The Cove

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Catherine Coulter - FBI 1 The Cove

1

SOMEONE WAS WATCHING her. She tugged on the black wig, flattening it against her ears, and quickly put on another coat of deep-red lipstick, holding the mirror up so she could see behind her.

The young Marine saw her face in the mirror and grinned at her. She jumped as if she'd been shot. Just stop it. He's harmless, he's just flirting. He couldn't be more than eighteen, his head all shaved, his cheeks as smooth as hers. She tilted the mirror to see more. The woman sitting beside him was reading a Dick Francis novel. In the seat behind them a young couple were leaning into each other, asleep.

The seat in front of her was empty. The Greyhound driver was whistling Eric Clapton's "Tears in Heaven," a song that always twisted up her insides. The only one who seemed to notice her was that young Marine, who'd gotten on at the last stop in Portland. He was probably going home to see his eighteen-year-old girlfriend. He wasn't after her, surely, but someone was. She wouldn't be fooled again.

They'd taught her so much. No, she'd never be fooled again.

She put the mirror back into her purse and fastened the flap. She stared at her fingers, at the white line where the wedding ring had been until three days ago. She'd tried to pull it off for the past six months but hadn't managed to do it. She had been too out of it even to fasten the Velcro on her sneakers-when they allowed her sneakers-much less work off a tight ring.

Soon, she thought, soon she would be safe. Her mother would be safe too. Oh, God, Noelle-sobbing in the middle of the night when she didn't know anyone could hear her. But without her there, they couldn't do a thing to Noelle. Odd how she rarely thought of Noelle as her mother anymore, not like she had ten years before, when Noelle had listened to all her teenage problems, taken her shopping, driven her to her soccer games. So much they'd done together. Before. Yes, before that night when she'd seen her father slam his fist into her mother's chest and she'd heard the cracking of at least two ribs.

She'd run in, screaming at him to leave her mother alone, and jumped on his back. He was so surprised, so shocked, that he didn't strike her. He shook her off, turned, and shouted down at her, "Mind your own business, Susan! This doesn't concern you." She stared at him, all the fear and hatred she felt for him at that moment clear on her face.

"Doesn't concern me? She's my mother, you bastard. Don't you dare hit her again!"

He looked calm, but she wasn't fooled; she saw the pulse pounding madly in his neck. "It was her fault, Susan. Mind your own damned business. Do you hear me? It was her fault." He took a step toward her mother, his fist raised. She picked up the Waterford carafe off his desk, yelling, "Touch her and I'll bash your head in."

He was panting now, turning swiftly to face her again, no more calm expression to fool her. His face was distorted with rage. "Bitch! Damned interfering little bitch! I'll make you pay for this, Susan. No one goes against me, particularly a spoiled little girl who's never done a thing in her life except spend her father's money." He didn't hit Noelle again. He looked at both of them with naked fury, then strode out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

"Yeah, right," she said and very carefully and slowly set the Waterford carafe down before she dropped it.

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She wanted to call an ambulance but her mother wouldn't allow it. "You can't," she said, her voice as cracked as her ribs. "You can't, Sally. Your father would be ruined, if anyone believed us. I can't allow that to happen."

"He deserves to be ruined," Sally said, but she obeyed. She was only sixteen years old, home for the weekend from her private girls' school in Laurelberg, Virginia. Why wouldn't they be believed?

"No, dearest," her mother whispered, the pain bowing her in on herself. “No. Get me that blue bottle of pills in the medicine cabinet. Hurry, Sally. The blue bottle."

As she watched her mother swallow three of the pills, groaning as she did so, she realized the pills were there because her father had struck her mother before. Deep down, Sally had known it. She hated herself because she'd never asked, never said a word.

That night her mother became Noelle, and the next week Sally left her girls' school and moved back to her parents' home in Washington, D.C., in hopes of protecting her mother. She read everything she could find on abuse-not that it helped.

That was ten years ago, though sometimes it seemed like last week. Noelle had stayed with her husband, refusing to seek counseling, refusing to read any of the books Sally brought her. It made no sense to Sally, but she'd stayed as close as possible, until she'd met Scott Brainerd at the Whistler exhibition at the National Gallery of Art and married him two months later.

She didn't want to think about Scott or about her father now. Despite her vigilance, she knew her father had hit Noelle whenever she happened to be gone from the house. She'd seen the bruises her mother had tried to hide from her, seen her walking carefully, like an old woman. Once he broke her mother's arm, but Noelle refused to go to the hospital, to the doctor, and ordered Susan to keep quiet. Her father just looked at her, daring her, and she did nothing. Nothing.

Her fingers rubbed unconsciously over the white line where the ring had been. She could remember the past so clearly-her first day at school, when she was on the seesaw and a little boy pointed, laughing that he saw her panties.

It was just the past week that was a near blank in her mind. The week her father had been killed. The whole week was like a very long dream that had almost dissolved into nothing more than an occasional wisp of memory with the coming of the morning.

Sally knew she'd been at her parents' house that night, but she couldn't remember anything more, at least nothing she could grasp-just vague shadows that blurred, then faded in and out. But they didn't know that. They wanted her badly, she'd realized that soon enough. If they couldn't use her to prove that Noelle had killed her husband, why, then they'd take her and prove that she'd killed her father. Why not?

Other children had murdered their fathers. Although there were plenty of times she'd wanted to, she didn't believe she'd killed him.

On the other hand, she just didn't know. It was all a blank, locked tightly away in her brain. She knew she was capable of killing that bastard, but had she? There were many people who could have wanted her father dead. Perhaps they'd found out she'd been there after all. Yes, that was it. She'd been a witness and they knew it. She probably had been. She just didn't remember.

She had to stay focused on the present. She looked out the Greyhound window at the small town the bus was going through. Ugly gray exhaust spewed out the back of the bus. She bet the locals loved that.

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They were driving along Highway 101 southwest. Just another half hour, she thought, just thirty more minutes, and she wouldn't have to worry anymore, at least for a while. She would take any safe time she could get. Soon she wouldn't have to be afraid of anyone who chanced to look at her. No one knew about her aunt, no one.

She was terrified that the young Marine would get off after her when she stepped down from the bus at the junction of Highways 101 and 101A. But he didn't. No one did. She stood there with her one small bag, staring at the young Marine, who'd turned around in his seat and was looking back at her. She tamped down on her fear. He just wanted to flirt, not hurt her. She thought he had lousy taste in women.

She watched for cars, but none were coming from either direction.

She walked west along Highway 101A to The Cove. Highway 101A didn't go east.

"Yes?"

She stared at the woman she'd seen once in her life when she was no more than seven years old. She looked like a hippie, a colorful scarf wrapped around her long, curling, dark hair, huge gold hoops dangling from her ears, her skirt ankle-length and painted all in dark blues and browns. She was wearing blue sneakers. Her face was strong, her cheekbones high and prominent, her chin sharp, her eyes dark and intelligent. Actually, she was the most beautiful woman Sally had ever seen.

"Aunt Amabel?"

"What did you say?" Amabel stared at the young woman who stood on her front doorstep, a young woman who didn't look cheap with all that makeup she'd piled on her face, just exhausted and sickly pale. And frightened. Then, of course, she knew. She had known deep down that she would come. Yes, she'd known, but it still shook her.

"I'm Sally," she said and pulled off the black wig and took out half a dozen hairpins. Thick, waving dark-blond hair tumbled down to her shoulders. "Maybe you called me Susan? Not many people do anymore."

The woman was shaking her head back and forth, those dazzling earrings slapping against her neck. "My God, it's really you, Sally?" She rocked back on her heels. "Yes, Aunt."

"Oh, my," Amabel said and quickly pulled her niece against her, hugged her tightly, then pushed her back to look at her. "Oh, my goodness. I've been so worried. I finally heard the news about your papa, but I didn't know if I should call Noelle. You know how she is. I was going to call her tonight when the rates go down, but you're here, Sally. I guess I hoped you'd come to me. What's happened? Is your mama all right?"

"Noelle is fine, I think," Sally said. "I didn't know where else to go, so I came here. Can I stay here, Aunt Amabel, just for a little while? Just until I can think of something, make some plans?"

"Of course you can. Look at that black wig and all that makeup on your face. Why, baby?"

The endearment undid her. She'd not cried, not once, until now, until this woman she didn't really know called her "baby." Her aunt's hands were stroking her back, her voice was low and soothing. "It's all right, lovey. I promise you, everything will be all right now. Come in, Sally, and I'll take care of you.

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and legs wobbly like a colt's, and the biggest smile I'd ever seen. I wanted to take care of you then.

You'll be safe here. Come on, baby."

The damnable tears wouldn't stop. They just kept dripping down her face, ruining the god-awful thick black mascara. She even tasted it, and when she swiped her hand over her face it came away with black streaks.

"I look like a circus clown," she said, swallowing hard to stop the tears, to smile, to make herself smile.

She took out the green-colored contacts. With the crying, they hurt.

"No, you look like a little girl trying on her mama's makeup. That's right, take out those ugly contacts. Ah, now you've got your pretty blue eyes again. Come to the kitchen and I'll make you some tea. I always put a drop of brandy in mine. It wouldn't hurt you one little bit. How old are you now, Sally?"

"Twenty-six, I think."

"What do you mean, you think?" her aunt said, cocking her head to one side, making the gold hoop earring hang straight down almost to her shoulder.

Sally couldn't tell her that though she thought her birthday had come and gone in that place, she couldn't seem to see the day in her mind, couldn't dredge up anyone saying anything to her, not that she could imagine it anyway. She couldn't even remember if her father had been there. She prayed he hadn't. She couldn't tell Amabel about that, she just couldn't. She shook her head, smiled, and said, not lying well, "It was just a way of speaking, Aunt Amabel. I'd love some tea and a drop of brandy." Amabel sat her niece down in the kitchen at her old pine table that had three magazines under one leg to keep it steady.

At least she'd made cushions for the wooden seats, so they were comfortable. She put the kettle on the gas burner and turned it on. "There," she said. "That won't take too long."

Sally watched her put a Lipton tea bag into each cup and pour in the brandy. Amabel said, "I always pour the brandy in first. It soaks into the tea bag and makes the flavor stronger. Brandy's expensive and I've got to make it last. This bottle"-she lifted the Christian Brothers- "is going on its third month. Not bad. You'll see, you'll like it."

"No one followed me, Aunt Amabel. I was really careful. I imagine you know that everyone is after me.

But I managed to get away. As far as I know, no one knows about you. Noelle never told a soul. Only Father knew about you, and he's dead."

Amabel just nodded. Sally sat quietly, watching Amabel move around her small kitchen, each action smooth and efficient. She was graceful, this aunt of hers in her hippie clothes. She looked at those strong hands, the long fingers, the short, buffed nails painted an awesome bright red. Amabel was an artist, she remembered that now. She couldn't see any resemblance at all to Noelle, Amabel's younger sister.

Amabel was dark as a gypsy, while Noelle was blond and fair-complexioned, blue-eyed and soft as a pillow.

Like me, Sally thought. But Sally wasn't soft anymore. She was hard as a brick.

She waited, expecting Amabel to whip out a deck of cards and tell her fortune. She wondered why none of Noelle's family ever spoke of Amabel. What had she done that was so terrible?

Her fingers rubbed over the white band where the ring had been. She said as she looked around the old kitchen with its ancient refrigerator and porcelain sink, "You don't mind that I'm here, Aunt Amabel?"

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"Call me Amabel, honey, that'll be just fine. I don't mind at all. Both of us will protect your mama. As for you, why, I don't think you could hurt that little bug that's scurrying across the kitchen floor."

Sally shook her head, got out of her seat, and squashed the bug beneath her heel. She sat down again. “I just want you to see me as I really am," she said.

Amabel only shrugged, turned back to the stove when the teakettle whistled, and poured the water into the teacups. She said, not turning around, "Things happen to people, change them. Take your mama.

Everyone always protected your mama, including me. Why wouldn't her daughter do the same? You are protecting her, aren't you,

Sally?"

She handed Sally her cup of tea. She pulled the tea bag back and forth, making the tea darker and darker. Finally, she lifted the bag and placed it carefully on the saucer. She'd swished that tea bag just the way her mother always had when she'd been young. She took a drink, held the brandied tea in her mouth a moment, then swallowed. The tea was wonderful, thick, rich, and sinful. She felt less on edge almost immediately. That brandy was something. Surely she'd be safe here. Surely Amabel would take her in just for a little while until she figured out what to do. She imagined her aunt wanted to hear everything, but she wasn't pushing. Sally was immensely grateful for that. "I've often wondered what kind of woman you'd become," Amabel said. "Looks to me like you've become a fine one. This mess-and that's what it is-it will pass. Everything will be resolved, you'll see." She was silent a moment, remembering the affection she'd felt for the little girl, that bone-deep desire to keep her close, to hug her until she squeaked. It surprised her that it was still there. She didn't like it, nor did she want it.

"Careful of leaning on that end of the table, Sally. Purn Davies wanted to fix it for me, but I wouldn't let him." She knew Sally wasn't hearing her, but it didn't matter, Amabel was just making noise until Sally got some of that brandy in her belly.

"This tea's something else, Amabel. Strange, but good." She took another drink, then another. She felt warmth pooling in her stomach. She realized she hadn't felt this warm in more than five days.

“You might as well tell me now, Sally. You came here so you could protect your mama, didn't you, baby?"

Sally took another big drink of the tea. What could she say? She said nothing.

"Did your mama kill your papa?" Sally set down her cup and stared into it, wishing she knew the truth of things, but that night was as murky in her mind as the tea in the bottom of her cup. "I don't know," she said finally. "I just don't know, but they think I do. They think I'm either protecting Noelle or running because I did it. They're trying to find me. I didn't want to take a chance, so that's why I'm here." Was she lying? Amabel didn't say anything. She merely smiled at her niece, who looked exhausted, her face white and pinched, her lovely blue eyes as faded and worn as an old dress. She was too thin; her sweater and slacks hung on her. In that moment her niece looked very old, as if she had seen too much of the wicked side of life. Well, it was too bad, but there was more wickedness in the world than anyone cared to admit.

She said quietly as she stared down into her teacup, "If your mama did kill her husband, I'll bet the bastard deserved it."

2

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SALLY NEARLY DROPPED her cup. She set it carefully down. "You knew?"

"Sure. All of us did. The first time I ever got to see you was when she brought you home. I was passing through. That's all our folks ever wanted me to do-pass through and not say much or show my face much, particularly to all their friends. Anyway, your mama showed up. She was running away from him, she said. She also said she'd never go back. She was bruised. She cried all the time.

"But her resolve didn't last long. He called her two nights later and she flew back home the next day, with you all wrapped in a blanket. You weren't even a year old then. She wouldn't talk about it to me. I never could understand why a woman would let herself be beaten whenever a man decided he wanted to do it."

"I couldn't either. I tried, Aunt Amabel. I really tried, but she wouldn't listen. What did my grandparents say?" Amabel shrugged, thinking of her horrified father, staring at beautiful Noelle, wondering what the devil he would do if the press got wind of the juicy story that his son-in-law, Amory St. John, was a wife beater. And their mother, shrinking away from her daughter as if she had some sort of vile disease. She hadn't cared either. She just didn't want the press to find out because it would hurt the family's reputation.

They pretended not to believe that your papa had beat your mama. They looked at Noelle, saw all those bruises, and denied all of it. They told her she shouldn't tell lies like that. Your mama was a real mess, arguing with them, pleading with them to help her.

“But then he called, and your mama acted like nothing had ever happened. You know what, Sally? My parents were mighty relieved when she left. She would have been a loser, a failure, a millstone around their necks if she'd left your father. She was special, a daughter to be proud of, when she was with him.

Do you ever see your grandparents?"

"Three times a year. Oh, God, Aunt Amabel, I hated him. But now-''

"Now you're afraid the police are looking for you. Don't worry, baby. No one would know you in that disguise."

He would, Sally thought. In a flash. "I hope not," she said. “Do you think I should keep wearing the black wig here?"

"No, I wouldn't worry. You're my niece, nothing more, nothing less. No one watches TV except for Thelma Nettro, who owns the bed-and-breakfast, and she's so old I don't even know if she can see the screen. She can hear, though. I know that for a fact.

"No, don't bother with the wig-and leave those contacts in a drawer. Not to worry. We'll just use your married name. Here you'll be Sally Brainerd."

"I can't use that name anymore, Amabel."

"All right then. We'll use your maiden name-Sally St. John. No, don't worry that anyone would ever tie you to your dead papa. Like I said, no one here pays any attention to what goes on outside the town limits. As for anyone else, why no one ever comes here-"

"Except for people who want to eat the World's Greatest Ice Cream. I like the sign out at the junction with that huge chocolate ice cream cone painted on it. You can see it a mile away, and by the time you Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

get to it, your mouth is watering. You painted the sign, didn't-you, Amabel?"

"I sure did. And you're right. People tell us they see that sign and by the time they get to the junction their car just turns toward The Cove. It's Helen Keaton's recipe, handed down from her granny. The ice cream shop used to be the chapel in the front of Ralph Keaton's mortuary. We all decided that since we had Reverend Vorhees's church, we didn't need Ralph's little chapel too." She paused, looking into a memory, and smiled. "In the beginning we stored the ice cream in caskets packed full of ice. It took every freezer in every refrigerator in this town to make that much ice."

"I can't wait to try it. Goodness, I remember when the town wasn't much of anything-back when I came here that one time. Do you remember? I was just a little kid." "I remember. You were adorable." Sally smiled, a very small smile, but it was a beginning. She just shook her head, saying, “I remember this place used to be so ramshackle and down at the heels-no paint on any of the houses, boards hanging off some of the buildings. And there were potholes in the street as deep as I was tall. But now the town looks wonderful, so charming and clean and pristine."

"Well, you're right. We've had lots of good changes. We all put our heads together, and that's when Helen Keaton spoke up about her granny's ice cream recipe. That Fourth of July-goodness, it will be four years this July-was when we opened the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop. I'll never forget how the men all pooh-poohed the idea, said it wouldn't amount to anything. Well, we sure showed them."

"I'd say so. If the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop is the reason the town's so beautiful now, maybe Helen Keaton should run for president."

"Maybe so. Would you like a ham sandwich, baby?" A ham sandwich, Sally thought. "With mayonnaise?

Real mayonnaise, not the fat-free stuff?" "Real mayonnaise." "White bread and not fourteen-vitamin seven-grain whole wheat?"

"Cheap white bread."

"That sounds wonderful, Amabel. You're sure no one will recognize me?" "Not a soul."

They watched a small, very grainy black-and-white TV while Sally ate her sandwich. Within five minutes, the story was on the national news broadcast.

"Former Naval Commander Amory Davidson St. John was buried today at Arlington National Cemetery. His widow, Noelle St. John, was accompanied by her son-in-law, Scott Brainerd, a lawyer who had worked closely with Amory St. John, the senior legal counsel for TransCon International. Her daughter, Susan St. John Brainerd, was not present.

"We go now to Police Commissioner Howard Duz-man, who is working closely with the FBI on this high-profile investigation."

Amabel didn't know much of anything about Scott Brainerd. She had never met him, had never spoken to him until she had called Noelle and he answered the phone, identified himself, and asked who she was.

And she'd told him. Why not? She'd asked him to have Noelle call her back. But Noelle hadn't called her-not that Amabel had expected her to. If Noelle's life depended on it, well, that would be different.

She would be on the phone like a shot. But she hadn't called her this time. Amabel wondered if Noelle would realize that Sally could be here. Would that make her call? She didn't know. Actually, now it didn't matter.

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She reached out her hand and covered her niece's thin fingers with hers. She saw where there had once been a ring, but it was gone now, leaving just a pale white mark in its place. She wondered for just a moment if she should tell Sally that she'd spoken to her husband. No, not yet. Maybe never. Let the girl rest for a while. Hopefully there would be time, but Amabel didn't know. Actually, if she could, she would get rid of Sally this very minute, get her away from here before... No, she wouldn't think about that. She didn't really have a choice.

Everything would work out. Besides, what would it matter if Scott Brainerd did find out his wife was hiding out here? So she said nothing, just held Sally's hand in hers.

"I'm awfully tired, Amabel."

"I'll bet you are, baby, I'll just bet you are."

Amabel tucked her in like she was her little girl in the small second bedroom. The room was quiet, so very quiet.

She was asleep within minutes. In a few more minutes she was twisted in the covers, moaning.

There was so much daylight in that room, all of it pouring through the wide windows that gave onto an immaculate lawn stretching a good hundred yards to the edge of a copse of thick oak trees. The two men led her in, shoving her forward, nearly knocking her to her knees. They put their hands on her shoulders, forcing her to sit in front of his desk. He was smiling at her. He didn't say a word until they'd left, quietly closing the door behind them.

He steepled his fingers. "You look pathetic, Sally, in those gray sweats. And just look at your hair, all stringy, and no makeup on your face, not even a touch of lipstick in honor of coming to see me. Next time I'll have to ask them to do something with you before bringing you to me."

She heard every word, felt the hurt that every word intended, but the comprehension quickly died, and she only shrugged, a tiny movement because it was so much work to make her shoulders rise and fall to produce a shrug.

"You've been with me now for nearly a week and you're not a bit better, Sally. You're still delusional, paranoid. If you're too stupid to understand what those words mean, why, then, let me get more basic with you. You're crazy, Sally, just plain crazy, and you'll stay that way. No cure for you. Now, since I've got to look at you for a while longer, why don't you at least say something, maybe even sing a little song, maybe a song you used to sing in the shower. Yes, I know you always sang in the shower. How about it?"

Oddly, even though the comprehension didn't remain long in her brain, the viciousness of the words, the utter cruelty of them, hung on. She managed to rise, lean forward, and spit in his face.

He lunged around his desk as he swiped his hand over his face. He jerked her to her feet and slapped her hard, sending her reeling to the floor. The door to his office flew open, and the two men who'd brought her came banging through.

They were worried about him?

She heard him say, "She spit on me and then attacked me. Bring me three milligrams of Haldol. No pill this time. That should calm our poor little girl down."

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No. She knew that if they gave her any more of that stuff she'd die. She knew it, knew it. She staggered to her feet. She ran to those wide windows. She heard shouts behind her. She dove through the glass.

For an instant she was flying, white shards of glass falling from her, letting her soar higher and higher above that beautiful lawn, flying away from the horror of this place, the horror of him. Then she wasn't flying anymore. She heard screams and knew it was she who was screaming. Then she felt the pain drag at her, pulling her down, down, until there was blackness and beautiful nothingness.

But the screaming went on. That wasn't right. She was unconscious, no longer screaming.

Another scream jerked her awake. Sally reared up in bed, straining to hear those screams. They'd been here, in The Cove, in Amabel's house, not in her dream back there. She didn't move, just waited, waited.

A cat? No, it was human, a cry of pain, she knew it was. God knew, she'd heard enough cries of pain in the last year.

Who? Amabel? She didn't want to move, but she made herself slip out from under the three blankets Amabel had piled on top of her at nine o'clock the previous evening. It was freezing in the small guest room and black as the bottom of a witch's cauldron. Sally didn't have a bathrobe, just her long Lanz flannel nightgown. Scott had hated her nightgowns, he hated... no, forget Scott. He truly didn't matter, hadn't mattered in a very long time. The room was very dark. She made her way to the door and gently shoved it open. The narrow hallway was just as dark. She waited, waited longer, not wanting to hear that cry again, but knowing she would. It was a cry of pain. Perhaps there had been surprise in it. She couldn't be sure now. She waited. It was just a matter of time. She walked in her sock feet toward Amabel's bedroom.

She stumbled when she heard another cry, her hip hitting a table. This cry came from outside. She was sure of it. It wasn't Amabel; thank God, she was safe. Amabel would know what to do.

What was it? She rubbed her hip as she set the table against the wall again.

Suddenly Amabel's bedroom door flew open. "What's going on? Is that you, Sally?"

"Yes, Amabel," she whispered. "I heard someone cry out and thought it was you. What is it?"

"I didn't hear a thing," Amabel said. "Go back to bed, dear. You're exhausted. It's probably the leftovers of a bad dream. Just look at you, you're white as the woodwork. You did have a nightmare, didn't you?"

Sally nodded because it was the truth. But those screams had lasted, had gone on and on. They'd not been part of the dream, the dream that was a memory she hated, but that always came in her sleep when she was helpless against it.

"Go to bed. You poor baby, you're shivering like a leaf. Go back to bed. Hurry now."

"But I heard it twice, Amabel. I thought it was you, but it's not. It's coming from outside the house."

"No, baby, there's nothing out there. You're so tired, so much has happened in the past few days I'm surprised you haven't heard the Rolling Stones bawling at the top of their lungs. There's nothing, Sally. It was a nightmare, nothing more. Don't forget, this is The Cove, dear. Nothing ever happens here. If you did hear something, why it was only the wind. The wind off the ocean can whine just like a person. You'll learn that soon enough. You didn't hear anything. Trust me. Go back to bed."

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Sally went back to bed. She lay stiff and waiting, so cold she wondered whether the tears would freeze on her face if she cried. She could have sworn that she heard a door quietly open and close, but she didn't have the guts to go see.

She would relax, then stiffen again, waiting to hear that awful cry. But there weren't any more cries.

Maybe Amabel was right. She was exhausted; she had been dreaming and it had been hideous and so very real. Maybe she was paranoid or psychotic or schizophrenic. They had called her all those things for six months. She wondered-if she saw the person actually cry out would that be a delusion? Just a fabrication of her mind? Probably. No, she wouldn't think about that time. It made her hurt too much.

She fell asleep again near dawn.

It was a dreamless sleep this time.

3

JAMES RAILEY QUINLAN had more energy than he'd had just twenty minutes before. His body was humming with it. That was because she was here. He was sure of it now, he could feel her here. He'd always had these feelings- more than intuition. The feelings just came to him suddenly, and he had always followed them, ever since he was a kid. The time or two he hadn't, he'd gotten himself into deep shit.

Now he was out on a very long limb, and if he was wrong he'd pay for it. But he wasn't wrong. He could feel her presence in this very charming and well-manicured little town.

Dreadful little place, he thought, so perfect, like a Hollywood set, just like Teresa's hometown. He remembered having the same reaction, feeling the same vague distaste when he'd traveled to that small town in Ohio to marry Teresa Raglan, daughter of the local judge.

He pulled his gray Buick Regal into a well-marked parking place in front of the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop. There were two large plate-glass windows, painted all around with bright-blue trim. He could see small circular tables inside, with old-fashioned white wrought-iron chairs. Behind the counter an older woman was talking to a man while she scooped chocolate ice cream out of a carton set down into the counter. The front of the shop was painted a pristine white. It was a quaint little place, just like the rest of the town, but for some reason he didn't like the looks of it.

He stepped out of the sedan and looked around. Next to the ice cream shop was a small general store with a sign out front in ornate type that could have come straight out of Victorian times: PURN DAVIES: YOU WANT IT-i SELL IT.

On the other side of the ice cream shop was a small clothing store that looked elegant and expensive, with that peculiar Carmel-like look that the rest of the buildings had. It was called Intimate Deceptions-a name that for James conjured up images of black lace against a white sheet or white skin.

The sidewalks looked brand-new and the road was nicely blacktopped. No ruts anywhere to hold rain puddles.

All the parking spots were marked with thick white lines. Not a faded line in the bunch. He'd seen newer houses on the drive in, apparently all built very recently. In town there was a hardware store, a small Safeway barely large enough to support the sign, a dry cleaners, a one-hour-photo place, a McDonald's with a very discreet golden arch.

A prosperous, quaint little town that was perfect. He slipped his keys into his jacket pocket. First thing he needed was a place to stay. He spotted a sign reading THELMA'S BED AND BREAKFAST right Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

across the street. Nothing fancy about that sign or title. He pulled his black travel bag out of the back seat and walked over to Thel-ma's big white Victorian gingerbread house with its deep porch that encircled the entire house. He hoped he could get a room up in one of those circular towers.

For an old house, it was in immaculate shape. The white of the clapboard gleamed, and the pale blue and yellow trim around the windows and on cornices seemed to be fresh. The wide wooden porch planks didn't groan beneath his weight. The boards were new, the railing solid oak and sturdy.

He announced himself as James Quinlan to a smiling lady in her late fifties whom he found standing behind the antique walnut counter in the front hall. She was wearing an apron that had lots of flour on it. He explained he was looking for a room, preferably one in the tower. At the sound of an ancient cackle, he turned and saw a robust old lady rocking back and forth in an antique chair in the doorway of the huge living room. She was holding what appeared to be a diary in front of her nose with one hand, and in the other she held a fountain pen. Every few seconds she wet the tip of the fountain pen with her tongue, a habit that left her with a big black circle on the tip of her tongue.

"Ma'am," he said, and nodded toward the old lady. "I sure hope that ink isn't poisonous."

"It wouldn't kill her even if it was," the lady behind the counter said. "She's surely built up an immunity by now. Thelma's been at that diary of hers with that black ink on her tongue ever since she and her husband first moved to The Cove back in the 1940's." The old lady cackled again, then called out, "I'm Thelma Nettro. You don't have a wife, boy?"

"That's a bold question, ma'am, even for an old lady." Thelma ignored him. "So what are you doing in The Cove? You come here for the World's Greatest Ice Cream?"

"I saw(that sign. I'll be sure to try it later."

"Have the peach. Helen just made it up last week. It's dandy. So if you aren't here for ice cream, then why are you here?"

Here goes, he thought. "I'm a private detective, ma'am. My client's parents disappeared around this area some three and a half years ago. The cops never got anywhere. The son hired me to find out what happened to them."

"Old folk?"

"Yeah, they'd been driving all over the U.S. in a Winnebago. The Winnebago was found in a used car lot up in Spokane. Looked to be foul play, but nobody could ever find anything out."

"So why are you here in The Cove? Nothing ever happens here, nothing at all. I remember telling my husband, Bobby-he died of pneumonia just after Eisenhower was reelected in 1956-that this little town had never known a heyday, but it just kept going anyhow. Do you know what happened then? Well, I'll tell you. This banker from Portland bought up lots of coastal land and built vacation cottages. He built the two-laner off Highway 101 and ran it right to the ocean." Thelma stopped, licked the end of her fountain pen, and sighed. "Then in the 1960's, everything began to fall apart, everyone just upped and left, got bored with our town, I suppose. So, you see, it doesn't make any sense for you to stay here."

"I'm using your town as a sort of central point. I'll search out from here. Perhaps you remember these old folk coming through, ma'am-"

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"My name's Thelma, I told you that. There's lots of ma'ams in this world, but just one me, and I'm Thelma Nettro. Doc Spiver pronounced me deader than a bat some years ago, but he was wrong. Oh, Lordy, you should have seen the look on Ralph Keaton's face when he had me all ready to lay out in that funeral home of his. I near to scared the toenails off him when I sat up and asked him what the hell he was doing.

Ah, yes, that was something. He was so scared he went shouting for Reverend Hal Vor-hees to protect him. You can call me Thelma, boy."

"Maybe you remember these old folk, Thelma. The man was Harve Jensen, and his wife's name was Marge. A nice older couple, according to their son. The son did say they had a real fondness for ice cream." Why not, he thought. Stir the pot a bit. Be specific, it made you more believable. Besides, everyone liked ice cream. He'd have to try it.

"Harve and Marge Jensen," Thelma repeated, rocking harder now, her veined and spotted old hands clenching and unclenching on the arms of the chair. "Can't say I remember any old folk like that. Driving a Winnebago, you say? You go over and try one of Helen's peach ice cream cones."

"Soon I will. I like the sign out there at the junction of 101 and 101 A. The artist really got that brown color to look just like rich chocolate ice cream. Yeah, they were driving a Winnebago."

"It's brought us lots of folk, that sign. The state bureaucrats wanted us to take it down, but one of our locals-Gus Eisner-knew the governor's cousin, and he fixed it. We pay the state three hundred dollars a year to keep the sign there. Amabel repaints it every year in July, sort of an anniversary, since that's when we first opened. Purn Davies told her the chocolate paint she used for the ice cream was too dark, but we all ignored him. He wanted to marry Amabel after her husband died, but she wouldn't have anything to do with him. He still isn't over it. Pretty tacky, huh?"

"I'd say so," Quinlan said.

"You tell Amabel that you think her chocolate is perfect. That'll please her."

Amabel, he thought. Amabel Perdy. She was her aunt.

The stocky gray-haired woman behind the counter cleared her throat. She smiled at him when he turned back to her.

"What did you say, Martha? Speak up. You know I can't hear you."

Like hell, James thought. The old relic probably heard everything within three miles of town.

"And stop fiddling with those pearls. You've already broken them more times than I can count."

Martha's pearls did look a bit ratty, he thought.

"Martha, what do you want?"

"I need to check Mr. Quinlan in, Thelma. And I've got to finish baking that chocolate decadence cake before I go to lunch with Mr. Drapper. But I want to get Mr. Quinlan settled first."

"Well, do it, don't just stand there wringing your hands. You watch yourself with Ed Drapper, Martha.

He's a fast one, that boy is. I noticed just yesterday that you're getting liver spots, Martha. I heard you got liver spots if you'd had too much sex when you were younger. Yes, you watch what you do with Ed Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Drapper. Oh, yes, don't forget to put walnuts in that chocolate decadence cake. I love walnuts."

James turned to Martha, such a sweet-looking lady, with stiff gray hair and a buxom bosom and glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was tucking her hands in her pockets, hiding those liver spots.

James laughed and said, knowing the old lady was listening, "She's a terror, isn't she?"

"She's more than a terror, Mr. Quinlan," Martha said in a whisper. "She's a lot more. Poor Ed Drapper is sixty-three years old." She raised her voice. "No, Thelma, I won't forget the walnuts."

"A mere lad," James said and smiled at Martha, who didn't look as if she'd ever had any sex in her life.

She was tugging on those pearls again.

When she left him in the tower room, which gave him a panoramic view of the ocean, he walked to the window and stared out, not at the ocean that gleamed like a brilliant blue jewel beneath the full afternoon sun but at the people below. Across the street, right in front of Purn Davies's store, he saw four old geezers pull out chairs and arrange them around an oak barrel that had to be as old as James's grandfather. One of the men pulled out a deck of cards. James had a feeling he was looking at a longstanding ritual. One of the men arranged his cards, then spat off the sidewalk. Another one hooked his gnarly old fingers beneath his suspenders and leaned back in the chair. Yes, James thought, a ritual of many years. He wondered if one of them was Purn Davies, the one who'd criticized Amabel's chocolate because she'd refused to marry him. Was one of them Reverend Hal Vorhees? No, surely a reverend wouldn't be sitting there spitting and playing cards.

It didn't matter. He'd find out soon enough who everybody was. So there'd be no doubt in anybody's mind about why he was here, he would talk to this group too about Harve and Marge Jensen. He'd talk to everyone he ran into. No one would suspect a thing.

He would bet his next paycheck that those old geezers saw just about everything that went on in this town, including a runaway woman who just happened to be the daughter of a big-time lawyer who had not only gotten himself murdered but who'd also been involved in some very bad business. A woman who also happened to be Amabel Perdy's niece.

James wished Amory St. John hadn't gotten himself knocked off, at least not until the FBI had finally nailed him for selling arms to terrorist nations.

He turned from the window and frowned. He realized he hadn't cared at all about Harve and Marge Jensen until ancient Thelma Nettro, who'd been pronounced dead by Doc Spiver but had risen from the table and scared Ralph Keaton shitless, had lied to him.

Investigating the fate of the Jensens had just been a cover that one of the assistants happened to find for him to use. It was a believable cover, she'd told him, because the couple really had mysteriously disappeared along a stretch of highway that included The Cove.

But why had the old lady lied? What reason could she possibly have? Now he was curious. Too bad he didn't have time. He thrived on mystery. And he was the best of the best, at least that was what Teresa had told him in bed time and again before she'd run away with a mail bomber he himself had hunted down and arrested, only to have her defend him and get him off on a technicality.

He hung up is slacks and his shirts, laid his underwear in the top drawer of the beautiful antique dresser.

He walked into the bathroom to lay out his toiletries and was pleasantly surprised. It was huge, all Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

pink-veined marble, and totally modernized, right down to the water-saver toilet. The tub was huge and was curtained off so he could take a shower if he preferred.

Old Thelma Nettro was obviously a hedonist. No claw-footed tubs for her. He wondered how the devil she could make enough money off this place to modernize the bathrooms like this. As far as he could tell, he was the only guest.

There was one restaurant in The Cove, a pretentious little cafe called the Hinterlands that had beautiful red and white tulips in its window boxes. Unlike the rest of the buildings that lined Main Street, the Hinterlands forked off to one side, faced the ocean, and looked painfully charming with its bricked walkway and gables, which, he was certain, had been added merely for decoration.

They served cod and bass. Nothing else, just cod and bass-fried, baked, poached, broiled. James hated all kinds of fish. He ate everything the small salad bar had to offer and knew he was going to have to live at the Safeway deli. But, hell, the Safeway was so small he doubted it even had a deli.

The waitress, an older woman decked out in a Swiss Miss outfit that laced up her chest and swept the floor, said, "Oh, it's fish this week. Zeke can't do more than one thing at a time. He says it confounds him.

Next Monday you come in and we'll have something else. How about some mashed potatoes with all those greens?"

He nodded to Martha and Ed Drapper, who were evidently enjoying their fried cod, cole slaw, and mashed potatoes. She gave him a brilliant smile. He wondered if she recognized him. She wasn't wearing her glasses. Her left hand was playing with her pearls.

After lunch, as James walked toward the four old men playing cards around the barrel, he saw at least half a dozen cars parked out in front of the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop. Popular place. Had the place been here when Harve and Marge came through? Yeah, sure it had. That's when old Thelma's rheumy eyes had twitched and her old hands had clenched big time. He might as well get to know the locals before he tracked Susan St. John Brainerd down.

He wasn't quite certain yet just what he was going to do with her when he found her. The truth, he thought. All he wanted was the truth from her. And he'd get it. He usually did. Then maybe he'd work on the other mystery. If there was another mystery.

Ten minutes later James walked into the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop thinking that those four old men weren't any better liars than Thelma Nettro. Unlike Thelma, they hadn't said a word, just shook their heads sorrowfully as they looked at each other. One of them had spat after he repeated Harve's name.

That one was Purn Davies. The old man leaning back in the chair had said he'd always fancied having a Winnebago. His name was Gus Eisner. Another one of the men said Gus could fix anything on wheels and kept them all running. The other old man wouldn't meet his eyes. He couldn't remember the names of those last two.

It was telling, their behavior. Whatever had happened to Harve and Marge Jensen, everyone he'd met so far knew about it. He was looking forward to trying the World's Greatest Ice Cream.

The same older woman he'd seen upon his arrival was scooping up what looked to be peach ice cream for a family of tourists who'd probably seen that sign on the road and come west.

The kids were jumping and yelling. The boy wanted Cove Chocolate and the girl wanted French Vanilla.

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"You've just got the six flavors?" the woman asked.

"Yes, just six. We vary them according to the season. We don't mass-produce anything."

The boy whined that now he wanted blueberry ice cream. The chocolate looked too dark.

The older woman behind the counter just smiled down at him and said, "You can't have it. Either pick another flavor or shut up."

The mother gasped and stared. "You can't act like that toward our son, why he's-"

The older woman smiled back, straightened her lacy white cap, and said, "He's what, ma'am?"

"He's a brat," the husband said. He turned to his son. "What do you want, Mickey? You see the six flavors. Pick one now or don't have any."

"I want French Vanilla," the girl said. "He can have worms."

"Now, Julie," the mother said, then licked the ice cream cone the woman handed her. "Oh, goodness, it's wonderful. Fresh peaches, Rick. Fresh peaches. It's great."

The woman behind the counter just smiled. The boy took a chocolate triple-dip cone. James watched the family finally leave. "Yes, can I help you?" "I'd like a peach cone, please, ma'am." "You're new to town,"

she said as she pulled the scoop through the big tub of ice cream. "You just traveling through?"

"No," James said, taking the cone. "I'll be here for a while. I'm trying to find Marge and Harve Jensen."

"Never heard of them."

James took a lick. He felt as though sweet peaches were sliding down his throat. The woman was a good liar. "The lady was right. This is delicious." "Thank you. This Marge and Harve-" James repeated the story he'd told to Thelma and Martha and the old men. When he finished, he stuck out his hand and said,

"My name is James Quinlan. I'm a private investigator from Los Angeles."

"I'm Sherry Vorhees. My husband's the local preacher, Reverend Harold Vorhees. I have a four-hour shift here most days."

"A pleasure, ma'am. Can I treat you to an ice cream?" "Oh, no, I have my iced tea," she said and sipped out of a large plastic tumbler. It was very pale iced tea. "You know, I'd like some iced tea, if you don't mind," Quinlan said.

Sherry Vorhees winked at him. "Sorry, sir, but you don't want my kind of iced tea, and we don't have any of the other kind."

"Just ice cream, then. You've never heard of this Marge and Harve? You don't remember them coming through here some three years ago? In a Winnebago?"

Sherry thought he was handsome, just like that Englishman who'd played in two James Bond films, but this man was American and he was bigger, a lot taller. She really liked that dimple in his chin. She'd always wondered how men shaved in those tiny little holes. And now this lovely man wanted to know about these two old folk. He was standing right in front of her licking his peach ice cream cone.

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"A lot of folk come to The Cove for the World's Greatest Ice Cream," she said, still smiling at him. "Too many to remember individuals. And three years ago... why, at my age I can barely remember what I cooked Hal for dinner last Tuesday."

"Well, you think about it, please, Mrs. Vorhees. I'm staying at Thelma's Bed and Breakfast." He turned as the front doorbell jingled. A middle-aged woman came in. Unlike Martha, this one was dressed like a gypsy, a red scarf tied around her head, thick wool socks and Birken-stocks on her feet. She was wearing a long skirt that looked organic and a dark-red wool jacket. Her eyes were dark and very beautiful. She had to be the youngest citizen in the town.

"Hello, Sherry," she said. "I'll relieve you now."

"Thanks, Amabel. Oh, this is James Quinlan. Mr. Quinlan, this is Amabel Perdy. He's a real private detective from Los Angeles, Amabel. He's here to try to find out what happened to an old couple who might have come through The Cove to buy ice cream. What was their name? Oh, yes, Harve and Marge."

Amabel raised her dark gypsy eyebrows at him. She was very still, didn't say anything, just looked at him, completely at ease.

So this was the aunt. How fortunate that she was here and not at home, where he hoped to find Sally Brainerd. Amabel Perdy, an artist, an old hippie, a former school-teacher. He knew she was a widow, had been married to another artist she'd met in Soho many decades ago. His art had never amounted to much. He'd died some seventeen years ago. James also knew now that she'd turned down Purn Davies.

He noted she didn't look anything like her niece.

"I don't remember any old folk named Harve and Marge," Amabel said. "I'm going in the back to change now, Sherry. Ring out, okay?"

She was the best liar yet. He tamped down his dratted curiosity. It didn't matter. Sally Brainerd was the only thing that mattered.

"How's your little niece doing, Amabel?"

Amabel wished Sherry wouldn't drink so much iced tea. It made her run off at the mouth. But she said pleasantly, "She's doing better. She was just so exhausted from her trip."

"Yes, of course." Sherry Vorhees continued to sip out of that big plastic tumbler and smile at James. That English actor's name was Timothy Dalton. Beautiful man. She liked James Quinlan even better. "There's not much to do here in The Cove. I don't know if you'll last out the week."

"Who knows?" James said, tossed his napkin into the white trash bin, and left the ice cream shop.

His next stop was Amabel Perdy's house, the small white one on the corner of Main Street and Conroy Street. Time to get it done.

When he knocked on the trim white door, he heard a crash from inside. It sounded as though a piece of furniture had been knocked down. He knocked louder. He heard a woman's cry of terror.

He turned the knob, found the door was locked. Well, shit. He put his shoulder against the door and pushed really hard. The door burst inward.

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He saw Susan St. John Brainerd on her knees on the floor, the telephone lying beside her. He could hear the buzz of the dial tone. Her fist was stuffed in her mouth. She'd probably terrified herself when she screamed-that or she was afraid someone would hear her. Well, he had, and here he was.

She stared at him as he flew into Amabel's small living room, huddled herself against the wall like he was going to shoot her, jerked her fist out of her mouth, and screamed again.

Really loud.

4

"STOP SCREAMING," HE yelled at her. "What the hell's the matter? What happened?"

Sally knew this was it. She'd never seen him before. He wasn't old like everyone else in this town. He didn't belong here. He'd tracked her here. He was here to drag her back to Washington or force her to go back to that horrible place. Yes, he could work for Beadermeyer, he probably did. She couldn't go back there. She stared at the big man who was now standing over her, looking at her strangely, as if he was really concerned, but she knew he wasn't, he couldn't be, it was just a ruse. He was here to hurt her.

"The phone," she said, because she was going to die and it didn't matter what she said. "It was someone who called and he scared me."

As she spoke, she slowly rose and began backing away from him.

He wondered if she had a gun. He wondered if she'd turn and run to get that gun. He didn't want this to turn nasty. He lunged for her, grabbed her left arm as she cried out, twisted about, and tried to jerk away from him.

"I'm not going to hurt you, dammit."

"Go away! I won't go with you, I won't. Go away."

She was sobbing and panting, fighting him hard now, and he was impressed with the way she jabbed him with her knuckles just below his ribs where it hurt really good, then raised her leg to knee him.

He jerked her back against him, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her until she quieted. She had no leverage now, no chance to hurt him. She was a lightweight, but the place where she'd gotten him below his ribs really hurt.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again, his voice calm and low. He was one of the best interviewers in the FBI because he could modulate his voice just right, make it gentle and soothing, mean and vicious, whatever was necessary to get what he needed.

He said now, in his easy and soft tone, "I heard you cry out and thought someone was in here with you, attacking you. I was just trying to be a hero."

She stilled, just stood there, her back pressed against his chest. The only sound breaking the silence was the dial tone from the telephone.

"A hero?"

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"Yeah, a hero. You okay now?"

She nodded. "You're really not here to hurt me?"

"Nope. I was just passing by when I heard you scream."

She sagged with relief. She believed him. What the hell should she do now?

He let her go and took a quick step back. He leaned down and picked up the telephone, dropped the receiver into the cradle and set it back on the table.

"I'm sorry," she said, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked as white as a cleric's collar. "Who are you? Did you come to see Amabel?"

"No. Who was that on the phone? Was it an obscene caller?"

"It was my father."

He tried not to stare at her, not to start laughing at what she'd said. Her father? Jesus, lady, they buried him two days ago, and it was very well attended. If the FBI weren't investigating him, even the president would have been there. He made a decision and acted on it. "1 take it that he's not a nice guy, your father?"

"No, he's not, but that's not important. He's dead."

James Quinlan knew her file inside out. All he needed was to have her flip out on him. He'd found her, he had her now, but she was obviously close to the edge. He didn't want a fruitcake on his hands. He needed her to be sane. He said very gently, his voice, his body movements all calm, unhurried, "That's impossible, you know."

"Yes, I know, but it was still his voice." She was rubbing her hands over her arms. She was staring at that phone, waiting. Waiting for her dead father to call again? She looked terrified, but more than that she looked just plain confused.

"What did he say? This man who sounded like your dead father?"

"It was my father. I'd know that voice anywhere." She was rubbing harder. "He said that he was coming, that he'd be here with me soon and then he'd take care of things."

"What things?"

"Me," she said. "He'll come here to take care of me."

"Do you have any brandy?"

Her head jerked up. "Brandy?" She grinned, then laughed, a small, rusty sound, but it was a laugh.

"That's what my aunt's been sneaking into my tea since I got here yesterday. Sure, I've got brandy, but I promise you, even without the brandy I won't get my broomstick out of the closet and fly out of here."

He thrust out his hand. "That's good enough for me. My name's James Quinlan."

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She looked at that hand, a strong hand, one with fine black hairs on the back of it, long fingers, well-cared-for nails, buffed and neat. Not an artist's hands, not like Amabel's, but capable hands. Not like Scott's hands either. Still, she didn't want to shake James Quinlan's hand, she didn't want him to see hers and know what a mess she was. But there was no choice.

She shook his hand and immediately withdrew hers. "My name's Sally St. John. I'm in The Cove to visit my aunt, Amabel Perdy."

St. John. She'd only gone back to her maiden name. "Yes, I met her in the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop. I would have thought she lived in a caravan and sat by a campfire at night reading fortunes and dancing with veils."

She made a stab at a laugh again. "That's what I thought too when I first got here. I hadn't seen her since I was seven years old. I expected her to whip out some tarot cards, but I was very glad she didn't."

"Why? Maybe she's good at tarot cards. Uncertainty's a bitch."

But she was shaking her head. "I'd rather have uncertainty than certainty. I don't want to know what's going to happen. It can't be good."

No, he wasn't going to tell her who he was, he wasn't going to tell her that she was perfectly right, that what would happen to her would suck. He wondered if she'd killed her father, if she hadn't run to this town that was on the backside of the Earth to protect her mother. Others in the bureau believed it was a deal gone sour, that Amory St. John had finally screwed over the wrong people. But he didn't believe that for a minute, never had, which was why he was here and no other agents were. "You know, I'd sure like some brandy." "Who are you?"

He said easily, "I'm a private investigator from Los Angeles. A man hired me to find his parents, who disappeared from around here some three years ago."

She was weighing his words, and he knew she was trying to determine if he was lying to her. His cover was excellent because it was true, but even that didn't matter. He was a good liar. He could tell his voice was working on her.

She was so thin, her face still had that bloodless look, the color leached out by the terror of that phone call. Her father? He was coming to take care of her? This was nuts. He could handle sane people. He didn't know what he'd do if she flipped out.

"All right," she said finally. "Come this way, into the kitchen."

He followed her to a kitchen that was straight out of the 1940's-the brownish linoleum floor with stains older than he was. It was clean but peeling up badly near the sink area. All the appliances were as old as the floor, and just as clean. He sat down at the table as she said, "Don't lean on it. One of the legs is uneven. See, Aunt Amabel has magazines under it to make it steady."

He wondered how long the table had been like that. What an easy thing to fix. He watched Susan St.

John Brainerd pour him some brandy in a water glass. He watched her pause and frown. He realized she didn't know how much to pour.

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salute. "I need this. You scared the bejesus out of me. Nice to meet you, Susan St. John."

"And you, Mr. Quinlan. Please call me Sally." "All right-Sally. After all our screams and shouts, why not call me James?"

"I don't know you, even if I did scream at you." "The way you gouged me in the ribs, I'd give up before I'd let you attack me like that again. Where'd you learn to do that?''

"A girl at boarding school taught me. She said her brother was the meanest guy in junior high and he didn't want a wuss for a sister so he taught her all sorts of self-defense tricks."

He found himself looking down at her hands. They were as thin and pale as the rest of her. She said, "I never tried it before-seriously, I mean. Well, I did, several times, but I didn't have a chance, There were too many of them."

What the hell was she talking about? He said, "It worked. I wanted to die. In fact, I'll be hobbled over for the next couple of days. I'm glad you missed my groin." He sipped his brandy, watching her. What to do? It had seemed so simple, so straightforward before, but now, sitting here, facing her, seeing her in the flesh as a person and not just as his key to the murder of Amory St. John, things weren't so clear anymore. He hated it when things weren't clear. "Tell me about your father." She didn't say anything, just shook her head. "Listen to me, Sally. He's dead. Your damned father is dead. That couldn't have been him on the phone. That means that it must have been either a recording of his voice or a person who could mimic him very well." "Yes," she said, still staring into the brandy. "Obviously someone knows you're here. Someone wants to frighten you."

She looked up at him then, and remarkably, she smiled. It was a lovely smile, free of fear, free of stress.

He found himself smiling back at her. "That someone succeeded admirably," she said. "I'm scared out of my mind. I'm sorry I attacked you."

"I would have attacked me too if I had burst through the front door like that."

"I don't know if the call was long distance. If it was long distance, then I've got some time to decide what to do." She paused, then stiffened. She didn't move, but he got the feeling that she'd just backed a good fifteen feet away from him. "You know who I am, don't you? I didn't realize it before, but you know."

"Yes, I know." "How?"

"I saw your photo on TV, also some footage of you with your father and your mother."

"Amabel assures me that no one in The Cove will realize who I am. She says no one besides her has a TVexcept for Thelma Nettro, who's older than dust."

"You don't have to worry that I'll shout it around. In fact, I promise to keep it to myself. I was in the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop when I met your aunt. A Sherry Vorhees mentioned that you were visiting. Your aunt didn't say a word about who you were." Lying was an art, he thought, watching her assess his words. The trick was always to lean as much as possible toward the exact truth. It was a trick some of the town's citizens could benefit from.

She was frowning, her hands clasped around the glass. Her foot was tapping on the linoleum.

"Who is after you?"

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Again she gave him a smile, but this one was mocking and underlaid with so much fear he fancied he could smell it. She fiddled with the napkin holder, saying while she straightened the napkins that had dumped onto the table, "You name someone and he'd probably be just one in a long line."

She was sitting across from one of those someones. Damnation, he hated this. He'd thought it would be so easy. When would he learn that people were never what they seemed? That smile of hers was wonderful. He wanted to feed her.

She said suddenly, "The strangest thing happened the first night I was here, just two nights ago. I woke up in the middle of the night at the sound of a person's cry. It was a person, I know it was. I went into the hall upstairs to make sure something wasn't happening to Amabel, but when the cry came again I knew it was from outside. Amabel said I'd imagined it. It's true that I'd had a horrible nightmare, a vivid memory in the form of a dream, actually, but the screams pulled me out of the dream. I know that. I'm sure of it.

Anyway, I went back to bed, but I know I heard Amabel leave the house after that. You're a private detective. What do you make of that?"

"You want to be my client? It'll cost you big bucks." "My father was rich, not me. I don't have a cent."

"What about your husband? He's a big tycoon lawyer, isn't he?"

She stood up like a shot. "I think you should leave now, Mr. Quinlan. Perhaps it's just because you're a private detective and it's your job to ask questions, but you've crossed the line. I'm none of your business. Forget what you saw on TV. Very little of it was true. Please go-"

"All right," he said. "I'll be in The Cove for another week. You might ask your aunt if she remembers two old folk named Harve and Marge Jensen. They were in a new red Winnebago, and they probably drove into town to buy some of the World's Greatest Ice Cream. Like I told you, the reason I'm here is because their son hired me to find them. It's been over three years since they disappeared." Although he'd already asked Amabel himself, he wanted Sally to ask her as well. He'd be interested to see if she thought her aunt was lying.

"I'll ask her. Good-bye, Mr. Quinlan."

She dogged him to the front door, which, thankfully, was still attached to its ancient hinges.

"I'll see you again, Sally," he said, gave her a small salute, and walked up the well-maintained sidewalk.

The temperature had dropped. A storm was blowing in. He had a lot to do before it hit. He quickened his step. So her husband was off-limits. Was she scared of him? She wasn't wearing a wedding band, but the evidence of one had been in that thick white line on her finger.

He'd really blundered-that wasn't like him. Usually he was very cautious, very careful, particularly with someone like her, someone fragile, someone who was teetering right on the brink.

Nothing seemed straightforward now that he'd met Susan St. John, that thin young woman who was terrified of a dead man who had called her on the phone.

He wondered how long it would be before Susan St. John discovered he'd lied through his teeth. It was possible she would never find out. Just about everything he knew was in the file the FBI had assembled on her. If she found out he knew more than had ever been dished out to the public, would she take off?

He hoped not. He was curious now about those human cries she'd heard in the middle of the night.

Maybe her aunt had been right and she had dreamed it-being in a new place, she had every reason to be Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

jumpy. And she had admitted to having a nightmare. Who the hell knew?

He looked around at the beautiful small houses on either side of the street. There were flowers and low shrubs planted just about everywhere, all protected from the ocean winds with high-sided wooden slats on the western side. He imagined that storms off the ocean could devastate just about any plant alive.

The people were trying.

He still didn't like the town, but it didn't seem so much like a Hollywood set anymore. Actually it didn't look at all like Teresa's hometown in Ohio. There was an air of complacency about it that didn't put him off. He had a sense that everyone who lived here knew their town was neat and lovely and quaint. The townspeople had thought about what they wanted to do and they'd done it. The town had genuine charm and vitality, he'd admit that, even though he hadn't seen a single child or young person since he'd driven in some three hours before.

It was late at night when the storm blew in. The wind howled, rattling the windows. Sally shivered beneath the mound of blankets, listening to the rain slam nearly straight down, pounding the shingled roof.

She prayed there were no holes in the roof, even though Amabel had said earlier, "Oh, no, baby. It's a new roof. Had it put on just last year."

How long could she remain here with Amabel? Now that she was safe, now that she was hidden, she was free to think about the future, at least a future of more than one day's duration. She thought about next week, about next month.

What was she going to do? That phone call-it had yanked her right back to the present, and to the past.

It had been her father's voice, no question about that. A tape, just like James Quinlan had said, a tape of a mimic.

Suddenly there was a scream, long and drawn out, starting low and ending on a crescendo. It was coming from outside the house.

She ran toward her aunt's bedroom, not feeling the cold wooden floor beneath her bare feet, no, just running until she forced herself to draw up and tap lightly on the door.

Amabel opened the door as if she'd been standing right there, waiting for her to knock. But that wasn't possible, surely.

She grabbed her aunt's arms and shook her. "Did you hear the scream, Amabel? Please, you heard it, didn't you?"

"Oh, baby, that was the wind. I heard it and knew you'd be frightened. I was coming to you. Did you have another nightmare?''

"It wasn't the wind, Amabel. It was a woman."

"No, no, come along now and let me help you back to bed. Look at your bare feet. You'll catch your death of something. Come on now, baby, back to bed with you."

There was another scream, this one short and high-pitched, then suddenly muffled. It was a woman's scream, like the first one.

Amabel dropped her arm.

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"Now do you believe me, Amabel?"

"I suppose I'll just have to call one of the men to come and check it out. The problem is, they're all so old that if they go out in this weather, they'll probably catch pneumonia. Maybe it was the wind. What woman would be screaming outside? Yes, it's this bloody wind. It's impossible, Sally. Let's just forget it."

"No, I can't. It's a woman, Amabel, and someone is hurting her. I can't just go back to bed and forget it."

"Why not?"

Sally just stared at her.

"You mean when your papa hit your mama you tried to protect her?"

"Yes."

Amabel sighed. "I'm sorry, baby. You did hear the wind this time, not your mama being punched by your papa."

"Can I borrow your raincoat, Amabel?"

Amabel sighed, hugged Sally close, and said, "All right. I'll call Reverend Vorhees. He's not as rickety as the others, and he's strong. He'll check it out."

When Reverend Hal Vorhees arrived at Amabel's house, he had three other men with him. "This is Gus Eisner, Susan, a fellow who can fix anything with wheels and a motor."

"Mr. Eisner," Sally said. "I heard a woman scream, twice. It was an awful scream. Someone was hurting her."

Gus Eisner looked as if he would have spat if there'd been a cuspidor in the corner. "The wind, ma'am,"

he said, nodding, "it was just the wind. I've heard it all my life, all seventy-four years, and it makes noises that sometimes have made my teeth ache. Just the wind."

"But we'll look around anyway," Hal Vorhees said. "This here is Purn Davies, who owns the general store, and Hunker Dawson, who's a World War II vet and our flower expert." Sally nodded, and the reverend patted her shoulder, nodded to Amabel, and followed the other men out the front door. "You ladies stay safe inside now. Don't let anyone in unless it's us."

"The little females," Sally said. "I feel like I should be barefoot and pregnant, making coffee in the kitchen."

"They're old, baby, they're just old. That generation gave their wives an allowance. Gus's wife, Velma, wouldn't know a bank statement if it bit her ankle. But things balance out, you now. Old Gus is night-blind.

Without Velma, he'd be helpless after dark. Don't mind their words. They care, and that's a good feeling, isn't it?"

Just as she opened her mouth to reply, there was a third scream, this one fast and loud, and then it Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

ended, cut off abruptly. It was distant, hidden, and now it was over.

Sally knew deep down that there wouldn't be another scream. Ever again. She also knew it wasn't the damned wind.

She looked at her aunt, who was straightening a modern painting over the sofa, a small picture painted in pattern-less swirls of ocher, orange, and purple. It was an unsettling painting, dark and violent.

"The wind," Sally said slowly. "Yes, no more than the wind." She wanted to ask Amabel if Gus were night-blind, what good would he be out searching for a victim in the dark?

The next morning dawned cool and clear, the sky as blue in March as it would be in August. Sally walked to Thel-ma's Bed and Breakfast. Mr. Quinlan, Martha told her, was having his breakfast.

He was seated in isolated splendor amid the heavy Victorian furnishings in Miss Thelma's front room. On the linen-covered table was a breakfast more suited to three kings than just one man.

She walked straight to him, waited until he looked up from his newspaper, and said, "Who are you?"

5

IT HAD NEVER occurred to him that she would confront him, not after he'd seen her huddled on the floor when he burst into her aunt's living room. But she had tried to knee him and she'd also punched him just below the ribs. She had fought back. And here she was today, looking ready to spit on him. For some obscure reason, that pleased him. Perhaps it was because he didn't want his prey to be stupid or cowardly. He wanted a chase that would challenge him.

How could she have found out so quickly? It didn't make sense.

"I'm James Quinlan," he said. "Most people call me Quinlan. You can call me whatever you want to.

Won't you sit down, Sally? I assure you there's enough food, though when I finish one plate Martha just brings in another one. Does she do the cooking?"

"I don't know. Who are you?"

"Sit down and we'll talk. Or would you like a section of the newspaper? It's the Oregonian, a very good paper. There's a long article in here about your father."

She sat down.

"Who are you, Mr. Quinlan?"

"That didn't last long. It was James yesterday."

"I have a feeling that nothing lasts very long with you."

She was right about that, he thought, as he had a fleeting image of Teresa laughing when he'd whispered to her as he'd come inside her that if she ever had another man she would find out what it meant to be half empty.

"What other feelings do you have, Sally?"

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"That you love problems, that you get a problem in your hands and shape and mold and twist and do whatever you have to do to solve that problem. Then you lose interest. You look for another problem."

He stared at her and said aloud, though he didn't realize he was doing so, "How the hell do you know that?"

"Mr. Quinlan, how did you know my husband is a lawyer? That wasn't on TV. There was no reason for it to be. Or if he had been shown, they certainly would have had no reason to discuss his profession or anything else about him."

"Ah, you remembered that, did you?"

"Delaying tactics don't become you. What if I told you I have a Colt. 45 revolver in my purse and I'll shoot you if you don't tell me the truth right now?"

"I'd probably believe you. Keep your gun in your purse. It was on TV-your good old husband escorting your mother to your dad's funeral. You just didn't see it." Thank God he'd heard Thelma and Martha discussing it yesterday. Thank God they hadn't really been interested. Washington, D.C., was light-years from their world. "If you think there's anything private about you now, forget it. You're an open book."

She had seen it, she'd forgotten, just plain forgotten. She'd made a mistake, and she couldn't afford to make any more. She remembered eating that wonderful ham sandwich the first day she'd arrived, sitting with Amabel, watching her black-and-white set, listening and watching and knowing that Scott was with her mother. She hadn't watched TV before or since. She prayed she wasn't an open book. She prayed no one in The Cove would ever realize who she was.

"I forgot," she said and picked up a slice of unbuttered toast. She bit into it, chewed slowly, then swallowed. "I shouldn't have, but I did."

"Tell me about him."

She took another bite of toast. "I can't afford you, remember, James?"

"I sometimes do pro bono."

"I don't think so. Have you discovered anything about the old couple?"

"Yes, I have. Everyone I've spoken to is lying through their collective dentures. Marge and Harve were here, probably at the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop. Why doesn't anyone want to admit it? What's to hide? So they had ice cream-who cares?"

He pulled up short, staring at the pale young woman sitting across from him. She took another bite of the dry toast. He lifted the dish of homemade strawberry jam and handed it to her. She shook her head.

He'd never in his life told anyone about his business. Of course, old Marge and Harve weren't really his business, not really, but then again, why the hell had everyone lied to him?

More to the point, why had he said anything about that case to her? She was a damned criminal, or at least she knew who had offed her father. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that.

Whatever else she was-well, he'd find out. She had come to him. Confronted him. It saved him the Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

trouble of seeking her out again.

"You're right. That doesn't make any sense. You're sure folk lied to you?"

"Positive. It's interesting, don't you think?"

She nodded, took another bite of toast, and chewed slowly. "Why don't I ask Amabel why no one admits to remembering them?"

"No, I don't think so. I'm the private investigator here. I'll do the asking. It's not your job."

She just shrugged.

"It's too early for the World's Greatest Ice Cream," he said. "Maybe yo'd like to go for a walk on the cliffs? You look pale. A walk would put some color in your cheeks."

She gave it a lot of thought. He said nothing more, just watched her eat the rest of that dry toast that had to be cold as a stone. She stood, brushed the crumbs from the legs of her brown corduroy slacks, and said, "I need to put on my sneakers. I'll meet you in front of Amabel's house in ten minutes."

"Excellent," he said, and meant it. Now he was getting somewhere. He'd open her up soon enough, just like a clam. Soon she would tell him all about her husband, her mother, her dead father, who hadn't called her on the phone. No, that was impossible.

She also seemed perfectly normal, and that bothered him as well. When he'd found her hysterical and frightened yesterday, it had been what he'd expected. But this calm, this open smile that, to his critical eye, held no malice or guile, made him feel he'd missed the last train to Saginaw.

When he met her in front of her aunt's house, she smiled at him. Where the hell was her guile?

Fifteen minutes later she was talking as if there wasn't a single black cloud in her world. "... Amabel told me that The Cove was nothing until a developer from Portland bought up all the land and built vacation cottages. Everything went smoothly until the sixties, then everyone just forgot about the town."

"Someone sure remembered, someone with lots of money. The place is a picture postcard." He remembered old Thelma Nettro had told him the same thing.

"Yes," she said, kicking a small pebble out of her path. "It's odd, isn't it? If the town died, then how was it resurrected? There's no local factory to employ everyone, no manufacturing of any kind. Amabel said the high school closed back in 1974."

"Maybe one of them has discovered how to tap into the Social Security Computer system."

"That would only work in the short term. The fund only has money for, what is it? Fifteen months? It's scary. No one would want to count on that."

They stood on the edge of a narrow promontory and looked down at the fierce white spume, fanning upward when the waves hit the black rocks.

"It's beautiful," she said as she drew in a deep breath of the salt air.

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"Yes, it is, but it makes me nervous. All that unleashed power. It has no conscience. It can kill you so easily."

"What a romantic thing to say, Mr. Quinlan."

"Not at all. But I'm right. It doesn't know the good guys from the bad guys. And it's James. You want to climb down? There's a path just over there by that lone Cypress tree that doesn't look too dangerous."

"I don't want you fainting on me, Quinlan, if you get too close to all that unleashed power."

"Threaten to knee me and I'll forget about fainting for the rest of my life."

She laughed and walked ahead of him. She quickly disappeared around a turn in the trail. It was a narrow path, strewn with good-sized rocks, snaggled low brush, and it was too steep. She slipped, gasped aloud, and grabbed at a root.

"Be careful, dammit!"

"Yes, I will be. No, don't say it. I don't want to go back. We'll both be very careful. Just another fifty feet."

The trail just stopped. From the settled look of all the brush and rocks, there'd been an avalanche some years before. They could probably climb over the rocks, but Quinlan didn't want to take the chance.

"This is far enough," he said, grabbing her hand when she took another step. "Nope, Sally, this is it. Let's sit here and commune with all that unleashed power."

There was no beach below, just pile upon pile of rocks, forming strange shapes as richly imagined as the cloud formations overhead. One even made a bridge from one pile to another, with water flowing beneath. It was breathtaking, and James was right, it was a bit frightening.

Seagulls whirled and dove overhead, squawking and calling to each other.

"It isn't particularly cold today."

"No," she said. "Not like last night."

"I'm in the west tower room at Thelma's Bed and Breakfast. The windows shuddered the whole night."

Suddenly she stood up, her eyes fixed on something just off to the right. She shook her head, whispering,

"No, no, it can't be."

He was on his feet in an instant, his hand on her shoulder. "What the hell is it?"

She pointed.

"Oh, my God," he said. "Stay here, Sally. Just stay here and I'll check it out."

"Oh, go to hell, Quinlan. No, I don't like Quinlan. I'll call you James. I won't stay put."

But he just shook his head at her. He set her aside and made his way carefully through the rocks until he was standing just five feet above the body of a woman, the waves washing her against the rocks, then Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

tugging her back, back and forth. There was no blood in the water. "Oh, no," he said aloud.

She was at his side, staring down at the woman. "I knew it," she said. "I was right, but nobody would listen to me."

"We've got to get her out before there's nothing left of her," he said. He sat down, took off his running shoes and socks, and rolled up his jeans. "Stay here, Sally. I mean it. I don't want to have to worry about you falling into the water and washing out to sea."

Quinlan finally managed to haul her in. He wrapped the woman, what was left of her, in his jacket. His stomach was churning. He waved to Sally to start climbing back up the path. He didn't allow himself to think that what he was carrying had once been a living, laughing person. God, it made him sick. "We'll take her to Doc Spiver," Sally called over her shoulder. "He'll take care of her."

"Yeah," he said to himself, "I just bet he will." An old man in this one-horse town would probably say that she'd been killed accidentally by a hunter shooting curlews.

Doc Spiver's living room smelled musty. James wanted to open the windows and air the place out, but he figured the old man must want it this way. He sat down and called Sam North, a homicide detective with the Portland police department. Sam wasn't in, so James left Doc Spiver's number. "Tell him it's urgent,"

he said to Sam's partner, Martin Amick. "It's really urgent."

He hung up and watched Sally St. John Brainerd pace back and forth over a rich wine-red Bokhara carpet. It was fairly new, that beautiful carpet. "What did you mean when you said you knew it?"

"What? Oh, I heard her scream last night. There were three screams, and at the last one I knew someone had killed her. It was just cut off so quickly, like someone just hit her hard and that was it.

“Amabel thought it was the wind because it was howling-no doubt about that, but I knew it was a woman's scream, just like the one the first night I was here. I told you about that. Do you think it was the same woman?"

"I don't know."

"Amabel called Reverend Vorhees and he came with three other men and they went on a search. When they came back they said they hadn't found anything. It was the wind, they said. Reverend Vorhees patted me again, like I was a child, an idiot."

"Or worse, a hysterical woman."

"Exactly. Someone killed her, James. It couldn't have been an accident. I heard her scream the night I arrived- three nights ago-and then last night. Last night, they killed her."

"What do you mean, 'they'?"

She shrugged, looking a bit confused. "I don't know. It just seems right."

The phone rang and James answered it. It was Sam North calling him back. Sally listened to his end of the conversation.

"Yes, a woman anywhere from young to middle aged, I guess. The tide washed her in, and she'd been Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

battered against the rocks for a good number of hours. I don't know how long. What do you want to do, Sam?''

He listened, then said, "A little town called The Cove about an hour or so southwest of you. You know it? Good. The local doctor is looking her over now, but they have no law enforcement, nothing like that.

Yes? All right. Done. His name is Doc Spiver, on the end of Main Street. You've got the number. Right.

Thanks, Sam."

He said as he hung up the phone, "Sam's calling the county sheriff. He says they'll send someone over to handle things."

"Soon, I hope," Doc Spiver said, walking into the small living room, wiping his hands-an obscene thing to be doing, Sally thought, staring at those old liver-spotted hands, knowing what those hands had been touching. There was a knock on the front door and Doc Spiver called out, "Come along in!"

It was Reverend Hal Vorhees. On his heels were the four old men who spent most of their time sitting around the barrel playing cards.

"What the hell's going on, Doc? Excuse me, ma'am, but we heard you'd found a body at the bottom of the cliffs."

"It's true, Gus," Doc Spiver said. "Do all of you know Mr. Quinlan and Sally, Amabel's niece?"

"Yes, we do, Doc," Purn Davies, the man who'd wanted to marry Amabel, said. "Now what's happening? Be quick telling us. I don't want the ladies to hear about it and be distressed."

"Sally and Mr. Quinlan found a woman's body."

"Who is she? Do you recognize her?" This from Hal Vorhees.

"No. She's not from around here, I don't think. I couldn't find anything on her clothes either. You find anything, Mr. Quinlan?"

“No. The county sheriff is sending someone over soon. A medical examiner as well."

"Good," Doc Spiver said. "Look, she could have been killed by anything. Me, I'd say it was an accident, but who knows? I can't run tests, and I haven't the tools or equipment to do an autopsy. As I said, I vote for accident."

"No," Sally said. "No accident. Someone killed her. I heard her screaming."

"Now, Sally," Doc Spiver said, holding out his hand to her, that hand he'd been wiping, "you're not thinking that the wind you heard was this poor woman screaming."

"Yes, I am."

"We never found anything," Reverend Vorhees said. "We all looked a good two hours."

"You just didn't look in the right place," Sally said.

"Would you like something to calm you?"

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She stared at the old man who had been a doctor for many more years than her mother had been alive.

She'd met him the previous day. He'd been kind, if a little vague. She knew he didn't want her here, that she didn't belong here, but as long as she was with Amabel, he would continue being kind. Come to think of it, all the folk she'd met had been kind, but she still felt they didn't want her here. It was because she was a murdered man's daughter-that had to be it. She wondered if they would turn her in now that she and James had found the woman's body, the woman Sally had heard screaming.

"Something to calm me," she repeated slowly, "something to calm me." She laughed, a low, very ugly laugh that brought Quinlan's head up.

"I'd better get you something," Doc Spiver said, turned quickly, and ran into an end table. The beautiful Tiffany lamp crashed to the floor. It didn't break.

He didn't see it, James realized. The damned old man is going blind. He said easily, “No, Doc. Sally and I will be on our way now. The detective from the Portland police will tell the sheriff to come here. If you'd let them know we'll be at Amabel's house?"

"Yes, certainly," Doc Spiver said, not looking at them. He was on his knees, touching the precious Tiffany lamp, feeling all the lead seams to make certain it wasn't cracked.

They left him still on the floor. All the other men were silent as death in the small living room with its rich wine-red Bokhara carpet.

"Amabel told me he was blinder than a bat," Sally said as they stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She stopped cold.

"What's wrong?"

"I forgot. I can't have the police knowing I'm here. They'll call the police in Washington, they'll send someone to get me, they'll force me to go back to that place or they'll kill me or they'll-"

"No, they won't. I already thought of that. Don't worry. Your name is Susan Brandon. They'll have no reason to question that. Just tell them your story and they'll leave you be."

"I have a black wig I wore here. I'll put it on."

"Couldn't hurt."

"How can you know they'll just want to hear my story? You don't know what's going on here any more than I do. Oh, I see. You don't think they'll believe I heard a woman screaming those two nights."

He said patiently, "Even if they don't believe you, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense that they'd then have a murdered woman on their hands, does it? You heard a woman's screams. Now she's dead. I don't think there's a whole lot of other possible conclusions. Get a grip, Sally, and don't fall apart on me now. You're going to be Susan Brandon. All right?"

She nodded slowly, but he didn't think he had ever seen such fear on a face in all his years.

He was glad she had a wig. No one could forget her face, and the good Lord knew it had been flashed on TV enough times recently.

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6

DAVID MOUNTEBANK HAD hated his name ever since he'd looked it up in the dictionary and read it meant boastful and unscrupulous. Whenever he met a big man, a big man who looked smart, and he had to introduce himself, he held himself stiff and wary, waiting to see if the guy would make a crack. He braced himself accordingly as he introduced himself to the man before him now.

"I'm Sheriff David Mountebank."

The man stuck out his hand. "I'm James Quinlan, Sheriff Mountebank. This is Susan Brandon. We were together when we found the woman's body two hours ago."

"Ms. Brandon."

"Won't you be seated, Sheriff?"

He nodded, took his hat off, and relaxed into the soft sofa cushions. "The Cove's changed," he said, looking around Amabel's living room as if he'd found himself in a shop filled with modern prints that gave him indigestion. “It seems every time I come here, it just keeps looking better and better. How about that?"

"I wouldn't know," Quinlan said. "I'm from L.A."

"You live here, Ms. Brandon? If you do, you've got to be the youngest sprout within the town limits, although there's something of a subdivision growing over near the highway. Don't know why folks would want to live near the highway. They don't come into The Cove except for ice cream, leastwises that's what I hear."

"No, Sheriff. I'm visiting my aunt. Just a short vacation. I'm from Missouri."

Sheriff Mountebank wrote that down in his book, then sat back, scratched his knees, and said, "The medical examiner's over at Doc Spiver's house checking out the dead woman. She'd been in the water a good while, at least eight hours, I'd say."

"I know when she died," Sally said.

The sheriff merely smiled at her and waited. It was a habit of his, just waiting, and sure enough, everything he ever wanted to hear would pop out of a person's mouth just to fill in the silence.

He didn't have to wait long this time because Susan Brandon couldn't wait to tell him about the screams, about how her aunt had convinced her it was just the wind that first night, but last night she'd known-just known-it was a woman screaming, a woman in pain, and then that last scream, well, someone had killed her.

"What time was that? Do you remember, Ms. Brandon?"

"It was around 2:05 in the morning, Sheriff. That's when my aunt went along with me and called Reverend Vorhees."

"She called Hal Vorhees?"

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"Yes. She said he was just about the youngest man and the most physically able. He brought over three elderly men with him. They searched but couldn't find anything."

"That was probably the same group that's over at Doc Spiver's. They were all just sitting around looking at each other. This kind of thing hits a small town like The Cove real hard."

David Mountebank took down their names. He said without preamble, without softening, "Why are you wearing a black wig, Ms. Brandon?"

Without pause she said, "I'm having chemotherapy, Sheriff. I'm nearly bald."

"I'm sorry."

"That's all right."

At that moment, Quinlan knew he would never again underestimate Sally Brainerd. He wasn't particularly surprised that the sheriff could tell it was a wig. She was frankly ludicrous in that black-as-sin wig that made her look like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. No, she was even paler than Elvira. He was impressed that the sheriff had asked her about the wig. Just maybe there'd be a prayer of finding out who the woman was and who had killed her. He could see that David Mountebank wasn't stupid.

"Doc Spiver thinks this is all a tragic accident," the sheriff said, writing with his pencil on his pad even as he spoke.

James said, “The good doctor is nearly blind. He could have just as easily been examining the table leg and not the dead woman."

"Well, it appears the doctor admitted that readily enough. He said he just couldn't imagine who could have killed her, not unless it was someone from the outside. That means beyond Highway 101 A. The four other fellows there didn't know a blessed thing. I guess they were there for moral support. Now, Mr. Quinlan, you're here on business?"

Quinlan told him about the old couple he was looking for. He didn't say anything about the townspeople lying to him.

"Over three years ago," the sheriff said, looking at one of Amabel's paintings over Sally's head, this one all pale yellows and creams and nearly blueless blues, no shape or reason to any of it, but it was nice.

"Yeah, probably too long a time to turn anything up, but the son wanted to try again. I'm using The Cove as my headquarters, checking here first, then fanning out."

"Tell you what, Mr. Quinlan, when I get back to my office I'll do some checking. I've been sheriff only two years. I'll see what the former sheriff had to say about it."

"I'd appreciate that."

There was a knock at the front door. Then it opened and a small, slender man came into the living room.

He was wearing wire-rim glasses and a fedora. He took off his hat, nodded to the sheriff, and bowed to Sally. "Sheriff, ma'am." He then looked at Quinlan, just looked at him, like a little dog ready to go after the mastodon if his master gave the command.

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Quinlan stuck out his hand. "Quinlan."

"I'm the medical examiner. We're removing the body now, Sheriff. I just wanted to give you a preliminary report." He paused, a dramatic pause, Quinlan knew, and grinned. He'd seen it many times before.

Medical examiners hardly ever had the limelight. It was their only chance to shine, and this man was trying his best to light up the room.

"Yes, Ponser? Get on with it."

That wasn't as good a name as Mountebank, but it was close. Quinlan looked over at Sally, but she was staring at her shoes. She was listening, though; he could see the tension in her body, practically see the air quiver around her.

"Someone strangled her," Ponser said cheerfully. "It's pretty obvious, but I can't say for sure until I've done the autopsy. Perhaps the killer believed it wouldn't be evident after she'd been in the water, but he was wrong. On the other hand, if the tide hadn't washed her in, then her body would never have been found and it would have been academic."

"That's what they wanted," Sally said. "They didn't want her found. Even with the tide washing her up, how many people ever go down there? They're all old. It's dangerous. James and I finding her, that was just plain bad luck for them."

"Yes, it certainly was," the sheriff said. He rose. "Ms. Brandon, could you try to pinpoint the direction and the distance of those screams you heard? Were they from the same direction and distance both nights?"

"That's an awfully good question," Sally said slowly. "It would help, yes, it would. Both nights the screams were close, that or she really screamed loudly. I think they came both times from across the way. It was close, so very close-at least I think it was."

"Ah, there's a nice long row of neat little cottages lining the street across from this house. Surely someone must have heard something. If you remember anything else, here's my card. Call me anytime."

He shook Quinlan's hand. "You know, what I can't figure out is why someone was holding the woman prisoner."

"Prisoner?" Sally said, just staring at the sheriff.

"Naturally, ma'am. If she wasn't being held against her will, then why would you have heard the screams two different nights? The killer was holding her for some reason, a reason so powerful he only killed her that second night when she got loose and screamed again. But I've gotta ask myself, why keep someone prisoner if you're not planning on doing away with her anyway? 'Or maybe he was thinking of ransom and that's why he kept her alive. Maybe he was planning on killing her all along. Maybe he's a real psycho. I don't know, but I'll find out. I haven't heard a thing about anyone missing.

"Questions, I'm filled with them. As soon as we can get a photograph of the woman, then my deputies will be crawling all over the subdivision like army ants. I hope she's local, I really do."

"It would make your job a whole lot easier," Quinlan said. "Give me a relative or a husband any day and I'll find you a dozen motives."

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"Yes, Mr. Quinlan, that's surely the truth."

"Nothing like a good mystery to stir a man's blood."

"I prefer mine to yours, Mr. Quinlan. Finding two missing people after three years isn't likely. Well, I'll be on my way now. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Brandon."

He said to Quinlan as they walked to the door, "Now, this murdered woman, I'll find out who was holding her and then we'll see what kind of motive we've got for a brutal murder. I wonder why they threw her body over the cliff?"

"Instead of burying her?"

"Yeah. You know what I think now? I think someone was furious that she got loose and made a racket. I think someone was so furious he killed her and just threw her away like so much trash. I want to catch him badly."

"I would too, Sheriff. I think you might just be right."

"You in town long, Mr. Quinlan?"

"Another week or so."

"And Ms. Brandon?"

"I don't know, Sheriff."

"A shame about the cancer."

"Yes, a real shame."

"She gonna be all right?"

"That's what her doctors believe."

Sheriff David Mountebank shook Quinlan's hand, nodded back at Sally-who'd heard everything they said, even though they'd been speaking low-and took his leave.

Sally wondered why her aunt had left before the sheriff came. Amabel had said only, "Why would a sheriff want to talk to me? I don't know anything."

"But you heard the screams, Amabel."

"No, baby, you did. I never did think they were screams. You don't want me calling you a liar in front of the law, do you?'' And with that, she took off.

Sally said now to Quinlan, "The sheriff isn't dumb."

"No, he isn't. But you got him, Sally, with that chemo business. Where is your aunt?"

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"I don't know. She left."

"But she knew the sheriff would be here."

"Yes, but she said she didn't know anything. She said she didn't hear any screams and didn't want to make me

look bad if she had to tell him that."

"You mean like a hysterical girl or a liar?"

"That's about it. When she does talk to him, she'll probably lie. She loves me. She wouldn't want to hurt me."

But she hadn't loved her enough to lie for her this time, Quinlan thought. Strange family.

"Any more phone calls?"

Sally shook her head, her eyes going automatically to the telephone, sitting next to a lamp on an end table.

"But someone knows you're here."

"Yes, someone."

He dropped it. He didn't want to push anymore, at least not right now. She'd been through quite enough for one day. But she hadn't lost it. She'd hung in there. "I'm proud of you," he said, without thinking.

She blinked as she looked up at him. He was still standing by the front door, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. "You're proud of me? Why?"

He shrugged and walked over to her. "You're a civilian, but you didn't fall apart."

If only he knew, she thought, as she rubbed where that ring had been, so tight on her finger, paralyzing her.

"Sally, what's wrong?"

She jumped to her feet. "Nothing, James, nothing at all. It's lunchtime. You hungry?"

He wasn't, but she had to be, if that single piece of dry toast was all she'd eaten so far today. "Let's go back to Thelma's and see what's cooking," he said, and she agreed. She didn't want to be alone. She didn't want to be in this house alone.

The old lady was sitting in the dining room slurping minestrone soup, her diary open and facedown in her lap, the old-fashioned fountain pen beside her plate. What the hell did she write in that diary? What could be so bloody interesting? When she saw them, she yelled, "Martha, bring me my teeth. I can't be a proper hostess without my teeth."

She shut her mouth, not saying another word until poor Martha hurried into the dining room and slipped the old lady her teeth. Thelma turned, then turned back, giving them a big porcelain smile.

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"Now, what's all this I hear about you two finding a dead body?"

James said, "We're hungry. Any chance for some of your soup?"

Thelma yelled, “Martha, bring two more bowls of your minestrone!"

She waved them to two seats across from her. She stared at Sally, who was no longer wearing her wig.

"So you're Amabel's niece, are you?"

Sally nodded. "Yes, ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The old lady snorted. "You just wonder why I'm not dead yet. But I'm not, and I make sure I see Doc Spiver every day to tell him so. He pronounced me dead three years ago, did you know that?"

Quinlan did. He imagined everybody did, many times over. He just smiled and shook his head. He reached beneath the table and squeezed Sally's hand. She went rigid, then slowly he felt her relax. Good, he thought, she was beginning to trust him. Then he felt like a shit.

Martha set two places in front of them, then served two bowls of soup.

"Martha always had men hanging around her, but they were rotters, all of them, They just wanted her cooking. What did you do with young Ed, Martha? Did you cook for him or demand that he go to bed with you first?"

Martha just shook her head. "Now, Thelma, you're embarrassing poor little Miss Sally here."

"And me, too," Quinlan said and spooned some of the soup into his mouth. "Martha," he said, "I'm not a rotter and I'd surely marry you. I'd do anything for you."

"Go along, Mr. Quinlan."

"A big man like you embarrassed, James Quinlan?" Thelma Nettro laughed. Sally was thankful she was wearing her teeth. "I think you've been around several blocks, boy. I bet I could take off my clothes and it wouldn't faze you."

"I wouldn't bet on it, ma'am," Quinlan said.

"I'll bring in the chicken parmigiana," Martha said. "With garlic toast," she said over her shoulder.

"She keeps me alive," Thelma said. "She should have been my daughter but wasn't. It's a pity. She's a good girl."

This was interesting, Quinlan thought, but not as interesting as the soup. They all gave single-minded concentration to the minestrone until Martha reappeared with a huge tray covered with dishes. The smells nearly put Quinlan under the table. He wondered how long he'd have a hard stomach if Martha cooked all his meals.

Thelma took a big bite of chicken parmigiana, chewed like it was her last bite on earth, sighed, then said,

"Did I tell you that my husband, Bobby, invented a new, improved gyropilot and sold it to a huge conglomerate in San Diego? They were hot for it, it being the war and all. Yep, that's what happened. I Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

know it made airplanes fly even more evenly at the same height on a set course than before. With that money, Bobby and I moved here to The Cove. Our kids were grown and gone by then." She shook her head, smiled, and said, "I'll bet that body was a real mess when you found it."

"Yes," Sally managed to say, reeling just a bit. "The poor woman had been thrown over the cliff.

Evidently she was caught in the tide."

"So who is she?"

"No one knows yet," Quinlan said. "Sheriff Mountebank will find out. Did you hear a woman screaming, Ms. Nettro?"

"You can call me Thelma, boy. My sweet Bobby died

in the winter of 1956, just after Eisenhower was elected- he called me Hell's Bells, but he always smiled when he said it, so I didn't ever get mad at him. A woman screaming? Not likely. I like my TV loud."

"It was in the middle of the night," Sally said. "You would have been in bed."

"My hair curlers are so tight, I can't hear a thing. Ask Martha. If she's not trying to find herself a man, she's lying in bed thinking about it. Maybe she heard something."

"All right," Quinlan said. He took a bite of garlic toast, shivered in ecstasy at the rich garlic and butter taste, and said, "The woman was screaming close by, perhaps just across the way from Amabel's house.

She was someone's prisoner. Then that someone killed her. What do you think?"

Thelma chewed another bite of chicken, a string of mozzarella cheese hanging off her chin. "I think, boy, that you and Sally here should go driving some place and neck. I've never before seen a girl in such a twitter as poor Sally here. She's a mess. Amabel won't say anything except that you've had a rough time and you're trying to get over a bad marriage. She said none of us were to say a word to anybody, that you needed peace and quiet. You don't have to worry, Sally, no one from The Cove will call and tell on you."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Call me Thelma, Sally. Now, how much does either of you know about that big-time murdered lawyer back in Washington?"

James thought Sally would faint and fall into her chicken parmigiana. She looked whiter than death. He said easily, "No more than anybody else, I suspect. What do you know, Thelma?"

"Since I'm the only one with a real working TV, I know a world more than anybody else in this town. Did you know the missing daughter's husband was on TV, pleading for her to come home? He said he was worried she wasn't well and didn't know what she was doing. He said she wasn't responsible, that she was sick. He said he was real concerned about her, that he wanted her back so he could take care of her. Did you know that? Isn't that something?''

She wouldn't faint into the parmigiana now. Quinlan felt her turn into stone. "Where did you hear that, Thelma?" he asked mildly, even as he doubted he ever wanted another bite of chicken parmigiana in his life.

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"It was on CNN. You can find out everything on CNN."

"Do you remember anything else he said?"

"That was about it. He pleads real well. Looked very sincere. A handsome man, but there's something too slick about him. From what I could tell he's got a weak chin. What do you two think about that?"

"Not a thing," Sally said, and James was pleased that her voice didn't sound scared, though he knew she had to be.

Thelma didn't seem to realize that her audience had stopped eating. She cackled, saying, "I like James.

He's not all soft and smooth like that poor girl's husband. No, James doesn't put all that mousse in his hair. I bet that poor girl's husband wouldn't use that nice big gun James has under his coat. No, he'd have one of those prissy little derringers. No, he's too slick for my tastes.

"Now that James is here, Sally, I recommend that you use him. That's what my husband always said to me. 'Thelma,' he'd say, 'men loved to be used. Use me.' I still miss Billy. He caught pneumonia, you know, back in 1956. Killed him in four days. A pity." She sighed and took another bite of chicken parmigiana.

"I feel like I just swallowed five cloves of garlic," Quinlan said after they managed to escape, Sally pleading a stomachache.

"Yes, but it was delicious until Thelma mentioned Scott."

"He wants to take care of you."

"Oh, I'm sure he does."

He wished she'd tell him about her husband and what he'd done to her. The fear in her voice wasn't as strong as the bitterness. When she'd gotten that phone call from someone pretending to be her father-now, that was fear. She turned to face him. She looked paler, if that were possible, and pinched, as if the life were being drained out of her. "You've been kind to me and I appreciate it, but I've got to be leaving now. I can't stay here any longer. Now that he's gotten on TV about me, someone will have seen it. Someone will call. I've got to leave. And you know what else? Thelma knows. She was just playing with me."

"No one will call because no one saw him. If he'd offered a reward, then I'd bet on Thelma calling up in a flash, cackling all the while. Yes, Thelma knows, but she'll stop at enjoying the hell out of taunting you.

Look, Sally, no one else knows who you are. All you are is Amabel's niece. I'd even wager that if anyone did find out they wouldn't say a word. Loyalty-you know what I mean?"

"Actually," she said, "I don't."

Dear God, he thought as he stepped along with her, what the hell had her life been like? He didn't remember a TV in his tower bedroom. He hoped there was one. He wanted to see Scott Brainerd pleading to his wife to return to him.

"Don't go," he said to her when they reached Amabel's cottage. "You know, it isn't all that hard to be loyal if it doesn't cost you anything. There's no need to. Let things spin out, just stay out of it. Besides, you don't have any money, do you?"

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"I have credit cards, but I'm afraid to use them."

"They're very easy to trace. I'm glad you didn't use them. Look, Sally, I've got some friends back in Washington. Let me put in a couple of calls and see what's really happening, okay?"

"What friends?"

He smiled down at her. "I can't put a thing over on you, can I?"

"Not when it hits me in the nose," she said, and smiled back at him. "It doesn't matter, James. If you want to talk to some people, go ahead. Just remember, though, I don't have any money to pay you."

"Pro bono," he said. "I hear even government agencies do some work for free."

"Yeah, just like they use our taxes to pay for midnight volleyball."

"Basketball. That was a while back."

"Your friends work for the feds?"

"Yep, and they're good people. I'll let you know what's cooking-if they know anything, of course."

"Thank you, James. But you know, there's still the person who called me pretending to be my father.

That person knows where I am."

"Whoever comes, if he comes, has my big gun to contend with. Don't worry."

She nodded, wished he could touch her hand, squeeze it, pat her cheek, anything, to make her feel less threatened, less hunted. But he couldn't, she knew that, just as she knew she didn't know him at all.

So he was her protector now, Quinlan realized, shaking his head at himself. He would protect her from any guy who came here wanting to drag her back or hurt her.

That was a good joke on him, he thought, as he walked back to Thelma's Bed and Breakfast.

He was her main hunter.

7

WHEN THE PHONE rang, Sally was in the kitchen slicing a turkey breast Amabel had brought home from Safeway. Her aunt called out, "It's for you, Sally."

James, she thought, smiling, as she wiped her hands. She walked into the living room to see Martha with her aunt, the two of them smiling at her, saying nothing now, which was only polite since they'd probably been talking about her before she'd come into the room.

"Hello?"

"How's my little girl?"

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She froze. Her heart pounded fast and painfully hard. It was him. She remembered his voice too well to believe now that it was someone pretending to be Amory St. John.

"You don't want to talk to me? You don't want to know when I'm going to come get you, Sally?"

She said clearly, "You're dead. Long dead. I don't know who killed you, but I wish I had. Go back to hell where you belong."

"Soon, Sally. I can't wait, can you? Very soon now I'll have you with me again."

"No, you won't," she screamed and slammed down the receiver.

"Sally, what is going on? Who was that?"

"It was my father," she said and laughed. She was still laughing as she walked up the stairs.

Amabel called after her, "But Sally, that couldn't have been someone trying to make you believe it was your father. That was a woman on the line. Martha said she sounded all fuzzy, but it was a woman. She even thought it sounded a bit like Thelma Nettro, but that couldn't be. I didn't know of any woman who knew you were here."

Sally stopped on the second step from the top. The steps were narrow, the distance between the steps too steep. She turned slowly and looked back downstairs. She couldn't see her aunt or Martha. She didn't want to see them. A woman? Maybe Thelma Nettro? No way.

She ran back down the stairs into the living room. Placid Martha was looking distressed, her hands clasping and unclasping her pearls, her glasses sliding down her nose.

"My dear," she began, only to stop at the ferocious look of anger on the girl's face. "Whatever is wrong?

Amabel's right. It was a woman on the phone."

"When I answered it wasn't a woman on the phone. It was a man pretending to be my father." It had been her father. She knew it, knew it deep down. She was so scared she wondered if a person could die of just being scared, nothing else, just being scared.

"Baby," Amabel said, rising, "this is all very confusing. I think you and I should talk about this later."

Sally turned without another word and walked slowly upstairs. She was leaving now. She didn't care if she had to walk and hitchhike. She knew all the stories about the dangers of a woman alone, but they didn't come close to the danger she felt bearing down on her now. How many people knew she was here? The man pretending to be her father, and now a woman? She thought of that nilrse. She'd hated that nurse so much. Sally couldn't even remember her name now. She didn't want to. Could it have been that nurse?

She stuffed her clothes in her duffel bag and then realized she had to wait. She didn't want to fight with Amabel. She heard Amabel lock up the cottage. She heard her walk up the stairs, her step brisk and solid. Sally got quickly into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

"Sally?"

"Yes, Amabel. Oh, goodness, I was nearly asleep. Good night."

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"Yes, good night, baby. Sleep well."

"All right."

"Sally, about that phone call-"

She waited, not saying a word.

"Martha could have been mistaken. It's quite possible. Her hearing isn't all that good anymore. She's getting old. It could even have been a man disguising his voice like a woman's just in case you didn't answer the phone. I can't imagine that it could have been Thelma. Baby, nobody knows who you are, nobody."

Amabel paused. Sally could see her silhouetted in the doorway from the dim light in the corridor. "You know, baby, you've been through a lot, too much. You're frightened. I would be too. Your mind can do funny things to you when you're frightened. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand that, Amabel." She wasn't about to tell Amabel that Thelma knew who she was.

"Good. You try to sleep, baby." She didn't come in to kiss her good night, for which Sally was grateful.

She lay there, waiting, waiting.

Finally, she slipped out of bed, pulled on her sneakers, picked up her duffel bag, and tiptoed to the window. It slid up easily. She poked her head out and scanned the ground as she'd done earlier. This was the way out. It wasn't far to the ground, and she knew there was no way she could get down those stairs without Amabel hearing her.

No, she'd be just fine. She climbed out the window and sat on the narrow ledge. She dropped the duffel bag and watched it bounce off the squat, thick bushes below. She drew a deep breath and jumped.

She landed on James Quinlan.

They both went down, James rolling, holding her tight against him.

When they came to a stop, Sally reared up on her hands and stared down at him. There was a half moon, more than enough light to see his face clearly.

"What are you doing here?"

"I knew you'd run after that telephone call."

She rolled off him and rose, only to collapse again. She'd sprained her damned ankle. She cursed.

He laughed. "That's not good enough for a girl who didn't go to finishing school in Switzerland. Don't you know some down and dirty street curses?"

"Go to hell. I sprained my damned ankle and it's all your fault. Why couldn't you just mind your own damned business?"

"I didn't want you out on the road hitchhiking with some lowlife who could rape you and cut your throat."

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"I thought of that. I'd rather take that risk than stay here. He knows I'm here, James, you know that. I can't just stay here and wait for him to come and take me. That's what he said. He said soon he'd be here for me."

"I was reading a newspaper when Martha came in all worried and told Thelma about a woman calling you, a woman you said wasn't a woman but your father. She said you were really distressed. She didn't understand why you'd be so upset to hear from your father. I knew you'd probably try to run, that's why I'm here, having you crush me into the ground."

She sat there on the ground next to him, rubbing her ankle, just shaking her head. "I'm not crazy."

"I know that," he said patiently. "There's an explanation. That's why you're not going to run away. Now that's crazy."

She came up on her knees, leaning toward him, her hands grasping his jacket lapels. "Listen to me, James. It was my father. No fake, no imitation. It was my father. Amabel said it could have been a man disguising his voice

as a woman's if I hadn't been the one to answer the phone. Then she turned around and told me how much strain I'd been under. In other words, I'm crazy."

He took her hands in his, just held them, saying nothing. Then he spoke. "As I said, there's always an explanation. It probably was a man. We'll find out. If it wasn't, if it truly was a woman who asked for you, then we'll deal with that too. Trust me, Sally."

She sat back. Her ankle had stopped throbbing. Maybe it wasn't sprained after all.

"Tell me something."

"Yes?"

"Do you think someone could be trying to gaslight you?"

What did he know? She searched his face for the lie, for knowledge, but saw none of it.

"Is it possible? Could someone be trying to make you crazy? Make you doubt your sanity?"

She looked down at her clasped hands, at her fingernails. She realized that she hadn't chewed her nails since she'd been in The Cove. No, since she'd met him. They didn't look so ragged. She said finally, not looking at him, because it was awful, what she was, what she had been, perhaps what she still was today, right now. "Why?"

"I'd have to say that someone's afraid of you, afraid of what you might possibly know. This someone wants to eliminate you from the game, so to speak." He paused, looking toward the ocean, fancying he could hear the crashing waves, but he couldn't, Amabel's cottage was just a bit too far for that. "The question is why this someone would go this route. You're about the sanest person I know, Sally. Who could possibly think he could make you believe you were nuts?"

She loved him for that. Loved him without reservation, without any question. She gave him a big grin. It came from the deepest part of her, a place that had been empty for so long she'd forgotten that it was Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

possible to feel this good, this confident in herself, and in someone else.

"I was nuts," she said, still grinning, feeling the incredible relief of telling someone the truth, of telling him.

"At least that's what they wanted everyone to believe. They kept me drugged up for six months until I finally got it together enough to hide the medication under my tongue and not swallow it. The nurse always forced my mouth open and ran her fingers all inside to make sure I'd taken the pills. I don't know how I managed to keep the pill hidden, but I did. I did it for two days, until I was together enough. Then I escaped. And then I got the ring off my finger and threw it in a ditch."

He knew she'd been in a sanitarium, a very expensive posh little resort sanitarium in Maryland. All very private. But this? She'd been a prisoner? Drugged to her gills?

He looked at her for a long time. Her smile faltered. He just shook his head at her, cupped her face in his hand, and said, "How would you like to come back to Thelma's place and share my tower room with me? I'll take the sofa and you can have the bed. I won't make any moves on you, I swear. We can't just sit here for the rest of the night. It's damp and I don't want either of us to get sick."

"And then what?"

"We'll think more about that tomorrow. If it was a woman who put the call through, then we need to figure out who it could have been. And I want to know why you were in that place for six months."

She was snaking her head even as he spoke. He knew she regretted spilling it to him now. After all, she didn't know him, didn't have a clue if she could trust him or not. She said, "You know, I have another question. Why did Martha answer Amabel's phone and not Amabel?"

"That's a good one, but the answer's probably just as simple as that Martha happened to be standing next to the phone when it rang. Don't get paranoid, Sally."

He carried her duffel bag, his other hand under her arm. She was limping, but it wasn't bad, not a sprain, as she'd

feared. He didn't want to haul her over to Doc Spiver's. Only the good Lord knew what that old man might do. Probably want to give her artificial respiration.

He had a key to the front door of Thelma's Bed and Breakfast. All the lights were out. They walked to his tower room without waking Thelma or Martha. James knew there was only one other guest, who had come in just today, an older woman who'd been nice and smiling and had said that she was here to visit her daughter in the subdivision, but she'd always wanted to stay here, in one of the tower rooms. Thank God, she'd said, that there were two. Which meant she was on the other side of the huge house.

He switched the bedside lamp on low only after he closed the Venetian blinds. "There. It's charming, isn't it? There's no TV."

She wasn't looking at him or the window. She was moving as fast as a shot toward the door. She knew she didn't remotely love him anymore. She was afraid. She was in this man's room, a man she didn't know, a man who was sympathetic. She hadn't known sympathy in so long that she'd fallen for it without thought, without question. James Quinlan was quite wrong. She was as nuts as they came.

"Sally, what's wrong?"

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She was tugging on the doorknob, trying to turn it, but the door didn't open. She realized the key was still in the lock. She felt like a fool.

He didn't make any movement of any kind. He didn't even stretch out his hand to her. He just said in his calm, deep voice, "It's all right. I know you're scared. Come now and sit over here. We'll talk. I won't hurt you. I'm on your side."

A lie, he thought, another damned lie. The chance of his ever being anywhere near her side were just about nil.

She walked slowly away from the door, stumbled against a small end table, and sat down heavily on the sofa. It was chintz with pale-blue and cream flowers.

She was rubbing her hands together, just like Lady Macbeth, she thought. She raised her face. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be dumb. Now, would you like to try to sleep or talk a while?"

She'd already told him too much. He was probably reconsidering his comment that she was the sanest person he knew. And he wanted to know why she'd been in that place? God, she couldn't bear that.

Thinking about it was too much. She couldn't imagine talking about it. If she did, he'd know she was paranoid, delusional.

"I'm not crazy," she said, staring at him, knowing he was in the shadows and so was she, and neither of them could read the other's expression.

"Well, I just might be. I still haven't found out what happened to Harve and Marge Jensen, and you know what? I'm not all that interested anymore. Now, I called a friend at the FBI. No, don't look like you're going to dive for the door again. He's a very good friend, and I just got some information from him." Lies mixed with truth. It was his business, his lies having to be better than the bad guy's lies.

"What's his name?"

"Dillon Savich. He told me that the FBI is looking high and low for you, but no sign as yet. He said they're convinced you saw something the night of your father's murder, that you probably saw the person who killed him, that it was probably your mother, and you ran to protect her. If it wasn't your mother, then it was someone else, or you.

"Your dad wasn't a nice man, Sally. Turns out he was being investigated by the FBI for selling weapons to terrorist countries on our No Way List, like Iraq and Iran. In any case, they're convinced you know something." He didn't ask her if it was true. He just sat there on the other end of that chintz sofa with its feminine pale-blue and cream flowers and waited.

"How do you know this Dillon Savich?"

He realized then that she might be scared half out of her mind, but she wasn't stupid. He'd managed to say everything that needed to be said without blowing his cover. But she hadn't responded. She still didn't trust him, and he admired her for that.

“We went to Princeton together in the mid-eighties. He always wanted to be an agent, always. We've kept in touch. He's good at his job. I trust him."

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"It's difficult to believe he just spilled all this out to you."

Quinlan shrugged. "He's frustrated. They all are. They want you, and you're gone without a trace. He was probably praying that I knew something and would tell him if he whetted my appetite."

"I didn't know about my father being a traitor. But on the other hand, I'm not surprised. I guess I've known for a very long time that he was capable of just about anything. ''

She was sitting very quietly, looking toward the door every couple of seconds but not saying anything.

She looked exhausted, her hair was ratty, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek from her jump and a huge grass stain on the leg of her blue jeans. He wished she'd tell him what she was thinking. He wished she'd just come clean and tell him everything.

Then, he thought, it might be a good idea to take her to dinner.

He laughed. He was the crazy one. He liked her. He hadn't wanted to. He'd only wanted to see her as the main piece to his puzzle, the linchpin that would bring it all together.

"Did you tell this Dillon Savich anything?"

"I told him I wouldn't go out with his sister-in-law again. She's always popping bubble gum in her mouth."

She blinked at him, then smiled-a small, tight smile, but it was a smile.

He rose and offered her his hand. "You're exhausted. Go to bed. We can deal with this in the morning.

The bathroom's through there. It's a treat, all marble and a water-saver toilet in pale pink. Take a nice long shower, it'll help bring down the swelling in your ankle. Thelma even provides those fluffy white bathrobes."

He had let her off the hook, even though he guessed he could have gotten more out of her if he'd tried even a little bit. But she was near the edge, and not just with that damned phone call.

Who the hell was the dead woman they'd found being pulled in and out by the tide at the base of the cliff?

8

THEY WERE EATING breakfast the next morning, alone in the large dining room. The woman who'd checked in the day before wasn't down yet, nor was Thelma Nettro.

Martha had said as she took their order, "Thelma sometimes likes to watch the early talk shows in bed.

She also writes in that diary of hers. Goodness, she's kept a diary for as long as I can remember."

"What does she write in it?" Sally asked.

Martha shrugged. "I guess just the little things that happen every day. What else would she write?''

"Eat," Quinlan told Sally when Martha placed a plate stacked with blueberry pancakes in front of her. He watched her butter them, then pour Martha's homemade syrup over the top. She took one bite, chewed it slowly, then carefully laid her fork on the edge of the plate.

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Her fork was still there when Sheriff David Mountebank walked in, Martha at his heels offering him food and coffee. He took one look at Sally's pancakes and Quin-lan's English muffin with strawberry jam and said yes to everything.

They made room for him. He looked at them closely, not saying anything, just looking from one to the other. Finally he said, "You're a fast worker, Mr. Quinlan."

"I beg your pardon?"

“You and Ms. Brandon are already involved? Sleeping together?"

"It's a long story, Sheriff," Quinlan said, then laughed, hoping it would make Sally realize how silly it was.

"I think you're a damned pig, Sheriff," Sally said pleasantly. "I hope the pancakes give you stomach cramps."

"All right, so I'm a jerk. But what the hell are you doing here? Amabel Perdy called my office real early and told me you'd disappeared. She was frantic. Incidentally, your hair sure grew back fast."

No black wig. Face him down, she thought, just face him down. She said, "I was going to call her after breakfast. It's only seven in the morning. I didn't want to wake her. Actually, I'm surprised Martha didn't call her to tell her I was here."

"Martha must have assumed that Amabel already knew where you were. Now what's going on here?"

"What did her aunt tell you, Sheriff?"

David Mountebank recognized technique when he saw it. He didn't like to have it used on him, but for the moment, he knew he should play along. For a simple PI this man was very good.

"She just said you'd gotten an obscene phone call last night and panicked. She thought you must have run away. She was worried because you don't have a car or any money."

"That's right, Sheriff. I'm sorry she worried you all for nothing."

Quinlan said, "I rescued the damsel, Sheriff, and let her sleep-alone-in my bed. She liked the tower room. She ignored me. Have you found out anything about the murdered woman?"

"Yes, her name was Laura Strather. She lived in the subdivision with her husband and three kids. They thought she was visiting her sister up in Portland. That's why no missing person report was filed on her.

The question is, Why was she being held a prisoner over here in The Cove and who the hell killed her?"

“Have your people checked all the houses across from Amabel Perdy's cottage?"

The sheriff nodded. “Depressing, Quinlan, depressing. No one knows a thing. No one heard a thing-not a TV, not a telephone, not a car backfiring, not a woman screaming. Not on either night. Not a bloody thing." He looked over at Sally, but couldn't speak until Martha delivered his pancakes.

She looked at each of them, then smiled and said, "I'll never forget my mama showing me an article in The Or-egonian written by this man called Qumquat Jagger way back in the early fifties. 'The Cove sunsets are a dramatic sight as long as one has a martini in the right hand.' I've long agreed with him on Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

that." She added easily, "It's too early for a martini or a sunset-how about a Bloody Mary? All of you look on edge."

"I'd love one," Sheriff Mountebank said, "but I can't." Quinlan and Sally shook their heads. "Thank you, though, Martha," Quinlan said.

She checked to see that they had everything they could possibly want, then left the dining room.

After David Mountebank had eaten half the pancakes, he looked at Sally again and said, "If you had called me about hearing that woman screaming, I'm not certain I would have believed you. I would have searched, naturally, but I'd probably have thought you'd had a nightmare. But then you and Quinlan found a woman's body. Was she the woman you heard screaming? Probably so. You were telling the truth then, and all the old folk in this town are deaf. Either of you have any ideas?''

"I didn't even think about calling a sheriff," Sally said. "But I probably wouldn't have. My aunt wouldn't have wanted that."

"No, probably not. The folk in The Cove like to keep things to themselves." The sheriff grinned at her then. "I don't know if you're my best witness in any case, Ms. Brandon, since I find you've slept in Quinlan's tower room. And you lied to me about your hair."

"I have several wigs, Sheriff. I like wigs. I thought you were impertinent to ask me, so I said I had cancer to guilt you."

David Mountebank sighed. Why did everybody have to lie? It was exhausting. He looked at her again.

This time he frowned. "You look familiar," he said slowly.

"James tells me I look like his former sister-in-law. Amabel thinks I look like Mary Lou Retton, although I'm nearly a foot taller. My mom said I was the image of her Venezuelan nanny. Don't tell me, Sheriff, that I remind you of your Pekinese."

"No, Ms. Brandon, be thankful you don't look like my dog. His name is Hugo and he's a Rottweiler."

Sally waited, trying not to clench her hands, trying to look amused, trying to look like she was all together and not ready to fall apart if he poked his finger at her and said he was taking her in. She watched his frown smooth away as he turned to James.

"I checked the files from the previous sheriff. Her name was Dorothy Willis, and she was very good. Her notes on those missing old folks were very thorough. I made copies and brought them to you." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope.

"Thank you, Sheriff," Quinlan said, not knowing for several moments who the hell David Mountebank was talking about. Then he remembered Harve and Marge Jen-sen.

“I read over them last night. Everybody believed there was foul play, what with their Winnebago being found in a used car lot in Spokane. It's just that nobody knew anything. She wrote that she spoke to nearly everybody in The Cove but came up with nothing. Nobody knew a thing. Nobody remembered the Jensens. She even sent off the particulars to the FBI just in case something like this had happened elsewhere in the country. That's it, Quinlan. Sorry, but there's no more. No leads of any kind." He ate another helping of pancakes, drank his black coffee down, then shoved back his chair. "Well, you're all right, Ms. Brandon, so at least I don't have to worry about you. It's strange, you know? Nobody else Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

heard that woman scream. Real strange."

He shook his head and walked out of the dining room, saying over his shoulder, "You look best with your own hair, Ms. Brandon. Lose the wigs. Trust me. My wife says I've got real good taste."

"Sheriff, what happened to Dorothy Willis?" David Mountebank stopped then. "A bad thing, a very bad thing. She was shot by a teenage boy who was robbing a local 7-Eleven. She died."

When Thelma Nettro made her appearance some ten minutes later, looking for all the world like a relic from Victorian days, her teeth in her mouth, white lace at her parchment throat, the first words out of her mouth were, "Well, girl, is James here a decent lover?"

"I don't know, ma'am. He wouldn't even kiss me. He said he was too tired. He even hinted at a headache. What could I do?"

Old Thelma threw her head back, and that scrawny neck of hers worked ferociously to bring out fat, full laughs. "Here I thought you were a wimp, Sally. That's good. Now, what's this Martha tells me about how a woman who was really your dead daddy called you at Amabel's last night?"

"There was no woman when I got on the line." "This is very strange, Sally. Why would anyone do this?

Now, if it had been James on the phone, well, that would have been another matter. But if he gets all that tired, well, then maybe you'd just best forget him."

"How many husbands did you have, Thelma?" Quin-lan asked, knowing that Sally was reeling, giving her time to get herself together.

"Just Bobby, James. Did I tell you Bobby invented a new improved gyropilot? Yes, well, that's why I've got more money than any of the other poor sods in this place. All because of Bobby's invention."

"It looks to me like everyone has money," Sally said. "The town is charming. Everything looks new, planned, like everyone put money in a pot and decided together what they wanted to do with it."

"It was something like that," Thelma said. "It's all barren by the cliffs now. I remember back in the fifties there were still some pines and firs, even a few poplars close to the cliffs, all bowed down, of course, from the violent storms. They're all gone now, like there'd never been anything there at all. At least we've managed to save a few here in town."

She then turned in her chair and yelled, "Martha, where's my peppermint tea? You back there with young Ed? Leave him alone and bring me my breakfast!"

James waited two beats, then said easily, "I sure wish you'd tell me about Harve and Marge Jensen, Thelma. It was only three years ago, and you've got the sharpest mind in town. Hey, maybe there was something interesting about them and you wrote about it in your diary. Do you think so?"

"That's true enough, boy. I'm sure smarter than poor Martha, who doesn't know her elbow from the teakettle. And she just never leaves those pearls of hers alone. I've replaced them at least three times now. I even let her think for a while that I was the one who called Sally. I like to tease her, it makes life a bit more lively when she's twisting around like a sheet in a stiff wind. I'm sorry, but I don't remember any Harve or Marge."

"You know," Sally said, "that phone call could have been local. The voice was so clear."

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"You think maybe I called you, girl, then pretended to be your daddy? I like it, but there's no way I could have gotten a tape of your daddy's voice. Who cares, anyway?"

"So you admit you know who I am?"

"Sure I do. It took you long enough to catch on. No need to worry, Sally, I won't tell a soul. No telling what some of these young nitwits around town would do if they found out you were that murdered big-shot lawyer's daughter. No, 1 won't tell anybody, not even Martha."

Martha brought in the peppermint tea and a plate filled with fat browned sausages, at least half a dozen of them. They were rolling on the plate in puddles of grease. Sally and Quinlan both stared at that plate.

Thelma cackled. "I want the highest cholesterol in history when I croak. I made Doc Spiver promise that when I finally shuck off this mortal snakeskin, he'll check. I want to be in the book of records."

"You must be well on your way," Quinlan said. "I don't think so," Martha said, hovering by Thelma's left hand. "She's been eating this for years now. Sherry Vorhees says she'll outlive us all. She says her husband, Reverend Hal, doesn't have a chance against Thelma. He's already wheezing around and he's only sixty-eight, and he isn't fat. Strange, isn't it? Thelma wonders who's going to do her service if Reverend Hal isn't around."

"What does Sherry know?" Thelma demanded, talking while she chewed on one of those fat sausages. “I think she'd be happier if Reverend Hal would pass on to his just reward, although I don't know how just he'd find it. He might find himself plunked down in hell and wonder how it could happen to him since he's so holy. He's reasonable most of the time, is Hal. It's just when he's near a woman alone that he goes off the deep end and starts mumbling about sin and hell and temptations of the flesh. It appears he believes sex is a sin and rarely touches his wife. No wonder they don't have any kids. Not a one, ever. Fancy that. It's hard to believe, since he is a man, after all. But still, all poor Sherry does is drink her iced tea, fiddle with her chignon, and sell ice cream."

"What's wrong with that?" Sally asked, thinking that the Mad Hatter's tea party couldn't have been weirder than Thelma Nettro at breakfast. “If she were unhappy, wouldn't she just leave?" Yeah, like you did, but just not in time. Some of the grease around the sausages was beginning to congeal.

"Her iced tea is that cheap white wine. I don't know how her liver is still holding up after all these years."

Sally swallowed, looking away from those sausages. "Amabel told me that when you first opened the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop, you stored the ice cream in Ralph Keaton's caskets."

"That's right. It was Helen's idea. She's Ralph's wife and the one who had the recipe. It was her idea that we start the ice cream shop. She used to be a shy little thing, looked scared whenever she had to say anything. If Ralph said boo she'd fade behind a piece of furniture. She's changed now, speaks right up, tells Ralph to put a sock in it whenever she doesn't like something he does. All because of that recipe.

She's really blossomed with her ice cream success.

"Poor old Ralph. He needs business, but none of us will die for him. I think he's hoping the husband of that dead woman will ask him to lay her out."

Sally couldn't stand it anymore. She rose, tried to smile, and said, "Thank you for breakfast, Thelma. I've got to go home now. Amabel must be worried about me."

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"Martha called her and told her you were here with James. She didn't have a word to say to that."

"I'll thank Martha," Sally said politely. She waited for James to join her. It was raining outside, a dark, miserably gray day.

"Well, damn," James said. He walked back into the foyer and fetched an umbrella from the stand. He said as they walked down the street, "I'll bet you the old men are playing cards in Purn Davies's store. I can't imagine them missing the ritual."

"Sheriff Mountebank will realize who I am, James. It's just a matter of time."

"I don't think so. He probably saw your picture on TV, but that would have been last week at the latest.

He won't make the connection."

"I'm sure the authorities would have sent photos out to everyone."

"This is a backwater, Sally. It costs too much to fax photos to every police and sheriff office in the country. Don't worry about it. The sheriff doesn't have a clue. The way you answered him polished it off."

His eyes were as gray as the rain that was pouring down. He wasn't looking at her, but straight ahead, his hand cupping her elbow. "Watch the puddle."

She took a quick step sideways. "The town doesn't look quite so charming in this rain, does it? Main Street looks like an old abandoned Hollywood set, all gray and forlorn, like no one's lived here forever."

"Don't worry, Sally."

"Maybe you're right. Are you married, James?"

"No. Watch your step here."

"Okay. Have you ever been married?"

"Once. It didn't work out."

"I wonder if any marriages ever work out."

"You an expert?"

She was surprised at the sarcasm but nodded, saying, "A bit. My parents didn't do well. Actually... no, never mind that. I didn't do well, either. That's just about one hundred percent of my world, and it's all bad."

They were walking past Purn Davies's general store. Quinlan grinned and took her hand. "Let's go see what the old guys are up to. I'd like to ask them firsthand if it's true that nobody heard anything the night that poor woman was murdered."

Purn Davies, Hunker Dawson, Gus Eisner, and Ralph Keaton were seated around the barrel, a game of gin rummy under way. There was a fire in a wood-burning stove that looked to be more for show than for utility, a handsome antique piece. A bell over the door rang when Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Quinlan and Sally came through.

"Wet out there," Quinlan said, shaking the umbrella. "How you all doing?"

There were two grunts, one okay, and Purn Davies actually folded his cards facedown and got up to greet them. "What can I do for you folks?"

"You meet Amabel Perdy's niece, Sally St. John?"

"Yep, but it weren't much of a meeting. How you doin', Miz Sally? Amabel all right?"

She nodded. She just hoped she could keep her fake names straight. Brandon for Sheriff Mountebank and St. John for everyone else.

There was more than polite interest in his question about Amabel, and it made Sally smile. "Amabel's just fine, Mr. Davies. We didn't have any leaks during the storm. The new roofs holding up really well."

Hunker Dawson, who was sitting there pulling on his suspenders, said, "You had us all out looking for that poor woman who went and fell off that cliff. It was cold and windy that night. None of us liked going out. There weren't nothing to find anyway."

9

SALLY'S CHIN WENT up. "Yes, sir. I heard her scream and of course I would alert you. I'm just sorry you didn't find her before she was murdered."

"Murdered?" The front legs of Ralph Keaton's chair hit hard against the pine floor. "What the dickens do you mean, murdered? Doc said she must have fallen, said it was a tragic accident."

Quinlan said mildly, "The medical examiner said she'd been strangled. Evidently whoever killed her didn't count on her body washing back up to land. More than that, whoever killed her didn't even consider that if she did wash up there would be anyone around down there to find her. The walk down that path is rather perilous."

"You saying that we're too rickety to walk down that path, Mr. Quinlan?"

"Well, it's a possibility, isn't it? You're certain none of you heard her scream during the night? Cry out?

Call for help? Anything that wasn't just a regular night sound?"

"It was around two o'clock in the morning," Sally said.

"Look, Miz Sally," Ralph Keaton said, rising now, "we all know you're all upset about leaving your husband, but that don't matter. We all know you came here to rest, to get your bearings again. But you know, that kind of thing can have some pretty big effects on a young lady like yourself, like screwing up how you see things, how you hear things."

"I didn't imagine it, Mr. Keaton. I would think that I had if Mr. Quinlan and I hadn't found the woman's body the very next day."

"There is that," Purn Davies said. "Could be a coincidence. You havin' a dream because of you leaving Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

your husband-that's what Amabel told us-or hearing the wind howling, and the woman jumping off that cliff. Yeah, all a coincidence."

Quinlan knew there was nothing more to be gained. They'd all dug in their heels. Both he and Sally were outsiders. They weren't welcome, just tolerated, barely. He thought it was interesting that Amabel Perdy seemed to have enough control over the townspeople so none of them had revealed to the cops that Sally was here, no matter how much she was obviously upsetting them. He prayed that Amabel's hold on them would last. Maybe he should tone things down, just to be on the safe side. "Mr. Davies is right, Sally," Quinlan said easily. "Who knows? We sure don't. But, you know, I just wish you'd remember something about Harve and Marge Jensen."

Hunker Dawson turned so fast he fell off his chair. There was pandemonium for a minute. Quinlan was beside him in an instant, making sure that he hadn't hurt himself. "I'm a clumsy old geek," Hunker said, as Quinlan carefully helped him to his feet.

"What the hell happened to you?" Ralph Keaton shouted at him, all red in the face.

"I'm a clumsy old geek," Hunker said again. "I wish Arlene were still alive. She'd massage me and make me some chicken soup. My shoulder hurts."

Quinlan patted his arm. "Sally and I will drop by Doc Spiver's house and tell him to come over here, all right? Take two aspirin. He shouldn't be long."

"Naw, don't do that," Ralph Keaton said. "No problem. Hunker here is just whining."

"It's no problem," Sally said. "We were going to walk by his house anyway."

"Well, all right, then," Hunker said and let his friends lower him back into his chair. He was rubbing his shoulder.

"Yes, we'll get Doc Spiver," Quinlan said. He shook open the umbrella and escorted Sally out of the general store. He paused when he heard the old men talking quietly. He heard Purn Davies say, "Why the hell shouldn't they go to Doc's house? You got a problem with that, Ralph? Hunker doesn't, and he's right. Listen to me, it don't matter."

"Yeah," Gus Eisner said. "I don't think Hunker could make it over there, now could he?''

"Probably wouldn't be smart," Purn Davies said slowly. "No, let Quinlan and Sally go. Yeah, that's best."

The rain had become a miserable drizzle, chilling them to the bone. He said, “None of them is a very good liar. I wonder what all that talk of theirs meant?"

All that he was implying blossomed in her mind, and she felt more than the chill, damp air engulfing her. "I can't believe what you're suggesting, James."

He shrugged. "I guess I shouldn't have said anything. Just forget it, Sally."

She couldn't, of course. "They're old. If they do remember the Jensens, it's just that they're afraid to admit it. As for the other, it was harmless."

"Could be," James said.

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They walked in silence to Doc Spiver's house, and Quinlan knocked on the freshly painted white door.

Even in the dull morning light, the house looked well cared for. Just like all the other houses in this bloody little town.

No answer.

Quinlan knocked again, calling out, "Doc Spiver? It's Quinlan. It's about Hunker Dawson. He fell and hurt his shoulder."

No answer.

Sally felt something hard and dark creep over her. "He must be out with someone else," she said, but she was shivering.

Quinlan turned the doorknob. To his surprise it wasn't locked. "Let's see," he said and pushed the door open. The house was warm, the furnace going full blast.

There were no lights on, and there should have been, what with all the dull gray outside. It was just as gray inside the house, the comers just as shadowy, as it was outdoors.

"Doc Spiver?"

Suddenly James turned, took her by the shoulders, and said, "I want you to stay here in the hallway, Sally. Don't budge."

She just smiled up at him. "I'll look in the living room and dining room. Why don't you check upstairs?

He's just not here, James."

"Probably not." He turned and headed up the stairs. Sally felt the impact of the heat. It was hotter now, almost burning, making her mouth dry. She quickly switched on the hallway light. Odd, but it didn't help.

It was still too dark in here. Everything was so still, so motionless. There didn't seem to be any air. She tried to draw in a deep breath but couldn't. She looked at the arch that led into the living room.

Suddenly she didn't want to go in there. But she forced herself to take one step at a time. She wished James were right beside her, talking to her, dispelling the horrible stillness. For God's sake, the old man just wasn't here, that was all.

She tried to take another deep breath. She took another step. She stood in the open archway. The living room was just as dim and gray as the hallway. She quickly switched on the overhead lights. She saw the rich Bokhara carpet, the Tiffany lamp that Doc Spiver had knocked over because he hadn't seen it. It wasn't broken or cracked, as far as she could tell. She took a step into the living room.

"Doc Spiver? Are you here?"

There was no answer.

She looked around, not wanting to go further, to take one more step into that room. She saw a blur, something moving quickly. She heard a loud thump on the hardwood floor, then the raucous sound of a rocking chair. There was a loud, indignant meow, and a huge gray cat leaped off the back of the sofa to land at her feet. Sally shrieked. Then she laughed, a horrible laugh that made her sound crazy. "Good Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

kitty," she said, her voice so thin she was surprised she could breathe. The cat skittered away.

She heard the rocking chair moving, back and forth, back and forth, creaking softly now. She stifled the scream in her throat. The cat had hit the rocking chair and made it move, nothing more. She drew a deep breath and walked quickly to the far side of the living room. The rocker was moving slowly, as if someone were putting pressure on it, somehow making it move. She walked around to the front of the chair.

The air was as still and dead as the old man slumped low in the old bentwood rocker, one arm hanging to the floor, his head bowed to his chest. His fingernails scraped gently against the hardwood floor. The sound was like a gun blast. She stifled a scream behind the fist pressed against her mouth. Then she took several fast breaths. She stared in fascination at the drops of blood that dripped slowly, inexorably, off the end of his middle finger. She turned on her heel and ran back into the hallway.

She yelled, her voice hoarse with terror and the urge to vomit, "James! Doc Spiver is here! James!"

"One wonders-if you weren't here, Ms. Brandon, would there have been two deaths?"

Sally sat on the edge of Amabel's sofa, her hands clasped in her lap, rocking gently back and forth, just like old Doc Spiver had in that rocking chair. James was sitting on the arm of the sofa, as still as a man waiting in the shadows for his prey to pass by. Now where, David Mountebank wondered, had that thought come from? James Quinlan was a professional, he knew that for sure now, knew it from the way Quinlan had handled the scene at Doc Spiver's house more professionally than David would have, the way he had kept calm, detached. All of it screamed training that had been extensive, had been received by someone who already had all the necessary skills-and that easy, calm temperament.

Quinlan was worried about Sally Brandon, David could see that, but there was something else, something more that was hidden, and David hated that, hated the not knowing.

"Don't you agree, Ms. Brandon?" he asked again, pressing now, gently, because he didn't want her to collapse. She was too pale, too drawn, but he had to find out what the devil was going on here.

She said finally, with great simplicity, "Yes."

"All right." He turned to Quinlan and gave him a slow smile. "Actually, you and Sally arrived at nearly the same time. That's rather an odd coincidence, isn't it?"

He was too close, James thought, but he knew David Mountebank couldn't possibly know anything. All he could do was guess.

"Yes," he said. "It's also one that I would have willingly forgone. Amabel should be back soon. Sally, would you like some tea?"

"His fingernails scraped against the hardwood floor. It scared me silly."

"It would scare me silly, too," David said. "So, both of you were there just because Hunker Dawson fell off his chair and hurt his shoulder."

"Yes," James said. "That's it. Nothing sinister, just being good neighbors. Nothing more except what a couple of the old men said when we were leaving. Something about it didn't matter. That Hunker shouldn't go. To let us go, that it was time."

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"You aren't saying that they knew he was dead and wanted you and Sally to be the ones to find him?"

"I have no idea. It doesn't make any sense, really. I just thought I'd pour out everything."

"Do you think he killed himself?"

Quinlan said, “If you look at the angle of the shot, at how the gun fell, at how his body crumpled in, I think it could go either way. Your medical examiner will find out, don't you think?"

"Ponser is good, but he isn't that good. He didn't have the greatest training. I'll let him have a go at it, and if it turns out equivocal, then I'll call Portland."

Sally looked up then. "You really think he could have killed himself, James?"

He nodded. He wanted to say more, but he knew he couldn't, even if the sheriff weren't here. He had to rein in all the words that wanted to speak themselves to her. It was too much.

"Why would he do that?"

Quinlan shrugged. "Perhaps he had a terminal illness, Sally. Perhaps he was in great pain."

"Or maybe he knew something and couldn't stand it. He killed himself to protect someone."

"Where did that come from, Ms. Brandon?"

"I don't know, Sheriff. It's all just hideous. Amabel told me after we found that poor woman that nothing ever happened here, at least nothing more than Doc Spiver's cat, Forceps, getting stuck in that old elm tree in his back yard. What will happen to the cat?"

"I'll make sure Forceps has a new home. Hell, I'll just bet one of my kids will beg me to bring the damned cat home."

"David," Quinlan said, "why don't you just break down and call her Sally?"

"All right, if you don't mind. Sally." When she nodded, he was struck again at how familiar she looked to him. But he couldn't nail it down. More likely, she just looked like someone he'd known years ago, perhaps.

"Maybe James and I should leave so nothing else will happen."

"Well, actually, ma'am, you can't leave The Cove. You found the second body. There are so many questions and just not enough answers. Quinlan, why don't you and I make Sally some tea?"

Sally watched them walk out of the small living room. The Sheriff stopped by one of Amabel's paintings, this one of oranges rotting in a bowl. Amabel had used globs of paint on those parts of the oranges that were rotting. It was a disturbing painting. She shivered. What did the sheriff want to talk to James about?

David Mountebank watched Quinlan pour water in the old kettle and turn on the heat beneath it. "Who are you?" he asked.

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James stilled. Then he took down three cups and saucers from the cabinet. "You like sugar or milk, Sheriff?"

"No."

"How about brandy? That's what I'm putting in Sally's tea."

"No, thank you. Answer me, Quinlan. There's no way you're a PI, no way in hell. You're too good.

You've had the best training. You're experienced. You know how to do things that normal folk just wouldn't know."

"Well, shit," James said. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. "Special Agent James Quinlan, Sheriff. FBI. A pleasure to meet you."

"Hot damn," David said. "You're here undercover. What the hell is going on?''

10

JAMES POURED A finger of brandy into the cup of tea. He grinned when the sheriff held out his hand.

“No, hold on a second. I want to give this to Sally. I want to make sure she's hanging in there. She's a civilian. This has been incredibly tough on her. Surely you can understand that."

"Yes. I'll wait for you here, Quinlan."

James returned after just a moment to see the sheriff staring out the kitchen window over the sink, his hands on the counter. He was a tall man, a runner, rangy and lean. He was probably only a few years older than James. He had a quality of utter concentration about him, something that made people want to talk to him. James admired that, but he wasn't about to talk. He was beginning to like David Mountebank, but he wasn't about to let that sway him, either.

Quinlan said quietly, not wanting to startle him, "She's asleep. I covered her with one of Amabel's afghans. But let's keep it down, all right, Sheriff?"

He turned slowly and gave Quinlan a glimpse of a smile. "Call me David. What the hell's going on? Why are you here?"

Quinlan said calmly, "I'm not really here to find out about Marge and Harve Jensen. They're just my cover. But their disappearance remains a mystery. And it's not just them. You were right. The former sheriff sent everything off to the FBI, including reports on two more missing persons-a biker and his girlfriend. Other towns up and down the coast have done the same thing. There's a nice fat file now on folks who have simply disappeared around here. The Jensens were the first, evidently, so I'm just sticking to them. I've told everyone I'm a PI because I don't want to scare these old folks. They'd freak if they knew an FBI agent was in their midst doing God knows what."

"It's a good cover, since it's real. I don't suppose you'll tell me what's really going on?"

"I can't, at least not right now. Can you be satisfied with that?"

"I guess I'll just have to be. You discover anything yet about the Jensens?"

"Yeah-all these respectable old folk are lying to me. Can you beat that? Your parents or grandparents Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

lying through their teeth over something as innocuous as a pair of old people in a Winnebago probably coming into town just to buy the World's Greatest Ice Cream?"

"Okay, then. They do remember Harve and Marge, but they're afraid to talk, afraid to get involved. Why didn't you come talk to me right away? Tell me who you were and that you were undercover?"

"I wanted to keep things under wraps for as long as possible. It makes it easier." Quinlan shrugged. "Hey, then if I didn't find anything, well, no harm done and who knows? I just might discover something about all these old folks who have disappeared."

"You would have succeeded in keeping your cover from me if two people weren't dead. You're just too good, too well trained." David Mountebank sighed, took a deep drink of the brandied tea James handed him, shuddered a bit, then grinned as he patted his belly. "That'll put optimism back in your pecker."

"Yeah," Quinlan said.

"What are you doing with Sally Brandon?"

“I just sort of hooked up with her the first day I was here. I like her. She doesn't deserve all this misery."

"More than misery. Seeing that poor woman's body banging up against the rocks at the base of those cliffs was enough to give a person nightmares for the rest of her life. But finding Doc Spiver with half his head blown off was even worse."

David took another drink of his tea. "I sure won't forget this remedy. You think that by any wild chance these two deaths are related in any way to the FBI missing persons files, to this Harve and Marge Jensen and all the others?"

"That's far-fetched for even my devious brain, but it makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

He was doing it to him again, David thought, without rancor. He was smooth, he was polite, he wasn't about to spill anything he didn't want to spill. It would be impossible to rattle him. He wondered why the devil he was really here. Well, Quinlan would tell him when he was good and ready.

David said slowly, "I know you won't tell me why you're really here, but I've got enough on my plate right now, so I don't plan to stew about it. You keep doing what you're doing, and if you can help me at all, or I can help you, I'll be here."

"Thanks, David. I appreciate it. The Cove is an inter-esting little town, don't you think?"

"It is now. You should have seen it three or four years ago. It was as ramshackle as you could imagine, everything run-down, only old folks here. All the young ones hightailed it out of town as soon as they could get. Then prosperity. Whatever they did, they did it well and with admirable planning.

"Maybe some relative of one of them died and left a • pile of money, and that person gave it to the town.

Whatever, the place is a treat now. Yep, it shows that folk can pull themselves out of a ditch if they put their minds to it. You've got to respect them."

David set his empty cup in the sink. "Well, I'm back to Doc Spiver's house. I've got exactly nothing, Quinlan."

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"If I uncover something, I'll call."

"I won't hold the lines open. I just realized that these two deaths have got to be real hard on the townsfolk. Here I am, just about accusing one of them of holding the woman prisoner before killing her.

Hey, I was even thinking those four old men already knew that Doc Spiver was dead when you volunteered to go fetch him for Hunker Dawson, that maybe they'd had something to do with it. That's just crazy. They're good people. 1 want to get this cleared up as soon as possible."

"As I said, I'll tell you if I find something."

David didn't know if that was the truth, but Quinlan sounded sincere enough. Well, he should. He'd been trained by the best of the best. David had a cousin, Tom Neibber, who had washed out of Quantico back in the early eighties, only gotten through the fourth week out of sixteen. He'd thought his cousin had what it took, but he hadn't made it.

David turned in the kitchen doorway. "It's funny, but inescapable. Sally wasn't expected here. Whoever killed Laura Strather was already holding her prisoner. If Sally hadn't heard the woman scream that first night she was here, you can bet no one else would have-but that's exactly what happened. If you and Sally hadn't been out there on the cliffs, that woman's body would never have been found. There would never have been a crime. Nothing, just another missing persons report put out by the husband.

"Now, Doc Spiver, that's different. The killer didn't care if Doc was found, just didn't care."

"Don't forget, it could be suicide."

"I know, but it doesn't smell right, you know?"

"No, I don't know, but you keep smelling, David. I do wonder that nobody heard a blessed thing. Hardly seems possible, does it? People are just too contrary to all agree with each other. Now, that must smell big time to you."

"Yeah, it does, but I still think the old folk are just afraid. I'll be around, Quinlan. Take care of Sally.

There's something about her that makes you want to put her under your coat and see that nothing happens to her."

"Maybe right now, but I imagine that usually if you tried that she'd punch your lights out."

"1 get the same feeling-probably she would have some time ago, but not now. No, there's something wrong there, but 1 fancy you're not going to tell me what."

"I'll be talking to you, David. Good luck with that autopsy."

"Oh, yeah, I got to call my wife. I think she can forget me being home for dinner."

"You married?"

"You saw my wedding ring first thing, Quinlan. Don't be cute. I even mentioned one of my kids. I've got three little ones, all girls. When I come through the front door, two of them climb up my legs and the third one drags a chair over to jump into my arms. It's a race to see who gets her arms around my neck first."

David gave him a lopsided grin, a small salute, and left.

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No one could talk about anything else. Just Doc Spiver and how two outsiders had found him lying in his rocking chair, blood dripping off his fingertips, half his head blown off.

He'd killed himself-everyone agreed to that-but why?

Terminal cancer, Thelma Nettro said. Her own grandpa had had cancer, and he would have killed himself if he hadn't died first.

He was nearly blind, Ralph Keaton said. Everybody knew he was pleased because when they got the body back, Ralph would lay him out. Yeah, Ralph said, Doc couldn't stand it that he wasn't really an honest-to-goodness doctor anymore.

He was hurt because some woman rejected him, Purn Davies said. Everyone knew that Amabel had turned Purn down some years before and he was still burning with resentment.

He just got tired of life, Helen Keaton said, as she scooped out a triple-dip chocolate pecan cone for Sherry Vorhees. Lots of old people just got tired of living. He just did something about it and didn't sit around whining for ten years until the devil finally took him.

Just maybe, Hunker Dawson said, just maybe Doc Spiver had something to do with that poor woman's death. It made sense he'd kill himself then, wouldn't it? The guilt would drive a fine man like Doc Spiver to shoot himself.

There were no lawyers in town, but the sheriff found Doc Spiver's will soon enough. He had some $22,000 in a bank in South Bend. He left it all to what he called the Town Fund, headed by Reverend Hal Vorhees.

Sheriff David Mountebank was surprised when he was told about the Town Fund. He'd never heard about such a thing. What effect would this Town Fund have had on people's motives? Of course, he didn't know yet if someone had put the.38-caliber pistol in Doc's mouth and pulled the trigger, then pressed the butt into Doc's hand.

Premeditated murder, that was. Or Doc Spiver had put the gun in his own mouth. Ponser called David at eight o'clock that evening. He'd finished the autopsy and now he was equivocating, damn him. David pushed him, and he ended up saying it was suicide. No, Doc Spiver didn't have any terminal illness-at least Ponser hadn't seen anything.

Amabel said to Sally that same evening, "I'm thinking you and I should go to Mexico and lie on a beach."

Sally smiled. She was still wearing Amabel's bathrobe because she just couldn't seem to get warm. James hadn't wanted to leave her, but then it seemed he remembered something that had made him go back to Thelma's. She'd wanted to ask him what it was, but she hadn't. "I can't go to Mexico, Amabel. I don't have my passport."

"Alaska, then. We could lie around on the snowbanks. I could paint and you could do-what, Sally? What did you do before your daddy got killed?"

Sally got colder. She pulled the bathrobe tighter around her and moved closer to the heat register. "I was Senator Bainbridge's senior aide."

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"Didn't he retire?"

"Yes, last year. I didn't do anything after that."

"Why not?"

Vivid, frenzied pictures went careening through her mind, shrieking as loudly as the wind outside. She clutched the edge of the kitchen table.

"It's all right, baby, you don't have to tell me. It really doesn't matter. Goodness, what a day it's been. I'm going to miss Doc. He's been here forever. Everyone will miss him."

"No, Amabel, not everyone."

"So you don't think it was suicide, Sally?"

"No," Sally said, drawing a deep breath. "I think there's a madness in this town."

"What a thing to say! I've lived here for nearly thirty years. I'm not mad. None of my friends is mad.

They're all down-to-earth folk who are friendly and care about each other and this town. Besides, if you were right, then the madness didn't begin until after you arrived. How do you explain that, Sally?"

"That's what the sheriff said. Amabel, do you really believe that Laura Strather, the woman James and I found, was brought into town by a stranger and held somewhere before he murdered her?"

"What I think, Sally, is that your brain is squirreling around, and it's just not healthy for you, not with everything else upside down in your life. Just don't think about it. Everything will be back to normal soon.

It's got to be."

That night, at exactly three o'clock in the morning, a blustery night with high winds but no rain, something brought Sally awake. She lay there a moment. Then she heard a soft tap on the window. At least it wasn't a woman screaming.

A branch from a tree, she thought, turning over and pulling the blanket up to her nose. Just a tree branch.

Tap.

She gave up and slid out of bed.

Tap.

She didn't remember that there wasn't a tree high enough until she'd pulled back the curtain and stared into her father's ghastly white, grinning face.

Amabel found her on her knees in the middle of the floor, her arms wrapped around herself, the window open, the curtains billowing outward, pulled by the wind, screaming and screaming until her throat closed and no sound came from her mouth.

Quinlan made a decision then and there. "I'm taking her back to Thelma's. She'll stay with me. If something else happens, I'll be there to deal with it."

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She'd called him thirty minutes before, gasping out her words, begging him to come and make her father leave her alone. He'd heard Amabel in the background telling her she was in no shape to be on the phone to anybody, much less to that man she didn't even know, to put down the phone, she was just excited, there hadn't been anyone there, it had just been her imagination. Just look at all she'd been through.

And she was still saying it, ignoring Quinlan. "Baby, just think. You were sound asleep when you heard the wind making strange noises against the window. You were dreaming, just like those other times. I'll bet you weren't even awake when you pulled the curtains back."

"I wasn't asleep," Sally said. "The wind had awakened me. I was lying there. And then came the tapping."

"Baby-"

"It doesn't matter," Quinlan said, impatient now, knowing that Sally would soon think that she was crazy, that she'd imagined it all. He prayed to God that she hadn't. But she had been in that sanitarium, for six months. She'd been paranoid, that's what was in the file. She'd also been depressed and suicidal. They'd been worried that she would harm herself. Her doctor hadn't wanted her released. Her husband had agreed. They wanted her back. Her husband was first in line. He wondered about the legalities of getting a person committed if that person didn't volunteer.

Why hadn't Sally's parents done anything about it? Had they believed her to be nuts too? But she was a person with legal rights. He had to check on how they'd gotten around it.

He said now, "Amabel, could you please pack Sally's things? I'd like all of us to get some sleep before morning."

Amabel had pursed her lips. "She's a married woman. She shouldn't be going off with you."

Sally started laughing, a low, hoarse, very ugly laugh.

Amabel was so startled that she didn't say anything more. She went upstairs to pack the duffel bag.

Thirty minutes later, after four o'clock in the morning, Quinlan let Sally into his tower room.

"Thank you, James," she said. "I'm so tired. Thank you for coming for me."

He'd come for her, all right. He'd been off like a shot to get her. Damnation, why couldn't anything turn out the way it was supposed to, the way he'd planned? He was in the middle of a puzzle, and all he had was scattered pieces that didn't look like they would ever fit together. He put her to bed, tucked the covers around her, and without thinking about it, kissed her lightly on the mouth.

She didn't respond, just looked up at him.

"Go to sleep," he said, gently pushing her hair back from her face. He pulled the string on the bedside lamp. "We'll work it all out. Just don't worry anymore."

That was a promise and a half. It scared the hell out of him.

"That's what he said on the phone, that he was coming for me. Soon, he said, very soon. He didn't lie, did he? He's here, James."

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"Someone's here. We'll deal with it tomorrow. Go to sleep. I'm sure as hell here, and I won't leave you alone, not anymore."

She was usually alone. At the beginning some of the patients had tried to talk to her, in their way, but she'd turned away from them. It didn't matter really, because most of the time her brain was fuzzy, so completely disconnected from anything she could identify either outside herself or inside that she was as good as lost in a deep cave. Or she was floating up in the ether. There was no reality here, no getting up at six in the morning to run up Exeter Street over to Concord Avenue, covering a good two miles, then run home, jump in the shower, and think about all she had to do that day while she washed her hair.

Senator Bainbridge went to the White House at least twice a week. Many times she was with him, keeping together all his notes for the topics to be discussed. It was easy for her to do that, since she'd written most of the notes and knew more than he did about his stands on his committee projects. She'd done so much, been involved in so many things-press releases, huddling with staff and the senator when a hot story broke and they tried to determine the best position for the senator to take.

There were always fund-raisers, press parties, embassy parties, political parties. So much, and she'd loved it, even when she would fall exhausted into bed.

At first Scott had told her how proud he was of her. He'd seemed excited to be invited to all the parties, to meet all the important players. At first.

Now she did nothing. Someone washed her hair twice a week. She scarcely noticed unless they let water run down her neck. She didn't have any muscles anymore, even though someone took her for long walks every day, just like a dog. She'd wanted to run once, just run and feel the wind against her face, feel her face chapping, but they didn't let her. After that they gave her more drugs so she wouldn't want to run again.

And he came, at least twice a week, sometimes more. The nurses adored him, saying behind their hands how devoted he was. He would sit with her in the common room a few minutes, then take her hand and lead her back to her room. It was a stark white room with nothing in it to use in attempting suicide-nothing sharp, no belts.

He had furnished it for her, she'd heard once, with the advice of Dr. Beadermeyer. It was a metal bed covered with fake wood, fake so that it wouldn't splinter so she could stick a fragment through her own heart. Not that such a thing would ever occur to her, but he talked about it and laughed, saying as he cupped her face in his hand that he would take care of her for a very long time.

Then he'd strip off her clothes and make her lie on her back on the bed. He would walk around the bed, looking at her, talking to her about his day, his work, about the woman he was currently sleeping with.

Then he'd unzip his trousers and show her himself, tell her how lucky she was to get to see him, that he would let her touch him but he didn't quite trust her yet.

He'd touch her all over. He'd rub himself. Just before he came, he'd hit her at least once, usually in the ribs.

Once when his head was thrown back in his orgasm, she saw through the fog in her eyes that there were two people at the window opening in the door, staring at them, talking even as they looked. She'd tried to push him away, but it hadn't worked. She had so little strength. He'd finished, then leaned down, seen the hatred in her eyes, and struck her face. It was the only time he had ever hit her in the face.

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She remembered once how he'd turned her onto her belly, pulling her back toward him and how he'd said that maybe one day he'd let her have him, let her feel him going into her, deep, and it would hurt because he was big, didn't she agree? But no, she didn't deserve him yet. And who cared? They had years ahead of them, years to do all sorts of things. And he'd told her about when he finally allowed his mistresses to have him and what they did to please him.

She hadn't said anything. He'd struck her for that, with his belt, on her buttocks. He hadn't stopped for a very long time. She remembered screaming, begging, screaming some more, trying to wriggle away from him, but he'd held her down. He hadn't stopped.

It was five a.m. when Quinlan was jerked out of a deep sleep by her scream, loud, piercing, so filled with pain and helplessness that he couldn't bear it. He was at her side in an instant, pulling her against him, trying to soothe her, saying anything that came to mind, just talking and talking to bring her out of the dreadful nightmare.

"God, it hurt so much, but he didn't care, he just kept hitting and hitting, holding me down so I couldn't move, couldn't escape. I screamed and screamed, but nobody cared, nobody came, but I know those faces were looking in the window and they loved it. Oh, God, no, make it stop. STOP IT!"

So it was a nightmare about her time in that sanitarium-at least that's what it sounded like. It sounded sadistic and sexual. What the hell was going on here?

His hand was busy in her hair, stroking up and down her back, talking to her, talking, talking.

Her horrible gasping breaths slowed. She hiccupped.

She leaned back, wiping her hand across her nose. She closed her eyes a moment, then began to tremble.

"No, Sally, just stop it. I'm here, it's all right. Just relax against me, that's it. Just breathe real slow. Good, that's just fine." He stroked her back, felt the shivering slowly ease. God, what had she dreamed? A memory distorted by the unconscious could be hideous.

"What did he do to you?" He spoke slowly, softly against her temple. "You can tell me. It'll make it go away faster if you talk about it."

She whispered against his neck, "He came, at least twice a week, and every time he took off my clothes and looked at me and touched me and told me things he'd done that day, the women he'd taken.

"People watched through that window in the door, the same people, as if they had season tickets or something. It was horrible, but most of the time I just lay there because my brain wasn't working. But that one time, it hurt so badly, I remember having my thoughts and feelings come together enough to feel the humiliation, so I tried to get away from him, to fight him, but he just kept hitting me and hitting me, first with his hand, then with his belt. It pleased him that he'd made me bleed. He told me maybe sometime in the future, when I'd earned the honor, he'd come into me. I wouldn't have to worry because he wasn't HIV-positive, not that I would anyway because I was fucking crazy. That's what he said, 'You won't remember a thing, will you, Sally, because you're fucking crazy?' "

Even though Quinlan was so tense he imagined that if someone hit him he would just shatter into myriad pieces, Sally was now leaning limp against him, her breathing low, calmer. He'd been right. Talking about it out loud had eased her, but not him, good Lord, not him.

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Could she have imagined it all? For the longest time he couldn't speak. Finally he said, "Was it your husband who did this to you, Sally?”

She was asleep, her breath even and slow against his chest. He realized then that he was wearing only shorts. Who the hell cared? He pushed her back and tried to pull away from her. To his pleasure and consternation, she clutched her arms around his back. “No, please, no,'' she said. She sounded asleep.

He eased down beside her, lying on his back, pressing her face against his shoulder. He hadn't planned on this, he thought, staring up at the dark ceiling. She was breathing deeply, her leg across his belly now, her palm flat on his chest. Any lower with that hand or any lower with her thigh and he would be in big trouble.

He was already in big trouble. He kissed her forehead, squeezed her more closely against him, and closed his eyes. At least the bastard hadn't raped her. But he'd beat her.

Surprisingly, he fell asleep.

11

"YEAH, RIGHT," QUINLAN said to himself as he got to his feet. There were two nice male footprints below Sally's bedroom window at Amabel's house and, more important, deep impressions where the feet of the ladder had dug into the earth.

There were small torn branches on the ground, ripped away by someone who had moved quickly, dragging that damned long ladder with him. He dropped to his haunches again and measured the footprints with his right hand. Size eleven shoe, just about his own size. He took off his loafer and set it gently into the indentation. Nearly a perfect fit. All right, then, an eleven and a half.

The heels were pretty deep, which meant he wasn't a small man, perhaps about six feet and one hundred eighty pounds or so. Close enough. He looked more carefully, measuring the depth of the indentations with his fingers. One went deeper than the other, which was odd. A limp? He didn't know. Maybe it was just an aberration.

"What have you got, Quinlan?" It was David Mountebank. He was in his uniform, looking pressed and well shaved, and surprisingly well rested. It was only six-thirty in the morning. "You thinking about eloping with Sally Brandon?"

Well, hell, Quinlan thought, rising slowly, as he said in an easy voice, "Actually someone tried to get into the house last night and really scared Sally. And yes, if you're interested, she should still be sleeping in Thelma's tower room, my room."

"Someone tried to break in?"

"Yeah, that's about it. Sally woke up and saw the man's face in the window. It scared the bejesus out of her. When she screamed, it must have scared the bejesus out of the guy as well, because he was out of here."

David Mountebank leaned against the side of Amabel's cottage. It looked like it had been freshly painted not six months ago. The dark-green trim around the windows was very crisp. "What the hell's really going on, Quinlan?"

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He sighed. "I can't tell you. Call it national security, David."

"I'd like to call that bullshit."

"I can't tell you," Quinlan repeated. He met David's eye. He never flinched. David could have drawn a gun on him and he wouldn't have flinched.

"All right," David said finally. "Have it your way, at least for now. You promise me it doesn't have anything to do with the two murders?"

"It doesn't. The more I mull it over, the more I think the woman's murder is somehow connected to Harve and Marge Jensen's disappearance three years ago, even though just yesterday I told you I couldn't imagine it. I don't know how or why, but you've got things that don't smell right. Well, I have things that just twist and turn in my gut. That's my intuition. I've learned over the years never to ignore it.

Things are somehow connected. I just have no idea how or why or if I'm just plain not thinking straight.

"As for Sally, just let it go, David. I'd consider that I owed you good if you'd just let it go."

"It was two murders, Quinlan."

"Doc Spiver?"

"Yeah. I just got a call from the M.E. in Portland, a woman who was trained down in San Francisco and really knows her stuff. Would that there were M.E.s everywhere who knew what they were doing. I got his body to her late last night, and she agreed to do the autopsy immediately, bless her. She determined there was no way in hell he would have sat himself down in the rocking chair, put the gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger."