we found was in Mrs. Albrecht's bedroom. You know, lots of broken things, signs of a struggle, and the busted window. It appears far-fetched that the window was a point of entry, since it seems to have been broken out, rather than in. The State guys believe it was just coincidental destruction, in midst of a struggle and all. Mrs. Albrecht can't recall much, except for a fight in that room and your rescue. She says you were very brave."

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Amy started to cry, at the mention of Edith. She'd been so lost for this time, holed up in her bedroom in fear of strange entities, that she hadn't called to follow up on her friend's condition.

"She's okay, then. Edith?"

"Apart from not remembering much, a broken tailbone, some cuts and contusions, the word I get is she should be okay. The doctors say that it's hard to know for sure with older folks."

"Yes, they do say that."

"Look, Amy. You are obviously having trouble with all of this. I didn't call to interrogate you. Really, I didn't. The fact is, I'd like to catch this son-of-a-bitch, and it's looking like that won't be so easy."

"You sound frustrated about that."

"Well, I like you, Amy. And I don't think anyone should get away with what he did to you or to Mrs. Albrecht."

"Tom?" "Yes." "I like you, too." # Anthony Stahl was home. He leaned back in his cracked and worn Lazy-boy. His head hurt and his ears rang. He'd taken two beatings that had left him concussed and badly bruised. His wife and kid had taken off, and he'd lost his best chance of finding them with the incident at Mona's place. Since then, he'd been arraigned at the District Justice and served with a restraining order to stay away from Pam's mom.

Things were not going well. He looked around the vacant living room. Sure, the furniture and everything was still here. The television sat in its appointed place and all the bits and pieces,

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articles and materials that had made up this space for all the years of his marriage were all just where they had always been. Yet there was so much missing. His self-respect and dignity were gone with his family on the run from him. His wife and son would not return of their own volition. He was determined to track them down, even though he felt doubtful about that outcome. He just didn't know how else to carry on, so he drank and struggled to think clearly.

At least the attorney Doc had provided had proven helpful. He'd arranged for Anthony to be released on his own recognizance and promised that the District Attorney would settle on probation and fines before things got to trial.

He was mad at the old man for pushing that biological father stuff at him. He'd looked at the test results Doc had left him at the hospital and decided that he didn't much understand what they meant. He supposed McGlade's DNA could be in him. After all, the doctor's dick had been in his mother. Still, Tony Stahl had raised him and he didn't want anyone messing with that.

He washed down two of his prescription pain pills with some warm beer. He recalled his earlier life, not so long ago, in fact, when his beer would have been cold because Pam would have fetched it from the refrigerator for him. A shrill buzz invaded his senses when he thought about how this was all Stewart's fault, how it had all somehow started when the boy had lost his stutter, that it had gotten worse from there. The hum in his head persisted, until he realized it was the ring of the telephone. He moved to lift it from its stand, just out of reach of his chair.

"Hello," he grumbled into the receiver. The movement had caused more of his aches to rise up.

"Hello. Mr. Stahl?"

The voice on the other end was tentative and halting. This better not be some damned telemarketer, he thought as he answered the inquiry.

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"Yeah, this is Anthony Stahl. Who's this?"

"This is Paul Schiff, Mr. Stahl, from Troxell Middle School. I'm Stewart's guidance counselor."

"Okay. What can I do for you?" Anthony nearly spit into the phone.

"Well, I was wondering how Stewart's feeling."

"Damned if I know."

"Well, you see, it's been awhile since we received the excuse from Doctor McGlade and, of course, we're concerned."

"Aha." "We understand your wife's been ill, as well, and we've had trouble contacting Doctor McGlade."

"I see," Anthony commented and hung up.

He heard the phone start its clarion call once again, as he was headed out his front door at a trot.

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CHAPTER FORTY

Stewart was looking forward to some time outdoors. He'd practically been a prisoner since he and his mother had begun the game of dodging his father. The rooms he had here at Doc's were better than anything he'd ever known and he didn't want to seem ungrateful. Still, he missed the freedom of being outside in the crisp autumn air. His mother had gone off earlier, to see a lawyer over in Allentown and she had promised a trip to the park upon her return. He heard a soft rap on the door and knew it was Doc. "Come on in," Stewart called.

"How goes it, Lad?" Stewart liked the way the older man spoke. His diction was proper and his vocabulary eclectic, but there was always a sense of compassion in his cadence and manner. Stewart, having grown up with bullying and reproving, felt comforted in Doc's presence.

"I don't know. Mostly, it just goes, I guess."

"Getting a bit of the cabin fever, are you?"

"For sure. Mom said we're going to the park when she gets back. Are you coming along?"

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"The park is a great idea for you, Stewart, but I think I'll skip the opportunity this time and allow you and your mother some alone time."

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Neither would I." "Well, thanks for the invite, but I do believe your mother has some things to discuss with you. I will, however, take a rain check."

"Okay," Stewart responded.

Doc took a chair and moved it so he could come to sit next to Stewart at the computer.

"What are you doing?" the older man asked.

"Taking care of my pets."

"Pets?"

"Yeah. This is a site called Neopets. It's a virtual world and you have virtual pets. You feed them, play with them, and earn Neopoints to buy things."

"Neopoints?"

"Yes, that's virtual money in Neopia. That's the land where they live."

"In my day it was J. R. R. Tolkein and "The Lord of the Rings"," Doc commented.

"Cool. Have you seen the movies?" Stewart asked.

"No, but I think I might like to."

"Maybe we could rent them and watch them together."

"Haven't you seen them already?"

"Sure, but I'd like to, you know, watch them with you."

"Have you read any of the books?"

"No, but I want to."

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"I think I have an old set around here somewhere. Maybe down in the study. I'll dig around and you can borrow them."

"Thanks, Doc." "Sure thing. Stewart?"

"Yeah, Doc." "Your mother explained where she was headed today, didn't she?"

"Yes' sir, to see a lawyer in Allentown. About the divorce."

"How do you feel about that?"

Stewart took his eyes fully off the monitor and looked fixedly at Doc. "Like I shouldn't be as happy about it as I am," he answered.

"So, you're not upset about the divorce?"

"My dad is a pretty mean guy, Doc." "I know."

"I don't like him, and it's safer for Mom and I away from him. It's just hard to not like someone who you're supposed to love. You know?"

Doc hugged the boy and ruffled his hair.

"Actually, I do know. All too well, Stewart. I'll let you know when your mother returns."

"Thanks, Doc." Stewart went back to his Neopets as Doc left the rooms to hunt for old fantasy novels in his study. For the first time in more than forty years, Doctor Morgan McGlade felt promise, and it was living right here in his house. #

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Allentown wasn't all that bad, Pam thought as she left the lawyer's office. She was in the West End of the city where the streets were tree-lined and tidy. Too often, sitting in the relative remoteness of Hampton, she'd thought of this as an alien place. Here, however, she noted as she allowed her troubles to drift and her concentration to focus on her surroundings, it was nice.

This was a residential area, the lawyer's office being adjacent to her home. The lawns were going the dulled brown of autumn, but the leaves in the trees were taking on color. The homes were widely varied from single Colonials and Cape Cods, to twins and small apartment complexes. A few people passed her on the sidewalk as she made for her car. Most of them acknowledged her with a nod or a pleasant hello.

She knew the inner city was dangerous. It had become more so since the opening of I-78, which had connected the Lehigh Valley to the sprawling New York City Metropolis. The urban and suburban areas were still under invasion. Middle to high income families were leaving the deterioration and high taxes of the Five Boroughs for the lower taxes and good real estate of the Lehigh Valley suburbs. The Interstate had made commuting a practical option. Unfortunately, along with exporting some of its citizenry, New York City had also exported its problems in the form of urban sprawl, decline, and crime. Life in the center of town was hard and nothing Pam would ever think to undertake, but life in the West End and on the East Side could be appealing.

It was clear, after her meeting with the attorney, that she and Stewart were going to need to move. Staying in Hampton would hardly remain an option once Anthony had been served. Even with Doc's care and help, they wouldn't be able to remain in town. It was time to begin considering alternatives and begin making specific decisions.

Perhaps, Allentown was a possibility. It would be easier for her to find work and housing here, and much harder for Anthony to hassle them. Her lawyer had encouraged a restraining

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order. Given Anthony's intrusion at Pam's mother's home, it wouldn't be hard to obtain. The woman had assured Pam that they were going to go after him for his physical and emotional abuse. Pam would seek full custody of Stewart. With a fight like that ahead, relocation was critical. She would bring Stewart through here on their way to the park and see how he liked it.

Today would be a rough day for her boy, who had suffered so many rough days already.

Today, she would tell him that Doc McGlade was his Grandfather and that Tony Stahl was not.

She knew Stewart liked Doc, and he had never known his Grandfather Stahl, but this was a change of his personal history, of who he imagined himself to be, and she was uncertain how the news would affect him. Also, he had to be told of the divorce and upcoming move. He would have to change schools and make new friends. Certainly, she couldn't tell him about his grandmother's death or Doc's part therein. That was a secret she would keep to herself.

Pam felt guilty and burdened as she made a turn down Tilghman Street. She saw two boys, about Stewart's age, tossing a ball on a front lawn. They were laughing and smiling, and she wished similar times were ahead for herself and her son. Just then, her guilt turned to purpose, and her burden became something a little more like hope. # Bev was angry. Or, rather, Kay was angry. There was a part of Bev that was still lucid, a part of her that remained in tact. She supposed this self-cognizance was allowed because the Kaything needed Bev to be able to perform like she was now, driving the car toward St. Luke’s Hospital. The Kay-thing, Bev was certain, didn't know how to get there on its own. Maybe, it didn't even know how to drive.

With the still functioning part of herself, Bev had been able to see into her possessor's core.

The brief glimpse she'd gotten was more than enough. Her insight caused her to consider Kay as

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a wicked being on a storm course of retribution. Whatever Kay had been in life, she was vile and twisted in death. She was bent on revenge and the destruction of all those she felt had done her wrong. Her parents were long deceased and, for reasons the Kay-thing itself could not grasp, were now well beyond her reach. So, she had focused, instead, upon her brother, among others.

She would have her retaliation through the woman he had so loved in life, a woman called Edith.

It was for this purpose that Bev was headed to the hospital.

She tried to fight the Kay-thing's control, to little avail. Her body refused her own instruction.

It was tuned, instead, to the direction of the other. Bev thought to take another turn off the highway, or to crash the car altogether. Kay's influence refused such resolve. No matter what Bev tried, Kay maintained full physical possession of the body they now shared; Bev's body.

"There's no use struggling." Kay spoke to her from within her own head. "You'll only make it harder on yourself."

"I won't just surrender to you." Bev spoke aloud.

"There is no surrender. There is no choice."

"I don't believe that."

"Believe this, then."

Bev felt her throat constrict, as though a determined hand was strangling her. Her breath rasped and wheezed.

"I am in control," the Kay-thing proclaimed. "You'll do what I want."

Bev regained her air and asked, "Why?" "Because I need a vessel."

"Why me, I mean."

Bev felt the Kay-thing laugh from behind her own breastbone. It was repulsive.

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"You were the first one I saw."

"You saw me? Where? When?"

"I saw you in your home. The home that once was mine."

"You used to live in my house?"

"Yes." "When?"

"About forty years ago."

Bev recalled that the house had at least two owners before she and Michael had purchased it.

Neither of them had inquired much after the previous occupants.

"You didn't die there, though."

"No. I didn't."

"You weren't haunting us?"

There came that repugnant laughter again and Bev felt herself shake with its release.

"No, I wasn't haunting you." Kay laughed a third time. "I was in the presence of one who responded to an entreaty."

"Someone called someone you were with?"

"Exactly." Bev felt her lips spread into a smile. "I'm glad you're bright," replied the Kay entity.

Bev ignored the compliment. "But how does this involve me?"

"The call came from someone close to you."

"Who?" "Your husband, my son, Michael."

"Your son?" Bev was astonished.

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"Yes, in life I gave birth to him."

"Then you left him alone with his father," came Bev's retort.

"Yes, I left him, just as I did another after him."

"You had two children?"

"Two boys."

"Are you after Michael, like you're after this Edith?"

"I intend to visit my boys while I'm here. I've already peeked in on them and my grandson as well. Let's say, I've directed certain events."

"What grandson? What events? Did you cause the accident? Have you been behind all our trouble?"

"Bev, you're becoming quite the nosy bitch. Perhaps I should fix that."

"I won't let you hurt Michael!" Bev hollered.

"You can't stop me from doing whatever I like!"

The car swerved and rubber squealed. Bev struggled to steer into the spin. Somehow, the Kay-thing's control wavered. Bev headed the car for the shoulder. The vehicle came out of the lane, side swiping the guardrail in a rain of sparks and screaming metal.

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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Anthony couldn't believe the old man would betray him. What could Doc possibly hope to gain by helping Pam and Stewart hide out? As he approached McGlade's home, he slowed his pickup and looked around for his wife's car or his son's bicycle, something that might betray their presence. Without spotting anything, he pulled in the drive, effectively blocking in the doctor's Lexus. Walking to the porch, he found the front door locked. He repeatedly rang the bell and pounded, to no avail.

"Come on, Doc! I know you're in there!" Anthony shouted.

Inside, Doc McGlade smacked his left hand with a hammer. He'd been fixing a shelf in the kitchen pantry when the commotion started at the front of the house. Momentarily, he considered carrying the tool to the door with him. Instead, he set it aside and weighed how to handle the situation. He couldn't be sure why Anthony had shown up at his home demanding he answer the door, but he had a strong sense the jig was up.

Anthony was still shouting some nonsense as McGlade made a quick perusal of the downstairs, making sure that any signs of Pam and Stewart weren't visible. Luckily, they had

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left for the park a short time earlier. The Doctor took a deep breath as he threw back the dead lock and turned the knob.

"Anthony. Why all the racket?" McGlade stood in the doorway and addressed Anthony Stahl.

Anthony shoved the older man roughly aside and made for the interior of the large home. He plowed down the hall, yelling over his shoulder.

"Where are they, Doc?" "Who?" Anthony made a rapid circuit of the downstairs, coming to a stop in the kitchen. He turned to face a winded Morgan McGlade, when he noticed the hammer on the floor. Instinctively, he bent to retrieve it.

"Put that down," Doc demanded.

"Not until you tell me where they are."

"How should I know?"

"Because you got Stewart excused from school."

"So?" Doc countered.

"So, stop playing with me old man!"

Anthony hefted the hammer in his hand.

"Just because I agreed to help them buy some time doesn't mean I know where they are, Anthony."

"Don't you lie to me!"

Doc walked to the refrigerator and opened it, removing something cool to drink.

"Iced tea?" he asked.

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Anthony brought the hammer down in a wicked swipe at Doc's arm. It connected with McGlade's shoulder. He yelped in pain and dropped the glass pitcher. It shattered on the kitchen floor.

"If you don't tell me where they are I'll bash in your foolish old head. What makes you think you can mess with me?"

Doc backed away from the younger man.

"Are you completely out of your mind? You really hurt me, you know."

"You are in for a lot more hurting if you don't fess up, Doc." "Look Anthony, I admit to helping excuse Stewart from school. Pam asked, and I agreed.

Actually, she threatened me into agreeing, if you'd know the truth."

"Threatened you how?"

"She said she would go to the authorities about your abuse, about how I helped cover for you.

She said she had proof."

"What kind of proof?"

"She didn't say exactly, but she intimated that there were photos."

"Photos? How would she have gotten photos?" Anthony asked.

"From a camera. I assume you have one?"

Doc retrieved a broom from the disrupted pantry and moved, one armed, to clean up the broken glass on the kitchen floor.

"Yes, of course we have a camera."

"Well, it appears that on more than one occasion she thought to photograph her or the boy's injuries. Now, put the hammer down and help me with this mess."

To Doc's surprise, Anthony did as he was told.

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After the glass was swept and a floor mop used on the sticky tea remains, Doc moved for the foyer and the stairs. Anthony followed.

"Where are you going?" Anthony asked from the bottom of the steps.

"To tend to this arm. It hurts like hell, you crazy bastard."

"But what are we going to do?"

"About what?"

"The pictures."

"I suppose it's most wise to assume that they are in her possession," Doc answered.

"So?" "So, maybe you should leave her alone for a while."

"Why didn't you tell me that she had you call Stewart out of school?"

"It didn't seem that important. I didn't really consider it much, and when I did, I thought you might react like this."

"She didn't tell you where they were?"

"Why would she?"

"I don't know. You're a smart guy, Doc. A smooth talker. You didn't get a hint, a clue or anything out of her?"

"I didn't try."

"Why not?"

"I suppose that I didn't want to know."

"Why not?"

"So I wouldn't have to tell you."

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Silence filled the big, old house as Anthony thought about the older man's answer and Doc stared down on him from the landing.

"Okay," Anthony said.

"Okay to what?" Doc asked.

"Okay, I guess I believe you."

"Great, now ask me if I give a shit."

"Do you give a shit, Doc?" "Only for you getting out of my house."

"Don't make me come back," Anthony advised.

"You're not welcome," Doc responded.

"Yeah well, ask me if I give a shit," Anthony commented as he left. # The patient whose chart identified her as Beverly Forcade opened her eyes and looked around. She was in a semi-private hospital room. There was an intravenous drip in one of her arms and electronic monitors bleated and blipped from beside her bed. She reached up to touch her forehead and found bandages covering a spot from which radiated a dull ache. Shifting herself to a position nearer to that of sitting, she inspected her body.

Everything seemed to be okay. She hadn't lost any limbs in the accident and if she was seriously injured, she imagined she would be in a more intense unit than this. Still, that bitch, Bev, had managed to do some damage. There were body aches and muscle strains awakening within this corporeal self as surely as her consciousness had risen. She thought of evacuating to the Void and letting Bev contend with the pain, but she was concerned that Beverly might rise as well, and in her absence begin to tell tales that could only lead to neurological and psychological

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testing. She couldn't afford to spend a second longer than necessary trapped in this place, so she had to sit tight and fight Bev down in the event she attempted to surface.

As she managed a try at standing, a nurse peered in from the hall.

"Well now, Mrs. Forcade, just what do you think you're doing?" the woman inquired.

Kay almost failed to respond to Bev's appellation. Finally, she answered. "Standing?" she asked.

"You're not to be up and around just yet," the nurse replied. "We have a call in to your husband. Is there anyone else you'd like us to contact?" # The phone rang, but Derek's mom beat him to the receiver. He was recovering well, but he still didn't move as quickly as he sometimes felt he should. His mother had been acting even more oddly than usual since he'd returned home driving Michael Forcade's car.

"It's for you, Derek," Margaret Connor called. "Come get it in here."

So she's taken to screening my conversations openly, he considered. No one had recently telephoned, so he figured to play along. He took the call in the kitchen, his mother offering a strange, long look.

"Hello."

"Derek, it's Michael."

"Oh, hello," Derek responded while returning his mother's stare.

"This might be uncomfortable, but I need a favor."

"Sure, okay."

"I need you to drive over here right now and take me to the hospital."

"Are you all right?"

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"Yes, I'm fine. It's Bev. The hospital called. She was apparently in an auto accident."

"Is she okay?"

"It doesn't seem she's been seriously hurt, but you know how hospitals are with information.

I need to get over there, and I need you to take me. You still have the car, right?"

"Of course. I mean, I didn't sell it or anything Mr. Forcade."

"Sorry, certainly you have the car. My thinking's a little twisted these days Derek. You know?"

"I do, and I didn't mean to crack wise. That's not appropriate under the circumstances."

"Well, let's not dance around each other so lightly. I need you here as soon as you can.

Okay?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Forcade. I'll leave right off."

"Thank you, Derek."

"Sure."

Derek hung up and held his mother's notice.

"I don't understand how you and that man can be friends."

"He had the charges dropped, Mom." "I know, but after what went on between you and his wife, and you being hurt and all. I swear, just a short while ago you hated him."

"Maybe I've grown up, Mom. Isn't that what you wanted? For me to act more like an adult?"

"That's what concerns me, Derek."

"What's that, Mother?"

"That this is an act. That you've figured some sort of angle."

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Derek moved toward his mother. Standing behind her, he kissed her cheek and kneaded her shoulders.

"I don't have an angle, Mom, really. But I do need to go help a friend."

"I don't think you should be involved with those people."

"I'm not involved. Mr. Forcade just asked me to give him a ride to the hospital, in his car."

"Is he okay?"

"Yes. He needs to visit someone is all."

"Doesn't he have someone to drive him?"

"I don't know. He asked me and I said yes."

"Okay, but I want you to return that car. I'll pick you up if you need me to, but I want you to return that car. He can hire someone to drive him around. I'm sorry for his circumstances, but he can afford a driver. I don't want you to be involved any further. Got that?"

"I get it, Mom." "You'll return the car and get out of his business?"

"I will, Mom. I just figure I owe him. You know?"

"You've already paid enough for your mistakes. You and Michael Forcade are even, at the least. It's time to get out of it, entirely."

"You're right. I'll take him to the hospital, return the car, and be back as soon as I can."

"You call me if you need a ride."

"I'll call if I need you."

"Don't be too late."

"Okay."

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On his way out the door, Derek considered his conversation with his mother. He knew the ultimatum was forthcoming as soon as he'd told her about Michael lending him his car. He wasn't at all certain about the nature of his new relationship with the artist, but he knew it would cause problems. Those problems seemed overwhelming, from their interaction with the supernatural to the revelation of an injured Bev. As he drove off to the Forcade home, Derek realized his head was hurting worse than his ball sack.

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CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Michael gathered his nerve and his wheel chair. He would need to feign the cripple during his visit to Bev. He wished with all his heart that she would be okay. So much had been left unresolved between them. He wondered to what extent that was because of themselves as individuals or because of the unusual powers he'd recently discovered at work.

He hadn't suffered anything like the strange psychic attack of the other night, but the realization that forces outside his realm of experience had been influencing him and events in his life was undeniable. The strongest evidence was his regained physical abilities. He'd been considering how to deal with these revelations almost every moment since Derek had left here with his car.

The young man's tales of his astral travel and experiences with what he called the Dark-thing seemed less far-fetched when considered within the parameters of the restored use of his legs. He considered that perhaps he or Derek, or even he and Derek had conjured this thing with their strongly focused longings, albeit to different ends. He wondered how many other people in

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Hampton had equally strong longings, and how many of them may have taken to beckoning the night as he'd done in order to find fulfillment of those desires.

Bev was certainly vulnerable to these forces. She was involved with him and Derek, the two primary people, to his knowledge, that were being affected by these pressures. Her despair was deep and her want unquenchable as to restoring what she felt she'd lost. He knew personally how much push existed behind such ferocity.

Now, there was this sudden revelation of her accident and subsequent injury. The hospital was telling him little beyond the fact that she was stable and that it was best for him to get there.

He hadn't gotten much from the Hampton Police. They told him it had been a one-car accident.

Bev's Mercedes had skidded off the road, smashed through a guardrail and slammed down an embankment. A passing car noticed the crash site and called 911. They said they didn't have much more than that. They'd sent an officer to the hospital in order to have Bev help them sort out the cause if she was up to it. As he was Bev's husband he could, however, come in and get a copy of the accident report.

Bev was a good driver. She had a recent model car. The weather had been clear and there were apparently no other cars involved. Could there have been something involved that the police would never consider? Could this dark power, this Dark-thing, have reached out to Bev as it had to Derek?

His head reeled with possibilities as it had for days. Derek had admitted to wishing harm upon Pat Acker, Bev, and himself. Now, Acker was dead and Bev had been hurt in an accident.

Certainly, Bev's accident was harmful to him as well.

He shook himself and climbed in his wheelchair. This latest bit of postulating put Derek at the center of it all. Could they undo this simply by having Derek reverse himself? Could it be

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that simple? Would the Dark-thing go away if Derek just said, "Oops, I didn't mean it, I take it back"? Was there really a Dark-thing at all? It was more likely that the Dark-thing was Derek's projection of his own dark self, the dark self that had wished harm to three other people.

That would all fit, Michael considered, if it wasn't for the fact that he could stand, run, walk, and do jumping jacks at will. What did that have to do with Derek wishing him harm? He couldn't be convinced that this restoration could really be a curse. True, it was forcing him to lie and compelling him to be secretive, but there were much better ways to damn a man than to give him everything he wished to have. Weren't there?

He realized he and Derek needed to do a lot more talking, as he sat and waited for his car to come up the drive with his bane behind the wheel.

Pam's cell phone went off with a shrill chirp. She meant to find out how to change the ring tone. She would ask Stewart when he came back from skipping stones across the creek.

"Hi, Doc. How goes it?"

"Actually, not so well, my dear."

"Tell me."

"Anthony's been here."

"At your house?"

"Yes, and he was looking for you and Stewart. He accused me of hiding the two of you."

"He knows then, but how?"

"He thinks he knows something. The school apparently contacted him about Stewart's extended absence."

"I was afraid that might happen."

"Well, it has. I, however, only admitted to validating the boy's excuse."

WISHES/ G.W. Huber "He must have been very angry."

"Fuming. But I think he accepted the scenario I handed him."

"Which was?"

"That you blackmailed me into excusing Stewart from school."

"How did I do that?"

"By inferring that there are photos of Anthony's abuses and threatening to expose my conspiracy."

"Too bad," Pam commented.

"What?" Doc asked.

"That I didn't think to take pictures."

"Yes, but he doesn't know that."

"You mean, he bought that?"

"I believe so. For now."

"Okay, but where does that leave us?"

"He said you have a camera."

"Yes." "Is it digital?"

"Heck no, it's an old Nikon. Zoom lens, good camera, though. Why?" "Is there film in it?"

"I think there's about half a roll to be shot. Yes." "Good."

"Why?" "I think I've got just enough time to meet up with you and Stewart."

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"Okay."

"Anthony's going to want that film developed before he comes back here or attempts to start following me."

"Please be careful, Doc. He's dangerous when he's riled."

"Trust me, Pam. I'm well aware of the danger." # Amy was happy Tom wasn't asking any more questions about the incident at Edith's. She was pleased to be with him, even though they were taking a trip to St. Luke's Hospital, a place she didn't care ever to enter since her experience there with Michael. When she spoke, even she could sense the apprehension in her voice.

"Well, this is certainly better than the last ride I took with you," she said.

"It's not exactly a luxury stretch, but, yes, it is much better than a tour in my unit."

She looked over at Tom to verify that he was even more handsome out of uniform. He was wearing a long sleeve denim shirt in a soft blue, well suited for his equally blue eyes, a downfilled sleeveless vest, and jeans. It seemed another sort of costume, common to the suburban male in autumn, but on Tom it was relaxed and natural. He steered one-handed while holding her left hand in his right hand.

"You know, you don't have to do this," he told her.

"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't go see Edith?" Amy asked.

"I'm sure she'd understand if you're not ready. It's only been a couple of days since the attack."

"I think she could use the support, she hasn't found a new ally to lean on, like I have."

Tom smiled and squeezed Amy's hand. She thought she might swoon.

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"I'm only sorry that we met under these circumstances," Tom commented.

"I'm not."

Tom gave her a quick, quizzical glance, not wanting to take his eyes off the road.

"I mean, I could really use a good, strong friend right now."

"Well, you can count on me, Amy." "I get that feeling." # The Kay-thing considered its good fortune once it realized that it had landed in the same hospital as Edith. It deliberated that there was more to do than wait. Kay needed to find her sister-in-law, dispose of her, and escape. Things were getting exciting. Kay briefly considered that her journey from the Void had not been achieved single-handedly. Another had aided her.

Another, much older and stronger wandered this world as well, and she wondered if it could be of assistance to her now. Reaching no determination, she decided to strike out on her own.

Sitting up was a little harder than she'd imagined. She rested upright, against the pillows and pondered strategy. The first thing she needed to do was find Edith.

There was always the direct method; just tell the nurse that she had a friend here and she wanted to know where she was, but that would draw attention to her desire to move about, and the nurse had already restricted her to bed. No, best not to go noticed at all, if possible.

No one had looked in on her for some time. She took note that a single tube was attached to her arm. Its line snaked and twisted to a clear bag perched atop a chrome stand. Slowly, she removed the line from her arm. She didn't have time to wait.

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CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Morgan McGlade worried about being followed to the park. He'd driven an almost ridiculously circuitous route. He was glad that Pam had decided on a place a good thirty to forty minutes ride from Hampton. That had made it easier for him to be on the look out for a tail.

Nothing similar to Anthony's pickup had appeared in his rear view mirror, direct, or peripheral perspective. Still, he didn't feel comfortable with the possibility that he might unwittingly lead the man to Pam and Stewart.

He winced as he attempted to apply his left arm to the wheel while navigating a turn. He'd checked on the injury as much as possible in the course of his rush to get to his daughter-in-law and grandson. It seemed nothing had been broken but it hurt like the dickens and there was bound to be bruising and blunt force trauma.

He was almost to Wehr's Dam. He'd phoned Pam upon leaving his house and they'd agreed to meet near the covered bridge at the western side of the park. The dam was just above the bridge at a turnout frequented mostly by fishermen and naturalists. The other end of the park

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heralded picnic benches, jungle gyms, and rest rooms. Most of the auto and foot traffic would converge there. It would be easier to keep a watch on the road from the dam area.

He pulled the car into a wide shoulder at the side of the road. He would call Pam from here and rest, taking some extra time to check against having been shadowed. He sighed and waited for her to answer the ring tone.

"Doc. What's taking so long?" came Pam's voice.

"I've been avoiding a tail."

"Have you been followed?"

"No." "You must have left nearly two hours ago."

"Close to that, I suppose. We can't be too careful at this stage."

"How much longer until you get here?"

"I've stopped less than ten minutes away."

"Why are you stopped?"

"As Stewart might say, I'm scoping things out. Does he know about any of this yet?"

"Only that you're coming to meet us and, of course, the things we discussed earlier."

"So, he knows about my true relationship to him and his father."

"Yes." "How did he react?"

"He seemed to take it in stride."

McGlade held his breath as he noticed an off-green vehicle materialize from between leafy branches on the road behind him. From the rear view mirror he couldn't be sure if it was a car or truck. It was moving rather slowly and the color matched that of Anthony's vehicle.

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"Can you hold on a minute, Pam?" he asked.

"What is it, Doc? What's going on?"

"Probably nothing. Just stay on the line and sit tight. Okay?"

"All right. Be careful."

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

Doc had to smile upon noticing the words, "objects in mirror are closer than they appear" stenciled in the glass of his side view mirror. He'd thought to get a better glimpse from there.

Upon fixing his attention back to the rear view, it seemed the green conveyance had stopped and pulled to the side some distance behind.

"We may have something here," he said into the phone.

"I'm assuming that's not something good," came Pam's voice through the ether.

"I just can't tell. It's the right color, but at this distance, and with the leaves on the trees, I can’t be certain."

"Where is it, Doc?" "Must be a couple hundred yards behind me. The troubling thing is it's pulled off the road."

"What will we do?" Pam asked.

"Wait," Doc responded.

"How long?"

"However long it takes. Where's Stewart?"

"He's playing by the water, well within my line of sight. Do you want me to go get him?"

"Not yet."

"Okay, maybe they just pulled off because of a problem or something. They'll pass you soon."

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"Someone's getting out."

"Can you tell who it is?"

"Still too far to distinguish anything. Oh, hell!"

There was a rush of static and the phone went dead at Pam's ear.

# Derek navigated Michael's expensive sedan expertly through the streets of Hampton and onto Route 309.

"You're a good driver," Michael commented. "And you need a job. Don't you?"

"Please don't go there, Mr. Forcade. I told you about the lecture my mom gave me before coming to collect you."

"What do you think her major objection to our friendship might be, Derek?"

Derek made a face like a loon. "I don't know? You reckon it might be the affair I had with your wife, and me getting my balls crushed under your wheelchair?"

"I think there's more to it than that."

"You think there needs to be more?" Derek asked. He hoped Michael hadn't found him too sarcastic. "I think that's enough."

"Look, if we're going to work this thing through, we're going to have to be spending some time together. You and I are at the heart of this mess."

"Yeah? Well, what about Pat Acker? Where was he in all of this?" Derek posed.

"He was on your list of people you wanted to see get hurt."

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Derek's eyes came off the road for the first time during the drive. "Are you going to blame me for what happened to him?"

"Of course not. You didn't kill the guy. Hell, you're the only one who considers it a homicide. Did you see the papers?"

"Yeah. Natural causes."

"Exactly. Like we agreed. Overwrought, overweight grocer finally had the heart attack everyone knew was due.

"Exactamundo."

"Except, you knew about it long before it became general knowledge."

"Because I was there, and it was anything but natural." Derek replied.

"Exactamundo," Michael answered.

Derek quieted in order to fully consider Michael's comments.

The artist in Michael could not ignore the beauty of the landscape outside the windows. The trees were in autumn glory. The quality of their grace stirred him. He noticed the way the sunlight danced amid the boughs and branches. Even the breeze was lending its variance to the light and shading. I could capture that, he thought.

Looking at his legs, he wondered if he could, indeed, capture it. He considered that if he had regained his ability to walk, it was possible he'd regained his ability to paint as well. He'd simply had yet to try. A great anxiousness overtook him and it became almost beyond his physical control to keep from insisting Derek turn the car around and head back to his home and his studio. Derek's voice cut in and brought him from his thoughts.

"Are you suggesting that I was there, but not like I told you?"

"I'm absolutely certain you were there, Derek."

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"But you're not certain that I was watching from up on the ceiling."

"Look, don't get uptight. I believe you, but I've looked at this thing so many ways my head spins. Without trying to figure how or why, the facts are that two out of the three people who you wanted to see suffer have, and that you were absolutely in the room when Pat Acker died."

"So?" "So, we need to get your mother to allow you to become my driver," Michael asserted.

"Why?" "Because you are dangerous, Derek. And I need to keep an eye on you."

# In the hour he needed to wait for Walgreen's to print the photos, Anthony Stahl began to systematically pull apart his house. He reasoned that, if there weren't any pictures of bloody noses or blackened eyes in the camera, there might be printed copies stashed here somewhere.

The more he searched, the more futile his effort seemed. After forty-five minutes of frantic exploration, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed to his Lazy-boy. He needed to think.

It was foolish to believe that Pam would have left him without her precious evidence. No doubt, if such photos did exist, they were in her possession right now. Doc had suggested as much.

If that was the case, he was doomed. Any court would give her a divorce and custody of Stewart, given that sort of proof. He might even face assault and abuse charges, depending upon Pam's determination. The only thing that could possibly make her case against him even stronger would be corroboration. She would need another person who could support her story.

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Anthony stood up and slammed his beer down on a TV. tray. An eruption of foam gushed out the rim of the can. "That bastard!" He cried out and took another swig. "You nearly fooled me, Doc," he said as he sat back upon the recliner.

He would need to approach this calmly, if he could. Rushing back to the Doctor's and demanding to be told where his wife and son were hiding out would only result in a repeat of what had just happened. Doc would insist that he didn't know anything and no amount of arguing or pummeling would alter his resolution. Anthony would need to be cunning. Doc was conspiring with Pam out of his own choice or because she was forcing him via blackmail. He would need to trick Doc into revealing their whereabouts, and then he would find out if there were photos or not.

First, he would swing by Walgreen's and get the remainder of the pictures, even though he didn't think there was anything incriminating to be found. Then he would pick up another vehicle. He figured getting a rental was best because Doc would surely recognize his truck, and borrowing someone else's car would just be getting another party involved. He wanted to keep as much of this to himself as possible.

He smiled as he walked to the refrigerator to remove a six-pack. This was going to be thirsty work. # The Kay-thing had managed to get out of bed and sneak the door to her room three-quarters shut. There was periodic activity out in the hall, as nurses and doctors milled between rooms and rounds, but no one seemed too intent on her circumstance. She hoped it would stay that way for a while. She began to rummage the closet and drawers for clothing. She couldn't just walk out of here in her flimsy hospital gown and start asking questions about Edith. Could she?

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Her search brought her nothing, so she climbed back into bed. It was best to be cautious, lest her mission be foiled before it had even begun. The door to her room was pushed fully open and a nurse entered.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Forcade?" she asked.

"Not too bad," the Kay-thing answered.

"Good, my name is Betty and I'm on your floor this shift. If you need anything, you can push the button on the end of that cord," she pointed. "And I'll come to help."

"Okay, thank you." Kay sought to be as polite as possible.

"Oh," Betty declared. "I see someone already removed your I.V. drip."

"What?"

"Your chart says I should remove you from I.V. You're fit enough to get back on solids.

You don't need the drip and I was to remove it, but someone beat me to it."

"Gee, I don't know," the Kay-thing commented. "I was asleep."

"Of course you were. Well, I'd like to get you something from the kitchen. Since the I.V. removal wasn't noted before breakfast, I'm afraid they missed you."

"Oh, that's okay."

"You really should have something. How about a fruit cup or some Jell-O?" "Okay. Thank you, Betty."

"Sure thing, just give me a few minutes to track something down."

"All right."

Betty left the room, pulling the door back to its original position. The Kay-thing took note, glad to find they would allow her that modicum of privacy. She reasoned it would come in

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handy when she figured out her next move. Until then, she would wait for nurse Betty to return with her treat. Bev was feeling a bit hungry after all, it seemed.

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CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Pam jumped a foot when her cell phone screamed just a few minutes after losing contact with Doc. She picked it up delicately, as if she was handling a wounded bird.

"Doc?" she asked tentatively.

"It's okay, Pam. Everything's all right."

"What happened?"

"Damned cell phone was low. I keep forgetting to charge it. I have it plugged into the car jack now."

"What happened to the truck?"

"It passed me. It wasn't a truck really. It was some sort of little jeep. You know how some rural mail carriers use those vehicles with the steering on the right side instead of the left?"

"Yeah, and their not usually marked like regular postal vehicles."

"That's exactly what we had here, Pam, only this one was green."

"Whew, I was really nervous, Doc." "Yeah, me too."

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"Why don't you get over here now?"

"I'm on my way."

"See you in a few."

"Okay."

Pam set the phone down in the grass, near her lap. She watched Stewart playing some kid's game in the dirt near the water. It was pretty here. The leaves were colorful, but she got the sense that they had crossed over their peak and were soon going to fall from their tethers and gather in crisping heaps. After awhile they would be raked and blown into more organized piles, gathered by men and trucks to be trundled off somewhere into larger masses, and left to decompose and rot.

She supposed the story wasn't altogether sad. Certainly, their nutrients would be added to the earth to support and feed trees like the very ones from which they'd fallen. They would help those trees grow healthy and strong, sprouting new leaves that would fall a little more than a year from now, continuing the cycle.

She thought about cycles, particularly the one she was striving to break. It seemed they were running from Anthony anew. Certainly, she and Stewart could not return to Doc's. Starting another motel dodge would be going backward. Her next move had to be toward something more permanent. She and Stewart could not continue this way. She felt like she had passed some peak and was losing her color. But she was determined not to be gathered up and hauled off to rot.

She almost missed Doc's car as it came out the near end of the old covered bridge. She thought again about how pretty it was here, how quaint with the red-roofed bridges and parkland.

While pausing a few seconds to appreciate the scene, she recognized how important it was that

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the beauty and grace of life be treasured regardless of the circumstances. She hoped she could pass this insight on to Stewart. She wished he'd come to be at peace and value living.

When she looked up, Doc was crossing the small parking area. He wasn't limping, but there was something wrong with his gait. He was injured somehow. She stood and moved to him in a rush. They embraced at the grass verge. She squeezed him tightly and felt him wince.

"Doc, are you okay?" she asked. "Are you hurt? # Tom pulled his car into a slot on the huge parking lot. Only yards away, vehicles barreled down the route they'd just exited. It was like parking on the shoulder of the highway. Amy took in the traffic as she exited the car.

"Seems we're still on the road," she commented.

"Yeah," Tom answered. "I guess they extended the parking lot as far as they could."

"Right. Any further, and they'd have caused a traffic jam." Amy laughed.

They roamed down thin corridors between vehicles and passed idling cars scavenging for spots. It took some time to wind their way across the macadam.

"I could have used my police credentials to park closer."

"So, there are perks to being the man. Aren't there?"

"A few."

Tom gently took Amy's hand in his. She stopped walking and looked around.

"This hospital's so big. It's mammoth," she said.

"I thought you'd been here before."

"I was. I guess I was preoccupied those other times."

"Or parked closer."

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"Well, at least once. When I brought Michael Forcade here. We parked in the handicapped area because of his wheelchair."

"I heard about that. Seems a real shame."

"It is. He's a decent guy."

They began walking again.

"Do you still work for him?" Tom inquired.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Tom's question was nearly swept away from him by the whoosh of the large automatic doors that opened as they gained entrance. For a few moments he thought it had been, as Amy did not answer until they approached the reception area.

"I haven't called into work since . . . the incident."

"That's understandable. Surely, they know what happened. Right?"

"Oh yeah, they're well aware. It's just like I told you. I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I have this feeling like it's over, as if I'm through with that part of my life. It's strange."

"Maybe it's best not to think about what's next right now. There's no hurry, until you're ready."

"There's always a hurry when you're missing paychecks," Amy noted.

Tom smiled and approached a woman behind a very large counter. Amy instinctively took a few steps backward. There had been an acknowledgment here. Tom would handle this, and she didn't mind.

She strode to the center of the visitors' area. Leather couches mixed and mingled in informal clusters amid coffee tables and magazine racks. An eclectic assortment of people occupied the

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large, splayed space. Amy scanned their faces for expression. There weren't many clues and she wondered if they were mostly somber or just puzzled.

Perhaps they were shocked by the circumstances that had brought them here to await news about loved ones, relatives, or friends. Maybe, they were all trying to absorb the same thing, struck by the fragility and mortality of their own lives in the grasp of this giant, sterile environment. There was a vibe here. It was a very strong one and it definitely bore down on you.

She knew why Edith disliked the place.

Behind the counter where Tom posed awaiting attention, there were several desks atop which sat computers. A group of women and one man milled around back there. They were all dressed in corporate-casual, none wore hospital whites or scrubs.

The woman he had approached was seated at a chair directly at the counter. She looked up at him, never smiling, barely taking notice. Her fingers seemed to dance neatly in her lap, and Amy realized that she was typing on a keyboard. She squinted at a monitor beside her, looked up at Tom and shook her head negatively. Tom smiled broadly, spoke to her, and leaned over the counter. Then, he reached to the inside pocket of his jacket and removed what appeared to be a billfold.

As Amy realized that Tom was flashing his badge, she noticed his jacket shift to reveal an object perched on his left hip, near the small of his back. It was a holster. Office Merkel was armed, even off duty, even at the hospital. She wondered if that was unusual, or if he carried his weapon everywhere he went. Did cops have a duty to always carry their guns? She didn't know.

Somehow the thought made her uneasy.

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The woman behind the counter, a tall brunette– Amy could tell, now that she was standing– was nodding and pointing down the hall to Tom's left. She was anything but inattentive now.

She was checking him out as he turned and walked back to the visitor's area.

"It took some influence, but I got her room number. I'm the man, you know." He laughed.

"She thinks you're the man, all right." Amy nodded at the reception area that was now fully behind Tom. He looked over his shoulder. The brunette smiled and waved. Tom returned a little wave of his own, and faced Amy. "You're turning red," Amy noted.

"Aw shucks, Miss," Tom clowned.

Amy grabbed his arm and shuffled him down the corridor in the direction the brunette had instructed. She noticed that Tom didn't look at her this time. Good, she thought.

"Why was it difficult to get Edith's room number? She's not critical or anything. Right?"

"No. Last time I checked, they said she was doing well. It's security, Amy. She was the victim of an assault. So were you."

"They're protecting her?"

"They're guarding information. I don't think anyone's actually guarding her person."

"Do you think that's necessary?"

"It's not my call."

"If it was?"

"We still don't know who attacked the two of you or why. Whoever it was seemed to go to some trouble to get Edith out of the house. That's not something your usual burglar or robber would do."

"So?"

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The elevator doors opened in front of where they were standing. They stepped into an empty car and Tom pushed the button for Edith's floor.

"So, until you and Edith tell me what you've been holding out, my guess is you could still both be in danger."

"Is this clever deduction the work of the State cops?" Amy asked.

"No, it's my own work. Truth be told, nobody else cares very much. It's a home invasion.

Rare for Hampton, but not unheard of. It was probably somebody from the city, looking for a score in the burbs. He couldn't find much of value, so he busted up a few things and took off.

Somehow he wound up dragging Edith into the yard, where you found her and confronted him.

You probably saved her life."

"End of story?" Amy asked.

"Not for me." Tom answered as the elevator stopped and the doors opened. "But we're not going there today. I promised."

He took her hand as she stepped out. He moved to walk down the hall, but she held him at arm's length.

"Hey, wait!" she called.

"What?"

She smiled, yanking him back to her.

"Your thing's hanging out."

Tom looked at his zipper.

"Huh?" he asked.

"Your gun, silly. Your gun," she said. #

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Doc's car was gone by the time Anthony reached the old man's sprawling home on the treelined, leafy street where he lived. He drew hard on his can of beer and decided to wait. A torn envelope sat on the seat next to him. It was from Walgreen's and it contained photos of Stewart's bicycle and a group of smiling women, some of whom Anthony recognized from the Ladies Auxiliary. There were no revealing shots of bruises or bloodied noses. If there were such photos, Pam had taken them with her.

But, where had she gone? That was the question. She wasn't hiding at her mother's. He'd checked her friends, and none of them seemed willing enough to risk his anger by hiding his wife and son with them. She'd grabbed a good deal of money out of their bank account. There was no recent activity on any of the credit cards they kept, so he assumed she was using the cash to keep her dodge. Probably, she was squirreled away at some motel with Stewart. If necessary, he would make the rounds, checking on every parking lot, until he tracked them down.

He took a last pull from the can. Another brew drained, he opened a fresh one and wondered if his wife might have rented a car in order to stay undetected. After all, that's why he'd rented the vehicle he was sitting in right now. He wanted to spy on the Doctor, and follow him in the hope of being led to Stewart and Pam without being spotted. He had even parked his pickup truck conspicuously in his driveway, expecting it looked like he was home, instead of here– drinking and stalking the man who might know where his family was hidden away.

The deeper he'd gotten into his six pack, the more convinced he became that Doc was in on all of this. The man had been going through obvious changes as of late. There was his newfound sobriety and his insistence that he was Anthony's real father. As he watched colored leaves fall from the trees, landing on the car and piling in scattered remnants about the grass and macadam, he felt something gather within himself. He felt a certainty solidify out of all the

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scattered bits of Doc's recent actions and ambitions and he knew the old man had been helping Pam and Stewart.

Anthony drank more from his last can and stepped from behind the steering wheel, opening the car door and standing on the asphalt. It was a typical autumn day with sporadic sunshine amid shadow and breeze. Leaves stirred and scraped along the pavement and the lawns. Except for him, the street was deserted. He closed the driver's side door and peered around. Casually, he made his way for the McGlade property.

A tall hedgerow fronted the old Victorian style house. A rod-iron fence pitched slightly forward of the hedge. The hedge and fence parted at a concrete walk that led to the steps of the front porch. A lych-gate stood between the hedgerow and fence. Anthony released its latch and walked beneath the short roof. Passing through, he walked the concrete to the porch steps.

The windows fronting the house were giant double-hungs that reached almost to the planks of the porch flooring. As he pressed his face against the glass, Anthony thought they must have been recently cleaned and wondered how the old woman who kept house for Doc could handle such work. Certainly, it had taken a stepladder inside and outside to do these windows. He doubted she was up to that and he knew it wasn't a task McGlade would have considered himself. Peering in from the porch, window to window, he considered how Pam was almost obsessive with keeping the windows of their home clear.

The carpenter walked to a side rail and stepped over. Beer still in one hand, he jumped down to the service walk. Things here were more as he had expected. The paint curled and peeled on bottom windowsills. A few of the basement hopper windows had cracked glass obscured by grit and spiny undergrowth. In places, the concrete sidewalk was cracked and heaved. Here, the windows were too high up for him to get much of a look inside. Standing on tiptoe, he was once

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again able to note how the glass here seemed grime free, as well. It would have taken a determined effort to wash all the windows on the first floor. Crumpling his now empty beer can, Anthony headed for the back.

As he rounded on the rear of the property, the wind gusted hard and he heard a loud slapping sound. He quickened his step. He knew that particular noise. It was the sound of wood against wood. No doubt, it belonged to a window sash closing or a door slamming in its frame. As the thud repeated, the sidewalk led him to the source of the sound.

This part of the house was mostly made up of a long enclosed porch. It was a twelve-season addition, but Doc often mentioned that he shut it down in autumn and winter rather than face the cost of heating a seldom used space. There were a few concrete steps that led to a French door that would open to the inside and a deep gallery that had been intended primarily for entertaining. Just before the porch extended, there was a small spot in one outside corner that featured a wooden cellar door. It was the type of basement entrance that angled low over the opening to the cellar. You had to bend down and yank the door up by a ring pull. Anthony noticed that the hatch had not been properly shut. A simple hook and eye ring secured the wood door from the inside. Someone, in haste or inconsideration, had let the hook fall between the door and its frame. Subsequently, the weather-beaten, paint-peeled, waterlogged door had been wedged partly open. The wind was lifting it from one corner and dropping it back against the frame with the bang he'd heard from beside the house.

Here, Doc's place was bordered on both sides by hedgerow and the same black rod-iron fencing as at the front. The property stopped quite a distance to the rear where another hedgerow and iron fence ensured privacy. He didn't need to look around before hefting open the cellar door.

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He pulled the ring and the door swung to his left. It was bulky and over-worn. The carpenter in him wondered why Doc had not replaced it with a steel Bilco door long ago. As he was about to prove, this thing was a serious security lapse.

Concrete steps led down to the home's foundation. There were a few shelves to the left and right as he traversed the steps. The cellar-way's contents consisted of what you'd expect, he thought. There were old rusted paint cans, paint brushes whose bristles had long ago hardened to a consistency like steel, and various metal and glass jars and containers stuffed full of old fasteners– screws, nails, hooks, and clips. It seemed there was nothing unusual here, until some of the shadows revealed an object leaned up against the entryway at the very bottom of the steps.

It was a bicycle; one with which he was very familiar. Stewart would have insisted his mother bring it wherever they were going. It sat on its kickstand directly in front of the door that would open onto the basement.

The entrance here was as old and paint-peeled as the outside cellar door, but it hadn't suffered the weather as badly and was sturdier. He would have to bust through to get to the basement.

He knew there would be tools down there that would help him gain access to the upstairs, whether Doc had locked doors or not. The effort might prove a little noisy, but it was secluded here, at the back of the house. His chances of going unnoticed were better this way than breaking a window. The knob and locking mechanism appeared as old as the door itself.

"Another security breech, dear doctor," he said aloud.

He'd deposited his empty beer can on one of the shelves on his way down. He considered that he was fast becoming thirsty. The old man might not have beer up there, but he was certain to find a stash of the hard stuff even if the good doctor had recently taken to sobriety.

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All he needed now was a battering ram. A couple of hard shots around the lock would certainly smash through the long-softening wood of the frame. Just one good bash alone might do it. A scavenge of the shelves revealed nothing more useful than a half-encrusted pair of slip joint pliers. He didn't want to risk the tire iron from the trunk of his rental car, because he might be seen carrying it back here. He had no intention of dealing with nosy neighbors and the possibility of police, especially since his recent trouble with the authorities. Looking around once more, he realized he'd missed the obvious.

Using the pliers he'd found, he could easily remove the tires and some parts of his son's bike.

The frame would be plenty sturdy enough to smash open the door, and it would be his first act of retaliation against his three principle betrayers. Anthony's eyes glittered dangerously and a smile resembling a long gash opened in his face as he began prying apart his son's most prized possession.

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CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Nurse Betty was gone for some time and, upon her return, had little more to offer than a small bowl of wobbly, skinned-over red jell and a plastic spoon.

"I'm sorry. This was all I was able to come up with, but I've got you down for a light meal at dinner."

"Thank you, I'm sure it will do till then," the Kay-thing feigned courtesy.

Nurse Betty turned to leave but, in a move reminiscent of Columbo, she stopped to proffer a question. "Mrs. Forcade? Is it all right to send in the policewoman?" she asked.

"Police woman?"

"Yes. She'd like to ask you some questions about the accident. She's been waiting for some time."

Often, the Kay-Bev thing thought, opportunity knocks, but sometimes it just kicks the door wide open.

"Well, I guess it's okay." Sooner or later she would have to stop hamming it up, but she couldn't resist.

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"If you'd rather not," Nurse Betty conceded. "I'm sure it can wait."

"No it's okay. I'm up to it. I'm sure. Please, send her in."

"Okay. Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Forcade?"

"No, just send the officer. Woman, you said?"

"Yes. Policewoman."

"Just send her in, please."

"You're sure?"

"Certainly."

"It'll just be a moment."

"Fine."

The Kay-who was also Bev-thing could barely discern muffled voices in the hall outside her room immediately following Betty's exit. Whoever this policewoman was, Kay had no doubt that she could overpower her physically or supernaturally. She considered what she might have to do with Bev, should she determine to possess the cop in the manner in which she had her daughter-in-law. Some other option seemed preferable. She liked this body, it was very attractive, and she enjoyed dominance over Beverly. It would be a shame to give up this part of her escapade, she thought, even as a medium built brunette in a dark blue uniform haltingly entered the room.

"Mrs. Forcade?"

"Yes," answered the imposter.

"I'm Officer Silfies, ma'am. I'm here to ask you about the accident."

"Sure." The poser squirmed in the bed and pointed to the hall. "Would you mind closing the door? This is all embarrassing enough."

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The policewoman visibly relaxed. "Of course, ma'am."

Officer Silfies carried a hat in her hand. She wore her dark hair drawn back into a tight bun.

Her leather belt and holster made vague creaking noises as she motioned to a chair. "Is it okay if I pull that over?" she asked.

"Go ahead."

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Forcade?"

"Actually, I suddenly feel as though I need to use the toilet." The Kay-Bev thing nodded in the direction of the bathroom.

"Would you like me to get the nurse?" Officer Silfies asked.

"No. I just need a little hand. If you don't mind."

The Kay-thing skirted Bev's body to the bedside nearest the policewoman. The rail was lowered and she slid her butt to the edge. Legs dangling over the side, she winced and reached out, child-like, for Officer Silfies. Caught off guard, the woman extended both arms to aid the patient. The pretender stooped Bev's shoulders and slammed herself at the cop in a pile driver.

She plowed the brunette backward, until they fell in a tangle to the floor.

Stunned, Officer Silfies was too slow to stop Kay-Bev from relieving her of her gun. In a swift motion, her service weapon was smashed across the bridge of her nose. Seeing stars and choking on her own blood, she could only look dazedly at her attacker.

"Huh?" the cop asked.

"Into the bathroom, now!" The gun-pointing blonde urged. "Move it. I will use this. I know how." As if to demonstrate, she clicked off the safety.

The policewoman mumbled something that only caused more blood to gout. She moved to stand and Kay brought the pistol down hard between her shoulder blades.

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"Crawl over there. Don't stand or I'll shoot you."

Officer Silfies complied, inching across hard linoleum and into the lavatory.

"Climb in the shower and strip," Kay-Bev commanded.

The injured officer gave her a pleading look.

"Just do it. I don't have time to explain." The fraud tossed the other woman a towel. "And try keeping the blood off that uniform. I'm going to need it to stay clean." # Pam pressed her point with Doc, as Stewart continued to play by the water. "Absolutely no more running and hiding. Look what he's done now. I'm not going to allow him to hurt anyone else."

Upon Doc's arrival, he and Pam had taken to sitting at one of the few picnic tables this near the dam. She'd pressed him about his obvious injury and he had, hesitatingly, been forced to admit to Anthony's attack.

"I thought that was the point of running and hiding, my dear. To avoid his wrath."

"Yeah well, look where it's gotten us, Doc. I've fled his wrath for far too long. I'm not frightened anymore. I'm angry, and I'm going to do something about it."

"Okay." Doc raised his hands in mock surrender. "What's our first move?"

"We're going to the police for the Protection From Abuse order my lawyer told me to file."

"Okay," Doc responded.

"And you're going to press assault charges against him for hitting you with the hammer."

The old man hung his head. "I'm not sure," he said.

"Doc! You can't back out on us now. What's wrong with you?"

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"I don't know. Anthony's alluded to there being more in that letter than he's told. I guess I thought that, with more time, I might find out what it is."

"Oh jeez, Doc." Pam took his hand from across the wooden table. "Anthony's got you scared, and you've got reason to be, but he's just using the same tricks on you. Certainly, you see that."

"I suppose, but what if the truth comes out?"

"About Kay's death?"

"Yes." Doc was having a difficult time raising his head. Pam reached over and cupped his chin in one palm, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"Then, Morgan McGlade, we'll face it together. You and me, and your grandson. Whatever it is, it's not as bad as what we've been suffering. And, there's a very good chance there's nothing at all to fear. Don't forget that it really was an accident."

"You're right, of course."

"It's just that you've felt guilty so long and he's counting on that guilt to continue."

"Yes, I see."

"Good. Let's get Stewart and get out of here."

"To the police?"

"To the police, and then home."

"Home?"

"To your place, Doc. We're not running anymore."

"Okay, my dear. I'll get with the program."

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They stood and hugged. Each felt the other shake with the knowledge of what they were about to attempt. Stewart had finally looked up from his exertions to take note of Doc's presence. He ran over to the picnic table just as the two adults broke from their embrace.

"Hi Grandpa!" the youngster shouted and enfolded Doc in his arms.

"Why, hello there, Grandson. I guess the cat's out of the bag, eh?"

"I'm glad," Stewart said.

"So am I," said Doc. "Group hug," Pam declared.

In a tight circle of three, they clung to one another as if their lives depended on it. # Michael Forcade's gray Mercedes glided down the entrance toward visitor parking at St. Luke's Hospital. Derek stopped the car at a verge. A hard right would bring vehicle and occupants to the main parking area; a left led them around back to the emergency entrance.

"Are you remembering your visit?" Michael inquired from the passenger seat.

"Sort of, it's different though. Isn't it?"

"Big difference between being a patient and a visitor."

Derek steered the car right.

"This is where they took you, then."

"Yeah. But they didn't bring me in the way we're going."

"Right, it was back there where we stopped. To emergency. Like they took me," Derek observed.

"It was to emergency all right, but it was by helicopter, Derek."

"Oh, wow. Do you remember much?"

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"Mostly, I remember not being able to move. I thought it was because I was strapped in."

"But it wasn't."

"No, I suppose it wasn't."

Derek found a handicapped space. It was some distance from the entrance.

"Are we close enough?"

"Probably lucky to get this near. Even the blue spaces fill up here."

"You don't like it here," Derek observed.

"No, I don't like it here at all," Michael acknowledged.

"It must have been some rush to get it back. The use of your legs, I mean."

"It still is."

"What if you have to give it up? What if you have to go back to being paralyzed?"

"You mean as a result of opposing this dark-thing?"

"Yeah. What if it can take away your renewal?"

"Interesting choice of words, Derek. Renewal is a good description for how I feel. Except, that it also feels a bit like I cheated, as though it's undeserved."

Derek got out of the driver's side of the car and removed Michael's wheelchair from the trunk. He unfolded it, as he'd been shown. He opened the passenger's door and leaned inside.

"You didn't answer my question," the young man noted.

"You're right," Michael responded. "I didn't." # The Kay-Bev thing examined itself in the glass of the bathroom mirror. Officer Silfies' uniform was a trifle large, but she was able to tug it tight with a few tucks and some belt tightening here and there. The weapon's weight at her hip felt reassuring. Perhaps the things

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gave cops false security, she considered. Maybe that explained why the naked woman lying unconscious in the shower was able to offer only minimal resistance.

More than likely, however, it was this new found self that had astounded her, as it had many others. Kay had no understanding how she had morphed into this supernatural existence. She simply accepted this state as a sort of redemption for what she'd suffered in natural life.

Therefore, it was obvious course that she use it for reprisal and revenge against all those who had opposed or failed to support her in living. It did not occur to her that this was a trivial or selfish track, such consideration had never occurred to her.

She brought her hair into a tight bun, in duplication of Officer Silfies, which had become a tangled mass atop her downcast head. A bit of red flowed from the policewoman and mingled with water at the drain to become a pink trickle. Kay-Bev noticed it more for the delicacy of its color than anything else, as she pulled the uniform hat tightly on her head.

She wouldn't pass for the downed officer upon close inspection, but she didn't think that would prove necessary. Nurse Betty and a few others on this floor might have seen the brunette cop around long enough to be alerted by the pose, but she would get off this floor as quickly as possible. Her inquiries would be made on other levels. Hell, it wouldn't seem a bit strange for her to ask someone on staff about her sister-in-law's whereabouts. Police people were always poking around, looking for someone.

She cocked her head at the mirror and thought about how this opportunity had fallen into her lap. It seemed just more proof that she was on the right course with her revenge. She headed out the door and down the hall knowing she was following the call of destiny.

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CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

It didn't take Anthony long to make his way from the dank basement to the main rooms of Doc McGlade's home. The place was spacious. He milled around the downstairs and into the kitchen where he'd struck the old man with the hammer. There was no beer in the fridge, so he helped himself at the bar in the study. He'd been right to figure that Doc still had plenty of the hard stuff on hand. He swiftly drank two bourbons from a brandy snifter and prepared a third as he readied himself for a trip to the second floor.

He climbed the staircase, rather steadily for a man quickly becoming drunk. He'd never been this deep inside the dwelling and its dimensions were unknown to him. At the top of the stairs, he turned right down a short hall. At its end, he turned the corner to another, longer hall. Here, he came upon a series of suites with the doors standing open. There was a new computer and CD gear in one of the set of rooms. After investigating a little further down the hall, he found an even larger suite within which were some of his wife's possessions.

Stewart and Pam had been staying here for some time. It had obviously been a long enough time to make them comfortable. Why had they taken up with the old doctor? What was at the

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heart of their treachery? Certainly, he had to figure that Doc and Pam had exchanged stories.

Did she now know about his mother's murder and the subsequent blackmail engineered by his father? How much would Doc actually tell?

Anthony considered these questions as he ambled back to the short hall and around the far corner to another long hallway. The second floor was dominated by two wings that were connected by the short hall featuring the stairs. On one side of the house he'd found the suites occupied by his wife and son. On this other, opposite side, was another set of suites. The rooms nearest the connecting hall were the doctor's.

Farther down the wing he found a series of locked doors. Here the house was more chill and smelled of disuse. Still, his curiosity pressed him. Behind one or more of these secured entries lay the infamous parlor where his mother had been slain. The locks were old and he was sure that, with a little bit of prying, they would easily yield.

Anthony smiled to himself as he set back for the short hall and the stairway. He would get the tools he'd left downstairs, along with some more bourbon, and return to open the locks. It seemed a predestined task to him, but the thought of its completion did not bring any sense of fulfillment. Instead, his mood seemed to sour and anger pressed on his skull like some live force seeking entry. He reasoned that more booze would soothe him and a little breaking and entry could pass the time until the three traitors returned. Then, things were guaranteed to liven up. # The Kay-Bev thing was in the hall leading to Edith's room. She had managed to get off her floor and down to the admissions office with no trouble at all. The police uniform had elicited a good deal of cooperation. Now, she strode to her goal.

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She was certain that she could dispatch this old woman without difficulty. If only her brother could be here to witness the act. That would sweeten the pot. He'd died many years after her, at the end of a happy and fulfilling life. She felt that life should have been hers. She should have been the one to survive to old age. She should have been the recipient of the sort of love and adoration Clarence had known. Killing her sister-in-law would extinguish the source of his contentment.

Doctors and nurses, orderlies and housekeepers buzzed around her like flies. Not a single person questioned her being here. The uniform and badge bespoke all the authority she would need. The room number outside the next door on her right matched the one she'd been given by admissions. She strode to it with confidence. It was far enough from the nurse’s station to allow for a quick getaway. No one would wonder at a cop moving swiftly down the corridor.

The door was open about halfway, so she moved gracefully to swing around it without opening or closing it additionally. With luck, she would go unnoticed slipping into the room.

She paused for just a second on the threshold. A slight murmur came from the bed nearest the entry. It sounded like whispered conversation. Deciding she could not risk stopping half in and half out the door, she hurried inside.

It was a semi-private room. A curtain was drawn around the bed farthest to the back. The shades were mostly drawn and the room was draped in shadow. She stood near the wall and slowed her breathing as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. The soft speaking continued. As her sight bettered, she could see that the woman in the first bed was talking under her breath.

Listening, she caught grasp of the words.

"Oh my. Is it really her? It's time, then. I understand."

The Kay-thing was baffled by the litany. Then, the woman spoke up.

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"Kay?" she asked. "Kay. Is it you?"

Bev's heart skipped a beat in the body Kay had hijacked.

"Certainly, you know I can see you," said the bundle in the bed. "You don't believe you're invisible or something. Do you?"

The Kay-thing raised her head and her vision toward the other bed in the room.

"Don't worry about her. She's quite ill, I'm afraid. They keep the curtain closed most all the time. I'm the one you're looking for. I'm Edith." Almost as an after thought, she added, "Clarence's wife."

The Bev imposter was frozen to her spot. This was Edith all right. This was the woman she was after, but how had she known that?

"Can you speak?" Edith asked.

Kay responded by dashing to the bed and covering Edith's mouth with her hand.

"Just shut up," Kay said.

The atmosphere was too aphotic to take note, but Edith did not seem scared or agitated. She did not struggle under her gag.

"I want you to answer me very quietly. The same tone you were muttering in earlier. Got it?"

Edith nodded her head.

"Okay."

Kay-Bev took her hand away.

"How do you know about all this? How do you know who I am, and who I'm looking for?"

"Clarence told me."

"Clarence is dead."

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"So are you."

"Shit! Is he here?"

"Yes." "Where?"

"In this room, right here. Right now. Can't you see him?"

"You're lying.

"Why would I lie?"

"I don't know. It's some kind of trick."

"Well, it's all that. Isn't it?"

Kay punched Edith hard in the face. A gasp and a shutter came from the elderly woman.

"He didn't do much about that. Did he?"

Edith didn't respond.

"Did he?" Kay raised her voice cautiously.

"No," Edith whimpered.

"Why not?" Kay asked.

"I don't know."

"Didn't you say that here's right here, in this room?"

"Yes." "Still?"

"What?"

"Is he still here, in the room?"

Kay noticed Edith lift her gaze to a spot near her bed. She saw her draw the fingers of her left hand closed.

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"Yes, he is." Edith answered with something like defiance in her voice.

"Where, specifically."

"On the other side of my bed. Directly across from you." Edith's breath hitched deeply in her chest and she wept openly. "He's holding my hand."

Kay couldn't see the brother she loathed in life and death, but she had little doubt that Edith could. Was he here like she was, or was he some weaker specter; some do-nothing, feeble ghost? Certainly, he didn't have her strength. If he did, wouldn't he have revealed himself by now? Wouldn't he fight to save his beloved?

Edith's weeping was growing louder and more uncontrollable. She seemed to acknowledge the wraith Kay could not see more than she acknowledged the body Kay had stolen. In seconds, Kay felt the pillow in Bev's hands. She drew it down over the old woman's face until the crying was muffled. Leaning heavily across the grayed head, she recited a mantra.

"Where are you brother? Show yourself. Where are you? Show yourself as your woman dies."

She repeated the words over and over until there was almost as little breath left in Bev's body as there was in Edith's. # Tom was first to reach Edith's room. The door burst open just as he touched it. His mind registered the police uniform almost instantly and his eyes went for the brass nameplate. Seeing the inscription Silfies nearly made him relax, except that the person in the official garb was not Janet Silfies.

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First, there was a tangle of blonde hair hanging from beneath the uniform hat. Janet Silfies was a brunette and she was known never to wear the hat indoors. Secondly, Janet's eyes were a soft, compassionate brown, not the cold blue that stared fixedly at him through a spiteful gaze.

"Hey! What the hell?" Tom shouted as the Kay-thing shoved him from the threshold.

"Out of my way!" Kay-Bev hollered.

Tom reached for the gun at his hip and Kay grabbed Amy, who had been following until the crash of bodies. Officer Silfies' weapon was pressed under Amy's chin before Tom's own cleared his holster.

"Drop it," Kay hissed.

"Tom!" Amy cried.

"Quiet voices, or you die," Kay said to Amy. "Lay the gun on the floor and kick it into the room. Right now."

The Bev pretender had worked her way directly behind Amy, and all three were now in a press at the entry to Edith's room. Tom was three quarters through the door. He bent slowly and placed his gun on the floor.

"Kick it hard, or her brains will splatter."

Tom did as he was told.

"Now, step in the room, handsome. We're right behind you."

Tom knew instantly that the woman in the near bed had died. He guessed she must be Edith.

A pillow lay across her face, one hand held it in a death grip. Her other hand was fisted tight at the end of a splayed arm.

"Oh my, God," Amy gasped as Kay shoved her inside and pushed the door closed.

"This is very fucking inconvenient," the Kay-thing commented.

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Tom noticed that Edith was not hooked to any sort of monitor. No automatic alarms had signaled her death. No doctors and nurses were about to come rushing in to help the patient.

He'd been correct in telling Amy that they'd expected a recovery. The chances of someone entering the room were slim. Hospitals are busy places and the sickest patients get the most attention. Stable patients are checked on far less frequently. Stalling, he deduced, would be a good tactic.

"Who are you?" he asked the Bev pretender.

"I'm Officer Sifies."

"No you're not."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I'm Officer Merkel."

"Well, fancy that. Is this squirmy package Mrs. Merkel?"

"No." "Then, you won't mind me cuffing her."

Amy's arms were tugged viciously and her wrists were slammed into handcuffs. Kay never took her eyes off Tom. Expert, he thought. Who is this woman?

"You keep your gun handy off-duty. I'd guess your handcuffs, too. Take them out and sit in that chair."

"Who are you?" Tom asked again.

"An old friend of Edith's. Come to pay my respects. Now, sit and quit hedging. No one's coming to rescue you."

Kay-Bev pressed the gun harder beneath Amy's chin. Tom saw the tears running down her cheeks. Reluctantly, he took out his cuffs and sat down.

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"Very good. Perhaps the pretty girl will get out of this alive. I suppose you carry a cell phone at least, if not a police radio of some sort?"

"Just a cell phone."

"Remove it carefully and toss it. Anywhere out of range."

Tom threw his cell phone to the rear of the room.

"The keys for your handcuffs, toss them, too."

A tinkling sound followed the route of Tom's cell phone.

"Back-up piece?" Kay inquired.

"No, I don't carry one."

"Okay, I suppose I'll have to trust you on that. Cuff yourself to the chair."

Tom did as he was instructed.

"Now, the pretty girl and I will take our leave."

"Amy," Tom interjected. "Her name is Amy." "Rude to interrupt me, Tom. She did call you Tom. Didn't she?"

"Yes, I'm Tom." "Tom is a good cop, Amy. Do you know what Tom is doing? No? I'll tell you, Amy. He's trained that in a hostage situation, if the abductor knows your name, he or she might be less likely to kill you. The more I see you as a person, Amy, the harder it supposedly is for me to pull the trigger. Would you like to bet on that, Amy? Tom?" "Take me, instead. I can be more valuable as a hostage."

"Gallant and brave. Is he as good a lover as he is a cop, Amy?" Amy cried hard, but quietly. Kay yanked on her cuffs.

"Well, Amy. Is he?"

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"I don't know," Amy sobbed.

"Really? Too bad we don't have time to find out. Now, Tom, listen up. I hate to repeat myself. Amy and I are going to leave here together. I've no doubt that chair will barely slow down a robust young man as yourself. However, if you or anyone else comes after us, I will kill Amy. Is that clear, Tom?" "Yes." "Amy, is that clear to you, as well? After all, it is your life being risked."

"Yes," Amy answered. "It's clear."

"You do believe me. Don't you, dear Tom?" "Yes, I do."

"Amy?" "Yes, I do" "If only I was a preacher, those words might have made for a happier ending."

"Car keys?" The question seemed addressed to both Amy and Tom. "Amy drove," Tom answered.

"All right, then. We're off."

In what seemed like just a blink, the police impersonator and Amy were gone from the room.

Kay guided Amy swiftly through a door at the end of the hall. They traveled down a stairwell. They would be outside quickly. No one had seemed to notice their hasty exit, let alone inquire of Amy's predicament.

Kay-Bev had used her time wisely. Instead of immediately going to Edith's room upon the costumed escape of her own, she'd scouted the entire third floor, making herself aware of the

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layout should a quick exit become key. She'd found the stairwell was the most prudent escape in case of a problem.

At the bottom of the stairs were two doors. One would lead them into the main corridor on the first floor, past reception, and out the entrance to the parking area. Kay felt hesitant to use this route, since she would be exposed to the general public in a big way. She'd already run into one cop. She couldn't risk being slowed down. Officer Merkel was no doubt freeing himself to make a pursuit at this very moment.

She looked to the other door, which she knew led outdoors by a side route. She was discouraged when she noted a sign that said an alarm would sound upon opening the door. Amy struggled in her binding and Kay made a show of grabbing the butt of Officer Silfies' gun. Amy settled and, as Kay-Bev shoved her against the far wall, she noticed the door with the sign was slightly ajar. She thought she could hear voices from outside. Grabbing Amy by one arm, she pushed on the door and it yielded easily, without having to unlatch.

The pretend cop and Amy exited into bright sunlight. To one side of the outlet stood a man and a woman, each in different color scrubs. They were smoking cigarettes. Obviously, during the daytime the alarm was deactivated in order to allow for sneaking a smoke. They acknowledged the policewoman with a nod and critically examined her handcuffed captive without recognition. Kay was again grateful for fate. Police personnel were commonplace at a hospital and certainly, upon occasion, they were seen escorting prisoners.

Her next move would prove a little more difficult. There was no black and white for her to drive away in with Amy back-seated. She directed her hostage several feet beyond the smokers, stopped, and spoke lightly in her ear.

"Where are the keys?" Kay asked.

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"I didn't drive."

"What?" Kay struggled to appear calm.

"I didn't drive. Tom tricked you."

"Okay, Amy. I'm going to turn you to face the building. I'm going to pat you down like a real criminal and if I find the keys, I'm going to pistol-whip the shit out of you the moment we leave here."

"You'll find keys, but not to the car parked on the lot. Tom drove here, not me. The keys to my car are on the ring in my right pocket. Go ahead, look."

The Kay-thing reached roughly inside Amy's right pocket. Her hand came out holding a key ring.

"I think he wanted to slow you down."

Kay didn't like the confidence creeping into Amy's voice. She turned the girl around and pondered the parking lot, wondering whose trick this really was, Tom's or Amy's. As she looked to the sidewalk several feet ahead of them, she saw two men standing and gaping at her.

"Bev?" the one in a wheelchair inquired. "Is that you?"

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CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Anthony checked on the voices for the third or fourth time. He had to be certain that Doc and his rebellious family hadn't returned while he was up here. So, he once again walked to the head of the stairs and listened intently. There were no sounds from downstairs and he was led to believe that what he'd heard had come from behind one of the doors in the hall beyond Doc's rooms.

There, he'd found one door with a heavier, more modern lock. Upon breaking it open, it's contents revealed medical supplies and order forms, prescription sheets, and the like. So, he'd begun his tampering with the other doors. That's when he started hearing muffled voices.

Maybe he shouldn't have brought the entire bottle of bourbon up here along with the tools, he thought as he returned to his burglary work. His mind was playing tricks on him. He'd gotten too drunk too fast. Surely he hadn't heard his father speaking to him just a minute ago.

This hallway bothered him. It seemed that there were people occasionally moving around up here, either behind the doors of locked rooms or passing by his turned back as he struggled to

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undo bolts and knobs. He capped the bottle of booze and set it on the floor beyond easy reach.

He'd obviously drunk too much already. He didn't want to flake out entirely.

It was necessary that he get into this room. Judging by the space between doors, this was the largest suite. He figured it had to be the second floor parlor, the room where Doc had killed his mother. He had never been curious about this place before, but now it tugged at him with a demand he could not deny. It had energy, like a live electrical wire. As the lock finally gave way, he thought he heard a loud pop, as though he'd broken the seal on an oversize Ball jar.

Then, he was inside. It was tidier here than he'd imagined. Someone still cared for the room and kept it clean. The furniture was more modern than he thought it would be. McGlade must have changed some things in here since the incident. The space was smaller than it seemed from the hall and was largely dominated by a bar and stools at its center. Atop the bar was a bottle of bourbon. He quickly looked out into the hallway and felt foolish when he realized that he was checking to see that the bottle he'd left out there hadn't somehow followed him.

He touched everything. Without knowing why, he ran his hands over the bar top. He stroked the fabric of cushions and carpets. His fingers felt for grooves and notches along wooden trim and molding. He absorbed the place and such assimilation tired him. He settled upon the couch to rest and heard the voices come to him. This time their timbre was clearer and he closed his eyes to catch their meaning. Nodding his understanding, he fell asleep. # Doc was shaky, as Pam trudged across the Hampton P.D. parking lot in his wake. She knew he was uneasy about what they'd just done, but she still wasn't certain about the source of his distress. She caught up to him near their cars.

"All you sure you're okay, Doc?" she asked.

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The older man turned and leaned heavily against the driver's side door of his sedan.

"I'm bothered by all of this," he sighed.

"I thought we talked it all through. This was the right thing to do. Soon, with the lawyer's help, there will be another P.F.A. order against Anthony, along with the one Mom already pressed. The police know he's on a rampage searching for Stewart and me, and that he assaulted you. They said we can contact the school and make arrangements for home schooling Stewart for a while."

"Anthony's not the type of man to be stopped by a few pieces of paper."

"Doc, he's already in trouble for what he did at my mother's place. You just gave the cops the name and number of his attorney and they said they were contacting him immediately to notify Anthony of the pending orders and a warrant for assault. It isn't just a few pieces of paper.

They sent a car to the house. Do you think he'll run? He'll just post bail and, hopefully, stay away from us all in order to avoid more trouble."

"Anthony's not afraid of trouble."

"I'm not sure. It's never really found him before. Has it?"

Stewart caught up to the adults. He'd been wandering between the large trees lining the macadam lot, doing his best to let his mother and grandfather talk on their own.

"I liked the park better," he said.

"I don't blame you," Doc smiled.

"Is Dad in a lot of trouble?"

"Not any more than he deserves," Pam answered before thinking. "I mean, he hit your grandfather with a hammer."

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"Are you sure you're okay, Doc?" Stewart had been switching between addressing the Elder McGlade as Grandpa, and Doc, trying the titles on to see which one fit best. "That must of hurt."

"Still does a bit, grandson." Doc rubbed the injured arm. "But we're a tough bunch." # Tom waited approximately five minutes before moving. The woman pretending to be Officer Silfies was pretty sly. He was not entirely convinced that she would run off with Amy without doubling back to check on him. When she'd said she would kill, he felt certain she was being truthful. Something about her had reached him on a gut level, and it wasn't just the uniform she'd stolen and the gun she'd held on Amy. She was a dangerous killer already, he was positive. That thought caused him to ponder the fate of Janet Silfies as he dragged the chair and himself across the floor in search of the handcuff keys.

Janet was a thoughtful woman. She was divorced with a young daughter at home. It was her compassion that made her a good cop. She wasn't in it for the power trip or ego gratification like some of the officers he knew. Janet had a will to help others and she would go the extra mile for you. He hoped she was okay. He thought he'd seen a few dark splotches on her uniform. It was blood, he was sure, and her imposter had not been visibly injured. Perhaps she had turned up already. Maybe, there were a lot of cops out there in the parking lot now. Hopefully, their attacker had been caught and Amy was fine. If not, he was her only hope. He found his cell phone first, but he couldn't get it off the floor. He realized he would have to scuffle behind the privacy curtains of the far bed to continue his hunt. Just as he slid to that end of the room, a voice spoke up.

"They're under the radiator, on your left," a man said.

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Tom looked at the door. It was still completely closed, as Amy's abductor had left it. He was alone in the room with Edith's corpse and whoever was in the other bed.

"Under the radiator," the voice repeated. "You must get moving. There isn't much time."

"Huh?" Tom looked about the room, confused.

"Under the radiator!" The voice was a bullhorn in Tom's ears. "Now! Get after her! Look what she's done. Look what she's done to my poor dear."

Tom sensed movement at Edith's bedside. The air coalesced thinly and Tom caught the impression of a mature form before a sob dispersed the gathering shape.

# Michael and Derek stood frozen by the sight before them. The Kay-Bev grabbed the butt of Officer Silfies' gun and forcefully dragged Amy in the direction of the two stunned men.

"Keep your mouth shut," Kay advised Amy. "Or I'll waste everybody right here, right now."

"Amy? What the hell's going on here?" Michael asked, as cop and prisoner approached.

"Derek, where's the car?" Kay-Bev inquired.

Derek pointed over his shoulder to the gray Mercedes parked just a few feet away, in the handicapped slot. He had an idea of what might be going on and he found it difficult to speak.

"Get it!"

Derek moved off for the car.

"What are you doing?" Michael shouted at the younger man. "Derek! What the hell is this?"

"Tell him to stay cool," Kay directed Amy as they reached Michael.

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"Amy?" Michael stared up at her.

"Please Michael, just cooperate."

"Cooperate with what? Bev, what the hell are you doing?"

"Collecting debts, Michael."

Derek pulled the car to the curb and got out.

"Wheel Michael to the passenger side and get him in the car. Amy and I are in the back. You first, pretty girl."

The police pretender forced Amy inside. Michael fought Derek's insistence.

"I'm not going anywhere until someone tells me what's going on."

Derek bent to Michael's ear while reversing him to the car.

"Bev's not herself Michael. Literally, not herself and she's going to shoot all of us, or at least Amy, unless we do what she says. Got it?"

"But," Michael began.

"Let's not be rude, boys," Kay interjected. "Shut up and get in."

Michael started to rise from the chair, and Derek pressed him down with a hand on his shoulder. Risking another whispered exchange; he spoke while hauling open the front passenger door.

"Keep faking it. I don't think she knows you can walk. Play along, Michael, be smart."

The artist nodded and slipped, with Derek's aid, from the wheelchair to the car seat. Derek closed the door and took the chair to the trunk.

"Hurry up, lover," ordered Kay. "I am," answered Derek.

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Kay reasoned that despite everything, they were causing very little of a scene. The position of the car served to screen her from most of the people milling from the parking lot. The side entrance through which they had exited was far enough from the main entrance so as not to be distinctly noticeable. She'd rushed Amy into the back fast enough to be inconspicuous. Derek was positioning himself behind the wheel as she closed her door.

"Good job. I think I owe that to you, Derek. Maybe I can find a way to repay you later."

No one missed the sexual innuendo of the last sentence. Even though this looked like Bev, was Bev, Derek felt repulsed by the thought of such reward.

"Now drive, lover. Determinedly, but not too fast."

"Where to?" Derek asked.

"Out of here for now. Just go!"

Derek did as directed and the sleek automobile pulled away from the building. # Tom was racing down the stairs as fast as he could. He'd unlocked himself from the chair, collected his cell phone and gun, and he was now in hot pursuit of Amy and the woman who had abducted her. He didn't have time to consider the voice he'd heard directing him in Edith's room.

He didn't even have time to call anyone on his cell phone.

The stairs were right at the end of the hall, as he'd stepped into the corridor. He wasn't sure, but he felt that the woman had probably forced Amy along this very same route. Instinct told him that she would have avoided the elevators and the potential for exposure they risked. She would want to go quickly and unobtrusively as possible. Along those lines, he burst through the side door at the bottom of the stairwell. He ignored the sign warning of a fire alarm. At this point in time, such an alert would prove more beneficial than hindering.

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The door flew open with no alarm. Tom noted that he was at the east side of the main building. The employee parking deck was to his right and the visitors lot was a left along the same sidewalk. Hoping his lie about Amy driving here had slowed their progress, Tom ran left.

As he got to the curb, a large gray car was driving away. Tom stopped a few people in the vicinity.

"Police!" He hollered. "Police!"

Stragglers stopped and stared at him.

"Has anyone seen a policewoman escorting a female prisoner?" He inquired of the group in general. He pointed to several of the onlookers. "You? You? Have you seen a woman cop with a woman prisoner?"

"I seen somethin' a little strange," a young Hispanic man spoke up. "But I didn't see no prisoner."

Tom rushed to him. "What? What did you see?"

"I seen a police lady getting into a big Mercedes. I thought it was a little weird because she was in uniform, you know? She got in the back, and it sure wasn't no patrol car."

"When did you see them?"

"Just now, dude. They just drove away from over there." The young man pointed back to the area where Tom had come out the side door. He remembered the gray car. He looked up and saw its back end swinging onto the exit road.

"That car?" Tom asked. "That one, leaving now?" he pointed.

The Latino followed Tom's indication.

"Sure. That could be it. Like I said, it just pulled away."

Tom began running for his car and shouted back over his shoulder.

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"Blonde," he hollered. "Was the cop a blonde?"

"Yeah!" the man called back. "Pretty hair hanging down under her cap. That's why I noticed her, dude." # Derek brought Michael's car to a stop at the end of the hospital exit. The traffic signal was red.

"Which way?" he asked.

"Back to Hampton," Kay-Bev answered.

"Bev, what is this all about?" Michael asked.

"I told you, Michael. It's about collecting debts."

"What has Amy got to do with some debt?"

"Make the turn, Derek. Sweet Amy here was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Kay was receiving impressions from everyone in the car. At the moment she'd sat in proximity to Michael and Derek, she'd known of their new alliance. While the disclosures were helpful, she felt awash in the emotions of these people, and that hampered her. She had her own agenda and, with the exception of Michael, these people had no part in her plan. This was Bev's cast.

"So, this is some kind of retribution against me?" Michael concluded.

"Oh, Michael it's far from me to demand reprisal from you." Kay-Bev stroked Amy's hair as the girl slid against the far door, as much out of her kidnapper's grasp as possible. "That would be up to your wife."

"What?"

"I told you," Derek spoke up. "That's not Bev."

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"What do you mean?" Michael insisted.

"Did you forget everything we talked about?" Derek asked. "All the weird shit going down."

Kay unholstered the police weapon from her side and reached up and across the interior to a point behind Michael's left ear. Amy gasped. Michael went rigid and Derek struggled to keep his eyes on the road.

"Listen good, Michael. Derek is right," Kay-Bev said. "Just how he's become so insightful is puzzling, but his senses are sound. This is your wife's body, but she is not its controlling occupant. If I have to go into greater detail, I will become terribly annoyed. If I become terribly annoyed, I will blow your fucking head off. Is that clear?"

"Partly."

"Don't tempt me, Michael. Now, I want all of you to shut up so Derek can concentrate on driving. I've already been in one accident." # Tom steered his car out of the parking lot. He could still see the gray Mercedes, even though it had a sizeable lead. It was on the entrance ramp to Route 309. He handled his cell phone onehanded and called Hampton Police Headquarters. He asked the dispatcher to check on the whereabouts of Janet Silfies.

"She was sent to St. Luke's to check on an accident victim. Woman ran off the road. We needed a report."

"Do you know who the woman was?" Tom asked as he maneuvered closer to the fleeing auto.

"Give me a second to check, Tom."

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Both cars were now headed north on 309. Tom got just close enough to make out the license numbers on the Mercedes.

"Woman named Beverly Forcade," the dispatcher's voice returned.

"Okay, Andy. Now, I'd like you to run these plates for me."

Tom ran off a series of letters and numbers and allowed his tail to drop farther behind the lead car. A few minutes later, Andy's voice came back on the line.

"Okay, Tom. That car is registered to Michael J. Forcade, 2705 Bellaire Road, Hampton, PA. Same address as Beverly Forcade, the woman at the hospital. What's going on?"

"Listen close, Andy. We have got to send a unit to the hospital to check on Janet. I'm concerned something's happened to her."

"Why?" “For now, let’s just say that I’ve got good reason to worry.”

“I’ll try her radio. If I don’t raise her, I’ll call in the State cops. Hospital’s their jurisdiction and we sure can’t get anyone there fast,” Andy answered.

"Okay, do that, then."

"What do I tell the chief?"

"That I am following suspects who may have assaulted Officer Silfies."

"Okay. I'm on it. Do we send a unit to the Forcade place?"

"Not yet. I need to see where this thing is going. I'll stay in touch. Call my cell when you know something about Janet."

"Will do, Tom. Play it straight."

"I'm trying, Andy. I'm trying." #

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Anthony came awake hearing different voices. These voices were coming from downstairs.

He listened intently, not moving a muscle. There was definitely a man and a woman below. The sound wasn't clear because of distance and intonation, but he felt fairly certain that the two people were Doc and Pam. After some minutes of close attention, there came the strains of a much younger speaker. Stewart was here, as well.

He rose carefully from the couch where he'd fallen asleep and looked around the room. Now, at least one of the speakers was nearing. Pam, it seemed, was coming up the stairs. She called to Doc, and Anthony could hear heavier tread on the steps. Some of the tools he'd used to force the door were scattered on the floor around the entrance, as he bent to move them he noticed the hammer and hefted its weight in his hand.

He stood in the doorway of the disused parlor and strained to hear. Presumably, Doc and Pam were moving off in the direction of the other wing, to the series of rooms in which he'd discovered his wife's things. Anger surged inside him, a live coiling in his bowels that he fought to keep down should it rise and chaotically disgorge its violence upon his betrayers.

Frustration caused the hand holding the hammer to shake. How long had they been staying here? How long had Doc feigned ignorance of their whereabouts as Anthony had searched for them and bemoaned their treachery? Now, they were so close, but just out of reach.

He longed to put rough hands on Pam, to treat her with a fierceness he'd known only in his dreams. Stewart would get his, too. Standing here, quaking with rage, he remembered the embarrassment of being kicked senseless by the boy. His retaliation would surpass that act. The countercharge he would bring against Doc's deceit would pale the old man's recollection of the beating he'd once suffered with a hammer held in the hands of another Stahl.

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CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Michael finally spoke up despite Kay-Bev's earlier threats. They were approaching the exit for Hampton and he wanted to know what was going to happen.

"So, where are we going?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"What are you going to do with us?"

"Individually or as a group?"

"She's going to kill us," Amy spoke from her spot against the rear passenger side door.

"Who is she, Amy?" Michael asked.

"I don't know, but she killed Edith. I think Derek's right. I don't think she's your wife, not inside."

"This is just so impolite," the Kay-thing observed. "Speaking of me in the third person, while I'm sitting right here."

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"What do you want?" Michael turned to face her.

"For now, I want you to shut up and Derek to drive where I direct him. You'll get answers soon enough."

"You're getting nuts." Derek tried to silence the artist. "You're risking Amy and I to get answers to questions you can't hope to comprehend."

"Touché'," Kay-Bev laughed.

"Can you?" Michael asked.

"Can I what?" Derek snapped back.

"Comprehend it."

"Hell no, but that doesn't mean I'm going to keep asking questions that obviously piss her off." Derek glanced at Kay-Bev as he continued. "Look, lady, whoever you are. He's seeing his wife brandishing a gun, dressed in a cop's uniform, and taking us all hostage. He's bound to wig.

Just don't go shooting that thing because he's all out of sorts. Okay?"

“I’ll try to restrain myself, Derek. Poor Michael, I believe Derek is correct once again. This may all be proving too much for you.” # Tom felt certain the Mercedes was headed for Hampton. They were very near that exit now.

He was also sure that there was no coincidence between the fact that he was chasing a car registered to Michael Forcade and that Officer Silfies had been dispatched to question Beverly Forcade.

Was the woman who had taken Amy, Beverly Forcade? Amy had mentioned her only in passing and just as an aside to her being a homemaker to Michael. It was possible that Amy had never met Mrs. Forcade. The interloper hadn't reacted to Amy's name as though it was familiar.

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If she was Beverly Forcade, had she simply missed the connection or was she playing it so as not to give herself away? Did all of this have more to do with Amy than Edith?

Amy had mentioned there being a man in her life until recently. It occurred to Tom that the man could have been Michael Forcade. Would Amy have taken up with the artist? Tom and Michael had never met, but the man, being relatively famous, had generated gossip amid the locals. The chin-wagging had speculated that the Forcades made a very attractive couple. Tom remembered a few matronly members of the community panting flush-faced over the attributes of the painter. Certainly, Amy could have found him appealing as well.

Tom knew little of the Forcades' private lives, except what he heard from the eavesdroppers.

Michael had been committed to a wheelchair after a bad auto accident. The couple had since separated, although no word had come of divorce. Amy's job at Attending Nurses had placed Michael under her care. By Amy's own admission, they'd become close friends.

Did Michael Forcade play into this incident? Was he driving the car? If not, who was behind the wheel? The eyewitness back at the hospital had seen the uniformed woman get in the back of the car. He couldn't be sure, because of the window tinting, but he'd told Tom he had the impression the driver was male.

What did all of this have to do with the attack on Amy and Edith? He knew they'd kept a secret from the police. If only he had pressed Amy to tell him. And what about the voice at the hospital that had told him where to find the handcuff keys? What the hell was that about?

As the gray auto several car lengths ahead turned for the Hampton exit, Tom realized he might have the answers soon. His cell phone rang, and he wondered if some divulgement was, even now, forthcoming.

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Pam felt uneasy back at the house. She attributed it to what they'd just gone through at police headquarters. Sure, the Chief and the other officers were understanding and helpful, vowing to find Anthony and bring him in for his attack on Doc, but it was upsetting nonetheless. Also, she knew her husband had shown up here since she and Stewart had gone. He'd been very angry and, despite all reassurances, she was worried he might backtrack.

She wondered when their lives might finally settle down. She considered that her son had never really known a time when the threat of a great emotional conflict had not dangled above them like some guillotine about to fall.

She'd called Doc upstairs to suggest they prepare, somehow, for the possibility of Anthony's return. They talked on the steps, while Stewart made a sandwich for himself down in the kitchen.

"I can handle him, if he comes back," Doc tried to be reassuring.

"He's already hurt you once," Pam observed.

"I warned him that he's no longer welcome."

"Lack of an invitation is not going to slow Anthony, Doc." "I know, but I have something that will."

"Do I want to know about this?" Pam asked.

"Perhaps, not. Why don't you freshen up, look after Stewart, and make sure all the windows and doors are secure downstairs. I have to check on something in another part of my wing, and then I'll come down."

"Okay. I'll just grab a few things from my room and get to the kitchen. I'll make sure we locked up tight while Stewart eats, then I'll make something for us."

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"Sounds good, unless you've changed your mind about checking into a motel."

"No, I haven't changed my mind. We've notified the authorities and the attorney. All the legal wheels are turning and the police are looking for Anthony right now. I want to make a stand. I'm sick of running, but I don't have the right to make that choice for you."

"I've chosen to stick by you and my grandson. I don't care to be a coward any longer. I'm fine with making a stand."

"Okay, then." Pam kissed Doc's cheek. "Come down as soon as you can. Stewart has a lot of questions about being a McGlade."

"I imagine he does."

Doc lingered in the hall outside Pam's rooms while she changed and cleaned up. He didn't want her upstairs when he made his way beyond his own suite and down the hall to the room where he still kept a gun behind the bar. Of course, it was not the gun; the one he'd fired at Tony Stahl all those years ago. He and Tony had disposed of that weapon the same night they'd disposed of Kay's body.

Why, after that, he'd chosen to keep a gun in the house at all, he couldn't say, much less why he kept it where he did. He supposed he had been afraid of Tony Stahl and, thereafter, Anthony as well. Keeping the gun secreted in that room, where Kay had been shot, meant that he would only venture there in the most desperate of need. He supposed it was a deterrent to quick anger, and a reminder of consequence. Even now, when he strongly felt the need to protect himself, Pam, and Stewart, he was reluctant to bring such a weapon to bear.

From his perch in the hall, Anthony could make out voices returning toward the staircase.

He paused to consider tread going down the steps. He felt impotent just standing here, spying.

The words of their conversation hadn't been decipherable and he had no idea what their next

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actions might be. Maybe they were planning to leave the house again– to get on the run from him since his attack on Doc–and had only returned to grab a few things.

If that was so, he couldn't just stand by and let them get away. He had to be on the offensive, to catch them off guard before they could escape. Still the voices, the ones he'd heard in his dreams and that now spoke to him in his head, told him to hold still, to be patient.

As Pam headed downstairs to Stewart and the kitchen, Doc moved off for the other wing. He stopped just outside the door to his rooms. He hovered, considering this thing he was about to do. A chill ran the length of his spine and, for several moments, he considered not continuing down the corridor at all. Rather, he would go back to Pam and Stewart and convince them to get out of the house. They could run, and he would stay, should his violent, troubled son return.

This man, his offspring, was his responsibility. Surely, he should deal with him alone.

Alas, there seemed cowardice even in this consideration. Pam was adamant in her refusal to run. He must support that decision, he figured, as he gave up his lingering and proceeded to the infamous parlor and the gun. # Anthony had to duck back inside the room as he heard footfalls coming down the hall.

Someone was moving through the corridor. Their pace stopped at the other end, near what he assumed were Doc's rooms. It was probably the old bastard himself. Now, what? He wondered if he should rush out, heft the hammer and take the old man down. Surely, waiting here was useless. Why would Doc come into this room?

The voices spoke up again, fixing him to his spot. Surprisingly, he heard the stride start up once more. Whoever it was, they were headed directly toward him. It seemed too easy.

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CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Tom reached for his cell phone on the seat next to him.

"Merkel speaking," he answered.

"Tom, this is Andy," came the Hampton Police dispatcher's voice.

"Yeah, Andy?"

"We've located Janet."

"Is she okay?"

"Not really. She's hurt pretty bad. They found her in the shower in the Forcade woman's hospital room."

"Does anyone know what happened?"

"State cops say she was severely beaten. Pistol whipped and stripped."

"Shit!"

"Yeah, I'll say. The Forcade woman's missing too."

"I would've guessed. I think it's her I've got in front of me."

"You're still tailing Mr. Forcade's car?"

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"Sure am."

"We haven't told the State Police. The Chief said to wait until you're sure what you've got.

You sure yet, Tom? I'd really like to nail the fuckers who did that to Janet."

"Me too, Andy. But no, I'm not sure yet."

"Where're you at?"

"Coming into Hampton now. Just got off 309."

"Want me to stay on until you've got a sighting and location? Dale Pearson just came in to help with dispatch."

"Well, I. Shit!"

"What? What's up Tom? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay, but I just lost them. They made a turn. Shit! I don't see the car. I'll call back, Andy."

"Tom, if you need help."

"I'll call back."

Tom thumbed the red button on his phone. Andy Kaminsky was a good man, but Tom felt he was too emotional for dispatch work. He had a bum leg from an on-the-job injury suffered many years before, and he didn't get to ride patrol anymore. He seemed to live vicariously through the events happening to the officers on his shift. Tom had learned in his years as an MP that cool was very important for a communications officer. Andy had very little cool. Tom would speak directly to the Chief, once he buttonholed the fugitives; if, at this rate, he ever buttonholed the fugitives.

He dug into his own reserve of cool to backtrack for the Mercedes. He'd lost it along this tree-lined street. Some of the oldest homes in Hampton sat on this block. Spread mansion-like

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on large estates, the brick and stone facades had been bequeathed through generations of hierarchy. There were no condos or townhouses here. Nowhere in sight was there a 4000 square foot pre-fab with barely a patch of grass between it and its identical neighbor. These were proud, old homes with history, and secrets. Tom bet there were a lot of secrets behind those rod iron fences and mansard roofs. Here lived the erstwhile and influential of the community. Could this really be the intended destination? The Forcade's address was outside the village proper. To Tom's recollection it was a remodeled farmhouse, several miles from here.

Leaves sputtered and flew in the gutters and along the street. They made a sound that he could hear even though the car windows were shut. The grating noise of the blowing detritus unnerved him. It made him think of zombies trailing long arms to hands with taloned fingers dragging on the asphalt, and bitter beasts with clawed hoofs.

A bit of dead foliage rose before the hood of the car. Caught in a cross wind, it cycloned in the air, three feet or so off the ground. Tom had seen these mini-tornados before, raising sand or gravel, usually in strong gusts before a thunderstorm. Sometimes you'd see them drifting snow in the winter, a white funnel cloud, tiny and ineffectual compared to their much larger, seriously destructive kin. He followed this leaf-laden blow slowly down the street. For some reason he had no desire to blast through it and knock it down with his car.

The brushwood twister passed a few houses and then came to die before a side drive. Tom watched its bits of bramble, leaf, and twig scatter in different directions as its cone lost its form and dispersed to simple wind. Observing the remnants on the air, he looked up the driveway.

There, sat a gray Mercedes.

“Damn!” Tom commented to the interior of his automobile. “Gotcha’!” #

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The Kay-thing had directed Derek to drive them down a tree-lined street in the oldest part of Hampton.

"Pull in that drive, right there," she ordered.

"What now?" Derek asked.

"Turn off the engine. We're going to pay the doctor a little visit."

"What doctor?" Michael demanded.

"The not-so-good Dr. McGlade," Kay-Bev responded.

"McGlade?" Amy asked. She didn't think it would be wise to admit she knew him.

"Yes. Doctor Morgan McGlade. My once-upon-a-time champion."

"What are you talking about?" Michael spoke up again.

The artist was having great difficulty, just as Derek had suggested, in resolving this policeuniformed woman with anyone other than his wife. The thing was using Bev's body and Bev's voice. While Michael believed his wife was under some sort of outside influence, he found it nearly impossible to react to the presence as someone other than Bev. "How was he your champion?" Amy inquired.

"He was my lover, until he killed me."

"Oh, shit," Michael said.

"Okay, we're going to exit the car carefully. The gun and I will bring up the rear. Derek, you're up front pushing Michael."

"I don't need to be pushed," Michael cut in.

"Jesus wept!" Derek called out.

"See?" Michael flung open the passenger's door and stepped on the drive.

Amy gasped audibly.

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Kay-Bev was out the back door in step and leveled the gun at Michael's head from across the car's roof. For brief seconds her countenance softened and in something more like Bev's voice she asked; "How? When?"

"Bev?" Michael asked.

"No!" Kay shrieked, and it was clear she'd regained control. "Stay right there, Michael." She turned her attention to the auto's interior. "You two get out of the car slowly," she instructed. "It looks like the former cripple will lead."

They trooped down the sidewalk and through the lych-gate; a forced procession marched by the gun-toting policewoman at their flank. They stopped on the front porch.

"All right. Let's not bunch up here, Kay directed. "Derek, try the door."

Amazingly, the place was unlocked and Derek led the way in. As they filled the foyer, there was shouting from upstairs and a single gunshot rang out. # Anthony couldn't believe his good luck. The sounds of the hall walker kept coming toward him, unabated. From what he'd been able to make out, it was probably Doc. He stepped back into the parlor to get a better angle on his victim.

Doc came through the door slowly. He never left this room open. He couldn't imagine what was up. Too late, he realized, and Anthony struck him with the hammer. He cried out in pain.

"You fucking traitor!" Anthony screamed. "I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!"

Doc McGlade had been felled in front of the parlor's bar. As Anthony stooped, rushing in for the kill, the older man reached back for the lowest shelf. Fully aware of his actions, Morgan McGlade raised the gun and fired, point blank, at his illegitimate son.

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In a manner too purposeful to be coincidence, the bullet struck Anthony Stahl in the throat.

His upper body pitched back and the hammer fell to the floor, as he raised both hands to his wounded neck. Blood flew in all directions, spattering the walls, ceiling, and furniture simultaneously. Anthony landed flat on his ass. From a sitting posture he looked beseechingly at his killer. Bewilderment filled his eyes as blood ran from behind his hands, soaking his shirtfront and lap in black streams. He tried to speak, but could only manage a gurgle as blood and foam formed at his lips.

Doc dropped the gun and sat stunned at the sight of the dying Anthony. The irony was not lost on him and it twisted hard in his gut along with guilt and recrimination. He watched as Anthony settled on his back in something like a slow motion meltdown. He listened to the breath whistle and wheeze from his windpipe, until it was over.

Then, all he could do was stare at what he'd done. He caught the feeling of someone watching him and his attention was fixed to a spot high in one corner of the ceiling.

Outside, Tom Merkle had stepped from his car. He was checking the two vehicles parked in the drive when he heard a gunshot from somewhere inside the house. He stopped his stealthy inspection and ran for the front porch.

The shot stopped everyone in the foyer cold, with the exception of Kay-Bev. She hurriedly cut around Michael and Derek, forcing Amy down the hall. Pam came running from the kitchen with Stewart trailing. They were hollering for Doc as Kay-Bev shoved by them.

Pam stopped and regarded the two women, one in handcuffs and the other a cop, headed for the kitchen. With the reverberation of gunfire in the air, she continued for the staircase.

"Mom!" Stewart hollered.

There were two men in the house. A third man burst through the door brandishing a gun.

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"Police!" Tom hollered.

"Up there," Pam pointed to the staircase.

Tom elbowed beyond Michael and Derek. They were dumbstruck.

"Who are you?" Pam asked.

"The woman," Michael responded. "Where did she go?"

"The policewoman," Derek interjected.

"They went into the kitchen," Stewart answered. He made an indication toward the back of the first floor and stepped up to take a position beside his mother. "Who are these people?" he asked as Michael moved in the direction he'd signaled.

Derek trailed slowly behind the cop, following him at a distance, up the stairs.

"I don't know," Pam answered Stewart's question. "I heard the shot and there they were."

"How did they get in?"

"The front door, I suppose."

"Wasn't it locked?"

"I don't know."

"Mom. Where's my grandfather?"

"I left him upstairs."

"Shouldn't we go up there?"

"I guess. The policeman did."

"What policeman?"

"I don't know."

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CHAPTER FIFTY

Tom could sense someone moving up the staircase behind him.

"Who's back there?" he asked as he turned for a look.

"It's me," came the reply. "Derek Connor."

"Okay, Derek. I'm officer Merkel. I'm going to stop a second, and you meet me at the top of the stairs. All right?"

"Sure."

When Tom reached the top of the stairs he cast a glance down the intersecting halls. His gun was out in front of him, held at an angle toward the floor. He pulled the weapon up slightly as he heard Derek approach from the rear. The young man stopped level with him on the topmost tread.

"Do you have to point that thing in my direction?" Derek asked.

"Easy Derek, I'm not drawing down on you. Can you tell me what's happening? What are you doing here?"

"We were-I guess you'd say kidnapped. At the hospital."

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"By the Forcade woman, right?"

"I guess you'd say that."

"Derek, I need you to be clear. The woman in that police uniform. Is she Beverly Forcade?"

"Yes." "Is she up here?"

"No, she's downstairs."

"Downstairs?"

"Yes. She headed to the back of the house with Mr. Forcade's homemaker."

"Amy? She still has Amy?" "Yeah, that's her."

"Then, who fired the gun?"

"I don't know. It went off just as we all came into the house. Then, everything broke into confusion."

"So, Mrs. Forcade did not fire her weapon."

"No, the shot came from up here."

The sound of more feet on the stairs forced Tom to lean beyond Derek and point his gun back down the stairs.

"Whoa! Whoa! Put that thing down!" Pam Stahl shouted.

Tom moved his gun away, upon seeing Pam and Stewart coming up the steps.

"Just hold it there a second," he instructed. "Who are you?"

"I'm Pam Stahl and this is my son, Stewart. Who are you?"

"I'm Tom Merkel of the Hampton Police."

"Do you have a badge?"

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Tom fished it out for her.

"Doc, is up there," Pam explained.

"Doc?" "Doctor McGlade. Stewart’s grandfather. The man who lives here."

"Is he alone?"

"Yes, as far as I know. It's become chaos here. The house is suddenly full of strangers. Like you."

"I'll explain everything later," Tom replied. "For now, I need you and your son to go back downstairs."

"No way. Not with Doc up here, and who knows what happening down there."

"Look, someone might be seriously hurt here," Tom explained. "We're wasting precious time arguing."

"Exactly, officer. Let's go."

Tom shrugged. "All right, just stay close to me. Do you know what part of the second floor Doc was in?"

"He should have been in his suite. Down the hall to the right."

Tom turned to face back upstairs. "Shit!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Pam asked.

Stewart remained silent.

"He's gone," Tom answered.

"Who's gone?" Pam asked.

"Derek. Derek's gone ahead."

"Who?"

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Michael lagged behind his wife and her prisoner. His head was reeling. He wondered if Bev had gone mad, if he'd gone mad, or if everyone had gone mad. This certainly had something to do with the weird things he and Derek had been experiencing as of late. This must be born, he thought, of the wishes and the dark-thing.

Still, why had Bev, or whoever had taken over Bev, grabbed Amy? Had she really just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Why had she brought them to this house? What was she after?

He hoped to somehow gain answers to those questions as he followed the two toward the kitchen at the rear of the house. Emotions roiled inside him as he watched the woman he could only think of as his wife prod and shove the handcuffed Amy to a door at the back of the kitchen.

They went through the entry and disappeared from sight, leaving the door ajar behind them.

Michael could hear voices coming from the front of the house, probably still somewhere on the staircase, he ascertained. They were raised voices; angry, afraid, and confused. He was curious about the people to whom those voices belonged, but he had to continue his pursuit.

Eventually, he thought, I'll be able to figure this out. Perhaps, even now, Derek was putting together some other vital piece of the puzzle, as he had seemed to go off on his own tangent.

Michael stepped to the door through which Bev and Amy had just gone and caught a glimpse of them, as they blended with the shadows at the bottom of another set of stairs. # Derek slipped to the right and down the hall, while the cop's attention had been drawn elsewhere. He figured the mother and son from downstairs had come up the steps behind them.

He'd heard them talking about someone up here just as he'd moved to follow the officer.

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This was some big house. It was even larger than Michael and Bev's. He figured the people who lived here must be old. It just had that feeling to it. He guessed it must be expensive in an antique sort of way. There was a musty undertone in the air and all the furniture seemed done in dark woods and brassy metal.

He wasn't sure why he'd moved ahead without the policeman. There was, obviously, someone up here with a gun. But he was drawn beyond risk by a sense of something familiar.

He continued down the hall where he passed open doors before coming to a suite that featured a sitting room, beyond which laid other living spaces. On the opposite side of the hall were closed quarters whose doors barred entrance. He was about to try one of the handles when he noticed another door standing open further down the corridor.

As he closed in on the open door, he caught intermingled scents in the air. The smells were unfamiliar and strong. Among them he thought he could catch a whiff of smoke. Drawing near, another smell assailed him. He didn't know what it was, except that it stirred something primal within him. His unease, which was already extreme, ratcheted up even higher. He almost turned and ran back for the cop but he felt something pull at him again and he stepped over the threshold and onto the scene.

Stopping a few steps beyond the door, all of his senses signaled what his olfactory had been trying to tell him a few brief moments ago. There was death here. He saw it in the form of a body laying in pooling blood before a couch just a few feet to his left. The man was flat on his back. Both of his hands were tightly clasped at his throat. Blood soaked him. It ran through his fingers and down his wrists, dousing the cuffs of his shirt and dripping to form red-black splotches on the carpet. His unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling as if studying the patterns and that danced there.

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Another man struggled against a bar that was situated forward of Derek, at the center of the room. He levered himself against its edge and turned.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Derek moved toward him.

"I asked you a question." The man turned his gaze to a gun on the floor at his feet.

Derek understood the implication and stood still. "I'm Derek Connor," he answered.

"Margaret Connor's son?"

"Yes, sir. Do you know me?"

"I delivered you, boy."

"Delivered me?"

"I'm Doctor McGlade. I was your mother's doctor when you were born and I was yours as well, until you were about eight or nine, I guess."

The name was familiar to Derek, although he couldn't recall ever being treated by this man.

"She got another doctor after your father died. I did everything I could for him, but it didn't help. I guess I never got to tell you I'm sorry."

Derek felt like he'd walked into the Twilight Zone. There was a dead man on the floor, blood sprayed and splashed in varying quantities almost everywhere, and this guy was standing there telling him he was sorry he couldn't save his father, who had died some twelve years ago.

"What happened here?"

"I shot him."

"Why?" "He tried to kill me with that hammer."

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Derek turned to look at the tool the doctor had indicated. It was lying on the floor near the body. As he took note of the hammer, his attention was called to a spot high on one corner of the ceiling, and he knew who had called him here.

The dark-thing floated, suspended above them like one of those rock stars who strap themselves in a harness to serenade the audience from a hover. Derek was stunned. The apparition hung in what seemed to be extra-dimensional space. This house was a mansion and the ceilings downstairs were high, maybe twelve to fourteen feet, Derek figured. Upstairs, however, the cap was lower, maybe eight or ten feet. Still, the dark-thing seemed much higher off the ground.

When Derek had been near it at Acker's Market and then at the Forcade home, he'd guessed it to be at least six feet tall or more. If that was true, than it could only be two to four feet off the ground now. It appeared, however, to be at least four times that height above the floor. But why should that surprise him? It had already proven itself to be a creature nonconforming to perceived convention. It was, after all, a dark-thing.

As though reading his mind, the abomination nodded its head with acknowledgment and, in its frustrating fashion, flickered into invisibility.

"I saw it," Derek said.

"Of course you did," Doc responded. "It's right there on the floor. He nearly took my head off with it."

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CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Tom instructed Pam and Stewart to stay close to him.

"Keep your eyes and ears peeled," he directed. "We don't want anyone sneaking up from behind us."

They moved as a tight unit along the corridor. Tom stopped to look inside a suite of rooms.

"Those are Doc's quarters," Pam told him.

"Okay, let's check it out," the policeman responded.

"I don't think he's in there," Pam answered.

"Why not?"

"Before I left him, he suggested he needed to retrieve something from another room up here."

"Are we even in the right wing?" Tom asked.

"I think so," Pam said. "I think he may have gone in one of the rooms down there." She nodded toward the end of the hall. "Where that door's ajar."

"This is the way that other guy went, and we haven't seen him since," Stewart added.

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"Okay," Tom acquiesced. "We'll head down there. Let's be quiet, though. Someone up here has a gun."

"So do you," Pam commented. # Michael was nearly halfway down the basement stairs when he heard Kay-Bev's voice.

"I know they put it down here somewhere," she said.

He stopped his descent to listen more closely.

"I bet there's a pick and shovel here, in all these tools. Take a seat, Amy. I'm going to have a look around. Don't try running off. I'd hate having to bury you down here, as well."

What the hell is she searching for? Michael asked himself. Whatever it was, it must be buried in the basement of this house. She'd just as much said that to Amy. He couldn't risk charging down the stairs when the Bev imposter had a gun. He might get himself or Amy killed.

So, he decided to wait it out on the stairs awhile. If she started digging, she'd have to holster the weapon or set it down. That would probably offer him his best opportunity. But, to do what? # Tom caught some of the same smells in the air as Derek had just moments before, only he knew instantly what they were.

"You were right," he said to Pam and Stewart. "It happened down here."

"What happened?" Stewart asked.

"We're about to find out. I'm going through that open door, low and fast. The two of you are going to stay at the end of the hall, right here, until I holler for you." Tom kept his voice soft and even. "Do you understand?"

Mother and son nodded affirmatively.

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"Okay, here goes." # A man burst through the doorway behind the Connor boy.

"Derek!" he shouted, just before the unavoidable collision.

Doc noticed the man held a gun, and he instinctively bent for the weapon he'd left on the floor.

"Freeze! Police! Freeze!" the man shouted. He pointed his own gun, from a half-sitting, half-sprawled position on the floor.

Doc moved away from his gun.

"Derek, are you okay?" asked the man who had bowled the young Connor over.

"Yes, but he's not so good." Derek pointed to Anthony's body.

"I got that," the man who had identified himself as the police answered. He stood, keeping the gun pointed. "Who are you?" he asked Doc. "Morgan McGlade," Doc answered. "This is my home."

"I got that, too. What happened here?"

"I shot that man as he tried to attack me."

"Yeah," Derek chimed in. "The hammer's right there on the floor."

"Is that what he used to attack you?" Tom asked Doc. "Yes, rather successfully. I've been injured, as you must see."

"Your shoulder is drooped," Tom noted. "Looks painful."

"I believe he broke my collarbone."

"We'll get help quick as we can. Do you know him?"

"Yes."

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Tom waited for clarification. When none came he asked, "Well, who is he?"

"He's my husband," Pam's voice entered the room ahead of her.

"He's my father," Stewart followed. # Down in the basement, the Kay-Bev had found digging and pounding tools. She set down various pickaxes, shovels, and a large sledgehammer near a concrete slab at the far end of the basement, in the vicinity of the stairs. The basement itself was a throwback. It had only been partially cemented and areas were still dirt floored. Michael figured they had concreted the spot where the Kay-Bev now knelt because the tank for heating oil sat there.

The walls were all stone and very small windows, what they called hopper windows as he remembered, sat high atop one side of the room. They were rectangular apertures, and allowed little light inside. The chill down here was like a living thing. Still crouching in shadow on the steps, he could feel tendrils of cold snaking up to touch his face and hands. It was like standing inside the door of a crypt. Below him, Bev or the woman who had once been Bev, crawled on top of the slab on hands and knees, her arms outstretched, hands tracing patterns on the concrete.

"I think it's here," she said to no one in particular. "I think this is where those two bastards put me."

Suddenly, Michael recalled the comment his wife had made upon their arrival. Referring to the doctor who obviously lived here, she'd said; "He was my lover, until he killed me."

The cold tendrils tightened around him as he wondered if this thing possessing his wife was possibly in search of its own body. # Pam knelt beside Anthony, as Tom kept his gun trained on Doc.

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"Why don't you put that thing away," the older man commented. "I'm in no shape to give you any trouble. I think I might pass out soon, anyhow."

"We need to get him some help," Pam said.

"I'm afraid there's no help for him, ma'am," Tom answered. "He's clearly gone."

"Not for him." Pam gestured toward Anthony and stood. "For Doc." Pam moved for the old man leaning on the bar. Stewart stared, transfixed, at the form of his dead father. Derek had barely let go of his own gaze, at the corner of the room.

"I saw him," Derek mumbled. "I'm sure I saw him."

Tom overheard and commented, "You couldn't have seen anything. The shot was fired before you got up here."

"Huh?" Derek broke his bemusement.

Tom had holstered his weapon. The doctor was right, he was no threat. Indeed, things had probably gone down the way he suggested. Only the how and why remained to be answered. He took Derek lightly by the arm.

"What exactly did you see?" Tom inquired.

"What do you mean?"

"You said you saw him."

"Did I?" "Yes, just a second ago. You said you were sure you saw him."

Pam's voice stopped Tom's questioning.

"Officer! You have got to get help. Doctor McGlade is seriously injured, here!"

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Tom turned toward the bar, breaking his grasp on Derek. He hardly gave note to Stewart, who was still ogling the corpse with a look somewhere between shock and glee. As if reading his senses, Pam spoke up again.

"Stewart," she called. "Get away from him. Come to me and help your grandfather."

Derek raised his voice from near the door. "I've got to tell Michael," he said. "I have to warn him." With that, he fled out of the room and down the corridor, at a clip.

Tom tried to move after him but he'd gotten a good jump. "Derek! Get back here!" Tom hollered. "Where are you going?"

Returning to the parlor, he saw Stewart and Pam attempting to attend to the injured Doctor.

"Okay, this is out of hand," Tom spoke up. "I'm calling for backup."

"Sounds good," Pam commented. "I've no idea what those others are up to."

"What others?" Doc asked.

"There's a lady cop, some man, and another girl downstairs," Stewart spoke up.

"Where downstairs?"

"Last I saw, they headed back toward the kitchen," Pam informed the injured McGlade.

"Or maybe the basement," Stewart chimed in once more.

The doctor made a visible effort to stabilize himself.

"We need to get to them," he said.

"Hey," Pam called to Tom, who was searching his pockets for his cell phone. "Isn't that female cop your backup?"

"No," he answered distractedly. "She's my suspect."

"Suspect?" Doc inquired.

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"Yeah, I followed her here. Does anybody see a phone on the floor anywhere? I seem to have lost my cell."

All eyes momentarily scanned the carpet. Tom was the only one to search around Anthony.

"Shit!" he hollered. "I don't believe this. I'm a better cop than this! This is all too weird, the way that kid keeps running off and all. And exactly who did he see? Besides you and this guy? " He addressed Doc with the question "I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about but there's a phone down the hall, in my rooms," Doc spoke up. "I'll show you."

"You're hurt, maybe you should stay put," Tom suggested.

"Young man, you may be the police, but I'm the only doctor here. I'll dispense the medical advice. Now, give me a hand and we'll get you to that phone." # Derek made his way as swiftly as possible back downstairs. He was pretty sure the cop wouldn't give chase. After all, a killing had taken place in that room. Things still needed to be sorted out. No doubt, he'd put a call out for reinforcements. The cop had no idea he was dealing with the dark-thing. Its presence suggested there was some purpose here, beyond everyone else's understanding. He was the only one, as far as he knew, to have any direct dealing with the entity. He knew its penchant for play-acting and he sensed some sort of grand finale in the works.

The thing that once was Bev had moved off toward the back of the house. He knew that Michael had given chase. He decided to look for him down here.

There were a few large rooms off to his right and left. The doors stood wide open, so he could easily glance inside on his way along to the back. One was obviously a study. It was

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somewhat reminiscent of the study at the Forcade residence. This, again, put him in mind of the dark-thing, and he quickened his steps until he reached the kitchen.

It was very light in here, a modern combination of white cabinetry and shiny chrome appliances. It seemed rather contrary to the rest of the house. He noticed a door was standing open near the back wall. As he moved closer, a staccato beat began ringing out from beneath the floor. # The pickaxe struck concrete with a resounding tone, again and again. Michael watched from the shelter of the stairs as the woman he still could not help but think of as his wife vainly attempted to crack the slab. She shifted between tools, not seeming to do any damage. She had handcuffed Amy to a metal support post some distance from where she pounded away. The struggle seemed gone from Bev's captive, as she watched the uniformed woman strike at the unyielding floor.

"What are you after?" Amy asked.

Bev set down the sledgehammer and wiped sweat from her brow.

"I don't really think it's any of your business."

"You handcuffed me, kidnapped me, drug me here, and you think it's none of my business" Amy replied with indignation. "Why don't you just turn me loose? Then, it really will be none of my business."

"I need you for insurance."

"Against what?"

"That cop boyfriend of yours."

"Tom's here?"

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"He followed us all the way from the hospital. Ain't love grand?"

"Okay. So, while we're stuck with each other, how about you tell me what you're digging for."

"A body."

"A body?"

"Do I stutter, girl?"

"You said that the doctor who lived here was your champion until he killed you. So, you're looking for your body?"

"And they say that beauty usually exempts one from brains." Kay-Bev shifted to heave the sledge into another swing.

"You won't get anywhere with that, you know," Amy said.

"What?" The imposter paused her effort.

"The sledgehammer. It's just bouncing off the concrete. The flooring's too thick. You'll need a jackhammer, at least."

"Are you some sort of expert?"

"My father works construction. I used to help him sometimes, until I graduated high school and got my own job."

"And that makes you an authority on exhumation."

"Common sense, actually. You have the wrong tool for the job." # There were two phones in the doctor's suite of rooms. Neither of them had a dial tone.

"Okay, they're both dead," Tom told the other three. "I suppose he killed the service before he broke in."

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"Anthony?" Pam asked.

"Your husband," Tom answered.

"That was his name, Anthony Stahl."

"Okay. Yeah, him, unless we've got another contender."

"What about the people downstairs?" Stewart asked.

Doc and his grandson were sitting in two chairs in a rather large reading room that led to McGlade's bedroom. Stewart was looking almost as woozy as his granddad. Tom was worried about both of them going into shock. Pam seemed made of very tough stuff. So was the doctor for that matter, the way he was hanging in there with his useless, dangling arm. Still, they'd been through a lot and Tom couldn't count on any of them holding up for much longer.

"What are they doing here?" Pam asked. "You came in right on their heels."

"I was following them from St. Luke's Hospital," Tom explained. "The woman in the police uniform commandeered their car and took them hostage."

"Why did they come here?" Doc asked.

Tom shrugged. "Search me, but I've got to get Amy away from that woman."

"Amy?" Pam asked.

"Yes. The girl you said was in handcuffs."

"Hadn't you better get them all away from that woman?" Pam noted.

"Yes, of course."

"You'll need help," Doc said.

"That's why I was calling for backup. Don't any of you have a cell phone?"

"Mine is downstairs, in my purse," Pam replied.

"Mine is in the car," Doc said.

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"Stewart?" Tom asked.

The boy smiled for the first time.

"Until recently, I'd never even seen HBO," he said.

"Okay, then. Where is your purse, exactly?" Tom asked Pam. "That's just it."

"What is?"

"I'm not sure where I left it."

"Could it be up here somewhere?"

"No. I definitely left it downstairs. I set it down the minute we came in the house. I wanted to go through the paperwork from the Police Department. I wanted to be sure."

"Police Department?" Tom interjected.

"Yes. We'd just come back from filing an assault charge on Anthony for attacking Doc." "He's done this before?"

"Will you let me finish?"

Tom nodded.

"Like I said, we just got back from the Police and I wanted to go through the paperwork and put a return call into my attorney. So, I left my purse downstairs while I came up here to change."

"And yours is in the car in the drive?" Tom directed his attention to Doc. "Yes," the older man replied.

"It might not have a charge," Stewart blurted "Huh?" Tom was confused "He's right," Pam confirmed. "Earlier today, Doc's cell went dead.

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"Did you unplug it after you called Mom from the car?" Stewart asked Doc. "I'm not certain." Doc stiffened as a chill ran through him.

Pam knelt beside him.

"How are you doing?" she asked tenderly.

"I'm not feeling right, just sitting here while God-knows-what goes on downstairs."

"You're right. We need to take action," Tom said. "I'll go down and find that purse."

"What about the others? You're well out-numbered," Doc said.

"The only one I've got to worry about is the one in uniform."

"Are you certain? Are you positively sure, officer, that it was a snatching and not a getaway?" Doc posed.

"Amy was taken right in front of me."

"What about the rest of them?"

"I told you, I followed them from the hospital."

"If you saw them car-jacked why didn't you call for backup then?"

"Because I didn't see them car-jacked." Tom's face turned red. "I didn't even see them get in the car. I only saw them-" "Getting away," Doc finished for him.

"Yeah," Tom admitted.

"Then, we had better all go downstairs together. One of us can look for the purse, in case there's immediate trouble that calls for your attention," Doc directed.

"I'm not certain I like the idea of taking you and this young man down there."

Pam left her position next to Doc and walked over to Stewart. Her son got up from his chair and put his arms around her.

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"I'll be okay, officer," Stewart told Tom. "Call me, Tom. All of you call me, Tom. If we're going to do this, it's on a first name basis from here on."

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CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The sound from beneath the floor stopped as Derek reached the door to the basement. He wondered if someone had heard him walking across the linoleum, so he stopped as well. This close to the stairs leading down, he could hear voices. He couldn't really make out who was talking, but it sounded like two women speaking. He wondered where Michael had gone.

Very cautiously, he continued to move for the door. As he stepped through the threshold, the voices gained clarity. With extreme quiet, he stepped down the first two risers and gave grave consideration to their words.

Standing here in the relative dark, he wished he'd been able to make out the beginning of the conversation. The Bev thing was digging for something beneath the basement floor. It was unclear, however, exactly what it was she was after. Moving a step or two farther down, he made out a shape on the stairs in front of him.

The form was very still and indistinct amid the dim atmosphere. It did not acknowledge awareness of his presence behind it on the steps. The basement had gone quiet. The women had stopped talking and, apparently, the Bev thing had halted digging. Derek stood where he was,

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awash in dread, not knowing what was coming next, and wondering if the shape just in front of him was Michael or the dark-thing. # Tom, Doc, Pam, and Stewart moved as a group down the long staircase. Officer Merkel took the lead while Pam helped support Doc with a strong arm around his waist. Stewart took up the rear, keeping a lookout behind them.

"Any better idea where your purse is?" Tom quietly asked Pam. "I think I probably left it on the kitchen table."

"Okay, that's where we'll head."

Tom reached the bottom of the stairs a little in front of the rest.

"You guys hang back while I check the hall."

The other three nodded their agreement and Tom disappeared from sight for a long stretch of moments.

"Are you all right?" Pam asked her son.

"I'm fine, Mom. How about you?"

"I'll feel better when we get your grandfather to the hospital."

"I'll be better when the two of you are safely out of here," Doc spoke up as Tom reappeared at the base of the stairs.

"All's clear, so far," Tom informed them. "You could all scoot out of here, right now."

"You can't let me go," Doc retorted. "I killed a man."

"Maybe so, but I buy your story of self-defense. My police career is probably over anyway, the way I've handled this so far. My actions haven't been exactly SOP. You'll turn yourself in later, Doc. Pam and Stewart don't need to risk themselves anymore."

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"I'm staying with Doc," Pam said.

"I'm not leaving Mom," Stewart informed them.

"Looks like it's up to you, doctor."

"Let's find that purse and call for help," McGlade told the policeman. # The Bev thing stood still and practically growled at Amy. She knew that striking at the concrete was futile. Amy's statements had only validated that realization. She threw her head back at an impossible angle and howled. Darkness enveloped her form. It seemed to linger around her, separate but integral to her essence. The sound she made was guttural and inhumanly loud. She tore at her hair, ripping out long strands while her agonized cries reverberated through the house.

Michael rose from his hidden spot on the stairs and stepped down to the cellar. Behind him, Derek could make out his form more clearly.

"Michael! Michael!" the young man called. "Be careful! It's here. The dark-thing is here!"

The Kay-Bev's shouts were thunderous in his ears, and Michael could not hear Derek's warning. Amy was crab-walking herself tight against the support to which she'd been fastened, in an effort to get as far away from the shrieking monstrosity as possible. Now, it was flinging itself to the ground, atop the impenetrable slab. It wailed its frustration and anger to the heavens, shaking beams, rattling the foundation of the building.

Derek looked around, waiting for the entire place to come down on his head. Dust fell from the ceiling, swirling and ebbing irritation into his eyes. He held his hands to his ears in a vain attempt to drown out the insane cacophony. Propelling himself down the cellar stairs, he came to stand in the same spot Michael had occupied just seconds ago.

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Upstairs, Tom had been searching the house, room by room, on the way to the kitchen. He didn't want any surprises with Doc, Pam, and Stewart in tow.

Suddenly, a vicious bellow tore up from the basement. It seemed to fill the house to its rafters with bemoaning, hideous wails. Whatever it is it can’t be human, Tom thought, as he turned to look at the others. Stewart seemed to be most affected. The color was draining from his face. He was turning milky white, and Tom thought there were traces of blue appearing around his lips. He reached out and shook the boy by one shoulder, while turning to Pam with an appeal for help.

Pam took her hands away from her ears, an instinct they'd all immediately invoked, and clamped them over Stewart's. Tom shook his head in the affirmative and moved to the old doctor. McGlade had released his own initial clamp, as had Tom, and stood still with his head cocked to one side in a combination of shock and awe.

The noise was monstrously inhuman. Tom could hear dishes rattling in the kitchen cabinets.

Everywhere, curios and knick-knacks fell from shelves and danced off dressers and end tables.

Bottles rolled and rattled from the bar in the doctor's study. Torchieres and table lamps tumbled to the floor. It seemed the boards themselves might rip from under them in a shredding of splinters and nails.

Back in the basement, Michael moved to Amy's side. She was terrified and wild-eyed, looking up at him with a plea. He reached down and helped her slide the handcuffs higher on the support pole so she could stand. Tools were falling from shelves and off hooks all around the cellar. Dust filled every breathable space. He tried to speak but knew he couldn't be heard. He moved away in an attempt to find something to pry or cut Amy loose of the metal post. At that very second, the yowling ceased and the Bev thing quieted.

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Standing tall and erect, its features seemed to soften and its manner of dress changed. The police uniform faded to wallpaper, but did not disappear entirely. In its place there was, superimposed, a peasant blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers; instead of black-soled shoes. Another face obscured Bev's. It was just as pretty, with very similar features to his wife's, however, this woman cast an angry scowl. At first, Michael thought the heat of her gaze was directed at him, then he realized he was going unnoticed. Her look was projected in his direction, but well beyond him. He felt she'd found a place to look in on another time, another incident. In a crisp, distinct, and decidedly human voice, she called out. # Having finally made the kitchen, Tom, Doc, Pam, and Stewart tried to catch their breaths when the hollering quit.

"What the hell was that?" Tom asked no one in particular.

Pam stood behind her son with her arms wrapped tightly around him.

"Stewart," Tom said. "Why don't you have a seat?" He motioned to a kitchen chair.

"Don't we have to get down there?" The boy turned and looked at his mom.

"Go ahead, honey. Grab a chair," she directed.

Doc was already seated.

"You okay, Stewart?" McGlade asked. "Come here, so I can get a look at you."

The boy went to his grandfather, who gave him a cursory examination.

"He's all right. A little shocky is all," the doctor told Tom and Pam. "What about you?" Pam asked.

"I've been worse," the doctor waved a hand in the air. "Where's that purse?

Pam was going to look, when they heard a woman call from downstairs.

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"Morgan McGlade! I know you're here somewhere. Come and face me!"

The old doctor was out of his seat and at the stairs leading to the cellar before anyone else could react.

"Hey!" Tom managed to shout.

"I recognize the voice. God help us, I recognize her voice," Doc called back, over his shoulder. # In the basement, Derek saw the transformation at the same time Michael had seen it. He recognized the form overshadowing the one of Beverly Forcade. It was the same woman who had briefly appeared to him at the Forcade home and then flickered out like a television image.

He'd seen it just after his episode with the dark-thing.

As if telepathically summoned, he noticed something roil and shift away from Kay and into one far corner of the basement. At first, he dismissed it as more of the dust that had been stirred up by the shaking and trembling of the house. Then, it began to merge and integrate and he realized the dark-thing was gathering for another appearance.

His concentration was directed back to Bev, who was now more the apparition than she was herself. She was calling out to Doctor McGlade whose handy work Derek had witnessed just a short time ago, in the room upstairs. He wondered where the cop had gone. It occurred to him that the man was badly needed, as the apparition pulled out a gun and pointed it in his general direction.

Meanwhile, Michael struggled to get Amy loose of the support post. While the thing that was less and less his wife hollered for this McGlade, he'd taken the opportunity to grab some

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tools from the clutter surrounding them. His efforts seemed only to cause Amy pain as he hacked at the handcuffs with a hatchet and pried with a metal bar.

"Michael!" Amy called, and he looked up. "She's got the gun!"

The artist turned and saw what was a stronger than earlier impression of a pretty blonde in a peasant blouse and blue jeans. She was pointing the gun the Bev thing had been carrying. She must have had it on her all the time she'd struggled with her digging. It seemed to be leveled at Derek. Out of sheer instinct, he threw the hatchet at her.

Derek froze like a deer in headlights. He'd often heard the expression, but until now he'd never known its acute accuracy. The gun was pointed at him and he could only stare at the thing holding it. Bev, dressed in the police uniform, was now almost wholly gone from sight. She was still there, but only in a vague sort of impression. The woman in the peasant blouse was apparently going to shoot him and there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Suddenly, an object flew between them. It barely missed the woman, and crashed into the oil tank with a loud bass noise like the striking of a gong. The reverberation broke Derek's spell.

He turned to run and almost knocked over the old doctor, who was standing very near him. The man grabbed him by the arm.

"You had better get out of here," the doctor advised.

"She was going to shoot me," Derek explained while the woman's attention was turned toward the source of the missile that had slammed into the tank.

"No. I think you merely got between the two of us, is all. Now, move it!"

Michael muttered under his breath. "Shit!" he said.

His throw had gone off target. The woman who had been Bev turned and pinned him with her eyes. She didn't give him any more notice than a fly that had bothered to buzz in her

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face, but in that dismissive glance he felt the tug of eternity. In his periphery, he saw Derek stumble into the one-armed grasp of an old man. He hadn't seen the man there when he'd tossed the hatchet. He wondered if this was McGlade, answering the woman's call. Derek broke away and moved off and Michael was glad he'd caused enough of a distraction for him to get out of harm's way.

Kay turned her attention to Morgan.

"I seem to have scared the boy off," she said.

"Is that really you, Kay?" Doc asked.

"Mostly. Morgan, you've gotten so old."

"It's been more than forty years."

"You know what they say about time."

"How is this possible?"

"I won't get into any of that, lover. I've come back for something."

"Obviously."

"Still coy, aren't you, Doc?" "I never realized you thought of me that way."

"There's much about me you never realized."

"Let these people go. They've got nothing to do with any of this."

"Well, the one that tossed the hatchet at me is my son."

"You lie."

"No. He's Anthony's older brother, actually. Perhaps, I should say was Anthony's older brother. Tsk, tsk, doctor. It seems you've broken your physician's oath again."

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Amy whispered from her position on the post. "Michael, did you hear that?" she asked. "She says she's your mother."

"I heard."

"Well?" Amy pressed.

"Well what? I don't even know what that woman is. I can't believe any of this is happening.

I'm just trying to get you out of here."

"Michael," Amy lowered her voice even further.

"Yes." "You need to find a better tool."

"I know. I don't think anything will work other than a hacksaw."

"No. I mean one you can throw more accurately."

Doc asked Kay, "How can you know about Anthony?"

"News travels fast in this realm. Maybe you should give it a try." She gave the gun in her hand a jerk.

"I'm not afraid to die. Go ahead. I suppose you owe me as much."

"Dear Morgan, always so noble. I counted on that, you know. It made you so easy to maneuver."

"That, and the fact I loved you." # Derek ran into the cop on the steps. He was inching his way to the basement while the doctor and the apparition conversed. His gun was drawn.

"I think she's going to shoot him," Derek whispered.

"No kidding," Tom retorted.

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"What are you going to do?"

"Stop her." # Kay answered Doc. "Love's overrated, Morgan," she said. "You must know that by now.

I'm running out of time. I just want to know where you put it."

"What?"

"Don't play games, doctor."

"What is it you want, Kay?" "My body!" she screamed. "Where did you fuckers bury me?" # Pam and Stewart had hung back, desperately trying to find Pam's cell phone. It was useless.

The thing wasn't there.

"What do we do?" Stewart asked.

"You get out of here," his mother answered.

"I'm not leaving without you, Mom." Pam hugged Stewart, then she held him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye.

"You have to do this, son. Tom needs help. Doc needs help. Your father needs attention, too."

"Dad's dead." Stewart was expressionless.

"Yes. He is," Pam continued. "But we can't just leave him lying there."

"What about my grandfather?"

"I need to stay and look after him."

"But he's downstairs. With all that shouting and banging, anything could be happening."

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"That's why I need to stay. Now, you check for Doc's cell in the car. Break a window if you have to. In fact, break the window no matter what. It should set off his car alarm."

"Mom," Tears began to run down Stewart's face. "I don't want you to die too," he said.

Pam hugged him tightly.

"Now, you listen," she wiped away his face. "You know how tough I am. I am not going to do anything stupid. I'll stick with Tom, but in order to do that, I need to get down there. You go for help. If you can't find Doc's cell, or it's not working, ring doorbells, stop cars. Whatever it takes. Doc and I are counting on you."

"You'll be careful?" Stewart asked through sniffles. "You won't do anything stupid?"

"I promise."

"Okay, then. I'll go. I'll bring help quick."

"That's my boy."

Stewart moved down the hall to the front door. When he looked over his shoulder, Pam waved and urged him on. She wished, with all her heart, to see him again.

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CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Doc felt his heart take a stutter-step in his chest. This was not good for an old ticker. Being confronted by the woman he'd killed some forty years ago was bad enough but now she was demanding to know where the body had been placed. This was too surreal to handle, mentally or physically. Good God, he could still make out the form of the woman in the police uniform. She was almost entirely overshadowed by the figure of Kay, yet she was still visible in the background, as though she was the apparition instead of Kay. "I don't know," he answered Kay. "What do you mean, you don't know?" she asked.

"Tony handled that. I was injured when he attacked me with the hammer. I couldn't help with the burial."

"You just let that wood butcher stick me in the ground any damn place he wanted?"

"Not exactly."

"What exactly did you do, Morgan?"

"I embalmed the body. You. I embalmed you and Tony buried you on the premises."

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"Here, in the basement."

"It's what I always surmised."

"Under this slab?" The Kay-thing stomped the concrete with one foot.

"The cement was laid and the oil tank was installed atop it."

"So, it's under here."

"Probably." # Tom couldn't believe the conversation he was hearing as he crept into position at the bottom of the stairs. The doctor had just been attacked by a man named Anthony. This discussion, however, appeared to concern a different attack that had taken place prior to the concealment of a corpse. According to the woman, the corpse in question was hers. Whatever was going on, he needed to take a bead on the woman holding the gun on Doc. That was easier said than done, however, because of the strange reflection she gave off. Maybe it was the effect of all the dust shaken loose during that awful rumbling, he thought. Was the woman in the police uniform standing just behind the woman in jeans and a peasant blouse, or were his eyes playing some sort of trick?

As he prepared to sight down his line of fire and call a warning, a projectile of some sort came hurtling at the woman's head. It missed her and gonged loudly off the oil tank. Tom realized he'd heard the same noise earlier. Now, both attempts had failed. The policeman and the peasant bloused woman turned simultaneously to gage its source. She fired her gun in the direction from which the projectile had originated.

"Police! Drop the gun," Tom commanded as he came to a shooter's stance at the bottom of the stairs.

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The woman swiveled and took aim at him. He fired his service weapon. The bullet caught the woman high. She dropped her gun and reached for her throat. Tom could hear the blood spattering more than he could see it in the dust-filled, indistinct air. Arterial wound, he thought immediately.

Then, many things happened at once. # The best thing Michael could find was a brick. He heaved it at the woman's head, but he missed again. Instinctively, he ducked, as she turned on him. He felt a bullet whiz by him an instant before he heard the report of the gun. The basement was a bunker, built low of stone and dirt, and the bang was a loud thing. He felt like two powerful hands had clapped his head at his ears.

Suddenly, another shot answered the first. He looked up to see Bev, in the police uniform, doing an ungainly dance upon the concrete slab. Both hands were clasped tightly at her throat and she lifted her legs up and down in simulation goose-step, until she fell to the floor. Then, he was up and running to her.

Derek heard both shots and started quickly back down the cellar stairs. He came to a stop several feet behind the cop who was just coming up out of a crouch. Derek smelled nearly the exact scents he'd come upon upstairs. Several feet beyond the cop he could make out Bev in the police uniform. She was doing a sort of break dance on the concrete slab. She was leaving dark smears on the floor.

Michael moved up, in a flash, beside her.

"Can't you help?" he asked Doc.

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The old man stood motionless over the Forcades. He watched as Kay died all over again, more than forty years since he'd pulled the trigger.

"Can't someone, please help?" Michael asked again.

The cop stepped forward. "She was going to shoot me," he offered.

"Yes, she was," Doc replied. "I saw it all."

"But that's not her," Tom continued.

"No, that's not her. You're right," Doc confirmed.

Bev stopped moving. Michael wept beside her.

"I shot the wrong one," Tom confessed.

"Not really," Doc explained. "You shot the only one who was actually there."

Pam moved beside Derek. She had come running when she heard the shots. "Oh my God," she exclaimed and went to Doc. "What happened?" she asked.

"She tried to shoot Tom," Doc answered.

"But it wasn't her," Tom added.

"Exactly," Doc explained. # A loud click caused everyone except Michael and Bev to cast their attention toward the spot where Amy was fastened to the post. Someone was there with her. Out of all of them, only Derek recognized its silhouette. The noise that drew their attention had been the opening of the handcuffs.

The figure with Amy seemed not just cast in shadow but made of it. Everyone got the impression of a man but not the detail of one. Michael finally noticed it, too. He looked across

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the room at Derek, who nodded an affirmative. Amy stood as to address the group. As she did so, the image of the peasant bloused woman pressed over her.

"My friend says I've overstayed my welcome. Morgan, my love, we're not through yet. I'll see you again, old man. Michael, next time we meet you'd do well to mind your manners and not throw things at Mother."

With that, Kay-Amy walked away in the company of the dark-thing. They left out the cellar door that Anthony had broken down with Stewart's bicycle. Everyone remained stuck in place for a span, reason struggling to gain dominance over the shock and trauma of events. Regaining his senses, Officer Tom Merkel broke from the group and ran after Kay-Amy and the dark-thing.

His repeated calls for Amy were soon drown out by the wail of approaching sirens.

The End