Shadows chased across the damp nylon walls of the tent and slipped down to the sparse grass below. The heat of the campfire rapidly dried the moisture from the recent cloudburst and tinged the earth in shades of umber and crimson.

John shivered as the tent zipper rattled closed and Bruce reappeared with two cans of beer and a bag of pretzels. He wanted to blame the gooseflesh spreading over his clammy skin on the raw April weather. Logical, literal, the explanation made perfect sense. He had always been good at self-delusion before…

“”Fraid I don’t have anything stronger,” Bruce remarked as he shook out his folding chair and sat down.

John waved off the apology and cracked the proffered beer. “It’s fine, man.”

Before…

He took a long pull from the can and stared into the fire. Golden flames licked over the wood, hissing irritably at the fresh raindrops. Bruce nudged the ring of stones with his foot and added another log. Sparks jumped free and fluttered into the night.

Before the accident, before the visions, before the choices, John could lie to himself, at least about the small stuff.

“You gonna talk or what?”

“Huh?”

“Talk, John. You know communication,” Bruce enunciated.

“There’s nothing…”

“Nothing, I don’t want nothing…”

John shook his head and sat back, balancing the beer on his knee. “Nothing,” he repeated softly.

“You can’t keep beating yourself up about this.”

“I can’t?”

“No. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

“Then whose?” John demanded. He swallowed hard and kept his wide blue eyes riveted on the flames. “Jason? It’s not like he asked for this to happen. Hanchin? That guy was a lost cause from the start. Gene? What the hell did I expect? He was right, damn it, he was right!” He kicked loose a clod of dirt and grass in frustration. “Don’t you see, Bruce? There is no one else.”

“Yeah, I see just fine.” He put his drink and the pretzels on the ground and sat forward, tipping the chair slightly. “I see you whippin’ yourself for no reason. You can’t save everyone, man, it’s just not possible. Sometimes…sometimes you’ll lose and it’s gonna’ hurt.” His eyes dropped to the fire. “If you keep all that pain inside it will destroy you, John.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Intellectually? Yeah, you know it. Emotionally? I gotta’ wonder.”

“Leave it alone.”

John…”

He glared, sat back and took a second drink. Initially, he had resisted the idea of the camping trip. He craved solitude in the wake of Kate’s death. His visits with Jason and Ellen were obligatory and blessedly short due to Jason’s convalescence. He saw no one else until Kate’s funeral, an interminable day filled with platitudes and plastic smiles. John did not doubt the sincerity of the mourners but the effort to keep a positive face on the turmoil inside left him exhausted and restless. He caught Sarah and Bruce watching him several times during the service. Their concern augmented the certainty that he did not deserve Ellen’s appreciation or the support of the Moore family. The encounter in the cemetery the following week was the first and last conversation of weight before Jason flew home. He watched one of his oldest friends walk away with a sense of relief and hated himself for it.

Joy, anger, sadness, guilt, any or all were expected. Relief that Jason was gone, that the sordid mess was complete, left the taste of ashes in John mouth. He went home from the cemetery, shut off the phones and tried to sleep. A fruitless exercise interrupted almost hourly by recollections of the last few moments he had spent with Kate in the foyer.

Where had it all gone so horribly wrong? How did anyone expect him to live with such helplessness?

John set the beer on the ground and picked up a stick. He stirred the flames, deliberately poking a chunk of maple that was more ash than wood until the tip burst through and the log crumbled.

He resented Bruce’s interference. The intentions were sincere but there was something inherently wrong in seeking pleasure after such tragedy. A guilt John could not wrangle or twist no matter the effort put forth. So he wallowed in seclusion for two days and was not surprised when Bruce showed up on his doorstep with the Cruiser packed and a familiar look of determination on his normally open features. John fought back the sudden, spiteful fear of what lay beyond the front door and packed his gear in silence. This trip would be a last hurrah before a well-deserved self-imposed exile. No doubt Bruce suspected his true motivation, though he had not confirmed the assumption with words or actions. Driving up to Vermont and hiding out in this secluded campground guaranteed one thing—quiet. No one could understand how noisy it was to live in John Smith’s brain, least of all himself. He anticipated an insulating numbness of spirit. The sharp bite of sorrow and simmering rage was something else again.

Kate was dead. That horrible fact kept him awake for days on end and made him nervous about sharing a tent with Bruce. Exhaustion was the only remedy to endless ruminations. Unfortunately, that state also led to a leaden slumber that terminated in cold sweat and dry rasps. At home he would sit wide-eyed and trembling in his curtained bedroom, unsure if it was night or day until he found the indicator on the digital clock. What would Bruce make of such behavior? John was loath to give anyone the impression that his self-control was a hair’s breadth from complete collapse.

He had tried to set things to rights, despite the fact that there was no right answer. No one who knew the whole truth had denied that. In fact, they all did their best to assuage his guilt. Words and small gestures of friendship should have brought some form of release. Standing over Kate’s grave was the closest he had come to tears since that fateful day in the driveway as he watched her race towards her fate, utterly oblivious. He wanted and needed to feel something. Bruce was right, understanding the stages of grief was far different than experiencing and ultimately accepting.

Destiny…

Simple—almost—trite, the concept made John’s stomach roil. He wiped chilled sweat from his face and looked at Bruce. “I know you mean well.”

“We’re worried about you, John.”

“We? You told Sarah and Walt about this little trip?”

“So?”

“Purdy?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Give me some credit.”

“I’m tryin’.”

“Try harder.”

John laughed softly and shook his head. “It’s not easy bein’ green.”

Bruce frowned and then shoved his leg good-naturedly. “Kermit you ain’t!”

“Hey watch the beer!”

Chuckling beneath his breath, Bruce popped open the pretzels and held out the bag. “If anyone can live with this, you can.”

“What the hell makes you say that?” he countered sharply. Bruce flinched and sat back, clearly surprised by his vehemence. John groaned inwardly. “Look, you don’t know, okay?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“I know what you meant.”

“Hey, you need to focus on what you can and have done.”

“And how does that change anything about this situation?” John whispered bitterly.

“It doesn’t.”

“Helpful.”

Bruce shrugged. “It’s not like any of us has a manual for your brain. Every time you see something your whole demeanor changes. You are not the same person who entered the situation,” he chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “That’s true of anyone.”

“Have you started seeing accidents? Bathtubs full of blood? Burning buildings? Because until you do I don’t think we have a whole lot of common ground here.”

Bruce did not retreat from the tirade. “Stop being so literal and listen to me. Scratch that, listen to yourself. This isn’t about what you saw this is about guilt, pure and simple and completely unjustified.”

“She wasn’t your friend,” John murmured. Self-recrimination rose in acrid waves. He swallowed beer and bile, disgusted by the persistent need to see the world in black and white, right and wrong.

“No but you are and I don’t like what this is doing to you.”

“Neither do I.”

“Well at least we agree on something,” Bruce quipped.

“Yeah,” he stood up and reached for his cane. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

“Where?”

“Just up the road a bit, relax mother.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and turned towards the fire.

John limped to the edge of the tent site and out onto the dark lane. The rain had made already muddy conditions more treacherous. He did not intend to go far, just far enough to cap off the niggling exhaustion. The undignified image of himself sprawled in a puddle brought a worried frown to his lips. A fall was not worth the risk but he feared Bruce’s reaction to his disturbed sleep patterns even more.

He proceeded up the road past a row of dark and vacant campsites. The air was fresh and sharp after the rain and John drew several deep breaths, hoping to clear his head. Moonlight filtered through the branches and spattered the ground with blurry shadows. In the distance a dog barked and the sharp snap of twigs made him pause.

The wind?

He stared up and down the muddy tract. The breeze gusted fitfully, stirring the heavy pine boughs and the early crinkled leaves of Maples and Poplars. Satisfied but still wary, John turned back. The sparse early grass was safer on his tired leg so he kept to the edge. When he reached the neighboring empty tent site, he whistled a warning to Bruce and cut across the back of their site. As he stepped from the woods, his hand brushed the tops of some sodden ferns.

*Burnt umber and crimson tints ran down the trees and into variegated grasses of gray and black. The nearby tent and fire vanished in a white flash to be replaced by black, featureless tree trunks. Tattered clouds skittered across the half moon and rained spattered the leaves. Low limbs rattled as the wind gusted suddenly and then died.

Where…

Moonlight broke through the clouds and a glint of silver caught his eye. John gasped and fell back as a knife blade arced out of the darkness at a right angle to his throat.

Who…

A shadowy arm rose and fell a second time, lunging for the missed target. John pushed himself backwards across the grass and slammed heavily into a tree trunk…*

John fell hard against a tree and slid to the ground. He stared blearily into the dark forest only vaguely aware of Bruce’s shout of alarm and the slap of his footsteps on the wet grass.

“Damn that’s harsh,” Bruce muttered as he knelt beside him. “Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

Shaken and confused, John clambered to his feet, nearly falling a second time as his weaker leg snagged a vine. He looked down at his hand. Mud smeared the pale skin and a fresh scrape throbbed dully in his palm. “I touched some ferns...”

“You got a vision off some plants?”

“I must have.” John sighed raggedly. “I can’t get away from it anywhere, can I?”

“You’re white as a sheet. Come back to the fire and sit down before you fall down.”

“What?”

Bruce guided him across the clearing to the fire pit. “Sit!”

John collapsed into the chair and covered his face with quivering fingers. “A fern… How the hell am I supposed to avoid those out here?”

“You’re not. What did you see?”

He did not want to go down this road again. Not now it was too soon… John opened his mouth to lie and winced as the truth spilled out instead.

“A knife? And you were the victim?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you…die?”

A maniacal giggle crawled up his tight throat. John squelched it and shook his head. “Not this time.”

“But someone did?” Bruce prompted.

“Yeah, and recently too.”

“How do you know?”

John smiled ruefully.

“Never mind.”

“Just once I wish it were something positive. Some kid’s birthday party, two teenagers necking in the backseat…”

“Cheap thrills?”

“You know what I mean!” John snapped, though he could not help a small smile at the remark.

Bruce grinned back. “Hey, whatever works!”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“You don’t even know if you were a man or a woman… “ Bruce muttered, “Man that sounds weird.”

“No kidding. I just know that the killer took a second stab when I came up against the tree.”

“That’s why you fell?”

“Uh huh.”

Bruce fished in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He looked at the display and grimaced. “No service.”

“I thought we were roughing it,” John protested half-heartedly.

“Given your state of mind lately I didn’t think it was a good idea to be totally out of touch. You know what I mean?”

“But here we are anyway.”

Bruce jammed the phone back into his pocket. “Yeah, here we are. You don’t have a clue where this happened?”

John closed his eyes and reached unwillingly for the memory of the vision.

*Trees…clouds…a flash as the blade swung through the moonlight…*

He bit back a weary sigh. “Not without touching those plants again.”

“Hold tight,” Bruce pulled a knife from his pocket and walked back to the edge of the site. He selected three of the broken ferns and cut them loose. “Will this work?” he asked quietly as he sat back down.

“I don’t know.” John’s heart was still hammering and the last thing he wanted to do was test Bruce’s theory. The vision left him no choice, unfortunately. He took the proffered stems.

*Small stones and twigs grazed his skin as he shimmied backwards away from the descending knife. He stared wide-eyed into the surrounding forest and felt a scream building inside. Breaking free of his constricted throat in a long, low keen as he pressed his back against an unyielding tree trunk.

Metal gleamed and fell towards the pulsing chords of his exposed neck. John jerked to one side and slammed into a protruding rock half-hidden among the tree roots. As the pain lanced through his temple the knife bit into tender flesh and began to tear. His focus narrowed to a white square tacked between two pieces of barbed wire on a tree across the clearing…*

John’s eyes snapped open and he stared into the fire, absorbing the color and warmth in great gasps. “Christ,” he managed hoarsely as he wiped a hand across his mouth. “In the woods…big trees. Some sort of sign. It’s not right…there are no colors, no details…”

“Hey, take it easy will ya’. Breathe.”

“This doesn’t make any sense…”

“John, you’re not exactly yourself, maybe that’s affecting your visions.”

“Maybe,” he sucked in a steadying breath. “We need to find the victim.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now.”

“Do you really want to go stumbling around in the dark looking for a dead body? I mean he…she…it’s dead right?”

John nodded, feeling flush and clammy with resignation. “Yes.”

“Well then we can wait until morning.”

“The killer could still be out here too.”

Bruce looked over his shoulder and around the small clearing, his eyes large and unreadable in the shifting light. “Good point. The seats in the Cruiser recline.”

“Terrific. Heaven help my leg.”

“You want kinks or…”

“Skip it, Cruiser it is.”

Sunlight filtered through the trees and spotlighted the car on the western edge of the campsite. Shades of pale yellow and orange splashed over the dash and fell across John’s cramped legs. Roused from a restless sleep by the increasing heat, he fumbled for the lever to straighten the seat and swallowed a moan. The air within the car was stuffy and reeked of sweat and stale beer. His stomach flipped rebelliously at the combination. “Last time I fly coach,” he mumbled as he pushed open the door.

Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, John placed both feet on the ground and dropped his head into his hands.

A dream… just once could it have been a dream?

He massaged his temples, keeping his eyes tightly closed.

Knives? A sign? Trees? Of course, trees they were in a forest after all…

Questions spun through his mind as the car rocked with Bruce’s first stirrings.

Dream? He opened his eyes and sat up straight, wincing at the sharp kinks that spread across back and shoulder. “Terrific idea you had.”

“Better safe than…oh hell, who cares!” Bruce grumbled.

John smirked and then sobered as his eyes dropped to his scraped palm. “Just once…”

“Hurt?”

“A little,” he reached behind the seat for his cane and climbed out of the car. “Let’s go.”

“What? Now?”

“Is there etiquette with this kind of thing? No dead bodies before 7 a.m.?” John looked at his watch. “Too late, it’s 7:23.”

“Cute.”

John rubbed his arms against the dampness and moved off across the clearing. In the fresh morning light the area looked as clean and innocent as it had the previous evening.

They had arrived and set up camp by 5 p.m. The sun was setting but still bright enough to give one a full appreciation of the campground. A small stream cut through the center of several large, well-spaced tent sites edged with trees. It joined a river at one end of the oblong property and burbled beneath a narrow footbridge, which led to a series of meandering trails. Full-blown forest bordered the grounds on all sides. The largest break provided by a washboard access road connected to the secondary highway half a mile away. Rutted dirt lanes spaced intermittently along the road evidenced an ongoing expansion. It was early April, still cold but unseasonably dry with the exception of the last two days. They chose the most remote spot in the private facility. John had felt relief and a tentative sense of peace that only one other couple shared the grounds. The sensations were gone now.

John picked a careful path along the fringe of the lot. Rocks and twigs mixed with damp rotted leaves made walking treacherous. He paused frequently, allowing his eyes and mind to wander in tandem. Remembered flashes of the vision flitted at the back of his brain as he sought anything familiar amidst the tangle of foliage.

“Well?” Bruce asked quietly as he drew abreast.

“Nothing.”

“Maybe…”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

John turned, leaning unsteadily on his cane. “No, say it.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a vision,” Bruce answered. “Maybe it was a memory. Feelings combined with Kate’s wreck and…” he paused and drew John’s eyes with his, “Your own guilt.”

“You think I imagined this?”

“I think it’s possible,” he corrected gently.

John sighed and looked up into the clouded, blue sky. “That’s not how these things work. You know that.”

“I know that this whole business is a process,” Bruce countered. “I know that your visions are not always the same and sometimes what seems like truth is just another clue to something deeper.”

“You think I’m cracking up and that’s why there were no details this time?”

*Trees like featureless bars extended up into a faded heaven awash in bluish moonlight. A carpet of tattered grass and rocks drawn in lines of black and gray.*

John shook his head violently and turned back, catching Bruce’s concerned expression. “It was real even if it wasn’t quite…right.”

His friend put up a placating hand. “I don’t mean to make you doubt yourself.”

“I know. It’s just…” He walked away, at a loss to explain.

Sunlight blanketed the trees and mottled the ground, its intensity blurring details. An involuntary tremor coursed down John’s back at the similarity between reality and recollection. There had to be a connection, a clue…

“Over here, John.”

He looked down at the disturbed dirt and leaf litter at Bruce’s feet. Several plants lay bent or broken, their bare branches pointing into the denser forest. “He came this way,” John murmured.

“I thought you didn’t know if it was a man or a woman?”

“I don’t,” he squatted down and considered the broken foliage. A small, partial footprint was pressed into the drying soil beneath. Closer inspection of the area revealed a rock lying in the path beyond the opening. One dark side and a dusting of drying mud made it obvious that a stumbling foot had recently unearthed it. “Someone came through here last night,” he knelt and reached for a crushed fern.

*Harsh, rapid breath burned his throat and spots of crimson crisscrossed his vision as he plunged through the dark woods. Heavy footfalls thudded behind, the rhythm interrupted by a short, guttural curse*

John ducked his head and sat back, drawing a tremulous breath. “He was chasing the victim through here.”

Bruce frowned and glanced back into their campsite. “Close. How come we didn’t hear anything?”

“I don’t know,” he rubbed his forehead. The telltale stabs of a headache sparkled the edges of his vision and he bit back a groan of dismay. The physical symptoms were not constant but they were definitely more intense when they did manifest. “There has to be something else…” He stood and walked further into the trees. Branches brushed his jeans and skin and his fingers trembled as they skimmed over the emerging foliage. “Something…”

*The wet grass slid beneath his feet and puddles glittered in rain-pitted shrouds amid the trees. He lurched to the side and fell on one knee. Footsteps splashed in his wake, heavy and hollow when they struck the solid ground. He scrambled upright and plowed through a bed of ferns and brush. The ground dropped away and he was falling…*

“John!”

Strong hands kept him from toppling down a steep slope coated in last year’s growth and half hidden stones. John drew several ragged breaths and stepped slowly back, allowing Bruce to guide him to rest against a large tree.

*Cold consumed his body, chilling blood and bone until only a whisper of breath slipped free. A low mewl gathered in his throat and one hand snaked up to massage the chords. He stroked the cold, hard skin and shivered uncontrollably.*

“Hey!” Bruce pulled John away from the tree and gave his shoulders a firm shake. “Snap out of it, man!”

Reality returned, flooding John with welcome heat. “He…it was here,” he mumbled dazedly as he stepped out of Bruce’s loosening grip and looked at the large, twisted Poplar tree. “Leaning right here after the victim went over the edge.”

“What, you’re the killer now?”

“Apparently.”

Bruce folded his arms and glanced towards the partially concealed drop-off. “I need a scorecard.”

John shrugged helplessly.

“But the victim didn’t die from the fall?”

*Moonlight arced silver fire above his head. He crawled beneath a log, silently mouthing the Lord’s Prayer in between stilted gasps. Low laughter chased him deeper into the underbrush and then stopped abruptly. He crouched, waiting, breathless, frozen…*

John ducked to one side. His heart was pounding and the sluggish rush of blood made him weak and nauseous. The visions were coming as fast as memories and in a jumble of sensation he could not control. The killer, the victim… There was no coherent order, only chaos fed by fear. He brushed a hand across his flushed face, stunned and terrified by the burn of tears pressing against his fluttering eyelids.

He sniffed deeply and straightened. “No, the victim died later, after the killer caught up with them.” He walked carefully to the edge of the drop and looked over. “I have to get down there.”

“You try that and you’ll be back full time in rehab,” Bruce cautioned.

“No thanks, you enjoy your job way too much.”

“You know it.”

John smiled thinly, “There is a way down,” he rubbed his arms against a sudden chill. “The killer found it…”

“In the dark.”

“In the rain,” he added.

“That’s why we didn’t hear them go through last night.” Bruce clicked his tongue in frustration. “Let’s look around John. There has to be a trail here somewhere. Some broken branches at least.”

“Hold on,” he pointed at the Poplar. “He…it was right there.”

“You looked like death on a plate. Don’t put yourself through that again. We’ll find the way down.”

Thoughts and senses spun in an icy whirl inside John’s head. It was more than locating a trail—touching the tree brought him in contact with a decidedly unbalanced brain. This person’s actions were driven by forces John had never experienced before. He could not explain the strange need to touch that energy and thereby understand it. There was a place in his head and heart that lay raw and exposed following Kate’s death. It pleaded for justification and thrived on painful recrimination. The thought was repulsive to him, the force of it undeniable.

John brushed aside Bruce’s restraining hand and returned to the base of the tree. His fingers clenched around the head of his cane and the hem of his open coat, unconsciously kneading the metal and fabric as he gathered the strength to touch the mottled bark.

“Don’t.”

“It’s okay,” it wasn’t and Bruce knew better. There was no fooling his friend and John wondered idly why he still bothered to try. Putting the speculation aside, he sighed deeply and touched the tree.

*Falling… down through the towering trees. The trunks morphed and spread out to cover the sky and obliterate the ground. He landed hard and straightened up without ever feeling the floor. Broad featureless walls surrounded him and a window appeared at the end of what had become a very long hallway. He walked towards it, trailing his fingers along the wall.

Cold… within and without… reaching…squeezing his chest and back until it hurt to breathe. He struggled for air. Somewhere beyond the wall laughter, the sound low, sharp, and desiccated. Fear tingled his skin and lifted the hair of arm and neck. He began to run, long legs pumping, the sound of cheap, plastic shoes reverberating through the empty hall. He reached the window and discovered a grate of rusted bars overlaying the glass. He cried out in anguish as his hands…small, fine boned…grasped the metal and shook.

Dark steel evolved to roughened, featureless bark. He stared at the dirt-encrusted nails digging into the cellulose. Small hands…delicate fingers accented by sparkling silver polish. A sharp crack sounded and he spun away, stumbling over an exposed tree root.

Forest. Tall trees swaying from the force of a brief, violent rainstorm surrounded him. Laughter, nearly indistinguishable from the wail of the rising wind, touched his ear. He turned and stared with wide eyes around the small clearing. Low clouds chased above the trees and slashes of moonlight brushed the shadows aside. A gasp stuttered free as he blinked away tears

Laughter…*

“John?”

“What?” he answered weakly as he massaged his throbbing temples.

“Sit over here for a second and get your bearings.”

“Got any aspirin?”

“In the car. Headache again?”

Stumbling slightly, John crossed to a large boulder and sat down. “More often than not these days.”

“Uh huh.”

John leaned his head back against a tree and closed his eyes. He concentrated on slowing his racing pulse and following the tracery of pulsing veins backlit by the sunlight on his eyelids. The distraction brought calm and after a few moments he related the vision to Bruce.

“So the victim is a woman?”

“I think so but it was confusing, you know? When I was in the hall, I was the victim but I don’t think she ever touched that tree so at first I thought I was the killer… It’s a jumble.” He slowly opened his eyes and sat forward. “There’s something wrong inside this guy’s brain.”

“Speaking as someone who would know.”

John chuckled softly. “Yeah.”

“Look, how normal could the dude be? I mean he killed someone last night!”

“Good point.”

“Scared ya’, huh?”

John nodded and looked up to meet his friend’s eyes. “Yeah, but not in the way you think.”

Bruce sighed. “Now what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that this person has reasons, real reasons for acting this way. I’m just not sure what they are yet.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go there.”

John snorted in disgust. “You think I have a choice?”

“Yes.”

“You know better.”

Bruce shook his head and sat down with a muffled grunt. “I know that you can’t control what you see but you can control how you, I don’t know, analyze it?”

“Meaning?”

“It doesn’t matter why this person killed last night. What matters is finding the victim and letting the local sheriff’s department in on it...”

John’s hand slashed the air, cutting him off. “But it does matter, Bruce. That’s part of the problem here…”

“Look, we’re probably not doing ourselves any favors walking around out here without an alibi.” He rubbed his arms, visibly unnerved. “You remember the last time we stumbled over something like this?”

“This isn’t Hobbs Landing.”

“Maybe not but the vibe is the same.”

John made a show of looking around the open area and back up onto the trail. “I don’t see any pentagrams or gas cans,” he quipped.

“Cut the comedy. I’m serious!”

“I know you are and I appreciate the warning.” He stood carefully and walked along the edge of the embankment. “I can’t just let this go. She’s down there, right where he left her.” John trailed off and studied his palm. Sunlight and handling had dried and removed most of the blood and mud. He touched the skin, wincing at the dry, rough, texture. He traced a careful path around the boundary of the scrape before dropping his hands to his sides.

His personal intention for this trip was to provide a sense of closure and finality to who he had become in the last two years. Instead, a new mystery roared to the fore. The misery of not knowing how, when, or why was not new but it was exhausting. As a science teacher, he dealt with proofs. Living with the visions did not always provide that kind of tangible evidence and a part of him would always resent the brain injury from a purely practical standpoint. The burden of choice was growing heavier as time passed and he feared the moment when he would finally break with its weight.

“We should get the local authorities involved now,” Bruce advised. ”We can tell them we heard something last night if you want to avoid the whole psychic thing.”

“What…and miss the chance to make them famous?” John answered cynically. “There’s no point in covering it up. They’ll find out soon enough and it will look more suspicious if I don’t speak up.”

“True but honesty isn’t always the best policy, my brother.”

John looked down the slope a final time and then turned back towards the trail. “Truth is always stranger than fiction.”

“Not always,” Bruce qualified. “That cliché doesn’t quite ring true with you!”

Struck by the irony of the statement, John laughed beneath his breath as they walked back towards the campsite.

The axiom spoke of a wished for reality. Why was this happening to him? What had he done to deserve this terrible gift of prophecy? Surely there were others of a more stable, saintly nature who were better suited to the task of reassurance and the utterance of false hopes. He had once been an explorer, an investigator, now he just wanted to run away and curl up in a tight, neat ball in the corner and let the world slip by completely unnoticed. Everyone and everything conspired against that desire and the concept was almost too much to bear, especially after Kate’s death.

John brushed cold sweat from his face and paused at the edge of the woods. The current mystery was just the latest in a parade of progressively darker situations. He did not expect people to listen to him but, god how much easier life would be if they did!

They exited the trees and returned to the campsite. Out on the lane a man and woman waved good-naturedly as they strolled past. John waved back and then joined Bruce by the Cruiser.

“I’m not sure I like that.”

“What?”

Bruce gestured to the walking couple. “They saw us come out of the woods.”

“We were just taking a walk,” John suggested. “Innocent enough.”

Bruce frowned and pulled out his keys. “Get in, you’re buying me breakfast.” He slid into the driver’s seat mumbling, “Damn visions.”

John rubbed tiredly at his forehead. Normalcy was a thing of the past. He hoped for better but he had stopped praying a long time ago. His hand dropped to the door handle.

*An arc of finely crafted steel gleamed in firelight. Splashes of wet crimson and brown streaked the blade from jagged tip to wooden hilt. The knife dipped down towards the ground as the bearer turned it slowly over and over. Then it rose and flew high and straight across the clearing, burying itself in the center of the white, featureless square. *

John bit his lip to subdue a groan and leaned heavily on the roof of the car. The murder weapon was down there with the victim and the killer had taken the time to start a fire. A creature of all consuming arrogance or in his own way more of a victim than the dead woman? John was not sure which. Worse was the inescapable conclusion that this monster was watching Bruce and himself try to unravel the mystery. The thought twisted John’s already nauseous stomach into a painful clench. He coughed thickly and yanked open the door.

Bruce glanced up. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Not really,” John grimly replied as he buckled his seatbelt. “He knows that someone is on to him. He was here looking around.”

“He touched my car?”

“Yes.”

“That’s just wrong.” Bruce put the vehicle in gear and drove out onto the lane. They caught up with the walking couple. He pulled over and lowered the window. “How ya’ doin’ this morning?”

“Fine, yourself?” the man answered hesitantly.

“Good. My friend and I were wondering if you saw anyone in our campsite earlier?”

“No,” he turned to his companion. “Did you see anyone while you were making coffee?”

“No, I didn’t,” she answered while looking steadily at John. “I’m sorry to stare, you just look so familiar.”

“Oh Marie!”

John shrugged and offered her a small smile. It was obvious the man resented her curiosity. Ordinarily, he might have put the poor woman’s mind to rest. A raging headache in addition to a brain full of distinctly maudlin images stilled his tongue.

“Is there anything missing?” the man asked.

Bruce shook his head. “No. Thanks anyway, enjoy your walk.” He raised the window and pulled away, his fingers tapping edgily on the steering wheel. “Makes you wonder when the guy had a chance to check out our site.”

“Doesn’t matter,” John replied as he leaned his head back against the headrest. He explained the vision of the knife while staring with unfocused eyes at the passing landscape.

The rural scenery looked and felt as innocuous as any Hollywood horror movie. Enter stage left: two friends communing with Mother Nature until something goes horribly wrong. Trapped and hunted by a hopped up sociopath on a dark and stormy night. John’s lips curled into a twisted smile. It was B-movie fare which had suddenly become all too real.

They drove up onto the main road and followed it to the small town of Danvers. A bank, a post office, three gas stations, and a general store that sold liquor out of the back room—blink and you missed it. The houses were large, old, and in various states of disrepair. Like many towns of similar age, Danvers suffered from the decay of a roaring past and a pathetic future. The community seemed poised for some form of calamity, which only added to John’s uneasiness.

“Where the hell do you go to report a crime in this town?” Bruce groused.

“Maybe it’s not big enough to have… oh wait, there’s a cop parked over there.”

“Chowin’ down at the local diner. That would figure.”

John did not reply. On the surface the remark was discriminatory but he knew Bruce had a great deal of respect for Walt and his small department. Stress made even the most patient person state the inane.

Danvers was no different than many hamlets nestled in central and northern New England. What they were about to tell this officer would provide fodder for the café counter and back fences for years to come. Unfortunately, his involvement would make those stories even more durable and convoluted. “Tell me why I agreed to this trip again,” John queried bitterly as they parked across from the diner.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah, sure it is,” he climbed from the car and waited for Bruce to join him before crossing the street.

The restaurant was located in a rectangular structure with a sharply pitched metal roof. Peeling gray paint accented by white trim covered ancient clapboard siding. The sign above the door read ‘The Ramblin’ Rose’. A flower, leaves, and a stilted vine had been burned into the wood and recently highlighted in blood red and forest green.

John paused on the sidewalk and leaned on his cane. He studied the sign and then dropped his eyes to the pavement, looking up and down the mostly empty street for a long moment before moving towards the door.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“I really hate it when you say that.” John tossed him an irritated glare and Bruce laughed.

The counter was nearly full when they entered and drifted towards a back booth. The county Sheriff was seated closest to the wall. It was an advantageous position for watching the front door, as well as a solid backrest. He was middle aged with thinning brown hair and sharp gray eyes, which followed John and Bruce as they took their seats.

John nodded silent acknowledgment of the scrutiny and its implications.

“Edgy,” Bruce remarked as he pulled a pair of menus from the holder on the table. “You want to talk to him here?”

“Not really but I can’t think of a plausible excuse to get him out of here either.”

The officer signaled for a refill on his coffee and shifted focus to the older gentleman seated next to him. John grimaced at the obvious façade. They were new in town and, like the people of Hobbs Landing, the residents of Danvers were wire-tight. Whether everyone was consciously aware of last night’s events, he could not be certain. Small towns had a way of knowing when something was amiss however. Breathing the same air, enduring the same trials, lives were entangled in a way no city neighborhood could be. These people would pull together and weather whatever may come. John missed that unity of spirit. The tired cliché ‘No man is an island’ remained painfully incorrect in his case.

“So I won’t be attending any BBQs in your honor, will I?”

John smiled half-heartedly. “I don’t think so.”

The sharp squeak of rubber-soled shoes caught their attention. “What’ll you have gentleman?”

“Hi there. I’ll have a one-egg omelet with broccoli and a side of wheat toast, please.” Bruce answered. “Oh and a big glass of orange juice.”

The waitress nodded to herself and turned to John. “You?”

“Two eggs scrambled, a side of bacon and orange juice as well. Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Conversation ebbed and flowed around them. The locals were concerned about the price of milk and beef and whether the Red Sox would make a good showing this season. Snatches of state and national politics floated amid speculation on high school sports and who was sleeping with whom. It was typical fare for a small community still desperately clinging to its agricultural roots in the face of over development. John had become an unwilling student of human nature over the last two years. Such conversations existed on many levels and he knew that the tension in the room could not be explained by words alone.

He kept his eyes focused on the tabletop and his back to the counter. Bruce could see the Sheriff from his vantage point. There was no need to make himself more obvious.

The waitress suddenly reappeared, startling John from his reverie. He sat back and smiled feebly while she unloaded a small tray. “Orange juice, jelly for the toast, and here’s some silverware. Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Bruce assured with a big smile. “Busy morning?”

“You could say,” she hurried off.

Bruce indicated the sheriff with a flick of his eyes. “What do you want to do?”

“Want to do? Nothing. Have to do…”

“Should I ask him to come over here?”

He wanted to say yes, to pretend that he was someone else just for a minute or two. John sighed wearily and stood up. “No, I’ll do it.”

“You sure?”

He grasped his cane and glanced back, “No.” Not waiting for a reply, John made his way between the tables and up to the row of stools lining the counter. “Excuse me, Sheriff?”

The older man drained his coffee cup and turned to face him directly. “Something I can help you with?”

“My friend and I would like a moment to speak to you privately.”

“I see,” he stood up. “Emma, I’ll see you later.”

The waitress smiled and saluted with the coffee pot she was carrying before turning away.

“What’s this about?”

“Privately, please,” John repeated softly as they walked back towards the booth.

“You’re awfully young to be using a cane. Did you fall recently?” the Sheriff asked when they had reached the table and John was again sitting down.

“Auto accident.”

“Sorry to hear it. Now what can I help you fellas with?”

“My name is John Smith and this is going to sound a bit strange so please bear with me.”

“Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“That auto accident I just mentioned, it put me in a coma for six years. When I woke up I discovered that I could…see things…by touching people and objects.” The Sheriff’s expression remained blank but he kept his eyes focused on John as he pulled up a chair from a neighboring table. “I have visions of future and sometimes past events.” John licked his lips and sat forward intently. “I know someone is missing here and I know roughly where her body is and how she died.”

Emotion flickered at the back of the Sheriff’s narrowed eyes. He rubbed pensively at his chin and slowly lowered his hand to the table. “You saw this?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea how that sounds?”

“As a matter of fact I do, Sheriff…?”

“Whitcomb, Edward Whitcomb,” his jaw ground from side to side as he looked away and then back again.

“Sheriff, my name is Bruce Lewis and I’m here to tell you that John’s visions are very real.”

Whitcomb glanced appraisingly at Bruce and then back to John. “Now look, this disappearance isn’t exactly a secret. Amy Flynn went out for a bike ride yesterday afternoon and never showed up to meet her boyfriend for supper right here,” he gestured expansively to indicate the diner. “How do I know that you two aren’t filling me full of garbage? Why shouldn’t I think that you had something to do with this? For that matter, how do you know she’s dead?”

“If we did, why would we come to you?” John protested.

“Hiding in plain sight,” the Sheriff retorted.

“We didn’t even know the girl’s name until just now. In fact John wasn’t even sure the victim was a woman at first.”

“At first?”

John stifled a sigh. Explaining his abilities to strangers was never easy and Bruce did not feel comfortable playing tag team. He did not blame him. The events in Hobbs Landing had begun to spiral out of control the second he told deputy Simmons about John’s visions. They could not afford to make the same mistakes again. “Let me try and explain.”

“Make it fast and clear, Mr. Smith. This is an ongoing investigation and you just became a part of it.”

He nodded acceptance. “Last night I had a vision in which I was the victim. I saw a knife come down and cut my throat. This morning we went for a walk in the woods at the campground we’re staying at…”

“Deer Creek?” the man interjected.

John looked at Bruce for confirmation. “Yes, Deer Creek. We found a fresh break in the undergrowth. When I touched the plants I got another vision only this time I was the killer. At least I think so...”

“You think?”

“Yes. I didn’t see the actual crime. I can’t really control what I see or in what order I see it in.”

Whitcomb frowned. “Is that all?”

“No. The visions led me to the edge of an embankment and showed me that the killer had started a fire and thrown the knife into what looked like a sign tacked to a tree.”

*Crimson streaks marring the clear, burnished blade*

The retelling flared the memory to brilliant, bloody life. John swallowed bile and reached for his orange juice.

*Heart hammering, he ran down the dark street. The widely spaced houses were set far back on large, tree lined lots. Lights winked in windows and spilled from open doors, instantly swallowed by the clouded night.

Run faster!

Nonsensical whispers hounded his steps. He did not look back as he turned and sprinted across the lawn. Footsteps thundered closer, sounding hollow and heavy on the short grass.

NO!

He bit the inside of his cheek to quell an air-robbing scream. Faster…up on to the steps and wrenching open the door. Turning, slamming, locking… He fell back against the wood and held his breath as tears streamed down his burning cheeks. Outside the footsteps faded away, chased to stillness by low, breathy laughter. *

John released the glass with a jerk. It tipped and orange juice flooded the table and dripped onto the worn linoleum below.

“What the hell!” Whitcomb exclaimed as he pushed back his chair and stood up.

“John?”

“Amy wasn’t his first try here in Danvers,” John whispered. His eyes rose and found the waitress standing with her back to them. Her sharp, high laugh tingled his spine and caught his breath. “She got away.”

The Sheriff followed his line of sight, “Emma?” He chuckled but the sound was forced and ended abruptly. “Now listen here. You’re naming a lot of names and telling a lot of tales. I don’t like it much. I’m not dragging Emma Leahy or anyone else into this nonsense until we’ve gotten a few things straight.”

John righted the glass with trembling fingers. “She got away,” he repeated tightly. “I saw her, felt her, running for her life. I’m not sure when but I know it happened and when she got away the killer followed his compulsion and found Amy Flynn.”

“And you expect me to just swallow this?”

“We know how it sounds. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened,” Bruce explained. He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to Whitcomb. “Walt Bannerman is the Sheriff of Penobscot County, Maine, where we’re from. He’ll vouch for John and myself.”

The Sheriff read the card with a skeptical expression resting on his weathered features. “You know fellas I give most anyone the benefit of the doubt. It’s in my nature. But this is just…strange. You see my problem here?”

“I wish I were lying.” John murmured fervently.

Whitcomb’s blunt fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the edge of the table. “Well, seems to me that we need to take a little ride back out to Deer Creek.”

“Who had the omelet?” Emma interrupted.

Bruce raised a hand. She set down the plates and pulled a damp cloth from her waistband. “Bit of an accident?”

“Something like that,” John said sheepishly.

“No problem.”

He reached hesitantly for his fork and did not reply as she wiped up the mess. Emma had a secret that no one believed she would or could harbor. He had felt fear, anger, and most intently, a desperate shame as she leaned against the door. It was not realistic to expect her to reveal to a stranger what she did not want to admit even to herself.

Emma flashed a brief smile and walked briskly back to the counter.

“She looks okay to me, Mr. Smith.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Sheriff,” Bruce said around a mouthful of egg.

“They surely can, fellas.”

John ate mechanically. His head was pounding and all he wanted to do was sleep in a quiet, dark room. Finding Amy Flynn’s body would be just the beginning of a nightmare he could not shut out.

“John?”

“What?”

“You gonna eat?”

“I did.”

Bruce glanced dubiously at his half-full plate.

John grimaced, pushed the plate to the center of the table and stood up. “Excuse me, I need some more orange juice.”

“Uh huh.”

John could hear the Sheriff talking quietly into his radio as he walked across the lobby. People had been openly curious but remained a respectful distance from the table during their conversation. Now the stools were conspicuously empty. John did not doubt that their discussion with Sheriff Whitcomb would be the main topic over lunch. He pasted on a pleasant grin and approached the counter. “Excuse me.”

Emma looked up from clearing away a used place setting and grinned back. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if I could get another glass of orange juice?”

“Oh!” she blushed. “I’m so sorry. I got busy and totally forgot.”

“It’s okay.”

John watched her turn and pull the gallon of juice from a cooler built into the counter. She poured a large glass and held it out. “On the house.”

“Thanks.”

*Cold, sticky linoleum beneath his bare feet. He looked up and into the mirror above the sink. Emma’s face stared back, glassy eyed and sunken cheeked. His whole body ached and his fingers shook uncontrollably as they rose to cradle her cheeks. *

John gripped the glass tightly and took a long swallow before setting it carefully on the counter. “Emma, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Not if I can ask you something first?”

“Fair enough.”

“You look familiar but I’m not sure from where. Have you ever been to Danvers before?”

John fought down an undignified spurt of laughter. “No.”

“Strange, I know I’ve seen you.”

He shrugged stiffly and leaned against the counter. “Do you know the missing woman, Amy Flynn?”

“I know of her. Same High School, different class. Why?”

No connection… “I was just wondering. Sheriff Whitcomb said you were about the same age.” He felt guilty for the lie but some things were best left unsaid.

Emma stopped wiping the counter and looked up. A curious frown pulled on her pale lips and darkened her eyes. She stared at him for a long moment. “I know where I’ve seen you.”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“You’re that psychic guy from Maine. You’ve been on the news a few times. Saw an article on you in the Free Press a few months back. You predicted a fire at some restaurant…” Her lips formed an O and she stepped back. “Is there going to be a fire here?”

“No,” John hastily reassured. “I was just up here camping with a friend of mine.” He sighed, feeling flush and tired. “I have to go now. Take care, Emma.”

“I hope we see you again.”

He cringed at the awed tone in her voice and moved off. Getting Emma to talk about her close encounter was going to be as difficult as convincing Sheriff Whitcomb. Neither were battles John wanted or needed at this point. He returned to his table and sat down heavily.

“Mr. Smith?”

“It’s been a long night, Sheriff, give us a minute would you?”

John closed his eyes and rubbed a sweaty palm over his forehead. He appreciated Bruce’s intervention. Things were getting more out of hand by the second.

“Is that your PT Cruiser outside?”

“It’s mine, Sheriff,” Bruce answered warily.

“Fine. Take five minutes and then meet me out front. I’m going to follow you to Deer Creek.” John looked up as the older man cleared his throat and raised a cautioning finger. “Just putting you both on notice. I’ve given the State boys a heads up. Any nonsense and they’ll have your ass. Do we understand each other?”

“Perfectly,” John replied.

Whitcomb nodded and walked away.

Bruce grumbled beneath his breath and reached for his nearly empty glass. “Nice guy. Real free spirit.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“No, I guess not,” he drained the glass and put it down with a sharp crack. “He could have cut you some slack.”

John smothered a yawn with his hand and looked down at the table. “Maybe.”

“You ready to go back there?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, I know. What about Emma?”

“She didn’t know Amy. There’s no obvious connection here.”

“You expected there would be?”

“Hoped is more like it,” John admitted.

Bruce cast restless eyes to the window. “We better go.”

“I need to talk to Emma later.”

“Oh yeah, that should be fun.”

John smiled wanly and pulled out his wallet.

They left the cash on the table, went outside and climbed inside the Cruiser. Sheriff Whitcomb’s flinty gray eyes observed their every move from his patrol car. He frowned as they pulled into traffic and then followed at a discreet distance down the meandering secondary road.

John tried to ignore the lawman’s presence. There were too many things already awhirl inside his tired mind. Objects, colors, even smells, brought a plethora of images to bear. Half a breakfast and a bounty of stressful conversation had done nothing to alleviate his headache either. He could feel Whitcomb’s suspicion like a burning brand that kinked his back and boiled his blood until it hurt to breathe. He coughed thickly and waved off Bruce’s concerned glance.

God, if only he could sleep it all away, roll over and discover it was just a dream…

He reached for the radio with one hand and lowered the window with the other. Damp, chilly air slapped his face as the strains of an old country ballad filtered through the speakers.

“Man, who tuned this in!”

“Must be the local station,” John answered dully. He did not care what played, so long as his brain could have the distraction.

The sign for the campground appeared and moments later Bruce eased the car down over the bank and onto the winding dirt road.

“We still don’t have a way down that embankment.”

“I’ll find it.”

A truck loaded with camping gear was parked in front of the office as they drove past. Bruce eyed the new arrivals and mumbled an oath.

John nodded into his hand and stared out the window. More people meant more complications and opportunities to cloud his perceptions.

“There’s something not right here, man.”

“Huh?”

Bruce pulled into their campsite and pointed out the window. “Doesn’t something look off to you?”

John straightened and looked through the smudgy glass as he reached for his cane. “I don’t see…oh, damn…” He climbed from the car, flinching as the police Cruiser’s brakes squeaked and the engine died.

“Where did you fellas enter the woods?” Whitcomb asked through his open window.

Bruce pointed to the back of the lot. “Right through there. There’s a break in the trees.”

“This is not a regular trail? I know Tony Watts has several on the property.”

“No, it’s not,” John answered distractedly as he stopped in front of the tent. “Someone’s been here.”

“Oh?” Whitcomb joined him and squatted down to peer through the open tent flap. “Didn’t leave it open?”

“No, we didn’t. We didn’t even sleep in there last night.”

The Sheriff turned and looked quizzically at Bruce. “Why not?”

“Because of my vision.” John answered wearily.

“Uh huh. Was there anyone else staying on the premises last night?”

“We saw a couple walking this morning. They were down at the other end of the lane.” Bruce turned and waved towards the woods. “They were here when we arrived.”

“I see,” the older man straightened and faced them both. “So you ‘witnessed’ a murder for want of a better term and decided to sleep in your car?”

“Yes, Sir,” Bruce and John answered in unison.

The Sheriff grimaced. “And you didn’t see fit to report anything last night?”

“I think you would agree that my visions are not the kind of evidence you want to present to someone in the middle of the night.” John replied. The man’s methodical, albeit necessary questions were beginning to grate. His stomach was churning with restlessness and a gnawing sense of fear. The clock was ticking.

“You have a point there,” Whitcomb grudgingly admitted. He looked around the site and then refocused on the tent. “So what’s wrong here besides the fact that the flap is open and not closed the way you left it?”

“That doesn’t strike you as odd?” Bruce countered, his tone mildly exasperated.

“Everything about you two strikes as odd.”

John smothered a chuckle at the Sheriff’s deadpan reply. Truth was truth there was certainly no point in denying the obvious.

“Mr. Smith, is there anything else you would like to tell me about last night?”

There was a lot he would like to tell, too much in fact. John rubbed a hand over his neck and squatted in front of the open tent. Edward Whitcomb was a man of facts. He would use those facts to aid or convict with equal vigor. John reached for the zipper. The Sheriff would not be interested in feelings or sensations, which was probably more blessing than bane at this juncture. John knew what the visions implied relating that information in a coherent fashion was another matter entirely.

“Relax,” Bruce murmured as he touched his shoulder.

John leaned forward, sliding out from under the reassuring weight as he grasped the zipper pull with trembling fingers.

*Screams, long and high, over and over—his throat ached with the strength of them. He caressed the throbbing chords and fell back on his heels.

Shadows spread across the floor as a figure stepped in front of the window. The person bent and traced a knobby, skeletal finger along the edge of his jaw. Hot breath that reeked of decay puffed into his face. Dark eyes glinted in the stray sunlight pouring around the angular face. The person…a woman…smiled crookedly, her mouth a wide, gaping maw studded with rotting teeth. She reached forward with both hands and dragged him upright.

He screamed again and raised his arms. Pressing desperately against the wasted frame of the creature that loomed above, below, all around him…*

John sat back and dropped his head into his cold fingers.

“Mr. Smith?”

“John?”

“The killer,” he swallowed hard, “Was here.” He reached for his discarded cane and related the vision as he stood up and moved away from the tent.

“What does this have to do with Amy Flynn?” Whitcomb pressed.

“I’m not sure. But the person who did this is seriously unbalanced and for very good reasons too.”

“You said things were…off,” Bruce remarked. “Maybe this person’s past is affecting how you see him?”

“Maybe.” John sat down at the picnic table. He suspected it was more than the twisted machinations of a lunatic and he was sure Bruce did as well.

“I’m not fond of mysteries fellas and this is just getting more complicated by the minute.” Whitcomb scanned the site a second time and huffed a sigh. “Okay, Mr. Lewis, give me your car keys. You and I are going to have a little chat with Tony Watts. Find out who those other campers are and if they’ve checked out.” He indicated John’s cane with a flick of his eyes. “Mr. Smith, I don’t expect you’ll go too far without a set of wheels.”

“No, Sir, I’ll stay here.”

“Cooperation is a good thing but you both know that already,” the Sheriff said as he clicked his radio and wandered towards the edge of the site.

Bruce sat down and stubbed idly at the dirt with one foot. “I really don’t like where this is headed.”

John cast his eyes to the sky and sagged against the edge of the table. “Neither do I. There’s something wrong about all of this.”

“You mean besides the fact that there’s a dead person out there in the woods and this guy thinks we had something to do with it? What exactly constitutes wrong for Johnny Smith?

The concern and the quiet desperation in Bruce’s words shivered over his frazzled nerves. John shoved his friend good-naturedly towards the now waiting Sheriff. “Go on.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

“Thanks.” He watched Bruce and Whitcomb climb into the patrol car and pull away before getting up from the table. He suspected the savvy Sheriff had reported in to the State police and back up was on its way to the campground. Small towns looked to county and state authorities for law enforcement due to budget constraints. Vermont bordered Canada and John counted his blessings that Danvers did not sit on the federal line. Homeland security was not an organization he wanted to deal with.

There was no telling how soon the State policed would arrive. He needed to use the time constructively in spite of his own misgivings about the perpetrator.

John walked around the small lot. His pale, restless eyes skimmed over the grass and up into the trees. They fell to the mussed area where he and Bruce had entered the forest earlier in the morning and then moved on. Nothing appeared amiss. Where had the killer come from? Had he been lying in wait for their return? Had they left a clue to their identities, thereby enticing him to come into the site and leave a metaphysical trace for John to find?

He stopped pacing and stood by the fire pit. No, not everything could be connected to him. The great and powerful Johnny Smith, just pay no attention to that man behind the curtain. The thought made him cringe. “Pathetic.”

He had told Gene Purdy that he was not playing God by trying to save Kate. In his heart, John firmly believed that there are answers to all things.

A scientist asks the right questions and seeks the solutions until all is satisfactory. Sometimes the journey of discovery lasts a lifetime and ends only with death. Kate and Jason’s situation did not fit the mold of his life. There was no right answer and never would be, no matter how many times he asked. No one should have to die in her place or Jason’s, yet he had tried so hard and failed so utterly.

John sighed raggedly and looked at the cane clutched in his right hand.

The man he was no longer existed. He could not afford to be the scientist. The visions precluded tangible proof and frequently offered only the vaguest of hints. Speculation and worry were his constant companions, driving him towards a destiny he never asked for. The more time passed the less able he felt to handle what was being asked of him. Gene’s convictions about his future felt like a life sentence earned by virtue of human frailty.

Vehement oaths gathered at the back of John’s constricted throat. He scrubbed the sweat from his face and forced his mind to the present. For sanity’s sake he would complete this last task and then withdraw into the safety of seclusion. Nothing would be allowed to destroy the sanctuary of his own mind.

Resolve brought energy and John walked with purpose to the broken foliage at the edge of the lot. A flash of white caught his eye. He knelt down and pushed the ragged ferns aside. Half hidden by a scattering of leaves was a piece of white cotton cloth embroidered with delicate, blue flowers.

John sat back on his heels. This was real, physical evidence and he was certain it had not been there earlier in the day. The killer was toying with them, a conclusion that both sickened and fascinated him. The cloth was a gauntlet and irrefutable indication that what had once been random was now purposeful. Was it possibly to lead a psychic around by the metaphysical nose? If so, how should he react to such manipulation or should he react at all?

He stood and paced back to the fire pit. The tent sat off to one side, looking like a hunched, tired dog. What else lay within?

John glanced around the clearing and up the lane. The top of the Sheriff’s patrol car was just visible through the intervening trees. As he watched, the pickup parked beside it pulled away from the office and headed towards the access road. It was possible that Whitcomb’s presence and information had deterred the owner from staying at Deer Creek. John flushed guiltily and looked away. Possible, probable… He sighed tiredly and approached the open tent.

The air inside smelled of mold and stale socks. John wrinkled his nose and crawled across the floor. Rumpled sleeping bags, an open duffle bag, magazines, assorted wrappers, and a flashlight; all appeared just as they had left it. He started to back out of the tent and then stopped, drawn by a patch of screen-filtered sunlight illuminating his dark pillow. Tucked into a fold of the pillowcase was a thin coil of blond hair. John crept forward and peeked beneath the material. The hair was tied together by a piece of white cotton with the hint of embroidery on one ragged end.

“My God.”

“John?”

Startled, he drew a tremulous breath. “In here.”

“Taking a nap?” Bruce asked, his tone not entirely in jest.

“Not exactly. I found something in here and over by the woods. Sheriff Whitcomb?”

“Right here. What have you got?”

John crawled out of the tent and quickly outlined his discoveries.

“Did you touch anything?”

“No.”

“Smart maneuver.”

“We’ve been through this a few times,” Bruce replied.

Whitcomb grunted, “Okay, I’ll get some pictures.” His gray eyes narrowed to slits as he studied John from toe to hairline. “You know how this is sounding, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Stay put.”

Bruce crossed his arms and watched the older man stride quickly across the lot to his car. “This gets better and better.”

“At least he’s giving us the benefit of the doubt.”

“Great.”

John shrugged. They could not expect more, which did not lessen the wanting for it. He stepped back and sat down at the picnic table. Patiently biding his time until Whitcomb returned, snapped pictures inside the tent, and placed the hair in a plastic evidence bag. Finally, the older man turned and looked questioningly in his direction.

“Over here,” John retraced his steps to the edge of the clearing. “Right underneath those ferns.”

The Sheriff bent down camera in hand and pushed the plants aside. “Where?”

“Right there.”

“John,” Bruce said. “There’s nothing there.”

“What?”

“See for yourself, man.”

“Mr. Smith, I don’t have time for this kind of bullshit, “ Whitcomb growled as he stood. “Where is the cloth?”

“Sheriff, I swear it was there under those ferns. I saw it. The same print as the piece wrapped around the hair.”

“Well it’s gone now.”

Bruce’s dark skin paled. “That nutcase was right here just a few minutes ago.” He scanned the surrounding forest with wide, troubled eyes. “He’s watching you, John.”

“I know.”

Whitcomb slung the camera strap over one shoulder and crossed his arms. “Why? I want some answers Mr. Smith or we’re going to be trawling those woods with you in handcuffs.”

“You’re going to arrest him?”

The Sheriff nodded slowly.

“On what charge?” Bruce challenged.

“Well you tell me, Mr. Lewis. No one has seen hide or hair of Amy Flynn since yesterday afternoon. Now your friend here claims to have seen a piece of clothing and we found and photographed a lock of blond hair tied with similar material inside your tent. I never told either one of you that she was blond and last seen wearing a white cotton shirt with blue flowers on it.” His eyes darkened as he tapped Bruce’s chest with one finger. “What would you do given the same set of circumstances?”

“He wants me loose, Sheriff,” John quietly interjected. “He’s baiting me.”

“Okay, same question, why?”

Bruce sighed loudly, clearly exasperated. “It’s a kick for him. A turn on.”

“How so?” Whitcomb parried.

“Haven’t you heard of this man?” Bruce shook John’s shoulder while giving him a sympathetic smile. “John has helped the Penobscot County Sheriff’s department track runaways, kidnappers, and even a serial killer in the past. For a sick mind there is no greater thrill than messing with a psychic’s head.”

The older man directed his attention to John. “Do you think he tracked you here and killed Amy to impress you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

John licked his lips and forced himself to meet the Sheriff’s flinty gaze. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Uh huh.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bruce asked

“It means we’re all going to take a little walk just as soon as my back up arrives.”

“You’re making a mistake here. John can help you.”

“Or he can get away with cold blooded murder by sending us all on a wild goose chase.”

Bruce shook his head and walked away towards the picnic table.

“Sheriff…”

“Mr. Smith, it’s been a long time since we had an unexplained death in this County. I would have been happy if it were longer still.”

John held the Sheriff’s gaze. “I understand.”

Whitcomb sighed heavily. “I think you just might but that doesn’t change the facts that are starting to emerge.”

“Give me a chance to prove myself.”

“You strike me as a decent enough sort but I hear tell that Ted Bundy was quite the charming fella, too.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“We’ll see,” static crackled and Whitcomb keyed his radio.

John walked away, deliberately tuning out the Sheriff’s ensuing conversation. He could feel the man’s eyes tracking his every twitch. The campsite suddenly felt very hot and close and he unzipped his coat to invite in the crisp April breeze.

“You know that you didn’t cause this, right?” Bruce asked from his place at the picnic table.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Oh come on man!”

John raised a quieting hand. “Emma and Amy were in the wrong places at the wrong times. I know that. But I also know that this guy’s patterns are changing because of me.” He turned and looked into the woods. “I have to get down there.”

Bruce rose and moved into his periphery. “What do you expect to find besides Amy’s body? You can’t prevent what’s already happened.”

“I know that!”

“Do you? Don’t take responsibility for this mess. The guy is obviously crazy…”

“And that means I shouldn’t help?”

“Both feet, John. You always jump in with both feet.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Bruce squeezed his shoulder. “Someone has to.”

John bowed his head and blew a shaky sigh. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, my brother.”

The rumble of an approaching vehicle caused them both to turn. Whitcomb gestured and they approached the dark green and yellow Vermont State police car together. A tall young man unfolded himself from the driver’s seat and stared critically at John. “Is this the fellow, Ed?”

Whitcomb nodded curtly. “Come over here and I’ll fill you in,” he turned to Bruce and John. “Just be a second. Tighten up your shoe laces fellas, we’re going to take a walk.” The two officers walked over to the Sheriff’s car and fell into quiet conversation, glancing frequently at John.

“You know, much as he denies it, you can almost believe he’s enjoying this.”

“Whitcomb?” John shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well maybe enjoy is the wrong word but God knows they’ll be plenty to talk about after we’re gone.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Bruce’s dark eyes locked with John’s and he slowly shook his head. “Don’t go there. You’ve got enough to think about.”

“Are we ready, gentleman?” the young officer called.

John nodded reply and led the way back to the break in the foliage. His whole body ached with tension as he pushed through the branches and ferns. When would the next flash come and what would it reveal?

They arrived back at the drop off point without incident. The State Police officer scanned the area and then focused on John. His eyes were small and black beneath fine brows that scrunched together as he considered the situation. “Mr. Smith, is it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Officer Justin Gagne. Ed passed along Walt Bannerman’s number to me earlier and I checked you out. Sheriff Bannerman claims you are the real deal.” He crossed his arms and moved until his back was against the large Poplar tree John had touched. “Out here you learn to trust the five senses. All this psychic stuff is better suited to late night television.”

John met the man’s sharp stare without flinching. “If someone had come to me eight years ago and claimed to be a psychic I would have laughed. I am…I was…a science teacher.”

“That’s an honest answer, Mr. Smith.” Gagne pushed off the tree. “Looks like we have some broken limbs over here. Did you and Mr. Lewis go down there earlier?”

“No, Sir,” Bruce answered as he came to stand beside John. “We didn’t want to risk going down that way,” he gestured surreptitiously at John’s cane.

“I see. Ed, did Tony Watts suggest a different route?”

Whitcomb patted his shirt pocket. “I’ve got a map but that area is pretty dense forest. Tony isn’t building out this way yet. No roads, trails, nothin’.”

Gagne fingered the branches and pushed aside a glut of ferns with one booted foot. “Good place to hide a body,” he mumbled more to himself before turning slightly. “You game, Mr. Smith?”

“When I have to be,” John retorted with the ghost of a smile.

The young officer laughed softly and eased down over the edge. “Let’s take a walk then.”

Bruce’s restraining hand coursed a shiver down John’s back as he moved towards the drop. “What?” he hissed irritably.

He pointed at the slippery forest floor. “Be careful, man. Slow.”

“Yes, mother,” ignoring the grumbled reply, John grabbed the branches overhanging the path of descent.

*Screaming… an owl’s cry that descended into a low, desperate mewl.

The tunnel’s gray walls grew up and around him. Twisted branches morphed into doors and the distant window frame. He stumbled forward, dragging his fingers along the walls. His hand fell to a latch and he stopped and peered over his shoulder. Breath came in ragged, painful spurts as he jiggled the latch and spun away.

Locked in…locked out…

He ran on, stumbling, cursing, crying, until he slammed into the windowed wall.

Footsteps.

NO!*

John clung to the branch and stepped carefully down and to the side of Gagne’s footprints. He could feel the heat of Bruce’s supportive hand hovering near his elbow. He was determined to control his behavior and not give the two officers another reason for suspicion. Non-reaction would give him time to think things through. This latest vision made even less sense than the rest. Gagne had touched the branches. When and how had he come into contact with the killer or was it the victim?

“John?”

He glanced meaningfully over his shoulder.

“Gotcha,” Bruce mouthed.

They made their way through the tangle of last summer’s growth, slipping and cursing quietly at the slick sheen of mud and rotted leaves that comprised the would-be trail. John concentrated on officer Gagne. He watched where his feet and hands fell and avoided contact. Enough tumult awaited in the hollow without the added stress of the man’s connection.

Weak sunlight spilled through the clouds and warmed a small clear space where the ground leveled out. “Which way?” Whitcomb huffed.

John shot him a questioning look. “You’re asking me?”

“We’re down here because of you, Mr. Smith,” the Sheriff reminded.

“I have to touch something that the killer or the victim touched.” He pointed up the trail. “Like the tree up there.”

“How about this?” Gagne interrupted.

John turned and followed the man’s pointing finger.

A scrap of dark cloth hung from a broken branch. The young officer waved Whitcomb forward and the Sheriff took two pictures before stepping back. Gagne pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on. He reached for the cloth, his lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

“Wait!” John exclaimed. “Please…”

“Why?”

“John should touch it before you do,” Bruce explained.

Sheriff Whitcomb bent and examined the material for a moment before gesturing. “Lower right corner so we’ll know where to expect your prints.”

John cautiously stepped in front of Gagne. He felt caught between the need to know and the desire to run fast and far from this wretched glen. Personal obligation held him, despite sweaty palms and the hoarse rasp of his own rapid breathing.

The material dangling before his fingertips was thin and shot through with silver thread. He bent down and peered at it intently. The thread formed a delicate leaf and flower pattern. Spiked stems trailed down to what appeared to be the cuff of a sleeve. Sheriff Whitcomb had indicated the corner containing a small silver button. John stretched out a trembling hand and gripped the button between thumb and index finger.

*The tunnel… Dim and gray, featureless save for a series of open doors. Fear shuddered through his body as each one slammed shut with a metallic clank.

Footsteps reverberated off the stark walls. Sharp, rhythmic, rapidly approaching from behind. He spun and squinted into the dusk clouding the end of the hall. A darker silhouette appeared and grew larger.

“Where have you been?” it hissed.

He stepped hastily backwards and slipped on the polished floor. Landing hard, he sucked in a stuttering breath and looked up through his lashes as the figure stepped into the light.

Glittering, gray eyes framed by high cheekbones and ruddy, pitted skin met his eyes. Thick lips painted nut brown curled into a malicious grimace as one bony hand reached down to grasp his shirt.

“Stand up!” the creature grated. “I abhor weakness!” She shook him hard and his head lolled drunkenly. “Where have you been!”*

Wincing against the violent throb behind his eyes, John straightened up. “This was the killer’s.” He explained the vision and watched the officers’ faces turn from barely disguised skepticism to outright disbelief.

“And what are we supposed to make of this, Mr. Smith?” Gagne asked.

“Who is the woman?” Sheriff Whitcomb chimed in.

Bruce shrugged, “His mother maybe?”

John glanced down at the material. “Her mother,” he corrected softly. “The killer is a woman.” He looked around and into the surrounding trees. Sunlight winked in and out as a sudden breeze pushed the clouds across the gray sky. The white glare of freshly broken wood caught John’s eye. He pointed and began moving towards it. “Over here…”

“Just a minute!” Officer Gagne pushed through the undergrowth and laid a staying hand on John’s arm.

*Small, rough hands caressed his cheek. He moaned and arched his naked body beneath hers. Reaching up, he pushed back a tumble of black hair and stared into gray eyes shot through with black—empty but chillingly beautiful. Her mouth descended on his with bruising force, nudging, biting the tender flesh of lip and throat. He moaned again and thrust deeply into her willing body*

John gasped aloud as realization dawned. “Officer?”

“What?” Gagne muttered as they ducked beneath a heavy pine bough.

“Who were you with last night?”

The younger man stepped in front of John, effectively stopping them all in place. “Excuse me?”

“Who were you with,” John repeated. He could feel something close and vital just within reach. “Last night…who was it?”

“Let’s stick to the matter at hand, Mr. Smith.”

Bruce brushed past the Sheriff and came to stand on John’s opposite side. “What did you see?”

“He was with her last night before this happened or maybe…” John’s voice faded as he considered the alternatives. “…Maybe between the time she tried to kill Emma Leahy and then found Amy Flynn…”

“Amy disappeared in the afternoon,” Whitcomb gruffly reminded. “And until I hear otherwise, I don’t want any more talk about Emma Leahy!”

“Emma could have been the night before?” Bruce suggested.

“Mr. Lewis!”

Bruce glared reproachfully but held his tongue.

“What the hell are you saying?” Gagne demanded hotly. “You trying to tell me I slept with a serial killer?”

“You knew,” John gestured at the hanging cloth. “Or you suspected when you saw that.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Mr. Smith!”

John stepped back from Whitcomb’s outstretched hand. “No…I’m right. He slept with her last night… I saw it.”

Gagne’s features dissolved into a rigid, angry mask. He stared into John’s eyes: demanding an alternative conclusion, begging for absolution though he could not have known. “You’re right,” he whispered stonily. “God only knows how.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and huffed a sigh. “I thought the cloth looked familiar but I wasn’t sure.”

“Part of her sleeve?” Bruce asked.

“Yes.” Gagne turned to the Sheriff. His voice was barely audible. “I had no idea, Ed. Is there another possibly victim out there?”

“Can’t see how you would have and right now there is no evidence of a second victim,” Whitcomb replied. He looked pointedly at John, “At least nothing I can put my finger on. I’m not sure how he knew but appears there’s a grain a truth to what Sheriff Bannerman said.”

“Can we just get on with this?” Bruce snapped.

“You got some place to be, Mr. Lewis?”

“No, Sir, but we know the killer is still out here.”

Gagne straightened, seeming to gather shredded confidence like a shroud around his thin frame. “Safety in numbers,” he looked around until he found the broken branch John had indicated. “Through here?”

John wiped the sweat from his face and nodded into his palm.

“Lead the way, Mr. Smith.”

Carefully avoiding the break, John stepped into the lead. Crushed plants heavy with drying mud lay in a haphazard path cut by running, desperate steps. He forced himself to breathe deep and evenly and braced for an onslaught of images as he passed through the mangled foliage.

*Voices…low, breathy murmurs without form. Running footsteps, barely audible beneath the thrum of the falling rain. Begging and praying beneath his breath for a salvation that would never come.

Closer, laughter low and deceptively masculine in stark contrast to the killer’s exquisite femininity. *

The sensations jolted John’s tired body. He bit his tongue to hold back a child’s cry of anguish.

*Falling and rolling over to finally confront the monster. “Why are you doing this?”

“I abhor weakness in all things.” The creature reaches into her pocket, the wreck of the torn sleeve fluttering about her milky wrist. “It is my job to teach,” she murmurs silkily. “It is yours to learn.”*

“NO!” John clutched his head and fell to his knees.

*A shaft of moonlight spilled between the ragged clouds and silver glinted in the creature’s hand. She lunged and he fell back, ducking away from the descending blade and slamming his temple against a sharp rock. Enraged, the assailant’s thin arm rose and dropped. Quick, sinuous, possessed of a terrible, beautiful fury it descended…*

John rolled onto his back. His large hands dropped to his throat and he massaged the convulsing muscles, struggling for air as the vision faded.

“Hey!” Bruce slapped his cheek and grasped one wrist. “Snap out of it!”

“Here…right here,” he managed hoarsely.

“What?”

“Her body,” Whitcomb supplied from somewhere to his right.

“Son of a bitch,” Gagne softly exclaimed as he stepped over John’s outstretched legs.

“Stabbed at least a dozen times and her throat is slit,” the Sheriff added tiredly. “Damn it! Right up until this very moment I was hoping you were wrong, Smith.”

Grasping Bruce’s hand, John lurched to his feet. Resignation and sorrow lay like blankets across the shadowed ground. The air itself had stilled, broken only by the lonely caw of a circling crow. He shivered and turned in a slow circle, looking. “Over there.”

“What?” Gagne asked distractedly.

“There’s a no trespassing sign tacked to that tree and there’s something sticking out of it,” Bruce answered. He walked a few paces and stopped. “It’s a knife.”

“The murder weapon,” the Sheriff stepped forward and caught John’s eye. “Just like you said.”

John nodded fractionally. The sensations and imagery of the vision had painted a very chilling picture of the killer’s upbringing. He could not coherently explain her motivations to Whitcomb or anyone else at this point, so he kept silent.

“John, didn’t you say something about a fire?”

His eyes fell to Bruce’s extended hand and then to the ground. A black patch of earth covered with several charred sticks lay before his feet.

“Cocky little bitch,” Gagne spat as he studied the area.

Grunting agreement, Whitcomb pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “You fellas stay put. Going to grab a couple of pictures and bag that knife.” He walked towards the sign, sighting the camera as he did so. “I assume your prints are on file, Mr. Smith? Yours too, Mr. Lewis.”

“Walt Bannerman will give you everything,” Bruce answered tightly. “John just pushed this investigation into overdrive, Sheriff. That should count for something.”

“It does,” Gagne assured, “So does evidence.”

Late afternoon lay bathed in cold April sunlight when Bruce and John stepped out of the County Sheriff’s office one town east of Danvers. Edward Whitcomb had grudgingly released them with a warning to stay in the area until further notice. Their fingerprints did not match those found on the murder weapon or the material from the tent. Clothing and hair samples were taken and the early results were negative for a match. Suspicions were high however, and went along way where evidence lacked. The ordeal of retrieving Amy Flynn’s bloody corpse had not helped the Sheriff’s state of mind in the slightest. He had been unwilling to share Justin Gagne’s description of the suspect or her car. Bruce’s impassioned argument that John was too valuable of an asset to just toss aside earned them a steely glare and a renewed threat of jail time.

“Now what?” Bruce mumbled dejectedly.

“Dinner,” John suggested as they began to walk.

“Yeah okay, sure. Where?”

“Where else? The Ramblin’ Rose.”

“Man, you got to be kiddin’. Did you see the menu in that place…” Bruce stopped mid pace and turned. “We aren’t going there to eat, are we?”

John stepped around him to the side of the Cruiser. “You’re getting suspicious in your old age.”

“Level with me, would ya!”

He sighed and leaned against the car. “She’s going to try again.”

“What?”

“Emma got away, she didn’t learn her lesson.”

Bruce drew a hand down his face and crossed his arms. “This is about control for her, right?”

“She’s trying to teach her victims how to resist. Something she never learned.”

“You saw this?”

“No, I felt it.” He studied the pitted sidewalk through half lidded eyes. “Things get out of hand for her. I don’t think she means to kill them, it just happens.”

Bruce raised a hand and took a step closer. “Hold on a minute. Maybe you should try and get out of her head for a while…”

“She’s going to try again!” he rasped. “I can’t let that happen!”

“Emma Leahy is not Kate.”

“This has nothing to do with Kate!”

“Yes, it does.”

NO! Caught in the fury of denial, John spun to the side and grasped Bruce’s collar. The world narrowed to his dark, expressive face and mottled pinpricks of crimson and gold chased across John’s vision. You’re wrong! Everyone is wrong! You don’t understand…He stared into Bruce’s unwavering gaze; I can’t live with this…I can’t… The truth, hard-edged and stolid with regret, mirrored back. John’s hands fell away. He blinked rapidly to clear the film of unwanted tears. “I’m sorry…” For this, for her, for everything…

Bruce patted his shoulder. “I know you are.”

They drove the ten miles back to Danvers and parked across the street from The Ramblin’ Rose. The small diner appeared to be full. Ten minutes of observation saw a stream of customers enter and exit, many of them throwing inquisitive glances at the Cruiser’s Maine license plate.

“She might have gone home for the day.” Bruce suggested. “Do you know where to find her?”

“I saw her house. It was dark but I think I could find it. Danvers is not a very big place.”

“If she even lives here.”

John leaned back against the seat and briefly closed his eyes. “She does.”

“Well, we can’t stay here. People are starting to get nervous.”

“I know. Let’s drive around back and see if we spot her.”

“And if we don’t?”” Bruce asked as he started the car and pulled away from the curb.

“Then we go house hunting.”

Behind the diner was a pitted parking lot covered in rock fine. A dumpster with its lid thrown back squatted by the back fence and milk crates were piled against the wall of the building. The back door was open and a gray-haired woman sat smoking on the steps. She watched them pull into the lot, her plain features fixed in a permanent scowl.

Bruce leaned out the window wearing his brightest smile. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you tell me if Emma is still here?”

She blew a thick stream of smoke and stubbed her cigarette into the dirt. “Who’s asking?”

“My friend and I were in here for breakfast…”

“So?”

“She may have mentioned us,” Bruce continued patiently.

“Not you she didn’t,” the woman retorted. She stood and leaned to one side, obviously trying to see into the Cruiser’s passenger seat. “Are you shy in there?”

Bruce sat back, allowing John to make eye contact. He smiled wanly. “Not how I’m usually described,” he answered.

“Spooked her, you know that?”

“That was not my intention.”

The woman crossed her arms. “Don’t matter what your intentions were. You leave her alone. You hear me?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “We’re not trying to cause any problems here.”

She rolled her eyes.

John fingers clenched, the bones snapping loudly as he struggled to control his mounting ire. “Are you a friend of hers?”

“Yes.”

“Do you care what happens to her?”

“That’s what friends do, Mr. Smith.” She spat the name and took a step towards the car. “What do you want with her anyway?”

“I think she might be in danger.”

The woman laughed sharply and took another step, her brown eyes obsidian hard. “She told me about you. About what you see. Now you’ve come to Danvers to play your parlor tricks on the day after Amy Flynn disappeared.”

“We just came up here to camp and get away for a few days,” Bruce clarified.

She smirked. “Who are you? His bitch?”

Bruce stiffened visibly. “I’m his friend and I do give a damn what happens to him. Can you say the same about Emma?”

“Please,” John said. “Tell us where we can find her.”

“How do I know you won’t hurt her?”

John fought the urge to laugh. It was a fair question. “I guess you don’t.”

“She saw you in one of those rags in the check out line. Trash, complete trash those magazines. People like that prey on folks like her. It’s not right!”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed.

“I gotta’ get back to work,” she turned and walked rapidly back towards the open door.

“Hey wait a minute!” Bruce called out.

“Get lost!”

“That went well,” Bruce grumbled as she disappeared inside.

“Sit tight for a second.”

John unclipped his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. The headache had receded somewhat but now came roaring back, scattering fireflies across his vision. He gingerly shook his head to clear it and walked over to the steps.

If Emma’s workmate took her breaks behind the building, she was likely to do the same. A variety of visions could result from touching the concrete, the crates or the wall itself. He needed something distinctly Emma’s. His eyes skimmed over the rocky ground and paused near the base of the stairs.

Two different brands of cigarettes were stubbed into the dirt and gravel. One set had brown filters labeled with Marlboro in tiny red letters. The others were white filtered and did not carry a brand name.

John squatted and studied the butts, looking for the freshest. He found it by smell and the faint heat still hanging in the air. Brown filter. The older woman preferred a name brand, which did not surprise him in the least. Did Emma smoke? He shifted his attention to the white butts and reached out a trembling hand to pluck one from the ground.

* The back wall of the Ramblin’ Rose dissolved into a sagging ranch painted brown and trimmed in forest green. Emma Leahy walked across the small lawn and trotted up the steps. She dropped a denim purse and a grocery bag between her feet. John noted the top of a cigarette carton in between a box of cheerios and a copy of The Enquirer.

He looked up, following her hand as it pulled several envelopes from a wall-mounted mailbox. Above and to the right the number 31 was written in reflective gold and tacked to the door. Emma mumbled to herself as she sorted through the mail and then picked up the bag. She entered the house without a key and the door closed with a heavy clunk. *

John dropped the filter and wiped his fingers on his jeans. He stood stiffly and returned to the car.

“You’re kidding, right?”

He smirked.

“Never mind. Where to?”

“I don’t have a street but I do have a house number and a better description. How hard could it be?”

They drove up and down the side streets of Danvers and five miles out in either direction. John’s hopes faded as dusk crept over the land and the air turned cold. He did not expect to find anything in the dark, nor could he quiet a growing sense of urgency. Night would unleash a monster trapped by delusion and desperate to ‘teach’ others a lesson in violence that she could not control.

He pointed to a gas station they had driven by three times. “Pull in here.”

“Directions?”

“Yeah.”

John lowered his window and called out to the attendant who was locking the front door. “Excuse me.”

The old man finished his task and turned around. His wrinkled face was drawn down in a tired frown as he slowly approached the car. “I’m closin’ for the night I’m afraid.”

“Uh…no, we don’t need gas. Just some directions.”

“I see. Thought I saw you drive by earlier. Lost?”

“Sort of,” Bruce replied.

“How’s that?”

John shifted until he was facing the man more directly. The easiest course was to come right out and ask if he knew Emma Leahy and where she lived. The encounter behind the diner had proven that circumspection was wiser. He could only hope the attendant was too tired to ask questions. “I’m looking for a brown house with green trim. It’s got a number 31 on the front door,” he paused, searching memory for details. “Oh, there’s no front porch, just a set of steps and the lots are really big. Not close together like these.” He indicated the tighter dimensions of the surrounding streets with a wave and looked expectantly at the attendant.

“That’s it?”

“I don’t have a street name.”

The man’s grubby hand scrubbed across his forehead and fell to his hip. “Odd.”

“Well, not really but…”

“Could be Cleland Street,” he continued thoughtfully. “Some big lots over there. Was farmland not so long ago. Damn shame.”

“I think it’s an older home.”

“A couple of those still there,” he clicked his tongue and shook his head. “New construction popping up everywhere it seems.”

Bruce leaned forward. “How do we get there?”

“Huh? Oh!” He turned and pointed down the street they had just driven up. “Go back and take a right at that big stone house. Cleland looks a bit like a long driveway, it’s only one lane.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

John raised the window and sat back as they drove between the gas pumps and back out onto the street. “That explains how we missed it.”

“It’s getting late. You want to go back to the campground tonight or find a motel?”

“I’ll let you know after I talk to Emma.”

Bruce stared intently through the windshield. “I don’t think she’s going to welcome you with open arms.”

“Right there,” John pointed and glanced at Bruce as they eased around the turn. “What’s your point?”

“Maybe now isn’t such a good idea.”

“I don’t think she has a later, man.”

“Oh.”

John looked out the window, anxiously scanning both sides of the street. He experienced the familiar sensation of déjà vu as filmy memories of the vision played in the back of his mind. Forgotten details floated to the surface: a lamppost, a crumbled stretch of sidewalk around a storm drain, the twisted silhouette of a tree as Emma pounded down the shadowed street… “There!”

The ranch appeared almost black in the gathering gloom of evening. A compact car with its hood up and missing one wheel sat in the dirt drive and weak light filtered through the curtained bay window.

“How do you want to handle this?” Bruce asked as he parallel parked and turned off the ignition.

“Alone I think.”

“You think?”

John chuckled softly and pushed open the door. He paused on the verge of the lawn and looked down the street. It would be at least a half hour before full darkness descended but the area was already disconcertingly familiar.

*He sensed Emma’s mounting panic as her assailant stepped up on to the street. Heard the dull rasp of her quickening breath as she broke into a jog and then a run. Smell the rain heavy air whistling through her nostrils. Running and nearly falling. Arms pumping, an anxious cry clawing at the back of her tight, dry throat….*

“Hey!” Bruce called sharply from the car. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he denied. Nothing at all…

Part vision, part memory, the feelings vibrated through his body, popping fresh sweat across his brow. John cleared his throat and continued towards the house. He mounted the steps and sucked in a startled breath when a light popped on above the door. The sharp clank of a sliding bolt sounded as the door cracked open and stopped, held fast by a thick, gold chain. Emma squinted through the opening. “Can I help…Mr. Smith!”

John smiled faintly. “Yes. Could I talk to you for a minute?”

The skin around her eyes was tight and pale. She pulled back, “I don’t know you…I’m not sure this is a good idea…”

He raised a calming hand and stepped back onto the lawn. “I understand and you’re right, you don’t know me.”

Emma’s fingers fluttered around her mouth and drifted out of sight. “What do you want?”

John toyed with the top of his cane and tried to gather his thoughts. He did not want to scare Emma into shutting the door or calling the police, at least not before he could explain why the latter was necessary. “I’m not sure how to talk to you about this,” he confessed.

“What?” the hand returned and she pulled at her lower lip with two fingers. “There is something bad, isn’t there? Like the fire?”

If only it were that simple… John sighed wearily and rested his weaker right leg up on the first step. “A few days ago you were walking home from the store,” he began carefully.

“Yes.”

He pointed to the car in the drive. “You always walk?”

“My brother is looking for a cheap starter and I need new tires,” she explained. “So, yes, I walk.”

“You bought cigarettes, Cheerios, and a magazine?”

Emma blushed. “The Enquirer… that’s where I first read about you.”

John groaned inwardly. “I see.”

“How did you know?”

“I saw you walking home in a vision,” he let the more mundane information sink in.

Emma straightened and John felt her eyes rake him from foot to hairline. “Are you following me, Mr. Smith?”

“No,” he quietly assured, “But someone did the night before last.” He admired her flash of courage and felt a stab of guilt when it melted away.

“Maybe,” she replied just as softly. “I guess there’s no point of lying, is there?”

“No.”

“It’s none of anyone’s business. I didn’t call Ed or anyone else. It’s over with.”

“What if it isn’t?” John challenged. “What if she comes back? Have you thought of that?”

“She?”

“A woman followed you home that night but you knew that, didn’t you?”

“No!”

“Emma, please listen to me…”

“Go away!” She slammed the door and muffled footsteps retreated into the interior of the house.

“Damn it! “John glanced over his shoulder, seeking and finding Bruce’s bright eyes in the shadow of the Cruiser. The other man flashed an encouraging smile. He turned away and reached for the door. The world spun away as he touched the wood.

*Emma exited a small convenience store and crossed the darkening street. Whistling softly beneath her breath, she dug in a plastic bag with her free hand. She pulled out a candy bar and peeled the wrapper back with her teeth. The whistling became sporadic as she chewed and ambled slowly past him.

John turned and followed her progress to the corner of Cleland Street. A sharp crack startled them both. Emma spun around and stared into the cluster of deadfall and rotted kudzu lying beside the road. A shadow moved, easing out from between a pair of gnarled apple trees. It stepped up onto a rotted log and stopped, seeming suspended in the darker gray of approaching evening.

“Who’s there?” Emma demanded shakily.

“Weakness,” the shade growled. “You can never show them that. Never give them an opening with which to control.”

She shuffled backwards and dropped her candy into the dirt. “What?”

“I can show you how to be strong,” the thing continued as it stepped down from the log. “To withstand their taunts.”

Emma’s small hand rose to pull at her trembling lips. “I don’t understand… Go away!”

“I’ve watched you,” the shadow stopped, hands on hips, and laughed softly. “You let them control you, push you, demand that you do their whim. A woman should have more self-respect,” the voice was low, masculine, startling contrast to the languid feminine beauty of the silhouette.

A muted cry escaped Emma’s lips. She turned and ran down the street…*

The dull ache of his throbbing temples heralded reality as John pulled away from the door. He could not handle another death on his conscience. This time there was an out, an option she had to consider. “Emma, please listen,” he called out. “I know you can hear me.”

Silence.

“Emma!” He stepped off the stoop and risked a sharp tap on the bay window.

The volume of the television on the other side of the wall rose in reply.

“You need to tell someone!” John shouted stubbornly. “She won’t give up! I think you know that!”

The curtain swept back and Emma stared out. She clutched a phone and waved it significantly.

“Call Whitcomb!” he encouraged. “Tell him what happened. Help us catch this woman before someone else has to die.”

Her skin blanched. “She’s dead?” she mouthed.

John nodded emphatically. “Amy is dead. Do you understand what that means?”

Emma’s features crumpled and tears spilled down her cheeks. She dropped the curtain and John returned to the steps. Footsteps approached the door and the lock slid back. “I could have been her,” she stuttered from behind the chain. “That’s what it means.”

“Yes,” he stepped down to the grass to give her space to breathe. “Did you see anything else that night or the next day? My visions can only tell me so much.”

She sniffed loudly and brushed at the tears still sliding down her cheeks. “She was dressed in black, all black.”

“You saw this while you were running?”

“I had to look, had to see how close she was, you know?”

“I know,” John assured. “She chased you right to your front door?” He knew the answer but relating the story in order might jog her memory. No opportunity could be forsaken despite the pain it might cause.

Emma nodded jerkily. “I locked myself in and after I caught my breath I ran around the house checking all the windows.” Her voice turned faint with puzzlement. “Nothing ever happens in Danvers, Mr. Smith. We always leave our doors and windows unlocked. Always…”

The feeling of security was alien to John. Though Cleaves Mills was relatively small and tight-knit, his mother had never allowed such behaviors to take hold. He could blame it on money and the fear of theft but the reality was much simpler. Vera Smith was painfully uncomfortable around strangers and she feared their curious energies far more than their restless fingers. Her behavior served them both well but truth be told he would have rather had the innocence. No matter the pain elicited by its shattering. He licked his lips and refocused on Emma’s anxious face. “Did you see her again?”

She looked at the floor. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I didn’t sleep… I haven’t slept very much since…”

“Understandable,” he commiserated. “When did you see her?”

“Early this morning.”

A jolt of fear shot across John’s frazzled nerves. “Where?”

Emma snaked a finger through the gap and pointed to the driveway. “Next to my car.”

“Do you remember how she looked? What she was wearing?”

“Black.” Emma drew a shaky breath. “She looked kind of messed up. Like she had been up for a long time.”

“Could you tell if her clothing was ripped or soiled in some way?”

“I don’t remember.”

John chanced a step closer to the door. She did not react and he tried to smile, hoping it did not look as ghastly as he suddenly felt. “Emma would you talk to Ed Whitcomb about this? It’s really very important.”

“Everyone will know I ran and this...maniac nearly caught me,” her tone was low and desperate. “Don’t you see? I’ll never be able to work at ‘The Rose’ again.”

“This situation is not your fault,” John countered gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You just wanted a candy bar.”

“Amy is dead!” Emma shot back tearfully. “That psycho was chasing me and I didn’t say a word and now Amy is dead!”

“Keeping silent won’t bring her back.”

“You don’t live here, Mr. Smith. People will blame me and maybe…maybe they should.”

“It’s not your fault, Emma. There was no way you could have prevented it….” John’s voice died away as the truth sank in.

No way…

Nothing to be done for Amy or Kate, there never would be. The luck of the draw, accident or fate, the tapestry of life wove together in seamless perfection. Pull one string and a noose tightens, choking the air from innocent and guilty alike. Pull another and life unravels in a continuous, vulnerable strand. For Emma and him there was only the present and a choice to move forward or wither away.

John brushed a shaky hand across his forehead and looked up. “Emma, I do understand, believe me. I also know how you’ll feel if you don’t come forward.” He stepped up to the door. “Call Sheriff Whitcomb and tell him what you know.”

“What good will that do now?”

“I honestly don’t know if it will help with the investigation but,” he caught and held her eyes with his own. “You have to live with what happened and speaking up is the first step to healing.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He wanted a promise not a flimsy declaration of intent. Looking at Emma’s pale, frightened face, John realized he had reached his limit. It was up to her to take the final step and no amount of coercion or empathy would hasten the process. A part of Emma Leahy fell beneath her assailant’s running feet and was ground irretrievably into the soft earth. He recognized that piece of battered soul as his own. “Okay.”

“What are you going to do now?”

John looked toward the parked car. What was he going to do? The woman had left a clue only he could trace. Her motivations were the sticking point. Cold sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He smiled sadly and looked back at Emma. “I wish I knew.”

“Be careful, Mr. Smith.” The door closed with a firm clunk.

John stepped off the stoop and waved towards the Cruiser. “She was here this morning, after the murder,” he explained as Bruce joined him. “Emma saw her touch the car.”

“You gettin’ that led-around feeling again?” Bruce asked irritably.

“Good guess.”

“That’s me, Mr. Deduction.” He followed John across the sparse lawn to the propped up car. “You sure you want to touch this thing?”

“I’m sure I don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah, that’s what worries me.”

John frowned. “Worries me too.” He rubbed his hands together. The dull rasp of skin on skin helped to focus his attention on the problem at hand. He took a deep breath and touched the top of the car.

The thick shadows falling across the car and lawn slid away. Weak sunlight touched his face. He looked up and breathed deeply, inhaling the damp of the retreating rain. His fingers dragged down the doorpost and grasped the latch. He lifted, grunting softly when the door did not open. In the distance a dog barked and tires chirped as an engine roared. He moved down the length of the car and around to the back. The trunk was popped.

He smiled and reached into his pocket. The scrap of his torn sleeve tickled and he smothered a spurt of laughter. He pulled out a tiny triangle of folded paper. The dog stopped barking and he glanced furtively around the lightening lawn. His eyes stopped on the bay window of the house. A slash of light spilled out from beneath a lifted corner of the curtain. He frowned as a face briefly appeared and then vanished.

His heartbeat quickened as he lifted the lid of the trunk and pawed through the debris inside. After a moment he found the edge of the carpeted cover that fitted over the spare tire. He lifted it free of the empty bolt and secreted the paper triangle beneath the bald spare…

“Apparently my reputation precedes me,” John mumbled. “She left something in the trunk.”

“A real team player,” Bruce retorted as he walked to the back of the car. He lifted the lid and groaned. “You did see where, right?”

“Yes,” he joined Bruce and pointed. “Underneath all that stuff in the spare tire compartment. Would you mind?”

“Sure, man.” Bruce unearthed the cover and lifted it. “Where?”

“I have to do this part myself.” John reached in and felt carefully around the edge of the tire. He braced for the expected vision from the paper. His searching fingers found it without incident however and he released a breath he did not know he had been holding.

“This chick is into origami, look at the creases,” Bruce commented as John unfolded the paper. “Looks like she refolded it into a triangle, it was something else.”

“Symbolic?”

He shrugged. “She’s twisted, can’t put anything past her I suppose.”

“True.” John looked down at the page. “Oh my God.”

The paper was a photocopy of a Bangor Daily News article. A picture of the burnt exterior of Cathy’s Steakhouse was edged with text and a smudgy insert of John at the scene.

“You have a fan.”

“Terrific.”

“Let me see that,” Bruce took the page and studied it for a long moment. “I used to know how to do this.” He carefully folded the paper along the creases, stopping and refolding twice before he finished with a critical frown. “It’s a dog.”

John took the figure.

The corridor stretched out before him. Long, endless, silvery in the fractured moonlight spilling through the distant window. He turned slowly and discovered an open door.

A way out or a way in?

Footsteps sounded from the aperture. An odd clicking that lifted and dragged as it approached. He stiffened and peered into the darkness.

Click, drag, click, drag…

Bright eyes hovered low in the darkness, glittering orange fire. They floated just out of reach and rotted breath wafted over him. He coughed and reeled back, landing heavily against the wall. The eyes grew closer and faded to matte gray as a canine muzzle emerged from the shadows. The creature stopped and then stretched out, rising and morphing grotesquely into the gray-haired woman. She lunged…

John leaned against the car and violently shook his head. The headache flared to life and he latched on to the pain, using it to banish the hateful visage. “Not a dog,” he corrected hoarsely. “A wolf.”

“Let’s go,” Bruce guided him by the elbow to the Cruiser. He settled John into the passenger seat, then walked around the front of the vehicle and slipped behind the steering wheel. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s how she sees her mother,” John elaborated. He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea and tried to focus. “A huntress, praying on her sensibilities ever since she was a child.”

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks, matches how I feel.”

“Come on, let’s get a sandwich. You can’t keep running around on empty.”

John nodded and glanced towards the house as they pulled away from the curb. Emma’s pale face hovered in the corner of the window. She wiggled two fingers and slipped from view.

“Nowhere public okay Bruce? I don’t think I could take it right now.”

“I’ve got your number.”

They pulled into a mini-mart and John waited in the car. Ten minutes later they were eating sandwiches in the back of the park lot.

“So she was raised by a lunatic and now she’s become one?” Bruce asked around a mouthful of egg salad.

“Something like that.”

“And you want to do what exactly?”

John shrugged. The food diminished the headache and quieted his churning stomach but his mind was still a jumble. He had asked himself the same question a dozen times while he waited for Bruce in front of the store. The answer had not changed and now he was unsure how to proceed.

This creature had made him an unwilling participant in her games. The thought angered and revolted him. He wanted to walk away. Sheriff Whitcomb and officer Gagne had a description and physical evidence. They were perfectly capable of pursuing the case. A gnawing sense of pity drew John up short. He hated having a conscience and he knew this disturbed woman was counting on that facet of his personality. “I should have stayed home.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Bruce grunted and crumpled his sandwich wrapper into a tight ball. He tossed it in the bag and pulled out a package of Fig Newtons. “You want?”

“I hate those things.”

“How can anyone hate Fig Newtons?”

John smirked. “How can anyone hate chicken salad?” He waved his sandwich beneath Bruce’s nose and laughed softly when the other man recoiled.

“Get that away from me, man!”

“I rest my case.”

“Speakin’ of rest,” Bruce pulled out a cookie and inhaled it in two bites. “Where are we layin’ our heads tonight?”

“I don’t think I can stand another night in the ‘great outdoors’.”

“No argument here. We’re paid through tomorrow but I’ll spring for a motel, assuming we can find one.” Bruce shoved the cookies back inside the plastic bag. His expression turned serious as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Should we call Whitcomb?”

“I think Emma will take care of herself,” John replied. He did not add ‘I hope’. He had to let it go. All indications pointed to the fact that the killer had shifted her focus from Emma to him, at least for the short term. With any luck there would not be a long term. “Let’s drive back towards the campground, I thought I saw some lodging signs.”

“Sounds good.”

John sank back in the seat and closed his eyes. He was holding back and thankfully Bruce was too tired to notice. His motivations for sleeping in a motel had nothing to do with cramped legs or the damp air. The woman was hunting him. Prey turned predator by years of psychological and possibly physical abuse. The folded article was both carrot and whip. He resented the manipulation and where it might lead. Unfortunately, things would continue to spiral downward if he did not confront her.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Looks like something up ahead. Don’t check out on me yet.”

Exhaustion was the most immediate obstacle. John straightened and scrubbed at his gritty eyes. He could not afford to sleep. Bruce would be watching him like the proverbial mother hen. While he appreciated the concern, he dare not take the chance that the woman would vanish like so much smoke. She had set rules that did not include a third party. Beneath layers of outward calm seethed an explosive rage. He had felt the turbulence sharp and cold as she slipped further into madness. Her impulses were getting out of control and her newfound obsession would lead to more death as she sought to impress and mystify him.

“You know it’s only 7:30 but I am beat!” Bruce announced. He parked in the motel lot and left the engine running. “I’ll be right back, my brother, hang tight.”

“Hanging,” in more ways than one... John sighed and rubbed a hand across his face, absently noting the headlights of a passing car as they slid across the ceiling of the Cruiser and fell away into the darkness. Come on… He lowered the window and heard Bruce laugh through the thin walls of the office. Another car passed and his friend came back outside.

He slid behind the wheel and backed out of the space. “Room on the corner, downstairs.”

“I appreciate that.”

Bruce nodded and idly drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he maneuvered across the lot. “I thought you might. Did we really leave all our stuff in the tent?”

“What? Clothes?”

“Yeah.”

“I think so.”

“Damn, I need a shower.”

John laughed. “No argument from me.”

“Aw shut up!” Bruce parked and tossed the key into John’s lap. “Here funny guy. Get the lights on and the heat turned up, it’s gettiin’ cold!”

John shook his head. The key had elicited a flash of the night clerk eating mayonnaise directly from a jar just before Bruce walked into the office. His stomach rolled rebelliously at the image and he spat onto the gravel as he stepped from the car.

Some people were just odd.

John limped up onto the concrete walkway in front of the room. Fatigue lowered his defenses and a multitude of visions overlapped as he inserted the key in the lock. “Damn.”

“What?” Bruce called from the back of the car.

“Nothing,” he pushed open the door and glanced back. “What are you looking for?”

“I thought I left my gym bag in here.”

John huffed a sigh. “I’ve seen the pile of laundry in your apartment. What are the chances you would have washed the contents of that bag?” He walked inside, smiling slightly at the grumbled reply.

The room was small and stuffy. Two double beds were crammed on either side of a chipped chest of drawers and an ancient television sat on a sagging metal stand against the opposite wall. He tossed the key on the chest and wandered into the bathroom. The fixtures were antiquated but clean of rust or mildew. As he washed his hands, he looked into the small rectangular mirror. His reflection stared back and he gasped softly at the hollows beneath his dull blue eyes. There was no light, only the pale, ghostly visage of a man standing on the precipice. Inches, miles, moments, and years from the fall.

John cupped his hands and took a drink from the tap, rinsing and spitting the dryness from his mouth. Was it any surprise Bruce was worried? He was worried, though he wondered if it were for the same reasons. Just one more time, just once and it would be over. He would make sure it was over.

Bolstered by resolve, he stepped out and smiled thinly. “All yours.”

“Well at least I can smell clean,” Bruce groused. He shook a bottle half concealed in his right hand. “Found my cologne in the glove compartment.”

John groaned and collapsed onto the nearest bed. “You mean this room is going to smell like a date gone wrong for the next oh…” he peered at his watch, “Twelve hours or so?”

“Hey, a brother has to look and smell the part,” Bruce retorted indignantly. “I don’t know why I’m taking advice from the monk of Cleaves Mills anyway!”

“Well I guess monk is better than wizard. Certainly more apropos, at least lately.”

Bruce sat down on the opposite bed. “When’s the last time you called Dana?”

John lay back and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. What day is it?”

“Over?”

“Finis, “John confirmed tiredly.

“Hey man, my bad…”

“Forget it. Go take your shower.”

“You sure?”

Not about a damn thing… He nodded fractionally and waved towards the bathroom.

Bruce shook the bottle again and tossed a wide grin over his shoulder as he sauntered into the other room and shut the door. John listened as he began to whistle and the water spattered the floor of the stall. Now was the perfect opportunity to leave. A few visits to the local YMCA had taught him that Bruce enjoyed long showers after a tough workout. The day had been exhausting in every way; he was safe for a half hour at least. He struggled to sit up and fell back, utterly spent. The spirit was willing, the flesh a shambles.

Just a few minutes…

John awoke with a start. Moonlight filtered by the blinds lay in slats on the floor and across his right leg. The room was hot and smelled faintly of cologne. He listened intently and heard Bruce’s soft snores beneath the hum of the wall mounted heater.

Damn it!

Blood flushed his skin and surged adrenaline through his veins. He sat up carefully and tested his leg on the floor. Half asleep from hanging off the edge of the bed, the toes tingled painfully for several moments before fading beneath a dull throb in his knee. John gritted his teeth and cast about for his cane. He spotted the silver head in the moonlight and nearly fell off the bed retrieving it from the floor.

The hike had been necessary but stupid and now he would pay for it. Cursing beneath his breath, John rolled over and looked at the top of the chest.

The digital numbers on the clock dimly illuminated a variety of items. He sighed relief when he spotted Bruce’s keys amid a pile of change and loose bills.

Man, I hope you can forgive me for this….

John eased the keys out of the pile and climbed to his feet. Pain arced across his knee and shot down his shin as he reached for his discarded coat. He grimaced and hobbled around the bed to the door. Bruce stirred and he froze. Ten seconds, twenty, and his breathing settled back into a deeper rhythm. John looked over his shoulder a final time then slid the chain back and slipped out of the room.

The weather was more typical for April in Vermont. Warm showers replaced by a biting north wind and the hint of snow. John sniffed deeply, appreciative of the enlivening chill. He walked carefully off the cement walkway and approached the car.

Physical contact with a person or object was necessary for him to receive a Vision. John had learned over the last two years however, that his normal senses were sharper than most. He attributed this to self-preservation. The knowing of how he was going to be perceived by the raising of hair on the base of his neck had saved him more than once from uncomfortable confrontations. He expected the sensation when he stepped outside and was rewarded with a familiar prickle against his shirt collar.

The woman had been there. How she found him was irrelevant, only the why demanded consideration. Why here, why now, why in this bucolic place? John shivered and dropped his cane on the ground. He rubbed his hands together, enjoying the warmth and letting his mind drift with the rasp of flesh on flesh. His fingers flexed and reached out, trembling slightly, to brush the hood of the car.

Nothing.

John’s hand dragged up the doorpost and across the roof. He paced the length of the car, listening to the rattling of tree limbs and the hush of the wind between the buildings. The sharp clang of metal against metal made him jump. He looked apprehensively towards his room, waiting for the lights to come on. Seconds passed without incident and he turned away. Movement and a low grating noise drew his attention to a pool of weak amber light beneath a metal light stand. An aluminum garbage can nudged by the fitful breeze rocked on the gravel edging the base. John grimaced at his paranoia and walked around the back of the Cruiser. His eyes flicked over the top of the car and dropped to the ground.

At the edge of the vehicle’s thick shadow lay a small, purple square. The item had not been there when they parked. He squatted awkwardly. It was a matchbook etched with silver calligraphy. Keeping a hand on the car for balance, John bent closer and read. The Heights, 3010 Peregrine Landing, Route 100, East Danvers He cast his eyes to the sky, lost in thought. There was something familiar… Birds? Bird watching…

“Hey man, I asked the guy who runs the campground if there are any wildlife refuges out this way.”

“And?”

“They’ve got Peregrines nesting in the cliffs East of town,” Bruce grinned. “Those are some serious raptors.”

“Remember what happened the last time we went bird watching?” John reminded grimly.

“Just keep your head out of the clouds and your feet on the ground this time and everything will be fine.”

John nodded to himself. While driving into the campground they had noted the cliffs rising up behind a belt of mottled forest. Smooth and blood red in the setting sun, he remembered being impressed by their size. The sheer walls were nearly impossible to climb except by the most avid enthusiasts. Perfect for Falcons and other wildlife that wished to be left alone.

He glanced down at the matchbook. The name of the establishment was unfamiliar, as were most area landmarks. He needed to know more and there was only one way to find out. The parking lot melted away as he touched the soft, damp cardboard.

His fingers were small and neatly manicured in deep purple polish where they gripped the steering wheel. He looked down at the dashboard and read 10:30 p.m. on the digital display. Music played softly in the background and he recognized the theme from the movie “Gladiator”.

He looked up. The car was driving down a road trimmed on either side by thick evergreens. In the distance the headlights picked up a brown reflective sign. Peregrine’s Landing-Wildlife Refuge and State Park. He braked and eased the car around the turn and onto a narrow, gravel road. A second, larger sign denoting the rules of park usage slid past the headlights. He smiled and accelerated hard, spitting rocks into the trees.

John put the matchbook in his jacket pocket and stood up. The clock in the room had read 2:00 a.m. She was waiting and had been for some time. There was no way to determine what effect his tardiness would have on her disposition. He walked around the car and paused beside the driver’s door. A few simple words and Bruce would be at his side. The gift—curse—had put him in some strange situations over the last two years but nothing quite so out of kilter. The matches were planted intentionally and it disturbed him that she was so close while they both slept in innocence. Was it wise to confront her alone?

John reached into his pocket and fingered the cell phone resting there. How would Whitcomb react to a phone call in the middle of the night? Resentment, anger, disbelief, a threat of incarceration for interfering with his investigation? John’s fingers clenched and pulled free as he shook his head. Visions were not proof. Like Penny Barton, Maddy Powers and the sociopathic Nicholas, this woman was in control. He would have to play along and hope opportunities would present themselves. The situation in New Hampshire had turned out for the best. Of course, Walt, Sarah, Bruce, and Dana had worked together to find him then…

Shoving the qualifier to the back of his mind, John picked up his cane and climbed inside the car. He drove out of the parking lot and a short distance up the road. Safe from scrutiny, he pulled over, turned on the interior light, and consulted a map. The Heights was listed as a historic landmark which would exempt it from development regulations in a State Park due to a grandfather clause. The irony of the business’ name and location was not lost on John. An uneasy tremor tightened his spine as he pulled back onto the main road.

He opened the window and let the chill wind slap his face. What would Sarah say if she knew what he was doing? Would Dana care or would his death or maiming be little more than a footnote in her burgeoning career? He could almost hear Walt’s ire and Bruce’s gentler but no less aggravated admonishment. John shook his head and pushed down harder on the accelerator. Foolish, selfish musings! He concentrated on the road and tried to blank his mind.

Outside, fat snowflakes drifted down spattering the asphalt and laying heavily across the branches of the surrounding trees. John raised the window and gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. He had never liked driving in snow, an irony considering where he lived. Late winter storms often dumped large amounts of snow in a very short period, driving up into the mountains was not advisable. He bit his lip as the now familiar State Park sign drifted into view

The road was sloppy from the wet snow and his tires skidded as he powered up the incline. John gritted his teeth and let the car find its own path in the ruts of the preceding vehicle. His headlights climbed into the murky sky and then dipped as he topped a rise and eased around a corner.

The Heights was written in blocky black letters upon a faded purple sign on the side of the road. John turned into the driveway and stopped next to the only other car in the lot. He stared out the window at the clean lines of a late model Mustang. Whomever the woman was, she obviously could function in the real world to some degree. The car reeked of success and a free spirit that was the antithesis of the person in his visions. She was all about façade, which explained her one-night stand with the unsuspecting Justin Gagne.

John pocketed the keys and stepped from the car. The dim reflections of distant streetlights off the low clouds were the only illumination. He squinted, trying to adjust his eyes as he turned in a slow circle. Puddles skimmed with ice glittered dully and a narrow trench meandered down from the road and disappeared over the bank on the far side of the lot. The surrounding trees were a continuous inky shadow dotted with splotches of fresh white. Anyone or anything could be hidden among them. Frustrated, John focused on the building. The dark, featureless hulk resolved into various heights and rooflines as he walked down the slippery path to the front door.

The business appeared to be defunct. An unkempt conglomeration of rotted plants crowded the remnants of stone marked flowerbeds. The remains of last year’s kudzu hung from the wooden lintel and support posts that framed the entryway. John’s fingers brushed the tops of the plants leaning over the cracked slate stoop and reached tentatively for the door.

It swung silently inward. He stopped, surprised and concerned by the contrast of well-maintained hinges in comparison to the building’s exterior. “Hello?”

A sudden breeze whipped his pants legs and splattered wet snow against his collar and back. John shook out his coat and stepped inside. He had not expected an answer but it seemed only natural to try.

Closing the door, he turned and started slowly down the short hall. It opened into a rustic foyer complete with a crackling fire and a part of oil lamps on the mantle. The lamps were lit and sputtered fitfully as he moved into the room. John stopped to take in the ambiance of two overstuffed chairs covered in dark brocade and a broad sideboard set with a brandy snifter and gleaming gold tinted glasses.

Her expectancy coursed fresh shivers through his body. He sniffed deeply and beneath the taint of ashes he detected the scent of fresh bread. The appearance of domesticity, intended to invite and reassure? He shrugged off his jacket and laid it across the back of the nearest chair. He was meant to feel at home and for the moment, he would play along.

John passed through a rough stone arch and into a room fitted with a wide oak bar and several stools. The liquor bottles lining the glass shelves were thick with dust. Cobwebs hung from the glass racks attached to the ceiling and clotted in the corners of wall and floor. His eyes drifted over the pictures hanging on the wall and crowded together at the far end of the bar. Vaguely recognizable faces peered out through the haze, many of them marked with purple ink signatures. John picked up the closest frame and sneezed as dust floated up into his face. He cleaned a small area of the glass with his thumb and examined the writing beneath more closely.

Fake?

Curious, he replaced the picture and moved to study those on the wall. The signatures were obviously hand-scribed but each contained similarly large loops, sharp slashes through the T’s and a thick dot over the I’s. All the autographs were made out to a Timothy Robins. John shifted his attention to the bar. He scanned the grimy surface until he found what he sought, half-hidden behind a vase of dried flowers. A tray of purple business cards etched with silver. John took one from the holder.

A man dressed in a lavender toga and sandals walked out from behind the shelves carrying a tray of glasses. He grinned to himself and unloaded the tray into the racks. “Tim!” called a voice from behind him.

“What?” he mumbled absently as he set the tray aside and went to straighten one of the pictures. “Now Greta my dear, we can’t be crooked. The guests will be here soon…

John shook his head to clear the image. The owner was obviously a bit obsessive but in a harmless sort of way. He lived in a fantasy world where he was important and well-known. The image did not quite hold up given the shambles The Heights obviously was.

He started to walk out of the bar and then stopped. Or were the trappings deliberate? A wave of apprehension swept through John’s body. The tavern was illusion. Broken on the outside but possessing an inner core that had once been vibrant and beautiful. He blew a shaky breath and stepped deliberately through the doorway opposite of the one he had entered.

Another short hallway framed by mammoth slabs of multicolored woods opened before him. John trailed his fingers over the rough surface, seeking any trace. She had been careful and his only reward was a sliver embedded in the ball of his index finger. He sighed deeply. The mouth of the hall opened into a large, split-level room. John leaned wearily on his cane and studied the unusual decor.

Christmas lights and heavy lead tinsel were draped over the chandeliers and the railing that defined the upper deck. Glass topped tables and solid oak chairs clustered together in settings of four and six. The intricate carvings set into their backs and bases were soft with wear and dirt. Additional strings of light flickered around the shaded windows and dripped onto the floor, illuminating the filaments of dust and webs clinging to every surface save one. John’s eyes were drawn to a corner table at the back of the room. China gleamed in the candlelight and a single rose accented by a spray of baby’s breath sat in a vase. John stepped cautiously off the landing. His eyes scanned the shadows as he slowly approached the table. The cutlery picked up the errant flames and sparked painfully in his eyes. He winced and raised a hand.

“You’re late.”

The voice floated like paper ash across the empty room. John spun around and stared hard at the shadows hovering around a previously unnoticed door.

The shade peeled away from the wall and stepped into the light.

The first thing he noticed were her eyes. Gray irises shot through with threads of black—cold and empty of all but the flickering flames. Long lashes fanned her cheeks and thin eyebrows arched towards a fall of wavy black hair. The lights played gaudy colors across the high cheeks and the skin peeking out from the open collar of her black blouse. She crossed her arms and the silver threads in the material winked merry shades of red, blue, and green. She stepped down into the table area, her long shapely legs defined by shimmering silk pants.

“Well?”

John had developed an image in his mind based on Justin Gagne’s obvious attraction and Emma Leahy’s terror. Seeing her in the flesh both dispelled and enhanced the mirage. She was stunningly beautiful and he could imagine the luscious curves rising beneath the fine cloth. The young officer’s transgression was easily understood.

She took another step, her eyes never leaving his face.

The room felt smaller and colder with each passing moment. John trembled, remembering Emma’s realization as she watched this woman rise up from the deadfall like a wraith above a grave.

“Speak!”

Sharp, low, deceptively masculine, “Why here?” he asked calmly.

She gestured expansively, her long nails clicking in the silence. “A place of beauty.”

“Maybe once. Not anymore.”

She smiled without warmth. “Like her, you cannot see.”

“Your mother?”

“My keeper!” she spat.

John clamped down hard on the twinges of doubt that fluttered in the pit of his stomach.

Change one thing and all of life changes

Bruce’s mantra uttered so long ago and so many times since. This was the redemption he had sought for Kate and himself, the chance to save what should never have been lost. Was he asking too much? John took a step. “I know,” he murmured.

Light flickered in her blank gaze. She blinked and the lines of cheek and jaw softened. Then she laughed harshly and the moment slipped away. “Sit!”

Damn… Keeping one eye on her slow advance, John pivoted and pointed to the table. “Here?”

She walked past him without reply and continued around the edge of the dining area. “Dinner is ready.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Yes, you are,” she asserted as she walked in front of the hallway. “We will eat alone.”

The last said in a tone of finality. John sat on the edge of his chair and watched her cross to the opposite doorway. The air itself shivered with the strength of her control. He recognized the clothes from his visions but they had been cleaned and mended, nothing out of place. Her make-up, her words, this location, all had been meticulously orchestrated.

She disappeared into the darkness and returned moments later carrying a tray containing bread, cheese, and fresh fruit. She approached and unloaded the dishes onto the table and then placed the tray on a nearby chair. “One cannot learn on an empty stomach.”

“Learn?” John asked cautiously.

She cocked an eyebrow and seated herself. Fine fabric rustled as she reached to slice a chunk of cheese. Bread and a section of orange landed on her plate before she said, “Yes.”

“And what would you teach me?”

“Survival, John.”

“First name basis?”

“I am your teacher.”

“And you teach by example?”

She glared and tore a hunk from the moist, hot bread.

John met her cold eyes. He could not shy away or she would be on him with the strength of madness. Amy Flynn never had a chance and he wondered how many others had failed their final test. He reached forward and grasped the edge of the bread plate.

*Warm, sticky liquid slid down the back of his neck. He brushed it lightly and raised his hand into the fractured light.

Blood?

Panic forced a sob from his trembling lips. He stared wide-eyed through the grated window. Blue skies dotted with fluffy clouds stretched over a meadow edged with trees. A dog played, barking frenetically as he darted in and out of the shade.

He cried harder and tried to stifle the sobs with the heel of his hand. The flesh tasted of salt and dirt. He turned away from the taunt of the open fen and slid to the floor, gasping and mouthing silent prayers into his palm.

Footsteps…

NO!

He stood and pressed himself into the corner as she stepped from the darkness. “You’ve no one to blame but yourself!” she shouted tersely. A damp rag smacked wetly against his face. “Unkempt, filthy!” One skeletal hand clenched into a fist, the bones cracking loudly in the silence. “You must never show vulnerability or you will lose control!”

But…

The protest died in his parched mouth. He wiped feebly at the trickle of blood, not daring to probe the blossoming knot of agony on the back of his skull. Later, when she was gone… *

John reared back in the chair. His head was pounding, his heart racing on the heels of her pain. She stood and leaned forward, forcing an involuntary gasp from him. The gray eyes were wide and seeking as her dark lips curved into a soft smile. “What did you see, John?” she purred.

The dichotomy of temptress and fiend made his head spin. He swallowed a wave of nausea and met her eyes. “What you wanted me to."

The slap came lightning fast. John’s head snapped back against the wooden chair. He moaned softly and reached to rub at the sore spot. Her hand clasped his wrist and shook it hard…

*He was lying on an old iron bed in the corner of a spartan room. Moonlight filtered through the drawn blinds and raised ominous shadows from boxes and bags piled on the floor and dresser.

Beyond the closed door the floor creaked and voices muttered. He curled into a tight ball as one rose higher than the rest.

The door flew open and the woman entered, her face a mass of fury. She dragged him to his feet and pushed him towards the clutter of bags and boxes. “Go!”*

John wrenched free and stood up. The chair rocked against his weaker leg and he nearly fell as it smashed to the floor. “Stop!”

Peals of husky laughter exploded from her throat. She stepped back and tears streaked mascara down her cheeks. “What’s done cannot be undone,” she managed raggedly.

The statement spawned cold fire in John’s heaving chest. He stumbled to the side and turned away, unwilling to show this creature his pain.

What’s done…

Dear God, Kate!

Cannot be undone…

Tears clogged his throat and stars scattered across his vision as John violently shook his head. Had he seriously expected truth in a mad woman’s ravings? Yet here it lay like the dust upon the glasses in the bar, an echo of destiny inescapable in her past and their future. He wheeled around and cringed at the wild, vacant eyes staring back. She was here and Kate was not. There had to be something he could say or do this time. “Listen to me, please…”

“She hated weakness, she taught me to be strong.”

“No, she abused you, tortured you!”

“It’s my job to pass on the lesson.”

“It’s your job to heal,” John counted urgently. “Let me help you.”

“You?” she taunted with a venomous smile. “You are darkness, a freak of nature.” He flushed at the insult and she took a step forward. “I will teach you what it is to be strong, to resist.”

“By example?” he asked.

“Like she did.”

“The way you taught Amy Flynn?” John pressed. “The lesson you wanted for Emma Leahy?” Hate darkened the steel eyes and tightened the lines around her mouth. His skin tingled a warning and John braced for the unknown. “Were there more?”

“They failed,” she growled.

“Like you did?” Sadness softened her features. John nodded fractionally. “I know what she did.”

“No!”

“I saw it.”

“You saw nothing. There is nothing there!”

“Your mother made you what you are…”

She shoved him hard. The air whooshed from John’s lungs as he slammed into the edge of the table. Pain arced through his kidneys and lower back. He moaned and slid to the floor.

The woman advanced, all trace of emotion gone from her pallid face. “I am not her!”

John struggled to breathe. Her fury encompassed the whole room and true fear bloomed in the pit of his stomach. She hovered over his twisted body and now only shadows lurked in the feral gaze. No light, no hope… His heart shrank back terrified and resigned.

“Don’t move!”

She jerked at the booming voice and spun away. John peered through the legs of the tables and chairs. A uniformed figure was slowly emerging from the hallway. He caught a flash of metal in the man’s hand before a second, more familiar personage entered the room.

Bruce.

“Don’t move,” Sheriff Whitcomb repeated.

John looked to the woman as he drew his legs beneath him. She was standing very still. Her lips were fixed in a beatific smile that surged pity through his tired body. “Stand still,” he urged quietly. “Please.”

“You think I’m weak,” she hissed. “I’m not!”

“Just relax, Ms. Kingsley,” the Sheriff advised. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“You shouldn’t be here. You’re interrupting!”

“We need you to come outside with us.”

“No!” Her defiant scream rent the air and she started forward. A sharp pop reverberated through John’s pounding skull.

Dear God…

She stumbled back and crashed to the floor.

This can’t be real…

Terror forced his frozen limbs into motion. John rolled to the side and shoved the fallen chair out of the way. He crawled forward and grasped her sleeve.

*The tunnel, the window, the dog barking high and long in the bright afternoon…The room filled with darkness and the sharp click of cheap plastic heels…Running through the woods and the dusky street, the sound of stilted whistling… The mustang and the woman adjusting her make up in the visor mirror…A small, smoky room filled with drunken laughter…Touching, kissing, sweating on a carpeted floor and later the feel of cheap cotton sheets... The woods, running, falling, and laughter as she built the fire and stared at the knife streaked with blood…*

The vision faded and John felt the warmth of her skin beneath the cloth. He trailed his hand to her wrist and found a steady pulse. “She’s alive,” he whispered numbly.

“I had to take her down, Mr. Smith,” Whitcomb replied from somewhere above and to the right. “She’ll be fine.”

John sat up slowly. He did not let go of the limp wrist as he turned and looked up. “What’s her first name?”

“Helena.”

He shifted his grip to her hand and squeezed gently. “Helena?”

Nothing.

John looked at her face, hoping for a trace of the woman he had sensed beneath the fear.

Helena Kingsley’s eyes stared wide and unblinking at the Christmas lights high above. Her breathing was deep and even and her face showed no sign of the pain that the bullet lodged in her opposite arm must have been causing. John reached out and gently smoothed back a tangle of dark hair.

Nothing.

“John?”

Bruce’s voice sounded dull and far away. He wanted to cry, to scream, to explode with the injustice of Helena’s pathetic life. She lay fractured and beaten and no one would ever really care…

“Hey,” John flinched, startled by Bruce’s strong hands on his shoulders. “It’s alright, it’s over.”

*What’s done cannot be undone*

The statement rang with truth and finality. He had changed many lives in the last two years but some would always slip away. How could he accept that? How could he not and expect to stay sane? John trembled uncontrollably as the enormity of the gift—the curse—rose and broke over his troubled heart.

Bruce urged him to rise and settle into a chair. He complied and then dropped his head into his hands. Tears burned his eyelids and he blinked and sucked in a desperate breath. Voices filtered into the room followed quickly by shuffling feet and the dull clank of equipment. Shrugging away the comforting weight of Bruce’s hand, John lurched to his feet and limped determinedly past a knot of paramedics.

“Are you okay, Mr. Smith?” Justin Gagne asked kindly as he entered the hall.

He could not answer and continued on through the bar, the foyer and out into the now thickly falling snow.

Why?

John leaned against the building and stared up into the hazy sky. His limbs and back twitched with painful spasms born of injury and grief. The tears flowed freely now, mingling with the cleansing snow. He sobbed in silence. There was no answer to the question and for once his mind was blessedly empty of all save himself. It was loneliness and relief, sorrow and elation and he ached with the endless conflict. No answers, no way to hide except to walk away…

The door opened and a rush of warm air bathed his side. John wiped clumsily at his face and turned around as Helena’s gurney wheeled into view. “Is she okay?”

“She will be,” the paramedic answered. He waved his cohorts on towards the blinking lights of the open ambulance. “Would you let us take a look at you, Mr. Smith?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’ll bring him in to the hospital in a little while,” Bruce answered from the doorway. “Just give the man a few minutes to get his bearings.”

The paramedic smiled doubtfully. “I’ll need you to sign a form saying you refused treatment at the scene.”

“Fine.”

“Be right back.”

Bruce nodded and handed John his coat.

“Not a very smart maneuver,” Sheriff Whitcomb chided as he joined them. “Damn good thing Gagne was keeping an eye on you.”

“You should have been watching her,” John snapped.

“We didn’t get any background on her until late last night. By that time we knew you had checked into a local motel and seemed to have settled for the night. We weren’t sure where the hell she had gotten to but we figured, and rightly so, that she would turn up so long as you stayed in the area.”

The idea that he had been used as bait was repulsive to John. Still, he could not blame Whitcomb or Gagne for their tactics. They were desperate and with no eyewitnesses save Gagne himself they had little to rely on but hunches and faith. He shrugged weakly and began to shuffle up the path to the parking lot.

“Hold up a minute.” Bruce slipped the head of his cane into John’s cold fingers. “You forgot something.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Deer Creek campground lay beneath a thick, wet blanket. The snow had fallen steadily for three hours and disappeared just as suddenly. It would have been beautiful except for the difficult task of packing a soggy tent and supplies into the Cruiser.

John slammed the hatch closed and took a last look around. Given the fickle nature of New England weather, he knew they could have stayed one more night at the motel and then returned to check the tent site for odds and ends. Spring sun would melt the snow in a single afternoon.

Neither he nor Bruce had the heart to stay.

He watched his friend stroll the edge of the lot. The drive back to Maine would be long and undoubtedly sprinkled with questions John did not want to answer. Helena Kingsley was the final straw and he did not know how he would explain his feelings to Bruce or if he should even try. She was being held under maximum security and suicide watch at an area jail. Whitcomb and Gagne had assured him that she would get help and not be simply warehoused. The knowledge brought small comfort. Helena was dead in any way that mattered to the outside world. John could not escape the feeling that he had somehow failed.

“Hey man, are you ready?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?’

John turned and climbed inside the Cruiser. He could not answer Bruce’s question honestly so he kept silent.

They drove to the office and checked out then up onto the main drag. The soggy fields and snow heavy trees slid by as they left Danvers behind and headed southeast. The muted ring-tone of Bruce’s cell phone roused John from a fitful doze.

“Hello?” pause, “Who? Oh yeah, long time no speak,” pause.

John cracked his eyelids as the murmured conversation stretched from seconds to minutes. Bruce’s normally dark complexion was ashen and his jaw clenched. Alarmed, John straightened and waited impatiently for him to speak again.

“Yeah…Yeah I understand,” pause, “When? Uh huh…no man, of course not. How’s mamma?” pause, “Yeah,” he laughed thinly. “Yeah, she is…No, I’ll be there,” he glanced at John. “I’m bringing a friend… Yeah…take it easy,” click.

“Bruce?” John asked gently. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“My father died last night.”

“Aw Jesus man, I’m sorry.”

Bruce nodded woodenly. “I need to go to Indiana. The funeral is this Saturday.”

“I understand.”

“You’re coming.”

It was a statement as it should be. John grasped Bruce’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks.”

*THE*END*