The Walking

A chain of thoughts passed through his head. Magic. Voodoo.

Zombies.

He thought of his dead dad, walking around the disrupted bedroom, and he stared down at the bizarre paraphernalia on the table. His eyes were drawn once again to the necklace of teeth. He didn't like this.

He didn't like this at all.

And he sat alone in the vault, feeling very empty and very, very cold.

Fred Tunney awoke in the middle of the night to see a woman at the foot of his bed, a beautiful woman with long straight black hair, a perfect smile, and the most evil eyes he had ever beheld.

He knew instantly who she was, and he said her name, though he had never before met her, had never before seen her and had only heard about her from his parents.

Her smile grew wider and the smile, he saw, was evil too. He was frightened, of course, and surprised, but this had not come entirely out of the blue. For the past several months, he'd been dreaming about the old days, about the town, about magic, and about a wall of water that he could not escape and that bore down on him as his feet remained cemented to the floor of his bedroom. Now she was here.

His parents had always feared this would happen, and no matter how far they had run, the specter of the town and the curse had followed them, had hung over everything they'd done. He himself had never believed any of it, had thought they were overreacting, but he had been only a child when they left the town, and obviously they had possessed knowledge he had not.

He knew that now.

Fred sat up against the headboard, not taking his eyes

Off the woman. He could feel the power radiating from her, washing over him in waves that were the sensory equivalent of darkness. He was chilled to the bone, afraid in a way that he had never thought possible. She spoke his name. i "Fred." :

The fact that she knew who he was terrified him even more, and he pulled his knees up, preparing to throw off the covers and run like hell out of the room.

She was too fast for him, though. In one fluid movement she was around the side of the bed and next to him, cutting off his avenue of escape.

He could feel the coldness coming off her, and he looked up, into those horrify evil eyes, and he knew that he was only the latest victim. She was coming for all of them, one at a time, coming after all of the residents of the town, all of the residents who had escaped.

Her smile broadened as if in acknowledgment, and in a flash of insight that came from somewhere other than himself, he understood that. she was not just coming for them. She was after the builders, too. All of the government people who'd worked on the project.

A thought intruded on his mind. No, not a thought. An image. A headless body lying in a watery tomb. "Fred," she said again. And reached for him.

He tried to call on his powers, tried to right her off, but it had been too long and he had forgotten how. She only smiled at his attempts, mocking them. So he tried to attack her physically, kicking off his blanket, kicking out at her, but despite her apparent solidity, she was not really there. She was a shade, a projection, and he understood suddenly why she had come.

She wanted him to get her out.

She wanted him to help resurrect her.

As soon as the knowledge came, it was accompanied by the certainty that he was going to die.

He tried to run through her, toward the door, toward the hallway outside and freedom. While she was not solid, she had substance. It was as if he hit a wall of ice, and the impact was accompanied by a feeling of deep, dark despair so powerful that it sent him staggering back to the bed.

The expression on her face altered. Her features did not change in any way, did not become monstrous or deformed, but they did not have to. The look on her face was so malevolent, so unlike anything he had ever seen before or even imagined, that he felt his heart leap inside his chest. i Felt the coldness nestle around it

Felt the pain spread through his left side as he fell to the floor gasping, trying to breathe.

He was having a heart attack. She stood there, look thing down at him, watching as excruciating pain spread throughout his body, as the tears came to his eyes and the agony was replaced by an even worse numbness.

She faded away silently, smiling, leaving behind only a cold spot in a room that was growing increasingly dark to him.

Gasping, he tried to move, tried to sit up, tried to reach the phone on the nightstand, but the pain was unbearable, and he could not even move his arm.

The world turned black, disappeared.

He died.

And then he started walking.

Russ Winston stared out of his office window toward the mall, the white phallic spire of the Washington Monument just barely visible over the top of the generic government

building across the street. Outside, the sky was clear blue and cloudless, the January air cool and crisp. On days like today he regretted ever having taken a des job. He wished he had not allowed himself to be promoted through the ranks of the department and was still working outside. Back at Yellowstone, perhaps. Or Arches. Or Zion.

No. --= Not Wolf Canyon. Anyplace but there.

An involuntary shiver passed through him, and he swiveled his chair, looking away from the window. He was too old for the outdoors now anyway. Hell, he was too old for the job he had. Retirement age had come and gone two presidents ago, and he was lucky to have enough pull in the department to be able to remain on even in this position.

Russ looked at the framed photo of the president mounted on the opposite wall. He tried to think of something else, but he no longer had the control of his thoughts that he once had, and against his will, his mind kept coming back to Wolf Canyon.

It had been his first government job. His previous experience had been in construction and cement contracting, and because of that heed been assigned to one of the big dam projects out West. He'd worked there for nearly a decade, moving up the on-site hierarchy through aptitude and a series of fortuitous friendships to the position of shift supervisor.

' They were damming the Rio Verde at the foot of Wolf Canyon. Another, smaller dam had been constructed twenty miles up the river, at the canyon's head, some twenty years before, but it was determined that the reservoir would not be sufficient for Arizona's needs even ten years hence. Another, much bigger dam was needed, one that could also be used to generate electricity for the town of Rio Verde and

the other desert communities spread out across this portion of the state. So the river was diverted, its output cut back to a mere trickle while they completed the project.

There was a town in the canyon between the two dams, a small remote community that had to be evacuated under eminent domain, and the residents screamed bloody murder about being moved, lodging complaint after complaint in Washington, being granted extension after extension, though the outcome of this battle was already a foregone conclusion.

But other than that, it had been smooth sailing, and Russ had enjoyed his dam days. He liked the warm western sun, liked the rugged landscape, liked the easy camaraderie he shared with the other workers.

Only afterward, after it had happened, after it was all over, had his perspective changed.

Then the horror set in.

He had spent the rest of his life denying what had occurred, avoiding any thought of it, and while he had remained in the West for most of his career, even when he transferred to Interior, he had never again gone back to Arizona. Not even to see the Grand Canyon.

He preferred to block out that part of his life.

But he had been thinking about Wolf Canyon more and more often lately.

He told himself that it was because he was getting old, because he was surveying his life and trying to sort through it, the good and the bad, to see how the balance sheet of his actions added up. That was a part of it, of course. But something else was involved as well. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

And that worried him.

On the way home from work, Russ stopped off at the market and bought a quart of chocolate milk for Cameron. His grandson had seemed somewhat down this past week, and he knew it was because the boy sensed that they would soon be leaving. His father was working again, and it was

only a matter of time before he and his parents would be able to move out of Russ's house and back into a place of their own

Maybe Chocolate milk would cheer him up. Lily was cooking dinner when he arrived home, and he smiled at his daughter-in-law, gave her a quick pat on the back as he put the milk into the fridge. "Where's Cameron?"

"Playing," she said. "He's around."

"If you see him first, tell him I bought him some chocolate milk."

She gave Russ a grateful smile. thank's Dad."

"What are grandfathers for?" He walked back out to the living room and turned on the television to catch the local news. He watched it for a few minutes before becoming disgusted with the anchors' incessant chatter and the parade of soft non stories and switched the channel to

CNN.

Behind him, he heard a thump, and he glanced over his shoulder, over the back of the couch, to see the door to the garage fly open. Cameron dashed out and slammed the door immediately, throwing his body against the door as if to pre vent someone from opening it and entering.

Russ stood, frowning. "What the--?" Cameron's face was white.

"Grampa! ..... He felt a sinking in his stomach, a tightening in his chest as he walked around the couch to where his grandson stood leaning against the door, panting. "What is it?"

'there something in the garage! I think it's a monster!" Tom walked in at precisely that moment, throwing his keys on the entryway table, and Russ quickly called his son over. "Cameron says there's something in the garage." "A monster! It tried to attack me!"

Tom gave Russ an amused kids-saythedamedest-thing look over the boy's head, and pried Cameron away from the door. "Don't worry, sport. We'll find it. Whatever it is."

Russ was not so sanguine. Maybe it was because he'd

been thinking about Wolf Canyon, but he could not entirely dismiss the boy's fears, and his feelings as Tom opened the door and peered into the semidarkness were closer to his grandson's than his son's.

There was a clatter of pop cans from across the garage. Russ's heart leaped in his chest. He looked over at Tom, and his son hesitated a moment before reaching around the side of the wall and grabbing the long handle of a shovel.

"Stay out," Tom told Cameron. "Let your grandpa and me handle this."

He handed Russ the shovel, picked up a broom for himself.

Something made of glass fell and shattered on the cement floor.

The light in the garage was on, but it was a weak bare bulb hanging down from the center of the ceiling, and it was almost useless. Tom tried flipping the switch to open the big garage door and let in some of the fading outdoor light, but there was no response the garage door opener seemed to be broken, i "Keep the door open," Tom ins' ted his son. But stay in the living room. Don't come in."

The boy nodded

"What do you think it is?" Russ asked.

"It's a monster!" Cameron piped up.

"Probably just a possum or a raccoon or something." In the city? Russ wanted to say, but he kept quiet, and the two of them walked slowly forward. They could now see the overturned paint cans and the shattered glass from an old Coke bottle.

Russ found that his face were sweating, and he was having a hard time breathing. He didn't quite know what had gotten into him. He had cleared vermin out of tool sheds and storage compartments a hundred times, had lived in the wilderness with all sorts of creatures during his early days at Interior.

But this, he sensed, was different.

"Maybe a dog got in here," Tom suggested. "Maybe he snuck in somehow when the door was open and got trapped." "Maybe," Russ said doubtfully. But it was not a dog. It was a monster.

They found it on top of the newspapers stacked for recycling, a terrible thing of fur and feathers, a small misshapen creature with the eyes of a man and the teeth of a beast. It was a frightening sight to behold, and it screeched at them, an abomination from hell that began jumping up and down on the papers, gibbering in a way that almost made it seem as though it were speaking a language.

Tom backed up, whirled toward the still-open door to the living room.

"Get out of the house," he ordered Cameron. "You and your mom get out of the house and go next door and call 911."

The boy stood in place, not moving, eyes wide open. "Now!"

Cameron ran to do as he was told, and the door closed, leaving the garage in almost complete darkness. The bulb barely illuminated the empty concrete directly beneath it, let alone the side of the garage where the papers were stacked.

Tom held out his broom, moving gingerly, careful not to make any sudden movements.

"Maybe we should get out of here, too," Russ suggested. "If both doors are closed, that should trap it until the authorities come."

"Maybe there's another exit---" Tom began.

And the monster screamed.

It was a sound like nothing they had ever heard, and both Russ and Tom jumped back, Russ practically stumbling over an old box of books in his way. He turned, was about to hurry out of the garage, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He swiveled his head to look.

And the creature flew at him.

They did not have enough time to react. Russ tried to right it off with the shovel, and Tom tried to bat it away with the broom, but it was a whirling dervish of claws and teeth and skinny deformed legs, and neither of them could get it off him.

He felt talons slash skin, felt the stabbing of pain, the wetness of blood.

He dropped the shovel and tried to use his hands to pull the creature off, but his fingers could get no purchase, met only insubstantial feather and slippery scaly flesh, and then his wrists were sliced open, and he fell to the ground. Dimly, he was aware of the fact that Tom's broom was beating against his head, trying to dislodge the monster.

Then he saw those human eyes staring into his own, heard a long low chuckle.

And it ripped out his throat.

There were six of them already.

It was not yet a town, not even a hamlet, really, but it was a community, a community of six, and the beginning of a real settlement.

William finished drawing water from the well and carried the bucket back to the house. He poured some in the washbasin, then carried the bucket over to the small kitchen space, where he placed it on the floor next to the sink. He stared out the window at Marie, weaving spells over the vegetables in the garden, and he smiled, feeling good.

They had three houses built. The two women shared one, while the four men doubled up in the other two. He and Jeb lived in the first house they'd built, the smallest house, and though the single room was somewhat confining, they were used to it and would be able to put up with the situation as long as necessary.

Sleeping arrangements were going to change soon, he knew. Olivia and Martin were now a couple and were planning to get married and move in together. That meant they would probably need another house--unless Marie wanted to room with one of the men, which he doubted.

Their first order of business, though, was a barn. The animals were all still with them, bound by magic, but it would be nice if they had some shelter as well. He knew the horses had already been complaining about it, and he had promised the animals that something would be done.

They also needed a dry place to store seeds and tools and some of the implements that were now sharing space inside the homes.

After the barn and the new house?

Who knew? But he was leaning toward a store, a common building where goods could be stored and distributed. The community wasn't big enough yet to really justify such an operation, but more were on the way, and he had the feeling that it soon would be. He envisioned the town as he had first imagined it, with a livery and a saloon, with a library and theater, with a park where children could play and a school where they could learn. One day, he knew, this would be a city, a city with plumbing and law enforcement and all of the amenities of modern life.

And everyone in it would be a witch.

Marie saw him through the window, smiled, waved. He waved back.

The days here were spent working, trying to carve out a life in this canyon. At night they spoke with spirits. There'd been others on this land before, Indians, and though they did not always understand these ghosts from another culture, their presence was still welcome and reassuring.

Particularly after passing through the Bad Lands.

William shivered just to think of it. He knew that settlers called the area around Deadwood the Badlands, but that was different. That was merely a description of geology. The land he and Jeb had come through

Those were bad lands.

It was long after the monster in the mountains, yet still a week or so away from Arizona Territory. They'd been Iraveling almost due south, then suddenly they were walking west, though they hadn't changed directions. They both realized it almost at once, and they stopped.

William looked around, and realized that there were no directions here.

It made no sense. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, and everything could be calculated from that. Only... Only the sun here seemed different. There appeared to be a uniform brightness in the sky, a vaguely defined whiteness that provided illumination but took no specific shape. They could not make out a sun and thus could not determine in which direction it was headed.

Without warning, William's horse reared up behind him. He and Jeb fell back, startled, and the horse suddenly bolted, running away. He called to it, tried to summon it, and they both chased it, but the animal was gone and would not return. The last view he had of his old companion was of the creature tearing crazily across the semidesert in an indistinguishable direction.

Saying nothing to each other, the two of them gathered what they could from the few supplies that had been thrown from the horse's back and silently continued on.

The land grew rougher, the pockmarked plain degenerate thing into numerous finger canyons, and soon they were wandering between walls of rounded rock hundreds of feet high but with passages between them barely big enough for a single man. The narrow canyons wound around in confusing twists and turns, a veritable maze, and by nightfall they had no idea where they were or in which direction they were facing.

The night here, they found, was different as well. There was a full moon out, but they could not see it, could only receive its refracted indirect light from the narrow band of sky above them. Most of the light died halfway down the slriated rock walls, but the remainder filtered into the bottom of the gorge, throwing odd areas into relief, creating shadows where none should exist.

Shadows.

The two of them walked slowly, carefully, saying nothing. The shadows appeared to be moving of their own volition; and though it was hard to tell, an even darker shape seemed to be lurking among them, scuttling from one to another, hiding, a strangely formed being on strange claws that blended with the darkness and whose sounds simulated those 31 of the wind.

They decided not to make camp, but to keep on, to try to find a way out of here. This was not a place where either of them would feel comfortable stopping, let alone sleeping, and they moved forward. Past moonlit silhouettes that should have looked like outcroppings of rock but did not. Past inky pools of shadow that looked both deep and soft, that shifted as they approached and seemed to have weight and heft and some terrible spark of life.

What smack William most about this area was its fundamental wrongness.

If the canyon in the mountains had seemed evil, if the monster they'd found and the thought of a creature that had been able to kill it seemed frightening, that was nothing compared to the feeling generated here. For these narrow interconnected canyons were like an antechamber of hell, and as they pressed on it became increasingly hard to remember that they were somewhere in the un annexed western territory of the United States. Dread weighed upon them from all sides. They continued on, trudging through endless identical passages, and it was as if the land itself was conspiring against them, building itself as they moved forward in an effort to trap them here forever.

And then the canyon opened up, and the bluish light of the moon spilled upon them. The shadows disappeared and with them the unseen creature of darkness that had been hiding in their wake.

But the single shadow that remained on the rounded rock wall ahead was far worse than anything they had seen previously.

It was the shadow of his mother. ' Goose bumps rippled over his skin.

William was not easily frightened, not with the powers he had, but he was frightened now, more frightened even than he had been at his mother's execution, and as he stared at the shadow, it started to move.

"It started to dance. His mother had never danced in public, had never dared to do so, but she had often danced at home, in front of him. It was a form of expression for her, was her favorite way to conjure, and her movements were unique and individual, so specific and stylized that they could not possibly be duplicated by anyone else.

And that was exactly how her shadow was moving now. Jeb was frightened as well, he sensed, but for other reasons. The other man could not possibly feel the depth or resonance of his own fear. William stared.

The outline of his mother's form was perfect, down to the stray strand of hair that had always flipped up when she danced, and he remained rooted in place, unable to pull his gaze from this unnatural sight.

He muttered a quick spell, words of banishment and words of protection, but the twirling shadow did not disappear. He did not feel safe or protected at all. He felt vulnerable and afraid, weak and helpless.

A hand grabbed his sleeve, and then Jeb was pulling him away, chanting words of his own, words of power that William recognized but could not quite seem to place.

Whatever evil was here, he knew, was doing everything in its power to keep him from leaving. He forced himself to look away, brought to bear the full strength of his energies on repelling those influences that were focused so hard upon him.

There was a lessening of pressure, a definite easing in the strength of the malevolence being directed at them, and they quickly moved around the rock wall, steering clear of

the dcing shadow, heading in the direction they suddenly knew to be south.

Amazingly, they were back in open country, where the stars were in their proper places, the moon was sinking in the second half of the sky, and there was a lightening on the eastern horizon where, in a few hours, the sun would arise.

Before them, in the now unthreatening darkness, illuminated by pure and innocent moonlight, stood a lone horse. William's horse. They hurried toward the small copse of scrubby trees where the animal stood waiting, its pack tilted on its back but still secured.

William unfastened the pack, and for the first time he and Jeb both climbed atop the horse, holding the supplies themselves as the animal carried them swiftly away from this cursed country.

Not until some time later, wheia the horse had slowed from a gallop to a trot, did William hazard a look behind him. All he could see was inky blackness, and he felt cold as he once again faced forward. He had the sense that if they had not left, they would have been trapped in those dark lands forever, in canyons where night never ended and only the shadows were alive.

A little over a week later, they reached a much bigger canyon, a wide, rugged gorge through whose bottom ran a quiet river, where pine trees and actus coexisted along the sandy banks and birds twittered in hidden crevices among the rocks.

It was the land they had been deeded by the government, land at once remote and accessible, wild and peaceful, and William thought at that moment he had never seen anything quite so wonderful. In his mind sprang up a town of the future, their town, and he could see where homes would be. Shops. Taverns. Public buildings.

And now it was a reality. They had a settlement of their

own, their safety and sovereignty guaranteed by the United States of America, and more of them were on the way. It had almost been worth all the suffering and persecution, the trips through lands of nightmare, and he turned away from the kitchen sink and walked outside, looked up into the blue, blue sky, and smiled.

Winter passed. And spring. And summer. And fall. Winter roiled around once more, and before he knew it summer had arrived yet again.

Jeb had never been so happy in his life. The work was hard, the days were filled with the mundane chores of everyday living, but there was something exhilarating about being able to live so normally. He did not have to hide here. None of them did. They could be themselves, without constantly looking over their shoulder, without worrying that some small misstep would give them away.

And Wolf Canyon was growing by leaps and bounds. He did not know how word was spreading, but it was, and witches from back East were making their way west, coming like pilgrims seeking sanctuary. Many of them wept when they finally saw the town. Many others yelled for joy.

They had decided to name the town after its location. It was a common thing to do out here, and "Wolf Canyon" was anonymous enough that it woulnot atlxact undue attention.

Although there was something satisfyingly humorous about it, a sly hint in the "Wolf" reference that appealed to both him and William.

There were two streets now, a main street and a cross street, and within a year there would probably be one more. It looked like a real town, and it was that appearance more than anything else which always gave him a feeling of real

"

accomplishment. He remembered when Wolf Canyon had been nothing more than a piece of paper from the government and an idea in William's head, and to see it actually take shape, to be a part of its foundation and growth, was truly both inspiring and humbling.

Jeb looked up at the midday sun, then stood up from his chair, stretched, and walked across the dusty street to the bar, where he ordered brown-label whisky

"How goes it, Jeb?" the bartender asked, pouring his drink.

"Same as always, only more so." Jeb plopped a coin on the bar.

"You want change?"

"No, just keep 'em coming till it's gone."

One of last year's arrivals, an old dowser by the name of Herman, had canvassed the area with his stick and had announced that he had found significant silver deposits. So they'd dug a mine, found men to take turns working it, and for the first time money was coming into the community. They sold the ore to the government, and now, instead of bartering for goods and services, they had bills, they had coins, they were able to use currency like civilized folks.

Jeb smiled to himself. Pretty soon they'd have their own goddamn opera house.

Swinging hinges creaked behind him, and Simon walked up to the bar, sat down next to him. "I'll have what Jeb's having," he announced.

The bartender brought over a shot glass, filled it, and Jeb saluted his friend. The two of them downed their drinks in one quick swallow.

He'd made a lot of new friends here Simon. Martin d Olivia. Cletus.

George and Jimmy. Hazel, June, and Marie. Madsen. They'd been thrown together at first by their common nature, by the shared experiences of oppression and persecution, and that bond had seen them through the tentative early days, had enabled them to establish a sense of community..

But they knew each other now. And, more important, they liked each other.

William was still his best friend, and although there was no official hierarchy, the two of them were the de facto decision makers by virtue of the fact that they had been the first. William was in charge--it had been his idea and initiative, after all, that had gotten this thing off the ground-and Jeb was his second in command. They'd bandied about the idea of holding elections, but there was no real push for it. The outcome was a forgone conclusion, and they had the sense that things would be better left as is, at least for now.

He'd wondered at first how it would be, living with people like himself. Would there be feuds and fighting? Would people be reading each other's minds, jinxing the endeavors of their rivals, using their gifts for venal purposes, to fuel those petty jealousies that inevitably popped up whenever a group of people lived together in close proximity? Thankfully, no.

None of that had come to pass, and if someone just wandered into the canyon and stayed for a few days, like as not he would not even realize that they were witches. Their powers were not hidden, but neither were they exploited. He and the others lived the way they'd always wanted to live--just like everyone else. Magic was used when it was needed, but it was only one tool among many, and it was only employed when appropriate.

From outside the bar came the sound of voices and feminine laughter, followed by footsteps on wood as a group of women strode along the walkway toward the new park at the edge of town.

Today was Independence Day, July fourthd while the holiday had never meant much to Jeb back in the old days, here in Wolf Canyon it meant a lot. They finally had their

own independence; they were finally free to be who they were. It was he who had first suggested that they all stop work on this day and celebrate, pool their talents to create. the biggest celebration any of them had ever seen ...... Last year had been the first. There'd been conjured fire- i: works the likes of which had never been seen even in China, as well as spirit shows and a spectacular display of ground light created by all of them concentrating on a single effect and using their powers together.

This year things were supposed to be even better. Jeb didn't know what William had planned--his friend had been keeping it a secret from everyone--but mention of it always brought a smile to his face.

"Simon?" he asked, turning to the man next to him. "What's your favorite thing in the world?"

Simon thought for a moment. "The un bathed private parts of a mature woman."

The answer was so unexpected that Jeb simply stared at him for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. Soon they were both laughing, clapping each other on the back and ordering one more round.

Afterward, Jeb walked outside, went for a long slow walk around the town to clear his head. The park was filling up with people, the women bringing food, the men bringing appetites. From June's kitchen came the warm, fragrant smell of fresh bread. One of the advantages of witchcraft--the ability to cook without fuel or fire. He passed by Martha's house, waved at her through the window. She was just placing a pie on the sill, and he offered to carry it to the park for her, but she said it had to set awhile first.

He felt good. A couple walked past him, hand in hand, and he watched them for a moment. The only thing missing from his life was that he had not yet found a woman. A lot of the men had. A lot of witches of both sexes had

met here and gotten married, and while he was always happy for them, he could not help feeling a little sorry for himself.

Of course, no one he'd met really interested him.

Because he was still in love with Becky.

Even after all this time, he thought of her often. In his dreams, she came to Wolf Canyon. Sometimes she was a witch who had only just discovered her powers. Sometimes she was not but had trekked halfway across the continent because she missed him and wanted to be with him.

But al ways they ended up together, and while he knew that was just a foolish fantasy it prevented him from even thinking about anyone else.

"Jeb!"

He looked up at the sound of the familiar voice to see

William hurrying across the dusty street toward him, a big smile on his face.

"I've been looking for you."

Jeb stopped, waited. "What is it?"

"I need your help."

"With what?"

William's smile grew even broader. this is something I've been working on."

"For tonight?"

"I'd rather not discuss it here." William clapped an arm around his shoulder. "Come on. Let's go to the picnic first.

We'll talk about it later, back at the house."

Jeb grinned, nodded, and the two of them made their way down the street toward the park.

Now

He'd called his sister the night before, and told her about their father.

It could be put off no longer, and Miles didn't beat around the bush but told Bonnie exactly what had happened. She'd grown extremely quiet, for once in her life not interrupting him, and when he was finished she said simply, "Where is he now?"

"Still at the coroner's." He answered her next question before she even asked it. 'qlaey have him restrained, but he still seems to be... animated."

"Are you sure he's dead?"

"I'm sure. We're all sure. We just don't know, what it is."

There was silence after that.

"I think you should come down," Miles told her.

"For the funeral?

He was growing exasperated. "Obviously, we haven't scheduled a funeral yet, but Dad is dead and I thought you might care enough to right," she said. "I'm coming." But she sounded annoyed, put out, and after promising to call him once she'd booked a plane, she hung up.

She'd called back an hour later, saying that she'd be flying to L.A. In the afternoon. He asked for her flight number and the time, but she refused to give him either.

"How am I supposed to pick you up?" he asked.

"You're not. I'll take a cab from the airport. I need some time to think."

"You won't have enough thinking time on the plane? Come on, Bonnie, this doesn't make any sense. There's no reason to waste money on a cab when I can easily come and pick you up. The airport's fifteen minutes from my house, for God's sake."

"I want to be alone."

"Bonnie

Stop trying to boss me around all the time. I have some things to sort through. Can't you understand that?"

She was getting ready to hang up on him--he recognized the signs--so he backed off and they if not warmly, at least amicably. Now she'd called him from the back of the cab, telling him she was on her way, and he assumed that meant she had a cellular phone. She'd never mentioned it to him, but she and Gil were yuppie enough to invest in such an obvious status symbol, and he reminded himself not to pick on her, to leave her alone, that this was a tragic time for both of them.

Well, a tragic time for him.

An inconvenience for her.

At the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, he peeked through the front window and saw a yellow cab in back of his Buick. He swore to himself that he would not provoke her, that they would not quarrel, and he hurried out to meet his sister.

She looked tired. Her skin was pale, there were large bags under her eyes, and he found that he actually felt sorry for her. He gave her a hug, helped the cab driver remove her luggage from the trunk, then carried her suitcases inside as she followed him into the house.

He put her bags in the guest bedroom, then walked back out to the living room.

Bonnie took off her coat and sat down on the couch. "You want something to drink? Water? Tea? Coke?" "No, thanks."

He nodded, sat down in the recliner to the tight of the couch. "So how are you doing?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Fine."

He looked at his sister, suddenly aware of how much she resembled their mother. She was thinner, her movements were different, but her features and especially the expressions that passed over her face were their mother's exactly. It was ironic, because Bonnie and her mother had never really gotten along. They were too much alike, perhaps. Both highly strung and self-involved, touchy and defensive, neither of them had possessed the requisite sympathy or patience to ever understand one another. There'd been no reconciliation between them before their mother's death and, Miles suspected, no remorse on his sister's part afterward.

Bonnie smiled stiffly at him, and he smiled back. He realized that he didn't have anything to say to his sister. The questions that popped into his mind, the genetic conversation openers he considered and rejected, were all of the superficial sitcom variety--How's Gil? How are the kids? He wanted to be able to talk to her, to really communicate, but he didn't know how. She, too, seemed to be at a loss, and they sat there awkwardly, strangers who were siblings.

It was Bonnie who spoke first. "So where's Dad... I mean, his body? Downtown The coroner's office."

"Do you think I should see him?"

"Do you want to?"

= "I don't know."

"It's up to you."

Another awkward silence.

"Maybe I will take that drink," she said. "Water?"

"With" 9" ice.

She nodded, and he went into the kitchen, grateful for some time to plan out what he would say. He and his sister had never been that close, but he hadn't realized until now how much they had depended upon their father to keep the conversation alive when they were together. He filled a glass with water and ice and carried it back out.

Bonnie accepted it. "Thanks." She took a sip. "Whatever happened to the nurse? You didn't tell me."

"Audra?" Miles shrugged. "She's still working for the hospice agency, but she doesn't want to speak with me. I've tried, several times. I suppose she's already on some other: case, with a new patient." He sighed, "She can avoid me al she wants, but if the police want to speak to her, she'll have to talk to them."

"Police? Are there police involved?"

"Not yet. But they might be." He shook his head. "Who knows?"

More silence.

He thought for a moment. He'd been honest with her over the phone, but there was one thing he hadn't told her about. and he asked her to wait while he walked into his father bedroom and took out the cardboard carton containing the contents of the safety deposit box.

He set the carton down on the coffee table in front of the glass and started telling her about their father's dream, his recur ring nightmare of the tidal wave and his subsequent trip to the library to pick up occult books. Miles speculated that their dad had known what was coming, that he was some how preparing for it or maybe even trying to stave it off

He then explained about the paraphernalia he had found in the safety deposit box.

Bonnie didn't seem all that surprised by what he had say, and that made him suspicious. 'That doesn't shock you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not really."

Miles pointed at the box. "So what is this?"

"What is what?"

"This!" He picked up a phial of gray powder and shook it in front of her face. He dropped the phial back in the box. "What is all this?

Why would Dad keep all of this magic stuff in his safety deposit box?"

"How would I know?"

"I thought he might have mentioned something about it to you."

'to me? If he'd talked about it with anyone, it would have been you.

In case you hadn't noticed, we weren't exactly on the best of terms."

"I mean before all this. When we were little."

She stood. "Look, I don't know anything about any of this. I don't know what this crap is, and I don't care. I don't think it has anything to do with anything." She looked at him, shook her head. "And I don't understand why you're so worked up about it."

"Because our father is in the morgue and he's dead and he's still walking around! Is that clear enough for you?" .

She sat back down.

They looked at each other--glared, really--but there was more fear in their expressions than anger, and the animosity could not be sustained by either of them. Bonnie broke first, and she reached her hand up to him, and he took it, and then they were hugging. "I'm sorry," Bonnie said.

"I'm sorry, too," Miles told her.

They held each other tighter. She started crying, sniffling at first, then wailing, and he rocked her and whispered re assurances as she sobbed into his shoulder like a baby.

In the morning, Bonnie was gone. She'd written a long apologetic letter, a rambling screed covering six double-sided pages, telling him that she could not handle this right now, that she needed some time, that she would be there for the

funeral if one ever took place, but until then she just wanted to be with her family, with Gil and the kids, far away from all this.

He wanted to be angry with her, but he wasn't. She was not to blame for what was happening, and though it would be easier to hate her for her cowardice, he could not find it in himself to condemn her. After everything was said and done, she was still his sister, and there was no reason she should have to wait around for her reanimated dead dad to stop walking around and finally die like he was supposed to.

No one should have to do that.

Miles had been absent since Monday, and rather than sit cooped up in the house for yet another day, he decided to return to work. His hands were sweaty as he rode the elevator up, and he perfunctorily accepted the condolences of the other people in the office, thanked Hal for his offer to be a sympathetic ear. Not until he was safely in his cubicle, in his chair, at his desk, surrounded by the familiar mess of paperwork, though, was he finally able to relax.

He had not realized how stressful staying at home was, and he felt relieved here, almost happy. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and though Naomi told him that several days of bereavement leave were still available to him, Miles was glad he'd made the decision to come in. Work would help him forget, hopefully take his mind off his personal problems.

Marina's case was the only one of his that hadn't been parceled out, and it was the only one in which he was really interested. He spent an hour or so trying to track down addresses and phone numbers, attempted to talk to Liam and was promptly hung up on, called Marina and gave her what little information he had.

Then it was lunchtime.

On an impulse, he drove out to Palm Springs, to the home of Hubert E

Lars, the fifth man down on Liam's list, the one with the disconnected phone. As he'd suspected, the house was abandoned, and when he questioned the neighbors, he learned that Hubert had passed away six months back. Natural causes, they said. In his sleep. But Miles wasn't so sure. Every death seemed suspicious to him now, and as he drove back to L.A." past the fields of oversize high-tech windmills that spread across the hot breezy desert of the San Gorgonio Pass, he tried to imagine some reason or rationale that did not involve the supernatural.

But he could not.

He thought of his father. It was as if the walls Of reality were breaking down, as though the world had shifted away from the logical, physics-governed place with which he was familiar.

There were no messages waiting for him when he arrived back at the office. He gave Liam a quick call, and in the few seconds allotted to him before the old man hung up, he blurted out that Hubert E Lars was dead. There was a click and a dial tone, but he knew that Liam had heard him, and he hoped that the information would work on him. The men on his list all seemed to be either dead or dying, and if Liam had any sense at all, he would start cooperating and talk so that he could avoid a similar end.

Of course, maybe he thought it was inevitable. Liam Was definitely frightened and did not want to die, but perhaps he believed that his fate was sealed and what was coming could not be undone.

Just like Bob had?

The parallels were a little too close for comfort, and Miles pushed the thought aside for now. He wanted to work on this case, but he did not want to think about his dad. He shifted his focus from the general to the concrete, once again busying himself with tracking down addresses and phone numbers.

On the way home, he'd planned to stop by the coroner's office, but he could not bring himself to do it. He circled the block three times, telling himself that if a parking spot opened up, that would be a sign and he'd take it. But when a space did open up on his third pass, he didn't pull in and instead drove quickly off, heading straight home.

He heated up a frozen macaroni and cheese pie, and sat down in front of the television to eat. The house seemed empty and cold, and for some reason he thought of Claire. He didn't know why, but he had been thinking about her quite often lately, and it occurred to him that he should let her know that his father had died.

No, he told himself. He might be able to rationalize it and claim that he merely wanted to inform her, but somewhere down in the mix was the fact that he would like to speak to her again, would like to hear her voice, and he refused to exploit the tragedy of his father's death for his own personal gain.

He would not tell Claire. But the idea would not go He watched the news, then a syndicated tabloid show, then a sitcom, and more than once, during the programs and during the commercials, he found himself thinking of how she'd react to the news, how sad and upset she would be, how she would want to know.

He looked over at the clock. Eight-thirty. Claire had always had a prohibition against answering any phone call after nine or clock at night, figuring that if someone called that late it was probably bad news, and she'd rather sleep through the night not knowing and find out in the morning.

Should he call? Would she even care? He wasn't sure. She had always liked his father, but the breakup had been bitter, a lot of harsh words had been exchanged, and there'd been no communication between himself and his ex-wife for nearly five years.

" He wasn't even sure he had her current phone number.

But he felt obligated to at least make the effort to contact her.

Death was so much bigger than everything else; it superseded all other problems between them.

And a death like this... He searched through his old personal phone book until he found her number. If this wasn't good, he could use the agency's resources to track her down--though he wasn't sure he was willing to do that.

He dialed the number. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. It was picked up in the middle of the fourth ring. "Hello?"

Claire.

Her voice sounded different than he remembered, softer, lower, less strident, but he recognized it immediately, and for one weird moment it felt as though no time had passed, as though they were still together and he was merely calling to check in with her.

"Hello," he said, keeping his voice even. "It's Miles." There was silence on her end, and he was tempted to hang up, but he pressed forward, talking quickly, not wanting her to cut him off. "My dad had a stroke about a month ago, and he's been bedridden ever since, partially paralyzed. And... and now he's dead. He died. I just thought you might want to know."

His hand was trembling almost as much as his voice, and he gripped the receiver tighter, trying to steady his grip, but that only seemed to make the shaking worse. He realized when he felt a building tightness in his chest that he was holding his breath, waiting for her response, and he exhaled, the sound amplified loudly in the earpiece of the phone.

"Oh, Miles," she said, and the genuine sadness he heard in her voice, the concern that was imparted through those two simple words, made him ache with a loss that cut clear to the bone. He understood for the first time how much he

had truly missed her, and he closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tide of emotion that threatened to wash over him. "Are you okay? she asked. He took a deep breath. "I'm fine."

"I really liked your dad. He was a great guy. I will miss him."

Miles tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Yeah."

There was a brief silence, and Miles thought he heard a sniffle on the other end of the line.

"Was it... ?" This time the sniffle was definite, and it was accompanied by a catch in her breath. "Did Bob suffer much?"

"I don't think so," he said. "But... I don't know."

He wanted to come clean, wanted to tell her everything, but they were no longer married, she was no longer a part of his life, and this wasn't her problem.

That was probably the one good thing about them not being together anymore: the fact that she didn't need to know what had really happened to his father.

"When's the funeral?" she asked. "

"We, he cleared his throat--"we haven't scheduled any time yet There was pause that turned extended silence.

"Are you. would you like..." He heard the nervousness in her voice, heard her suck in her breath in order to imbue herself with resolve, just the way he remembered her doing. "Is it all right if I come over?"

His response was a beat too slow.

"I understand if you prefer not! she said quickly. "I just thought--" i

"Yeah," he said. that would be great."

"You want me to come over?"

"I'd like to see you again."

Neither of them knew what to say after that, and for a

few seconds Miles thought he had screwed it up. Then she said, "I'll come by in an hour or so. I assume you still live in the same place?"

"Same place." "

"All right. I'll see you then."

They said their good-byes and hung up quickly, neither of them wanting to jinx the plan. As soon as he hung up the phone, he started furiously cleaning the living room and kitchen, trying to get the house in some semblance of order before Claire arrived. He barely had time to put on new clothes and comb his hair before the doorbell rang.

He went to answer it, his heart fluttering, his palms sweaty, his hands trembling.

She looked even prettier than he recalled, as though his memory had rounded her off to a lower level of beauty, not wanting him to suffer any more than he did already. But now she was here, in glorious 3-D technicolor, and she was as attractive to him as she had been the first time he'd met her. Whatever spark had originally ignited their feelings for each other was still there, at least on his side, and he stared at her stupidly, unable to think of anything to say other than,

There was a moment of indecision, then she was throwing her arms around him, hugging him, crying, saying, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry... He hugged her back, feeling his own tears well up. He had not cried since his dad died, but Claire's presence somehow gave him permission to feel grief, and he sobbed now as he had not sobbed since childhood.

She talked about his father as she cried, and each recalled memory brought forth a renewed burst of tears. It was painful to think about, but the pain felt good in a way, searing, cleansing. For the first time since his father's death, he allowed his mind to think about the old days, the good days, the days before the stroke. He had been concentrating only

on the here and now, afraid if he let himself dwell upon better times in the past, he would sink into an emotional abyss from which he could not crawl out.

After a while he was all cried out, and soon so was she. They broke apart, sat down on the couch, and for the first time since the divorce, they talked.

He was still in love with her, he realized, would probably always be in love with her, but they did not speak of that. They did not talk of their marriage or their former life together, though that was a subtext under everything they said. They did not talk of their current lives or their possible futures.

They talked about Bob.

The shadows lengthened, the house grew dark. The) turned on lights but made no effort to move. Miles did nol offer Claire anything to eat or drink, and she did not ask for anything. They remained in place, remembering the life of a man they loved, until well past midnight.

It felt strange not straying from that topic, but it felt right Miles knew that any attempt to broaden the conversatior might break the spell, might disrupt the tentative rapproachment they had forged, and that was something neithe of them wanted, so they continued sharing their memories good and bad, happy and sad, until each of them had saic everything they had to say.

They both had to work in the morning, and Claire got up to leave. She asked if he was all right, asked if he need ex her to stay, and he told her he was fine. She said good-by" but promised to return tomorrow, after work, and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking out to her car

He watched her drive away, still standing in the door way stating at the empty street long after her taillights had disappeared around the corner.

Claire.

He was not sure he understood what had just happen

They had not seen each other since the divorce and at that time she'd made it clear that she never wanted to see him again--but she had raced over at the news that his father had died, and had even offered to spend the night if he needed someone to be with. It could have been just kindness. Maybe, for some reason, she thought he might be suicidal and was showing him the same consideration she would show anyone in mortal distress. Maybe she simply loved her ex-father-in-law and wanted to share her feelings with someone else who had known and loved him and would understand.

Maybe.

But he had the sense that there was something more going on here, and while he usually did not allow himself to cling to false hope, he wasn't sure this hope was false, and in his mind he could see the two of them together again.

Miles fell asleep thinking about how nice it would be to once more wake up with Claire under the covers next to him.

He was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of ringing, and it took his sleep-fogged brain a moment to sort through its catalog of sounds and identify what the noise was. By the time he finally picked up the receiver, the phone had already rung at least ten times. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he spoke into the mouthpiece. No good news ever came from someone so desperate to get ahold of a person at this ungodly hour. "Hello?"

"Mr. Huerdeen?

His heart rate accelerated. Formality was never good either. "Yes?"

"This is Smith Blume, deputy county coroner. I work the night shift here, and I've been assigned to your father's case." Blume cleared his throat embarrassedly. "I'm afraid there's been well, not exactly an accident, but we have a small problem with your father."

Miles gripped the phone tightly. "What are you saying?" The coroner took a deep breath. "I'm saying, Mr. Huerdeen, that your father has walked out of here. He's gone."

Liam dreamed he was running through the desert, being chased by a horde of homeless people with raggedy black. clothes and glowing blue faces.

It was a very lush desert, and he kept getting scraped and stabbed as he ran between the closely growing cacti. Ahead was a small shack, a ramshackle building barely bigger than the Unabomber's cabin, and though there were no windows, the door was open and standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the yellow-orange light of a fire, was a hunched old woman.

The woman scared him, but the mob behind him scared him more, and he ran toward the open doorway. As he drew closer, he could make out details of the old woman's appearance. There was something strange about the crone's features, something unearthly in the makeup of her face.

She was his only hope, however, and he ran up to her. "Let me in!" he yelled. He turned to look over his shoulder, saw the blue faces. of the homeless people running toward the shack.

"Eat an apple." The old woman held forth a shiny red apple, and he understood that the only way he would be allowed into the hut was if he took a bite of the fruit. He recognized the scene---it was from Snow White, the Disney version--but there was a real sense of menace here, an intensity that Walt Disney never could have invested in any movie.

He didn't want to eat the apple, was afraid to even touch it.

-"Let me in[" he screamed.

"Eat the apple."

The old woman handed him the fruit. He had no choice, the mob was almost upon him. He bit into the apple.

Immediately he regretted it. He felt warm wetness in his mouth, and he tried to spit the piece out, but it was moving on its own, and it wiggled past his tongue and down his throat. He looked down. The apple was filled with veins of pumping blood. He could see them running through the whiteness of the interior fruit, beneath the shiny skin that now looked like real skin, human skin.

He whirled around. The desert was empty, the mob was gone.

They had been chasing him here, he realized. The old woman was in charge of the homeless people, and as he swallowed the bite of bloody apple he saw her change. She stood straighter, grew, the years dropping from her. She was now a gorgeous, statuesque woman, and though the features of her face were now young and beautiful rather than old and ugly, they were no less terrifying.

"It's " " flame, the woman said, smiling in a way that made him want to scream.

Behind her, the fire went out, all light disappearing from the shack.

She grabbed his midsection, pulled him with her into the darkness, and they fell into water that was black and cold... He awoke drenched with sweat, shivering. He'd left a window open, and the damp beach air had permeated the room. That was not what had instigated the nightmare, though. He knew that sometimes the outside world dictated the conditions of his inner night thoughts, that his brain incorporated snatches of dialogue from the television when he napped, or set him down on a tropical island when it was summer, but that had not happened here, he was sure of it, and though he couldn't say why, he knew with tm shakable certainty that the impetus behind this dream was nothing so benign.

The phone rang, but he was afraid to answer it, and he let it ring and ring and ring until the ringing finally stopped. He took the phone off the hook.

Why was she playing with him? Why didn't she just get it over with?

She ?

Where did that come from? His dream, he supposed, although it felt more substantive than that. It seemed more like something he'd always known but until now had not been able to recall, and the picture in his mind was of the statuesque woman standing in the doorway of a shack in Wolf Canyon.

Wolf Canyon.

It always seemed to come back to that.

Liam got out of bed and walked into the bathroom to get a drink of water.

He'd felt, even back then, that Wolf Canyon had been more than just an accident or a tragic mistake, and that feeling had grown, not diminished, over the years. He felt responsible, yes, but he'd known even at the time--they'd all known--that there'd been more at work here than the physical facts of the event. And the lack of information they'd received from the government, the fact that no charges had ever been brought against anyone, that the incident had never been acknowledged and that no word had ever leaked out about it, only confirmed his suspicions.

Still, he knew that he and his crew had the direct responsibility for what actually happened, and on some level, he supposed, he probably thought he deserved to be punished for it.

Maybe that's why he was resisting Marina's detective, why he wasn't making more of an effort to enlist help in defending himself.

He got his drink, then walked back out to the bedroom. On-an impulse, he opened the curtains and looked outside.

He would not have been surprised to see either a band of homeless people standing on his lawn or a long black car parked in his driveway, but there was neither, and he crawled back into bed and spent the rest of the night sleeping dreamlessly.

Then

He met Isabella two days out of Cheyenne. She was wandering westward, allowed, through fear rather than charity, to leave the town in which she'd been practicing instead of being executed.

William first saw her on the trail far ahead, a dark dot in the distance, and he hurried to catch up, spurring his horse onward.

He reached her quickly. She was pretty, he saw as his horse pulled next to hers. Beautiful in fact. But it was a wild, dangerous beauty, frightening somehow, and totally unlike that of any woman he had ever seen. Her black hair was long even by Territory standards, and though it framed her face in an unkempt tangle, it looked somehow natural.

She greeted him with a tired unsurprised smile, a remarkably mundane expression that seemed inappropriate on the otherworldly features of her face. "I thought I sensed another," she said simply.

"My name is William," he told her.

"I am Isabella."

She had no destination in mind, was merely following the setting sun, having heard of more tolerant communities in the West, places where people were less judgmental of those who were different.

She'd come from Fallbrook, a tiny settlement three days east of Cheyenne, where she'd lived for the past several years, acting as the town's unofficial healer and midwife.

No one there had peered too closely into her life or examined too carefully what she did--not because they didn't suspect anything but because she was too valuable to the community and they thought it better not to know.

All that had changed with the coming of the missionaries. Three closely knit Pentecostal families had moved into the valley in an effort to save souls, and they had known what she was immediately. The townspeople feigned ignorance, staved off the inevitable as long as they could, but soon they were pretending to be outraged and pretty soon their outrage became real.

They came for her one night, a mob, the whole town almost, trampling her herb garden and demanding that she come out and repent for her sins.

They did not want her to repent, Isabella knew. They wanted her to pay for her sins. But she had been ready for this, and she scattered them with a windstorm while she gathered together her belongings. She had no horse of her own and had to steal one, but a man at the stable saw her and ran to fetch the others.

She'd escaped only by killing a baby girl and threatening death for all other infants, blight and disease for all crops and livestock.

A baby girl.

William didn't like that, but though he could not imagine himself ever doing such a thing, he realized that these were desperate times for their kind. He had not been there. Who was he to judge? Besides, maybe he too would be capable of such an act if it meant his own survival. Maybe.

But he didn't think so.

He would have found some other way to demonstrate his power.

He watched Isabella as she rode along the barely discernible trail.

There was a hardness to her--the familiar hardness of whores--but something else as well, something solid, icy, and unfathomable that penetrated the deepest center of her being. She was not like anyone he had ever met, and though that made him wary, it also at acted him. He was enticed by her mystery and her strength as much as by her beauty.

She glanced over at him. "Where are you from?" she asked. "And where are you going?"

He told her about Wolf Canyon, how he'd come up with the idea and gone about getting a grant of government land, how it offered a place of safety and refuge for those of their kind, a chance to live in peace without having to always worry about exposure. Her eyes widened at the news, and he saw in her face the excited wonder and anticipation he had seen in so many others when they first learned that they had a community of their own.

He was returning from a meeting in Cheyenne with a government representative, he told her. The mine in Wolf Canyon had proved to be quite profitable, and there had been some question as to whether the government had to buy the mined ore from them or whether it was entitled to the ore outright since the land deed specified occupational rights, not mineral rights. The official with whom he'd met had signed a document granting the residents of Wolf Canyon all land rights and agreeing to buy at full market value any ore mined.

Isabella grinned. "Did you force him into signing?" William was puzzled for a moment. "Did I--?" Then he understood what she was getting at. "You mean, did I use magic?"

She nodded.

"No. Of course not."

"Would you have? If you needed to do so?" "I hadn't thought about it." "Think about it now."

He was uncomfortable with this line of thought, but it took him only a moment to declare emphatically, "No, I would not have used magic."

"Hmmm." She nodded, saying nothing else, and they con tinned on for a while in silence.

He knew what her answer would have been, and while it disturbed him, he could understand her feelings and was not entirely unsympathetic.

They were soon talking once again, and of course she asked about the town. He invited her to accompany him, to visit if she wanted, to stay if she so desired, and Isabella quickly agreed to come.

Most witches did not realize how alone their live were, and the existence of Wolf Canyon captured the interest of all of them, offering a sense of true community, isabella was no different. She continued asking about Wolf Canyon, and he delighted in telling her stories of the people and the places, introducing her to individuals she had yet to meet. By the time they finished the long trek to Arizona Territory, she would probably know the town as well as anyone who lived there.

The day passed quickly. Isabella was a wonderful traveling companion, and the more time he spent with her, the more impressed he was with her wit, her intelligence, and her remarkable beauty.

She gave herself to him that night, on the ground, under the stars.

There was a dark strangeness to her desires, and a willingness to assert herself, that made him embarrassed and uncomfortable but with which he willingly went along. She touched him in places he had never been touched before, both literally and figuratively, and by the time it was he over knew and they that he were loved lying her. in dirt that had since become mud,

Jeb was not so easily won over. Neither were most of the other people in town. They were nice to Isabella, friendly up to a point, but she seemed to elicit suspicion and misgivings of a type that none of their previous settlers had. William put it down to jealousy for the most part. He was, after all, the town's leader and founder, and it was only natural that his older friends would feel left out because of the amount of time he spent with her.

But that didn't explain all of -it, and the uneasiness that the others seemed to feel around Isabella was, he had to admit, not entirely absent from his own thoughts.

A baby girl.

Still, she was one of them, and it was easy for him to overlook in her what in someone else might be serious cause for concern.

Besides... he loved her.

She moved directly into his house, and though he made a pretense of offering her a room of her own, Isabella informed him bluntly that they would be sleeping together.

There was no period of adjustment for her. If she noticed the reservations other people seemed to have, she gave no indication. She behaved as though she had been born here, immediately insuring herself into the life of the community, planting spontaneously germinating flowers along the streets in town, bringing her considerable powers to bear on the struggling apple orchard, transforming William's house from the spartan living quarters of a bachelor to a beautiful happy home.

She was more assertive than the other women in town, more like a man, and that seemed to unnerve a lot of the residents. She had a regal ness to her beating, a selfconfidence that bordered on arrogance and set her apart no matter how much she tried to fit in. So when she started taking extra duties upon herself, it seemed perfectly natural.

The truth was, William was happy to have someone with

whom he could share the pressures of his position. Jeb was his right-hand man, and the two of them talked over everything, but the final decision was always his to make. He was grateful for Isabella, grateful to have someone more intimate than a friend or an adviser who could understand and share his feelings and often help him come to a decision.

She'd been in Wolf Canyon for nearly half a year when she first made the choice to act independently. Their settlement was far off the beaten track and they rarely had outside visitors, but it had happened once or twice before, and this time a trio of men heading to Yuma were passing through and stopped.

As always, the residents were on their best behavior. They had discussed this among themselves in numerous town meetings, and they'd unanimously decided to hide all evidence of magic from outsiders, not wanting word to spread. Their rights were legally protected by the United States government, but the territories were far from Washington, and out here legal protection and real protection were often two different things.

So the people on the street smiled at the three men as they rode in and waved at them, pretending as though there was nothing out of the ordinary here and they were just typical settlers.

William was standing with Jeb outside the livery stables when they heard the excited commotion and turned to see the strangers passing through a growing crowd of townspeople. They were obviously headed for the saloon, looking to wet their whistles, and William felt more than a little proud that there was a place where travelers could get some whiskey.

He looked at Jeb, and the two of them started down the street.

"Don't say anything," Jeb told him.

"I never do."

The men had tethered their horses and were about to walk into the saloon when Isabella appeared, as if from nowhere, and barred their way. The man in the lead, a burly bearded fellow wearing about three days' worth of dust on his leather hat and clothes, stopped short, confused. He nodded at her, tipped his hat, tried to smile. "Pardon me, ma'am." Isabella remained in place.

"I'm sorry, but we need to get into the saloon here."

"No, you don't." She looked at him. "Why don't you just turn around the way you came?"

Her words carried clearly in the still air, and the rustle of the crowd settled into silence.

For the first time since coming to Wolf Canyon, William was at a loss.

He didn't know whether to intercede, to stop Isabella and apologize to the men, or whether to let the situation take its own course. His first impulse was to slink away and pretend he had never seen any of it--and that disturbed him. He was not a coward and he had never before shied away from confrontation, but his gut instinct told him to stay away from this.

The bearded man looked at his friends, then looked back toward Isabella. "Excuse me?"

"Get out. This is no place for your kind."

It was said with supreme disgust, in the way she had no doubt heard similar words addressed to her for her entire life, but there was still something off-putting about it. William had experienced prejudice, too they all had--but he felt no sense of satisfaction hearing the words spoken by one of his own kind. He could tell from looking around that most of the others in town felt the same way.

He should have stepped in at that point. Everything afterward could have been avoided.

But he did not. "

All three of the men started laughing, deep rough angry laughs, and there was nothing at all humorous in the sound.

"Out of the way," the bearded man said, attempting to push Isabella aside.

He was thrown into the street, landing flat on his back.

The other two men followed, pushed by an unseen force, and Isabella advanced down the saloon's single step toward them.

William was aware once again of her fundamental strangeness. He had gotten used to her in the time they'd lived together, but once more he saw her as she'd appeared to him that first time: an untamed beauty with unknown potential power and a clear capacity for chaos.

The smallest and dirtiest of the three looked up at her. "What the hell's going on here?"

"We're witches," she said, smiling slyly. "You're in our town now."

The man drew his gun and tried to shoot her, but with a flick of her wild mane, the weapon flew from his grasp, twirled in the air, and fell impotently to the ground.

All three of the men were trying to scuttle backward and scramble to their feet, all the while keeping an eye on her. The bearded man looked wildly around at the assembled crowd. "Is that true?" he demanded. "You're all witches?"

"Now you know," Isabella said. that is why you have to die."

Before anyone could stop her, she was chanting and moving her hands in the aft. The bearded man, on his feet now and drawing his gun, suddenly exploded outward. His guts burst through his stomach and flew like a bloody pink lasso, unraveling until it reached the end, and then falling lifelessly into the dirt. The man's mouth opened and closed, greenish bile running out and down his beard, but no sound issued forth, and he fell face forward onto the dirt.

The small man was frozen in place, shaking with tremors. His eyes widened as his arms were jerked above his head. He started to stretch, started to grow, but it was not a gradual process. It was as if his feet were affixed to the ground and some invisible giant was yanking on his arms, trying to pull him up quickly. He was still shaking, only now he was screaming, and his body actually did lengthen before it finally gave way and popped open, the bones breaking loudly, the skin ripping apart. The screams stopped abruptly, and the man's legs slumped to the ground as his torso continued upward for several seconds before being dropped back down onto the pile of blogdy entrails that had fallen out and onto the dirt. " ............. The third man had his pistol drawn and was running straight toward Isabella, shooting, but with each attempted shot, his hand would jerk up or away, the t'wed bullets soaring harmlessly over the buildings or into the wood of the structures: She continued to walk toward him, and when they reached each other, he attempted to hit her with the pistol, but she caught his hand in hers, and the pistol melted, hot metal dripping over his fingers, searing the flesh, eating through to the bone. He screamed in agony. Smiling, she touched his forehead, and it was as if her hand itself was hot metal. His skin started smoking. She caressed his cheek, put a finger to his lips, trailed her hand over his throat.

Wherever she touched him, the skin started to burn, and before she had even gotten below his neck, he had fallen to the dirt, thrashing around on the street, his head dissolving, until he was finally still.

All of this took place quickly, and it was over almost as soon as it started.

William stood there, stunned.

The bodies lay in the center of the street, blood seeping into the dusty gravel and hard-packed dirt. The world lay enveloped in a huge conspicuous silence. Most eyes were still on Isabella, but quite a few were focused on him as well, and even those who weren't specifically looking his way were directing their thoughts at him. He knew what

they expected. He was the leader of the town, and she was his woman.

It was up to him to put a stop to this. But he did not know how, and truth be told, he was afraid to do so. This was not the Isabella he loved. He did not know the woman who had murdered these men. He was not even sure he could do anything to her. Clearly she was possessed of a power he could not hope to match.

What frightened him, though, was not the strength of her powers. It was not her magical abilities that made his blood run cold.

It was the delight she seemed to take in torturing the men, the relish she exhibited in killing them.

A baby girl.

He looked at her, and she was still smiling, a strange crazed glee lighting up her features.

Then she met his eyes and the expression vanished. She immediately burst into tears. Crying, she ran between the saloon and the general store, back toward the house. He stood there, looking around at the townspeople. His gaze met Jeb's, held it for a moment. Then he turned away and, with his head down, hurried off after Isabella.

He found her in their bedroom, on the bed, sobbing. He didn't know what to do. He did not want to put his arms around her, but she was clearly in pain. Despite his revulsion and horror at what she had done, he sat on the bed next to her and touched her hair.

"Isabella?"

"It got out of hand," she said. "I didn't mean to..." The words trailed off into tears and sobs and sniffles.

He didn't believe that. She'd done exactly what she meant to do, and even if she really was feeling remorseful now, at the time she had intended to kill those travelers.

And she'd enjoyed it.

He said nothing, not knowing what to say. He continued to stroke her hair as he waited for her sobs to quiet down.

Isabella rolled over, wiped her eyes and nose. She faced

him squarely. "I knew those men," she said. "hey didn't recognize me, but I knew them from Kansas City." "Kansas City?"

"It's where I was born and grew up. Or where my parents abandoned me after they found out what I was. The owner of a brothel took me in and raised me, and eventually I started working for her." She took a deep breath. "That's where I met those men. They... hurt me. They made me do things I didn't want to do. And when I ran out of the room, crying, the woman who'd raised me, the woman I considered my mother, took their side, and made me go back, where they beat me and cut me and almost killed me. "I ran away after that.

"And today, when I was walking to the garden to pick vegetables, I looked up and there they were. The men who had almost killed me. I...

I couldn't help myself. I couldn't resist."

He didn't believe it.

William looked away. He didn't doubt that it could have happened--and there was no way he could know for sure because he couldn't read her--but it seemed to him implausible. He had a hard time imagining Isabella ever submitting to the will of another, and there was no way he could picture her being hurt and abused without using her powers to strike back.

He wasn't sure he even believed that her parents had abandoned her. Or that she'd ever been in Kansas City.

"I'm sorry," she said, starting to cry again. "I'm sorry." He held her and patted her back and told her it was all right, but it was not all right. Although he loved her and would always love her--he could not help that he was still appalled by what she'd done. He tried to think of a way to smooth it over for the town, to somehow bring her back into the fold and make everything the way it was before.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed.

He would accept her story, he decided, and he would tell it to everyone else, let everyone know. That would make her actions more understandable, more forgivable.

At least to the other people in town.

That night, in bed, she was energized, creative beyond even her usual standards, and as she screamed, as she climaxed, he looked down at her face, and the expression he saw there was the same one that had been on her features when she'd killed the last man with her burning touch. He recognized the same fervid, intense excitement he'd seen in her on the street, and he closed his eyes and quickly finished without looking again at her. face.

His father had dropped off the fac: 5of the earth.

It was impossible, but it seemed to be the case, and as the days passed and neither the police nor the agency could find any trace of the body, Miles began wondering if he would ever learn of his father's ultimate fate.

He kept expecting to be visited by men from some top secret government agency, well-dressed individuals wearing business suits and sunglasses and small earphone transmitters to be told that all information concerning his father was classified and that he was forbidden to continue his search on the grounds that it was a threat to national security. But real life was not the same as the movies, not even here in Southern California. No mysterious agents came forward to inform him that his father was part of some secret experiment, and he was left with just the blind, dumb search for his dad's walking corpse.

Maybe he would never know. Maybe the body would never turn up, there would never be a funeral, and he would go to his own grave never finding out whether his dad had finally succumbed to a proper death or was still some sort of zombie.

The only thing good to come out of all this was Claire. He still did not know where they stood, but she came over after work each day, bringing dinner, and they ate together talked and enjoyed each other's company. He was happy to be with her, it was almost like having her back,

and he didn't want to jinx it by discussing the status of their relationship.

He had talked to her about Bob, had told her everything, and with the type of trust that is only born of intimacy, she completely believed his account of events. She was concerned and worried by what had happened, but she did not appear to be scared, and for that he was thankful. He was frightened enough for both of them, and it was nice to have a shoulder he could lean on.

Together, they looked over the magic paraphernalia from the safety deposit box, and Claire theorized that Bob had in his younger days crossed swords with some sort of satanic cult or coven of witches, and that he'd attempted to use this stuff to protect himself against them.

"If that's the case," Miles said, "it looks like he failed.

They won out in the end.

Maybe," Claire admitted. Both of them refused to believe that Bob himself had been involved in the black arts, that he had in any way brought this upon himself. They knew him too well. He-was not that kind of person. He had been a good and kind man, a loving father, and to implicate him in all this would have meant that his whole life had been a lie, that he had deceived everyone into thinking he was someone he was not, and neither of them could believe that that was the case.

Miles found it a little disconcerting, the ease with which Claire accepted all of this. Without any proof she believed a man could continue to walk after death. He asked her if she had ever encountered anything supernatural before. The way things had been going lately, he would not have been surprised to discover that all along she'd been part of some underground group of conjure wives. But to his relief she said that no, this was her first encounter with the supernatural, and she hoped to God that it was her last.

As the days passed and there was still no sign of his

father's body, as his morning and evening calls to the police and the coroner's office became less and less urgent, more and more resigned, Miles kept expecting Claire to cut him off, to determine that he was stable enough to handle this situation on his own, and to resume her normal life, to tell him that it was nice seeing him again, but... That didn't happen.

If anything, they became even closer as the pressure, inevitably, lessened.

They were kissing each other good-bye, hugging their hellos, snuggling together on the couch when they watched TV, all actions that could be interpreted in a variety of ways. He knew how he wanted to interpret them, but that was precisely the way he was afraid to interpret them, and he chose to pretend that they were just friends, grown-ups who behaved in a civilized adult manner without ascribing emotional significance to every meaningless touch.

Still, she was once again a part of his life, and they now had a relationship where before there was none.

On Wednesday, they met at a restaurant after work. Matta's. The Mexican restaurant where they'd gone on their first date and many dates after and that had eventually become "theirs." He had not chosen it for that reason. He had merely wanted to take her out as a change of pace, to thank her for cooking him dinner so often over the past few weeks. He decided on Matta's because it was close, cheap, and he knew that they both liked the food. The sentimental symbolism of the restaurant did not occur to him until she showed up and they were led to one of the small back booths, just like the old days. The knowledge put something of a damper on the meal, inhibiting conversation, making them both uncomfortable, and they ate quickly, in a hurry to leave.

After, it was still early, and Claire came back home with him. They settled in front of the television to watch the news. Their earlier awkwardness was gone, and once again

they were close and comfortable with each other, commenting on the news of the day, making fun of the superficial anchors on the entertainment program that followed.

Miles went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine. He handed one to Claire, and she sipped it carefully, smiling in thanks.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Miles picked up the remote control and flipped through channels until he found something he wanted to watch, an old Humphrey Bogart movie.

"You know," Claire said, "one of my clients should become one of your clients."

"Yeah?" he looked over at her, and he could not help smiling. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the give and-take between them, these casual discussions of their work and their jobs that somehow managed to be more intimate and more interesting than any conversation he'd had with any other woman. Claire was a clinical social worker, and when they'd lived together, she'd often tell him about the drug-addicted single mothers she'd be trying to steer straight in order to reclaim child custody, or the develop mentally disabled she had to teach to shop for food and necessities so they could live on their own.

He'd always enjoyed their talk of work, it had always made him feel close to her, and it was only after their breakup, during the bitter divorce proceedings, that he realized she considered this part of his pattern of avoidance. She'd wanted to focus on their lives together, not their lives apart. To her, their conversations were more proof, as if proof was needed, of how far they had drifted apart. But to him it meant just the opposite, and now as she told him about her client and talked of her work, he felt a pleasant sensation of deja vu, and he allowed himself to speculate that perhaps they would get back together again

Maybe he had picked Matta's for some reason other than mere convenience.

Claire finished her wine, put the glass down on the coffee table. "He's been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, a diagnosis he accepts, but he's still convinced that he's being stalked, even though he has no objective proof to back him up. He says he's been getting weird phone calls, he's been chased on the street, cars have attempted to run him down. We've tried to tell him that no one is stalking him, that what he sees as a series of interconnected events are, if they even occurred, random coincidences, but it seems like the only thing that would put his mind at rest would be to have an actual detective investigate whether someone's after him."

Miles' heart had started to pound halfway through her story. "What's his name?

Why?

Hold on a minute." He got up, rushed out of the room to the den, and returned with a copy of Liam's list. "Is his name on here?"

Claire scanned the paper, read to the bottom, shook her head. "No.

Why? What's this about?" "Are you sure?" Of course I'm sure."

He took the paper from her. "My current client is being stalked.

Phones, cars, everything you described. He made up this list, and one by one the people on it are being picked off, killed."

'fflaen, this is some kind of hit list."

"Some kind. But not all of the people have been murdered. Some have died of natural causes. And some have died in ways that well, that can't really be explained."

"And you thought my client might be connected to this?" 'fflae story's similar." "Yeah," she admitted. "It is."

"So I thought this might be tied in."

She nodded. "I understand why you might think that, specially after what happened to Bob, but you have to be careful not to start reading import into everything. Pretty soon you'll be seeing patterns in unrelated events, making connections where there are none. Don't let your father's situation color everything." this is something similar to the case I'm working on. That's all. It has nothing to do with my dad."

"Doesn't it?"

He turned away, folded the paper. "No. And I suggest you keep an eye on this guy. My list is not foolproof. Just because your client is not on the list doesn't mean that he's not a target. Don't automatically discount his fears."

"I won't," she said.

They were silent for a moment. "So what about Bob?" she asked.

"Wasn't that a movie?"

"I'm talking to you seriously."

Miles took a deep breath. "What about him?"

"Do you think--?"

"I don't know what to think."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

He shrugged. "What can I do? Wait until his body turns up, I suppose."

"Do you think it will?"

"It has to sometime.

But he didn't sound convincing even to himself, and he was glad when Claire dropped the subject and put her arm around him and they settled back into the couch to watch the movie.

Finally.

One of the other men on Liam's list lived in the Los Angeles area, and with the help of Hal, who had a good memory as well as a recurring client who ran an adult bookstore, Miles found the work address of one Owen Brodsky.

Brodsky was a porno distributor, one of the third-tier middlemen who sold videos through ads in raunchy magazines and smutty newspapers. His office headquarters was a two-room rental in one of the nearly condemned Hollywood buildings that was sinking thanks to the subway being dug under the street below. Subway construction was the bane of Hollywood's tourist office but a boon to small business owners like Brodsky, who could now afford rent in places that before would have been priced far beyond their means. A Hollywood zip code was all-important, and Miles understood why Brodsky would covet a Hollywood location, particularly in his business.

Downstairs, Brodsky's building housed a movie-themed bookstore, a closed tattoo parlor, and an open-fronted shop carrying gaudy Mexican merchandise. The upper offices were reached by a narrow stairwell located behind a door sandwiched between the bookstore and the tattoo parlor, and Miles climbed up the steps, walking down the hallway at the top until he found the closed door with the cheap plaque reading:

Brodsky Productions. He knocked, heard no answer, then tried the knob.

It was unlocked, and he opened the door, stepping into the office.

The room was crowded and messy and looked more like an abandoned storage locker that had been ransacked than someone's office. A grossly overweight man with a pile of Der Wienerschnitzel wrappers on the cluttered desk in front of him looked up when Miles walked in but did not stop sorting through what looked like a sheaf of order forms in his hands. Miles glanced around, saw stacks of videocassettes and their extremely graphic covers piled on tables, cabinets, and the floor. A doorway leading into another of rice revealed boxes and cartons and even bigger piles of

stacked tapes, as well as a dirty floor littered with magazines and yellowed newspapers. = "Mr. Brodsky?" Miles said.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"I'm a private detective. Are you Mr. Brodsky?"

"Yeah, I'm Mr. Brodsky. What can I do for you?"

Miles held out his hand. "Hi there. I'm Miles Huerdeen."

The big man declined to shake, continued sorting through the forms.

"Call me Fred."

"Fred?" Miles frowned. "I'm looking for a Mr. Owen

Brodsky." ::

"You're looking for my dad

Oh. Do you know where I can find him? "Forest Lawn."

He had a sinking feeling in his chest. "You mean he's---"

"He died about a year ago. Heart attack. Why? What'd you need him for?"

Miles sighed. "I'm investigating a stalking case. My client's father has been threatened numerous times, and his life is possibly in danger.

He drew up a list of names, and quite a few people on that list have died under mysterious circumstances."

"I told you: my dad had a heart attack."

"I understand that. But I was hoping to speak to your father, if he was alive, to see if he knew of any connection between the names on the list, if he knew of any reason someone might be going after any of them."

"You might want to look up Hec Tibbert. He was one of my old man's buds. The two of them went way back. If anybody'd know about that kind of shit, Hec'd know."

"You have any idea where I might be able to find him?"

Brodsky shrugged. "Phone book, maybe."

"You got one here?"

"Yeah." With considerable effort, the fat man bent down

and opened one of the bottom desk drawers. He took out the White Pages and dropped the thick book onto the desk.

Miles turned to the T's and quickly scanned the row of names. "Is Hec his real name? There's an L. Tibbert in Torrance and a Peter Tibbert on Fairfax in L.A."

"Naw. Hec lives in Monterey Park or San Gabriel. Somewhere around there."

"Did your dad have a personal phone book? Someplace where he kept the names and numbers of friends and family?"

"There might be one back at the house."

"You think we could go over there and check?" Brodsky gestured at the mess around him. "I'm kinda

'twenty bucks." The fat man scowled. "Look, I don't know you from Adam. I told you what I -know, let you look at my phone book, but that's it. It's time for you to go now." 'qTwenty-five bucks."

"I've wasted enough time with you. Get the fuck out of my office. This conversation is over."

Miles met his eyes. "Twenty-five bucks, and I won't report the existence of those golden shower videos"--he nodded toward a stack of pink jacketed cassettes--"to my friend Manny Martinez on the vice squad."

Brodsky stared at him for a moment, as if gauging his seriousness, then shrugged and pushed himself away from the desk, making the Herculean effort to stand. He was almost as wide as he was tall, Miles saw, a physical attribute that gave him the appearance of a cartoon character.

"Do you want me to drive?" Miles asked.

"We'll take our own cars so we can go our separate ways afterward. No offense, but I don't want to spend my entire afternoon on this fucking thing."

"Your call." Miles followed him out of the office and

down the hall to a key-operated elevator. He'd been wondering how Brodsky would be able to manage the steep steps. The pornographer did not look like someone who had climbed stairs within the past decade.

"Where're you parked?" Brodsky asked.

"Out front."

"I'm out back. I'll swing around the block and you follow me. It's a red Lexus."

The elevator doors opened, and Miles took his leave, heading back down the stairs the way he'd come. A few minutes later, Brodsky's red Lexus made a slow crawl along the lane closest to the building, incurring the honking wrath of an impatient driver who swerved into the left lane around him. Miles pulled in behind the fat man's car, and the Lexus sped up, circling back around the block at the next intersection.

They headed north. Brodsky drove like a maniac, imparting to his vehicle an agility he himself would never possess, darting in and out of traffic at speeds well exceeding the legal limiL almost dating Miles to keep up.

The house was a generic tract home just over the hills in Studio City.

The fat man took only a moment to sort through a pile of papers and notebooks in a cupboard next to the phone before he came up with a black-bound organizer containing his father's personal address book.

Miles tried to call first, from Brodsky's phone, but there was no answer, so he wrote down the number and address, peeled off a twenty and a five, and thanked the pornographer for his generous help before setting off for Monterey Park.

Hec Tibbert was waiting for him in a folding chair on the dead weed patch that was the lawn in front of his house.

It had been awhile since Miles had driven through this area, and he was not surprised to see that the Chinese presence seemed to have increased even more. This section of

the southland had become a major Chinatown--a real one, not the kind that tourists came to see. Now the population was so heavily Weighted toward emigrees that even American institutions like banks and gas stations had signs written in both English letters and Chinese characters.

Brodsky must have called again after Miles had left, because Tibbert was clearly expecting him. The ramshackle house was sandwiched in between a run-down single-story apartment complex and a brand-new multi story office building. The old man stood and walked to the sidewalk as Miles got out of his car.

"Mr. Tibbert?" Miles asked.

"Hec," the old man said, extending a hand. "Freddy told me you'd be coming."

Miles shook Tibbert's hand. "I'm sorry to bother you. I tried to call, but no one answered. I just have a few quick questions."

"Don't apologize. At my age, I'm grateful for any visitors." He scowled at two cute little Asian girls skipping down the sidewalk, laughing happily. "Especially if they're white. Come on, I got some coffee on the pot inside. Sit a spell."

Miles followed him across the nonexistent yard into the house. There were piles of newspapers in the hall, a leaning broken-legged table covered with overturned beer cans in the living room, but the kitchen was surprisingly clean, and at Tibbert's insistence, Miles sat down on one of the bright yellow chairs arranged around a sparkling Formica table.

The old man stared out the window as he cleaned out two cups in the sink. "Get out of here!" he yelled at someone outside, and Miles heard the sound of giggles and running feet.

Tibbert poured coffee and brought the two steaming cups to the table.

"Damn slopes are taking over. Whose country

is this anyway? I remember when this used to be a nice town to live in, before they ran all the white people off."

Miles tried to smile politely. His gut reaction was to berate the old blizzard for his racist stupidity, but he couldn't afford to antagonize the man.

"Owen used to say that the chinks weren't as bad as the niggers or the Mexicans, but living here sure showed me that ain't true."

That was his cue. Miles cleared his throat. "Speaking of Owen, I'd like to ask you a few questions." He pulled out the list, scanned it quickly--and spotted Tibbert's name.

He looked up at the old man in surprise. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Tibbert would be on the list, too, and he hadn't bothered to so much as look at the paper since he'd left for Hollywood.

Miles thought for a moment. He wasn't sure how to bring up the subject, and finally he simply handed the paper over and said, "There's a list here. Made by the father of my client. You and Owen are both on it. Could you tell me why you're on it, or what you have in common with the other men on the list?"

The old man looked at the piece of paper. There was no pause for thought, no racking of his brain, only a slight puzzlement. "Oh, yeah," he said. "We all worked on the dam." She's going after the dam builders, too. ; He'd almost forgotten about the crazy old lady in the mall, but the words of the homeless woman came back to him now, and a chill passed through his body, a shiver of cold that began at the back of his neck, wrapped around his heart, and continued down to the tips of his toes.

He stared stupidly at Tibbert, not knowing how to broach what he didn't even understand. A crazy old woman in a mall, a series of bizarre deaths, a list predicting the murder

of men who worked on a dam but now all lived in different parts of the country.

Montgomery Jones had been killed near a dam, he remembered.

It almost made sense. Almost. But the connections were still not quite tangible, and he could not for the life of him figure out what was going on here.

He was scared, though, and the most frightening thing was that the crazy woman in the mall had called him by his father's name.

Bob.t

Tibbert was looking down at the list, his finger following the silent movement of his lips as he read the names one by one. Every few seconds he would look quizzically up at Miles, but Miles stir did not know what to say.

He gathered himself together, took a deep breath, placed his own finger at the top of the paper. "Several of these men," Miles said slowly,

"have been killed recently. I've been hired by the daughter of one of them--Liam Connor-to find out why he is being stalked, why attempts have been made on his life. The list does not seem to be in any particular order, there's no way to predict what's going to happen, and that makes this whole thing a crap shoot That's why I have to try and get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. I can't just stake out someone's house or put a round the-dock guard on someone, because I don't know who's next or even if someone will be next."

Tibbert nodded. "Liam Connor. I remember him." "What can you tell me about Liam? Do you have any idea why someone would be after him? Why someone would be after any of these men?" "Wolf Canyon," the old man said.

"What?"

"It's not just the name of the dam, it was the name of the town."

"What town?"

Tibbert suddenly looked much older. The sun was streaming through the kitchen window, emphasizing the lines on his face, but that was not what had affected his appearance. It was emotion that had added the weariness of years to his features.

"We dammed the Rio Verde," he said. "It was about twenty miles downriver of an existing dam, and between the two was a small town.

Wolf Canyon. The people there fought the dam project tooth and nail, but they lost, the courts ruled in the government's favor every time, and the dam went up. Finally, the project was completed, the governor and some senators and the vice president came out for the grand unveiling, and..." He shook his head. "It was all ready, everything was a go, only Wolf Canyon... the town " He trailed off

"What happened?" Miles prodded.

Tibbert leaned forward. "It wasn't evacuated like it was supposed to be. There were people there when they let in the water."

Miles shook his head. "I don't... I don't understand."

"We killed them," Tibbert said. "We flooded the town and killed them all."

The picture was starting to come together, though he still could not claim he understood it.

Apparently, someone screwed up and forgot to make sure that all of the people were out of the town before water was released from the dam upriver. The water flooded the new reservoir, killing everyone who had not been evacuated. The force of the raging water drove them through the canyon-in many instances knocking them out of their shoes or clothes, breaking their bones--and their existence was only discovered a day later, after the ceremonies were over and the dignitaries were gone, when scuba divers went down to

examine the new dam and found the bodies crammed against debris screens, mixed in with the mud. All total, over sixty men and women died.

And now someone or something was taking revenge for it, picking off people who had worked on the project. Supervisors, from what Tibbert told him of the names on the list. People in charge.

The old man leaned back in his chair, drained his cap of coffee. The expression on his face was unreadable, and though he met Miles' eyes, it was only for a second; then he pretended to focus his attention on a bowling trophy atop the refrigerator.

It made sense, Miles supposed, but it was fantastic, and the scenario brought up more questions than it answered. It this was some sort of curse, why had it waited until now to kick in? And who was behind it?

Was this part of some ancient Indian thing, or was it instigated by the relative of one of the people who'd drowned?

Miles stood, perfunctorily thanked Tibbert for the coffee and for answering his questions, told him he'd be in touch soon with some follow-ups, then quickly hurried out of the house and over to his car.

On the sidewalk two Asian girls were playing hopscotch, and from the porch Tibbert told them to get the hell away from his house and play in their own yards. The shouting brought Miles' mind back to the here and now, and he turned back toward the old man, still standing on the front steps. "Be careful!" he called out. "You know what's happening. You might be next."

"Don't worry about me," Tibbert said, but Miles heard the fear beneath the bravado.

He stepped back up the walk. "You want me to have someone watch you?

Maybe stake out your place here case something happens?"

Tibbert shook his head.

"You have someone you can stay with?"

"I'll be fine."

Miles nodded. He wasn't sure that was the case, was not even sure Tibbert himself believed it, but he knew when not to push, and he sensed that the best thing to do right now was to give him a little breathing room. He'd call the old man back in a few hours and check in, see what he wanted not to do after he'd had time to soak this all in and think about it.

Miles walked out to the car, got in, and started the engine. He gave Tibbert one last look, then pulled into traffic.

Magic. Curses. Mysterious deaths. It was crazy, but he bought it all, and he realized that what was really throwing him for a loop was the old lady from the mall.

She's going after the dam builders, too!

The crazy woman had mistaken him for his father, had called him by his father's name. Did that mean that Bob was somehow connected to all this? Miles refused to credit that. He accepted that some supernatural force was being used to avenge the deaths in Wolf Canyon all those years ago, but linking that to his father's resurrection did not make any sense.

Or did it?

He drove out of Monterey Park and onto the Pomona Freeway, troubled.

Liam Connor pushed open the sliding glass door and walked outside to light up a cigarette. Even with Marina gone, he still felt guilty smoking in the house, and he stood on the back patio, inhaling deeply, staring into the darkness.

There seemed something strange about tonight. He could not put his finger on it, but it made him antsy. This was already his fifth cigarette of the evening, though he had vowed to limit himself to three a day.

The backyard was big, but night expanded its parameters even farther.

Light from the house illuminated the patio and a half-circle section of lawn, but the outer flower bed, the bushes beyond, and the wooden fence that marked the edge of his property were hidden behind a curtain of black that erased all boundaries.

It was a quiet evening, and the ocean seemed unusually close. The cars on PCH were loud enough for him to differentiate individual vehicles, and he could make out male and female voices from the sidewalk in front of the bar and shops. He could not hear the sound of waves, but he could hear the cries of gulls, and the air was tinged with the briny scent of the sea.

It occurred to him that he was standing very near the edge of the continent and that, beyond that, water continued halfway around the world, traveling so far that at the other end it was already tomorrow.

Water.

He thought of Wolf Canyon.

There was a sound from the bushes beyond the perimeter of house light, a crack of twig that made him jump. He nearly dropped his cigarette but caught and kept it at the last moment, immediately bringing it to his lips to take a long calming draw

An apple came rolling out of the darkness.

Goose bumps appeared instantly on his arms and the skin at the back of his neck. He looked out across the lawn toward the section of blackness from which the apple had come, and another one rolled across the grass toward him, bumping to a stop on the concrete edge of the patio. He heard laughter on the wind, a low giggle barely discernible in the slight breeze that had suddenly materialized.

He dropped the cigarette, ground it into the cement with his shoe, and turned, reaching for the door handle. He tried to slide the door open, but it was stuck, and though he wiggled it back and forth, jerked it with all his might, the door remained closed, almost as though someone had locked it from inside.

This was it, he realized. This was the night he was going to die.

He wanted to cry out, but his throat was constricted, and instead he tried to run around the house to the side yard. If he could just get out to the front, he could dash over to one of his neighbors' houses.

Or get in the car and drive away.

But he had not even gotten off the patio before another apple flew out of the darkness. This one did not roll across the lawn but came sailing through the air, hitting him on the side of the face. His head was rocked back by the impact, and the stinging pain made his eye immediately tear up. He looked down at the apple, and it split open at his feet. The individual pieces wriggled off the cement and onto the grass, burrowing into the dirt.

His heart was thumping wildly in his chest. He had to get out of here before she showed herself, before she emerged from the shadows and attacked him.

She? How did he know it was a she?

Because it was a she, just as in his dream, and he thought of the woman's voice harassing him over the phone

I'll pull your cock out through your asshole

--thought once again that he ought to know who she was, that he should understand why this was happening and why she was coming after them.

The laughter came again, and though it was an evil, unnatural sound, he recognized it as definitely female. He held a hand over his burning left eye and dashed across the grass, past his bedroom window, toward the side of the house.

She floated toward him out of the darkness.

She came from the spot toward which he was running rather than the area that had been the source of the apples, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Both eyes were teary now,

but still he saw how truly terrifying the woman before him was. She was naked, her considerable attributes on full display, but there was nothing even remotely sexy or arousing about her. Her skin was white and dead-looking, and the harsh angularity of the bones in her arms and legs struck him as horribly wrong. Her head did not seem to match her body precisely, and even through his tears he could see the horrible cast of her features, the unearthly anger and rage that had somehow been twisted by will into a mirthless smile. He experienced an immediate abhorrence of her, and he staggered backward, instinctively trying to move away.

But she kept coming.

She held in her hand an apple, but she did not offer it to him, did not even speak. Instead, chuckling slyly, she glided directly up to him and shoved the fruit as hard as she could into his mouth.

His head was slammed back by the blow, and he both heard and felt several of his front teeth shattering and breaking off.

He dropped to his knees, screaming with the pain, swatting her hand away, spitting out blood and teeth and the small pieces of apple that had been dislodged.

He looked up at her. He still did not know who she was or why she was doing this, knew only that it was because of what had happened back in Wolf Canyon, and he started crying, blubbering. "It wuth an ack-thident! We didn't know! No one knew!"

Even as he cried out the words, he understood that they were incomplete, not the whole story. True enough, they hadn't known people remained in the town when they let loose the water, but they knew afterward, and still they did nothing. None of them had stepped forward to take responsibility, and the government had never held any of them accountable for what happened. The whole thing was covered up and forgotten about, and he'd known even then that it

was wrong. He understood that that was why he was being made to pay now.

Who was she, though?

He was not going to find out. He was going to die not knowing.

Her touch was a cold breeze against his face, and the coldness moved through his bleeding mouth and settled in his throat.

He could not even scream as he was forced across the lawn into the darkness of the night.

Jeb stared hard into the mirror, concentrated.

Nothing.

He sat back down on the bed, his head hurting. Something had happened to his power. It was as if it was draining slowly out of him---or being drained out of him. He'd noticed it over the past few months, but only in the last week had the effects become obvious enough to be worrisome.

Now he could not even conjure a simple alternate scene in a mirror.

Next to him, Harriet roiled over. She opened one eye and smiled lazily, pulling down the covers to expose her naked body. He looked down at her large lolling breasts, at the tangle of thick black hair between her ample thighs.

"Get back under here," she said. "You paid for the whole night, you might as well take advantage of it."

Jeb forced himself to smile back at her and lay down, resting his head on the pillow, allowing her to pull the covers over both of them. He never had found a wife or a woman of his own, but since prostitutes had set up shop in town, he had seldom been without companionship when in the mood.

And he was often in the mood.

Both he and William had been surprised at the range of occupations followed by those of their ilk. In the beginning there had been only settlers: hardworking men and women willing to do anything in order to get this community started

and establish new lives for themselves. Back then their conception of the future town had been an idealized one, filled with selfless, caring, dedicated witches like themselves, all of them ready to be assigned the specific tasks and duties that would make Wolf Canyon a real community. But it took all kinds to make a world, and soon the people arriving were not so dedicated, not merely the peaceful and persecuted who were interested in creating an alternate society.

Now there were drunks and whores and gunfighters and swindlers. The world of witches was no more egalitarian than the world of normal people, and though they were all welcome and accepted, all granted residence by virtue of what they were, it was clear now even to William that some were not as desirable to the community as others.

Jeb rolled onto his side, feeling Harriet's magic hands grab his manhood and once again bring it back to life. He was never sure if it was her power that reinvigorated him so quickly or if she simply drew the power from him, but whatever the source, her hands were able to arouse him faster than any other woman in town. In fact, faster than any woman since... Since Becky.

Only Becky hadn't needed to touch him in order for him to become aroused. Just seeing her, just being next to her, just talking to her had excited him in a way that was at once animal simple and spiritually profound.

"Come on," Harriet said. "Get it in."

He rolled on top of her, she guided him, and he began moving, circling his hips, grinding against her, gradually increasing the speed. Soon the magic was flowing back and forth, from her to him, from him to her.

He could sense her excitement reaching its peak, and he began thrusting hard, ttempting to hasten the culmination of his own pleasure.

She thrust back in return, pressing herself tight against him, and that simple act of greedy desire made him explode.

He spent himself inside her, spurting with abandon until his loins were emptied, and she held him in, obtaining her own gratification, before finally allowing him to pull out.

She let out a sigh, looked over at him, smiled. "Maybe I oughta pay you instead."

He fell asleep happy and contented, and it was only in his dreams that his worries once again reasserted themselves.

He dreamed that he was freezing, in the snow, and a pile of sticks was front of him and he could not even conjure a fire.

In the morning, he rode out to the mine, where work had stopped due to a dispute over wages. He thought of the early days, when there had been no wages, no money. Everyone had contributed to the community, and everyone shared equally in the community's bounty. They'd come a long way since then, but he was not sure this was progress. There seemed to be too many factions now. The selfless spirit that had once united them had degenerated into a selfish individualism which threatened to undermine the common goals of the townspeople.

Jeb hopped off his horse, tethered it to a cottonwood tree. Outside the entrance of the mine, several men were arguing, one burly, bearded fellow shaking his list at another man who removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. William had chosen Jeb to settle the dispute because of his good relationship with most of the miners, and indeed the argument abated as he approached up the pathway. This close, he could see that the bearded man was Lyle Siddons and the other man was Wade Smith.

"All right," he said. "Let's settle down. Ain't nothing here we can't work out if we just talk things out in a reasonable way In fact, finding a solution turned out to be easier than he thought. The major bone of contention was that the drill operators felt they should be making more money because their

job was the only one for which it was not feasible to use magic. The heavy-duty tunneling could be done only with the help of traditional mining equipment, and they felt that they should be compensated for their manual labor. Jeb agreed, and over the protests of some of the others who considered the use of magic in their respective positions to be equally draining, he declared that a standard wage would be i received by all, with those required to perform extra duties getting additional pay. The definition of "extra duties" would be ironed out later, and he did not role out the possibility that it would refer to heavy use of magic as well as physical labor; but for now, he told them, the wage demands would be met and everyone should get back to work.

There was some minor grumbling, but the drill operators were ecstatic and the complaints from others seemed to be voiced mostly out of obligation. The truth was, they all thought they were performing

"extra duties," and they could all see the prospect of increased pay in their future, and Jeb left the miners much happier than he had found them.

Returning to town, he stopped off to tell William. He was starving and could use a drink, but he knew William would want to hear the outcome as soon as possible and to discuss it with the vendors who sold the ore to the government.

As he rode up to William's house, he saw Isabella, digging in her garden. She waved to him as he passed, smiling against the sun.

He tipped his hat, nodded.

He'd never admit it to William, but he'd felt a small surge of pride and the faint seductive tickle of revenge as he'd watched Isabella take care of those three strangers in front of the saloon that day. They were probably not bad men, not in the ordinary sense, but they were ignorant and intolerant, belligerent bigots, the type of people who had for years been persecuting their kind, and it was nice to see them finally get a taste of their own medicine.

William, of course, had been shocked and outraged, torn in his reaction despite his unwavering devotion to his wife. That's what made him William. But Jeb was more ambivalent, less sure of the morality involved, and while he'd offered his friend a sympathetic ear as always, secretly he'd supported Isabella's actions.

William's wife was growing on him. He hadn't liked her at first, he could admit that, but unlike most of the other people in town, he had come to appreciate her unusual charms. He supposed it was because he and William were so close. He was the only other person who had really gotten to know her, and he now understood what his friend saw in Isabella. She was not only beautiful but intelligent, and she was not afraid to speak her mind or act on her impulses. He admired that..

Most of the others did not see it that way. To them, she was a usurper, a temptress who had seduced their friend in order to achieve her own nefarious ends. The way she had dispatched those three strangers and had gotten off scot-free, without even a reprimand, when William's policy had always been to attract no outside attention, proved that.

Jeb could understand their concern. The fact was, however, she hadn't done anything else to engender any mistrust or suspicion in the townspeople. They simply did not like her, resented her because of how close she and William had become in such a short time, and he could not help thinking that they were behaving just as people had always behaved toward them, with prejudice and a reckless disinterest in the truth.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe that's what happened when people lived together. Hell, maybe they'd all be better off if they just spent their lives moving from one place to another, living a nomadic existence as they had before.

Jeb hopped off his horse, tethered it to the porch rail. "William!." he called out.

A tap on the window of the den captured his attention, and behind the glass William motioned for him to come inside. Jeb nodded and walked in the house, traipsing through the parlor and into his friend's room.

William was standing next to his desk, waiting for him, and Jeb told him how he'd gone out to the mine to see what was what, and how the drill operators wanted compensation for work that involved manual labor rather than the use of magic.

The use of magic.

For the first time since last night, his attention was brought back to the fact that his own ability to use magic seemed to be slipping away.

He paused for a moment in his narration, and William looked at him quizzically, waiting. Jeb was suddenly tempted to tell him about the strange and gradual diminution of his power. He looked into William's face and knew that his friend would understand, that he might even be able to come up with a solution for it. He was about to broach the subject, but then he heard the front door open and close, heard heels on wood, heard Isabella's throaty voice ask if either of them wanted anything to drink, and decided against it. The situation was probably only temporary. He was wrong to panic. His magic would probably come back on its own. Hell, for all he knew, this was a natural occurrence.

Maybe the power ebbed and flowed. Maybe it even began to fade as one got older.

As quickly as it had come, the impulse disappeared, and he sat there silently as William asked his wife to bring a bottle and two glasses, waiting until Isabella left the room before continuing his story of the miners.

Ten years.

Wolf Canyon was coming up on its tenth anniversary, and

William wanted to do something special for the occasion. A celebration. He wanted to involve the entire town, from the first settlers to the most recent arrival, but he also wanted it to be a surprise. This was something he wanted to do for the town, and he thought that it would be nice to be able to dazzle them with something entirely unexpected.

Still, he could not pull off what he had planned by himself, so he had, out of necessity, involved Jeb and Isabella, the two people to whom he was closest in the word. He could trust them not to talk. Isabella had thrown herself into the planning with fervor, getting into the spirit of the occasion, but Jeb had seemed somewhat preoccupied lately, distant, not quite himself. William had asked what was wrong numerous times, had even tried to reach out and read him, but his friend remained stubbornly closed off. What worried him the most was that there seemed to be a touch of anxiety behind Jeb's recent reticence.

Not for the first time, William looked up the street and down. He consulted his pocket watch. A quarter of an hour late. Jeb was supposed to have met him this morning in front of the assaying office, but he had not yet shown. William found that worrisome. Jeb was seldom late, and when he was, the reason was always serious.

He walked through the narrow space between the assayer's and the fire brigade to Back Street, seeing if perhaps Jeb had misunderstood and was waiting at the rear of the building, but no one was on the street save Grover Farland, sweeping the wooden walkway in front of his small shop.

William walked up to the haberdasher. "Morning, Grover. You seen Jeb this morning?"

The other man stopped sweeping, shook his head. "Can't say that I have." He scratched his beard. "You looking for him? } "He "

was supposed to meet me Isabella's scream sliced through the morning stillness. What had been curiosity accelerated instantly into fatalistic dread as William ran across the dusty gravel and down the street. The scream came again, and he increased his pace until he thought his muscles would snap, dashing between buildings and across Main until he had reached the front yard of his home. He ran around the side of the house to the source of the scream.

Jeb was lying on the back porch. Or, rather, something that had once been Jeb was lying on the back porch.

For the dried white form that lay spread over the weathered boards only vaguely resembled a human being. It was naked, but all gender identification had been obliterated by whatever had vacuumed out the insides of the body. Crinkled milky skin was stretched over a partial skeleton. The features of the face and body had somehow been wiped away, leaving only a uniform blankness. He was reminded of the monster he and Jeb had come across in the canyon all those years ago, and while anger and agony battled for supremacy in his heart, terror overtook them both and set tied in his gut.

Isabella screamed again.

"What is it?" Grover called, hurrying around the corner. He had followed William through the town and a crowd had come with him, concerned and curious people who had heard Isabella's cries.

William shook his head, looked at Isabella. She was staring down at Jeb's unmoving form, and she glanced up, her eyes meeting his. She ran over to him, through the garden, not bothering to watch her step, trampling flowers and vegetables in her hurry to reach him. She threw her arms about his shoulders, and held him trembling.

"What's thatT" someone asked, voice hushed.

"It's Jeb," William said. He disengaged himself from Isabella embrace and walked onto the porch, over to the body, touching it, opening himself to it, trying to read it. Nothing.

More people were arriving. All of them stopped at the edge of the house as they saw Jeb's empty corpse. It was as though an invisible shield kept them from entering the backyard, and William could not help noticing the way they regarded Isabella with suspicion and trepidation.

He turned toward her. "What happened?" he asked. "Did you see who caused this?"

She shook her head. Her voice was hesitant, tentative. "I was walking out to pull some carrots and radishes, and I found him. I just came through the back door, and there he was. I didn't know who it was at first---or what it was. Then I saw that it was Jeb... and I screamed and you came over here."

William looked down at the bleached, dried form. "You didn't hear anything? You didn't see anything or sense anything?"

"Do you?"

He shook his head. Neither of them had been on the back porch since the previous day. Jeb could have been killed and dumped here hours ago or minutes ago. There was no way for them to know. But who could have killed him? And who could have done this to him? Who? Or what?

He licked his lips. What. For no human, not even a witch, could have so completely destroyed a man as powerful as Jeb.

Isabella seemed to be reading his mind.

"I have heard of this before," she said quietly. other told me stories."

"About what?"

"In Europe," she said, "they are called 'vampyrs."" Vampyrs. He glanced around at the gathered crowd. It was not a word with which any of them were familiar, but something about it rang of math, bespoke a reality they might not know but that existed nonetheless.

'they are monsters. Creatures that draw out the essence of a man--or a woman--and draw sustenance from it." "Bloodsuckers," Susan Clement said. "Yes."

William had heard rumors of such things, and he recalled his own mother telling him of monsters that fed upon human flesh, shape-shifters that drank blood and lived forever. "What do they look like?" he asked.

Isabella shook her head. 'those who have seen them have not lived to tell."

He walked about the yard, looked for signs, checked the dirt for footprints, tried to sense any psychic residue, but both the porch and the backyard appeared to be clean. What. ever this thing was, it could protect evidence of its existence even from their advanced senses.

"Can they fly?" Grover asked suspiciously.

Isabella nodded. "Some say they can."

There were vampyrs here in the West, William thought. It made sense.

It explained the emptied monster he and Jeb had found in the canyon. It explained what had happened to Jeb here today. The only thing that puzzled him was the fact that none of them had sensed its presence. It had been able to sneak in and out of the town as easily as if it had been wind.

Or perhaps it was still here.

Hiding.

Waiting.

He thought of the Bad Lands. The evil there had been strong, and perhaps that was where these vampyrs originated. After all this time he doubted he could even find that area

of the country again, but a part of him wanted to set out with an expedition right now, mustering all of the magic at their disposal, and lay waste to the land, putting their power to the ultimate test, using it not merely to change or alter

That was unrealistic, though. And it went against everything he stood for. If there was a vampyr in Wolf Canyon, they would find it, hunt it down and kill it. But they would not go out and attack some unknown assailant or wage war against an enemy that might or might not exist on the pretext of avenging the death of a friend. They would defend themselves, but they would not take the offensive.

William walked around the yard one more time and found himself again on the porch, looking down at the dried white body that had been his friend. His thoughts were all muddled, and he admitted to himself that he did not know what they should do.

Isabella began to herd people out of the yard, and for that he was grateful. He was the leader of the town, but Jeb had been his right arm, his co leader and the thought of continuing on alone was daunting.

Besides, he did not feel like much of a leader right now, and he did not want to set aside his own feelings in order to reassure others. He wanted the freedom to grieve, to see to his own personal needs for once rather than putting the town first.

Grover was the last to leave, and he asked William if there was anything he could do, but William merely shook his head, offered his thanks, and promised to call a town meeting later in the day.

The haberdasher left, and William squatted down on the newly painted boards of the back porch. He lifted his friend's lifeless and nearly unidentifiable body and carried it into the house. Jeb felt tOO light even for his newly shrunken size, as though even the heft of bones had disappeared, and

William had no trouble opening the door with one hand and supporting the corpse with the other.

He placed the body on the couch in his den, looking down at it with sadness and pity and a soul-deep ache.

"Jeb," he said softly, taking the corpse's skeletal hand. "Old Jeb."

By the time Isabella walked in, he was crying.

The funeral was attended by all. Jeb was liked, if not loved, by everyone, and though there was no obligation to appear, people did so out of admiration and friendship.

William sleep walked through the ceremony. Their kind had no death rituals, and they certainly weren't about to adopt the customs of Christianity, so they invented new rites of their own. It was a dignified ceremony in which they attempted to contact Jeb's ghost before silently consigning his body to the earth.

They had not had a cemetery up until this point, had not even designated a specific plot of land for that purpose, and William had been forced to determine where the graveyard would be.

Jeb was the first person to be interred there, and those who felt up to it took turns addressing him, letting him know how they felt, how much he meant to them. Afterward, they all joined in silent communion, expressing simultaneously a single predetermined wish of support that they willed to his bodiless spirit.

The odd thing was that no one had any luck in communicating with him.

Not that day, or the day after, or the day after that. They were able to contact the ghosts of Indians who had gone before, but it was as if Jeb had never existed. His spirit could not be reached.

Had the vampyr eaten his soul?

The question haunted William. The terror he had felt after first coming upon the shriveled body of his friend had never

entirely abated, and the complete absence of Jeb's afterlife presence suggested that his fear was not unfounded.

They combed the town, the canyon and even the top of the cliffs over the next week, the next month, separately and in groups, but no indication of anything abnormal was found. There were no more attack, not even any suspicious animal deaths, and it appeared as though whatever had killed Jeb had been after him specifically, had targeted him and then left, never to be seen again. Rumors were whispered about, and though they were not spoken to William's face, he was aware of what was being said, and it disturbed him.

At home, the sex with Isabella was unusually charged. They had always had a very active love life. Isabella was a supremely sensual woman, and sex with her was imaginatively vigorous and daring, comprised of acts that even to most witches would probably seem unnatural and perverse, but since Jeb's death the intensity had been increased tenfold.

One midday, after some particularly grueling lovemaking, they lay in bed, trying to gather their energy and rest their sore muscles.

Isabella stood, looked at herself in the mirror for a few moments, then turned back toward him. 'they are afraid of me, William. I can feel it. They think I killed Jeb, and you know I could never do such a thing. I cannot take back what I did to those men after I first arrived, but I should not have to suffer forever for doing what any of them would have done if they were in my place."

This was all a surprise, and he was not prepared for such a conversation. His brain was still numb, thinking about what they had just done, and he sat up in bed and shook his head, trying to clear it.

"What?" are they all talking about it. Everyone in town. I have heard them, whispering behind my back. They think I killed Jeb. They blame me for his death."

William stood, padded over to her. "No, they don't," he

lied. He put his arms around her, held her close. He had hoped to be able to keep this from her.

"Yes, they do," she said. "And they are afraid of me." "No."

Her voice dropped. "Maybe they should be afraid." "Isabella!"

She sighed, pulled away from him. The expression on her face was unreadable and emphasized that wild beauty which had so enchanted him on first meeting her. He realized that he did not know her any better now than he had then. He loved her, but he didn't know her.

"People are frightened," he told her. 'they do not know what killed Jeb and that scares them, something which is entirely understandable.

They are upset."

"Upset enough to undo all that you have done for them?" "What are you talking about?"

"They no longer trust you because you are married to me."

"That's nonsense."

"Some are even thinking of leaving!"

The words hit him like a physical blow. He sat down hard on the bed, not wanting to believe what she'd said but instinctively recognizing its veracity. He stared down at the floor. His dream was unraveling.

The anniversary of the town had passed without comment or acknowledgment, his celebratory plans derailed by Jeb's death. Now people were threatening to tear asunder all they had worked toward over the past decade due to fear and suspicion and unfounded allegations.

There was an empty hole inside him, and he admitted to himself that perhaps his idea for a town where those like himself could live in peace, without fear of persecution, was doomed to be a noble failure

"This is wrong," Isabella said. "We cannot allow decisions based on lies to destroy all that we have worked for.

Their fear of Jeb's death will render the actions of his life meaningless if we do not hold together."

She was right, and he felt a renewed sense of pride, a reinvigorated determination to keep Wolf Canyon from tear thing itself apart. He had been wrong to ignore the rumors and whispers. That was not the way for a leader to act. He should have allayed people's fears, should have made it clear that no matter what outside threat confronted them, they would stick together and he would lead them.

"Yes," he said.

"We need to convince them to stay. It's for their own good. It's for the good of all of us. We must all hang together, else we shall all hang separately."

He smiled. "-You are right," he said. "We will convince them to stay."

She leaned closer. "if they do not want to stay, they are traitors. If we let them go, if we let them escape, they will betray us. We must keep them here."

He shook his head. "This is a free country and a free town. That is why it was founded. We do not want people who do not want to be here."

'they are here. It is time for them to take some responsibility for their actions, to support others of their kind who do want to be here."

"I will call a town meeting," William promised. "I will talk to everyone. I will convince them to remain."

"And if we cannot convince them, we will make them." He looked at her.

"We will make them," she repeated more strongly. And though her words frightened him, he found himself nodding in agreement.

Now

Miles dreamed he was swimming in a pool and the water around him was gradually darkening. He popped his head above water and he was no longer in a pool but in a lake. His limbs were tired, the closest shore was several hundred yards away, and he knew that if he did not get started now, he would not be able to make it. He began paddling as hard as he could, but when he looked up again, there was no shore.

There was no land. He was in the middle of an ocean, and the water was black. Above, the sky was gray and cloud less. He felt something cold touch his feet, felt something slimy slide past his midsection. Then hands grabbed his limbs and dragged him down into water that lightened from black to the deep crimson color of blood. His lungs were about to burst from the pressure, and involuntarily he opened his mouth to breathe, but there was only the red water, and he sucked it into his lungs and knew that he was about to die.

He awoke to feel an arm around his midsection, and he opened his eyes, looked next to him--and saw Claire.

He smiled, reached over, touched her cheek. She stirred in her sleep, rolled omo her side.

Claire had spent the night, and they had gone to bed together They had made love. It was something he'd been thinking about ever since he'd called her, and he still couldn't believe that it had actually happened. The experience had been tremendously exciting, but it had also been

comfortable, acombination he had never before encountered. Their past had informed their present in a way that was wonderfully liberating, a their lovemaking had been exhilarating.

They had still not talked about where they were in their relationship, whether they were getting back together permanently or if this was just a little fling, a nostalgic visit back to the good old days. They'd talked of everything else, conversing with a candor that had never been possible during their marriage. But somehow they could not seem to broach the subject of their feelings for each other. It was as if both of them were afraid the spell would be broken. Miles glanced over at the clock on the dresser. Seven-fifteen!

He kicked off the covers, leaped out of bed, and shook Claire awake. He had forgotten to set the alarm last night, and they were going to have to hurry like hell if either of them hoped to make it to work on time.

"Get up!" he said. "It's fifteen after seven!" Announcement of the time jolted her into action in a way his shaking of her had not, and for five minutes they ran around the bedroom grabbing clothes and putting them on, practically bumping heads, like some silent screen comedy duo. She was faster than he was, having gathered her hair into a quick ponytail while he wet his head under the sink faucet so his hair would be manageable enough to comb. She kissed him on the cheek as he was brushing his teeth, said good-bye, and promised to come by after work. Before he could even rinse and spit, she was out the door and gone.

Traffic as usual was horrendous, and he had plenty of time to think while he sat in an unmoving line of cars that followed the path of the freeway downtown.

He had opened up to Claire about his visit with Hec Tibbert, telling her the story of Wolf Canyon, even talking about the homeless woman in the mall and the possibility that his

father was tied up in this somehow. She suggested that he sta out the shopping center or the streets around it and see if he couldn't find the old lady again. A lot of homeless people were territorial, so the woman might be still hanging around.

He himself thought it would be more productive to confront Liam once more, this time taking Tibbert with him. Liam obviously knew a lot more than he was telling. It was highly likely that he knew what was behind all this, and if Miles could get the two men together and start them talking, perhaps he'd be able to squeeze some information out of the cantankerous old buzzard.

He reached the office, parked, walked inside. Naomi flagged him down the second he stepped off the elevator. "Where've you been? One of your clients has been frantically trying to get ahold of you all morning.

All morning? It's only eight-thirty."

"And she's been calling me every five minutes since seven-thirty, when I got in. I wouldn't be surprised if there are fifty messages lined up on your voice mail." She handed him a stack of pink call slips.

"Here." Miles glanced down at the top slip. Marina Lewis.

He knew the feeling that settled into his midsection, it was the same one he'd had when the coroner called to tell him his father had walked away. He hurried over to his cubicle, ignoring the blinking message light on his phone, and immediately dialed Marina in Arizona. She answered, too fast, on the first ring. "Hello?"

"It's Miles Huerdeen. I got your messages. What is wrong?

"My father. I think something's happened to him."

It was as if she'd been holding her breath, damming up her emotions, because while her voice started out strong, it ended in almost a sob, and he suspected that hysterics were

very near the surface. She'd obviously been stressing out over this all morning, perhaps all night, and he did not want to be the one to push her past the breaking point, so he said simply, "Well me."

"I can't get ahold of him." He could hear the panic in her voice.

"He's not answering his phone, hasn't answered since I started calling last night. He never goes anywhere, and even if he did, he'd be back this morning. Something's happened. I already called the police, but they won't send anyone down. Could you go over there and make sure he's all right?"

"Of course," Miles said. "I'll head out right now. It should take a half hour to forty-five minutes, depending on the traffic. Don't worry. I'm sure he's fine. I'll call you from there."

He hung up. But the feeling in his gut told him that Liam Connor wasn't fine, that he was in fact dead.

The drive out to Santa Monica seemed endless. Traffic wasn't as bad as he'd expected, but every second seemed to drag out interminably, and each stoplight or slight delay caused him to hit his steering wheel in frustration. If something was wrong, he was no doubt too late to do anything about it, but he could not shake the irrational feeling that if he arrived in time, he might be able to save the man's life.

He pulled into Liam's driveway at precisely nine o'clock, according to the all-news station on the radio, and he hurriedly got out of the car, ran up to the front door. He rang the doorbell, waited. Rang again.

Waited.

He knocked loudly. "Liam?" he called. No answer.

This was going to be bad. Whatever it was, it was going to be bad.

He tried the door, jiggled the knob, but as he'd suspected, it was locked. He had tools to get around inconveniences

such as that, but he had not brought them with him. He stepped around the side of the house, intending to try the back door before searching for a loose or open window.

He hurried around a hydrangea bush, over a brownish weedy section of lawn, and ducked under the thorny branches of a low-growing lemon tree.

"Liam?" he called. The old man was in the backyard. On the fence.

If Miles had had any doubts about the supernatural aspects of this case, about the power of curses or witchcraft or voodoo or whatever it was, they were instantly dispelled.

For Liam Connor had not merely been affixed to the fence, he had merged with it. He was naked, placed in a pose of crucifixion, and his body had melded with the boards, his skin taking on the whorled texture of the redwood, the outlines of knotholes visible beneath the hair on his arms and legs. In an area where a fence slat was clearly missing, Liam's form had been poured into the breach, approximating the shape and grain of the board while still retaining the coloring of human skin. The joining was so seamless at several points that it was impossible to tell where Liam ended and the fence began.

Only his head had escaped this synthesis. It hung forward, onto his chest, and did not touch wood even at the neck. The expression permanently etched on his static features was one of terror and indescribable agony, and his wide-open eyes, stared unseeingly down at the ground.

Miles remained rooted in place, shocked into inaction. He flashed back to the sight of Montgomery Jones' torn body-although even that, gruesome as it was, could not compare with the insanity of this.

Confronted with the enormity of a power that could not only kill a man but transform his flesh into something entirely inhuman, Miles was suddenly filled with a feeling of hopelessness.

Part of him was tempted to walk across the lawn, reach

OUt, and touch the sections of Liam's body that had become one with the wood, but though he was almost positive that whatever had done this was gone, he was still afraid, frightened to the core of his being. He turned and ran, unable to remain alone for even a second longer in that backyard.

He'd left his cellular phone in the car. He yanked open the door and grabbed the phone from its place on the passenger seat. He knew he should call Marina first, but he wasn't sure what to say, didn't know how to break the news to her. With trembling fingers, he pressed 9-1-1 instead, calling the police. He spelled out the pertinent facts in a voice that sounded far stronger than it had any right to be, and promised the woman questioning him that he would remain on-site until the authorities arrived.

Talking to the dispatcher helped organize his thoughts, gave him the chance to go through a trial run, and immediately after terminating the call to the police, before his courage failed him, he punched in Marina Lewis' number to tell her that her father was dead.

Janet Engstrom was afraid of her uncle.

She tried to tell herself that it was a fear of death, it was because his condition was worsening, because he was obviously going to die, that she felt so scared when she was near him. After all, her parents' deaths in the accident had been traumatic, and not a day went by that she did not think of the way they'd looked when she'd gone to identify their bodies. But that was not why she was afraid of her uncle.

No, it was because he was changing, because he was becoming someone she didn't know.

The strange thing was that she felt closer to her uncle than to anyone else in her family, even her parents. He was

the only one to whom she had admitted that she'd been molested as a young teenager. She'd told him of her parents' Halloween party, how she could hear the increasingly loud sounds of the partygoers through the closed door of her bedroom, how she'd sneaked out to go the bathroom and had been sitting on the toilet when the clown staggered in. She'd tried to pull up her pajama bottoms, started to yell at him to get out, but he'd lurched across the bathroom, shoved a hand over her mouth, and hit her hand away from her crotch. Then he was pushing her onto the floor, spreading her legs, and he was on her and in her and then it was over. She thought it was Mr. Woodrow from down the street, but it was impossible to tell behind the clown makeup, and afterward she could never be sure.

Her uncle had listened and offered her a shoulder to cry on. He had told her it was not her fault, that she was not used goods but the victim of a violent crime and that one day she would meet the man of her dreams and all of this would be merely a dim and distant memory.

She had never met the man of her dreams, but she had grown up to be a healthy, normal, fairly well-adjusted woman, and if her life did not have a fairy-tale ending, it was not due to the ripple effect of the rape. In fact, what sanity and happiness she possessed was probably due in large part to her uncle's supportive influence.

So when she learned that he had cancer and that it was inoperable, she had right a way returned to Cedar City, vowing to take care of him.

She'd had been prepared to quit her job, but The Store had arranged to transfer her to their Cedar City outlet and had even helped her find an apartment. Her uncle told her she could stay with him, but until he became so sick and weak that he required round-the-clock care, she wanted to have a place of her own so she could have at least a little privacy.

She'd been cooking for him for the past four months,

cleaning his house, taking him to his chemo sessions, keeping him company, being there for him the way he had been there for her. Other relatives called once or twice a week, a few had even stopped by Cedar City for a quick weekend visit, but she was the only one with him day in and day out. It was emotionally draining, and she'd felt sad and angry, depressed and guilty, all of the usual emotions a person experienced sitting helplessly by, watching a loved one die. But now she was also afraid. Because now he was walking.

She didn't know what to make of this, didn't know what to do. He was fading fast. The color in his face was, if anything, even worse than it had been before: white and pale and dry. But he was now pacing around the perimeter of his room, when for the past six days he had been unable to get out of bed at all. He looked like death warmed over, and the juxtaposition of his cancer-ravaged body with this strong purposeful stride that seemed not to be his but appeared to have taken over him, forcing his body to go along with its aggressively inhuman rhythm, terrified her.

The hospital had support groups for relatives of cancer patients, doctors and psychologists who were willing to provide advice and assistance, but the thought of turning to one of those people about this was out of the question. At work, she thought about telling Donise, the only person at the store with whom she was at all close, but Donise had her own family problems, and the two of them were not yet intimate enough that she felt Comfortable imposing upon her friend.

She should really be talking to his doctors. This was not a feeling or an emotion. This was something physical, concrete, an action that could be seen and measured and documented. He needed to be examined by a professional, and it was her responsibility to call the hospital and tell someone.

But she didn't want to.

She was afraid.

He had started walking the day before yesterday, and she did not think he had stopped since. It could not be good for his condition, but she still did not want to alert the doctors. She had the sense that this was entirely unconnected to his cancer, that its cause was above and beyond anything with which she was familiar, and that no doctor on earth would be able to tell her what was happening.

She did not want to hear that.

And she did not want to know what was behind this unless it was simple, logical, and completely ordinary.

The truth was, she wanted her uncle to die.

It was a hard thing to admit, but at this point, she honestly felt that death would be better for him, for her and for the rest of the family.

He had nothing to look forward to other than increased pain and decreased quality of life.

She drove straight home after work. She could see from the street that there was a crowd of kids gathered around the duplex, and the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that it had something to do with her uncle. Sure enough, he came walking around the side of the house, wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms. The kids started laughing and yelling, throwing dirt clods at him. One hit the side of his face, another clump of mud spattered against his bare chest, but he seemed oblivious and kept walking, never varying in his stride.

Janet slammed to a halt in front of the driveway and ran out of her car, furious. The kids scattered at her approach, and she yelled at them that she was going to tell their parents.

Her uncle had disappeared around the east side of the duplex, and she chased after him, catching up to him in the backyard.

"Uncle John!" she called, but he did not stop or slow down. He continued walking, moving past the stunted juniper tree and around the opposite side of the duplex. She ran and caught up with him.

"Let's go inside. Come on." She reached out, grabbed his wrist, but then instantly recoiled. His skin-was cold and rubbery, lifeless, and the muscles beneath felt lax and totally without tension.

He was dead.

She knew it instinctively, and she was filled with horror and revulsion as she dropped his hand and backed away. He continued walking, ignoring her, his dead eyes stating at a fixed point in the sky, his mouth hanging slightly open, a hint of tongue poking between parted teeth.

She followed him to the front, ran up the porch steps into the house, closed and locked the door.

Only then did she start to scream.

Then

Outside, winter winds were howling through the canyon.

William lay awake in the darkness, next to the sleeping Isabella, feeling her comforting warmth beneath the quilt. Her skin was so smooth, she seemed so soft when she was asleep, but there was an inner core of iron within her, and whether this was hardness or strength he had never been able to tell. Her gifts were obviously powerful, very powerful greater perhaps than his own, but this he knew only through conversation and observation. She had told him of conjurings she'd performed, and he had seen her do magic that was beyond the capabilities of anyone else in Wolf Canyon. But he could sense nothing from her. He felt no power, could not read her or in any way gauge her abilities objectively. She was a cipher to him--to all of them, he suspected--and there were times that he wished he had never brought her back to Wolf Canyon.

But he loved her, loved her deeply, passionately, obsessively and that made up for all doubts and questions, over came all regrets.

He closed his eyes, tried to sleep. He was riding up the canyon tomorrow. According to Joseph, who had just re turned from a cattle-buying trip to Prescott, a family in a wagon had set up camp at the head of the canyon next to the river. Ordinarily, that would not be a problem, but Joseph said that it looked like this family was fixing to stay. The

man had all sorts of gold-mining equipment, sluice boxes and the like, and was planning to stake a claim on their land.

Isabella had wanted to go, but William had overruled her and said that he would take care of the problem. She'd known why he didn't want her to accompany him, and she'd only looked at him in that hard way she had and said, "Make sure you do, take care of it."

"I will," he told her.

His greatest regret had always been that Isabella was not able to bear him children, that even their combined powers had not been enough to create life from their loins. But for the first time he thought that that might be for the best. He was not sure what kind of mother she would be and was not at all certain that he wanted to see the type of child she would produce.

The night wore on, the wind eventually dying down, but he could not seem to fall asleep naturally, so William wove a spell about himself, inducing sleep and guaranteeing that he would awaken just before dawn.

He set out immediately after a quick breakfast of steak and eggs.

Isabella warned him once again that he had better get rid of the interlopers, and he assured her once more that he would do so.

It was a half-day's journey to the head of the canyon, and he followed the path of the river, passing through narrow marshy stretches where ferns grew high above his head in the cracks of the rock wails, tiding over wide sections of sand and boulders as the canyon expanded outward, the trees and plants remaining close to the cliffs, the open middle area arid and dry save for the banks immediately flanking the flowing water.

It was nearly noon when he reached his destination. There was indeed a family camped at the head of the canyon. They were living out of their wagon, but foundation space for a cabin had been cleared next to a small stand

of cottonwoods, and it seemed obvious that they were planning to settle here.

A woman was kneading dough on a flattened board stretched between two rocks, while a young boy watched her from his perch atop another ock. A heavy, bearded man was standing shiftless and shoeless next to the river, attempting to push a large wood-and-metal contraption into the water.

"Hello!" William called, dismounting from his horse. All three looked up, and the bearded man scowled, abandoning his device and picking up a rifle from behind a small bush. William made his way straight toward the woman, stood, dusting off her hands on her dress. The man hurried over as the boy quickly jumped off his rock and ran next to his mother.

"What do you want?" the man demanded, brandishing the rifle.

William removed his hat, bowed to the woman. "I merel'

I stopped off for a friendly visit. My name is William. I live farther down the canyon, in town."

'Town?" "Yes. The town of Wolf Canyon. I am the mayor. In fac that is the reason I have come to see you. if you would like to camp here for a few days--"

"Camp here? We're settling. This is going to be our home. "If you would like to camp here for a few days," Willia continued, "you are welcome to do so. But you cannot live here." "Who says so?"

William looked at the man. "What is your name, sir?" "I don't have to tell you my name."

He was starting to become annoyed, but William tried remain calm and reasonable. "You must leave," he said gentley. this is not free land.

It belongs to us."

"Who is us the man asked belligerently.

The town of Wolf Canyon."

"Yeah?"

William smiled. "We are witches."

The man and woman exchanged a frightened glance. The boy grabbed the edge of his mother's petticoat. It was the reaction he'd expected, and William could not help feeling a twinge of satisfaction as he saw fear overcome the bluster in the man's face.

"You're--"

"We're all witches. Everyone in Wolf Canyon."

The man took a step forward. "You are the ones who must be gone from here," he said bravely, brandishing his rifle, The woman grabbed his coat, tried to pull him back. "The Bible says, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." I suggest you leave here now before I shoot you as you stand."

"We have been deeded this land by the United States government,"

William said.

"And it will be taken from you by--"

The man's oratory was cut off by the rifle flying out of his hand and sailing through the air to land against the wagon. William looked at the man, met his eyes levelly so he would know that he was the cause, then let his gaze wander over to the river. There was a sound of thunder, and the mining equipment that had been so carefully set up in the sand burst apart, the pieces falling into the water.

William said in a low ominous voice.

"Begone,"

He was tempted to add an explicit threat, to tell the man that if he did not hurry, his wife and son would be next. That was what Isabella would do.

But that was exactly why he had come himself. He would not make threats he was unwilling to carry out. He would not kill the woman or the boy--and would only kill the man if forced to do so in self-defense. His goal was merely to frig ten the family away.

You have until dawn," he said. \020They were frightened, and he swung back atop his horse, heading slowly back the way he'd come. Before disappearing around the bend, he stopped, turned the horse, and for several moments watched as the family started to gather up their belongings and hurriedly pack the wagon. Satisfied that they really were leaving, he pushed the horse into a trot and headed back through the canyon toward home.

He heard Kate's screams even before he reached the corral outside of town. He willed the horse forward and held on as the animal galloped over the dusty road between the buildings.

Outside Kate's cottage, a small crowd had gathered. The young woman's face was a splotchy angry red, streaked with bloody scratches. Her enormous mane of hair was tangled and flying out in all directions and looked almost as wild as her eyes. "I wanted that baby!" she screamed. She threw herself at Isabella.

Isabella smiled. In her hand she clutched a bloody lifeless infant.

Even from here he could see that the blood was not from the birth but from long slices which ran along the length of its small body.

She stepped easily aside, and Kate went sprawling into the dirt.

Grabbing the other woman by the hair, Isabella lifted her up and threw her back toward her husband, Randolph. Her grip on the baby tightened, and William saw blood streaming down Isabella's arm as she squeezed the dead child.

A chill passed through him, and he jumped off the horse and hurried over. "What's going on here?" he demanded. "She killed my baby!"

"One hundred," Isabella said quietly, "is a magic number."

"What?"

"We have one hundred people in town. Until one of us

dies or moves on, no new members will be brought in, no babies will be born."

"I would have moved!" Kate screamed.

'Then we would have been ninety-nine."

"Damn you!" Kate tried once again to attack, but her husband held her back. He and the rest of the onlookers seemed frightened.

"Isabella," William said sternly.

"One hundred is our number," Isabella repeated, giving him a look that brooked no argument. She hugged the dead baby to her chest, blood soaking into the white fabric of her dress.

They disappeared in the night, Kate and her husband. Isabella wanted to go after them, hunt them like animals, but this time William put his foot down. There would be no chase, no punishment, no retaliation.

He made sure the others in town knew of their differences, made sure they knew that he had prevailed, that he was still in charge.

It was too late, however. WhateveFreputation he had had among the people of Wolf Canyon was gone now, and if he was still their leader it was because he had installed himself in that position and not because they wanted him there. He was a tyrant........ He and Isabella.

This was not what he'd wanted, and if he had known it would come to this, he would not have approached the government with his petition in the first place. His dream had been to provide a home for their kind, not to establish a fief dora of his own. He'd wanted to liberate his people, not enslave them.

But it was too late to turn back. Whether he liked it or not, the wheels had been set in motion, and he could not backtrack now.

He wished Jeb were here. He'd be able to talk this over with Jeb. His friend had always been the most effective sounding board when it came to matters of gqvemance... and matters of the heart.

Right now he needed advice on both.

For he no longer wanted to lead the people of Wolf Canyon, but he would. And he no longer wanted to love Isabella--but he did.

He did not even know what Isabella had done with the new born body. He was not sure that he wanted to know.

What if, he thought, by some miracle, she finally found herself with child? Would she kill their baby too?

It was a disturbing question, and like too many questions these days, it was one for which he had no answer.

Mary left in the middle of the night. Joseph a few weeks later in the middle of the day, when everyone was busy. Olivia died of a mysterious blood aliment that even magic- i was unable to cure. Martin fell down a well.

It took awhile for William to realize that all of the original settlers were gone. The men and women who remained in Wolf Canyon were those who had come later.

He knew why Mary and the others had left. They hadn't told him, but they hadn't had to.

Isabella.

They did not like what Wolf Canyon was becoming. He understood completely. He himself had grave misgivings about what was happening here. This was not what he had envisioned, and he held no resentment toward those who had left.

And the others, the deaths?

Accidents, he told himself, and he made himself believe it.

William sat on his horse and surveyed Wolf Canyon from the top of the upper trail. From up here everything looked the way it always had, but the truth was that the whole tenor of the town had changed. Isabella was not alone in her feelings of anger and hatred toward those who were not witches. Many of the other townspeople, particularly the newer ones, felt the same way and were not shy about expressing their opinions in public. He understood that there'd even been some sort of meeting in the schoolhouse, a sort of strategy session to decide what to do should the "normals," as people had taken to calling them, discover Wolf Canyon. He had not been invited to the meeting, but he assumed Isabella had gone.

He had not asked her. He had not wanted to know.

If this had been a democracy, and if Isabella had been a man and allowed to run for office, he had serious doubts as to whether he would be able to beat her in a fair election.

He willed the horse onward, toward the town, hoping that Isabella was at home, in the kitchen, cooking his midday dinner.

But he had the feeling she wasn't.

They killed the first rancher on All Hallow's Eve.

The man had done nothing wrong. He was not even aware of the fact that they were witches. But Clete, returning home from a sojourn east, saw the settler's crude hut and makeshift corral on his return trip and promptly informed Isabella.

Not him. :

Isabella.

The raiding party went out the next night, dressed in black garb and armed only with magic. Isabella said nothing to him, was not there when he arrived home after a long day of overseeing operations at the new tunnel over at the mine, but William knew where she'd gone, knew what she was doing, and he was filled with an anger so pure and strong

it made his hands shake. He strode through the darkened streets of Wolf Canyon, his rage growing as he saw how quiet the town was, how deserted the bar. A lot of them had accompanied her, and he resolved that when she returned home he would lay down the law. This was his town, damn it, and wife or no wife, she had to abide by his will like the others. They all did.

His resolve fled when she arrived, however, covered with blood and singed by fire. What was left of her clothes was torn and blackened.

She leaped from her horse, victorious, and grinned at him. "We did it!"

William's mouth was dry, the words he'd intended to say, the lecture he'd intended to give, forgotten.

"It was glorious," she said rapturously. "We came out of the night like demons, and he obviously thought we were such, for he started shooting even before we had arrived." Her smile broadened, and William could see the blood on her teeth. "We took his animals first, making the cow wither in front of his eyes, roasting the pig alive, turning his chickens into statues of dung. He continued shooting, and we burned his corral, set fire to his cabin.

"Then we went in."

She touched his face, showed him, and William saw the scene through her eyes, saw the bullets reflected back at the shooter, saw Isabella cause the rancher's Bible to explode as he fell to his knees, praying, waiting for the end. He cursed her, cursed all of them, and they took tunas with their spells, Isabella going first, popping off his fingers one by one. Daniel followed, clouding over one eye. Thomas turned the man's teeth to plant flesh

And on and on.

She let go, and William stepped back, flushed. Against his will, he felt some of the same satisfaction she had, the same righteous sense of justice, but he didn't know if these were his own feelings or if she had imparted hers to him.

She bathed in the river, and afterward they made love outside, like in the old days. What she prompted him to do would have made a normal woman sob with shame and humiliation, but Isabella loved it, and he loved it, too. The surrounding world disappeared for him as their bodies intertwined in ways unspeakable, and as wrong as it was, he realized that he would not oppose his wife in anything she did so long as this passion continued.

She read him, she knew this.

And that was the start of the purges.

Now

Miles sat in his cubicle, slumped in his swivel chair, staring at the unfunny Dilbert cartoon one of the agency's computer nerds had tacked up on the cloth wall of the room divider for his amusement.

The case was over.

Marina Lewis had had what was left of her father's body transferred to Arizona for burial as soon as the coroner had finished with the autopsy and the police had completed their paperwork, and she and her husband had gone back as well. Miles told her she didn't owe anything and let her off without bill, although he wasn't sure how he was going to justify that to Perkins. It was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. He'd failed to protect her father, and while, strictly speaking, that wasn't his mandate, it was what he had expected of himself, and he felt as though he'd let Marina down.

He spun slowly around in his chair. He was at a loss because he didn't want to let the case go. There were other jobs he should be working on, a whole host of new clients from which to choose, but he wanted to stick with this. Because it involved his dad.

That's what it came down to. Yes, he was concerned for the safety of Hec Tibbert and the other men on Liam's list. Yes, he desperately wanted to know what was behind these deaths, wanted to put a stop to this before it went any

further--if that was at all possible. But it was his father's involvement that gave everything an added emotional dimension, that personalized it for him and made it so pressing and immediate.

The police had promised to investigate further--after halving been warned of the danger Liam Connor was in, having been given the list, and having watched as Liam became another casualty, as predicted, under their very noses. But he had his doubts that they would follow through. There were too many other, more immediate crimes. Los Angeles was a perpetual wellspring of wrongdoing, with new murders, rapes, and robberies popping up every day. It was all the police could do to keep up with new crimes, let alone get started on the backlog, i

But he could do it. He wanted to continue this investigation. It was his moral and ethical responsibility. What kind of detective would he be, what kind of human being would he be, if he did not follow through and act on what he knew, what he'd learned?

Except he'd be fired if he used the agency's time and resources to continue working on the unfunded case of a client who had not paid in the first place.

It was a lose-lose situation.

Miles felt a pencil nub hit his shoulder, and he glanced over to see Hal leaning forward in his chair, attempting to snap him out of his gloom. "What would you rather do," his friend asked, "perform analingus on an incontinent Ronald Reagan or eat out your sister.

Miles had to smile. It was a game they'd invented several years ago when the recession had cut into the private investigation business and they were stuck in the office for long periods of time without any work to do. It had started out simply, asking each other which of their female coworkers they would most or least like to have sex with, and had gotten more outrageous over time, graduating to gross-out

proportions as they expanded one another's tolerance for in suits and honesty. It was based on the premise that, faced with two heinous choices, there was always one option that was less intolerable than the other. They'd never had a name for the game until one time Hal had tried to squirm out of answering--Miles had asked whether he would rather fellate Clint Eastwood or be corn holed by Tom Cruisewand the other detective had replied, "Neither. I'd rather die." "Death is not an option," Miles told him. Hal's face lit up. 'that's it!" he exclaimed. 'that's what?"

'that's the name. "Death Is Not an Option.""

They'd discussed, only half jokingly, pitching Death Is Not an Option as a game show idea to HBO or one of the cable channels where there were no restrictions on language. "We could even add nudity," Hal said, "for higher ratings."

Since then they'd ritualized the game, and though they'd often mentioned bringing in others, letting Tran play, for instance, it had remained their own private entertainment.

Miles looked over at his friend, smiling. "I guess I'd have to eat out my sister."

Hal cackled with delight, as he always did, tickled, even after all this time, at hearing such an admission. He walked over to Miles' cubicle. "You okay?" "I'm fine." "You sure"

"I said I'm fine."

Hal held up his hands in surrender. "I'm just asking." Hal's attempts at cheering him up were as disjointed and disorganized as ever, but in a strange way, he found that comforting. He did feel a little better after talking to his friend. Maybe there was a way to keep the investigation going. After everything that had happened to him the past two months, Perkins would probably be willing to give him a leave of absence if he asked, some time off without pay.

AS if reading his thoughts, Hal said, "Still no news on your dad's body"

Miles shook his head.

"What do you think happened to him?"

He'd told Hal and everyone else that his father's body had been stolen, not wanting to share the truth of what had happened, knowing that they wouldn't believe him even if he did, And of course the coroner's office had kept it under wraps as well. They'd had enough scandals recently.

The last thing their department needed was for word to leak out that they were losing bodies because the bodies were get ting up and walking away.

"I don't know," Miles admitted.

"I hope it's not some psycho sicko who's doing, you know sex stuff."

"Thanks. That's just the image I need in my head."

"Sorry." Hal headed sheepishly back to his cubicle, and

Miles started sorting through the stack of files Naomi had given him.

There was a sixteen-year-old girl who had run away with the forty-year-old manager of the Taco Bell at which she worked, a woman who suspected her husband of having an affair with another man, a dowager who wanted someone to track down her stolen poodle because the police hadn't been able to find the dog, a man who suspected one of his employees of smoking marijuana even though the worker had passed numerous random drug tests. None of the potential cases appealed to him, and he thought for a moment, then went out to talk to Naomi and see if she could get him an appointment with Perkins this afternoon.

He was going to ask for some time off.

Two weeks without pay.

It was a week less than he'd asked for but a week more than he'd expected, and hopefully it was all he would need. He finished out the afternoon, tied up a few loose ends, and

made arrangements to contact Hal each day so that they could keep each other up on what was happening.

The telephone was already ringing when he arrived home, and he dashed through the living room to answer it.

Claire was calling to say that she'd be late--after seeing her last client, she had to attend a budget meeting with her boss, his boss, and a rpresentative from the county board of supervisors. She told Miles he'd have to make his own dinner, but she'd be back by nine.

He warned her to drive carefully and hung up. It was going to be a long evening without her, and he walked into the kitchen, already feeling lonely. He opened the refrigerator, leaning on the door, but the metal shelves were bare save for an old half-empty container of milk, a package butter, and a bottle of ketchup.

He realized that he hadn't done any serious grocery shopping since his dad had.." died.

The house was silent save for the electronic hum of the refrigerator, but he could hear in his mind the rhythm of his father's footsteps.

Boot heels on wood. The sound still reverberated in his brain" There had been me thing coldly impersonal about the rigid regularity of the tapping on the bedroom floor, and even thinking about it now made him feel frightened.

The house suddenly seemed much darker, much creepier. He needed to get out of here, and shopping for groceries gave him a practical excuse.

Switching on all of the lights on his way out so that he would return to a well-lit home, Miles hurried outside and quickly locked the front door behind him. Only here, in the open air, away from the claustrophobic confinement of the house, was he finally able to breathe easy and relax..

He looked up at the beautiful sunset created by the haze of pollutants in the air above Los Angeles, and he wondered

whether right now his father was walking somewhere under this same sky.

He drove to Ralph'sthe same store in which his father had collapsed

--and got a shopping cart, but he was not in the mood for shopping. His fear had fled, leaving behind an uncomfortable melancholy, and he wanted only to get the groceries he needed for tonight and tomorrow, then get out of here as quickly as possible.

He sped through the overstocked-aisles as fast as was seemly, grabbing a frozen pizza, a gallon of milk, a gallon of orange juice, a loaf of bread, and some lunch meat.

The registers were all crowded, but since he had less than ten items he could use the express line, and he pulled his cart behind that of an old woman wearing a too bright dress that might have been flattering to her when she bought it back in the 1960s. He glanced over at the tabloid news rack next to the checkout stand and felt his heart leap in his chest. :'

MY UNCLE DIED... BUT WON'T STOP WALKING!

He grabbed the newspaper and stared at the banner head line Underneath that was a grainy black-and-white photo of what looked like a typical middle-class house. A teaser for another story announced that Bigfoot was a descendant of Ancient Astronauts. Miles' hands were shaking, and he did not notice that the old lady had moved forward until he was nudged by the shopping cart behind him. He began placing his items on the black rubber conveyor, still holding onto the tabloid, working on automatic.

He opened the paper, riffled through it until he found the article he wanted. The story was a page long, with one bad photo of a stunned-looking young woman in the center. He didn't have time to read the whole thing, so he quickly scanned the first few paragraphs.

Apparently, a woman in Cedar City, Utah, had come home from work one day to

find her uncle dead and walking in a circle around the outside of their duplex. It had taken six men to stop him and tie him down to a gurney and transport him to the morgue.

At the sound of a throat clearing, Miles looked up. The clerk had already rung up his food items and was waiting for him to either buy the paper or put it away and pay for his groceries. Miles plunked the tabloid down in front of the boy, then paid the total displayed on the register's readout and hurried outside, where he sat down on a bench in front of the store and read the article all the way through. Then all the way through again.

The details of what this woman had experienced with her undead uncle were remarkably similar to his own. If the article could be believed, Janet Engstrom had recently moved to Cedar City in order to take care of her Uncle John, who was dying of cancer. She returned home from work one day to find her uncle dead, wearing only his pajamas, walking around the outside of their duplex in a continuous circle while neighborhood kids threw things at him. According to Janet, he had started walking inside the house several days before his death, and she had not informed anyone because she wasn't sure what to do about it.

Six men--three attendants from the coroner's office, the coroner himself, and two policemen--had been required to subdue the dead man and strap him to a gurney so he could be transported to the

/ morgue. A "source close to the investigation revealed" that the coroner could not stop the corpse from moving long enough to perform an autopsy, and that the body had been cremated in order to prevent the

"disease of the walking dead" from infecting any more dead people in the area of southern Utah.

Apparently, Janet Engstrom had approached the Insider because she could not find out what happened to her uncle. The county coroner's office would not release any information to her or the family and was denying that there had

been anything out of the ordinary in John Engstrom's death. As were the police. Even the parents of the neighborhood kids who had been throwing mud at the walking dead man seemed to have bought the explanation of the experts rather than the eyewitness accounts of their own children and were now telling Janet that she was merely suffering from "stress."

Miles drove home, dialed information for Cedar City, and surprisingly, Janet Engstrom's number was listed. When he called her, though, he was informed by a prerecorded voice that the number was out of service. He had a hunch she'd been besieged by calls from every wacko in the country who had read the tabloid story. The article didn't say where she worked or even what her occupation was, so he couldn't call her employer. He dialed information again, got the phone numbers for the local hospital, but as he'd expected, no one at the hospital was willing to give out any information concerning Janet or John Engslrom.

The coroner's office and the police were both forcefully un forthcoming

But Miles was undaunted. He was strangely excited, and if he had believed in ESP, he would have said that this situation spoke to him on that level, that it was calling out to him.

If he had believed in ESP?

He was trying to get a hold of the subject of a tabloid story about the walking dead, and he was doubting the existence of simple extrasensory perception?

He had to laugh, despite the horrific circumstances, and for the gust time he felt optimistic, as though answers and solutions were finally within reach.

He knew what he had to do. He had to get over to Cedar City and talk to this woman. He did not think she was in any danger--like himself, she was a witness, not a participant-but it was impossible to tell how things would go down. People connected to this situation seemed to be dropping like flies and he wanted to speak with her while he was still able to do so.

Miles had no idea how big Cedar City was, but he was sure he could catch a plane there, and he used his computer to sign on to an online travel agency and look up schedules. American had a direct flight to Las Vegas, with a connecting jump to Cedar City, that left from L.A. at six o'clock in the morning. He'd arrive at Cedar City by eight and even get fifteen off the regular price of an Avis rental car. He booked himself the deal using his Visa card number and accessed the site again to confirm it. "

Done.

He wondered briefly if he should have waited until he talked with Claire, if perhaps she would like to go as well, but he told himself that he'd done right. She wasn't involved in this. And whether she wanted to accompany him or not, this was something he needed to do himself. It might sound like boneheaded macho posturing---a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do bUt if that ESP was still kicking in, it was telling him this was a journey he had to make alone. Well, maybe not alone He called Hec Tibbert. The phone rang three times, five times, ten times, twenty.

He hung up, wanting to believe that Tibbert had gone to the store or to a movie or to Fred Brodsky's house, but knowing that the old man was probably dead. The excitement he'd been feeling faded, replaced by the familiar dread that had been his constant companion for the past two months.

He thought for a moment, then called the coroner's office. Luckily, Ralp, had not yet gone home, and Miles told his friend what he had found, what he planned to do. The coroner was not as skeptical of the tabloid story as he no doubt would have been before, but he would not go so far as trust in the article's veracity.

"You called Graham yet? What does he say?"

"I haven't talked to him.""

"If I remember right, didn't you specifically tell him to keep this out of the tabloids?"

'The Weekly World News. This is the Insider." "Are you going to tell him about this?" "Maybe when I get back."

"So you just called to get my blessing."

"Basically."

Ralph sighed. "Go ahead, do what you have to do, but be prepared. If, by" some chance, there is something to it and you do find out information, give me a call as soon as you return. At this point, I'd be grateful for anything."

"Think I should call the police, too? Let them know?" "Wait until you find out if it's real. Besides, if they're any good, they have their own detective tracking down tabloid stories."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"I wish I was."

Claire arrived shortly after nine, and Miles filled her in on the plan.

She grew quiet, but she did not beg him to tag along, and the fact that she instinctively understood that he wanted to go alone made him realize how lucky he was to have her in his life again. Even after all this time, even after the years apart, they understood each other. "Be careful," she said. "I will."

There was a pause. Claire held his gaze. "I love you," she told him.

Miles took her in his arms and hugged her tightly, feeling the warm softness of her breasts against his chest, feeling the fragile vulnerability of her shoulder blades beneath the palms of his hands. He could not remember the last time she had said that to him, and in spite of the situation, he found himself smiling absurdly. "I love you, too."

Clan Dyson laughed.

Because if he didn't laugh, he would cry.

Clan placed a hand on the strapped-down leg of the decedent and felt the thrum of hard muscle working beneath the skin, loosening and tightening, stretching, causing the ex posed testes of the corpse to jiggle slightly and shift from side to side.

It was outrageous. A week later, and John Engstrom's body was still attempting to walk. There had been no lessening of effort in all that time, not a single second of relaxation The corpse had not yet started to decay, either.

There was not even the slightest whiff of corruption from the flesh. By all rights, decomposition should have begun.

True, the room was refrigerated, but the embalming process had been held off, no preservatives had been administered, and nothing had been done with the body other than to strap it down to the autopsy table.

Yet there was no decomposition

And the leg muscles continued to move.

Clan had been the county M.E. for the past decade and deputy examiner for eight years before that, and in his experience this was totally unprecedented. He'd scoured records and textbooks, trying to find a case even remotely similar but to no avail.

He'd ended up contacting the FBI and CDC because he didn't know what to do. Ever since that damn tabloid story had come out earlier in the week, his office had been inundated with phone calls and faxes from the weirdos of the world, many of them offering ghoulish suggestions on how to deal with reanimated corpses. Some were even predict thing that this was the first sign of the apocalypse.

Thank God, the paper had printed that the body had been cremated. He did not even want to think about the hysteria