 
### NO WEDDING PICTURES

by

Donald Stephens

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Donald Stephens on Smashwords

No Wedding Pictures

Copyright © 2011 by Donald Stephens

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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NO WEDDING PICTURES

Prologue

Early Sunday morning, Lieutenant Harold Brainerd of the Hastings Police Department walked down the marble stairs of the house and looked up at the body dangling from the balcony. He would never forget this one. Upstairs, the bedroom was a slaughterhouse.

On the street, a carriage horse snorted and skittered, the mare's metal shoes clattering on the cobblestones. The driver murmured soothing words and the animal quieted and continued down the street.

Brainerd turned to Sergeant Wilson, a short, square-shouldered man in a bowler. "Who reported it?"

Before answering, Wilson wiped his nose with the back of his hand, giving him time to collect his thoughts. Brainerd had known him for years, and Wilson had been doing that since the day they met.

"A cabbie going by on the avenue saw her. Scared him near to death."

"I don't doubt it," said Brainerd. A dead woman hanging almost naked for everyone to see was appalling.

"The cabby rode down to Broadway and rang the station house from the Hare and Hound," said Wilson. "The butler arrived at the house soon after and called the station from the telephone in the kitchen. O'Reilly says he was nearly hysterical."

"Shocking sight, no doubt of that. Wilson, I want you to search every inch of this place. The butler says a maid should be here, but there's been no sign of her."

Brainerd looked up at the body and added, "And be careful. We don't know exactly what we're dealing with yet."

"Right, sir."

He turned to the three uniformed officers gawking up at the spectacle. "You three. I want her taken down and covered. Now. McNulty, you go upstairs and lower her down." The biggest of the three walked quickly into the house. "And be gentle with her," Brainerd called after him.

"Samuel, come here please," said the Lieutenant. The elderly carriage driver had been waiting a few feet away staring fixedly at the body.

The Lieutenant moved so Samuel would have to face away from the corpse as they spoke. "You say you heard nothing?"

The driver stood shivering, his cap in his hands. "Nothing, sir. I swear it. The first thing I knew, the police were swarming over the place."

"What time do you usually rise?"

"Six o'clock or so, but I had a nip or two last night. You know how it is," said the old man. Brainerd didn't know, thank God. He smelled the cheap brandy on the man's foul breath.

"Let me see your hands."

Samuel held them out. They were filthy and shaking badly, but were uninjured, and the grimy cuffs of his white shirt showed no bloodstains.

"All right. You wait over there by the house. I'll let you know when you can go back to your room. You're going to have to come down to the station later to make a formal statement, so don't disappear."

"Yes, sir, yes sir," he said, hurrying off to sit on the ground against the flagstone beneath the house's siding. He stared longingly up at the dingy windows of his sanctuary above the stables.

Brainerd stuffed his hands in his pockets. The wife killed the husband, then herself. Pushing an almost nonexistent shock of thinning blonde hair from his forehead, he watched McNulty straining as he lowered the body.

He shook his head. This was the worst he'd ever seen, and it happened on their wedding night.

The front door opened and Wilson ran down the stairs, his face pale.

"What is it, Sergeant?" Brainerd pushed his notebook into his jacket pocket as he moved quickly toward the stairs. Wilson was as steady as they came.

"The cellar, sir. I've found something. You'd best come quickly."

On Monday morning, Peter Burton gaped at the Morrison's wedding portrait. It was amazing. When he took the picture, the man was a smiling, handsome young man. What stared at Burton from the photograph was a sneering, arrogant boor. The woman's eyes had been soft, her smile sweet. The face in the picture was hard and bitter.

He studied them again. The faces were those of Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, to be sure, but they seemed to have aged thirty self-indulgent, decadent years. He put the picture down.

It's possible that just as he took the picture, they saw something over his shoulder that annoyed or upset them. Or perhaps it was the photographic plate. Yes, that's what it must have been. A bad plate.

It made no difference now. Since the photographs were paid for, he would mail them to the estate. He picked up the portrait and looked at it again, then quickly tucked it into the large manila envelope on his desk with the other pictures, glad to be getting them out of his possession.
CHAPTER 1

Gerry lay against Dan's back, listening to his rhythmic breathing and wondering why she always woke just before the dawn. The clock radio showed five A.M. Four stories below their window, a few cars moved on East 95th Street, tires hissing softly over the asphalt.

She got out of bed carefully and went to the half-opened window of their high-rise apartment and leaned on the sill, her chin resting on her forearms. A group of four women walked out of the building across the street and loaded carry-on bags into the trunk of a red Mustang. They were young, with eons of fun and friendship ahead. The doors shut solidly and the car powered eastward on 95th Street. Gerry wondered where they were going.

She got back into the bed and burrowed between Dan's shoulder blades. The air coming through the screen was blessedly cool. Pulling the sheet up over her shoulders, she thought of how nice it would be to wake up in a home with birds shouting outside the window instead of the occasional wino. They could have a garden, plant trees, grow vegetables. The Pilgrims crossed an ocean in rickety wooden ships, survived the winters, fought the Indians, and built their own houses with primitive tools. All she had to do was choose a house and sign the papers. And convince Dan. She dropped back into sleep.

At eight, she woke and nudged him gently.

"Hey Williams, wake up," she whispered.

"Mmph," he said, shifting his body. She kissed his shoulder. He was six foot three, with expressive hazel eyes and an angular, thin and wiry basketball player's body. With jet-black, curly hair and an air of vulnerability, he was the sexiest man she had ever met, and they had fallen deeply in love.

Dan's eyes betrayed his love every time she looked into them. They crinkled and laughed when he did, became tight and pinched when he was upset, tender when they made love.

He turned over and grinned sleepily at her. He loved her chestnut hair, the light olive, creamy color of her skin and the freckle club that held perennial meetings on her nose.

"It's Gina Romantica," he said with a fake Italian accent, kissing her neck. Gerry closed her eyes slightly and smiled.

"You are deliciously beautiful," he said, again with the fake accent. He framed his fingers like a manic movie director. "You are like a movie star."

"Thank you, Fellini," Dan kissed her neck very softly, and they made love, very, very slowly.

After, she showered, then wrapped herself in a robe and sat on her huge chocolate-brown, velvet couch. Gerry had moved into his place because it was larger. It was logical, but at first she thought compromising her independence might be frightening. It wasn't. She aimed the remote at the cable box, intending to check out the news shows to see if Armageddon was imminent, but stopped at a local channel because her all-time favorite monster movie was on. It was near the end of the film. She went to the kitchen for a glass of juice, came back and plopped back on the couch.

On the screen, "The Thing," the old one, played by James Arness, was about to be electrically fried by a ubiquitous character actor whose name Gerry couldn't quite remember. Dan came out wearing only pajama bottoms and sat next to her.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Almost nine-thirty. Want some juice?"

"No," he said, taking her glass and draining it. "What are you watching?"

"You've never seen 'The Thing?'" she asked in amazement.

"No. Not that thing, at any rate," he said, leaning back into the cushions.

"Dan," she said.

"What?"

"Let's get out of here."

He flicked his eyes from left to right as if Harpo Marx had just sat next to him on the subway. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean out of the city. Let's buy a house."

He nodded his head. "House again. Where did this house business start? Up until two weeks ago, you loved living in the city. We're close to the Lexington Avenue subway and it takes fifteen minutes to get to work. We hiccup and we're in the theater district. Why house? Where house?"

"Why are you talking like Tarzan?" she asked, balling herself into the other corner of the couch.

She continued, "I like the city, but I want a house. a big house. Living in an apartment seems so temporary. I want stability. I want deductions."

"You want a dog."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Do you think I'd base such an important decision on whether or not I could have a dog? Do you think I could be that childish?" She slapped an indentation into a throw pillow and tucked it under her head.

"Yup," he said, grinning.

"So why shouldn't I have a dog? Who the hell is the landlord to say I can't have a pet? We pay enough rent, for pity's sake. This is probably the only building on 95th Street that doesn't allow dogs. And what about you? Aren't you always whining about the dog you never had because of your mother's allergy to animal hair?"

"I mentioned it once, six months ago," he said, folding his arms. "Owning a home would have an upside or two. We could deduct the mortgage interest and build equity. It might be a smart investment."

"Good. I'm having lunch with Maura Kirk today. Afterward, we're going to look at a house."

"Doesn't she work for a real estate agency in Westchester?"

"Yes. She's with HomeStar Realty. They're a small outfit, but she does pretty well, I understand."

"I don't doubt it. Westchester's one of the higher-priced areas in the country." Gerry got up and opened the Venetian blinds of both windows in the living room.

Dan stood up and said, "I'm going to shower. Want to come?"

Gerry sighed and said, "No. Go ahead. I'm going to clean."

Ten minutes later, the shower was running and Gerry bustled through the apartment cleaning and dusting. "The Thing" was over and on the living room television she caught snippets of an old British series on Sherlock Holmes. Gerry loved Sherlock Holmes.

She shut off the vacuum and watched for a minute. The actor playing Holmes was brilliant, Gerry thought, the best Sherlock she ever saw. The man was the ultimate Holmes, bursting with nervously eccentric genius. She turned it off.

Sherlock was to be savored late at night, preferably with a thunderstorm raging outside your window. After putting on a pot of coffee, she turned the vacuum back on and listened to her MP3 while she worked.

When Dan walked back into the room, she seemed to be dancing with the vacuum while roaring the lyrics to Aretha Franklin's "Respect" over the noise of the machine. She turned and froze as she saw him clapping furiously.

"Thank you," she yelled, continuing to work on the rug.

Later, in the kitchen, they sat at their tiny bistro table next to a window that looked out onto the unrelenting brick face of the building next door.

"So Aretha, you cleaned the whole house and did the laundry, right?"

"Most of the house. You're doing the laundry, remember? Me clean house, you do laundry."

"You got it, Jane."

"How's your new boss?" she asked. Dan had recently been promoted to Assistant Head of Overseas Operations at OptiCom Communications, and his salary had jumped.

Dan shrugged. "Not bad. He's got an open mind, and I don't think he sees me as a threat. I hit him with a few ideas and he seemed genuinely interested. Assuming he doesn't pirate my ideas, we should get along fine. How was your week?"

She shook her head. "Do you hear us? How was my week. It sounds as if we haven't seen each other all week. Come to think of it, we haven't."

"You're the one who wanted to take a management course at Hunter. Three nights a week is a little tough with your job." He tweaked her nose gently. Gerry tried to dodge it. There was something about the freckles on the end of her nose that fascinated him. "Are you handling it all right?"

"I'll handle you if you don't stop doing that."

"I wish you would. So did you get that project finished? The one Hartman was bitching about?"

"Yes, finally. It's amazing how many people buy their junk. I wouldn't give their stuff away to my worst enemy."

Dan sipped his coffee and said, "`So Lovely' is one of the most successful mail order clothing outfits in the country. Hartman must be doing something right."

"Tell me about it. The man is filthy, disgustingly rich."

"He pays you pretty well, too," said Dan.

"He pays me what I'm worth." Gerry poured herself another coffee and asked, "What are you doing today?"

His eyes narrowed. "I will be knocking around white furry balls, as I do each and every Saturday. Why?"

"I would really love it if you'd have lunch with Maura and me today, then take a ride up to Hastings to look at a house."

"Hastings? Nice area, I think. Expensive?"

"Mostly. It's really nice and only twenty minutes from midtown on the train. Maura said it included about half an acre."

"Sounds like it should cost a fortune. How big and what style is it?"

"It's Beaux Arts, Maura said, about fourteen rooms," she answered, holding her breath.

"Fourteen? Really? Are you sure that's big enough for us? I mean, that's only eight apiece." ."

She rolled her eyes.

"You don't have any surprises for me, do you? Your doctor didn't just tell you we're having octuplets, did she?"

"Fourteen rooms sounds bigger than it is." She shrugged. "It's about eight thousand square feet."

"A paltry eight thousand?"

"Look, Dan. I've always, always, wanted to live in a big house. When I was a kid, we lived in a smallish apartment on the West Side for years. It made me a little claustrophobic."

"That's fine. I get that you want a larger space, but fourteen rooms is not a house, Gerry, it's a hotel."

"We're just looking. We're going to look at lots of houses. That's part of the fun."

"I know, but you seem to be salivating over this one sight unseen. How come?" He sat back and folded his arms, his elbows pointing at her accusingly. "If it's too cheap, there's probably something wrong with it."

"Don't be such a pessimist." She pointed at him. "You need to project positive imagery."

"Right, I read the jacket of that book you just finished." He held his hands up evangelically. "Imagine Yourself To Wealth and Happiness"

"Can you imagine yourself sleeping on the couch?"

Dan laughed. "Hey, that's not very positive. And don't wave those Italian hands at me, Martinelli." Gerry was mostly Irish but had a maternal grandfather from Sicily. Dan had a Neapolitan grandmother and he had latched on to Gerry's Mediterranean connection.

"You've been researching real estate?" she asked.

"Jumping to conclusions much? I was just looking. Perusing, if you will. Not researching. It's a free country."

"Do you want to come along or not?" she asked impatiently, her face tilted slightly upward and her jaw clenched. It was an unconscious challenging posture she sometimes assumed.

"And don't stick that chin out, either," he said. "All right, I'll tag along. At least we'll be able to spend some time with each other."

"My course is finished at the end of this week, so that won't be a problem any more."

"Where are we eating?" he asked.

"Maura said to meet her at Lafitte's at one o'clock. I'm going to shower." She stood up and kissed the top of his head. "I put the laundry by the front door. The whites and colors are already separated and the quarters are in a little bag inside the big bag with the detergent."

"You're much too kind." He wrapped an arm around her waist as she tried to slip by. "Want your back scrubbed?"

She peeled his arm from around her. "Do the laundry. It's almost eleven o'clock. And if the black widow is down there, tell her if she so much as looks crooked at you, I'm going to pull her legs out of their sockets. All eight of them." The black widow was fiftyish, darkly attractive, and had an extreme case of the hots for Dan, who didn't believe Gerry when she told him. She ruffled his hair and headed for the shower.

At twelve-thirty, Gerry and Dan left the apartment house and took the subway at Ninety-sixth Street. The underground was cool. The steel-toed monster rumbled into the station and a rush of air hit them as it passed. In ten minutes, they were walking east on Sixtieth Street. The city air was warm, the sun brightly flashing on the glass of passing cars. Gerry snaked her arm through his.

"You know, it would be nice if we actually used the car once in a while," she said.

"Are you kidding? Where would we park?"

Gerry shook her head. "Then why own it? All it does is sit in that parking garage all the time."

"Shoosh. It might hear you. I think it's psychic," said Dan. "I do use it to visit my mother on Long Island."

"We could take the train." Then she smiled and said, "I'm glad we met last year, do you know that?"

"Me too," said Dan.

She continued: "If we hadn't met at the tennis courts in Central Park, I think we would have met somewhere else."

"Kismet,' he said.

"Not in public," she said.

They turned right at First Avenue and walked down the street into Lafitte's. As they headed down the long aisle behind the bar stools, Gerry smiled at George, the nice young bartender. George was a vast improvement over the last one, who always wore the top three buttons of his shirt open, displaying an ostentatious gold chain gleaming on a semi-bare chest. He had been truly astonished when he was rebuffed by a glacier named Geraldine.

Maura was sitting at a corner table near the back. She looked regally up at Oscar, a nice young waiter barely old enough to drink who was painfully infatuated with her. Chronologically, Maura was older by only a few years, but was a millennium ahead in sophistication.

Her friend was incredibly beautiful, Gerry thought, for the millionth time. Her hair was a lovely blend of red hues and lighter, blonde highlights. Her body was perfect, although she never seemed to exercise. Life could be very unfair. Gerry sweated through her after-work jogging to keep a semblance of order from the neck down.

"Hi, Mo," said Gerry, who then smiled a hello to Oscar. He had never asked Maura out, and it looked like he would probably never find the courage. Maura threw him subtle crumbs of encouragement. Gerry was sure Maura knew he was painfully shy and that it would never come to anything. Gerry suspected Oscar knew it, too. It had developed into a pathetic, unpleasant symbiosis.

"Gerry, hello. Hi, Dan," she said, "I've ordered a bottle of Chardonnay. That okay?"

"Fine," said Gerry.

"I'll have diet cola," said Dan. Oscar nodded and handed Gerry and Dan menus, then went through the double doors into the kitchen, glancing back at Maura just as he did. Visible through the upper glass section of the doors, a waitress stopped and retreated, warding the doors away from a large tray laden with four plates of steaming food. Gerry noticed the waitress's dark eyes piercing Oscar and her lips forming words that were definitely not endearments.

Dan tossed down his menu. "I'm having the turkey burger." He looked around.

Maura said, "By the way, this is on me. I sold a house this morning." Her voice was rich and throaty, always had been. She never smoked but liked her wine and the occasional glass of scotch.

"Congratulations," said Dan. "The market's pretty soft these days, isn't it, Maura?"

"A little, but the interest rates are still relatively low and the houses are moving, just not as fast. Thank you, Oscar," she said with a deadly smile. The waiter opened the wine bottle and left for the kitchen, tripping over absolutely nothing that Gerry could see.

Maura smiled and continued: "The house we're going to see is a real deal, let me tell you, and it comes with a half acre of land. It's a great buy."

"What's wrong with it?" Dan asked tactfully.

Gerry added, "We assume some renovation would be involved. We're wondering how extensive it might be."

Before Maura could answer, Oscar returned and took their order.

After the waiter left, Maura answered, "First of all, the roof needs a lot of work. There's been no water damage and that could probably wait a while, though. There are a few broken windows, but the windows all need to be replaced anyway."

Dan nodded. "What about the wiring? What kind of shape is that in?"

"The whole place would eventually have to be rewired," she said without hesitation. The outside is hardwood siding and needs scraping and painting. And the furnace would have to be replaced."

"How old is this place?" asked Dan.

"It was built in 1910," said Maura. She sipped her wine and continued the litany of repairs. "It needs all new appliances. The front stairs would have to be repaired, and you'd have to replace all the windows. And of course the landscaping. The floors are in great shape, though. Original hardwood."

"The floors are good? That settles it. We'll take it," said Dan, setting down his soda.

Maura laughed, and Gerry nudged Dan's leg with her knee.

"I know, it sounds like a lot," said Maura.

"Sort of," said Dan.

Maura nodded. "I know. But Dan, believe me, when it's all done, the house will be worth much more than what you would've laid out." She held her hand out and started counting fingers.

"Now let me tell you why you should love this house. Let me count the ways," she said, bending her pinky. "We're talking location to die for here. You'd have the best of both worlds. Country living with the culture of New York right in your back yard. It's on a dead end street. You've got town parkland in back that no one will ever build on. There's a cute, quiet little church right next door, and across the street is a huge wooded area classified as a wetland because a small stream runs though it. You've got privacy. And," she said, returning to the pinky, "You'll have equity as soon as you turn the key. You really can't lose on this. When you're done renovating, you could just flip it, if you wanted."

When Gerry thought Maura was finished, she opened her mouth to speak.

"And to boot," Maura said, stabbing a finger at her, "You hop on the train and you're in Grand Central Terminal in half an hour."

Gerry nodded, for some reason imagining herself in a bunny suit hopping on the train. "It wouldn't hurt to look the place over, Dan."

"I'll give you printouts of all the comps in that area, so you can get a good idea of the local market. There's nothing to touch it in the area. Believe me."

Their meal came, along with a doting Oscar. Gerry and Dan had skipped breakfast and ate ravenously. Afterward, Gerry and Maura chatted about their high school days at Mount St. Theresa.

Dan listened carefully. He was learning more about Gerry. She was near the top scholastically in a Catholic girl's high school known for the toughness of the curriculum. That didn't surprise Dan. The story about Katie McFarland didn't surprise him either.

Maura obviously loved telling the story. "So Dan, this Katie McFarland was a shy, mousy girl who had a weight problem compounded by an alcoholic parent. Some of the girls had been making life even more miserable for her."

Maura pointed a fork at Gerry. "McMartin stuck up for Katie and shoved this Amazon named Marilyn Kowalski against a wall. Everybody expected Kowalski to disassemble Gerry, but she backed off."

"I could've taken her," said Gerry.

"I doubt it, McMartin."

Maura turned back to Dan. "Another time, an impatient teacher who should never have chosen that profession had verbally abused this other girl about a Latin assignment. I think her name was Charlotte. Gerry, remember that poor girl sitting tongue-tied in her seat, tears falling. She had a stuttering problem, God help her."

"I remember," said Gerry.

Maura took a sip of her wine and continued, "The instructor was this vicious lay teacher named Piermont. Piermont acted tough, but she was really just mean. Gerry sees this poor girl start crying, and she tells Piermont to leave her alone."

"You should have seen Miss Piermont's face," said Maura. "It was great. One just didn't speak that way to a teacher at Mount St. Theresa, especially Piermont. She took Gerry into the hall."

"Uh oh," said Dan.

"Why?" Dan asked, intrigued.

Maura Laughed. "I remember when Piermont came back into the room. She was white as a sheet. Gerry's face was red and she had that chin stuck out. You know what I mean?"

Dan nodded. "Oh yes, 'The Chin.' Very frightening."

"Dan," Maura continued, laughing, "She told this witch that the girl's uncle was an attorney and if she didn't leave her alone, there would be a lawsuit, and Gerry would testify. She also threatened to personally kick Piermont's ass."

"Ms. McMartin, I'm surprised at you," said Dan, laughing.

"The woman was psychologically brutalizing her," said Gerry.

"Charlotte didn't even have an uncle," said Maura. "Piermont didn't turn you in though, I wonder why?"

"The teacher knew she was wrong," said Dan. "She was probably a person who just shouldn't have been in teaching."

Gerry sipped her wine and looked at her friend. After high school, Gerry and Maura lost contact for awhile, Gerry getting a masters degree at Hunter in computer science, Maura getting a degree in business and ending up selling real estate. Six months ago they met by accident in Bloomingdale's and had been keeping in touch, having lunch periodically.

Gerry finished her chef salad. "God, I'm stuffed," she said. "I couldn't even think of dessert. I could go for coffee, though."

"Me too," said Dan.

Before Maura could raise her hand, Oscar was there. She sent him off for the coffee, then said, "Are you going to come along, Dan?"

"I am. What else have you got in that area?"

"Several. We can look at condos, too. There's a real nice two bedroom in Ardsley that might be perfect for you. Gorgeous views, right near the Hudson."

After coffee, Maura gave Oscar the check folder with her credit card tucked in the end. "We'll take my car, all right?"

"We have to. We didn't take ours. The man at the garage uses it as a planter."

"The joys of city living," said Maura as she crossed her perfect legs and smoothed her white, pleated skirt. Hands shaking slightly, Oscar gave Maura back her credit card with the receipt.
CHAPTER 2

They drove across town and got on the West Side Highway. The sky was a vivid blue streaked with thin swords of cloud. From the back seat, Gerry caught Dan's eye in the rear view mirror and smiled, then glanced out the window at the landscaping along the highway. She leaned forward and touched his dark hair, with just the tip of her finger. Without turning around, he swiped a hand across the back of his neck, as if a fly had settled there. Gerry leaned back and felt very fortunate. Farther north, they got on the Saw Mill Parkway and in a few minutes Maura took the exit at Farragut Parkway, which wasn't really a parkway but a local street.

"It's not far from here," said Maura, driving through the main part of Hastings, then turning up a long hill which seemed to rise forever.

"This must be fun getting up or down in the winter," said Dan. He noticed that the houses in the area were well maintained.

"That should never be a problem. They're out with snowplows and salt at the first sign of snow."

"How far up is it?" asked Gerry.

"Not far," said Maura, humming under her breath.

"That's what Columbus said." Dan saw the wooden skeleton of a new house going up on the right.

At the top of the hill Maura made a left past a house which was not quite shabby, but didn't measure up to most of the others they had passed.

"What street is this?" asked Gerry.

"Barker Street," said Maura.

"Named after a renowned local canine, no doubt," said Dan.

"No doubt," said Maura with a small laugh. A little church appeared on their left and Maura passed the house, made a U-turn and parked in front of the property for sale.

The church was immaculate, its white wooden siding shimmering in the sun. An old maple tree spread protective arms over the west side of the building, its shadow creating a latticework of sunlight and darkness against the siding.

"Catholic, I think," said Dan, reading the sign.

"Yes, it is. This is Saint Christopher's," said Maura. The church had a beautiful green lawn, with a pretty flower garden to left and right of the church steps. To their immediate right, two granite pillars defined the beginning of an old driveway curbed in marble.

They got out of the car. Rusted hinges inset into the pillars suggested the absence of a wrought iron gate. A granite four-foot wall extended from the pillar and ended abruptly as it butted the church property on the left. To the right, the wall ran about thirty feet, then degenerated into rubble. In the vacant lot to the right, an old "For Sale" sign languished in a rusting crucifixion on an old tree's outstretched, dead limb.

"The owners tried to sell it themselves. Big mistake."

Gerry stood between the pillars and looked at the house. Elegantly massive, it stood about one hundred fifty feet from the street.

"Wow," said Dan.

"Yes," said Gerry.

"Great curb appeal," said Maura. She smiled to herself and flipped through her paperwork. "The lot over there is also for sale, by a separate owner," she said, nodding to the property to the right. "If I bought this house, I'd try to pick up that property too, if I could, for the privacy. You'd never have to worry about neighbors right up in your face. Otherwise, I think someone will build there eventually."

"Who's handling that property?"

"I'm not sure. I'll find out, though. You could even build on it and sell it."

They walked up the gravel driveway and stopped at the foot of the stairs. Four huge columns supported a heavy lintel. Up close, the paint was gray and cracking, as it was on the siding. In places it peeled like diseased skin. The large door looked weather-beaten but salvageable. Several of the dozen or so windows looking down from the front were without glass, like the multi-faceted eyes of a fly with damaged vision.

The house was seventy feet wide and rose three stories. Gerry imagined the way it must have been once, with siding and pillars clean and white, windows whole, and marble stairs unblemished and straight.

"They really let it go to hell," said Dan.

"It was magnificent," said Gerry.

"A lifetime ago maybe," said Dan, glancing at her. "The place is a wreck now. Look at the stairs." The marble staircase canted drunkenly to the right. "It would be an adventure just walking into the place. It is a great location, though."

Maura pounced at the opening. "You're right. The location is prime. Guys, this place really isn't going to sit for long. Hastings is central to everything. It's really incredible no one has made an offer yet."

"What kind of heating system does it have?" asked Dan.

Maura looked at the multiple listings sheet in her hand. "Let's see. It's got an oil furnace with radiant baseboard heating, installed about twenty years ago." She looked up at the house, then back down at the papers. "No central air. It does have city water and sewer, and gas for the stove. If it were me, I'd put in a gas-powered heating system."

"Maybe a dual system, with a solar backup," said Dan.

"You're really going green, aren't you?" said Gerry. "Just yesterday he bought an aluminum can cruncher thingy. He got tired of smashing them on his forehead."

Dan ignored her. "How long has it been on the market?" he asked.

"It went on multiple listings this week. A nice elderly couple named John and Ellen Greenville have owned it since the late fifties."

"And they only drove it on Sundays?" asked Dan.

Maura smiled. "At one time, they were quite well off, I gather, but they're elderly now, and couldn't keep up with it. They finally decided to sell."

As Maura spoke, Gerry walked around the right side of the house, and Dan and Maura followed.

"How long has that plot next door been for sale?" asked Dan.

"That's been up for a while. It might have a zoning problem. This is a half-acre zone and that may be a bit too small. I'll check on it. If there were a problem, you can apply for a variance to build on it anyway, but of course you wouldn't buy until you were sure."

"Let's look back there," said Gerry, catching the view of another building behind the main house.

"Sure," said Maura. They walked past the house on the right, their shoes crunching on the last, thin remains of the gravel driveway. The side of the main house seemed massive, towering over them like a cliff.

Maura pointed to a door on the side of the house. "That leads into the kitchen." Gerry nodded.

The other building was about one hundred feet behind the main house. "This was the carriage house," said Maura. "Don't you love it? They're huge now. This would be a major selling point later, if you moved."

About forty feet wide, twenty-five deep, it looked like an old garage, except that the three sets of wide double doors were hinged on the side and opened like huge French doors. One of the double doors in the middle bay was hanging loose at the bottom, the victim of a broken hinge. Above was a second floor with four sets of double windows facing out.

"Let's look at this first," said Gerry.

"Okay," said Maura, leading the way.

Dan pushed one of the old doors open, and the hinges shrieked. Inside, Gerry saw a pile of lumber against the rear wall. Inside, two sets of three vertical hardwood posts stood on each side of the middle bay, supporting huge beams crossing the length of the building above their heads. Each bay door had two small windows which admitted scant light. At the far left, a rickety set of wooden stairs led to the upper section.

"Lots of storage up there," said Maura, "And down here it's big enough for a bowling alley."

"This would make a decent-sized house by itself," said Dan.

They went back outside. Against the side of the carriage house an old rusted gasoline can leaned against the side of the building.

He kicked the dirt in front of the building. "The cost of renovation and landscaping would be astronomical. There isn't a live tree, shrub, or blade of grass on the whole property."

"If we bought a brand new house, we'd still have to pay for landscaping. We could do a lot of the work ourselves."

Dan gazed up, starry-eyed, framing his face with his hands like a viewfinder, "And hey, we can fix up this barn and put on a show!"

"Funny," said Gerry. "I knew we shouldn't have gotten that old movie channel. You've seen too many of those Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland musicals. Come on, let's look at the rest of this place."

"One good thing," said Maura. This neighborhood is not a designated historical area, so you can do pretty much what you want."

"I'd really like to make it just the way it was," said Gerry. She looked over at Dan. He was being sarcastic, but the price allowed for extensive renovation, and he knew it.

Maura led the way back to the main house. In the middle of the lawn to the left was an old circular fountain. It was about ten feet in diameter, and the sides were about two feet tall, with a Roman border design on the outside along the top. More than half the tiles were missing. The white marble fountain bowls that once nested inside each other lay in a pile of rubble nearby.

"All this would have to be hauled off," said Dan. "Are we going inside?"

"In a minute," said Gerry. "I want to see what's over here."

Among the broken pieces of marble and stone was the head of a smiling cherub. Nose missing, its blank eyes stared up at the sky. The angelic, limbless torso lay nearby.

"It looks like Orphan Annie on a bad day," said Dan.

"This was the centerpiece of the fountain," said Gerry.

"Want to go inside?" asked Maura.

"Sure," said Gerry. When they walked to the front of the house again, Gerry's foot tripped on the edge of something hard, and she realized that she wasn't standing on dirt or gravel, but on a hard platform that was really an extension of the marble staircase. She scraped away part of the layer of dirt with her shoe and noticed a design in Roman tile on a large, circular marble slab.

Dan helped her scrape away more of the dirt with his shoe. "This must weigh a ton," he said. He discovered two oval designs in the center.

"Wow, look at that," said Maura. "I didn't know this was here. It looks like a mosaic of two faces. Cancel that, one face." One of the faces was intact, the other destroyed, all the tiles gone.

Gerry, leaned over for a better look. "I wonder who they are?"

"Nobody. Just decorative, probably," said Dan.

"No, they were somebody," Gerry said.

They walked carefully up the drunken stairs. At the top, Dan asked, "Who owned this place before the Greenvilles?"

"I don't really know," said Maura, opening the HomeStar lock box and extracting a key. Gerry touched a discolored section in the middle of the door. It looked like the outline of a bird with wings outspread.

Maura slipped the key into the lock and had to twist it a few times before it clicked open. "I've got to get them to change this lock."

She pushed open the door and they entered a large foyer. It was about twenty feet wide by fifteen deep, with a large window on each side of the door. The hardwood floor felt solid beneath Gerry's feet. To the far left was a coat closet. She walked over and opened the door. It was a cloak room, not a closet.

Dan walked over and looked in. "This might be large enough for your shoes."

"Or for your Mr. Rogers sweaters," she answered.

"Oh please," he said. "I have maybe ten sweaters." An identical room was on the other side of the foyer.

"Wow, look at this," said Maura, walking to the entrance to the great room. She pulled a sliding pocket door from the wall to the right. I love these."

"No wasted space," said Gerry.

"God knows we couldn't afford to waste any space in this house," said Dan.

Gerry pulled the door from the left wall. It wouldn't move.

"This one is stuck."

She looked beyond the foyer into the great room. She stepped forward, stopped in the doorway, then drew in a breath and held it. A soaring cathedral ceiling rose above a wide, sweeping staircase rising to a second floor landing. Above, to right and left of the staircase were balustrades of dark wood overlooking the whole space. A large circular skylight in the ceiling seemed to pour liquid sunlight into the dust-speckled air. The effect was spectacular. On the wall to their right, a large marble-faced fireplace stood between two massive twelve-foot-high windows. The wall on the left had a series of smaller windows near the ceiling.

"Impressive," said Dan.

"You wanted space, you got space," said Maura. "What a room. It looks like the staircase in 'Gone With the Wind', doesn't it?"

"Yes. This is like a ballroom," said Gerry. Even through the grime on the glass, sunlight spilled into the room. As they walked, the dust resurrected by their footsteps danced in trapezoids of light.

The lower half of the walls was wainscoted in old wood paneling covered in a mud-brown paint; the paint on the upper wall was cracked, dirty, grayish-green. In the far right corner were a few pieces of old furniture huddled together, as if finding solace in numbers.

Gerry touched the paneling on the wall to her left. Someone had covered the rich hardwood with paint. It was like a beautiful young girl in pancake makeup. Gerry was appalled. She loved wood. She loved the smell of it, the smoothness of the grain after it was freshly sanded. It was a love she got from her father. William McMartin had dreamed of retiring early, making and selling fine furniture. At fifty-five, he had attained his dream, except for the selling part. All his relatives wanted one of his pieces, but he found it impossible to ask for money from them. He gave everything away. She smiled. That was Dad.

Gerry remembered helping him with one of his woodworking projects the week before she went to college. She helped him apply expensive, thick cherry veneer on a sheet of birch which he then crafted into a beautiful Shaker style chest of drawers, a gift for her mother. It was a good day, a day for just Gerry and her Dad. She had lied about having no plans because something in his eyes told her he really wanted her to help him build that desk. She knew it was because it would be their last project before she became an adult. Gerry's eyes filled as she looked back into the room.

Dan put his arm around her. "Something wrong?"

"I got some dust in my eyes." She walked over to the old furniture which

were a drop-leaf table, a tall dresser, and a secretary desk with a glass-enclosed cabinet above a pull-down writing surface. They were heavy, old fashioned pieces, and all wore toupees made of dust.

Gerry wiped some dust from the table top, inspected the finish, then pulled down the writing desk on the secretary. She saw a bit of paper with writing on it in one of the cubbyholes and felt she was prying. She closed it.

Maura said, "All this should have been gone, but I think the Greenvilles were down to their last resources and probably couldn't afford to have this put into storage. Mrs. Greenville told me she didn't need it anymore. It's yours if you want any of it. If you don't, we can donate it, or hire someone to haul it to the dump. Shall we look at the rest of the place?"

"Sure," said Gerry, following Maura across the room and opening a door to the left of the staircase.

"Here's the kitchen."

"It's big enough, that's for sure," said Gerry. "It's about twenty by sixteen, isn't it?" asked Gerry.

Maura checked the multiple listing. "That's about right."

Gerry stood in the kitchen doorway and took it all in at once. A large fireplace on the wall directly in front was flanked by old cabinets painted a dull white. To the left, a large window poured sunlight above a countertop spanning the whole wall, and on the right wall sat an old gas stove with more wooden cabinets to left and right.

"Another fireplace," said Gerry.

"Yes," said Maura. "And a kitchen fireplace is a real plus. You don't see them anymore."

The cabinets hadn't tasted a coat of paint for at least twenty years, Gerry guessed. It didn't matter. All the cabinets and appliances would be replaced. She envisioned granite on all the countertops and on the island, which at the moment was a long, heavy wooden table.

"This would need a complete renovation. New cabinets, appliances, everything," said Dan.

"Yes it would, and that means we could design it just the way we want," said Gerry. "Where do those doors lead?" She gestured to two doors, one on each side of the cabinets to left and right of the stove.

Maura pointed to the one on the left. "That one leads to the cellar. The other one leads to the formal dining room. The servants would have served the family meals through that door. There's also an entrance to the dining room off the great room."

"Let's see," said Gerry. They walked into the room, which was roughly the size of the kitchen. Two windows were on the wall straight to their left as they walked in. The walls were of plaster framed by decorative moldings. The surface, once flawless, was now chipped here and there from fixtures removed by the previous owners.

"You can fit a large dining set in here," said Maura.

Gerry opened the door leading to the great room and looked around. To her left was another door. "What's this?"

"That's the study. It was originally the butler's quarters," said Maura. "A working half bath is off the study, and there's a large full bath in the right corner room as you walk in the front door. It needs some repairs before it can be used, but it shouldn't be too extensive. There's also a small bathroom at the end of each hallway upstairs."

Gerry and Dan looked through the study and bath. The study was about half the size of the kitchen, also with wainscot, and the bath was simple in old white porcelain but badly needed updating. The bath also had a door to the great room in the corner.

Maura asked, "Shall we go upstairs?"

She shut the door to the bath and headed around to the foot of the stairs. "Come on. The best is yet to come."

"Right with you," said Gerry, following Maura. The banister on the left was so thick she couldn't span it with her hand.

"Look at the workmanship, Dan. It's wonderful." She looked up at the staircase sweeping straight up to the second floor. "Not quite as dramatic as the staircase in 'Gone With the Wind,' but it'll do."

Gerry and Dan followed Maura up the stairs.

"Scarlet, Scarlet," said Dan in a raspy Clark Gable voice. "Wait for me, dahlin..."

"Are you doing Rhett Butler, or are you doing Bugs Bunny doing Rhett Butler?"

On the huge landing at the top of the stairs, two empty brass planters stood to the left and right like squat sentinels. The cathedral ceiling soared to the circular skylight, which beamed soft light across the hardwood floor of the landing. A waist-high hardwood balustrade ran to right and left at the top of the stairs, running the entire length of the great room from each side. Gerry leaned on the balustrade and looked down at the stairs, then to her right and saw three large bedrooms spaced along the walkway. Directly across the expansive great room were three identical bedrooms and railing. Each walkway ended at a large bright window facing the front of the property.

"Wow," said Gerry. She tapped softly with her heel on the luxurious hardwood floors, feeling the solidity. The walls were papered in tiny blue flowers on a white background that had gone gray. Straight ahead of them was a bare wall below a long, narrow window near the ceiling.

"The lighting in here is fantastic," said Maura.

At the right and left corners of the landing, matching narrow staircases led to a third level.

"Upstairs there are two more large rooms and tons of attic space," said Maura. "I imagine they were servant's quarters at one time."

"Now," she continued, "Let's see the master bedroom." She led them down the hallway to the left.

"The first door is the master." She pointed across to the bedrooms on the other wing. "The corresponding room on the other side is a bit smaller than this one." She opened the master bedroom door and stood aside.

The room was immense, as large as a good-sized living room. Directly opposite, French doors opened to a balcony. Half the panes were broken. The light flowing in reminded Gerry of a Zeffirelli film, almost surrealistically bright. A fireplace detailed in pink marble yawned on the wall to their right.

Maura walked in and opened a door to the right of the fireplace. "Here's the dressing room. The adjoining rooms each have one."

Gerry peered in. The smaller attached room was perhaps twelve by twelve, with two large built-in closets.

They went out on the balcony. A woman knelt in the church's flower patch, pulling weeds. Turning around, she glanced up at the three figures on the balcony, shielding her eyes from the sun. The woman waved and smiled, then went back to her work.

"She seems nice," said Gerry, looking around the bedroom, thinking how nice it would be to have all this lovely space to fill up. "Let's see the rest of the place."

They looked briefly at the other five smaller rooms on that floor, then went up the narrow stairs to the attic where they found two large rooms off a small landing.

"Plenty of space," said Dan.

"No kidding," said Gerry, "You could hide a battleship up here."

Maura stole a quick look at her watch. "Shall we take a look at the basement now?"

"Lead on," said Dan.

They went back downstairs into the kitchen to the door leading to the basement. Maura snapped on a light at the top of the stairs and led them down. The space below was divided into two large sections, one they stepped directly into from the stairs, and another divided from the first by a fieldstone wall. It had a doorway facing them on the left-center of the wall. Gerry walked over and looked into the space beyond the wall.

"Here's the furnace," she said. "It smells like oil."

"It's cool down here," said Dan.

"Yes, but it's not too damp," said Gerry.

Afterward, Maura led them out the front door, and with some difficulty, locked it. Dan started down the slanted steps, too near the edge. His heel slipped over the side, throwing him off balance and he started to fall.

"Danny, watch out," Gerry shouted. He turned the fall into an awkward jump into an old flower bed to the side of the stairs, just missing a pile of old lumber and broken moldings.

"Are you all right?" asked Maura. Dan held his hand up.

"Perfectly fine. I've got the reflexes of a cat."

"Right, Sylvester," said Gerry. He stabbed her with a look, then bent down and picked something up.

"What do we have here?" He held up a bent square of thin metal and turned it one way, then another. "It's a sign of some sort. `No....' I can barely read it. I think it says `No Wedding Pictures.' I wonder what that's supposed to mean?" He turned it around for the others to see. The lettering was faint, bleached by the elements.

"All that stuff was supposed to have been picked up. They had a crew clean out the cellar last week," said Maura.

"That's a strange sign," said Gerry. "Oh, I bet I know. The church. People probably got married over at Saint Christopher's and came over here to have their wedding pictures taken."

"Here?" said Dan, dubiously.

"Dan, the place was spectacular, once," said Gerry. 'The owners probably got tired of people coming over, so they just put up the sign."

"Maybe," said Dan.
CHAPTER 3

After seeing four other houses and three condominiums, Maura dropped them off just after six. Gerry banged around in the sink, clearing the morning's coffee cups, feeling claustrophobic in the apartment after basking temporarily in the space of the house. The House. That's how she now referred to it. She smiled.

"Gerry, how about putting on a pot of coffee?" Dan called from the living room. She heard the muttering of the television.

"Sure, babe. Anything good on?"

A low "Nah." drifted into the kitchen. After washing the cups, she fed the coffee machine new water and grounds. When it was brewed, she sat next to Dan, a mug in each hand.

"Thanks. So what did you think of the house?" he said sarcastically.

Gerry grinned. She had told Maura that she loved it, that she couldn't have found anything more closely mirroring her idea of a perfect house.

"Don't you think you were a bit too candid? I mean, when you deal with a real estate agent, you're supposed to be a bit more reticent, aren't you? Threatening to break her arm if she took a binder from anyone else until Monday wasn't very subtle."

She leaned back into the couch. "I'm allowed to threaten her. She's my friend. I don't have to play games with Maura. We liked it, so I told her so."

"We?"

She leaned forward. "You said you liked it. On the way home, you said that."

"I said it was impressive. I didn't say I thought it was the best choice for a home for just the two of us."

He shrugged. "It does have beautiful bones, as they say on those real estate shows. It has possibilities."

"You didn't feel it," said Gerry. She blew into the hot coffee. "I thought you felt it almost as strongly as I did." She looked up. "Or I guess I wanted you to."

He smiled at her. "Felt what, McMartin?"

"I'm not sure. It's hard to describe it. It's just a feeling of...I don't know, a feeling of 'rightness'. I read an article about the brain in your gut."

"The brain in your gut?" asked Dan.

"Yes. If you're thinking about doing something, you concentrate and ask yourself if it's the right thing to do or not. There's a nerve center in the stomach. It's a primitive brain, and if you're making the right decision, you get a feeling of 'rightness.' If it's not, you get an 'iffy' feeling. That's what gut instinct is."

"Look, I actually do like the house. It's funny. When we walked into the great room, I imagined myself dressed in evening clothes, coming home from the opera. It felt good, like I belonged there."

"You hate opera."

"I know. I said I was coming home from the opera. It was over."

She nodded. "Then you did feel it. You didn't know it, but you felt it."

"I don't go by feelings when it comes to investing money, but I do like the numbers on this." He sipped his coffee. "So I'm willing to take the plunge with you."

Gerry looked up at him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. If we love it, we stay. If it turns out we hate it, we fix it up and flip it. Like on television."

He put his coffee down, took hers and put it down, then slid over to her and put his right arm around her shoulders. He put his forehead against hers and stared straight into her eyes. It made Gerry feel like she was about to make out with a Cyclops.

"That makes me dizzy. Are you getting weird on me, or what?"

He talked into her mouth. "I love you." He kissed her cheek, then her lips. "Would you consider...wait," he said, dropping to one knee in front of her.

"Would you marry me?" His large eyes were wide open, trusting, but with a tiny tug of apprehension. "I didn't buy a ring yet because I think it would be bad luck."

She laughed at the absurdity of his fear of a rejection. "I think you can count on a 'yes' there," she said. Her eyes filled. She loved him so much, it hurt. "Ok, good. It's nice to know in advance you're going to say yes. Sets up a comfort zone."

Gerry touched his hair. "My parents lived together before they got married and toyed around with just leaving it that way, never getting married. Not from any disdain for tradition, I think, because they're as traditional as you get in most things. I think it was more to prove they loved each other so much they didn't need a contract. They had a civil ceremony and a small reception."

She smiled at him. "I want a big reception."

"Me too," he said, "I think a formal ceremony of some kind is essential. It's a symbolic...." He paused, wanting to choose just the right word.

"Symbol?" she said helpfully.

"That's it," he said, pointing at her. He kissed her arm. "Thank you. Without a ceremony, it would be too easy to pack up and leave at the slightest disagreement."

"No it wouldn't, pal," she said.

"Not for us. I'm talking about mortals. Seriously, marriage is a formal commitment. It needs a formal ceremony," he continued, "It's like a stamp of approval for the whole universe to see. If your company didn't have a written contract with that travel agency chain, could they do business?"

"That's business. This is love."

Dan gently kissed her earlobe. "Love is my business." Gerry's eyes half-closed.

He asked again, "So you will?' He wanted to hear it again.

"Oh yes," she said dreamily, then after a long second, "Will I what?"

"Marry me."

"Of course."

"Great. We'll go shopping for a ring this week."

"Great. Let's go to bed."

"It's only seven o'clock."

"I don't care," she said, pulling him into the bedroom. They made love, showered, dressed, then went to a movie. Later, Gerry lay awake, her eyes on the ceiling. Dan had fallen asleep in what seemed like seconds. It was a marvelous knack he had. She watched the changing shadows caused by the reflected light of cars passing on the street below. The swish of tires was a soothing urban surf.

The electronic minutes on the clock marched on as Gerry lay waiting for sleep to pull her down. Falling, she jumped, her nerves jarring her back to consciousness. God, she hated that. Dan's breathing was even and deep. She rolled over and slowly felt her eyelids turning to lead, then fell into sleep.

Her eyes flicked back and forth under the lids. She was near a river, strolling hand-in-hand in the sunlight with Dan. She wore a stunning white gown and Dan a gray morning coat with tails. The grass was lush beneath their feet, the breeze cool and sweet. The river lapped gently against the bank and jays chattered on a branch above their heads.

Gerry smelled a vague scent of burning and they turned to look across the river. From the distance, they saw an impossibly tall tsunami of orange and red liquid fire racing across the expanse, devouring the cool water, turning it into steam and filling the air with brutal heat and a foul, bitter smell.

They stood on the shore and watched, unable to move. As the wave approached, Gerry reached up and touched her eyebrows. They fell from her forehead in ashes. Then her lips dried up and peeled from her face. The sky was black above the flaming wave. Under their feet, the grass died instantly and shriveled. Gerry screamed soundlessly, trying to run from the fire, but couldn't move. The wave loomed above them, rushing forward with a roar like a huge locomotive from hell.

Gerry's saw a pair of eyes glowing brighter than the surrounding flames. Like those of a huge wolf, they stared at her from within the crest of the wave. Just as the wall of fire began to crash over them, a mouth formed beneath the eyes. It smiled with a profound coldness and she heard a horrible deep laughter that filled her with horror and despair.

Gerry's eyes flew open and she bolted to a sitting position. Reality settled into her mind and she sunk her head between her knees.

"Oh," she said, in a low, confused voice.

Dan said gently, "You okay? That nightmare must have been a bad one." Her nightgown and bedding were sweat-soaked.

"What time is it?" she asked, reaching for a glass of water on the night table. Her hand shook.

"Just after one." He put his arm around her shoulder. Her whole body was shaking.

"Oh my God, Dan, it seemed so real. I've never had a dream like that. It was so frightening. You know how with some dreams you kind of know somewhere inside that it's just a dream and you just go with it until it's over?"

Dan nodded. "I think so."

"This was like the opposite of that. This was awful. I felt suffocated by an awful, hopeless feeling. I felt like I was being crushed. I've never felt so afraid."

Dan sat forward, holding her hands. "Tell me about it before you forget the details. Maybe that'll help."

She shook her head. "I'll never forget this one, Dan.

She nodded resolutely, "Okay, we were walking on a beach. A huge wave rolled over toward us from the other side of the river. It was the color of fire, and it was kind of like lava, but more fluid, like some weird burning water. Just before it crashed over us, this horrible face grinned through the water, like a devil, or an animal of some kind. And it laughed, a deep, horrible laugh. We were dressed in wedding clothes."

"Great. My proposal was that scary, huh?"

She smiled feebly. "We watched it come at us and we couldn't do anything about it. It just crashed over us, and then I woke up." She held her forehead. "Oh my God, that grinning face in the water."

"At least he had a sense of humor."

"It's not funny. And it wasn't a 'He'. It was an 'It,' a thing. The eyes were like an animal's, but with intelligence."

"Sounds kind of like the Mask of Comedy modeled by the Wolf Man, or a German Shepherd with a weird sense of humor," said Dan, his eyebrows raised hopefully.

She looked at him, then smoothed her hair back and slowly smiled at him. He was trying to lighten it up, and as usual, he did.

"It's always more frightening for a monster to be human-like, to have human intelligence. It reminds us that the monster might be the person next door, or the crazy uncle in the attic. Or ourselves."

"Thank you Sigmund," said Gerry.

Dan put both arms around her and she leaned into him, resting her forehead beneath his chin. They sat like that for a full minute, listening to the clock ticking and the city breathing outside their window. She smiled at him and kissed his cheek.

"Get up. I want to change the bedding."

"I'll do it."

"Okay. I'm taking a shower."

"After," said Dan.

"After what?"

Dan kissed her sweat-soaked neck, just above the neckline of the clinging,

wet nylon gown. "After I give you a massage," he said.

"A massage?" she said.

"Yep. I read an article in "Health Today." I am now a bona fide unlicensed masseuse."

"Masseur. You're a man."

"Right." He pulled her nightgown over her head and gently eased her down onto her stomach, then began kneading the bunched muscles in her back.

"Mm. Not bad," she said, breathing deeply. Afterward, she showered while Dan pulled off the bedding and replaced it with fresh cotton sheets. When finished, he closed the window and switched on the air conditioning. As Gerry brushed her hair at the vanity mirror, Dan knelt and kissed her shoulder, then the back of her neck.

In the morning, neither of them heard the alarm. When Gerry opened her eyes, the sun was ominously bright. She jumped up, shook Dan and they scrambled to get dressed. They were out of the house in forty minutes, rushing to the Lexington Avenue Subway at 96th Street.

Gerry and Dan scrunched together clinging on a pole, and at the Fifty-ninth Street station, Dan said good-bye and got off to switch to the West Side. Gerry slipped into a vacant seat in the nanosecond it became available, then buried her nose in a book. People pushed into the car trying desperately to keep their personal space, but unavoidably bumping into each other.

The skinny young man next to Gerry spread his legs like a linebacker, and Gerry pulled hers as close together as possible without becoming a new species, then bumped his leg anyway and said "Excuse me."

He ignored her. Gerry looked back into her book. On the subway everyone either read or stared pointedly through and over everyone else, avoiding eye contact at all costs in the unnatural closeness.

14th Street approached and the train stopped in a rumble of protesting steel as Gerry waited for her side of the door to open. Of course it didn't and she waited for a half dozen others to leave before escaping through the other door, then walked across the street to her building on Union Square, twenty minutes late.

When Gerry got to her floor, she waved to Maria, the receptionist. Maria was typing and smiled back. She had only been here a few months, but had fit in well. She was nice and minded her own business. Gerry stole quickly past Pete Walker's corner office and slipped into hers, shutting the door behind her.

Gerry skimmed through her inbox debris. Billy Kramer hadn't done the updates from yesterday. Since she was the project manager, Walker would get on her. Great. Just then, her phone rang.

"This is Gerry McMartin."

"Gerry? This is Maura. Hey, I'm not putting any pressure on you hon, but I've got someone looking at the house today. He's a private contractor from Yonkers, and I have a feeling he might make an offer."

"Dan and I discussed it last night and we've decided to submit that offer," Gerry said, "Are you sure it isn't too high?"

"No, no. It's right there. You have to be aggressive with this one. Of course you can offer anything you want, but if you really want to nail this place, leave the numbers where they are. It's already below market value for that area."

"Okay, let's do it."

"Okay. The papers are all ready. All you have to do is sign. I'll drop them off at your office. Do you have a lawyer to handle the closing, assuming the offer is accepted?"

"Yes. Pete Marcus. He went to College with Dan. You met him a few times. Good looking, blond guy?"

"I remember."

"Maura, if they accept, do you think we could start working on the place before the closing, to save time?"

"I don't know, that's kind of unusual."

"Nothing big, I just want to start cleaning it up."

"If you did, and you don't get the house, you've wasted your time. I'll tell you what. I'll make a call or two and find out. I'll let you know."

"Great. Okay, talk to you later," said Gerry.

Gerry put the phone down and her cell phone immediately rang. She snapped it open. "Dan. What's up babe?"

"Good news. Remember that place we saw by the river? The one we thought would be so nice for a wedding reception?"

"Shut up," she yelled, "Rive Gauche is available for that weekend?"

"It's available. They just called me. Another affair had been booked but a check bounced or something. Anyway, it's available for that Saturday. Is that okay?"

"That's fantastic. What time frame is available?"

"Five to eleven. They also said we could stage the wedding in their court yard. It had that nice fountain, remember? We could have the ceremony at four. There would still be plenty of daylight left."

"Super. That really will be gorgeous."  
"They'll provide a cocktail hour from five to six, then a sit-down dinner, and they would provide a host who would introduce everyone, announce the first dance, do the cake, all that stuff."

"What about the hokey-pokey?" asked Gerry.

"They confirmed that they will do the hokey-pokey."

"Great. I love the hokey-pokey."

"I know."

"How much..."

"About what we planned for. So shall we commit to it?"

"Definitely. Let's do it. I'm impressed. I didn't know you were a wedding planner along with all your other talents."

"Ok. I'll tell them we want it. I really have to go, love."

"Okay. Bye. Love you," said Gerry.

On Friday, Gerry and Dan took a half day to fill out the bank papers, then had a light supper at a trendy new restaurant on First Avenue before taking in a movie. On the way home they stopped into the supermarket.

When they got into the apartment, Gerry said, "God, it's sweltering out there." After putting away the groceries, Gerry picked up her cell phone, which she had left on the counter. She check her voice mail and listened for a minute, then put the phone down.

"Cool. That was Maura. She says we've got the okay to work on the house. We have to sign a waiver for insurance purposes, in case we get hurt or something."  
"Super. We get to clean up someone else's house." said Dan.

"It'll be ours. Hey, I'm starving." Gerry took bread, mustard and mayonnaise from the refrigerator and arranged cold cuts on a platter. Dan piled a mound of roast beef and lettuce between slices of deli rye while Gerry attacked the corned beef and German potato salad.

"I think you're pregnant," said Dan, between mouthfuls of corned beef.  
"That isn't remotely funny," she said.

"I thought you were going to strangle the waiter when he served that sliver of chicken breast with the parsley on top arranged like a cock's crest," said Dan as he looked fondly at the doomed sandwich.

"He's lucky I didn't chew his arm off as he served it. No jury in the world would have convicted me."

"When do you think we'll find out about the financing?" asked Gerry.

"It's pre-approved, but we should get the formal word in a few weeks, maybe sooner."

Gerry poured herself a glass of skim milk. "Maura said the closing could be as soon as the end of August."

After eating, they cleared up the table and Dan loaded the dishwasher. "Rinse them off first."

"You don't really need to," he said, rinsing.

"I want to get up to the house by about ten tomorrow. That okay with you?"

"Sounds good." said Dan, wiping the dining table with a small cotton towel laced with lemon oil. "I'll set my alarm."

"You won't hear it."

"Yes, I will."

In the morning, it was past eight-thirty before Gerry finally had the heart to wake him. She watched him as he slept heavily, snoring lightly. His eyes were light hazel and gorgeous, his curly hair dark, almost black. She loved him so much. He was self assured but with a delightfully small ego. When she crushed him in Scrabble he got somewhat testy. His wide-set mouth would pull up at one side and his eyes would get that this-doesn't-really-matter-to-me fish-eyed look.

She shook him gently, kissed his cheek and went to put on the coffee. In a few minutes, she heard the shower running.

They walked to the small parking lot on the corner, enjoying the drier, warm morning air. The Camry's interior was still cool from the night as they drove across town to the West Side Highway. Later, they passed their exit on the Saw Mill Parkway and went to a shopping center where they bought a broom, a mop and bucket, cleaners, paper towels and plastic trash bags. Dan angled the mop and broom handles so they rested between the front seats.

It was noon when they got to the house. The sun was directly overhead, leaving the old house and its grounds in stark brilliance. The only area of shade nearby was beneath the maple tree in front of the church. Dan extracted the mops and brooms and Gerry carried the rest.

"Are you sure this is all right? Working on the house before we've even bought it?" he asked.

"Maura called and got the okay. It's fine. Relax. Enjoy."

"Right. Enjoy. This is going to be hot work," he said, staring up the drive to the house. "What happens if we clean the whole thing up and we don't get the house?"

"It's ours, believe me. My gut tells me so. We've got the financing and we've got the house." She looked at Dan appraisingly.

"Your gut tells you so? Why doesn't your gut tell you to hire a cleaning company?"

"Stop whining. I want to do this myself. This is our house. I want everything done right. She stopped and looked at him, wondering if she had bullied him into this. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'm not changing my mind," said Dan, "I talked to Pete about it. When you invest in something, you buy low. We're definitely buying low here. We should do fine with this. It's probably the best investment we can make right now."

As they walked up the driveway, Dan said "Look at this yard. The landscaping is going to cost."

"Couldn't we do it ourselves?"

Dan shrugged. "Theoretically we could. We'd have to rent a tilling machine, buy topsoil, seed. It would be a lot of work, and I'm afraid it might look like it was done by amateurs, since it would have been. I'm more inclined to get a few bids from some local companies. Doing it ourselves might not be the best way to go."

"I guess we could get some estimates," Gerry said. They walked carefully up the tilted staircase and Gerry unlocked the door.

Stepping through the foyer into the large living room, they saw the sun streaming through the two large, floor-to-ceiling windows on the right wall. Instantly, Gerry envisioned the old green paint above the wainscot as a flat, very pale cream color and the paneling stripped of all traces of paint, then sanded and finished.

The furniture, excluding the essentials, would come bit by bit, gradually transforming the house into a comfortable home, with an office, a media room, and possibly the billiard room Dan coveted. She looked around. Until they decided on the furniture, a few large potted plants in strategic places would help fill the voids. Later, perhaps they would add a nursery. She touched her flat stomach. Later. That possibility was still to be determined.

In the corners of the room, networks of fine spider webs stretched between the walls, the remains of its tiny victims dotting the silken tendrils. Gerry swept away the tiny catacombs from each corner with the broom. Dust flew from the motion and Gerry took two bandanas she had brought in her handbag and tied one over her head, the other bandit-style to cover her mouth and nose.

Dan opened the windows with much creaking complaint.

"We need some air in here. If this place had been in my neighborhood, these windows would have been smashed to bits. What's wrong with the children around here?"

He dusted his hands together. "I saw a rake in the carriage house the last time we were here. I think I'll go out and clean up some of the junk outside."

Gerry sneezed. "Be my guest. We only brought one broom anyway. Have fun."

Outside, Dan walked to the back and found the old rake, then started in the front of the house. The old tool was strong and heavy, made before planned obsolescence. The ground was hard, the texture of the dirt dry and brittle as he collected the brush, bits of wood and myriad small pieces of debris. After just a few minutes, sweat trickled down his arm and onto the handle. In half an hour, he had done an area barely twenty feet square.

"Hello there," said a voice from behind. He turned around and saw the woman they had noticed working in Saint Christopher's flower garden last week. She walked over to Dan, smiling. She was tall, with dark, gray-streaked hair and wore a yellow-print summer dress.

"Hi," said Dan, leaning on the rake. She looked somewhere in her middle fifties. "I'm Dan Williams."

"Hello. I'm Jacqueline Armstrong, the housekeeper for Father Logan. He's the pastor of Saint Christopher's. Are you a gardener? They haven't done a thing to this place in years."

"No, actually, we're planning to buy the place. We're just getting a jump on the cleanup. As you can see, we've got a lot of work ahead of us."

"That's wonderful. It'll be so nice to have neighbors. You'll have it ship shape in no time, I'm sure. It's sad that they've left the place go to ruin. Oh, I didn't mean..."

Dan smiled gently. "I know, and I agree. The couple that lived here came into some bad times, I heard."

"Yes, they did." said Jacqueline. "It wasn't their fault. It's a big property. They had lived here since the early fifties and always kept it up beautifully, Father Logan said. In the last years they couldn't keep up with it."

"Did you know them?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Greenville? Oh yes. They were very nice people."

"Well, Gerry and I definitely have a lot of work ahead. It must have been quite a place in its day, though. Was the church here when the house was first built?"

Jacqueline frowned. "I don't believe so. The original property of the house extended for quite a few acres. I think the church was built after they sold off most of the land. Sometime in the thirties, I believe."

"Oh, is that your wife?" she asked. Gerry came out the front door brushing the dust from her clothes.

Dan grinned. Gerry looked like a Russian peasant getting ready to rob the Deadwood Stage. "Not yet. We haven't set a firm date." Gerry walked over to them.

The housekeeper introduced herself, then said, "One minute," and went into the one-story addition at the back of the little church. She returned in a moment with a pitcher of ice water garnished with fresh lemon and two plastic tumblers. Gerry drank down a whole glassful at once and Dan did the same. Jacqueline placed the tray on the ground.

Dan smiled. "Thanks a lot. That was great. I knew there was something we forgot."

"This is very nice of you," said Gerry, pouring a bit of water onto her handkerchief and wiping the dirt from her face.

"You know, dear," said the woman, "You should sprinkle some water over the dust before sweeping. It would make it easier." Gerry thanked her for the advice.

"Are you the housekeeper at the rectory?" asked Gerry, gesturing toward the rectory.

"Yes. Father Logan is an invalid now and the diocese hired me to do the cleaning and cooking. I'm also a registered nurse."

"It sounds like they get their money's worth," said Gerry.

The woman smiled. "I do keep busy, and I like it that way. The diocese sends a maintenance person to do any repairs or heavy work."

"Do they still say masses here?" asked Gerry

"Oh yes. Father Florio from St. John's comes every Sunday, and we have visiting priests as well."

"It's a small parish, isn't it?" asked Gerry, noticing the small parking lot behind the church.

"Yes, it always was. I guess because of the location, on this big hill. After St. John's was built downtown in the fifties, it reduced the parish even more."

Gerry glanced at the church and noticed something in the window of the addition. The bright sun flashing on the glass and the darkness within made it hard to see, but Gerry could just make out the outline of a person's head and shoulders.

Mrs. Armstrong saw where Gerry was looking and said, "That's Father Logan. He's nearly ninety now and paralyzed. The poor man had a massive stroke a few years ago and that's how it left him. They were planning to send him to a home, but he became so upset he refused to eat. They finally decided to let him stay here and hired me to care for him." Gerry watched the housekeeper turn to look at the church. When she tilted her head and looked up like that, she looked ten years younger.

When Gerry looked back at the window, the figure was gone.

"I thought you said he couldn't move?"

"He can't, except for his right hand. He can also move his head very slightly. The bishop bought him a custom electric scooter. He works it from a little console on the arm of the chair. It saves me steps, but more importantly, it lets him feel less dependant. He was an active man for his age. He would putter in the garden and do little odd jobs around the church. It's such a shame when an active, strong man is struck down like that."

Gerry smiled and said, "He's lucky to have you to look after him."

Jacqueline seemed genuinely pleased at the compliment. "Thanks. I'd invite you over for tea, but I'm afraid Father Logan hasn't been feeling well lately. He's not fond of doctors, but I'm going to have to call Dr. Strang if he doesn't perk up soon."

She smiled and said, "I have to start lunch now. If you need anything at all, come right over. Oh, and there's a tool shed just behind the rectory. If you need to borrow anything in there, just take it. Don't even bother asking."

"Thanks very much," said Dan. "That'll be a big help. Gerry, Jacqueline was telling me she knew the Greenvilles."

"Really? Do you know who owned the house before the Greenvilles?"

Jacqueline seemed thoughtful for a second, then said, "Father Logan told me the placed was owned for a short time by a young couple named Connelly in the early forties. Mr. Connelly was a close friend of Father Logan, actually."

"How long did they live there?" asked Gerry.

"Not very long," she said. One of the glasses fell off the tray laying on the ground without breaking. The housekeeper reached down and picked it up with the tray. "Not a chip."

"I wonder who lived there after the Connellys? The Greenvilles didn't buy it until the fifties," said Gerry, looking over at the house.

"I'm not really sure about that. I think it was rented out for a few years. I really need to get back to the rectory. You two have a fine house here. It's got plenty of room for a big family. There's nothing like little ones to bring a house to life. I grew up in a big family." She laughed. "Listen to me. Someday I'll learn to mind my own business."

Gerry smiled. "Not at all. Children have a habit of coming when they come."

"That's so true." Over her shoulder, Jacqueline said, "It was very nice meeting both of you."

"Thanks, you too," said Gerry.

When Jacqueline was gone, Gerry said, "You know Dan, we haven't talked much about children yet, except in a vague way." She looked squarely into his face. "It's something we need to talk about."

Dan studied the small group of freckles on her nose.

"Don't even think about it. Leave my nose alone. Are you open to having children?"

"I'm open to the necessary preliminary preparations," he said.

"Dan."

"Of course I want children. I assumed we'd have at least four, maybe five." He scrunched his eyes, trying to seem surprised and disappointed, "Why, didn't you?"

Gerry's eyes widened for a second, then she shook her head.

Dan pointed his finger at her midsection. "You're the one who'd have to bear them, not me. Let's go eat."

Gerry shook her head. "No. This is something that has to be covered. Do you want children?"

"I think I would, yes, but it's not a deal breaker. If we didn't have children, that would be okay. If there was something about you physiologically that would make pregnancy dangerous, then no, I wouldn't want children. Let's go eat."

Gerry smiled, shook her head and put her arm around his waist. She kissed his arm. "Okay, let's eat."

After lunch at a brand new retro fifties diner off the Saw Mill Parkway, they drove back to the house and cleaned until five o'clock. Tired, dirty, and satisfied with their day's work, they went home. Gerry fixed a light supper of tuna salad, hard-boiled eggs and lettuce and tomato. Their big chocolate couch looked too comfortable and they declined a telephoned invitation from Pete Marcus for drinks at Lafitte's. Dan fell asleep on the couch halfway through a late night Fellini movie. Showered, contented, and full of tuna salad, Gerry curled into a corner of the couch beyond Dan's feet and became engrossed in a book, then just after one o'clock, she roused him and they went to bed.

At two she woke up screaming.
CHAPTER 4

Throughout the following week, Gerry was unusually tired, and it made Dan uneasy. On the following Saturday just before three in the morning, Dan jumped to a sitting position and said groggily, "What, another one?"

Gerry nodded. Sweat droplets beaded down her temple. Her eyes were bloodshot. He kneaded the bunched, rigid muscles of her neck.

"Not another one. The same one," she said wearily. It's always the same." She covered her eyes with the heels of her hands, rubbing them as if to wipe away the memory.

"How many times have you had this dream?"

"Four, five. I don't know."  
"Gerry, I think you should go see someone about this."

She turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "A shrink?"

"Yes. Or maybe a psychologist. There's no stigma to that sort of thing any more. They might be able to help. You're losing too much sleep. It's not healthy."

Gerry took two aspirins from the bottle on her night table and poured a glass of water from the nearby carafe.

"Why don't I ask Pete if he knows someone. That professional building where he has his office might have a psychologist or two."

"Dan, what are you thinking? No thank you. I don't need Pete or anyone else to know anything about this. I'll find a therapist myself."

Dan lay back down, relieved. At least she had agreed to see someone.

Gerry's nightgown felt sticky and disgusting. She showered, slept fitfully for a few more hours, then woke and stared through the window at the dark-red bricks in the building across the street. She dropped off again at dawn.

At nine she woke to rain smacking against the windowsill and inhaled the steamy smell of scorched concrete and rain. An alchemical mingling of scent and remembrance brought back a long forgotten, rainy August Saturday. She had been waiting for her mother outside the neighborhood movie house. All her friends had all been picked up. Steam rose from the broiling street and Gerry was on the verge of considering the idea that she had been forgotten when her mother finally turned the corner. Under the sheet, Gerry smiled and stretched. Her mother would never have forgotten her.

The apartment was quiet. Gerry followed her nose and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee to the kitchen and found a note from Dan saying he had gone to the store. He hadn't been gone long. The coffee had just finished brewing and she poured a cup and went to the chair near the window and watched the street below. Her hand shook as she sipped the coffee. It was only morning and the inevitable coming of the night had already crept into her mind. She remembered what her Great-uncle Earl had once said about fear.

Her mother and Earl had taken Gerry and her friend Lily to Rockaway Beach, and Gerry told him she was afraid of the big waves.

In his Irish brogue, Earl told her, "Don't let fear run your life, Geraldine. Let it crash over you like a wave at the beach, then get back up on your feet and dive through the next one."

"Here, I'll show you." He started walking quickly toward the breakers digging his cane into the sand as if he was going to dive into the surf. He wasn't even wearing a bathing suit.

"No, Uncle Earl," Gerry shrieked. Her mother, watching from the blanket, laughed.

"Well, I guess I'd better not," said Earl, stopping and leaning on his cane.

Gerry then ran into the water and dove through a breaker, springing up and throwing her wet hair back with a huge freckled grin. She remembered his earnest, aging blue eyes when she walked back over to him.

"They can't hurt you, girl. When the wave passes, stand up and face the next." She never forgot his words.

She thought for a second and said, "But the water can hurt sometimes, can't it, Uncle Earl?" She wasn't just asking about the ocean, and they both knew it.

Earl laughed. "It can, it can. Just do the right things, live the right way, and

don't get in too deep over your head. You'll be fine. You can become afraid of anything if you allow yourself to. See that bird over there?"

Gerry looked at the tiny little sparrow pecking at a crumb on the sand. "Yes." The bird cocked his head, as if eying them.

"I used to be mortally afraid of sparrows, with their beady little eyes, and those sharp talons they have"

Gerry gave him her "Yeah, right, Uncle Earl" look and laughed.

"Are you making fun of my fears?" he said, outraged.

"No," Gerry said, sighing.

"Well then, let me finish. So for the longest time, I feared being taken by one of those filthy little birds and being pulled into the air by their mighty wings, then dumped into their huge nest for their dinner."

Gerry giggled. "Okay, Uncle Earl."

"Now I'm pretty sure they couldn't do that, but I stayed away from the park for years because of my fear. I missed a lot of pleasant, sunny days because of it. It was the fear that caused my troubles, not the bird. See?"

"I don't believe you," Gerry had said, grinning as the bird took off into the breeze.

Gerry stared gloomily down at the hot city street. She knew what Earl would say about the crashing wave of fire. He'd say "It's just a dream, girl. Wake up and keep living your life. Keep going forward."

It might be easier to deal with if she knew the nightmare was coming every night. She could condition herself to it, make it a part of herself, and so maybe a little less frightening. The randomness of it made it more repugnant, made the apprehensiveness more acute. This was ridiculous. She had to do something.

On Thursday evening, Dan sipped a coke as he waited for Gerry to finish her hair. They were dining with Pete Marcus and Maura Kirk. Gerry walked into the living room in a short sleeved white cotton blouse and black slacks. She grabbed her handbag and headed back to the bedroom.

"Almost ready," she said. Dan followed her inside.

"I still can't believe we got the mortgage approval so quickly," said Gerry as she put on eyeliner.

"Well, our credit score is up there, and a friend of Pete's handled the loan. Of course, we wouldn't have been approved on that basis, nor would we want to be, but he handled it personally and was able to get it into the underwriter's hands more quickly."

Gerry snapped the cap on her eye liner. "There. Finished."

"Wow, Martinelli, you look especially fetching tonight."

Gerry flashed a smile. "Thanks. So do you." She looked him up and down. He had a black silk shirt and a gray sports jacket. "Will Pete be at the closing tomorrow?"

"Sure. He has to be. The four of us should go to lunch afterward."

"Great. I've always wondered why Pete never asked Maura out before now. He's had the hots for her ever since they met."

"Who doesn't?" asked Dan, catching Gerry's eye in the mirror.

"You, for one if you value your life. Okay, let's go," she said, slipping a small clutch purse under her arm.

On the way down in the elevator, she asked, "Did you call the electric company?"

"I'll do that tomorrow, after the closing. And the water and cable company. Do you think Maura and Pete will click?"

Gerry shrugged as the left the elevator. "Who knows? In many ways they're very similar. Both are smart, ambitious. I think Pete might be a little nicer. Maura is my best friend, but she has a unique edginess, especially where men are concerned."

"Let's walk up and get a cab at Lexington," said Dan.

"You brought the semi-mobile Japanese planter back to the garage, right?" asked Gerry.

"I've got to put it somewhere when I can't find a spot."

"Just think. When we move into the house we can actually use it as a car." Near 3rd Avenue, she ran ahead and corralled a taxi that was just turning from 95th Street.

When they walked through the door at Lafitte's, Pete was standing at the end of the bar talking to one of the bartenders. He waved and walked down the long aisle behind the bar stools. The place was beginning to fill up with people. Pete was just under six feet, sandy-haired and well built.

He kissed Gerry on the cheek. "Hi, guys. Maura's not here yet. I've got a table in the corner."

As they took their seats, Maura walked past the bar to the table. "Sorry I'm late." She wore a simple black dress which highlighted the soft red of her hair. Pete held a chair for her.

The waiter turned out to be Oscar, and Gerry and Dan exchanged amused glances as he distributed the menus. Oscar seemed to study Pete for a second before dropping a menu unceremoniously in front of him, then lovingly presented Maura's with a regal flourish resembling a settling butterfly.

Gerry covered her mouth to hide the grin. Pete looked at Maura with a puzzled expression. Maura looked up and thanked Oscar in a rich, throaty tone. Oscar beamed and left.

"Oscar has a bit of a crush on Maura," said Gerry.

"Oh, I see. Well, tomorrow's the big day. The other lawyer's name is Dalrymple. If I'm not there right on time just tell him I'm on my way. How's the house coming?"

"Great," answered Dan, "We've got a lot of the painting done. The furniture and boxes will be moved on Friday."

"We're having a little party on Saturday," said Gerry. "Very casual. Sort of a housewarming. We'd like you both to come."

"Sounds like fun," said Pete. "Maura, are you free?"

"I am, actually. I'd like that."

"Terrific," said Gerry. They ate dinner, then lingered over a second bottle of wine. It was almost ten when Gerry and Dan left and caught a cab home. Pete and Maura decided to go dancing afterward.

At the closing the next day all went smoothly. When they got back to the apartment, Gerry and Dan dove straight back into packing for the move.

"Did you notice how Pete acted strangely toward Maura?" asked Gerry. "He completely ignored her."

"Something happened last night after we left them. I called Pete this morning while you were in the shower to confirm everything was a go for the closing. He wouldn't give specifics, but I gather it didn't go very well. He said she was a sexual tease. I'm surprised he even said that to me. He doesn't usually share things like that."

Gerry stopped and looked up. "That doesn't sound like Mo."

"People play different roles. They show different faces. They can be the best friend in the world to you, but brutal to their love interest. People are constantly changing their role-masks."

"You're a business major. Where did you read that?"

"In my dentist's office. It sounded quite valid."

"Maybe Pete misread some signals," said Gerry. "People can be obtuse."

"Not Pete. I've known him long enough to know he's a perceptive guy. I don't think he'd misread that." Dan flipped over an empty box and taped the underside.

"When sex is in the equation you never know," said Gerry.

Dan looked over at the stack of boxes against the wall. "We're almost done. The movers will be here at six. We'd better make it an early night. "

"Sounds like a plan," said Gerry.

By eight-thirty Friday morning, the moving van was loaded and Gerry and Dan drove up to Hastings arriving ten minutes before the truck. The air was pleasantly cool and Gerry took a deep breath as they stood in front of the house.

"You can smell Autumn, can't you?"

"Yup. Football season's almost here. I just had a horrible thought. What if they don't have cable up here?"

"We'd survive. They have cable, though. I called. They're definitely delivering the new stove and refrigerator today, aren't they?"

"That's what they said. You realize we'll have to gut the whole kitchen eventually. The electrician said we can use the outlets for now, but he recommended not delaying the rewiring for too long, and it's going to cost."

"We figured all that when we bought." She tapped him on the arm. "Relax. This is fun."

The moving went smoothly and Jacqueline Armstrong was back and forth with pitchers of lemonade and platters of sandwiches. After the movers left, Jacqueline brought over a loaf of bread and a box of salt. She gave it to Gerry, who grinned broadly.

"For luck. It's an old Irish custom. Bread so that you'll never go hungry and salt so that your life will be interesting and fulfilling."

"Thank you so much. My great uncle always brought bread and salt to a new home."

"I have to get back now. Father Logan is going to want his tea."

Gerry kissed her cheek. "Thanks, Jacqueline. You will come to the party tomorrow night?"

"Yes, I'd love it. Good luck in the house. If you need anything, let me know." Dan saw her leaving and waved, then walked over.

"I like her. I hope she does come tomorrow," said Dan, "She strikes me as being a little lonely."

"She shouldn't be." said Gerry "She's intelligent and very attractive."

They arranged the living room furniture, then Dan spread a blanket and pillows on the floor in front of the fireplace.

"Let's get something to eat, pick up some of those instant fireplace logs and sleep in front of the fire. It's supposed to get cool tonight." He pulled her against him and kissed her. "Afterward, we'll open a bottle of wine, put on some music and I'll let you ravish me."

"Sounds good to me, Bunky. Let's go. We'd better pick up some groceries, too. We've got a ton to do. Thank God we both have vacation time coming. Bill Steen didn't mind your taking two weeks off?"

"Not at all. I'm surprised Walker let you take two weeks."

"He whined a bit, but I haven't taken time off in almost a year, so he had no valid reason to refuse."

"So everything is all set for Rive Gauche?"

"It's all set. At four o'clock on August 24th, we will be married," said Dan.

"Dan, is it going to be a problem for you with your family not having the wedding in the Church?"

Dan shrugged. "Not really. I mean, neither one of us has practiced the faith for a while. A few of my older relatives may be a little miffed, but they'll get over it. We could get a non-denominational minister to marry us."

"I don't think so. If we're not married in the Church, I think it would be best to just have a civil ceremony."

"You're right. Pete knows Judge Sala. He says he's a nice man. We could probably get him to do it"

"Good, good," said Gerry, obviously relieved.

"Okay, that's settled," said Dan. "Now, where do I whisk you off to on the honeymoon? The sky's the limit."

"I was thinking Disney World. We don't really have enough money budgeted for Europe, at least not right now. We can do that next year, maybe. Besides, I've never been to Disney World. Sea World is right nearby, too. It would be a blast."

Dan laughed and hugged her. "Disney World? Is this because I told you I felt deprived not getting to go to Disneyland when I was little? Actually, nobody from my neighborhood ever went to Disneyland. They beat up the kids that went to Disneyland. Let's do it."

"I'll call a travel agent Monday. Ok, that's done. Now let's get going. I'm starving and dead tired."

Gerry woke early Saturday morning bursting with energy and relief. The night had passed without the visitation of the dream. While Dan still slept, she started her day by rolling out the large area rug in the living room. The scrubbed and waxed border of dark wooden flooring around the carpet looked better than she expected. With effort she replaced the furniture around the fireplace, then headed for the kitchen.

Two hours later, three large pans of lasagna were ready for the oven and several bowls of salad were in the fridge. When Dan came down after showering and dressing, Gerry had already formed a small army of hors d'oeuvres.

"Wow, you're really on top of it all. Can I help?" He came over and kissed her shoulder.

"Go over to the rectory and see if Jacqueline has any chairs she can lend us. Then set up the bar on one of those new folding tables on that wall." She pointed at the wall opposite the fireplace.

"After that, set up the stereo on the small desk in the corner. Then come back for further orders."

"Aye aye, Cap'n, Arrh," he said. "Then can I have a mug of grog?"

"Okay, but hurry it up. We must have been crazy to set this up so soon after moving in."

"We? I presume you have a mouse in your pocket," said Dan, "Because I never wanted...." He saw her begin to turn around and hurried off to the rectory.

Gerry bit her lip as she tried to draw a smiling face on a cracker with cheese topping and gave up after the first try, popping the unrecognizable mess into her mouth. They would have to settle for the little blobs. She looked around at the first kitchen she had ever owned, with its frilly white curtains and new satin-finish peach paint. The cabinets were what they were, but by next month, the kitchen would be reborn.

Bright sunlight filtered into the kitchen through her new white curtains. It was good, she thought - this house, the genesis of her new life, was good. It was big, clean, fresh and good.

Someone knocked at the kitchen door. Jacqueline Armstrong entered carrying three foil wrapped packages and set them on the counter.

"Morning, Gerry. I made banana bread. My specialty."

"Oh, that smells incredible. Thanks so much. You better put them over there out of my reach. I'd fight King Kong for fresh banana bread."

Jacqueline laughed and opened one of the loaves. "We've got plenty. I need a bread knife."

"In the next drawer," said Gerry.

Jacqueline sliced one of the loaves. "Enjoy. I've got two more in the rectory."

Gerry ate a mouthful and nodded. "King Kong comes in here he's dead meat."

Jacqueline laughed. It was the first time she had heard her laugh like that. Then the housekeeper seemed uncomfortable.

"Are you sure it's not a bother to have me tonight? I'm probably older than the rest of your friends. I don't want to put a damper on things."

Gerry turned and gave her an are-you-crazy look. "How old do you think you are? You may not know it, but you happen to be an extremely attractive woman. You will, of course, be required to wear a toga this evening, like everyone else." Jacqueline's eyes grew large for a second.

"Just kidding. A friend of mine is bringing someone who's a hypnotist. He's supposed to give a demonstration of hypnotic regression. It should be interesting."

Jacqueline didn't look enthused. "I think hypnotism is a bit frightening."

Dan stuck his head in the kitchen doorway and said "Hey, Jacqueline. Gerry, I'm going to get the liquor and mixers. I should be back in less than an hour." He waved and was gone.

"Do you have your cell phone?"

He patted his hip. "Got it. Call me if you think of anything else."

"How about a nice cup of tea, Jacqueline?" Gerry wiped her hands on her flowered apron. Dan called her Donna Reed when he first saw her in it, and Gerry found herself thoroughly enjoying the part of homemaker.

When they returned from the honeymoon, reality would bang on the door and drag them back into the rat race. Her mind flew ahead. Who knows. Financially, they were fortunate, and she might be able to take a year off to have a baby.

"No thanks, Gerry," said Jacqueline.

"What?"

"The tea. I can't. I've to get back to the rectory. Father Logan has been terribly cranky lately. He saw the doctor yesterday and he said he's perfectly fine, thank God."

She patted Gerry's arm. "Don't worry. Everything will go fine tonight."

"Father Logan seems interested in us," said Gerry.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, he watches us from the window. He's almost always there. I suppose he's just interested in all the activity."

Jacqueline sat down at the kitchen table. "You know, I think I will have that cup of tea."

Gerry put on the kettle and waited, watching her. Jacqueline seemed to be choosing her next words carefully.

"Remember when we spoke about the Connellys the other day? The people who lived here years ago?"

"Sure," said Gerry. The kettle whistled and Gerry rose and poured hot water over the tea bags in the pot.. "What about them?"

"Well, Father Logan was in his cups last night. Or in his cup, that is. He's allowed one pint of beer per week. The doctor said it wouldn't do him any harm, but it often makes him talkative, which is actually a good thing."

"I'm sure it is," said Gerry. "And it's not like a pint will stunt his growth. Why shouldn't he have that small comfort."

"Exactly," said Jacqueline emphatically. "He told me that he and Joe Connelly grew up together in Hell's Kitchen."

"Hell's Kitchen. Cool name," said Gerry. "Isn't that somewhere in lower Manhattan? I can't remember if it's on the East Side or West Side."

"Lower West side. They call it Clinton now. Not as colorful-sounding. The old gangs are gone, and the tenements are being gentrified. It's become an artist haven, like Greenwich Village."

Gerry nibbled on a piece of banana bread. "Are you from the city?" she asked.

"Yes, from Queens, but my parents grew up on the lower East Side. Anyway, Father Logan told Connelly about the house being available. Mr. Connelly was a successful contractor. He met a girl from Scotland named Mary Andrews and they fell in love."

"What year was this?" asked Gerry.

"Sometime in the forties, just after the war. 1946 or 47, I think."

"So what happened?" asked Gerry.

"A tragedy happened. They boarded a cruise ship bound for Europe and were found dead in their state room the following morning."

"Oh my God, how?" asked Gerry.

"Father Logan would only say that Joe Connelly was allowed burial in the rites of the Church, but Mary wasn't."

"Wasn't she Catholic?"

"Oh yes. Father Logan would never have married them, if not."

Gerry thought for a second. "Did she commit suicide? That's the only reason I can think of for her to be refused Catholic burial."

Jacqueline nodded. "That's right."

"So Mary committed suicide. But how did Joe Connelly die?"

"Father didn't say any more. He nodded off, and I put him to bed. I was amazed, really. In all the time I've known him, he's never talked about it before."

"Not until we moved here," said Gerry.

Jacqueline looked at Gerry. "Yes. A young couple moving into the house again probably brought back memories. I think Father Logan feels responsible for their deaths somehow. As if simply telling them about this house had something to do with their deaths. Nonsense, of course."

"People sometimes take on guilt like water aboard a sinking ship," said Gerry. "Like little human Titanics floating in a sea of emotional icebergs."
CHAPTER 5

At eight o'clock, Dan finished setting up three long folding tables against the wall opposite the fireplace to serve as a makeshift bar and buffet, all covered in red tablecloths. Art Deco sconce lights along the wall gave muted light aided by table lamps on the end tables.

They had opted for a light taupe above the paneling instead of the original cream color. In a large print above the fireplace, iridescent waves exploded against an angry gray coast. A new forest-green couch and two matching chairs were arranged around a large, rectangular cherry coffee table facing the fireplace. Several occasional chairs were set around the main grouping, and a half dozen folding chairs leaned against the wall to the left of the fireplace. Dan went into the kitchen to start bringing out the food. He carried out three aluminum pans with raised stainless steel frames and set them up on a folding table. He lit and pushed small sterno cans under them to keep them warm.

Gerry walked quickly down the stairs and into the living room. She wore light blue denim jeans and a light green pullover sweater.

"You look great," said Dan. "I like the sweater."

"Thanks." She helped him bring bowls of food out and put the hot food into the aluminum pans, then set out the trays of cold cuts and salad.

Gerry brought the silverware out on a tray behind Dan hefting the plates.

"Paper plates and plastic forks would have been fine," said Dan.

"Don't be a barbarian," she said. "I think we're all set. Maura will be a little late. Is Pete coming?"

"He's supposed to, but not with Maura. What about Mindy and her hypnotist friend?"

"She's definitely coming."

Dan flopped onto a couch. "Where did you meet Mindy? I mean, she's nice enough, but she's a bit of a flake."

"She worked with me at 'So Lovely' when I first started there. She was one of my programmers. She's really a sweet girl, and very smart. Unfortunately, she didn't get a promotion she wanted, so she left. She's doing pretty well in some company in the garment district now."

"She never held it against you?" asked Dan.

"No. I'm the one that recommended her for the job. Walker didn't like her."

The doorbell rang and Dan bounded over. "Hey, Jeff. Right on time, as usual. What's up, buddy? Hi Linda, nice to see you again." Jeffrey Steiber had been a friend of Dan's since their freshman year at Manhattan College.

Jeff was a short, chubby dentist with a big smile and a prematurely receding hairline. Gerry thought he was cute. Linda was an attractive, shy blonde who was a bit taller than Jeff.

Dan fixed drinks and they all sat in the living room. Within fifteen minutes Pete Marcus arrived, alone, followed by two of Dan's friends from the old neighborhood. Dan greeted the new group and directed them to the refreshments. Larry Burke arrived a minute later. Larry, another college friend of Dan's, came alone. He was just a little shorter than Dan, with gold-rimmed glasses and a thick shock of brown hair. A dark-green corduroy jacket with elbow patches completed the preppie image he always conveyed. Gerry liked all of Dan's friends, especially Larry. He was sensitive and intelligent, with a masters degree in mathematics and a minor in courtliness. Gerry imagined him jumping from the pages of an historical novel in Elizabethan dress, a latter-day Sir Walter Raleigh, opening doors for women, carrying their packages, emotionally throwing his coat over puddles.

Unfortunately, he never seemed to seriously hook up with anyone, and Gerry couldn't understand why. He was good looking and funny, without ever being sarcastic or mean. Julie Payson, a friend of Gerry's from work, had dated him and was bowled over by his looks and manners. It just hadn't worked out. Julie said that after a few weeks, she had begun to feel comfortable with him and thought they might have something, but just as she felt him drawing closer, he slammed a mental door. Julie said they would never be anything more than friends, so she eased herself out of it, leaving the door open for a casual friendship. That had been fine with Larry, since he apparently never saw the possibility of anything else. Gerry wondered what had hurt him so badly.

In the kitchen, Jacqueline tapped at the back door and Gerry kissed her cheek as she stepped in. She wore a simple maroon dress with a thin gold necklace and dangling gold earrings. A touch of light make-up made her look ten years younger.

"Wow, you look wonderful," said Gerry. Jacqueline handed her two foil-wrapped cylinders.

"Yay, more banana bread. Terrific." She opened one and broke off the corner and popped it into her mouth..

"Sorry. I have heard of silverware, but I couldn't wait. Have you ever seen the movie "Starman?"

"No, I don't think so," said Jacqueline.

"It had a scene where Jeff Bridges...he played an alien who took over a human body by cloning a hair cell." Jacqueline nodded, with big, somewhat incredulous eyes.

Gerry shook her hand in the air and laughed. "Never mind. Anyway, the first food this alien Jeff Bridges ever tastes is Dutch apple pie, and he gets this cute ecstatic expression on his face because it tastes so good."

She pointed to the banana loaf. "That's how good this is." Gerry's hand shook slightly. and Jacqueline noticed.

"Gerry, is everything okay?" she asked.

Dan walked into the kitchen. "Whoa, who's the babe?" Jacqueline reddened slightly.

Gerry slapped Dan's arm. "Mind your manners."

"Everything's fine, Jacqueline, thanks. I'm just tired from all the moving."

Jacqueline started running water to help with dishes.

"Uh uh. No way, girl. Get your hands out of the sink. You're a guest, and I expect you to act like one. No dishwashing."

Jacqueline took her hands out of the water and dried them on a paper towel. "Yes, Ma'am," she said.

Dan went to the pantry closet and brought out two large bags of potato chips and spilled them into two bowls.

"Dan, I forgot the dip. Would you put it out? There are three bowls in the fridge with foil on them."

"On it," said Dan, rifling the refrigerator. He retrieved the foil-covered bowls and set them on the sideboard along with the chips. "Maybe I should put some on the coffee tables."

"Good idea. And take off the foil. Jacqueline, why don't I introduce you around?" asked Gerry.

"I think I'd like to just roam a bit and introduce myself as I go," she said. I hate being introduced to groups. I tend to forget the names."

"Good. So do I. Go ahead and get yourself something to drink. We'll be right in."

Maura arrived near nine, followed shortly by Mindy Singer and a thin, middle-aged man wearing a tweed sport jacket. After a quick greeting, Maura squeezed Gerry's arm and slipped past, heading for the bar. Gerry accepted a bottle of expensive-looking wine from the man.

"Thank you. You must be Max Luellen."

"I'm afraid I must."

Gerry smiled and said, "It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine." His voice was pleasant with an upper-class British accent. Gerry gauged his age as somewhere in the early to middle fifties. It was a bit old for Mindy, but whatever floats your boat, she thought. His eyes were blue, his short hair mostly gray, with streaks of blond. Mindy's arm snaked around Max's waist and he visibly stiffened.

"Please make yourself at home," said Gerry. "Can I get you a drink?"

Max eyed the bar. "I'll just help myself, thanks."

"Me too," said Mindy. She was hanging onto Max like a high school girl, and it obviously made him uncomfortable. How could she be so dense? Gerry glanced at his face and knew instantly that public intimacy was distasteful to him. By now, Mindy should have realized it. Gerry thought she was more sensitive than that.

Dan walked over and turned on the stereo, then walked over to Gerry.

"That's everyone who's coming, I think. I'm going to uncover the food trays."

"Good idea. Ok, everyone," she said louder, "The food is ready. Come and get it, and don't be shy," Gerry walked over and sat on the arm of the couch next to Jacqueline, who was beside a very attentive Larry Burke. Larry always seemed to gravitate toward attached or older women, rather more because of the sense of immunity from possible relationships than interest in the people involved, Gerry suspected. What he didn't always notice was the smoking eyes of some of the older women he engaged. He wasn't quite as safe as he thought he was.

Mindy led Luellen to Gerry's group on the end of the couch and Gerry introduced Jacqueline and Larry.

"I understand you're a hypnotist, Mister Luellen," said Larry.

"Max, please," he said. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Yes, it's a tool I sometimes use as a psychologist. I've also been doing extensive research on hypnotic regression. Are you familiar with the term?"

"Sure. You bring people back to periods in their life to uncover emotional trauma that might be causing neurotic symptoms. Like psychological time bombs."

Max smiled and nodded. "Time bombs. Very good. Sometimes we turn over a big rock and all the horrid little worms scurry away, and the patient is cured. More often, though, it's a pattern of smaller, less dramatic episodes that stunt the psychological growth. Like a bonsai tree."

"A bonsai is purposely grown to become a dwarf tree, though," said Larry.

Max smiled. "Yes, unfortunately, we sometimes treat those in our control like bonsai trees, don't we?"

"Sometimes, I suppose," said Larry.

Gerry noticed that Max had gently extricated himself from Mindy's tentacles. "So where did you and Mindy meet?" asked Gerry.

"We met at a dinner party at a mutual friend's house," he said.

"So you're going to do a past life regression tonight? Cool. You believe in reincarnation, then," said Larry.

"Absolutely. I find it intolerable to imagine that one life is all we get. It can't be. How could a benevolent God, or Universal Intelligence, or whatever you wish to call it, bring a beautiful baby into the world, only to inflict it with a terminal illness? Or to have it born in the middle of a civil war in Africa? Without some form of rebirth and spiritual progression, existence is simply chaos."

"Perfect description of life as I know it," said Maura.

Gerry noticed Jacqueline seemed a bit uncomfortable. Hypnosis was not looked on kindly by devout Catholics.

"Is tonight's demonstration part of your research?" asked Larry.

"Scientific research requires a more controlled environment, but tonight's demonstration should provide some interesting anecdotal information."

"I can't wait," said Mindy. Her hands were straying dangerously close to Max's waist again. They slid inexorably to his midsection and Gerry saw Luellen's tiny wince.

Mindy piped up, "He did me once...."

Maura elbowed Gerry, who looked down, smiling.

"I mean, he regressed me," continued Mindy in her tiny, juvenile voice.

"I bet he did," whispered Maura. Gerry elbowed her.

Mindy continued, "It turns out, when Max did me...um...regressed me, we found out I was once a Cathar during their persecutions by the Church in twelfth century France. I was killed by a sword thrust through my back." She rolled her eyes as if it had been a minor inconvenience, like missing the bus to the mall.

Gerry watched Mindy's hand gripping Max's right hip in a claw-like vise. Max now seemed to be grinding his teeth.

Mindy continued, "That's why I've had back problems in this life. I also have this thing for taking on the burdens of others. You can see why my back is a mess. I think I'm an empath, actually," she added in an odd conspiratorial manner.

Gerry nodded earnestly, trying not to smile.

"Have you tried a chiropractor?" asked Larry. Gerry almost laughed out loud.

"Once. It didn't do any good at all. This is going to be so cool. Max regressed me back to colonial times where I was an Indian. Before that I was an Essene."

"Max," said Gerry. "It all sounds very interesting, but it seems like it might be a bit draining for you. You're a guest here, so don't feel you have to do anything. I want you to relax and enjoy yourself."

Max smiled. "Thank you. You make me feel very welcome. However, I'm fascinated with hypnotic regression and it's not an imposition for me at all."

She smiled. "Okay, whatever you prefer. Excuse me." She walked across to the bar where Maura went to refill her drink.

"I'm sorry I haven't had time to talk," said Gerry. "You look terrific, by the way." Maura wore a long, frilly white frock with a low-cut, square neckline.

"Thanks, you too." She took a slip of paper from her clutch purse and waved it. "Got my commission check today. Have a drink. It's on me."

"Later. So what happened with you and Pete?"

"Nothing at all, believe me. He's nice enough, maybe too nice. Frankly, he was boring as hell. There just wasn't anything there. I don't know why he took an attitude. I wasn't rude or anything."

She looked over at John Wall, who looked like a young, thinner Victor Mature. When he felt the look he turned and Maura was already looking at Gerry.

"He's very interesting looking. Married?"

"Single," said Gerry.

"I'll file him away for future reference." Maura gestured toward the couch with her drink. "Larry looks like he wants to French that woman. Who is she?"

"Jacqueline Armstrong. She's the housekeeper at the rectory next door."

Maura looked at John Wall and said for Gerry's ears only, "We need to put a stop to that. If there's any tonguing to be done around here I'll do it." Maura saw that Max, who was standing nearby, had heard. She compressed her lips in contrition, then turned away laughing. Max smiled as he made two drinks.

"You're bad," said Gerry.

"That Jacqueline really is attractive, though, isn't she?" Maura asked.

"She really is."

"Why is Mindy standing by the fireplace tapping her glass with a fork?"

"Attention, everybody, attention," she said. She tapped the glass a few more times, although everyone was already looking at her. Maura rolled her eyes.

Mindy finally stopped tapping. "Max Luellen has consented to give a demonstration of hypnotic regression." She looked around with an air of triumph.

"Pregnant pause," said Maura. Across the room Dan looked at Jeff Steiber and they both cracked up.

"Ah, skeptics, I see," she said loftily. Dan and Jeff roared. Gerry shot them a murderous glance.

Hands on hips, she said evangelically, "Before the evening is over, my friends, you will not scoff." When they caught each other's eye, Dan and Jeff lost control. Dan pretended to look for something under his chair, and Jeff crumpled in his chair muttering, "Scoff, scoff."

Gerry walked over, her chin stuck out. "Grow up, boys."

Dan held his hands up in supplication. "Sorry. We'll be good."

Mindy said, "Would everyone please gather over here by the fireplace. There are some folding chairs against the wall if you need them."

When everyone settled in their seats, Mindy raised her right hand to emphasize a point, then seemed to have forgotten her next line, became flustered for a second, then said, "Introducing Max Luellen" to a smattering of applause.
CHAPTER 6

Max smiled and patted Mindy's hand as she sat down. "Thank you." She clasped his hand as if she didn't want to let go, and Max pulled his hand gently away. Gerry and Maura exchanged glances and shook their heads.

Turning to the audience, he said, "You must understand that tonight's demonstration will be done under very casual, unscientific conditions." His right hand moved subtly in the air in front of his chest as he spoke, emphasizing his points.

"However, it will be very similar to controlled experiments I have done in this field. Many times, a person will be burdened with psychological, and even physical difficulties in this life because of incidents in previous lifetimes." A woman laughed and a few in the crowd shook their heads. Luellen smiled and held his hand out, palm forward.

"I know that most of you probably don't believe in reincarnation. That's understandable. It's not part of our Western culture. Actually, more people on this planet believe in reincarnation than do not. But did you know that reincarnation was once an accepted belief in the early Christian church? Unfortunately, the concept of immediate and inescapable hellfire for transgressors was a far better tool to keep the masses under control. It wouldn't do for the peasants to think they had untold lives ahead of them to make up for sins, or even worse, for neglecting their church tithes."

Max smiled. "I know there are many who will never accept reincarnation. Some believe past life regression phenomena are the result of stored memories, somehow stimulated during hypnosis into realistic but false recollections of past experiences.

"Science has discovered just enough about the brain and the mind of man to know they are both still a great mystery. Science doesn't even really know what the mind is. We can photograph and map the physical brain, the engine of mind, but we can't grasp or measure mind itself.

"I believe the intellectual capacity of the mind-brain is infinite. I believe every thought we've ever had, every scent we've ever experienced, everything we've ever touched, the intricate detail of every cloud we've ever seen, every beautiful flower we've ever admired are all stored in our memory. I also believe that the memories of all of our lifetimes are stored not only in our brain, but in every cell of our body."

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Whether or not you believe in reincarnation, I hope this will be an entertaining demonstration. It may raise questions in the mind of the skeptic and allay doubts in that of the believer."

"Or it may bore us to tears," Maura whispered to Gerry.

"Shush."

Max continued, "I will use this small device to help place the subject into the hypnotic state." He slipped from his jacket pocket what looked like a small digital clock. The face of the clock was blank except for a small blue light in the center.

"Dan. Do you have a small folding table and two folding chairs?"

"I'll get a table. Larry, can you get the chairs?" Dan walked to the corner of the room and found a small folding table in a closet. "Will this do?"

"That's fine. Please set it up here in front of the fireplace." Dan set the little table and the two chairs facing each other right in front of the fireplace, and Larry opened two folding chairs.

"Thank you so much," said Max. "When I tell you, would you please turn off the lights in this room? I think the light coming from the kitchen and the foyer will keep us from bumping into things."

Dan nodded. "Sure," then went to the foyer doorway to man the light switch.

Luellen set the small device in the center of the table. "This is a useful aid in putting the subject under hypnosis. It's just a small, slowly blinking blue light that blinks at a rate conducive to hypnosis." Luellen paused and sipped a bottle of water. The room was quiet except for the occasional tinkling of ice cubes.

He slapped his hands together. "All right, now we will attempt to guide the subconscious of a subject through a few lifetimes. Let me also say that this is a perfectly harmless procedure."

Larry Burke spoke from the couch. "The idea of reincarnation is that each successive life is a step toward spiritual perfection, isn't it? That you atone for and learn from your previous mistakes?"

"Yes. Of course, spiritual progression often means taking two steps forward and one step back, which is often the case in our everyday lives. Professionally, I don't get into the spiritual ramifications. My objective is to amass the facts and lay them before you. It's for you to decide for yourself.

"I must also say that if one discovers the details of a previous life as less than illustrious, don't be disappointed. We can't all have been Julius Caesar or Jeanne D'Arc." He smiled and sipped his water.

"It's far more likely that our previous lives were similar to those we live today. What we hear tonight may be an excerpt from a happy episode in the subject's past, or it might be an unpleasant experience, perhaps even a period of intense pain, either physical or emotional. As we all know, pain is as much a part of life as pleasure." He took a small digital recorder from his pocket and placed it on the table. "In fact, monitoring the most unpleasant times can be the most productive for the subject, therapeutically."

"Maybe we'll catch someone getting lucky," whispered Maura.

"Never know," said Gerry.

Max rubbed his hands like a surgeon scrubbing up. "When we're finished, before I bring the subject out of the trance, I will obliterate any memory of the experiment through suggestion. It will be recorded on tape, however, and if the subject wishes to listen, they may." He smiled broadly, looking around the room. "Who knows? George Washington or Queen Elizabeth may be sitting here among us."

"Isn't Queen Elizabeth still alive?" whispered Mindy to Larry.

"He meant the other one," he said.

"Oh."

"Now," said Luellen, raising his voice, "Who would like to volunteer?" He looked around the room and said "How about Gerry, our lovely hostess?" He extended his arm toward her.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Gerry said, crossing her arms on her chest defensively.

Next to her, Maura said, "Oh, go ahead. I want to see if you were a nerd in your past lives too."

"Go for it, Gerry," said Jeannine Turner.

"She's afraid we'll find out her real age. He might take her back to her childhood during FDR's administration," said Sara Prentiss, grinning at Gerry, who looked over at Dan. He didn't seem enthused.

"Okay. I'll be the guinea pig," said Gerry, moving to the chair facing Max. She bit her lip in mock fear.

"Would someone turn off the lights, please? Leave the kitchen light on so we're not in total darkness." Dan walked over to the kitchen doorway and turned off the ceiling fixture. Gerry turned off the table lamps."

"Thank you," said Luellen.

He turned to the group. "I must emphasize that complete and absolute silence throughout the demonstration is absolutely necessary. I'm sure you'll cooperate. Now Gerry, relax and take a few deep breaths. I'm going to turn on my little device. It's only a small, blinking blue light. I want you to relax and look directly at it. You should find it soothing and pleasant.

"Now visualize a cool, green grotto. The sunlight is filtering down through the boughs of the trees. A clear brook is bubbling nearby. You're in a small grassy clearing surrounded by beautiful trees. The grass is short, but thick, and feels like a luxurious carpet beneath your bare feet. It's safe there, safe and beautiful. You're sitting on the grass, leaning against a tree, watching the brook streaming past. Underneath the water, in the middle of the brook, a blue light is sparkling through the ripples of the water. It is a huge blue opal lying in the sandy bottom, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the crystal clear water. The flashing blue light is beautiful, but it makes you drowsy. You begin to think how lovely a nice nap would be.

"Look at the light, Gerry, and if your eyes seem to want to close, just let them, Gerry. That's it. Just let them close. It's too difficult to keep them open now." He pronounced her name in a mesmerizing sing-song, speaking it slowly with a marked separation of the syllables.

"Gerry, I want you to relax the muscles in your arms. Think of your muscles as the strings of a violin. Your arms, your legs, your back, your neck, Gerry. Each has its own string that is connected to a knob which loosens the string. First your arms. Visualize that I'm turning the knob connected to your arms, Gerry. I'm turning it counterclockwise. As I do so, you can feel the muscles relax. They were much too tight. Good. They begin to feel very heavy now, Gerry." He spoke softly, gently.

"Now the muscles of your legs, Gerry. The string seems so tight it is about to break, Gerry. I'm loosening the knob. Let the muscles rest, Gerry. Let them relax. That's it. Let the string go slack. Good. Now your back, Gerry. How tight the muscles are in your back. They are the tightest of all, aren't they? They are like drawn bows. There, now the strings are looser, Gerry. That is so much better, isn't it, Gerry?"

Dan felt drowsy listening to the monotony of his voice. He could see Gerry's eyes becoming heavy as the blue light flashed across her features.

"Now your neck, Gerry. Every other muscle in your body is now completely relaxed except your neck. Turn the last knob and let the muscles rest, Gerry." Her head began to droop onto her chest.

"Gerry, you are completely relaxed and are now in a deep sleep."

"From time to time I might want to speak to someone else. When I say 'Relax' you will do just that, and then you won't hear me. When I address you again, I'll use your first name, and you'll be able to hear me again. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Relax."

Max turned to the audience and said softly, "She's a good subject. She's completely under." He paused, then said in a louder tone "Gerry."

"Yes?" Her voice was completely normal, as if she were awake.

"Gerry, I want you to respond only to my voice. Understand?"

"Yes."

"You will not hear anyone's voice in this room except my own. Understand?"

"Yes."

"When I loudly clap my hands twice, you will awaken and remember nothing. Understand?"

"Yes."

Max faced the others. "She is now in a deep hypnotic state. Again I ask that you remain completely silent during this experiment." He turned back to his subject.

"Gerry, how do you feel?"

"Fine," she said, with a faint smile.

"I want you to let the hours slip backward. I want you to go back to last Saturday. You are doing something in the afternoon. What are you doing?" Gerry's expression changed subtly. Her brows bunched as if she were concentrating heavily on something.

"I'm scrubbing the paneling with oil soap. I'm almost finished. Dan is painting the walls above the paneling....Dan, be careful, you almost knocked over that can..." Gerry smiled. "The house is coming along nicely. They're coming to sand and varnish the hardwood floor on Monday....you missed a spot, Dan."

"Relax," said Max. He turned to the audience. "You'll notice that Gerry alternates between describing the incident as if she were a third party in the room, and living the incident, using the same words she used at the time. It is often like that." He turned back to his subject.

"Gerry, I want you to go back to your sixteenth birthday. It's noon on your sixteenth birthday. Where are you?"

"I'm at school...No, I don't care...No, Peggy...I'm not asking him."

"Gerry, what are you discussing?"

"The junior prom. Peggy wants me to ask Garry Metcalf. He's a jock, and he's always making fun of poor Jimmy Pool...No, forget it, I'll ask someone else...maybe I will...at least he's not a big dumb jock..." Gerry giggled and continued, "Peggy, you're disgusting..."

Maura laughed and said to Dan, "Peggy Moran was disgusting."

"Gerry, go back further now. Go back to your childhood. You are nine years old now and it's the last day of school."

For an instant, Gerry was silent, then the audience jumped collectively as she shrieked, "No more books or catechism, no more time in Saint Mark's prison...hey, quit shoving...Mary Ann, wait up. Want to come over and play records?" She stopped, as if listening for a reply, then, "No, my mother won't let me.....ah, come on..." Gerry frowned. "Call me after you ask her. Maybe you can stay over...okay. Bye." Max looked out toward Dan and smiled.

"Gerry. Listen to me carefully. I want you to go back beyond childhood, back to where it was safe, warm, secure. Before your birth. You are in your mother's womb. What is it like?"

Gerry smiled dreamily. "It's warm. I feel safe...I can hear my mother's heart beating...I just want to sleep...I feel I can stay here forever..." Dan felt a prickle on the back of his neck. This was getting bizarre.

Gerry leaned forward slightly, her arms folded, as if in a modified fetal position. She seemed to be dreaming happily.

"Relax. Let's see if we can break though into Gerry's past lives. First, though, let's consider the types of experiences we may encounter tonight. They may be happy or sad, extraordinary or banal. We may find extreme trauma. I've been able to help such patients overcome enormous psychological and even physical problems in their present life through reliving such experiences. This is a worthy process, and is why the patient comes to me."

He smiled. "Of course, Gerry is not a patient, and is, fortunately, a happy, healthy young woman with no debilitating physical or emotional problems. Rather than seek out traumatic events, which I would do in helping a patient, let's just take a sojourn in her past, shall we?"

"I hate tourists," said Maura.

"Let's see. What decade, what century shall we explore with Gerry?" Max looked around the ceiling as if looking for a can of beans at a supermarket. He smiled and nodded. "Yes. I think I will bring Gerry back to the turn of the last century. I have an affinity for that era, since I lived one of my most satisfying existences then. But that's another story. Let us see if our subject was on earth in the latter portion of Victoria's reign, shall we?"

"Gerry, it's the year nineteen hundred. It's twelve noon, the first Saturday in June. What are you doing?"

She smiled. "We're having tea."

Then, in the voice of a little girl trying to sound like a woman, Gerry said, "Come, Lucille. Pour the tea for Wendy and Nicole. Now I will serve the cream. There, isn't that delicious? Lucille, hold my dolly's head up. Isn't that good, Wendy? Now hold up your dolly's...Nicole's head, Lucille. There."

"Gerry, how old are you?"

Gerry spoke in her own voice now. "I'm ten."

"Where are you?"

"We're on the lawn in front of our house. Lucille and I are having a tea party." Then the childlike voice boomed: "Oh, Mrs. Farley, can't we please stay out a bit longer? Please?"

"Gerry, who is Lucille?"

"She's my cousin from Boston. She's visiting for two weeks. I like Lucille...."

"Yes, all right. We're coming."

"What's your name?"

"Caroline."

"What's so special about this time? Why are you so happy now?"

She hugged herself. "Father is back home. He and Mother didn't love each other for awhile, and he went to live abroad. Now they love each other again and he's back to stay. They're in the house right now, together."

"Now I want you to go forward. You're a young woman...It's your twenty-fifth birthday."

Gerry moved her head back and forth, unable to speak. Max leaned forward. "Go back. It's now your twenty-first birthday." Gerry's head continued to move back and forth slowly.

"Where are you?" he asked. She moved her lips, but couldn't speak.

"Relax," he said, turning to the audience. "From experience, I know it is likely that the confusion and inability to speak indicates that Gerry was probably dead before her twenty-first birthday. How sad."

Jeff whispered, "This is freaky, man."

Dan watched Gerry in the dim light. Her face rolled from side to side with a lost expression. He didn't like it.

Max turned back to her. "Gerry. Go back to your twentieth birthday. It's noon." Her face became animated, the corners of her mouth curving in a smile. "Good. You are twenty years old today. What are you doing?"

Dan gripped his glass. Luellen was feeding a morbid curiosity. He was sure of it. It was probably nothing other than Gerry's subconscious imagination, but it was still intrusive. He shook his head.

"We're getting ready for the wedding."

"Your wedding?"

"Mine and Jason's, yes."

"What year is it?"

"It's 1910."

"Who is with you?"

"Marie. Our maid..." She giggled softly, as if she were laughing at a private joke. "Marie, what do you think it will be like?" After a second, she laughed out loud and said, "Marie, I didn't mean that. I meant Europe. France. We were just speaking about the trip, weren't we?" After a few seconds, she said, "I know you didn't, Marie." With eyes closed, Gerry looked dreamily to her left, towards the unlit fireplace, as if it were a window looking out over a pretty landscape. Her eyes were moving beneath the thin sheath of flesh. "I know it will all be beautiful."

"It's not her voice," said Jeff.

Of course it is," said Dan.

"Please," said Max, turning. Dan leaned back in his chair.

"Now Gerry, it is your wedding day. You..."

"No. I...don't want to be there...again."

"Gerry, it's all right. Nothing can hurt you now, just relax. It's the day of your wedding. It's...four in the afternoon. Tell me where you are and what you're doing." She remained silent.

"You said 'Relax'," someone whispered.

Max clenched his fist. He was getting too excited. He had to keep focused. "Gerry. Nothing can hurt you now. You've already lived that experience and learned whatever it was you had to learn. Now it's the day of your wedding. What time was the ceremony?"

"Twelve o'clock."

"All right. It's four in the afternoon on that day. You're happy, aren't you? Didn't you just marry the man you love?"

"Yes...happy." She sighed the reply. Dan could barely hear her.

"Where are you?"

"At our new home."

"Gerry, what is your full name?"

"Caroline Morrison."

"It's eight o'clock at night. Describe what you're doing." As he spoke, he made sure the recorder was working.

"Gerry, go on, tell us what's happening."

She spoke with a sorrowful, crushing finality, almost sobbing the words. "It's the night of my wedding." Dan and Luellen simultaneously sat forward in their chairs.

Max perched on a corner of his chair. "Why are you so unhappy on your wedding day? Where are you?"

"I'm in the library with Jason. Having wine...Strange...I feel...overwhelmed. The house is beautiful, but must have been tremendously expensive. He built it for me...Jason, you know this wasn't really necessary...Here she coughed, then with a small laugh said, Not the sherry, the house.

"Relax." Max turned. "You'll notice that even though the sounds are coming through the same vocal chords, the accent, diction, tone, and cadence of her speech are those of another person, of another time. Amazing, isn't it?" No one answered.

"Gerry, what is happening to make you so unhappy? What was it, Gerry?" She turned her head slowly.

"No. I. don't want to...be here..."

"Gerry, You don't have to be afraid. You're safe and among friends. What happened this night that you're so afraid to remember?"

She said loudly in her own voice, "No, I'm not. I'm not safe," then settled back again and tilted her head upward.

In Caroline's voice, she said quietly, "I promise you'll never be sorry we married." She was still for a few moments.

The room was completely still. Dan could hear the wall clock ticking. It seemed no one in the room was even breathing. Then Gerry said, "There's an odd smell out there tonight. Do you hear that, Jason? It sounds like a pounding noise coming from the woods. How could that be?"

After a pause, she said "Why would they be working this late?"

"I'm going into the dressing room for a few minutes," she said. "I'll be back quickly."

Her head leaned to the right against a shoulder that wasn't there, then she was still for five straight minutes. Rustling came from the back of the room. Max raised a hand for quiet.

Don't, Jason," said Gerry. Dan almost jumped at the break in the silence. "It looks like two orange-red lights coming out of the woods. Maybe two workmen with lanterns."

Then Gerry gave a blood-freezing scream, and Dan jumped to his feet. "All right, that's it. This stops now."

"Relax," said Max, holding his hand up. "It could be dangerous if you cause her to come out abruptly."

"I thought you said there wouldn't be any danger."

Max turned to face Dan. "I had assumed there would be no interference. Now please."

Dan reluctantly sat down.

Max took Gerry's hand. "Gerry. It's all right. Nothing can happen to you. You're completely safe. Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Where are you? What part of the country?"

"Here."

"Do you mean in Hastings?"

"I mean here. In this house," said Gerry.

Dan's felt the hair follicles on his arms and neck pull erect, like the hair on the back of a frightened dog.

"That's good, Gerry. Now go back to where you were."

Gerry was quiet for a moment, then said "Damn it. I have to go downstairs for a moment."

Her voice was utterly different, utterly unpleasant.

"Now it's someone else,""said Mindy, from the left. "Maybe she's a multiple..." Her whisper trailed off.

Dan watched Gerry's face carefully.

"I'll be right back, don't worry, Gregory," said Gerry in the same voice. It was an ugly voice, one used to speaking evil, nasty words. She paused each time after speaking, listening to replies from a man who had died before Gerry's grandparents were born.

"...There's nothing wrong with me, darling. I hope you won't disappoint me."

"The wine was delicious. Besides, I would think you'd be the one to worry about the effects of alcohol before...performing." Twisting one side of her mouth sarcastically, Gerry added, "But that doesn't seem to be the case...tonight at least." She laughed a harsh laugh.

In her own voice Gerry shouted "No. please...I don't want this..."

Max got to one knee in front of Gerry's chair. "Gerry, listen carefully to me. It's all right. You're safe, nothing can hurt you. You're in a room full of people who love you. Do you believe me?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"Gerry, go back to where you were."

After a silent moment, she spoke again. "One moment, Gregory, my sweet...." "...I told you I would not be long, Gregory." If he hadn't been in the room, Dan would not have believed that voice came from Gerry. She held her hands behind her back with her eyes closed, her head moving slowly back and forth like a child hiding something. Then, in one motion, Gerry looked up, smiled and whipped her hand from behind her back and plunged it into the air in front of her. Her hand stopped abruptly, as if driving home a knife to the hilt. She twisted it, pulled it back, then sunk it in again, and again. As her arm flailed, a tiny squeal of glee escaped her lips.

"I think she's stabbing someone," Jeff whispered.

"Ya think?" said Maura from the seat behind him.

Gerry's face turned downward, as if she were looking at something in her hand. In a soft, evil voice, she said, "You've broken the handle on our best carving knife...and you're bleeding all over my slippers, darling. How thoughtless."

The room was deafeningly silent as Dan watched Gerry's blank face. Max stared at Gerry intently. Suddenly, she arched her spine and threw her head back. Dan flinched. A gasping, choking sound came from her throat. She opened her mouth wide, trying to get air. An ugly gurgling noise came from her throat.

"What the hell," said Dan, starting from his seat. Then Gerry's eyes flew open and she clutched at her throat, unable to breathe. Dan was at her side in an instant.

Max shouted "Gerry" and clapped his hands twice. She stopped struggling and slumped into her chair, then opened her eyes and stretched her arms languidly.

"Hi guys," she said.
CHAPTER 7

The lights were back on and Gerry noticed everyone staring at her peculiarly.

"What? Is something wrong? What happened?" Instinctively she looked down at herself to see that all the parts were still there. Maura came over with a tumbler half filled with amber liquid and handed it to Gerry.

"Here's a scotch. I think you and Caroline and whoever the hell else is in there with you could use one." She handed Max a glass. "Scotch okay?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

Dan searched Gerry's face. She seemed all right. "Larry, get the lights and turn the music back on, will you?" Larry nodded and headed for the light switch.

Dan touched Gerry's cheek. "Are you okay?"

"Of course. Why? What in the world happened?"

"You had half your clothes off before we could stop you," said Maura. "Jeff and I buttoned you back up." Gerry looked quickly at Dan who denied it with a shake of his head.

She stood up. "Very funny. What did I say?"

"You had a very interesting regression," Max said over his drink. "At one point, there seemed to be some violence involved. As I said to the group, there are good and bad times for all of us. We witnessed an unfortunate episode during the life you led early in the last century."

"What happened?" Gerry asked.

Max shrugged. "I'm not certain. It sounded like you may have assaulted someone, perhaps with a knife. We can't be sure."

"She was definitely stabbing someone," said Jeff.

"Oh, nice." said Gerry. "I'll listen to the tape later. Right now it looks like we just ran out of lasagna. Good. I thought I overcooked. Excuse me, I've got to set up another pan."

"What do you really think happened there, Max?" asked Larry, who had sidled up carrying a glass of clear liquid and ice.

"You heard as much as I. Apparently Gerry, or rather Caroline, seems to have attacked someone."

"Gregory. She called him Gregory," said Maura. "That was the name of the guy who was bleeding all over her Gucci slippers."

Larry started to say "I don't think they had Gucci back..."

"Whatever," said Maura. "She sounded like she was having a great time with this Gregory while her husband Jason was obviously somewhere in the house. On her wedding night, mind you. Then she gets tired of Greg and slices him like a stuffed turkey. Lovely."

Jeff shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. Caroline wouldn't have done something like that."

"What are you talking about?" asked Maura. "You sound like you knew her intimately."

"From what we all heard, I mean." He looked at the puzzled faces. "From her tone of voice. She just didn't sound like that type of person. Not until that odd, deeper voice took over. I think it was another person speaking through Caroline. I'm sure of it."

Max sipped his drink, then answered. "It's possible that Caroline might very well have been a medium, and may not have been aware of it."

"In other words, she was stark raving bonkers," said Maura.

"That's also possible," said Max.

"Just before you brought her out of it, she seemed like she was choking," said Jeff. "If she had killed this guy, why would she be choking?"

"Maybe before he died, he strangled her," said Larry.

"Or after," said Maura. "Maybe he became one of the undead."

Max looked at Maura oddly. "It would be hard to know," he said. "Perhaps she was an asthmatic, or she had a heart attack at just that moment. We really can't tell. Whatever happened, it was obviously very unpleasant and extremely traumatic."

"Especially for Gregory," said Maura.

"Yes, it would seem." Max looked into his drink, studied the contents and swallowed the rest in a gulp.

"The law of karma states that you eventually have to pay for your actions, doesn't it?" asked Gerry.

Max regarded his empty glass. "Yes. Just as in physics for every action there's a reaction. Karma is the same law on a spiritual level. My expertise is in psychology and parapsychology, not theology, but I believe what you say is essentially true. Personally, I think that rather than a person having to pay for their actions, they must learn that what they have done in the past is wrong, that it was against the natural spiritual order. Sometimes this learning process is very hard. Sometimes it takes many lifetimes."

"I need a drink and some cheerful conversation. See you later," said Maura, who headed for the bar.

Dan had planned to sound out Luellen on the nightmare Gerry had been having, but after what he had seen, he wasn't so sure he had any confidence in his professionalism. Still, he supposed no harm would come from a few general questions.

"I'm glad she left. Max, can I speak to you confidentially? As a psychologist?"

Max folded his arms and faced Dan directly. "Of course."

"Gerry's been having a recurring nightmare. It's been going on for weeks."

"Describe it." Max casually put his hand in his jacket pocket and switched on his recorder.

"It's very bizarre. In the dream, Gerry is in her wedding dress and I'm wearing formal clothes. We're standing on the shore, and a huge wave of fire races at us. As the wave approaches us, Gerry say she sees some kind of demonic face in the wave just before it crashes over us. It's the same every time, and she says it never gets any less frightening."

"Recurring nightmares are not very well understood, I'm afraid. Sometimes they're caused by stress, sometimes by events in our past. Has Gerry had any traumatic experiences lately? Any deaths in the family? Any disruption in your relationship?"

Dan ran a hand through his hair and said, "No. Nothing. There haven't been any deaths in her family, and we're getting along fine."

Max shrugged. "The fiery, hell-like environment is common in nightmares, but very frightening."

"It is. She has this dream several times a week and she's losing sleep. With all the arrangements we're making, it's becoming too much."

"Arrangements?"

"Yes. We're getting married in a few weeks."

"Congratulations. You know, a coming marriage can be a very stressful time."

"Do you think she might be having second thoughts, even subconsciously?" asked Dan, surprised he was even asking this, but he wanted answers.

"Of course it's a possibility, but there is more likely something deeper than that. Gerry needs to get at the underlying cause of the fear that's causing the dream. First, the loss of sleep needs to be addressed. That's an immediate health issue." Max paused for a moment, then said, "Dan, I recommend that Gerry see a good psychotherapist. Ordinarily, I would be more than happy to see her myself, but at the moment, I'm finishing a research project. A publisher is involved and there's a deadline."

He patted his jacket pockets. "Do you have a piece of paper?" Dan went to the secretary and came back with a small pad. Max scribbled a few lines and handed it to Dan.

"Kathleen O'Mara is a friend and colleague of mine. She's one of the best. I strongly recommend Gerry see her."

"I'll try to convince her," said Dan. "She's a little reluctant."

Max smiled. "Do. Dr. O'Mara can probably help. Her office is at Cedar Hospital on 34th Street near Lexington. She's on the second floor. Her phone number is that chicken scratching at the bottom. Can you read it?"

Dan read the numbers off correctly.

"I've known Kathleen for years. She's extremely talented and is also a very kind person. We've consulted many times. Gerry couldn't be in better hands." Max patted his shoulder. "I think I'll have another small touch of your excellent scotch, Dan."

"Help yourself, and thanks."

When Max left, Maura walked over. "Kind of creepy, wasn't it?" she asked.

"Yes it was."

"Psycho Caroline's house was also in Hastings. Even creepier." Maura's green eyes held his.

"Yes," said Dan.

"Yes sir," said Maura. "Quite a coincidence, I'd say. With the whole world to be reborn in, she comes back to little Hastings. What would you say the odds were?" Languidly shifting her weight to one leg, she sipped her drink. Dan blinked. Her eyes were incredible, like emerald fire - the eyes of a beautiful, cynical tigress whose prey was real estate.

"I don't think it's a coincidence. I think these regressions are an invention of the mind."

"Max doesn't believes that." She looked at Dan as if she were studying him.

"What do you believe?" asked Dan.

"I don't know what I believe. I do believe I'm going to have another drink, however. Can I buy you one?"

"I think so, thanks," he said.

The guests began trickling out just after twelve. By twelve thirty, Gerry and Dan were alone. Gerry lay with her head on the armrest of the couch. Dan was collecting glasses and plates.

"Hon, leave that. We'll get that tomorrow. Hey, we're both off Monday. Doesn't that feel delicious?" She wiggled into the cushions with a smile.

"Scrumptious. I'm just getting the worst of this out of the way. Then I'm going to crash."

"Me too." Dan passed the couch and saw Gerry pop in the ear buds of her micro cassette recorder. He stopped.

"Is that the tape of the regression?"

She nodded." I want to know why you people were giving me such weird looks. Dan sat opposite her with a book and waited. When it ended, she took the ear buds out.

"What did you think of it?" he asked.

She smiled feebly. "I seem to have been a bit of a monster. Dan, do you think I could have been someone like that?"

"I sincerely hope not," he said.

"No seriously," Gerry insisted, sitting up on the couch.

"No, I don't believe your ravings during this 'regression' thing were anything but your imagination."

He smiled. "And you're not a monster. Most of the time, anyway."

The backs of Gerry's first four fingers flicked under her chin, outward toward Dan.

"What was that?"

"I don't know. My grandmother on my mother's side used to do it to my grandfather. I know it's not good." She sat back and the smile melted from her face. "Dan, did you notice that Caroline said she lived here in Hastings? Wasn't that a bit strange? I mean, you would expect a reincarnation in another country, or at least another part of this country."

"To me it's not strange at all. After all, you live in Hastings. Your subconscious imagination, which concocted the whole thing, logically chose Hastings too."

"What you're saying is my subconscious imagination has no imagination."

Dan slapped his book shut and stood up. "What I'm saying is I think this regression business is nonsense." He rubbed his eyes and said, "I'm totally beat. Let's turn in."

At eight the next morning, Dan mumbled into his pillow and rolled over. Through the screens of the open window he heard the clicking of heels and the low, pleasant chatter of the parishioners as they filed into Saint Christopher's church for mass. His eyes popped open at the sharp crash of a pot in the kitchen downstairs. He got up, put on his robe and opened the balcony's French doors.

He stepped outside into the bright sun and leaned on the balustrade, watching the well dressed people pass on the street. Banding together against the terrors of life, they were a tribe worshipping the Deity of their ancestors.

Dan believed everyone needed to believe in something greater than themselves. For his personal God, he embraced an all-powerful but compassionate God who didn't require his presence each Sunday in any particular place, and who didn't make arbitrary, illogical rules nor punish transgressions with capricious, illogical retribution. Dan's God expected him to do the right thing, that was all.

Dan did miss the social communion of Saint John the Evangelist, his old parish. He missed the Catholic Youth Organization basketball; he even missed his early morning duties as an altar boy. He smiled inwardly as he remembered rising before dawn and walking to the convent in bitter cold to serve at mass. The dark always made the cold worse.

He remembered the vivid colors from the tiny stained glass windows criss-crossing the tiny chapel as the sun rose and invaded the dark sanctum, and he remembered kneeling and gratefully feeling the cold in his bones disappear. In the convent, in the twilight time between darkness and light, he imagined he had stepped into a medieval world. It was comforting to see the sisters in their habits taking part in the timelessness of the Mass. By then, the prayers were said in English instead of Latin, but it was the same. It had been this way for two millennia, and would continue long after they were all gone.

Dan wondered what Sister Mary Brigit would have thought of hypnotic regression. No, he knew what she would have thought. It was nonsense, and she would threaten to box his ears if he tried it. He smiled to himself. She threatened that a lot, but he never saw her box a single ear.

On the street, a young woman glanced up at Dan in his robe which ended above the knees and Dan went inside. No one should be subjected to his knees so early in the morning.

He showered, got dressed, and went downstairs following the smell of fresh coffee. The great room was back to normal. In the kitchen, Gerry was noisily cleaning the last lasagna tray. The kitchen was spotless. Dan poured a mug of coffee and sat at the table.

"You must have been up early."

Gerry stowed the trays in a lower cabinet. She turned around. Her face was drawn, her eyes shot with crimson.

"Didn't you get any sleep?" he asked, blowing across the top of the brew. It tasted three hours old. "The dream again? You should have woke me."

"There was no point." She got some coffee and sat next to him. Dan's phone rang and he answered.

"Great. Very good. Thanks." He hung up.

"Who was that?"

"The landscaper. They're starting tomorrow."

"Thank God," said Gerry.

Dan put his phone on the table. "Max gave me the number of a psychotherapist. He says she's very good."

"You talked to him about this?"

Dan glanced away. "Not in depth. I just wanted basic information. He's a psychotherapist himself. It's all totally confidential."

"What's her name?" she asked, cradling her coffee cup in two hands and taking a sip. "This coffee is awful. I'll make a fresh pot."

He touched her arm. "Sit. I'll make it." He washed the carafe and filled the basket with coffee grounds. "Her name's Kathleen O'Mara. Her office is on 34th near Lexington. She's a Doctor of Psychology and Max says she's highly recommended."

"You already said that. Dan, I've thought about it, and I'm not sure I really want to see a therapist. You're expected to sit there and describe your whole life to a perfect stranger."

"You can ask for an imperfect one. They're cheaper."

"I don't want to describe the horrors of my potty training to anyone. Besides, it's expensive."

"It's covered under your insurance."

"Yes, and someone in the personnel office will probably review my insurance bills and see that I've been seeing a psychologist. Six months later there's a layoff and guess who's the first to go?"

"Do you really think that could happen?" Dan switched off the coffee maker and filled their cups.

She swallowed the last of her coffee. "No. Not really. All right. I'll see her. But I'm not looking forward to it."
CHAPTER 8

On Monday afternoon, Kathleen O'Mara sat back in her plush chair and crossed her legs. Prayerful fingers beneath her chin, she listened to the young girl sitting stiffly in the chair on the other side of the large mahogany coffee table. The office was decorated with comfortable brown leather chairs, a mahogany coffee table and Impressionist prints.

Cynthia Ross was just eighteen, a painfully shy girl who never wore makeup and tried desperately to hide her natural beauty behind unattractive glasses and nondescript hairstyles. When she was thirteen, and until almost the age of fifteen, her father had abused Cynthia, and her mother Carol had somehow remained oblivious. Now her parents were divorced and her father lived on the West Coast.

Carol told Kathleen everything she knew, which wasn't much. Two years ago, after her father left, Cynthia calmly told her mother over dinner about her father's abuse, but refused to say exactly what he had done to her. Her mother placed her into therapy immediately.

Cynthia still hadn't confided in her, but Kathleen knew what had happened at their first meeting. After many meetings, Cynthia finally mentioned her father's name in passing and waves of emotional nausea had hit Kathleen like a slap in the face.

Cynthia's mother told Kathleen that she wanted her ex-husband arrested, but the girl had became hysterical thinking she might have to testify in open court. Cynthia needed to bring the subject up soon, or Kathleen would. If that horror wasn't purged, it would devour the girl from the inside.

Kathleen was sickened by the guilt she sensed in Cynthia. The poor girl believed on some level that she had instigated her father's sexual attentions. It was a common reaction, and it reminded Kathleen of something she had read as a grad student. In ancient England and Scotland, a rite called sin-eating was practiced. The sin-eater ritually absorbed the sins of the deceased by consuming food and drink passed over the corpse, thus ensuring the departed swift entry into heaven. Cynthia was the sin-eater, her father the corpse.

Having the father arrested was a lovely thought. It would openly attach the guilt where it belonged and punish the bastard for some of the pain he had inflicted. For now, Kathleen intended to just be there for Cynthia, to try to guide her until she was ready to face the truth.

She glanced at the wall clock. It was a subtle signal that Cynthia always recognized. Her time was up. Kathleen smiled. Cynthia would pick up her books and be out the door in seconds. She always rushed off quickly. It wouldn't do to waste the important Doctor's time with problems she had brought on herself. From all she had learned of the girl, Cynthia let the world dump on her at every turn. Kathleen was going to turn that around, somehow.

"I'll see you Thursday. Bye, Doctor."

"Goodbye, Cynthia. Good luck choosing that major."

"Thanks. Bye." She picked up her books and hurried out the door. Kathleen shook her head and checked the calendar on the small desk. Sarah Cardone had cancelled. It was four o'clock and she was finished. Excellent.

Kathleen Alexandra O'Mara leaned back and stretched her neck, relaxing the bunched up muscles. She was thirty-five years old, with straight, black, shoulder-length hair and blue eyes Her slim body was toned by workouts at the 92th Street Y. Kathleen had grown up in Manhattan, eventually attaining her doctoral degree in psychology at New York University.

She considered herself plain, although several of the male resident psychiatrists and psychologists in the building obviously didn't agree. Kathleen looked at the photograph of her parents displayed on the desk. Cheek to cheek, her parent's smiling faces beamed in a picture taken during a vacation in Maine. John O'Mara had died five years before. He had served as a professor of anthropology at Columbia for many years. Her mother was a professor of linguistics at New York University.

Now sixty, Christine O'Mara was a bit fuller, but still beautiful, with dark hair and gray eyes. When Kathleen was ten, her mother had taken her two small hands in her own and sat with her in the kitchen of their apartment on the upper West Side. Kathleen would never forget what she told her.

Christine had kissed her daughter's cheek and looked into her huge blue eyes. "I love you very much, honey, and I know what you're going through." Kathleen's eyes had widened. Oh no. Was her mother going to talk about what she thought she was going to talk about? She had news for her. It had already started. Kathleen had worked out a rough plan to fend off the icky parts, but it wasn't perfected yet. Kathleen touched her forehead in the same way her mother touched hers when she had a headache. She didn't want to deal with this today.

"You know what I'm talking about," said Christine, her eyes bearing down on her.

What did she mean?

"You're different, aren't you? Of course you are. Isn't everyone? Not even one person in this world is exactly like another. But you're different in one special way, though, aren't you?"

Her mother's eyes squinted as she smiled. Kathleen remembered nodding slowly, starting to realize what her mother was getting at. She was even less prepared for this. For some reason, she couldn't read her mother, but her mother knew something. She just wasn't sure how much.

Her mother said, "You know things others don't know, you feel things others can't, don't you? You think the other children would say that you're crazy if you told them. Don't you?"

Eyes big, Kathleen nodded quickly.

"Well you're right. They would think you're crazy. That's why you can never tell anyone. Not yet."

Then her mother said, "You're very different, Kathleen, but you're not alone."

She held her face still and commanded her eyes to lock on hers. "You think no one else in the whole world knows what you are going through, don't you?"

Her mother shook her head, smiled and said, "Well I do. I know what you're going through."

She pulled Kathleen to her and hugged her tightly. "I have it too. This gift. That's what it is, Kathleen. It's a gift from God, and it's meant to be used in God's own way. We've taught you right from wrong so you'll know yourself how to use it wisely. By the way, I can't read you anymore than you can read me."

Kathleen felt like screaming and hopping up and down.

"By the way, your father doesn't know anything about it. It would have been too hard to explain. I was afraid he'd think I was crazy. I suggest you keep it to yourself as well, honey."

Kathleen learned very quickly how to turn it off. She had to or she would have been driven insane, drowned by a cacophony of sensation from everyone nearby. Each person had his or her own psycho-spiritual signature formed by relationships with parents, siblings, friends, enemies.

When Kathleen read a person, she discerned multiple strands of experience in an inexplicable mélange of feelings and emotion which manifested to her as scent, from sweetly delicious to disgustingly putrid, and all the bittersweet degrees in between. The subject didn't necessarily have to be currently breathing, either. Kathleen sensed the dead as well, if she chose to.

Whether the entity was alive or dead, the scent could present subtly, like the hint of a sparingly used expensive perfume, or blaring, like a passenger in a small elevator drenched in cheap cologne. Kathleen had learned not to recoil instinctively at anyone she probed, alive or dead. That would be rude.

On her tenth birthday, Kathleen had just read a book about Lenny, a big-eared bloodhound, and his little friend Virginia. They solved mysteries, just like detectives. Kathleen identified with the bloodhound. She sensed love, hope, fear, anger, hate, everything the person was feeling at that moment, and a sense of everything they had ever felt, even in past lives.

The impressions had always proven infallible. Most people were just regular, normal folks, a complicated mix of good and bad. More rarely, a person or entity was just plain bad. Her mother showed her how to use the gift without losing herself.

Kathleen remembered sobbing as her mother spoke to her. Her words had lifted a weight from her heart. She felt like a carnival balloon rising into the air on a breeze of sheer joy. It wasn't a curse. It was a gift and she didn't have to be ashamed or afraid of it.

Later, she chose psychotherapy as the vehicle for her gift. It had been deeply rewarding, but in some ways limited. Finally, with the publication of her best-selling book "Mind and Soul" last year, she had roared out of the closet. She was becoming a nationally known professional psychic, and a wildly successful one as her book sales proved. Her psychology practice had not suffered a bit. In fact, she was getting more referrals than she could handle.

The book had been on the New York Times bestseller list for weeks, and she had been on a few high profile talk shows. For her, it was time. She could reach out to more people. She could reach out to the world, and she knew how to do it right. Someone tapped on the door.

"Come in," said Kathleen. It was probably Bobby, the young courier.

It wasn't Bobby. Max Luellen walked into the room and sat in the chair in front of the desk.

"Max, I wasn't expecting you."

"Sorry. I was on this side of town and thought I'd pop in to say hello. Bad time?"

"Not at all. How are you, Max, and how's that book of yours coming along?"

"Very well, I think. Kathleen, I have someone I'd like you to see."

"I thought you said you popped in to say hello."

"I said hello."

"Kathleen smiled. "Okay, tell me."

"Her name is Gerry McMartin. She's never been to a psychotherapist before, and seems like a very stable personality, as far as I can tell."

"So what's the problem?" A head appeared around the door after a brief tap.

"Hello, Bobby." Kathleen waved the young man in and signed for the package. Bobby shuffled his feet while she signed the receipt.

"Thanks," she said.

"You're welcome, Doctor O'Mara," he said, disappearing into the hall. Kathleen turned back to Max.

"She's experiencing a recurring nightmare." Max described the dream in as much detail as he remembered.

"That sounds upsetting," said Kathleen.

"Very, although she seems the type who keeps a stiff upper lip at all times. Ms. McMartin hosted a gathering the other night where I conducted an informal demonstration of hypnotic regression. She happened to be the subject.

"It seems Gerry was involved in an extremely violent incident in a life at the early part of the twentieth century."

Kathleen sat back. "Go on." Max was well known in past life regression circles, and he was the real deal.

He continued, "The situation is unique in that the past life individual seems to have lived in the same rather small town of Hastings, in Westchester. Do you know it?"

"I've heard of it."

"I feel that you could help with this, but..."

"But what?"

"I've been in this field a long time, Kathleen, and I know when a bad one is coming. I can smell it. This is a bad one."

"Of course for your book, a bad one is a good one, isn't it?"

Max smiled. "That depends."

Kathleen remembered how Max discovered she was a psychic. Some years before, Kathleen and Max both had offices in Mount Olive Hospital in lower Manhattan. A patient named Denise Korick had lost a child recently, and her marriage had broken up. Kathleen felt terrible for Denise. It was only their second session but Kathleen wanted desperately to pull her out of her pit and suggested she also see a grief counselor. The woman became hysterical because she hadn't yet been able to bring herself to mention the loss of her baby. Kathleen had been exhausted that day and it was a major blunder.

As far as Denise Korick was concerned, Kathleen had to be talking to Denise's ex-husband behind her back. Either that or Kathleen was a mind reader. She threatened to speak to her lawyer about it. It could have become a professional disaster.

Kathleen told Max about it at lunch that day, leaving out the part about her psychic gift, and after lunch, Max called the patient and apologized profusely, telling her that Kathleen's comment had been a terrible mix-up. One of Kathleen's other patients had also recently lost a baby, and Kathleen was helping her through it.

Max then went straight to Seth Barron, the head administrator. Barron hadn't yet heard from the woman and Max told him that the woman had mentioned her loss to Kathleen herself and then blocked it out. Barron had accepted it and mollified Denise. Max put together many other bits of evidence he had gathered and confronted her, telling her he knew she was a psychic of some kind.

"Kathleen, do you know when I first realized you had your special talent?"

"Of course. The Korick case."

Max nodded. "A little rumor started about your fancying yourself a psychic. Everyone thought you were a quack, but I didn't."

"Thanks, Max."

He grinned. "I'm joking. I always knew there was something about you."

"You have a bit of the psychic in you as well, Max."

"I do, but it's nonspecific and general. I can't do much with it, not even the odd winner at the ponies. Do you remember a woman I introduced to you in the lobby at Sinai Hospital? We were at a conference. Goodness, I can't believe it was more than four years ago. At any rate, she was short, pretty, with striking, light gray eyes."

"I remember. Susan Mendelsohn."

"Yes. As you know, Susan is one of the most powerful psychic mediums in the country. We were going to a preliminary investigation of a possession that night, and she was meeting me at the hospital."

"I remember." Kathleen remembered her very well. The woman had a tremendously magnetic presence. Kathleen didn't normally probe everyone she met, but when told someone was a working psychic, she checked them out. This Susan was special. When Kathleen unblocked herself and absorbed the woman's "scent" she had felt a wonderful sense of beneficence and power. Susan had smiled as if she knew Kathleen was probing her.

"After we left, Susan told me you were extremely sensitive, that you literally read souls, is the way she put it."

Kathleen shrugged slightly. She was always uncomfortable talking about it, but had no problem writing about it.

"Gerry is planning to get married at the end of the month to a nice young man named Dan Williams."

"An upcoming wedding can be frightening."

"Yes, but there's more than that going on. I want you to probe her. A deep one. This life and as many past that you can sense."

Kathleen shook her head slowly. It was hard enough sorting out the emotional debris from a person's present life. Sorting out past life issues was a job of work.

Max stared hard at her. "Kathleen, something is approaching this woman."

"Something? What do you mean 'something?'"

"I'm not sure." He seemed to be searching for words. "I just know something is going on with her." He handed her a micro cassette tape.

"Is something happening that might work nicely as a chapter in your book?"

"No. It's not like that. Kathleen, just listen to this tape. This is the recording from Gerry's regression. I was power-freaked by this session."

"Power-freaked?" Kathleen repeated, smiling.

"Indeed."

Kathleen studied his face for a second. Max really seemed excited about this one. "Did you give her my number?"

"Yes. Your office number. I know you don't give out your cell number. She said she'd call you."

"Fine. I'll be glad to see her."

"Question," said Max.

"Yes?"

"I've always wondered about this, but never directly asked you. As a therapist, do you ever feel any qualms about your psychic intrusions?"

"Not a bit, Max. Therapists spend years trying to pry bits and pieces of information from their patient. Essential information. Besides, I know when I'm getting close to anything sensitive, and if there's nothing relevant there, I leave it alone."

"How can you know if you haven't probed it?"  
"I just do, Max. I can't explain it. Think of one of those dogs that can smell a cancer within someone's body. They don't know what the cancer is, but they know it's there. I pull out information that rebuilds a broken spirit, provides a chance for a person to rise as high as they can, whatever their vision of that may be."

"I love it when you get passionate," said Max.

Kathleen smiled, then felt a chill and crossed her arms. "Max, I'm beat. I really have to get going."

"There's just one more thing I would ask."

"What's that, Max?"

"I would like you to somehow find an excuse to get into their house. Tell her you're in the neighborhood or something. I want you to get a sense of the place. From what I heard at the regression I believe their new home may be of interest."

"Okay. Max, I think I can swing that." Kathleen sat back in her chair. "It sounds to me like the root of all this might well be the normal anxiety related to the coming marriage."

Max shook his head quickly, waving his hand "No no. It was a genuine regression, I assure you."

"I don't doubt you, Max, but I'm saying she may be suffering from cold feet."

Max shook his head. "No. There's something more going on here."

She smiled. "Ok, I'll go and visit the house. Let's see, when she calls, I can ask if we can make the first session at her house. Very unusual, but I'll say I have friends in the area and wanted to kill two birds with one stone." She realized that old saying was a bit nasty, if one were a bird.

"Deliciously devious," said Max. "I'm impressed. Try to call me after you listen to the tape. I want your opinion." He went to the door and said "Ta," and shut the door behind him.

When Kathleen got to her apartment house on Seventy-ninth and Riverside Drive, Ned the security guard smiled through the cut-glass front door and buzzed her into the Art Deco lobby.

When she got up to her sixth-floor apartment, she opened the blinds on the living room windows so she could see the Hudson River. The sun still had a spark of life before its inevitable death behind New Jersey across the river. She brewed a cup of tea, then picked up her cordless phone and settled in the chair near the window so she could watch the silvery water. Fagin, her gray tomcat, pounced into her lap and complained about his day. Below, beyond the narrow Riverside Park, the houseboats in the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin bobbed in the gentle wake of a distant tug boat.

A message was on her voicemail from Gerry McMartin. She must have called right after Kathleen finished with Max and left the office. She input the number on the phone and called.

Gerry smiled at Dan as she chopped radish for their salad. Outside, two salmon steaks sizzled on the barbecue. Dan's freshly cut, gelled hair spiked in random directions. It looked good. She smiled. Tomorrow he would brush it down and to the side, skipping the gel. He would still look good. Dan looked somewhat like a thin version of her Great Uncle Earl. Earl had been the last remaining member of her father's family. Four brothers and three sisters all came to New York from Dublin after the Irish Troubles in the twenties. The parents stayed in their flat in Dublin.

Born in 1901, Earl lied about his age, and at just fifteen, joined the Irish Republican Army and fought in the Easter Rebellion of 1916. Gerry always thought of Earl as young and strong, the way he looked in the old black and white photographs. He had been strikingly handsome, with the dark hair of the "black" Irish, a striking broken nose and electric blue eyes which were always lit up in a bemused smile. Earl McMartin passed away when Gerry was twelve.

Gerry would never forget the day Earl took her for a walk near Central Park. She was eleven when her mother and Earl strolled with her along the granite park wall near Columbus Circle. Along the concrete sidewalk, trees imprisoned in islands of dirt stretched green arms into the crisp, autumn sunlight.

Her mother walked behind her and her great uncle. At ninety-two years old, Earl still lived on his own and got around with the help of a hickory walking stick. Strong of voice, he was often mistaken for a man twenty years younger.

Earl looked down at his eleven year old grand niece and smiled at the chestnut-brown hair and freckles and the wide, bright brown eyes that looked up in unquestioning adoration. That day, Earl told her the story of the Easter Rebellion and the battle at the General Post Office, and Gerry still remembered all of it.

"The truth of it, Geraldine, is that I ran, rather than face death," he said in his soft Dublin accent. Seeing the unsure look in the girl's eyes, Earl's cheeks had creased in the weathered dimples of an aging smile.

"Why, Uncle Earl?" Gerry had asked, holding his hand. She remembered how rough it was, like coarse sandpaper, the hand of a bricklayer.

"Because I was afraid to die. A British soldier caught me outside and told me to drop my weapon. I threw the rifle at him and ran into the Post Office," he said, grinning at the girl's dumbfounded look. The family legend had always been that Earl was a hero of the Irish Revolution.

They stepped toward the curb to let a pack of well-coifed dogs tethered to a thin young woman pass. Gerry thought they looked silly, like that Hydra she had seen in the dictionary, except this was a goofy-looking Hydra, with a Pekinese pulling ahead of a Great Dane. They all seemed to be grinning. Gerry turned back to her uncle.

"The British were too strong for us that day." He said.

"Oh," she said, in a small voice.

He paused for a moment as they walked, then continued. "I was just fifteen, you see. I'm not making excuses, mind you, but the truth is I was young and I was very afraid, and I simply didn't want to leave this world just then. That was the whole of it. When it started to look really bad, I saw a way out the back of the place and was halfway through the lobby door when a young woman stuck a Webley revolver into my ribs and gave me the choice of going back inside and fighting like an Irish soldier or having my brains splashed against the wall and my body thrown into the garbage where it belonged." Earl looked down at the small face and the gaping mouth and laughed.

Gerry frowned, bunching her eyebrows. Earl stared straight ahead.

"Then what happened, Uncle Earl?"

"She shot and killed me."

Gerry twisted her mouth sarcastically and lifted an eyebrow as she looked up at him.

Earl looked down and laughed out loud. "She didn't shoot, luckily. I stayed and did my duty. I was wounded and I have a medal to prove it." Geraldine's eyes grew big.

"I wasn't a hero, though, darlin'." She didn't believe that. Earl told her about the running gun battles with the British, leaving out the blood and death as well as he could. He had been shot in the shoulder and the leg, and had almost died. He spent time in prison after getting out of hospital, and eventually moved to America with his brothers and sisters.

"What you have to realize, Geraldine, is that you're going to be afraid in life. Lots of times. Death, for instance. We're all afraid of it but almost never talk about it. It's just there. Its how you deal with your fears that makes you what you are. You have to live your life, do the best for yourself and your family and try to have fun doing it. You don't fight life. You don't run from it."

Gerry's eyebrows rose. "What if a bear is chasing you?"

"All right, then you can run, child. But when it's fear that's chasing you, just let it crash over you like a wave, and then keep going, like we talked about at the beach, remember?" She nodded. The waves at Rockaway had knocked her back lots of times, even knocked over. She always got back up, though.

When he first got to New York, Earl met and married a beautiful Dublin- born girl named Colleen Black, who died of cancer in 1988. Gerry remembered her as a sweet, soft-spoken woman who loved Earl. There were no children.

Much later, Gerry heard the story of Earl's brother James, Gerry's grandfather. He died in a fall at a construction site. Within two years, James' wife Dorothy, Gerry's grandmother, drank herself to death. Earl and Colleen took in little William, who would be Gerry's father, and Earl was determined that William McMartin would not need alcohol as a crutch.

Earl believed despair was one of the worst sins. In Earl's family, despair was the child of alcoholism. Drink destroyed you and sent you into your own private hell. Earl hadn't touched a drop since he saw his sister-in-law kill herself with it.

In the quiet, methodical way of a bricklayer, Earl helped build a dam of self-respect around William as he grew up in a New York working-class neighborhood called Vinegar Hill. The Hill had a bar on every street and alcoholism in too many families. Earl kept William away from the poisonous rivers of alcohol that flowed through it and guided him through the difficult years. He was there for him, helping with homework, taking him to baseball practice, consistently meting out punishment when needed, praise when warranted. Most important, he told William often how smart and capable he was, and how important he was to Earl.

Gerry remembered the rest of that walk near the park. Stepping briskly, Earl's cane had barely touched the ground as they walked.

Earl looked down at Geraldine. "The girl who stuck the gun in my ribs still lives in Scarsdale, New York and has five grandchildren and a gang of great grandchildren. She always sends Christmas cards. She swore later she never would have shot me, but she still gives me the shivers," Earl had said.

Gerry looked up and smiled, skipping to keep up with the long legs of her Uncle.

Gerry looked out onto the patio and the smoking salmon. "I think they're about done, Danny." Dan bounded outside with a plate.

Gerry's cell phone rang. She snapped it open. "Hello?"

"Ms. McMartin? This is Kathleen O'Mara. I received your call, and I would be happy to meet with you. Actually, on Thursday I'm going to visit a friend who lives in Ardsley, and I was thinking perhaps we could meet at your house for our first meeting, since I'll be in the area. Would that be all right?"

"Killing two birds with one stone," said Gerry.

"Uh, yes," said Kathleen.

"That would be fine. And thanks for seeing me. Ardsley isn't far from us. Are you driving up?"

"No. I'm taking the train. I'll catch a cab from the station. Would seven o'clock be all right?"

"Seven is fine. We could pick you up at the train station. Are you going to your friend's house before or after?"

She hesitated a fraction. She hadn't thought quite that far ahead. "Before. I've got a cab picking me up at the station."

"Is your friend driving you over here afterward?"

"I think so, or I'll just take a cab."

"If you need a ride, give us a call," said Gerry. "It would be no problem."

"Thanks. I appreciate that." She was a terrible liar. She changed the subject. "Are you doing okay?"

Gerry laughed nervously. "Oh, I'm fine. Just having a bit of trouble sleeping."

"We'll work together on that. I know it must be difficult, especially now, with all the stress of the wedding preparations."

"It is, yes."

Dan came back in with the plate of grilled salmon. He looked at her with a question. Gerry covered the phone. "Psychologist."

Dan nodded and mouthed "Good."

"If necessary, I can arrange for a prescription to help you sleep, if you like. It might be a good idea, until we find out what's causing this."

"No. I don't want chemicals," said Gerry quickly, thinking of her mother, who had an inexplicable aversion to modern medicine.

"Crap," Gerry said under her breath. She suddenly realized she had promised to call her yesterday. She wrote "Call Mom" on a post-it note and stuck it onto the refrigerator.

Her mother once showed up at work with a broken arm rather than miss a day. The previous night, she had slipped on ice in front of their building. After work she went to the emergency room and came home, pale and exhausted, with a cast on her arm. For pain, she took aspirin, nothing else.

"All right, Gerry. Whatever you want. If you change your mind, let me know, Okay?"

"I will. Thanks, Doctor. I'll see you on Thursday."

Dan set the salmon steaks on plates, then brought over the garlic roasted potatoes and asparagus from the stove and arranged them around the fish.

"Did you know asparagus used to be called 'sparrow grass?' he asked.

"Really? Fascinating. Been on Wikipedia again? You know, anyone can change the facts on Wikipedia."

"You don't have to be on Wikipedia to make up your own facts, he said, nodding over at the earnest but inaudible politician on the flat screen television over the mantle."

They sat at the round table which was much too small for the dining area to the left of the kitchen. "We really need to get a new dining set."

"We will." Dan looked at her drawn eyes. "You look tired."

She flashed a smile, leaned against him and kissed him, then said "I'm fine."

Fagin burrowed under Kathleen's arm as she put down the phone.

On Thursday, she caught the three-twenty local from Grand Central Terminal and took an inside seat on the river side of the head car. The car smelled faintly of a strange bubblegum-scented deodorizer.

The train rumbled through the terminal and into the Park Avenue tunnel, which ran from Fifty-ninth Street to Ninety-eighth. At Ninety-eighth the car burst through into the light and barreled over East Harlem onto the elevated Viaduct. The train was moderately crowded. She imagined all the emotion roiling in the riders. Luckily, she couldn't feel it. Without her ability to shut off the emotional noise of those around her she would have been locked up long ago.

Farther north the train ran along the immensity of the Hudson River. Looking out to her left, she saw a strong wind sowing tiny wisps of froth on the waves, and looming on the far bank, the massive walls of the Palisades stood like a dark, petrified glacier. Kathleen stood up at the Hastings station and waited by the door. Before she left her apartment she had called for a cab to meet her.

Only a few people exited the train and Kathleen was glad to see the taxi waiting at the otherwise deserted station.

An older black man got out of the front seat, smiled and opened the door for her.

"Thanks. Warm out, isn't it?"

"Yes it is," he answered with a pleasant, deep voice. He drove at a reasonable speed up the winding hills.

"What did you say the address was?" the driver asked.

"Twenty-one Barker Street. It's a large older house. Next to Saint Christopher's church." said Kathleen.

"Oh yes. I know that one. It's just a few more blocks."

"There it is," said Kathleen. "I see the church." The cab pulled to the curb.

"Thanks," she said, handing him the fare plus tip. She got out and shut the door.

"Thank you," he said, then pulled away.

Kathleen walked up to the stone columns at the gate and stopped. The space was wide enough for a small truck to enter. The driveway led to the front of the house, then branched to left and right around the building.

All houses were repositories of residual emotions. Unlike living people, whose emotions could be blaringly loud, houses usually emitted a gentle echo of all the people who had lived there, often barely perceptible. The place was at least eighty years old, she guessed, and as she opened herself, a sense of something much older hit her. The place was loud with emotion, too damned loud. Someone or something powerful had once been here.

As she stepped between the stone pillars onto the property, a wave of profound dismay passed through her. The atmosphere of the property was intensely foul. She looked down at herself, almost expecting to see a residue of filth staining her clothes. She shivered. The place was like a rotting carcass.

She stopped and closed her eyes, shutting it out. The feeling wouldn't leave. It took her a moment to push it from her and she hesitated before proceeding. That had never happened before, not since she first learned to control it.

She walked slowly to the house. Not a sprig of grass, not a single weed burrowed up through the lifeless earth to either the left or right of the driveway. After what she had felt, she wondered if anything would ever grow here. In front of the stairs, she stepped onto a circular slab which served as the base of the marble staircase, then stopped and saw a mosaic of two faces gazing at each other in an eternal silhouette. One of the faces was gone, chipped out by vandals, she supposed.

The marble staircase had been jacked up on one side with wooden blocks shimming it to level. Bags of cement covered in plastic waited for a workman to complete repairs. Kathleen walked up and knocked at the heavy oak door. A tall young man in sweats answered.

"Hi. Doctor O'Mara I presume?" he asked, smiling. "I'm Dan Williams. Come in."

"You have an extraordinary home, Mister Williams," said Kathleen.

"Thanks. Gerry will be down in a minute. How about some coffee? I was just putting on a pot."

"I'd love a cup."

Dan led her over to a large comfortable-looking sofa flanked by two chairs in front of the fireplace in the massive living room.

"Please, sit down. And call me Dan. I'll call you Doctor." He grinned.

"Kathleen is fine," she said.

Dan smiled and went into the kitchen. Kathleen sat on the couch and from the corner of her eye saw a figure walking down the stairs. For that tiny second, Kathleen thought she saw a woman sweeping down the stairs in an elaborate gown. She turned, blinked, and saw that it was a young woman, presumably Gerry McMartin, in an oversized men's white shirt with the shirttails out.

Something about Gerry's wide brown eyes and freckles made Kathleen smile. They introduced themselves, and after Dan brought in the tray with coffee, he excused himself and went upstairs.

"After this, of course, we'll meet at my office."

Gerry smiled. "I hope I can get a late afternoon appointment. Mornings wouldn't work for me or my boss, unfortunately."

Kathleen noted that she looked tired. "That shouldn't be a problem. Do you drive down to the city every day to work?"

"God, no. I take the train."

"I don't blame you." Kathleen settled back and began to probe her patient's emotional state. Kathleen learned to glean kernels of acute irritation from the patient's immense harvest of emotion. These hot spots pulsed with unresolved rage, embarrassment, or shame. They were the distilled, primal memories of one's worst fears, thoughts and experiences, the things buried the deepest. Feelings never lied. Words were limited by grammar, semantics and intent. Feelings needed no language. Kathleen had long ago lost that tiny twinge of guilt at her unannounced intrusion, because most of her patients now led happier lives because of her, and so did their families.

As she focused on Gerry, Kathleen again felt the pressure of the old emotions in the house pressing against her. She pulled back, then tried again. It was like trying to tune in a defective radio. Finally, the residual emotions remaining in the house receded to inaudibility.

"I understand you're planning to be married soon," she said.

"Yes. On the last Saturday in August," Gerry said, smiling. As she spoke, Kathleen felt a gentle wave of emotions. Gerry loved, and was loved. Loyalty, determination, passion, both physical and intellectually creative passion, washed over Kathleen like perfume. The bitter scent of anxiety and incipient fear followed instantly. Gerry was worried.

"You still haven't been sleeping well?"

"No, I haven't." Gerry seemed uncomfortable, which was normal at a first session.

"Can you tell me about the dream you're having?"

Gerry nodded and described it.

"How often does it come?"

"It varies. Three, four times a week. Sometimes it doesn't come for three or four days and then I think it might be gone. Then bang, it comes again with a vengeance."

"Is it always as frightening, or are you getting more used to it?"

Gerry smiled bitterly. "That's the worst part. It never gets better. It's always as frightening as it was the first time. You'd think I'd get used to it. The night after a dream I generally sleep fairly well. It's the second or third night that I lay in bed, dying for sleep, but afraid of it. Eventually I fall asleep and then the dream comes."

The forty-five minute session ended much too quickly. Kathleen arranged for Gerry to come Tuesdays and Thursdays.

"I understand you underwent hypnotic regression."

"Yes. We had a housewarming party, and I became part of the entertainment. I suppose you spoke to Max about it."

Kathleen nodded. "Yes. Did you listen to the session yourself?"

"Yes. Would you like to borrow the recording?"

"Actually, Max gave me a copy. He thought I might find it helpful."

"You must think we're all a little crazy," said Gerry.

Kathleen smiled. "Not at all. I've known Max for a while now, and I've found it best to keep an open mind when it comes to his research."

She looked up. "This is really an impressive house," said Kathleen, standing.

"Would you like to see the rest of it?" Gerry asked, pleased.

"Yes I would." Gerry showed her the large kitchen, the dining room and the butler's room.

"You've certainly got enough space," Kathleen said when they were back in the great room. "It's beautiful."

"Thanks," said Gerry. "Let's go upstairs." She led the way up and switched on a replica Tiffany lamp sitting on a small table at the top of the stairs. An identical one sat on a table to the right.

"We need more light up here. You should see it in the daytime, though."

"Nice and sunny?"

"Very much so." Gerry led Kathleen to the left of the stairs along the hallway overlooking the living room.

"Doesn't it seem like we should be carrying candelabras?" said Gerry.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," said Kathleen, laughing.

She touched the thick wood of the balustrade guarding the hallway. To the right were three well-spaced, closed doors. Gerry opened the first one.

"This is the master bedroom," she said.

Kathleen opened herself slightly, and it came like a flood. Fear, rage, murder - atrocities committed by people long dead. The room was horrible. Nausea rose acidly in her throat. She tried to shut it out and couldn't. Then she closed her eyes, found herself praying as she did as a child. It calmed her and then she was able to shut it out.

"Kathleen, are you all right? You suddenly looked funny."

She smiled wanly. "I'm fine. I think I caught a touch of flu this week."

Kathleen didn't probe as she looked at one of the bedrooms on the other side of the great room. "Is there a basement?"

"Yes, it's old and musty, like basements are supposed to be."

"Could I see it? Old basements fascinate me."

Gerry looked doubtful. "Of course. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine." She steadied herself and smiled. Kathleen searched for a realistic reason why she would want to see a stranger's dirty old basement. "Many years ago, my uncle had a huge old house in White Plains. Very similar to this one. My cousins and I used to play hide and seek down there. I think it was haunted. It was so much fun."

"Okay, you can see it if you like. If we find any poltergeists down there, we'll evict them." She led Kathleen downstairs to the kitchen and the door to the cellar. Gerry snapped on an old light switch on the inside of the door.

"Don't expect too much. The place is old and filthy. We really haven't done anything down there yet."

"Oh, that's okay," said Kathleen, hoping Gerry didn't think she was totally insane. "These steps are made of solid stone, aren't they? They knew how to build things back then."

Kathleen stepped carefully down into the basement behind Gerry. A huge room at the bottom of the stairs was divided from another by an ancient fieldstone wall chinked roughly with old mortar. A single glowing light bulb hung from the center of the ceiling.

"What's in that other room?" Kathleen asked.

"The old coal furnace." Kathleen walked over to the doorway on the left and saw the shadow of a massive cast iron monster on the opposite wall. A coal bin to the left was empty but for a few ancient and lonely black nuggets.

"We're converting to gas and solar," said Gerry.

"Excellent idea. Green is good." On the wall to the left was a new hot water heater. "I think I smell gas."

"There was a small leak. The gas company was out earlier and fixed it."

Kathleen clenched her hands into fists and opened herself.

"Oh," she breathed, staggering against the side of the doorway. It was like a fist had smashed into her stomach. Unspeakable things were done here. Horrible, unspeakable things done long ago. She vomited and lurched out of the room, then fell near the stairs.

Gerry ran halfway up the stairs and roared: "Dan. Come down here. Now."

Kathleen woke up on their couch, a cold cloth on her forehead. Gerry sat on the edge of the couch and Dan hovered nearby.

"How do you feel?" asked Gerry. "We were just about to call an ambulance."

"No, don't. I'll be all right. It's flu. Give me a few minutes and I'll be fine. What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock," said Dan.

Kathleen shifted to a sitting position. "I've got to catch my train." Gerry looked at Dan.

Dan said: "We'll drive you home. I wouldn't consider letting you go home on the train. It's only a thirty minute drive."

"Besides, it'll give us an excuse to eat at Amalfi's on Columbus Avenue," said Gerry. "Maybe by the time we get down there you'll feel well enough to join us."

Kathleen's color had returned, but she was still unsteady and grateful for the ride. "I'll accept the ride, but I think it's a hot bath and bed for me. I probably caught this bug from one of my patients."

After dropping Kathleen at her door, Dan said, "You don't really want to go to Amalfi's, do you?"

Gerry shook her head. "No, let's get home." Dan made two right turns and headed back to the West Side Highway. They passed the George Washington Bridge, its lights a double string of pearls over the black quicksilver river.

"That was a bit strange," said Gerry.

"What was?"

"Kathleen. She became deathly ill when she went down to the cellar. And there's another thing. I keep getting the feeling that I've met Kathleen before, but I can't imagine where."  
"That's interesting," said Dan.

"Yes, and annoying, but it'll come to me."

Gerry watched the lights across the river for few minutes, then said, "I love you."

Dan's eyes flicked to her, then back to the West Side Highway. "I know."

After a minute, she said, "Well?"

"Well what?" he said, grinning.

"I'm going to slap you so hard your mother's face will be sore." Gerry leaned against him as far as her seatbelt would allow. "Dan, do you think anything bad is going to happen?"

"Nope. We're going to get married and live happily ever after, and nothing bad is ever going to happen to us."

"I'm glad."

After she returned to her apartment, Kathleen took a long, hot bath, listened to some Beethoven and tried to forget the things she had felt in that house.

At four-thirty the next day, after Kathleen finished with her last patient, Max showed up. He peeked into her office and saw she was alone.

"Kathleen, I hope you don't mind. I was in the neighborhood again."

"Not at all, Max. Have a seat," said Kathleen. "Bottled water?" she asked, opening a tiny refrigerator under her desk.

"Plain water?" he asked, looking narrowly at her. "Thank you, no."

Kathleen leaned back in her chair. "What can I do for you, Max?"

"First of all, what you told me on the phone this morning sounded very exciting."

"Then you weren't listening." Her stomach turned just thinking about last night. "The place was disgusting, Max," she said, leaning back in her chair and looked at her mother's face in the photograph on her desk. "Awful things were done in that house, Max."

"So you said. Recent things?"

"No. Old stuff, but the atmosphere is horrendous."

"Kathleen, I wonder if Gerry might have been unknowingly acting as a medium?"

"I doubt it, Max. We have no indication that she has any psychic sensitivity."

Max looked at Kathleen for a moment. "It must have been very unpleasant for you."

"There's an understatement," she said, sipping her water.

"I hope you can be persuaded to go back there, because we're going to have a séance, and I'd like you to come."

"A séance? I'm not sure about that, Max. In that house, it could be dangerous for the medium. In fact, I'd have to equate having a séance at that house with walking into an explosives factory smoking a cigarette. A séance can attract some nasty things. Who's the medium?"

"Susan Mendelsohn. One of the best."

"I know her. When will it be?"

"This Saturday."

She hesitated, then said, "I'll go, but I have no intention of opening myself to what's in there again."

"I wouldn't hear of it. There's no reason to. You sensed nothing around Gerry or Dan themselves? Nothing unusual?"

Kathleen shook her head. "No. Lucky for them, they have no idea of the kinds of things that happened in that house."

"What kinds of things?" asked Max.

"Terror, pain, sociopathic evil. Murder. It's a cesspool."

"Any lingering spirits?"

"No." She regarded him again. "I suppose you need more material for your project?"

Max didn't reply.

"Have you spoken to Gerry about wanting to have a séance?"

"Oh yes. She's newly into the occult and very enthusiastic."

He shrugged. "She asked if there might be unhappy, lingering spirits that we might be able to set free, and I told her the truth. There very well might be."

"What you might do is attract some unsavory characters who have no desire to be set free," said Kathleen, "But I suspect you're less concerned with setting spirits free than with trapping them in your book."

"You're very cynical, Kathleen. You know, we might both be able to use this in our next book."

Kathleen shook her head. "She's my patient, not a subject for a book."

"Your books are based on your experience with your patients."

"Anonymously, and only if I'm completely sure there would be no effect on them psychologically. They also receive a fee if their story is included in a book."

"Very generous," said Max. "Your book 'Mind and Soul' is on the Times bestseller list now, I believe, and last week you were on 'The Scene'. You're there, Kathleen. I'm just trying to get there too."

"I'm where, Max?"

"You're at the top. You're famous."

"It's not about fame, Max. My books give hope to a lot of people, otherwise I wouldn't bother writing them. So many of my patients think they're the only ones in the world suffering from their particular problem. We have a helpline number and website with a patient chat room in the back of the book."

"From which you get more referrals."

"You're such a cynic, Max."

"I know, but buckets of money and the adulation of the masses isn't a bad thing, after all."

"That depends," said Kathleen.

"At any rate, Susan Mendelsohn agreed to come if you discovered anything of interest in your visit to the house. She has a lot of requests for her services, and doesn't like to waste her time. What you told me this morning sounded promising, so I called her and she said she'll come. A few of Gerry's friends will be there as well. I was hoping you'd come to complete the circle."

"I see. It turns out I was your guinea pig."

Max smiled. "I wouldn't put it quite like that."

"I would. I'm not sure about this, Max. Gerry is my patient."

"But she's not my patient. She's a friend. I see her and her fiancé socially. I have no professional connection with her at all." He smiled.

"Very clever, Max. If Gerry had been your patient, you couldn't ethically do this. Since she's mine, your conscience is clear. I don't like this one bit, Max."

"Kathleen, you know my first love has always been parapsychology. Unfortunately, there's been no money in it. Until now."

His voice turned serious. "Come now. Admit it. After your experience in the house nothing could drag you out of this case."

"I'm seeing Gerry because she needs a competent psycho-therapist. All right, Max. I'll come to the séance, if only to keep an eye on her."

"Have no fear. Gerry will be fine. This will be a controlled environment with a talented, professional medium and two parapsychologists. In addition, we'll have state-of-the art parapsychological equipment, in case we actually do experience phenomena."

"What equipment are you bringing?"

"It's called the Aardvark System. Brand new. Universal sensors throughout the house will gauge temperature fluctuation, photograph any anomalous movement, and measure any local variations in static magnetic fields. All the data will be recorded and compiled and automatically sent to a computer in my apartment."

"If there is any possibility that this will affect Gerry negatively, it must stop immediately."

"Of course. But relax. Gerry will have fun, and so will we. This is going to be rad, Kathleen. I can feel it."

Kathleen laughed. "Max, 'rad' is more prehistoric than 'power-freaked'"

"Sorry, I'm always behind in the slang. Kathleen, you believe in life after death, in spirits, in reincarnation. I've read your book, dear. What is it about this situation that's making you throw up mental roadblocks? You told me yourself Gerry seems like the most down-to-earth person you've met in ages, so there might very well be something quite interesting going on."

"Gerry is still my patient, and she's having a debilitating nightmare. I want to make sure she's safe."

"She will be, trust me."
CHAPTER 9

On Saturday evening at seven-thirty, Max worked in Gerry and Dan's basement setting up the last Aardvark satellite. Units had been put in each corner of every room of the house. They stood on tripod legs and looked like small laptops open to the room, each with a camera lens in the top center of the screen recording a panoramic view of the room.

In the great room, Gerry asked Dan, "Why do all those things have little green lights?"

"Max said that means they're ready for action," said Dan. "He wants to leave them set up all week gathering any possible data. We can shut any of them off if we want to."

"They don't eat or make any noise, so that's fine," said Gerry, helping Dan push the couch and chairs back and setting up a large folding table in front of the fireplace. "Where's Max now?"

"He's setting up Albert the Aardvark in the basement," said Dan.

"Oh," said Gerry. They set up the chairs around the table, then went into the kitchen

"Okay," said Gerry. "Let's get a soda." They went into the kitchen and Dan snatched a tiny sandwich from the island and popped it into his mouth.

"Mm. That's good. It feels like we're getting ready for a PTA meeting instead of a séance. Is Mindy coming?"

"I'm not sure," said Gerry, covering the trays with foil. "That's not going anywhere. I think Max is interested in Maura."

"Really. How do you know that?"

"I know, believe me. I can see the way he looks at her."

Gerry wiped her hands on her apron, then untied it and threw it into a drawer.

Dan encircled her waist from behind. "You being an expert in all phases of leering."

"Are you talking about me leering, or me being leered at?"

"Um, the second one."

"Thanks. Did we forget anything?"

"It's all set. How many are coming again?"

Gerry squinted her eyes. "Let's see. Max, Kathleen, Maura, Larry Burke, me, you, and Susan Mendelsohn. Seven. Have you got seven chairs set up?"

"No. eight. You have to have an empty chair for the spirit."

"Really? I didn't know...." She saw his grin. "Oh, funny. Maybe we should have a round table for this," she said, carrying the trays into the living room. Dan followed.

"We don't have a round table."

Gerry was talking quickly, almost to herself. "They usually have round tables for these things."

"You're dithering," said Dan.

"I'm not dithering. We should have borrowed a round table. The circle is a symbol for continuity, eternity. It supposedly keeps the power concentrated."

Dan blinked dully. "The power?"

"The psychic power that draws the spirits, so they can speak through the medium."

"You've really been getting into this psychic stuff, haven't you? Hey, was that Jacqueline who came to the side door before?"

Gerry sat at the island on a tall breakfast stool next to Dan. "Yes. She came over to chat."

"She's not coming, is she?" Dan asked, doubtfully. "I don't think this would be her kind of party."

Gerry laughed. "No. She's a very strict Catholic, and the regression almost made her head explode."

"I wouldn't be here either, except I live here." He looked at his watch. "We've still got time." Dan opened the fridge and took out two cans of diet soda.

He handed her an icy cold diet soda and said, "Do you really believe in this stuff?"

Gerry looked at her soda, then back at him. "Yes, I do. I've read a lot on this. Ghosts, poltergeists, possession, stuff like that. A lot of people believe that apparitions and poltergeists are really the manifestation of the intense emotions of those who live or lived in a house. Kind of like photographs of the situations people were in when they were alive. Actually, more like a video, I guess. I think that may be the case sometimes, but I also believe real spirits are around us all the time. I'm sure of it. I've felt my Uncle Earl around me at times."

Dan rolled his soda can between his hands on the counter and said nothing.

Gerry continued, "There are a lot of well-educated, intelligent people who believe in spirits. Most of the world's cultures believe in life after death. Did I ever tell you the story about what happened to Karen O'Hara's sister?"

"I don't think so, but I think I met Karen once."

"You did. Right after we met, we went to a dinner party at her house."

"I remember. She was the chatty one."

"That's her," she said. "Karen's sister Jeannette went away to a girl's school upstate. They had money, and I think Karen's mother was a bit of a snob, to be honest."

She waved her hand, erasing the irrelevant comment, "Anyway, they sent Jeannette away to this expensive private school run by the nuns. Very strict. In her senior year, her parents had to bring her home. The girl's nerves were completely shot."

"What happened?"

"One of the dormitory buildings was really old, and the story was that the place was haunted. Of course, the girls had fun with new students, spooking them with sheets, howling outside the doors to their rooms, things like that. It was a big place, and some of the rooms on the top floor were used only for storage until the number of registrations increased. Then they had to convert the storage space into more sleeping quarters. One of the converted rooms was larger than usual, and Jeannette was put in there with another new girl."

Gerry took a sip of her soda. "The roommate had to go home for a funeral or something, and never spent a night in that room. Unfortunately, Jeannette did. The next morning, she didn't show up in the dining hall for breakfast."

"Uh oh," said Dan, melodramatically.

"When they found her on the bed, she was almost incoherent with fear."

"As I remember Karen O'Hara, gibbering was her normal mode of communication. Maybe it runs in the family."

"Do you want to hear this?" she asked, very reasonably.

"Go ahead."

"According to Karen, during the night Jeannette experienced a burning sensation in her throat, and a pressure on her chest, as if something heavy was holding her down. She couldn't move and was too frightened to scream. She just lay there all night. She said that every time she tried to get out of bed, the pressure became so great she couldn't breathe. She was convinced she would have suffocated had she kept on struggling."

"That would scare me," Dan admitted. "And this is supposedly a true story?"

"Gospel, according to Karen."

"Totally unverifiable," said Dan.

"Wait. So Jeannette just lay there in a state of shock. In the morning, they finally went up to see why she hadn't gone to the dining hall. They found her staring, with a horrifying look on her face."

"Dead?"

"No. She was all right."

"White haired and drooling, but just fine."

"No Dan. She recovered just fine, but she was pretty shaken. Actually it kind of reminded me of Sherlock Holmes' 'The Adventure of the Devil's Foot.' We saw that episode. You know, where the people sat around that table and died from fright because the bad guy threw the Devil's Foot root into the fire?"

"I don't remember."

Gerry nodded. "Anyway, her parents came that day and brought her home. It turns out she wasn't the only one who had a bad experience in that room. Some years before, a few girls were badly spooked while looking for something up there."

"Great story," said Dan, "Perfect for a Halloweenish night like tonight."

Gerry pointed her soda straw at him. "Hold on. You haven't heard it all. They found out later that someone had committed suicide in the room years before. It seems the victim swallowed lye."

"I could think of better ways to do it. Like consuming fifteen pepperoni pizzas. Or two ounces of your macaroni and cheese."

"You'd better be careful, or the spirit we contact may be you," she said. "They actually had an exorcism performed."

"That's unusual. The Church doesn't perform exorcisms lightly. They like to be seen as progressive and exorcisms smack of medievalism. What happened?"

"This is the best part. This friend of Jeannette's, a Renee something, saw the whole thing and told Karen about it later. The nuns made the girls wait in front of the house while they performed the rite. Renee said she and a friend snuck in and hid in a closet near the room and heard some of what was happening. She said there were three priests inside. The door rattled, and they heard strange voices and noises, as if a crowd were inside the room, all talking and shouting at once. She said they also heard what sounded like a powerful wind in there. Then a nun caught them and made them go back outside.

"According to Renee, who was now waiting outside looking up at the room's window, when the exorcism 'took', kind of, there was an implosion in the room. The window shattered inward and the next second, the curtains flew outward as if the air pressure inside changed direction. Renee swore she saw a whirlwind fly down the path toward the gate of the school. She said they all heard a howling as it left."

"It didn't care for the room service, I guess," Said Dan. "Think I should put out a pitcher of water on the table?"

"Good idea. But make it iced tea. And use the plastic pitcher and paper cups."

"Why? I hate using paper cups."

"In case the table starts levitating. I don't want any broken glass or tea stains."

Dan stopped in his tracks on the way to the kitchen. "Are you serious?"

Gerry laughed. "I just don't feel like doing any more dishes tonight than I have to."

Dan went into the kitchen and returned and set a pitcher of iced tea and plastic cups in the middle of the table. "What time are they supposed to get here?"

"Eight. It's almost that now."

Dan put his hand to his ear and said "Hark. I think I hear a medium landing." A car's tires crunched the driveway gravel.

Gerry said seriously. "Dan. I know you don't believe in any of this, but I want you to support me."

"Don't I always?" he asked.

She smiled. "Yes, you do."

Larry was the first to arrive, followed by Maura five minutes later.

Kathleen and Susan were the last to arrive. Dan opened the door and saw them speaking quietly on the porch, Kathleen standing with her arms folded. Dan started to close the door to give them privacy.

"That's okay, Dan. We're done," said Kathleen. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Come in."

Susan Mendelsohn had short, straight, auburn hair and big, light gray eyes. She seemed ill at ease and looked as if she had been crying.

"Is everything all right?" asked Dan.

"It's fine, thank you," said Susan.

Maura took Gerry aside and handed her a bag from Barnes & Noble.

"What's this?" Gerry pulled a hard cover book from the brown bag. The title was "Mind and Soul". Gerry opened to the flyleaf and saw a picture of a smiling Kathleen O'Mara.

"I knew it. I knew I'd seen her somewhere. I was leafing through her book at the store a few weeks ago and I must have caught a glimpse of her face. That was really starting to bother me."

"She's been on 'The Scene' and the 'Tomorrow' show, and it's only her first book. It's already on the New York Times bestseller list. Your shrink is famous."

"Interesting," said Gerry.

Max came upstairs from the cellar. "That gave me a bit of trouble, but we're all set."

By eight-thirty, seven people sat around the table. The medium faced away from the hearth with Kathleen on her left and Dan on her right. Gerry sat next to Dan on the end seat, with Max to her right next to Larry. Maura faced Gerry on the other end seat.

"Maura, quit kicking me under the table," said Larry, grinning.

Maura looked puzzled. "I didn't do that."

Susan smiled weakly. Kathleen watched her face. She looked nervous. The woman was not only a medium, but also a psychic and might be experiencing all that Kathleen had felt here and more. If she was, Susan didn't lack guts. Kathleen was not going to open herself to find out.

"I think we're ready to begin," said Susan, with a slight quaver. Her eyes were beautiful, gentle, and expressive. Whatever she was, the woman was not a fraud. Kathleen knew that from the incredible sense of power she had felt in her when they first met. Max reached over and switched on the recorder he had placed in front of the medium.

Susan continued, "None of you will be in any personal danger during this séance. I ask that you all try to keep a positive, or at least a neutral attitude, even if you're skeptical about spiritualism. It will add to the probability of success. More importantly, under no circumstances must anyone interrupt the séance, and under no circumstances must anyone break the circle before we are finished. When contact is made, Mister Luellen will ask questions of the spirit."

Susan was still for a moment, then said, "We will now join hands. This keeps the power focused within the circle. As the medium, I will be the vehicle through which the spirit will speak. Max will assist and will be the only one to address the spirit. It may take a few minutes for me to go into trance, but with luck, we should then make contact. When it is broken off by either myself or the spirit, my voice will return and I'll thank the spirit for joining us and end the contact."

"Please close your eyes, relax, and let your mind rest."

Gerry closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She held Dan's hand in her left, and Max's in her right. Susan began to make a breathy, whining noise, then her chest began to rise and fall slowly, expelling breaths in short, violent bursts. It reminded Gerry of a martial arts master preparing to smash an impossible number of bricks with a bare hand. Complete silence hung over the room while Susan's head moved slowly from side to side. Gerry listened to her own heartbeat and watched the vague outline of the medium through semi-closed eyes. Susan's head abruptly stopped moving. With eyes closed, she moved her head as if looking around the room.

"Who is there?" asked Max, firmly. The medium's head moved in his direction.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Suddenly the entity shattered the silence with loud wailing.

Gerry felt an electric shiver run through her whole body as Susan began speaking in a unintelligible language that sounded like a form of German. She kept repeating certain passages, almost the way a child sings a ritual play song. It sounded like a Teutonic ring-around-the-rosy.

Max waited for a minute, then broke in. "Who are you?"

The entity sighed and spoke in English now, but in an Irish brogue, and in a voice that was decidedly not Susan's. "Its so cold here...so very cold...."

"What is your name?"

"My name...." the woman sighed with an incredible weariness. It seemed almost too much of an effort to speak.

"What is your name?" Max asked again, slightly louder.

"Delia...my name is...Delia."

"What were those words you were speaking, Delia?"

"Meg's words...Meg's chant...it's burned into... my soul...."

"What is Meg's chant, Delia?"

"No...." the voice screamed and Susan's head thrashed sideways. In a moment she seemed to calm.

Max spoke gently, as if to a child patient, "What year were you born, Delia?" Susan's head lolled slowly on her shoulders.

"What year were you born?"

"...born in eighteen fifty."

Gerry listened intently. Was this real, or was Susan inventing it? It was impossible to tell.

"Why are you here, Delia?" Max asked. Gerry watched Susan's delicate, upturned face. She seemed reluctant to answer. Max repeated the question.

"My sister...." the Irishwoman said with a sigh.

"What about your sister, Delia?" Max asked quickly.

"She...follows," said Delia in a harsh whisper. The hairs on Gerry's arm stood on end. She wanted to rub it, but couldn't without breaking the circle.

"What is your sister's name, Delia?"

"Meg...sister's name is Meg."

"What or who is it that Meg follows, Delia? What do you mean?" asked Max, speaking quickly.

"No...I...." The voice wavered, seemed confused.

Max repeated the question. "What do you mean by 'She follows', Delia?"

Silence. Max asked again. Delia began to weep. Dan winced at the most horrifying sound he had ever heard from a human being. It was a haunting, deeply bitter sound that came from the depths of the woman's soul. It was the essence of despair.

When Delia stopped weeping, she said, "She follows the butchers."

Max asked quickly, "Who are they, Delia? Who are the butchers?"

Gerry's hands clenched Dan's tightly as Delia suddenly bellowed: "The Carmodys...." Susan's chest was heaving. "They...are...the butchers."

Delia screamed, "They...murdered...me on the day before my wedding," then lowered her voice venomously. "They thought I was alone, like the others...that I had no one. But I did....I had Meg ...." She laughed horribly. "Yes...and Meg found out what they did."

Gently, Max said "Why are you still here, Delia? Don't you want to go on? All you have to do is release yourself from the earth. You have much to do on the next plane. Someone will be waiting there to guide you. You must go, Delia."

"You go...I can't...." Gerry smiled at the sarcasm.

"Why can't you go, Delia?"

"I'm trapped here. It was all because of me...God help me...I...want to leave this place."

"What was because of you, Delia?" Max asked. Then, almost imperceptibly, Gerry felt a small thump in her brain, just behind her eyes, then another, louder. It felt like the steps of a huge beast coming toward her from somewhere inside her imagination. Gerry squeezed Dan's hand reflectively at each thump. She looked around quickly and saw frightened faces staring at each other, still holding hands tightly. Like one organism, they all flinched as the vibration slowly grew louder, as if something large walked inexorably toward them.

Thump.

Thump...louder.

Thump...louder.

The room was completely silent, then the voice screamed, "It comes...."

Larry bolted upright and backed away from the table. Maura got to her feet and stood in the middle of the room, her arms folded protectively against her chest. The rest stayed at the table. Max looked from Susan back to the front door, as if something unwelcome was about to knock.

"What the hell was that?" asked Larry.

Susan's chest rose and fell rapidly, then she screamed again, "It comes." Gerry flinched and Susan's head rocked back and forth violently, then stopped. Her head bowed forward and her breathing became regular.

"The spirit's gone," said Max, barely regaining his voice.

Gerry closed her eyes, praying the thumping sound was gone too. She opened her eyes and relaxed. It had stopped.

"Remain still for a moment," said Max. Susan opened her eyes and stared around the room. Dan ignored Max and ran to turn on the lights.

"Jesus," Maura breathed.

The medium stood up. "Max, I must leave. Now." Max stared at her. She was pale and frightened.

"What the hell was that?" said Larry, looking at Maura. "Did you feel that?"

Maura looked sick and didn't reply.

Susan said, "I'm sorry." When she reached the door, she pulled it open and looked straight back at Gerry. Her expressive, powerful eyes were full of pity and it made Gerry go cold. "Your dream is a message from someone on the other side who loved you. Who still loves you."

My nightmare?" Gerry looked from Susan to Kathleen, who listened intently. "Yes, it's a message. A warning. Max, can we go?" She walked out the door and shut it behind her.

"Kathleen, are you coming with me?" asked Max from near the coffee table, picking up his tape recorder.

"I'll be there in a minute."

Gerry walked over and tapped Max on the shoulder. "I need to speak to you. Alone."

"All right." He turned to Kathleen and said, "I'll meet you in the car." "Back here," said Gerry, motioning to the kitchen.

"That was exciting, wasn't it?" asked Max brightly.

"Yes, it was, Max. From now on, I want to be involved in your research on this house, and on me. Totally involved."

"I don't understand what you mean. I'm not doing formal research on you or your house."

Gerry nodded. "Okay, fine. Then it wouldn't inconvenience you in any way if you never came to this house again, or never spoke to me or Dan again? Beyond your mourning the loss of our sparkling personalities."

Max smiled feebly.

"Okay, here's the deal. This nightmare has me on the edge of hysteria from lack of sleep. Now Susan tells me it's a warning about something. I'm afraid to sleep because I'm afraid to dream. I'm sick of it, and I'm not going to let it push me around any more. The only thing I can do to get some control here is to find out what the hell is going on. I need to be involved in this. Max, I love Dan and I need to find out if anything is threatening him so I can rip its heart out." Her voice was coldly matter-of-fact.

"Did I tell you I really like Dan?" asked Max, stepping back slightly.

"This isn't funny, Max."

Max looked at his penny loafers, then looked back up. "Of course you will be involved in all aspects of the research. I promise you."

"If not, I will cut you off, and pursue this with another parapsychology team. It's my sanity that's at stake."

Max touched his hip pocket and the bulging note pad that held copious notes for his bestseller. "Of course. As I said, you will be involved in everything, Gerry."

"Good. What's next, then? Where do we go from here? What about this strange language we heard? Is there any chance we can find someone to translate it? Maybe we can contact some of the local universities."

Max coughed slightly. "Actually, I know of a very talented person who I'm sure would be happy to help. In fact, I believe he would be intellectually ecstatic." He looked at his watch. "Gerry, I really must go. Susan is waiting."  
"I know. She was petrified along with the rest of us tonight. I find that disturbing, considering the experience she has in this area."

"Good night, Gerry." Max turned to leave.

"Max," said Gerry, "Call me as soon as you set up the meeting with this person, okay?"

Max smiled. "Of course. Good night."  
When the door shut, Maura said, "Susan never even said thank you to the nice spirit."

"I thought it was incredible," said Larry, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. Gerry brought the trays over from the side table and Dan brought wine and soft drinks from the kitchen.

Gerry spoke to Kathleen away from the others. "This was somehow related to my nightmares. I'm sure of it."

"Gerry, psychics like Susan can sometimes pick things up through their own imagination, or from anyone else present."

"Do you think she might have faked this?"

"No, I don't think so." said Kathleen. "She's a gifted psychic medium, and completely honest. I'm sure of that. I'm just not sure that everything that she, or any other medium experiences is always parapsychological."

"So you don't believe there's anything otherworldly going on in this house?"

"I really don't, no. I sense nothing active here."

"What about my nightmare?"

"I believe your nightmare is coming from you, not from anything or anyone external. It's likely anxiety related, possibly connected to your upcoming marriage."

"Nonsense," Gerry interjected. "I'm sorry, I don't mean...I just mean I have absolutely no doubts about this marriage."

"We don't know the cause of your nightmare," said Kathleen. "That's why we have to work to find it."

She looked into Gerry's tired eyes. "We'll figure this out. We will." She flashed a confident smile and looked at the front door that Max had just passed through and added, "I think conventional psychotherapy will accomplish that. Not séances."

Gerry looked at her oddly. "But you're a psychic. Max told me about the strange feelings you got when you were here for our first appointment. I assumed you were in favor of the séance."

"Max told you that?"

"Yes, but it wouldn't matter. Wait there a second."

Gerry came back and held Kathleen's book out. "I've only had a chance to read the front and back cover. It says you have some serious power. It also says you've been on lots of TV shows. You're famous."

Gerry flipped through the pages. "It says here that you can probe someone and pinpoint their problems, and that helps you to help them."

"It's not as simple as it sounds. It takes a lot of work, a lot of therapy."

"Yes, but sometimes just identifying the problem can bring about a cure."

"Sometimes," said Kathleen.

"You really have an amazing gift," said Gerry, touching her arm and smiling.

Kathleen smiled faintly. "Gerry, until we get real evidence that this is something other than psychological, we will treat you in the traditional way, not as a parapsychological anomaly. Besides, the only thing I sensed in this house were the ghosts of old, long-forgotten emotions. There's nothing else here."

Gerry held the book against her chest. "I assume you've psychically probed me? What did you find?"

"I saw what you see in the mirror every day. A normal young woman. Nothing more."

"Then why am I having this nightmare?"

Kathleen touched her arm. "We'll find out, Gerry. I promise. Will I see you Tuesday?"

"I'll be there. I think the dream is brought on by something else, though, something outside of me."

Kathleen shook her head. "People like to think their problems originate someplace other than within themselves, but it's usually not true." She touched her arm. "Gerry, we will get to the bottom of this. I promise. The wedding is when, in two weeks?"

"Yes. It'll be very informal. I'd like you to come, if you could."

Kathleen was surprised by the invitation but answered, "I'd love to. You're very kind." A car horn sounded.

"I have to go, Gerry. They're waiting for me. I'll see you Tuesday at four-thirty?"

Gerry nodded. "Four-thirty."

"Good. See you then." Kathleen walked out and down the drive. She hoped Gerry hadn't felt cornered into the invitation. It wasn't likely. From her short knowledge of her, Gerry always seemed to say what she meant.

Max's car idled at the bottom of the steps, and Kathleen got into the front next to Max. Susan sat in the back.

"Max, why did you tell Gerry about me?" Kathleen asked immediately.

Max pulled out, did a broken U-turn and headed down the hill.

"You've become famous, love. Maura gave Gerry your book. I just added a bit to what she already knew. Gerry doesn't believe anything is wrong with her psychologically, and neither do I. She's convinced something parapsychological is going on, and she wants to be included in the research." Max smiled. "She wants to be a ghostbuster."

"You're outrageously manipulative."

"I know. I'm sorry," he said, still smiling.

"If it weren't for your regression demonstration, she wouldn't be involved in any of this."

"Ignorance is bliss? I don't think so, Kathleen. You told me yourself that the house is the worst place you ever entered."

"Yes, but there's no activity there now. Nothing in the house can hurt her." "What about the nightmare?"

"The nightmare is a normal psychological symptom of a neurotic disorder."

"The nightmare is a warning," said Susan.

"A warning of what?" asked Kathleen.

"I don't know," she answered petulantly, as if she had been asked the question multiple times by a child. Gerry and Max exchanged questioning glances. "I was blocked from any specific information."

"Blocked by what?" asked Max.

She ignored the question. "You're very powerful, Kathleen," said Susan. She folded her arms. She was shaking, as if she were freezing. "Your ability to control it is as important as the gift itself."

"It's essential."

They were silent for a moment, staring out the window. Kathleen glanced in the rear view mirror. Susan's eyes were wide, staring. Dark circles had formed under her eyes which weren't there earlier in the evening.

Susan said in a low voice, "Even though I surrounded myself with protection, I was terrified in there. It was the worst place I've ever experienced. I wish to God I had never come."

"I'm almost glad I have no such power," said Max.

"You should be," said Susan.

Max turned to Kathleen. "You felt the pounding too?" She nodded. Max continued, "The voice said 'It' was coming. It seemed like I could feel the ground beneath my feet tremble, but of course it was all in my mind. Kind of like virtual reality, wasn't it?"

Kathleen sat quietly for a time, then asked, "What exactly do you think is going on in that house, Susan?"

Without looking at either of them, she said, "I don't want to know, and neither should you."

After an awkward silence, Max said, "Kathleen, perhaps your experience in this house has changed your mind about the existence of tangible, spiritually evil entities in this world."

"Max, you have no idea what my personal beliefs are. I've never shared them with you. You've always made assumptions. I know what's out there, Max, and I know that what's in that house are just memories. Horrible, but just memories."

"You're wrong," said Susan. "If I were you, I would refer Gerry to another psychologist and never see her again," said Susan.

"I can help Gerry, and that's what I intend to do," said Kathleen. "Besides, her dream started before they moved into the house." said Kathleen.

"Yes, but not before she first visited the house," said Max.

Susan said, "The dream was sent by someone who has passed over. He knew her and loved her, in more than one life."

"He?"

"Yes. He. There's a male presence around. And there's someone or something else obsessed with her, something I don't want focusing on me."

"Why send a message in the form of a dream?" asked Kathleen.

Max answered, "It's probably the only way he could make contact. Not all spirits can manifest to the living, nor would the living take it very well if they did, despite their affection for the departed."

Kathleen looked into the back seat and noticed Susan was still trembling. If something like that was anywhere near Gerry, Kathleen would know it.

"Susan, there's a sweater on the seat next to you. Wrap it around you."

She did. "Thank you."

Max turned on the radio and leaned over to whisper to Kathleen. "I'm flummoxed. I have two very powerful psychics with two very different opinions. Either way, this is all quite interesting. Of course I'm glad Gerry is not in any danger."

Max continued, "Perhaps Gerry is somewhat psychic herself. She may be picking up something in the house that's causing the nightmare."

"Gerry has potential for psychic awareness, like everyone does, but she's not a psychic." said Kathleen.

Max turned off the radio. "There's another aspect to this that's unusual. Delia knew that she had passed on, yet insists she cannot leave. It's usually quite the opposite. I think Susan would agree."

"That's true," said the medium. She sounded a little better after wrapping herself in the sweater.

"What did Delia mean by 'It's coming?' What or who is 'It'?" Kathleen asked, "And who were the Carmodys?"

"I wish we could have asked a few more questions," said Max.

Suddenly they heard sobbing from the back seat. "It's near all of us now. God, why did I go there?"

"You'll feel better in the morning," said Max, raising his eyebrows and looking at Kathleen.

Kathleen turned around, but didn't know what to say to her. She settled forward again. "Max, what did you make of that strange language she used in the beginning? It sounded Germanic, but I don't think it was German. She called it a chant."

"It was Gaelic, I believe," said Max.

"Of course," said Kathleen, "The woman was Irish. It must have been Gaelic."

"I have a friend who would know," said Max, "He's a Professor of Anthropology and Linguistics at New York University, your Alma Mater."

"What's his name?" Kathleen asked, looking out at an acre of trees between two homes. In the darkness it seemed like a tiny primordial forest.

"Michael McGuire. He's considered a brilliant linguist. I'll give him a call Monday. He might well be able to translate what's on the tape. Would you like to come with us when we go to see him?"

"We?"

"Yes, Gerry asked to be included when we go to see Dr. McGuire. I didn't see any harm in including her. Dan is also coming, I think."

"I'm not comfortable with this, Max. By going to this meeting with Gerry, I might compromise our professional relationship."

"Kathleen, we're just gathering information, and Gerry has a right to be involved in it. She was the subject of the regression, and it is her house, after all. And Gerry said I was out if she wasn't kept in the loop. From what you told me about your first encounter there, this might be quite juicy. We may even be dealing with bona fide demonic activity."

"Max, I don't believe in the literal idea of demons."

Susan said quietly from the back, "You had better believe in demons if you're going back into that house."

Max answered, "Don't believe in demons? Come now. Do you think the evil that you see in the newspapers is caused exclusively by mental illness? You don't really think that serial killers and those who harm children, just to scratch the vile surface, are simply neurotics in need of a psychological tune up, do you?"

"I've seen extreme evil in the lives of many of my patients, but I don't believe it had anything to do with demons. The face of evil, as I see it, is human. They may be demons of a sort, but they're human, with a mother and a father, like everyone else. Evil people are out there, but they're still just people."

"You're wrong. There are demons, I promise you," said Max. "Real, non-human demons."

Susan said, "Of course there are, and they can manifest as almost anything. People, animals. Even objects can harbor an evil spirit. The demon waits, then envelops the entity at an opportune time. For animals and objects, it's easy. For humans, it's a little more complicated. They wait for the person to become weak, vulnerable." She sounded tired.

"Weak in what way?" asked Kathleen.

Max answered, "Spiritually and physically weak. Often, substance abusers are taken over. When alcoholics have what they call blackouts, they have often been invaded by an opportunistic entity. Sometimes, the blackout never ends, and the demon stays in them. They might become irreversibly insane or seem completely normal, though psychopathically evil, without a conscience. They can be suave, attractive, persuasive, or they can be mindless, vicious brutes.

"An invading spirit might also be simply a soul simply trying to relive their old obsessions, and they can experience them while the person is in a drunken blackout. They can taste the liquor again, or inhale once more a heavenly breath of nicotine. In the morning, they leave the body. Presumably, they don't want to experience the hangover as well.

"Might they just inhabit a place, like a house?" asked Kathleen.

Max nodded. "Yes. That's often the case. An object is easier for them. Or an animal. There's no resistance at all. Very often they will inhabit carnivorous animals, like man-eating tigers, for instance. They enjoy the taste of real blood now and then. Like the Lions of Tsavo."

"The Lions of Tsavo?" asked Kathleen.

"In 1898, the British were building a bridge in Uganda. Two lions methodically stalked and attacked the construction workers. A hunter named William Patterson, actually a British officer, was brought in to kill them. He was an amazingly brave man. He finally managed to hunt them down, but not before they had killed and eaten one hundred and thirty men and women."

"Good Lord," said Kathleen.

"Yes. The natives called them Ghost and Darkness because the mane on one was light, the other dark. The hunter found their lair in a cave where they had accumulated piles of human bones. Like a collection. The native shamans in the area knew demons inhabited the lions. I agree with them. Lions just didn't hunt humans quite like that."

"If that's all they had to eat, they might," said Kathleen.

"Yes, but it wasn't the only food available. They did it for food, yes, but also for pleasure, the shamans said. They were not ordinary lions."  
Kathleen shifted in her seat and stared out the window. She was getting a headache. "I want to be there when you see this McGuire."

"Good," said Max, "You're becoming intrigued."

"I'm concerned for Gerry, Max. You'll have to make the meeting with McGuire in the evening, though. I can't fit it in during the day."

"No problem. I'll call you at your office Monday before lunch time. Would you like to stop for a drink before you go home? Calm the nerves? How about you, Susan?"

"I'd just like to go home," said Susan.

"Are you going to be all right?" asked Kathleen.

"Yes, I will. As long as I never go near that house or those people again."

"What say, up for that nightcap, Kathleen?" Max knew he had no chance with Kathleen, but still tried; he knew when Kathleen had the occasional drink with him, it was strictly between friendly colleagues. She glanced at him.

"All right. But just one," she said.

At the house, Dan folded up the large portable table and pushed the coffee table back in front of the fireplace while Larry stacked the folding chairs in the corner. Larry came back over, sat on the couch opposite Gerry.

Maura, sitting on the end of the couch said, "Let's go dancing. How does that sound, Larry?" she asked. Gerry thought she saw Larry's glasses begin to fog up.

"I'm there," said Larry.

"Gerry? You in?"

"Sure, why not."

Dan came in at the tail end of the conversation and said, "Where are we going?"

"Dancing. Get a decent shirt on," said Gerry.

"I feel married already," he said, saluting.

"Tonight was bizarre, Gerry." said Maura. "I didn't know you were going to go weird on me when I sold you this house."

"It scared the hell out of me, I know that," said Larry. He looked at Gerry. "Do you think the medium was faking it?"

"No, I don't believe she was."

"Whether she was or not, it was creepy. My advice to you, kiddo," Maura said, poking her finger at her friend, "Is to keep things in their proper perspective. When people are dead, they're dead. Leave 'em alone. They don't want any psychos digging them up in a séance."

"That's psychics," said Gerry.

"Same thing," said Maura, sipping a glass of neat scotch.

No one mentioned the sound of the footsteps, Gerry noted. What you couldn't rationalize, you buried, like the dead.
CHAPTER 10

On Tuesday at four twenty-five, Gerry picked up a latte at Starbucks and sipped it as she walked across to 34th Street and the small wing of offices near the entrance to Cedar Hospital. She wore medium heels and a pinstriped dark blue suit with a frilly white blouse and an old-style string tie.

She smiled at the receptionist. "I'm here to see Dr. O'Mara."

"Geraldine McMartin?" the woman asked, scanning her list. She was young, very pretty, with black framed eyeglasses. She looked over the lenses dangling on the end of her nose. "I love your suit."

Gerry beamed. "Thanks. What room number is it?"

"104. One flight up. You can take the elevator or the stairs," she said.

"I'll take the stairs. Thanks."

Gerry found the room. Three upholstered straight back chairs lined the wall opposite the door. She knocked.

"Come in," said Kathleen from inside.

Gerry opened the door. "Hi, Kathleen." The room was nicely decorated.

"Gerry. Hi. Please sit down," Kathleen motioned to a comfortable-looking leather chair opposite hers. A small round table between them held a stack of paperwork which Kathleen shuffled and placed on the table face down, then settled back in her chair and addressed Gerry.

"Are you feeling all right?" She immediately opened herself to Gerry. She was surprisingly calm despite the nightmare that had been destroying her sleep.

"Can't you already tell?" asked Gerry. She couldn't help herself. She felt strangely naked realizing Kathleen was probably already scanning her.

"Not really," said Kathleen. "I think you're overestimating my abilities. I need help from the patient. We both have to work at this."

"Sorry. I'm doing fine, actually."

Kathleen studied her face. Gerry's light makeup couldn't hide the fatigue.

"But you're still having the nightmare."

"Yes. I really think I could live with it if I had to."

Kathleen wanted to hug her. She was accepting the possibility that the nightmare would never leave her, and she was preparing to carry it on her back. She was a courageous person.

"You won't have to live with it for much longer, I promise."

Gerry smiled, and Kathleen sat back and waited for Gerry to speak.

After a long moment, Gerry said, "They always do that, don't they?"

"Do what?"

"Psychotherapists always wait for the patient to talk first."

Kathleen smiled. "Well, I could tell you about the last book I read, but you're the patient and you're paying the bill. Are you getting nervous about the wedding?"

"God yes, but Dan is great. He's really helpful. He made all the arrangements for the reception. By the way, you'll be getting the invitation soon. They're not quite printed yet. Everything was such a rush."

"I'm looking forward to it," said Kathleen.

"Kathleen...I mean Doctor O'Mara...It's funny, I felt perfectly comfortable calling you by your first name until I sat in front of you as your patient."

"That's understandable, but Kathleen is fine, though."

"I know, thanks. I have to ask you this. Would you feel a professional conflict being involved in the parapsychological research Max is planning? As my doctor, I mean."

Kathleen reflected for a second, then said, "Yes I would. I can't take an active part in any parapsychological research concerning you or your house. As your therapist, I feel I have to exhaust every non-parapsychological avenue in searching out the cause of your nightmare. I went to that séance mainly to keep an eye on you."

Gerry smiled and nodded. "I understand. And thanks. But as a psychic investigator yourself, you must be intrigued by all of it. Max told me how you felt when you came to the house. It must have been awful."

"Max has no idea how I felt, and it really wasn't appropriate for him to discuss any of that with you."

"I'm sorry. I really pumped him. From what he said, it was pretty bad. Thank God you're able to block it out."

"Yes, I can control it, for the most part."

"I'm glad, because I would hate for you to be uncomfortable in my home. I find I respect and like you very much. Is that a no-no between doctor and patient?"

Kathleen smiled. "Not at all. I like you too."

"Thanks. By the way, I finished your book. I've never read anything quite like it, at least anything that wasn't fantasy. The way you zero in on the underlying trigger points of your patient's problems is amazing. And the problem might be coming from a trauma a week before, or from a lifetime hundreds of years ago. You're like a surgeon. Once you find the underlying cause, you cut it out and bring it into the light. It was wonderful. "

"You're very nice to say so," said Kathleen.

"No I'm not. It's true. The chapter about that gutsy little boy who was possessed by a demon was heartbreaking."

"I never said anything about Antoine being possessed by a demon."

"No, I just assumed, but I guess you never did call it that. Isn't it usually a demon that possesses a person?"

"So it seems, ever since the movie 'The Exorcist'. I guess it depends on your definition of demon. I haven't found any evidence to disprove my conviction that these 'possessions' are caused by human beings who have passed on. Very bad human beings, I'll grant you, but human nonetheless. If 'demon' means an evil being, then Antoine was taken by a demon. Any adult who sexually abuses a child might then be considered a demon."

"Max and I feel very strongly that you should be part of the team," said Gerry.

Kathleen smiled. "What's the name of the team, 'Ghostbusters'?"

Gerry laughed and fiddled with a pen in her lap. "Kathleen, I love Dan more than I thought it was possible to love another person. I intend to get married in two weeks and start a very happy long life with him, and it will begin in that house. If we have a child in that house, that child is going to be happy and healthy. It's our home. Nothing and no one is going to stop us from being happy there." Gerry's soft brown eyes turned hard.

"Of course not. Why shouldn't you be happy there? Whatever atmosphere lingers in that house, it has no power over you or Dan. It can't harm you. That's why we have to work on finding out what's really causing this nightmare, so you can be happy."

"I believe the nightmare is a warning, not a symptom. So does Susan, and so does Max."

"A warning of what?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'm going to find out. I really want your help in this. As a psychic, not as a psychologist, and Max told me how valuable you would be as part of the team."

Biting her lip with a pained smile, she said "You're fired" with a reluctant, questioning tone and the captivating smile of a naughty child.

Kathleen burst out laughing, then said, "I'm fired? This is a first. I've never been fired by a patient quite like that. Or any other way, actually."

"I hope you're not angry with me. I want you to help me, but not as my therapist, at least not right now. Maybe later. When and if I see a therapist, you'll be the only one I'd consider. Right now, I need you as a talented psychic, and as a friend."

Kathleen smiled. "You've already got me as a friend. All right, Gerry. I'll be part of your team."

Gerry's eyes misted. "Thanks."

"I'd feel much better about it if you saw another therapist in the mean time, though."

"We'll talk about it."

"All right, Gerry." Kathleen checked her watch. The session was over. "Hey, I'm finished for today. Want to come with me to Chinatown for a bite? I know an incredible place where the locals go when they eat out. I have to get a periodic infusion of their house chow fun."

"That sounds fabulous. I'd love to."
CHAPTER 11

The next afternoon, Gerry stood on a ladder and stretched a bit too far as she obliterated a tiny unpainted spot on the crown molding. She wore torn jeans, a huge old t-shirt and a stained towel around her hair. Her phone vibrated in her jeans pocket, then rang, and she rattled the ladder as she jerked the phone out of the tight pants.

Ten feet below, Dan yelled, "Whoa, watch it, Michelangelo." He steadied the base of the ladder with his foot.

"Damn." She laid the brush down carefully on the top step of the ladder and snapped open her cell phone. A bit of paint from her hand smudged the phone. "Double damn."

She looked down. "I'm fine, Dan," then said "Hello?" It was Max.

"Gerry. Have I caught you at an inopportune time?"

She scratched the paint stain from her phone. "Why, not at all." Max's London accent always reminded her of 1930s British character actors. Actually, dahling, I'm slinking into my velvet chaise wearing a little black number.

"I've set up a meeting with Michael McGuire for tonight at seven-thirty. Can you make it?"

She checked her watch. It was four o'clock. "Definitely. Dan and I will both be there."

"Where?" Dan mouthed.

"I'm terribly sorry I couldn't let you know sooner, but it was a last minute thing. Michael was incognito at the library."

"No problem, Max. That should be enough time. Can you hold a minute?" She carefully descended the ladder.

"Ok, where are we meeting?"

"At Dr. McGuire's brownstone in the Village." He gave her the address.

"Fine. See you there at seven thirty, Max."

"Ta."

"Ta," said Gerry. "I love saying that." She turned around, saw that Dan was gone. She followed muted chopping sounds to the kitchen.

Dan whistled softly as he hacked cilantro on a wooden block.

"We're meeting Max at this Dr. McGuire's tonight at seven-thirty."

"Oh right. He's the language expert?"

"Mm hmm. That ok?"

"Sure. Let's take the train. I don't feel like parking down there."

"Fine. I downloaded a schedule. We can catch the 6:23 from Hastings, then we'll grab a cab. Can I help with dinner?"

"Sure. You can make the salad. There's a fresh cruet of oil and vinegar in the fridge."

At six twenty, they parked their car in the Hastings lot and stepped onto the platform. The evening was warm and sticky. The train moved into the station at exactly 6:23 PM. Gerry slid into the window side of a two-seater, smiled at Dan, then looked out over the growing darkness and the river.

A red band of light, glowing imperceptibly darker, rose above the Jersey Palisades. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep, but was afraid. She imagined a smiling Uncle Earl whispering in her ear. Go ahead, sleep. Don't be afraid. She leaned back and fell asleep.

"Grand Central Terminal," said the loud mechanical voice. Gerry's eyes flew open.

"You had a nice little nap."

"I did." They had some time, so they stopped for coffee on the Main Concourse.

At that moment, Kathleen walked out of the elevator.

"Hello, Dr. O'Mara," said the doorman. Ned was a pleasant, recently-retired cabdriver who was very happy to be out of the driving rat race.

"Hi, Ned." She checked her watch. The meeting at Michael McGuire's was for seven-thirty. She chatted with Ned until a yellow cab pulled up to the short curving drive in front of the building.

"You the one that called, lady?" asked the driver, a thin-faced man with short, spiked hair and white-framed sunglasses. He looked older than his outward persona, Kathleen thought.

"Yes. Fourth Street and Greenleaf Avenue. It's on the West Side."

"It sure is." The cabbie pulled onto Riverside and plunged into traffic.

She arrived in front of the building a few minutes early. McGuire's brownstone was impressive. Carriage lights glowed on each side of the heavy wooden front door, and a soft light flowed from a decorative cut glass transom at eye level. Ornate stone banisters rose on each side of the marble steps.

"Hello," came a man's voice from a window above the entrance. "Are you Kathleen O'Mara?"

"Yes," she said, looking up.

"I'm Michael McGuire. Max called and said he'd be a few minutes late. I'll be right down to let you in."

The head disappeared from the window. Just then, Gerry and Dan pulled up in a cab. Gerry got out and called to Kathleen as Dan paid the driver.

"Hi, Kathleen, long time no see."

"Hello Gerry. Everything good?"

"Fine. I'm still thinking about the chow fun at Tang Kitchen. I need more."

Kathleen laughed. "I told you."

The front door opened and Kathleen, Dan, and Gerry were shown inside. Michael McGuire was somewhere in his early forties, a big man with a big smile and abundant, thick brown hair. He was well over six feet tall, with a strong athletic build.

Kathleen gestured to Gerry and Dan. "Doctor McGuire, this is Gerry McMartin and Dan Williams." Gerry smiled and Dan shook his hand.

"Very nice to meet you," said McGuire. "Please sit down. Max should be here momentarily." McGuire's living room was stunning, with original hardwood floors and crown molding. Custom-made cherrywood bookshelves dominated both sides of the fireplace. The rest of the furniture included a cordovan leather couch, an extremely comfortable-looking leather recliner next to a floor lamp, a coffee table, and two matching end tables with lamps on both ends of the couch. Several occasional chairs were near the main grouping.

"Your home is beautiful. I especially love those bookshelves," said Gerry.

McGuire smiled. "Thanks. Dr. O'Mara, I understand you took your doctorate at NYU?" he said. His brown eyes had a perpetual, vaguely amused sparkle. Kathleen liked him immediately.

"Yes. Psychology. And call me Kathleen, please."

"Kathleen, Michael, Dan, Gerry, Max," said Gerry, pointing at everyone one at a time.

"Good," said Michael, grinning. "I hate formalities."  
"You're a Professor of both Anthropology and Linguistics, I understand," said Gerry.

"Yes. Max said something about a séance and a language used by the medium that he couldn't identify. Did the séance take place at your home?"

Gerry nodded. "Yes. All very spooky." She laughed nervously.

"Do you have the tape with you?"

"No. Max has a copy." She wondered what McGuire thought of all of this. Michael stood up saying, "I'm sorry. Can I get you anything? I have...well, I really don't have much of anything in at the moment. I'm not a very good host, I suppose. I didn't get to the store this week. How about tea?"

"If you're making it anyway, I'd love some," said Kathleen.

"Me too," said Gerry.  
The doorbell rang. "There's Max," said Michael, walking out through the short hallway to the front door. Max followed him back into the living room.

"Sorry I'm late." He took a micro cassette recorder from his pocket and handed it to Michael. "I hope you can translate it."

"I'll make some tea, and then we'll get to it."

Michael went into the kitchen. In a few minutes, a kettle whistled and Michael returned with a china tea service atop a silver tray.

"What a lovely set," said Gerry. The porcelain was delicately beautiful, the color of cream, with a design of tiny green shamrocks.

"It's Belleek china, from the old country," He said. "A gift from my mother. I don't often get to use it." Gerry realized for the first time what it was about his voice. He had a very slight Irish accent which became a bit richer as he spoke about his background.

"Were you born in Ireland?" Gerry asked.

"Yes, in Dublin. I came here with my parents as a young boy. McMartin is Irish as well, I think."

"Oh, very. Most of my people were also from Dublin."

"Is that right? And now we've got one Kathleen O'Mara here, as Irish a name as there is."

Kathleen smiled at him. Ooh. That was interesting, Gerry thought. That was a special little smile. We have ignition here. Would there be liftoff?

Michael grinned. "It seems that except for Max, we have a formidable Celtic team here to crack this mystery."

"I'm feeling a bit left out," said Max.

"Sorry. We'll make you an honorary Hibernian," said Michael, "Although as an Englishman, you probably already have a good portion of pre-Saxon Celtic in you.

"I'll take that as an enormous compliment," said Max. "Shall we get started?"

"Let's," said Michael, rubbing his hands.

Max put the tape in and clicked the player on. Michael listened intently and seemed amazed at the words and the voice coming from the tape.

Michael stopped the tape. "You recorded this at a séance?"

"Yes," said Max, eyes glittering. "Interesting, isn't it?"

"Extremely," said Michael, leaning forward. He restarted the tape.

McGuire recoiled slightly at the sound of the despairing voice coming from the machine.

To Gerry, it was a haunting, keening voice, the voice of utter, unredeemable loss. As a child, she once attended a traditional Irish wake. Her father, mother and Uncle Earl had taken her to a beautiful old Victorian house in Valhalla, New York. When they got there, the departed had been laid out in the parlor.

"It's the old way," Earl had whispered in her ear. He explained that the body had been washed by the women of the family, then dressed in clean Irish linen and laid out with a cross resting on the breast. Gerry remembered the old woman kneeling before the casket crying loudly and pitifully, and the impossibly old man lying there. Earl told her the woman was "keening," Later, food was laid out and drink flowed while a fiddler struck up some fast Irish reels. The rest of the night was just a big party. They took her home as soon as it started getting good, though, she remembered.

Max hit the stop button when Delia finished speaking the strange words. "Can you translate it?" asked Max, stopping the tape. Kathleen shook her head. Max was so impatient.

"Possibly. I'll need to analyze this in detail. Can we hear the rest of the tape?"

"Of course," said Max, turning it back on.

They all listened as Delia spoke of her sister Meg, Meg's chant, and the Carmodys, the "butchers."

"...they murdered me," she screamed.

Michael flinched. "Good lord," he whispered. Michael listened as Delia, whoever she was, described her own murder. Gerry sat on the edge of her chair. Michael sipped his tea, then placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table. "What did she mean by 'She follows'?"

Max answered, "That's what we're trying to determine. Hopefully, your translation will help shed more light on this."

"Excuse me," said Michael. He went into the next room and returned with a notebook. Settling down on the couch, he rewound the tape. "Let's play it again."

When the tape finished, he said, "I've never heard anything quite like it. I've read passages from some very arcane sources that are similar, but I've never actually heard a voice speaking in such an ancient dialect. The language is definitely Celtic. A very old form." He studied his notes for a minute, then said, "This is fascinating. Who is this medium? What's her background?"

"Her name is Susan Mendelsohn. By trade, she was originally an accountant, and I'm quite sure she's never studied ancient Celtic," said Max.

"I would think it highly unlikely that she would be familiar with this," said Michael. "Only a handful of linguistic experts would have any knowledge of this dialect."

"The Celts inhabited Britain and Ireland, didn't they?" asked Kathleen.

"And Scotland. At one time they dominated most of Europe. They began migrating into the West starting almost a thousand years before Christ.

"Politically, the Celts had a weak, loosely organized tribal system. They did manage to sack Rome in the fourth century B.C., however. They were extremely talented builders, metallurgists, agriculturalists, and were very potent warriors. Their failure to organize into a more structured political framework destined them for displacement by the juggernaut Roman Empire.

"Had they formed a strong central government, the history of the West may have been quite different. You see echoes of the Celts in our language and place names to this day, and Irish scribes had much to do with saving classical knowledge during the Dark Ages."

"But you will be able to tell us what it says?" Max asked. Michael didn't seem to notice Max's impatience.

Michael nodded and said, "I think so. It will be difficult. The Celts, especially the priestly class, the Druids, handed down their history and secrets orally. They utilized memory techniques similar to the Greek rhetoricians. Therefore no books. At least not until very late in their history. Most of the knowledge we have is a patchwork, taken from various contemporary sources."

"The Druids practiced human sacrifice, didn't they?" asked Gerry. The image of the Druid had always interested her, although she had never done any real research.

"I haven't found any real evidence of that, except in a few rogue cults. History is written by the dominant culture, the ones who conquered militarily. The Romans hated the Celts because they had sacked their sacred city, so their history showed them as bloodthirsty barbarians. Strange that it was Celtic monks who saved those histories by transcribing them before they were forever lost in the Dark Ages."

"Weren't the Druids alleged to have special powers?" Gerry asked.

"That's was the belief. The Druids and Druidesses were supposedly quite powerful."

"Druidesses?"

"Yes. They were also known sometimes as Dryads, or Bendrui, in Old Irish. They were the female equivalent of Druid priests. The Celts were very liberated." Michael smiled. "Also, the Greeks called certain woodland nymphs Dryads, which muddies the water, and there could be a cultural exchange there, but I'm getting off track."

"Yes," said Max.

Undaunted, Michael continued, "The unprecedented equality attributed to females shows that the Celts were one of the least sexist societies in history. Supposedly, the Druids and Bendrui had knowledge of the deepest secrets of nature and could overcome an enemy by casting spells or even by thought alone. It took several decades for a Druid or Bendrui to complete their initial training. They had total authority over the tribe and were untouchable. No one would dare harm them, not even members of a warring tribe. Even the Romans were loath to violate them. The Romans eventually exterminating them, especially after the Christianization of the Empire."

"When do you think you'll have a working translation?" Max asked.

"I'm not sure. I'll call you in a few days. By the way, how's your book project coming along, Max?"

"Um...fine." Gerry caught Max's eye and smiled demurely, raising one eyebrow. Max caught the look.

"That's great. Max, may I keep the tape for a while?" he said.

"Of course" said Max. "I have the original at home. I'll leave this copy with you."

"I saw a past life regression session on television once. I didn't really believe the premise, but it's intriguing." He looked at Kathleen and she smiled. There's that look again, Gerry thought. Chemistry. She liked Michael. His face was nice and he had a good smile.

"Could we listen to it again?"

"Of course." Max rewound and turned the tape back on.

When it was finished, Michael sat back and said, "The reference to this person who was 'coming' sounded ominous. Any idea of who or what it referred to?"

"None. I hope your translation might shed some light on it."

Michael picked up his teacup. "Druidical teachings were passed down verbally through centuries, but there's no evidence that it was extant as late as the period this woman lived in." He seemed troubled. "Whether these words came from the entity Delia or from the mind of the medium is equally perplexing."

"Maybe this Delia was a linguistics expert," said Gerry.

"Possibly," said Michael, "although the pool of experts having this knowledge would be even smaller than we have today, mainly due to technical advances in data compilation."  
"The knowledge might have been secretly handed down through generations of Druids, right to the time of Delia. Or even to the present," said Gerry.

"I guess anything is possible," said Michael.

Max said, "If we rule out Susan having had such obscure knowledge, and I think we can, it leaves only the possibility that Susan was a channel for a nineteenth century Druidess, and that she retrieved the knowledge through past-life psychic regression. No one else in the room could possibly have such knowledge, so Susan couldn't somehow have retrieved the information from the mind of anyone else in the room, even if she were a mind reader, which she is not."

"Then there's the concept of universal consciousness," said Kathleen. "There's been a lot of new age buzz about our latent ability to tune into an all-encompassing superconscious. The problem is most of us can't, of course. One needs to be a channel, or medium.

"If you believe in that, then Susan needn't have picked it up from anyone in the room. The knowledge might have come from the consciousness we all share." Kathleen smiled at Michael, who rubbed his neatly shaved chin thoughtfully.

"I have never seen evidence of universal consciousness," said Max. "I'm convinced this was a true past life regression."

"Whatever the explanation, this is fascinating. Are you going to try and contact this Delia again, Max? If you do, I'd like to be there."

"I don't think so, at least not with the same medium. Susan made it plain that she would never set foot in the house again. I'm sure she wouldn't become involved in any way. She was terrified."

Max stood up. "Michael, I think we've taken enough of your time this evening." They shook hands.

"It was very nice meeting all of you," said Michael. Kathleen noticed his chest was well developed for an academic. She burned to do some psychic snooping but controlled herself. Gerry watched her watching him.

Outside, Max said to Kathleen, "I get the feeling you were impressed with Michael. I suppose some women might find him attractive."

"Some might," said Kathleen, smiling.

"He's very quiet and hardly ever socializes. He's very much like you in that way."

Kathleen shook her head as they walked to Max's car. "Just because I've declined several of your invitations, Max, it doesn't mean I'm unsociable. It just means I somehow found the strength to fight off your advances - intellectual, witty, and urbane though you may be."

Max laughed out loud. "Ouch. All right. I knew if I asked you out one more time, it qualified as stalking. I'm quite over you, dear. May I drop you at home?"

"Thanks."

Gerry, standing with Dan nearby, had her cell phone out to call a cab. "Were you and Dan going home by train?" Max asked Gerry.

"Yes, we should be able to catch the next local."

"I'll drop you two off first at Grand Central. We can all fit."

"Oh, no thanks, we don't want to impose," said Dan.

"Nonsense," said Max. "Impose. This machine seats five quite comfortably, or so the salesman said."

"All right," said Gerry, "Thanks."
CHAPTER 12

On Thursday afternoon, Kathleen locked her office and walked down the two flights to street level. The elevators were known to break down occasionally, especially when she was in a hurry, and they were currently claustrophobically crowded.

"Goodnight, Jennie," she called to the receptionist at the counter.

The woman lifted her face and smiled. "Night, Doctor O'Mara."

Max had arranged a meeting at Michael's house for five o'clock. Gerry and Dan would also be there. Outside, the street was engulfed in five o'clock chaos. Lexington Avenue was even worse. She sprinted to the corner of Lexington and miraculously snared a cab. She gave the driver Michael McGuire's address and sat back.

The cab dropped her off at the house and Michael opened his door before she even rang the bell. "Hi. I saw the cab drive up. Come in."

Gerry and Dan sat on two leather chairs on either side of the fireplace. The chairs were placed to face the couch. Kathleen sat near Max on the couch and Michael pulled the recliner up to the coffee table. She noticed that he handled the heavy piece as if it were miniature furniture.

"Michael has completed quite a bit of the translation. However, he wouldn't tell me anything until you finally arrived," said Max.

"I'm three minutes early, Max," said Kathleen.

Michael's face broke into an easy grin. He began, "I've made a dent in it, at least." Dan put a small recorder on the arm of his chair and clicked it on.

"Wait," said Max, snapping on his tape recorder and laying it on the table. "All right, go ahead, Michael."

"I'm still working on some of the passages, but I'll give you what I have. So far the translation is really quite lurid. Almost ludicrous, in fact."

"What do you mean?" asked Max.

"Let me give you some background on what I've been up to first," he said, flipping through his notes.

He continued, "After I finished my translation yesterday, I went to the main branch of the library and refreshed my memory of the religious rites and customs of the Druids. It has an excellent section on obscure religions, including the religious use of black magic throughout history.

"For background, the Celts probably originated in modern-day Kazakhstan, in a vast plain called the Sea of Grass. Their culture was highly influenced by the East, and there's compelling evidence that much of the religion of the ancient Celts had its ultimate roots in ancient Babylon, which belies the notion that it was developed by primitives in a forest culture. Of course, as the Celts moved, their culture was be influenced by the native cultures where they settled.

"This has been extremely difficult to decipher, and I'm only part way there. The source material is very obscure."

Max drummed the fingers of his right hand on his left.

Michael continued, "What we have here is a ritual that supposedly calls into being a god of the Druidic pantheon. Sarkyth, by name. This god was worshipped by several rogue Celtic sects as the master of the underworld, the ruler of war, death and destruction. He was their equivalent of Satan.

"These renegade Druidical groups tried to dominate the tribes through a form of black magic."

"The use of black magic wasn't unusual, was it?" asked Gerry.

"Actually, it was. Roman propaganda painted the Druids as evil, barbarous. They really weren't. It was one religion demonizing another, which we still see today. Black magic was avoided by most societies, including the Celts. It was taboo, like incest. It was considered unnatural. They knew the use of such magic would cause terrible retribution. Of course, there are always fringe groups such as the Sarkyth cult who will practice black magic despite the risks.

"The Druids and Dryads were holy men and women. They ministered to their people and sacrificed to their local gods and goddesses such as Dagda, the great god of Ireland, Arianrhod in Wales, Epona in Gaul, and many others. The Celts were no less moral than ourselves, and their religious leaders were not sinister magicians as Western culture has depicted them."

"This is fascinating," said Dan.

"It is, isn't it?" said McGuire.

"What did you mean, `Call into being'?" asked Gerry.

"As it reads, a rogue but accomplished Druid could supposedly summon a being from another dimension through the power of words. The spoken word held extreme power in the ancient world, much more so than now. Words were believed to hold magic in themselves. Words can create and destroy, according to many cultural beliefs, right to this day."

"I believe that still to be true," said Max.

"You mean this god, or demon...." began Gerry.

"Demon would be a better word, I think," Michael interjected.

Gerry finished, "This demon would come in actual, physical form?" "Supposedly," said Michael, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"You don't believe such a thing possible, I see," said Max.

Michael looked at him strangely. "I've seen a peasant in rural Italy become ill and die because a neighbor cursed him with the evil eye. I've seen a West Indian waste away and die after discovering a voodoo fetish on his door. But the power was strictly in their own belief. Calling down a demon from hell in actual physical form is quite another matter."

"I wonder why Meg summoned this being?" asked Gerry.

Michael answered, "For whatever nefarious purpose the Druid had in mind, I suppose. The motive is usually revenge, a retribution of some kind, or to obtain wealth and power.

"This is all hard to digest." He shook his head. "I suppose it's possible the medium was somehow exposed to this dialect."

Max sighed. "Michael, just for this evening, let's hypothesize that this is a real example of Susan exhibiting her talent as a medium. Humor me, Michael." Michael laughed. "All right, Max."

"What else have you got?" asked Max.

"This woman Meg, Delia's sister, has apparently called down a malediction upon two individuals."

"The Carmodys," said Gerry. "The ones Delia called 'The Butchers'."

"I assume so," said Michael, his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. "The power of the being Sarkyth is invoked in a rite of blood. Very powerful, blood. Symbolically, blood gives life. In a ritual like this, blood gives life and power to the invocation. In what I would call her initial affirmation, mention is made of Meg's power as a Priestess of the Blood, and that her power was multiplied because she had flaming red hair, another powerful blood symbol. In Celtic life, bright red hair was considered almost a mystical attribute. For now, that's all I've been able to come up with. I have more work to do on it."

"I'd say you've come up with quite a bit," said Gerry.

Max nodded. "I agree. Thank you Michael. You will continue with it?"

"Absolutely. This is great stuff. I'd get a paper out of this if the material hadn't come in such an unorthodox manner."

"You probably could anyway," said Kathleen. "The source isn't as important as the substance, I would think."

"Perhaps," said Michael.

"So we have a Druid priestess, or Dryad, in nineteenth century Westchester, it seems," said Gerry.

Michael said doubtfully, "Let's just say we have someone who used the words a particularly unpleasant Druidess might use."

"Michael, what might the form of the ritual have been?" Max asked.

Michael closed his notebook and sat back. "First of all, a circle would be used. The circle is the symbol for eternity and was used as a focus for the power, which would come from the pentagram inscribed inside the circle. Again, the Babylonian influence. The Pentagram is found in many of their inscriptions, and goes back even further as shown by numerous examples of the pentagram on Sumerian tablets."

"It goes much further back than that," said Max, "The pentagram has been found in Neolithic cave drawings."

Michael nodded. "It is a most powerful symbol, perhaps the most powerful. The five points of the pentagram symbolize the five parts of the human body, as well as the elements that make up all of our reality - fire, earth, water, air and spirit. Mathematically, the five pointed star is based on the Golden Ratio."

"I've heard of that," said Gerry. "Isn't it an architectural formula of some kind?"

"Yes," said Michael. "It's the architectural formula, really. It's incorporated in most ancient structures, and it forms much of nature's designs. For example, in plants, sea shells, and in the design of the human body itself. The body has five appendages - two arms, two legs and a head, and the appendages themselves have five parts in the toes and fingers, and humans have five physical senses."

"Lots of fives," said Gerry.

"Yes. It's all based on Phi, the golden, or divine ratio. It's the basis of the structure of the pentagram and the pentagon. The structure of DNA, the basic building block of life as we know it conforms to Phi. The proportion between the length of our arm and the length of our hand as compared to the length of our forearm is roughly the value of Phi. It's probably no coincidence that the U.S. Army has the logo of a star on their war machines, and that their headquarters are located in a building called the Pentagon, which is really a pentagram."

"Hmm, there are five of us in this room," said Gerry.

"Not anymore," said Dan. "I have to use the rest room. Do you mind, Michael?"

Michael laughed. "Not at all. Down the hall, first door on the right."

He continued, "Besides the pentagram, other tools of magic are sometimes used, such as the dagger, club, goblet, and other tools. The pentagram, however, was essential."

"Pentagrams, clubs, daggers and goblets," said Max. "They correspond to the pentacles, wands, swords, and cups of the Tarot, as well as the diamonds, clubs, spades and hearts of regular playing cards."

"The Tarot does have roots in Celtic mysticism," said Michael.

Max shut the tape recorder off, then turned it on again and asked, "Michael, did it mention what the priestess has to give in return? This being wouldn't offer his services gratis."

"I feel like I'm being interviewed for television," said Michael.

You probably are, thought Gerry.

"It says she must serve him in the afterlife."

Max nodded. "In general, the more power you call forth, the more you are indebted. The debt for a deed like this would be heavy indeed. Is that about it, Michael?"

"So far. I haven't gotten through all of it yet. I'll call you when I finish."

"Excellent. Well, I suppose we should go," said Max.

"But not before thanking Michael for all his hard work," said Kathleen, looking at Max.

"Of course. Michael, thank you so much. We really appreciate your time and effort." Michael shook Max's outstretched hand.

"It's nothing."

"Thank you, Michael," said Kathleen.

"You're very welcome."

Kathleen gave him her card. "Give me a call. We'll talk. I'm fascinated by linguistics."

Michael slipped it into his wallet. "I'd love to."

Outside, Max asked Gerry and Dan "Need a lift to Grand Central?"

"No thanks. We actually drove here," said Gerry. "In our car."

"Amazing," said Max.

"We're right around the block," said Dan. "Good night."

It was almost nine when Gerry and Dan made it home. Dan flicked on the foyer light and opened the sliding pocket door, then walked into the great room and clicked the remote at the television.

"Want anything?"

"Maybe a diet cola?" she said, flopping onto the couch. "God, I'm beat." She switched on the news, but kept the sound low. She looked around the high-ceilinged room. Muted sconce lights burned on each wall. She inhaled deeply. The house smelled freshly painted and clean, and nothing ominous lurked in the shadowy corners. This was their first real home together, and she should feel nothing but comfort and security here. She was going to fight for that, and getting rid of the nightmare was job one. If she absolutely had to, she would consider sleep medication as a last resort.

Dan came back in with two drinks and sat next to her. "Here you go, beautiful."

"Thanks, Danny."

He snaked his arm around her neck and played with her right earlobe. She leaned into his hand.

"Everything is going so well," said Dan, "except for your dream. It doesn't seem to be going away."

She closed her eyes. He leaned over and softly kissed her left earlobe while gently stroking her right with his index finger. "Mm...yes, the dream, it's always the dream. Oh man...we're...kind of into earlobes tonight, aren't we?"

"Yes we are."

She spoke slowly into his left ear, "Dan,... this dream...it's...wearing me out..." He took her earlobe into his mouth and nibbled it like a sweet. She sighed a throaty laugh, "Mm...Oh man....Dan, I have to...take...control of this myself."

"Be my guest," he said.

She laughed deep in her throat. "No, I mean I want to move on the research. They're going too slowly. I want to go to the New York Public Library tomorrow. Did you.....no....don't stop...."

Dan folded his arms. "I'm losing focus. When I make love with your earlobe, I like to think your earlobe is making love with me too."

"Sorry, Danny. My earlobe is cursing me as we speak." She leaned back into the couch.

"Dan, do you sense anything strange here? Anything?"

"No, nothing at all. I'm really pleased with the house."

"Good," she said. "Susan said the nightmare was a message from someone who loved me. If they loved me that much, maybe they could have sent something else, more in a comedic vein. Who in the world would send me a nightmare about a horrible fiery wave crashing over me?"

"Besides," said Dan, "if something bad does hit us, we'll get through it."

Gerry looked at the seascape on the wall, then it hit her like a slap in the face. She lurched forward in her seat. A wave. "Oh...my....God. A wave. Rockaway. It was Earl." Let the fear crash over you, like a wave at Rockaway Beach. Remember, little girl, the fear can't hurt you. When the wave passes, stand up and face the next.

"I can't believe I didn't think of it before. Jesus. Dan, it was Earl. It was Uncle Earl," she said.

"Your fingers are digging into my arm. Are you okay?"

"I think I will be now. The nightmare. Susan said the nightmare was a warning from someone who loves me. Dan, it's my Uncle Earl. He's sending me the dream. He's telling me to face it, to not let the fear win."

"Your beloved dead uncle is sending you a nightmare that is driving you crazy?"

"Yes, God bless him," said Gerry. "He's warning me. Without the nightmare, I wouldn't have any idea that something was coming."

"Something's coming?" He turned around and looked behind the couch.

Gerry turned sharply to him. "Stop it. Stop joking. Wait. No. Don't stop joking. It keeps me sane, and I know that's why you're doing it. Just don't try to make this into a joke. It's not. You felt what we all felt at the séance. Don't try to rationalize that out of your memory. Focus. It happened. It's real. We all felt it."

"I know." Dan sat back.

Gerry let go of his forearm. "Look, we're both off work until after the wedding, so we've got the time. I want to go to the library tomorrow and see if we can find something on Delia, Meg and the Carmodys. Let's see if there's anything unusual in the old newspapers."

"Unusual like murder?"

"That's the idea."

"Maybe we'll find something on Caroline, Jason and Gregory," said Dan, "that wild and crazy 'Three's Company' gang. Of course, if their dastardly deeds were never discovered, we may find nothing."

"We'll see," said Gerry.

At twelve the following afternoon, a Friday, Gerry and Dan walked the long ramp to the upper level of Grand Central Terminal. The smell of baked goods from Zaro's, chowder from the Oyster Bar and pizza from Sbarro did olfactory battle. They went up another ramp, arrived in the muggy street, then turned right to walk to the library entrance at Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue.

At the foot of the steps, Gerry said, "I called this morning and reserved a microfilm reader and PC."

"Good move. I didn't think of that."

"No, you were sleeping. You needed it, though."

A lunchtime crowd made the going difficult on the first few steps, but Gerry, wearing jeans and sleeveless white top, found a space to pass near two construction workers eating lunch on the second step.

The thin, younger one smiled up at Gerry, then said to his friend, "Ravishing, hey Doctor?"

His friend looked regally up from his apple and said, "Yes, Professor, I think I'd have to concur."

Gerry smiled back at Dan.

"They seemed to like you," he said noncommittally. "I think that was a compliment."

"I'll take it."

They walked quickly up the library's broad stone steps under the blind gaze of the magnificent twin marble lions that had stood watch for a century.

The microfilm computers were in a room on the main level. Along one wall, a series of six cubicles stood in a line, with all but one already in use. Gerry walked over to the reception desk and gave her name to an older woman typing at a computer screen.

"Ms. McMartin. Yes, I have your name here," said the woman.

"I'd like to research old stories in the major New York newspapers."

"How far back?"

"Starting about..." She thought for a second. Meg had been born in eighteen forty.

"I'm trying to locate an article that might have been run in a newspaper during the mid-nineteenth century." When Delia was killed, she was young, somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five years old, Gerry guessed.

"We have copies of all the major newspapers. Some go as far back as the early nineteenth century. I don't like to boast," she said conspiratorially, "but I helped organize the workers who set up this whole new section. The computers and microfilm machines are state-of-the-art."

"That's great. What I'm looking for would have run from say, 1855 through 1880."

"And it would be a New York City newspaper?"

"Yes. The incident I'm researching occurred in lower Westchester County, so there's a good chance one of the New York papers ran the story. What do you have that would go that far back?"

"I would try the Post first. In the time period you mentioned, it was called The Evening Post. If you don't find anything there, you can try the Times. For some reason, the Post microfiche are easier to read, though. I think they switched vendors at one point. Did you bring some quarters?"

"I did, and a data CD to copy them to. Thanks," said Gerry. "the girl I spoke to this morning was very helpful."

"That was Lisa. She's a good girl." The librarian's fingers flew quickly over the keyboard. She looked up. "So you want to start with the Post?"

"Yes, thanks. The records starting from 1855 through 1880."

She typed something into the computer. "All right, that would be from 1855 through 1880," she repeated to herself.

"One moment." The woman went through a doorway behind the counter and returned five minutes later. She gave Gerry a shoebox-sized container with twenty-five individual cases holding the microfiche. "All you do is insert the cards into the slot and advance and focus manually with the knobs. You'll see."

"That sounds pretty similar to the old machines," said Gerry.

"They're much the same, except now you can save everything right to disk, and you can send images straight to your email. If you need help, there's a tutorial on the desktop. Just please make sure you keep the cards in order."

"I will."

"You'll have to sign for them. I'll need to see ID, too."

Gerry signed and produced her driver's license. "Thank you very much. You've been very helpful. What time is the library open until?"

"We close at six tonight."

"Thanks again." Gerry walked over to the available scanner and Dan pulled another chair close to the machine. The CPU was to the right of the microfiche machine.

"We don't need to make copies right now. We can copy them at home from the CD," said Dan.

"If we find anything I want to make copies right now. Just in case."

"Are you casting aspersions on my data gathering skills?"

"Not at all. I'm just overly familiar with Murphy's Law. This may take a while, Dan. I suggest we go through just the first few pages of each year. This would have been a major story."

"Sounds reasonable." Dan loaded the first microfiche and pushed it in backward, then turned it around.

"There," he said. Now we need to open the program on the desktop to get ready to copy to disk."

Gerry pushed the CD into the processor and moved the sprocket wheels to adjust magnification and focus. The pages clicked slowly by. Gerry switched discs every few minutes and went quickly through the years. Stories about the end of the Civil War. Sherman slashing through the Carolinas. Grant pressing Lee at Petersburg. Appomattox. Local news stories of long-dead citizens folded between the leaves of history. Lincoln shot. Good Friday, April 14th, 1865. Polly Smith, a woman who lived in New York's Five Points section, was drunk and died when she fell and hit her head on the curb.

Twenty minutes later, Gerry put in another microfiche. "Interesting, isn't it?"

Dan watched intently. "Really interesting. I just hope we don't miss it somehow."

"We won't. If it's here, we'll find it. If we don't find it in the first pages, we'll have to go back and scan the whole paper, starting from the beginning."

Gerry removed 1866 and inserted the next microfiche.

"You're moving it too fast," said Dan.

"I know, I know." She slowed it down. On one of the first days of 1867 that year a large headline proclaimed: "Murder in Westchester."

"Stop," said Dan.

"I see it," said Gerry, stopping the film. She went past it slightly, came back and then focused. They read the first few lines, which described the premature end of a gentleman who was clubbed on the head coming out of a music hall in Yonkers.

"That's not it. Keep going," said Dan.

"I am," said Gerry, starting it again. At two thirty-five, Gerry and Dan leaned forward simultaneously.
CHAPTER 13

"There," she said, pointing at the screen. She hit the button, but the page had slipped by. Gerry reversed, recalling it. The article shared front-page billing with the story of a terrible train wreck in the Midwest. The date was August 15th, 1869.

Gerry fine-tuned the focus. The dateline was Hastings. Jumping from the text, the name Carmody sent a jolting thrill through her. It was like the first time she went up in a Ferris wheel with her Dad, and just as their seat hit the crest and gravity took over, a tingle rose from her lower stomach and shot up her spine. Her eyes moved to a pen and ink drawing next to the column. She read the blurb underneath identifying them as Diana and Gregory Carmody.

"Dan, look, it's the Carmodys," said Gerry, her fingers grabbing his forearm.

"I see. Gerry, The arm. Please. I bruise easily," said Dan.

"No, look. Look at the first name. It's 'Gregory,' Carmody, Dan. Gerry's regression. Don't you remember? The voice said 'One moment, Gregory, my sweet,' Remember?"

"Yes," he said. "But that doesn't make sense. This happened in 1869. That was in 1910. And she said her husband's name was Jason."

"But she used the name Gregory," said Gerry. "Why?"

"Maybe she had a lover in 1910 named Gregory," said Dan, staring at the drawing. "Or maybe Gregory was some type of special name she used for Jason."

Gerry said "Let's get a picture," and dropped a quarter into the slot. The copy hummed quietly out of the attached printer and produced an excellent image. Gerry pulled it from the machine and looked closely at the drawing. The man sat arrogantly posed on a chair in front of the woman. His expression was ludicrously proud. He might have been dark, but it was impossible to tell in the drawing. The artist depicted a pair of penetrating eyes and a nose that reminded Gerry of a bird of prey. The woman stood next to him. She was the ghost of a washed-out, hollow-eyed beauty marred by the ravages of time and excess. She looked even more arrogant than the man, in her own way. Gerry handed the copy to Dan and read the newspaper copy from the screen. It ran:

"August 15th. The small Westchester village of Hastings was shocked by the discovery yesterday of the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Carmody, who were found in an upper bedroom. Carmody had been stabbed to death by his wife, who had then committed suicide by hanging herself from a chandelier hook.

Upon further investigation, other bodies were found buried in the cellar. The victims were both men and women, police say. Evidence so far shows that the Carmodys were the culprits, and that they preyed on young, recent immigrants who had no relations in this country. They base their theory on the discovery of applications for employment filled out by the murder victims. It is theorized that Mr. Carmody interviewed many people for non-existent positions in his photography shop. Those who showed no next of kin on the application were among the victims chosen.

Photographic materials discovered by police revealed that Mister Carmody and his wife captured their victims on film before and after the grisly murders. Police say Carmody was an expert photographer, and that was how he derived his living. The last two victims were sisters, Margaret and Delia Fitzgerald."

"Dan," said Gerry, digging into Dan's arm. "Meg and Delia."

"My God," said Dan, "You're right. Gerry, my arm."

She realized she was digging her fingernails into his forearm. "Sorry. Those bastards."

"At least the Carmodys got what they deserved," said Dan.

"No. No they didn't. I'd like to dig them up and kill them again."

"Remind me not to get you mad at me. Keep reading."  
"... although police say there is evidence to suggest that Margaret Fitzgerald's knife wounds might have been self-inflicted. Margaret's younger sister Delia was found dead in the basement, not far from her sister. For reason's unknown, Delia's application indicated that she was without a husband or relations. No application was found for Margaret Fitzgerald. Police did not give details on the specific manner of Delia Fitzgerald's death, nor do they know at this time if any other bodies might be hidden on the property."

"So this is how Delia died," said Gerry. She felt a pang of sadness for her. "She was cheated out of a life of happiness by those monsters on the day before her wedding. Horrible."

"Why did she say she was alone on her application?" asked Dan.

"She probably thought it would give her a better chance at getting the job. She thought they were nice people and they'd feel sorry for her."

"That's terrible," said Dan in a low voice.

Gerry scanned the stories in the days following. As the days passed, the stories about the sensational murders became smaller and smaller, finally stopping.

"I'm going to take these tapes back and get the ones for 1910," said Gerry. "We might find something on Caroline Morrison." She returned with another shoebox with microfiche for the year 1910.

Forty minutes later, Gerry stabbed at the controls to stop the tape. An article trumpeting murder. Suicide. The names Caroline and Jason. It was dated September 1st, 1910. No photograph or illustration accompanied the original story, but Gerry looked for follow-ups, and the next day, on the fourth page, there was a photograph. Gerry blinked, then looked again, and her blood turned to ice. Behind the couple, a metal doorknocker in the shape of an eagle was clearly visible above their shoulders.

"Dan. That's the front of our house. Look at the columns, and the door. The missing doorknocker. The moldings. It's all the same."

"And look at their faces," said Dan, his voice almost inaudible. "They look like caricatures of the Carmodys."

"God almighty, they do," said Gerry, mesmerized. "The expressions are identical." She held up the drawing of the Carmodys beside the photograph of the Morrisons.

Dan looked from one to the other. "It's like all the nastiness of the Carmodys is reflected in the faces of the Morrisons."

Gerry made a copy of the photograph as they read the story next to the picture.

"Are you reading this?" asked Gerry. "Caroline Morrison stabbed her husband and then hanged herself from the balcony of their bedroom. My God. They died the exact same way as the Carmodys. This is too weird. Dan, you're squeezing my arm."

"Sorry." Gerry looked at him. "Are you creeped-out?"

"Hell yes, aren't you?"

"Oh yeah." They continued reading. "...A young woman named Marie O'Neill had been found dead in the basement, killed by self-inflicted knife wounds. The Morrisons had only moved into the house that day."

"There was a suicide in the basement, just like in 1869," said Dan. Gerry took out her cell phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"Max. I want to set up a meeting. Now." She reached Max, told him what they had found and shut her phone with an odd expression.

"What?" asked Dan.

"He hung up on me."

A few minutes later her phone rang and it was Max. He spoke quickly, excited. "Gerry. I've arranged for us to meet at Michael McGuire's home at seven o'clock. I'll call Kathleen."

"That's okay. I'll call her. We'll see you there at seven." She hung up.

"Wait here," said Gerry, gathering up the disks.

"Where are you going?"

"We need to check the papers from just after World War II."

"The Connellys?" asked Dan.

"The Connellys."

Gerry dialed her cell phone again.

"Who are you calling now?"

"Kathleen? Hey. I've got some interesting news." She held her thumb over the receiver. "It's Kathleen."

"I got that," said Dan, looking back at the monitor.

"I'll be right back." She started over to the reception desk to exchange the disks, still talking.

At seven they all sat in Michael's living room surrounding his large coffee table. Max sat on one end of the couch and Kathleen sat next to Michael on the other end, with Dan and Gerry in the leather arm chairs.

Max held up the drawing of the Carmodys in his left hand, the photograph of the Morrisons in his right.

"Good Lord," he said.

"Yes," said Gerry. After a moment, Max gave them to Kathleen.

Michael moved closer to look at them with her. "These look like the same people," said Michael.

"Similar, but not the same," said Kathleen. The expressions were exactly the same, down to the man's prideful lift of the chin and the hard look in their eyes as they stared down at the world. The woman looked into infinity with petulance and an arching, disapproving right eyebrow. The expressions were photographically identical, but the features were distinctly different.

"Okay," said Gerry "We have these people called Carmody, who were serial killers. They killed Delia, and her sister Margaret was found dead nearby. Then the Carmodys died in a murder-suicide."

"Or what appeared to be a murder-suicide," said Max.

Gerry shrugged. "Yes. You never know, I guess. Then we have the Morrisons, who also died in a murder-suicide. That case also included a third person found dead nearby."

"Look at these pictures. I'm not sure what to think. This is not normal," said Michael.

Max chuckled. "That's why we call these things paranormal, Michael."

"Wait. I'm not finished," said Gerry. She picked up a sheet of paper from the table. "We also have the Connellys."

"Who are the Connellys?" asked Michael.

"The Connellys were a young couple who lived in the house for a short time right after World War II," said Gerry.

"A short time?" asked Michael.

"Yes. Very short," said Gerry. "You can read the story yourselves. It's right here. It doesn't give much information, though."

Max took the sheet and read it quickly. "It says they died on a cruise ship, found dead in their stateroom. They were supposed to be married on board the next day. You're right. It doesn't give a lot of detail." He handed it to Kathleen.

"It looks to me like the cruise line did their best to minimize the story," said Dan. "Bad publicity."

"So they died the day before their wedding," said Gerry. "But the Morrisons died the night of their wedding."

"Any ideas, Max?" asked Kathleen.

Max walked behind the couch and looked again at the pictures lying on the coffee table. "They are different people, no question, but somehow they have the exact same expressions. It's almost as if the faces of the Carmodys are superimposed on those of Caroline and Jason Morrison." He came around and sat next to Kathleen, then touched each picture in turn. "The eyebrows, the expression in the mouth. Look at the woman's right eyebrow, and the man's upper lip, almost sneering in both pictures."

He sat back and folded his arms, looking over at Michael. "Yes, I'd say this is quite paranormal."

"The pictures are an example of psychokinesis," said Max. "Physical matter manipulated by non-physical means. Mind over matter."

"Do you see that often?" asked Gerry.

"Oh yes, tons," said Max. "Poltergeist activity, for instance. It's a form of psychokinesis. I've investigated many instances." He shrugged. "Magic is a form of psychokinesis."

"Who did it, though?" asked Dan. "Who or what manipulated the pictures?"

Max was silent for a moment, then said "I don't know."

"Maybe one of the Carmodys was psychokinetic. It might not even have been by design. It could have been done subconsciously."

"A ghost has a subconscious?" asked Michael.

"Absolutely, no less than you or I." He put down the likenesses. "That could explain the pictures."

"Wait," Kathleen said, "So you're saying the Carmodys were haunting the house when the Morrisons were living there, and somehow superimposed their image onto the photograph of the Morrisons?"

"Yes. That could be the explanation." said Max.

"Then they might still be in the house now," said Gerry.

"No, I don't think so," said Kathleen. "I sensed residual, evil emotions, but they were old, leftovers. If there was an active haunting I would have picked it up immediately. It would have been obvious, loud. I would never miss something like that."

"Generally, ghosts are harmless, though, aren't they?" asked Dan.

"For the most part, yes, but not always," said Max. "Apparitions, as opposed to actual ghosts, are really just shadows of activity that occurred when the entity was alive. In those cases, the specters we see are just images. The spirits themselves are long gone. They've moved on."

"Like an old newsreel," said Dan.

"Yes," said Max. "A good analogy."

"But sometimes the dead person really is still there, though?" asked Gerry.

"Yes. The recently deceased sometimes aren't aware that they're dead. Most often, they're just confused souls who need directions to the next world, so to speak. When we find them, we gently advise them of their status and send them on their way."

"It's not always just that, though, is it?" asked Gerry.

"No. A spirit might have a specific reason for remaining earthbound, although their reasons may be no more rational than the motivations of the living."

"I can't imagine how Caroline Morrison could murder her husband. They were in love, I'm sure of it." said Gerry.

"How would you know that?" asked Dan.

"I don't know. I felt it. I just knew it."

"Then why kill him?"

Max answered, "Who knows. What are the motives of any murderer? Jealousy and greed are the usual culprits. Even insane people have their motives, as twisted as they might seem to the rest of us."

"But the Morrisons died in exactly the same way as the Carmodys," said Gerry. "and as far as we know, the Connellys might have too."

"I'm not completely sure how to approach this," said Max, staring thoughtfully at the coffee table.

Gerry leaned forward. "What about Susan Mendelsohn, the medium. Wouldn't she be able to fill in some blanks?"

"No, I don't think so. I was a bit worried about her, so I called her, several times. She never returned my calls, and she hasn't answered my email," said Max. "I met her younger sister Julia once, so I found her number and called. Apparently, Susan's husband had walked out on her just before she came to the house for the séance. She must have been quite distracted."

"Distracted? She must have been devastated," said Gerry. "Poor thing. And she showed up to do the séance anyway."

"Yes, but I think the overly-theatrical description of what she felt in the house might be suspect. She was emotionally disturbed. I really had the impression she might be heading toward a breakdown."

"I agree," said Kathleen.

"She looked upset about something that night. I was sure she had been crying," said Gerry. "So that's what it was."

Kathleen said, "The psychic atmosphere in that house is disgusting, I assure you, but if there was any immediate danger for Gerry and Dan there, believe me, I would know."

Max cracked his knuckles. "I just wish Michael would hurry with the last of the translation. I have a feeling we'll find the key there." Gerry flinched. She hated knuckle-cracking.

"Possession," said Dan.

"What?" asked Gerry.

"Maybe Delia was possessed."

Kathleen shook her head. "I don't know about that, but I know there's nothing in that house now but old memories, horrible as some of them might be."

"I can't believe we're discussing possession so matter-of-factly, as if it were measles," said Michael.

"I've had patients whose families believed they were possessed," said Kathleen, "devout Catholics whose faith remained unchanged for hundreds of years will sometimes seek a cure through supernatural means. Exorcisms were done, and some of those patients recovered, quite dramatically. I knew they weren't really possessed, but the exorcisms worked, so who cares? In one case, however, a boy might really have been possessed by something."

"Antoine, from your book," said Gerry.

"Yes. In the other cases, I'm convinced the ritual worked like a placebo on the patient's subconscious and they cured themselves."

"I just can't wrap my mind around the idea of literal possession," said Michael. "Outside of novels or horror movies, at any rate."

"Possession is real, Michael, whether you want to believe it or not." Michael smiled tolerantly and Kathleen rolled her eyes. Max could be incredibly dogmatic and undiplomatic.

Max continued, "In my research, I've seen human beings that have been taken over by demonic entities. These things live vicariously through physical possession, often stalking alcoholics and drug abusers, walking into their bodies, putting them on like a suit of clothes. I've regressed binge drinkers who experience blackouts. During the blackouts, the spirit of the drunkard is barely connected to his own body. The person becomes like a costume for an opportunistic entity."

"But aren't these people usually thrashing about and incoherent, like the girl in 'The Exorcist"? asked Dan.

"Sometimes. They also could be the person sitting next to you in a bar, drinking and chatting up the nearest lovely young thing, male or female. I've interviewed people who smoked only when they were drunk. The entity had been addicted to tobacco and this was the only way to get a fix."

"I'm going to see Father Logan," said Gerry. "He's the priest that lives in the rectory next to Gerry's house."

"Why do you want to see him?" asked Kathleen.

"Jacqueline told us that Father Logan was Mr. Connelly's boyhood friend. He might be able to give us more information on them."

"Maybe we can find out exactly how they died," said Max. "I'd coming with you."

"I'd like to go too," said Kathleen. "Tomorrow's Saturday. Do you think we might be able to see him tomorrow?"

"I think we could," said Gerry. "I'll let Jacqueline know we're coming."

Max shook his head. "I spoke to her after the regression. I had the impression that she was extremely protective of the priest. She'd probably refuse to let us see him if we called. She struck me as the officious type, smothering her charge with attention and care, while all the time it's actually the patient who is her crutch."

He lowered his voice. "If he died, I don't think she'd know quite what to do. However, I think she could be intimidated into letting us in if we show up at her door."

"I don't think Jacqueline is smothering or officious," said Gerry. "Jacqueline is very good to him. There aren't any ulterior motives there. I do think it might be wiser to just show up, as Max suggests. Sometimes it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. We'll have to be careful not to excite Father Logan, though."

"Of course," said Max. "Just don't say anything to the housekeeper beforehand. Shall we meet at your house at say, 1:00 P.M.?"

"Okay," said Gerry.
CHAPTER 14

After everyone left for the evening, Michael locked his front door and walked diagonally across Washington Square Park to get a bite at a new spot, a hole-in-the-wall called "Sam's Soup & Sandwich". The place was clean and had a few tables for dining in, but most of their business was take-out. The specialty was potato soup and egg bread. He almost felt the need for confession the first time he ate it. His mouth watered as he walked. Two NYU students passed him talking quietly. He nodded and one of them smiled distractedly.

The air smelled clean and sweet, as if he were in the middle of a forest rather than in the heart of Greenwich Village. A young couple strolled slowly in front of him, laughing. He passed them and wondered if they were friends or lovers, or both. Last night he and Kathleen laughed like that, and they had another dinner date for tomorrow. It seemed like forever since a woman had made him feel like this. To the right, he saw the young couple disappear through Washington Square Arch.

As he got near the northwest corner of the park, he passed the statue of Garibaldi and then the old Hanging Tree. The old elm had been there since colonial times, bearing many seasons of grisly fruit. Michael imagined men in tri-corner hats tightening a noose around a guilty neck. He pushed it out of his head. He felt too good, too alive. He smiled to himself. He was doing that a lot lately.

He made it to Sam's just before closing and bought a large soup and a half corned beef sandwich on egg bread. He rolled the top of the paper bag tightly in one hand and held the bottom with the other. He had once accidentally baptized the sidewalk with potato soup. This container was going to survive.

On the way back, the park was deserted, and the air seemed much cooler. The temperature had changed dramatically in just the last fifteen minutes. As he walked, he thought he saw heat shimmering from the ground in front of the Hanging Tree, like a mirage on a desert highway. That was impossible, though. It was cool out now. His arms felt chilled. When he looked again, the shimmering was gone.

He suddenly felt colder and began to walk faster. The last few passages on the tape were within reach, and he wanted to work on it as soon as he finished dinner. As he passed the Arch, two students came walking through and stopped suddenly, lifting their heads as if smelling the air, then said a few words and turned back. They must have forgotten something. Michael felt a bit breathless and hoped he wasn't coming down with something. This wasn't a good time for that.

He felt a slight thumping noise, but wasn't sure if he heard it or felt it. He turned around, expecting to see something behind him causing it. Nothing. He continued walking, then turned and noticed the odd shimmering again. It wasn't coming from the tree anymore. It was closer, floating above the path behind him. He blinked his eyes, expecting it to disappear. It didn't. Strange. He wiped cold sweat from his forehead and walked more quickly across the park. To the right, a jogger entered the park, running slowly toward him. Suddenly, the man stopped, jogged in place for a second, looked for a split second at Michael and jogged back the way he came.

Michael kept walking. He was almost through the park now.

Thump.

He flinched. It was louder, again coming from behind him. What the hell was that? He stopped, turned around and faced the path squarely, wanting to somehow confront it. He stopped and squinted, then relaxed his eyes. Something recognizable appeared in the shimmering waves. A face formed, stretched wide, then long, then back, like a reflection in a fun house mirror. It danced in the moving air, disappearing, then coming back again like smoke from a candle disturbed by the wind.

For a split second, it morphed into the face of his father, then became something else, something bestial. He tightened his grip on the paper bag and shook his head. This was nonsense. Why would he be concocting a hallucination out of the blue like this? He would have blamed the soup, but he hadn't touched it yet. The face smiled at him and seemed to peer into his soul, seeing and touching everything Michael was ever ashamed of, and afraid of.

Two awful, leering red eyes locked onto his, and Michael's stomach turned to water. He dropped the bag and the soup spilled through the brown paper bag onto the path, splashing his shoes. He turned and ran, sprinting flat-out for his house without looking back.

Thump. It was louder, closer. He pumped his arms and legs, not looking back, wishing he jogged more...Thump... Louder, closer.

He ran between two parked cars and only then glanced back toward the park as he cut in front of an older man walking down the street. The old man looked across the street in the direction Michael was staring, then back at Michael and shook his head at the insane man. He walked closer to the buildings, still shaking his head as he moved as quickly as he could down the street, away from the madman.

Above the cars on the other side of the street, the shimmering face advanced toward Michael.

Thump. It felt like a footstep, the step of a huge animal whose stride was so large it took seconds for its next step to hit the earth.

Thump......Michael turned quickly as he ran and banged his shoulder into a street sign pole. Breathing hard, he saw his house and ran to the steps.

Thump...... It was closer.

Thump...... Closer.

Michael reached his building and bounded up the steps, still hearing the pounding in his brain. He dropped his keys and swore, then picked them up and let himself in, slamming the door behind him. Leaning his back against the heavy wooden door, gasping for breath, he felt like he had sprinted a mile instead of a few short blocks. His heart was pounding dangerously so he forced himself to breath more deeply and slowly.

The house was warm. Michael disliked air conditioning unless it was absolutely necessary. He stopped breathing and just listened. The noise had stopped. It was gone. He exhaled and touched his forehead, still not sure if he had felt it or just heard it. It hadn't come into the house, though. He was sure of it.

Breathing a prayer of thanks, Michael reached into his pocket for his cell phone, opened it, then realized he didn't know who to call, or what to say.

Hello there, Kathleen. I'm just calling to let you know I'm having a nervous breakdown. Nothing to worry about. We can still have dinner tomorrow, except that you'll have to help me eat because I'll be sedated and in a strait jacket.

Afraid to move, he stood there for a moment, as if movement would bring it back. Slowly, he touched his left wrist to check his pulse. It was elevated, but starting to come down. His back was soaked with sweat. He turned on the hall light and walked through toward the living room, stopping once, coming to rigid attention, listening. His heart raced as he imagined someone or something was now in the living room waiting for him.

He looked in, saw nothing unusual and finally walked in, forcing his legs to move. Nothing was in here, and nothing had been outside. He had been chased by a phantom from deep in his mind, a bio-chemical id-monster, probably birthed by a strange bit of mushroom from his salad at lunch.

Sweat poured down his face, his breath coming in short bursts. He breathed deeply. Okay, okay, relax, he thought to himself as he turned on all the lights in the room and stood still, listening.

Hearing nothing, he breathed more slowly, then felt the cold invading the room, and he knew without the slightest doubt that it was with him.

Frozen with fear, he fell heavily into a wing chair, unable to move. He couldn't go outside the house and he couldn't stay inside. The only safe harbor was inside his own skin. Nothing could invade him there, so he ordered every cell in his body to be rigidly still in his fortress.

He watched the front window overlooking the street. Twenty feet below, the sharp spokes of a wrought iron fence pointed to the sky like a line of spears. What if he opened the window? What in this world could prevent him from walking over to the window, opening it, and falling onto the spikes? Nothing could. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair like claws, as if to keep himself from walking toward the window. He was freezing.

He decided he would walk to the window to prove this was all a trick of rebelling biochemical processes. He stood with both feet planted, like a tin soldier, then breathed a small laugh, picturing himself as Mary Shelley's monster taking his first step.

When he got to the window, he would be in control. Tomorrow, he would see someone about this. He took a step, then another. Halfway to the window, he knew that if he opened the window, he would die. He stepped back and fell into the chair.

After a few minutes he wondered if he should call someone after all, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Admitting that he was a damaged, mentally ill person was intolerable. It was easier to do nothing.

He thought of his father's alcoholic face in the shimmering cloud, and the quiet beatings administered by the Columbia University English professor after an afternoon of solitary drinking in his study. All through it, the family never missed Sunday mass, and his father never missed a day of work. An only child, Michael had been profoundly alone.

Thomas and Sarah McGuire now lived in a large house in Danbury, comfortable among their books. After staring his own death in the face from liver problems, his father had finally stopped drinking. He joined the Alcoholics Anonymous group that met at the church and became a member of the Holy Name Society. Everyone in the parish had enormous respect for him.

Salvation from drink didn't bring his father any closer to Michael. He knew his father denied being abusive, even to himself, and since it had never happened, no amends, no apologies were needed. They called him periodically, wondering why he didn't come home to visit more often.

At that moment, Max parked his car in the small private lot a few blocks from his apartment house on West 110th Street and Columbus Avenue. He jingled the change in his pocket as he walked. The traffic on 110th was heavy. As he walked, he felt cold suddenly, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He turned sharply, instinctively, but didn't see the pouncing leopard that lurked behind everyone. The cars on the roadway seemed to be flying by in droves, in contrast to the utter desolation of the sidewalk, like two separate realities. The few storefront businesses on the block were closed and no one was visible on the street behind him.

He peered down the street. The air suddenly turned impossibly cold. As he stared, a chilling breeze touched his face but left the newly planted trees along the street motionless.

He shivered as a wind pushed against him, like a huge cold hand on his back. He hurried away, stealing glances behind him. At a bus stop sign, he paused, touching the cold metal, then turned and squinted. The shifting wind began to take on substance, settling down and forming into a thin smoke.

The color drained from his face. Something was after him, and he began to run. He turned and saw the wind-smoke was closer, writhing slowly in the air, first shapeless, now a monstrous, caricature of a human face.

Max ran a few more steps and hid behind a tree along the street and looked back.

"Christ," he breathed, his eyes bulging. This was surreal lunacy. The thing behind him was Aunt Jane. The pure, pious, sanity-hanging-by-a-thread Auntie Jane was coming after him sporting her rimless glasses and a hideous pair of glowing red eyes. His chest heaved.

His Aunt's voice slammed into his brain, nasty and annoying as ever.

Don't run, boy. I just want to show you where you'll be spending eternity.

He ran harder but the end of the street grew farther away, not closer. He shook his head. Everything was shrinking, as if he was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Breathing in short, forced bursts, he kept running. He finally reached the corner and cut left, crossing to the other side of 110th street.

The voice hit him again, a laser burning into the middle of his brain.

Don't rush off. What's the hurry, boy? Don't you want to hear about your final resting place? You're going to Hell, just like I always told you. You will have your lovely childhood bed, though. Remember? The one with the claw feet? This time, it will be at the bottom of a stinking, burning pit, not in a nice clean room which was too good for a horrid little boy like you. You're not afraid of your old Auntie Jane, are you, boy? You think you're afraid now? Turn around and see who's after you now."

Max turned and stole a look as he ran. As he watched, the thing morphed into an unimaginably beautiful, yet frightening face, with the flaming, red-yellow eyes of a tiger more intelligent than any human who had ever lived.

Max gasped and ran full tilt down the street. He looked back, wild-eyed. The fear of damnation was overpowering. He began to bargain with it in his mind.

I'll do anything. I'll stay away. I'll never go near the house again.

He stopped himself. It had to be an hallucination, possibly schizophrenic in origin. He'd been a nervous breakdown waiting to happen for forty years. It had finally come. If it was schizophrenia, why was he running from it? He laughed. There was no place to run. It was in his head. He mentally slapped his forehead. Of course. All he had to do was face it, and it would dissolve.

He stopped, turned and defiantly looked into the eyes. "Time to go away now. Shoo. All I need are some nice meds, and that will be the end of you, bright eyes. Shoo now..."

A deep bass laugh rumbled in his head.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're telling yourself this isn't real, I know. I sympathize with you, I really do, but it's real, believe me. But take heart, we have indescribable delights waiting for you, Maxwell."

Then the face smiled a beatifically beautiful, horrible smile, and Max turned and ran awkwardly down the street. His thoughts raced. It's the demon, and he wants me out of this.

No, I want you with me in Hell.

Max giggled. At least he wasn't crazy. He might be dragged into Hell by a demon, but he had always expected to go there anyway, though not in quite such dramatic fashion. At least he wasn't insane. He slowed down.

The sidewalk was deserted. Cars passed on the street quickly, silently. He saw bored faces glancing at him as they passed. A woman in the back seat of a white Lexus looked at Max, then behind him, scanning the block to see his pursuer. There was no one. The face in the car looked away.

"Just step in front of a car, Max. It won't hurt very much. If you do, I will put you on the highest level in Hell. You will be a prince. There will be no suffering. I promise. Just step in front of a car, Maxwell, and it will all be over. You're coming with me someday anyway. Make it easier. Do it now."

Max looked at the traffic, thinking how easy it really would be to just throw himself under the wheels. He licked his lips."

"Do it, Maxwell."

Max looked at the traffic, then back at the thing behind him.

"Bugger off," he yelled, then ran wildly down the street. The intersection was still impossibly far away, but he saw a gap in the traffic and darted across the street. He turned his head to the left and saw a car bearing down on him, brakes screaming. Max blinked, staring into the lights like an animal frozen in a spotlight. He put his palms onto the hood as is came to a stop within inches. The jolt pushed him to the pavement, onto his back. From the asphalt he scanned the other side of the street and saw the smoke-wind recede into a wisp that disappeared into the blackness. A tiny point of red light in the smoke blinked out and was gone.

An older black woman got stiffly out of the car and walked over. She knelt painfully next to Max.

"Are you all right?" she said with a shaking voice.

Max stood up quickly, dusting himself off. He smiled and helped her up "I'm so sorry to frighten you like that, dear. I'm really quite all right. It was my fault. Jogging, you know." He smiled into the doubtful face of the woman as she looked up and down at his slacks and jacket.

"We have to call the police," she said.

"Nonsense. You didn't even hit me. There was no accident, really." He grinned at her and she backed up a step.

"If you're sure," she said, moving toward her car with a suspicious look.

"Entirely. You're a love. I'm so sorry for your inconvenience." He waved to her and said, "Bye bye, now."

The woman got into the car, locked her door and drove down the street and out of sight. Max walked quickly to his apartment house.

Michael sat in the chair and tried to think of anything but the spikes beneath the window. The closed door to his library creaked and Michael turned his head sharply, his heart pounding. His legs were leaden, immobile. The door creaked again. Wide-eyed, Michael stared at the middle panel. It pushed forward, then receded, as if breathing. The temperature in the room fell and he saw his breath in front of his face.

Michael riveted his eyes on the slowly heaving door. It was solid oak, two inches thick and should already have splintered down the middle. He held his breath and the door stopped breathing with him. He finally gulped a breath and the door moved, the oak creaking in complaint, on the verge of shattering.

Suddenly the doorbell chimed and the door settled back and was quiet. Michael closed his eyes, whispered the name of Jesus and truly prayed for the first time in years. He walked unsteadily to the front door and looked through the glass panel. Kathleen was on the doorstep. He quickly opened it.

Kathleen smiled, holding a bottle of wine crooked in her arm. "I decided I wanted to see you." She smiled, hesitated, then said, "Tonight. I bought a really nice bottle of.....Michael, what's wrong? You look awful."  
"Come in," he said, waving her into the house. She followed him into the living room and he sat gingerly on the edge of the couch.

"What is it?" She put the wine bottle on the coffee table and sat next to him.

"I'm not sure. Don't you feel the cold?"

"No, it feels a bit warm in here, actually." She touched his forehead. "Maybe you're running a fever...No, you feel clammy, though."

"I think I've had some kind of episode." He sounded like an elderly man.

"Episode? Tell me exactly what happened." Michael told her everything that happened since he left the house to get dinner - everything except that the face in the shimmering mist was his father's.

"Michael, it sounds like a panic attack, but they don't usually come with hallucinations. Have you ever experienced anything like this before?"  
"Never."

"Are you taking any kind of medication?"

"No. Nothing. I take multivitamins. Aspirin. That's it. Did you sense anything around the house, or when you came inside?"

"Nothing at all," she said. She touched his arm. "Michael, you probably haven't been getting enough sleep. You're carrying your regular teaching load, which is heavy enough, and on top of that, you're working on the translation. This might be stress-related."

"I've been tired and stressed before, Kathleen, lots of times. I've never hallucinated before."

Kathleen leaned closer to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Look, Michael, I think this translation is taking a toll on you. You need to take a break from it."

"You don't seriously think that translating that tape is causing me to go mad, do you? Do you think I'm that weak minded?"

"Of course not, but I don't think it's a coincidence that you're getting these symptoms now. The material on the tape may be triggering something in you."

"So why don't you 'probe' me? Find out what it is."

"I already have. I'm not getting anything, but I still think you need to stop working on it. For whatever reason, it's having a negative effect on you. You need to stop, at least for now. You wouldn't want to have an experience like that again."

"No. God, no." Michael rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and said, exasperated, "But I almost have it."

"I don't care. It will wait. Or they'll have to find someone else to do it. Tell you what. Get some sleep, maybe take a few days off, then we can talk about it. Trust me on this. I know what I'm talking about. Meanwhile, do you think you'll need anything to sleep? I could make a call and have a prescription sent to a late-night pharmacy."

"No, no. I don't need anything like that." He felt better now, stronger. Kathleen was here, there was nothing in the house and nothing out on the street. It had all seemed so real, which of course it wasn't.

Michael relaxed a bit. "I've read about panic attacks, but I never realized just how frightening they could be." He felt better talking about it.

"They can be debilitating. Would you like me to stay over?" Kathleen asked.

Michael looked at the wine bottle and into her pretty eyes and smiled. "I would love you to stay, but not as my keeper."

"Not keeper. Friend. Don't worry. I won't seduce you. Yet."

She stood up. "Tell you what. I think you could use some company tonight. Why don't I rummage through your kitchen and make us something to eat, then we'll open that bottle of wine and watch a little television. Sound good?"

"Sounds very good. I insist you take the bedroom, though. I'll sleep on the couch."

"That's fine," she said.

"I'm afraid you won't find much in my cupboard. A few eggs. There might be a steak in the freezer."

Kathleen slapped her hands together. "Excellent. Steak and eggs. And I know you have tea bags. Why don't I start a nice pot of tea, and then I'll make us something to eat."

"That sounds heavenly. I'd love it," he said, very grateful that she was staying over.

"Meanwhile, let's see what's on." She picked up the television remote and clicked it at the television over the mantle.

"But won't you need...um.. Pajamas or anything?"

"Nah. I never wear them," she said watching his face with a sidelong glance while switching on the television.

At seven next morning, Kathleen showered, drank a cup of instant coffee at the kitchen table, then went back to the bedroom and slipped out of Michael's sweatshirt and into her clothes. She tiptoed into the living room and saw Michael sleeping heavily on the couch. Her foot pressed against a squeaky floor board and Michael sat up, rubbing his face.

"Morning," he said groggily, sitting upright on the couch. He wore pajamas crawling with colorful, goofy animals..

"Good morning," she said. "Sorry. I woke you up. I was trying to be quiet."

"That's all right. I always wake early. It wasn't you."

Kathleen sat on the edge of the couch. "Sleep okay? By the way, I love the P.J.'s with the little animals." She pinched one of his sleeves.

"Thanks. I thought they were just polka dots when I bought them. I did sleep well, though," he said, his hand taking a swipe through his tousled hair. "How about you?"

"Like a stone. Michael, I have to go. I have some work to do, then I'm meeting Gerry and Dan. We're going to talk to the elderly priest who lives next door to them. Max is going as well. Are you all right?"

"Of course," said Michael. "I'm fine. Why don't I call you later?"

"Great. Or I'll call you." She picked up her purse. "And no work on the translation today, right?"

"We'll see," he said.

She smiled and closed the front door behind her. He was definitely feeling better. Last night, his skin looked almost gray with fear when she first saw him. She was still worried.

Kathleen grabbed a yellow cab and was at her building in less than fifteen minutes. After showering, she put on her favorite bathrobe, an old, thick, cobalt-blue terrycloth, then fixed a light breakfast of fruit and yogurt. She ate slowly in the chair near the window and watched the river. Sunlight reflecting in the choppy water seemed to create a vast ribbon of roiling, undulating serpents.

As she touched the pocket of her robe to make sure she had her phone in easy reach, Fagin jumped into her lap, attempting a landing in Kathleen's fruit bowl. With much practice under her belt, she smoothly pulled the bowl from her lap a split second before Fagin landed.

"Foiled again, kiddo," she said, running her hand down the cat's arching back. She really liked Michael. He was intelligent, curious, good-looking. He held doors for her and she loved it. Eight very short years before, the first man she ever felt love for had gotten himself killed crashing his small plane into a mountain in the Adirondacks. He had proposed to her only a week before, and since then, Kathleen had never been able to stop comparing all men with Charlie Harden. Not many measured up, but Michael did. She judged him to be loyal, courageous, intelligent. For now, just liking him would be enough. If something more developed, so much the better.

She stroked Fagin. "Right, big boy?"

Her phone vibrated, and she snapped it open before it rang.

"Hi Gerry." Fagin walked up the arm of her chair and across the back, sniffing Kathleen's hair, preparing to give her a cat hat.

"Hey, Kathleen. Since we're not meeting at the house until one o'clock today, I was wondering if you wanted to grab lunch, and then we could go up together."

"Sure. Where are you?"

"I'm at the library on 42nd Street. I wanted to search a bit more for anything on the Connellys. I also looked for anything else I might find on the Carmodys and Morrisons."

"Did you find anything?" Kathleen gently pushed Fagin's nose from her head, where he was starting to nibble and groom her hair.

"No, nothing."

Kathleen pushed Fagin away again. "Why don't we meet at the Carnegie Deli?"

"Excellent," said Gerry. "I've been there. The pastrami is sinful."

"Great. You know where it is?"

"Yes. Seventh and 55th Street. Is eleven o'clock all right?"

"Sounds good," said Kathleen. "Is Dan with you?"

"No, his boss called him into work. Something absolutely had to be done before Monday. Never mind that he's on vacation. Okay, whoever gets there first, just go in and try to get a table. This will be fun."

"Okay," said Kathleen, smiling to herself. Gerry had an amazing talent for enjoying the moment.

"See you there, hon." She hung up. Gerry also reminded Kathleen what was really important.

At 10:30, Kathleen was dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a dark sleeveless top. She checked herself in the mirror and declared herself presentable, then dialed Michael.

"Michael, How are you feeling?"

"I'm all right." He sounded tired.

"Got plans for today?"

"No, no plans, really. I probably won't do any work. I think I'll kick back and vegetate today."

"Great idea. Watch some sports. Do you like sports?"

"I do, actually. I like baseball."

"Me too, what do you know. When I get back from the house, I'll give you a call, and we can go eat. You pick the place. I'll pay."

He laughed. "I have expensive taste."

"Good. So do I. Think of something nice and I'll call you later."  
"Okay, but I want you to know I have no intention of giving up on the translation. I'm angry. I don't like being pushed around, even by my own personal demons, which is what last night was all about. I'm sure of that. Sounds juvenile, I know, but that's how I feel."

Arguing with him wouldn't help. "Okay. Just don't overdo it, all right?"

"Promise. I'm almost there, actually. It's just a matter of sitting down and doing it. I'll have it ready soon," he said.

"All right, but not today, okay? Today you rest. I'll call you later."

Kathleen closed the phone and picked up Fagin, who was now standing on her lap trying to groom Kathleen's eyebrows.

She kissed his head and dropped him on the floor. "Down, mouse breath," she said, heading for the door. The cab would be in front of the building soon.
CHAPTER 15

Kathleen waited in front of the building for the cab. The air was crisp, a delightful harbinger of autumn, with huge fluffy cloud dirigibles floating under a soft blue sky. The taxi, driven by a Sikh, drove up to the curb.

Kathleen got into the back. "Hi. I'd like to go to the Carnegie Deli. 55th Street and Seventh."

"Very good," he said. "The food is good there?"

"Very. Never been there?"

"Not yet," he said, smiling in the mirror.

The taxi stopped near the green awning of the restaurant. She was five minutes early and walked in to get a table. The place was crowded, but not uncomfortably jammed and smelled incredibly delicious. An older man waiting tables passed her carrying a large platter. She saw a hand waving from a small table in the back. It was connected to Gerry.

She walked over and sat opposite. "Hey, how are you?" asked Kathleen.

"Famished," said Gerry, looking at a menu. "I think I'll have the pastrami sandwich with a side of potato salad."

"Sounds great. I'll have the same."

A young, dark, excruciatingly good-looking young waiter came over and introduced himself as Carl. "Hello ladies. What would you like?" He looked like a young Tony Curtis, but better.

Kathleen tapped Gerry, who looked up at him and blushed slightly

"We'll have two 'pistols' with potato salad. I'd like a diet coke."

"Same for me, Carl" said Kathleen. When the waiter left, she said "What did I tell you?"

"The sandwiches are huge. They pile it on. Would you rather split one?"

"Uh uh," said Kathleen. "I'm not sharing."

Gerry grinned. "Me neither."

"What's that?" asked Kathleen, looking at a manila envelope on the table.

"Copies of the pictures of the Carmodys and the Morrisons, and the old newspaper clippings."

"So you didn't find anything else useful?" asked Kathleen.

"Not at the library, but there is something. Do you remember how Susan began breathing heavily during the séance, as if she were almost pumping herself up, then pushing the air out quickly?"

"Yes. She was hyperventilating. I was afraid she would faint."

"I don't think she was hyperventilating," said Gerry. "I did some research on breathing techniques, and I found that in Eastern cultures, meditation and controlled breathing techniques are used to open the chakras, the spiritual centers which correspond to the endocrine glands in the body. Opening the chakras can provide power, both spiritual and physical. The teaching comes originally from ancient India, then spread to other areas in the East. Originating in western Asia, the Celts could have easily assimilated some of this knowledge."

"Yoga utilizes breathing exercises," Kathleen added.

Gerry nodded, "Also from India. The meditative breathing can open the chakras and the powers of the endocrine system to help the practitioner advance spiritually."

"I've actually recommended meditation techniques for some of my patients," said Kathleen. "It can be very effective in relieving stress."

"Yes, and it can dramatically reduce blood pressure and depression. From what I've been reading, they don't know half of what the endocrine system is capable of."

"They don't know everything about anything," said Kathleen. The waiter brought their soft drinks.

She looked up. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, darling."

Gerry looked up and smiled, then turned back to Kathleen. "I've been doing a lot of reading on this. High levels of hormones, especially adrenaline, can give enormous strength. I've read accounts of ordinary people exhibiting extraordinary strength in times of crisis, like this woman whose husband was trapped under the car he had been working on. The woman, who was about my size, lifted the back end of the car and pulled him out from under it. No one knows how she could possibly have done it. I found lots of examples like this."

"I've read a few papers on that. Interesting," said Kathleen.

"Yes it is," Gerry said. "The fact is, they have no idea how much power can be summoned through the glandular system, physically, spiritually, or psychically."

"Psychically?"

"Yes. Each organ specializes, kind of. The psychic chakra is the Third Eye, or the pineal gland. It's located about here," she said, tapping the space just above and between her eyes.

"Stimulation of a particular gland can give strength in specific ways," said Kathleen.

"Right. Theoretically, the correct stimulation of the pineal can make one a very powerful psychic."

The waiter served the sandwiches. "Here you go, ladies," he said, setting down the heavy plates.

"Oh my goodness," said Kathleen. The sandwiches were about four inches thick.

"Oh yeah," said Gerry. They ate silently for a while.

Gerry finished half the sandwich and the potato salad, then pushed the plate forward. "I couldn't touch another bite. That was so good."

"It definitely was," said Kathleen, who had also put a large dent into hers.

"But the point of meditation is usually spiritual advancement, isn't it?" asked Kathleen.

"That's true, but like anything else, it can be used for good or evil. According to the teachings of this guru I've been reading, a seeker of wisdom who meditates for the betterment of his soul and the betterment of the world may someday become a Master, an Enlightened One. He can have a beneficial effect on the whole world."

Gerry sipped her soda and crumpled her napkin onto her plate. "But if someone meditates only for selfish reasons, and they build power and focus to a similar level, but with their only purpose to control or to do harm to others, they become the opposite of a Master. They become a Monster."

"That sounds like black magic," said Kathleen.

"It is. To the Nth degree," said Gerry. She looked at her watch. "Hey, we better get over to Grand Central. We need to catch the 12:20 local."

"You're right." Kathleen started to open her wallet.

"Uh, uh," said Gerry. "This was my party." She left the waiter a nice tip and they got up. Gerry paid at the door and they went outside and split up to catch a cab faster.

They made the 12:20 local with ten minutes to spare and took two seats on the left side of the car.

"Have you heard from Max?" asked Gerry.

"I spoke to him yesterday. He said he'd meet us there. I tried calling him earlier and got his voice mail. I told him I was taking the train to Hastings."

"Tickets," said the conductor is a loud monotone as he stopped at their seat. They handed him their tickets, which he punched and handed back.

When they got to the Hastings station, they stood up and Kathleen's phone rang.

"This is Kathleen. Max? Where are you?"

"Directly in front of you, in the parking lot."

Kathleen looked out the window and saw his car. "I see you. We'll be right there."

Kathleen got in the front passenger side and Gerry in back behind the driver.

"Dan isn't with you?" asked Max.

"No, he had to work." Even from the back seat, Gerry could tell Max wasn't feeling well. His face looked like parchment.

"Max, are you all right?" asked Kathleen. "You look pale."

"I'm always pale."

"Paler, then," said Kathleen.

"It's nothing."

As Max pulled out of the parking lot, Kathleen studied him out of the corner of her eye. He really didn't look well.

"When we get there, I'll park down the street and we can walk up to the rectory. Creep up on them, you know."

"I don't see why we have to be so stealthy," said Kathleen.

"If Jacqueline has time to gather her thoughts, she may refuse us, and I would really like to interview this priest. She's a controller, and I won't let her interfere."

Kathleen looked out the window as Max drove. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

"I'm fine," he said.

Max tended to pre-judge people, then fixate on his conclusion and there was no turning back. It was an odd tendency for a psychologist, but he was often right.

The engine in the Impala hummed with quiet power as they started up the long hill. They passed the house and Max parked a block down, in front of a rambling Victorian which had a recent facelift. It seemed like an attractive widow ready to prowl at a seniors dance. They walked back past the house, then across to the rectory behind the church.

"That was elaborate," said Kathleen.

"Elaborate, but necessary," said Max. Kathleen rolled her eyes.

A Ford mini-van sat in the driveway next to the rectory entrance, its sliding passenger door open. They walked up to the van and stood back and watched Jacqueline Armstrong press a button on a remote control. An electric platform unfolded quietly from the door and Father Logan rolled onto it. Jacqueline steadied the chair and pressed another button to lower it to the ground. When the chair was safely on the driveway, Jacqueline retracted the platform and shut the side door, then opened the back door. Gerry, Kathleen and Max walked closer.

"Hello there. We were out shopping," said the priest with a smile. A small white paper bag sat on his lap. Gerry wondered how she would deal with being able to move just her hand and her head. Not very well, she guessed.

"How do you do," said Max, "We're friends of Gerry and Dan, your new neighbors. I'm Max Luellen." Kathleen noticed the priest was delighted and Jacqueline wore a wary, tepid smile.

"This is Doctor Kathleen O'Mara," said Max, leaning down to ensure eye contact. He avoided Jacqueline's eyes and looked directly at the priest. "We were hoping to have a few words with you, Father Logan, if that's possible."

"But...," began Jacqueline.

"That would be a pleasure," said the priest. We'll have a pot of tea. Gerry saw a small triumphant look as Father Logan glanced briefly at Jacqueline. He smiled and his right hand manipulated a control switch on the armrest of the chair. The wheelchair turned smartly and faced them.

Gerry smiled. Father Logan was in control and he was showing off. She noticed two rows of grocery bags in the back of the van.

"Max, come on." They joined Jacqueline at the door of the van and each took two brown paper bags.

"That's all right, I can manage," said the housekeeper.

"It's nothing," said Max. Kathleen smiled to herself. Score another for Max. He had been spot on. Jacqueline would have shooed them off in a polite but firm way.

Father Logan's chair wheeled around and started up the concrete path to the rectory. Unable to move his head, he led the way and spoke loudly as they walked behind.

"Come on, you can join us for lunch as well. Jacqueline won't mind setting a few more places. The only people I ever get to speak to anymore are know-it-all doctors, and of course, my lovely housekeeper. I couldn't do without her. The high point of my life nowadays is going with Jacqueline to the market on Saturday mornings. And watching football."

He laughed and added, "And beating Jacqueline at Jeopardy." His voice had a slight quaver, but was surprisingly strong.

Father Francis Logan was a handsome man, with a head of thick, brilliantly white hair. Eighty-seven years old, he had been ordained in 1945. As he wheeled up the walk, he remembered when he was young, like his guests, attending early mass at Saint Peter's Seminary, adding his voice to the gentle thunder of young men chanting the Gregorian in the chapel. He remembered weak morning sunlight dappling a sea of black cassocks with a ghostly rainbow of light from the stained glass. He was sad to think that most of those bright young men were dead now.

The five of them went into the rectory and set the grocery bags on a counter in their kitchen. The kitchen was spotless, with white cabinets that had tasted many coats of paint, but the appliances were new stainless steel.

"Come into my study," said the priest, aiming his chair down a short hall to another room.

Gerry looked back at the van.

"Go ahead," said Jacqueline. "I'll get the rest." In a low voice, she asked Gerry, "What do you want with him?"

Gerry's first response was irritation, but she knew that Jacqueline really cared for the old man and was just being protective.

She turned to Max. "Go ahead. I'll be there in a minute." Max nodded and followed the priest.

Gerry turned back to Jacqueline. "I know you care very much for Father Logan. Believe me, we have no intention of upsetting him in any way, and he does seem glad to have the company."

Jacqueline looked doubtful. "I know you're involved in these regressions, séances and the like. They're nonsense. Sinful, even. I think if Father Logan knew, he wouldn't even speak to you."

She looked down the hall. "If you had come ten minutes later, you wouldn't have gotten in, believe me. You're here now, I suppose, and there's no arguing with Father Logan once he makes up his mind."

"I promise we won't upset him. We're just going to talk to him for a few minutes. You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt him."

"All right," said Jacqueline.

"Don't bother making lunch for us. We won't be here that long."

"I'll make a pot of tea."

"That would be nice. Thanks, Jacqueline."

Gerry went to the priest's study. The room was paneled in dark wood with barrister bookcases on two walls. His desk was perpendicular to the window so he could turn his chair to look out the window when he wished. A flat-panel monitor sat on the desk.

Logan settled in his wheelchair behind the desk and Max sat in a straight-back hardwood chair facing him. The old man was in just the right position to entertain his guests and still look outside through the window. How important must it be for him to be able to look out at the world, Gerry thought.

She wondered what the priest would do if he lost his sight. It was a terrible thought. He would probably accept it and be grateful for what he had left. Courage was always defined on a battlefield. It just depended what battle you were presented with.

Kathleen sat next to Max in a cushioned wing chair. Gerry pulled up another straight-back chair and sat to Kathleen's left.

"This little gadget on the arm of my chair also functions as a mouse, so I can surf the web. It's wireless. When I want to tour the world, I just need to press this little button with my one good index finger and I'm off. I believe the internet is the most important idea since the telephone, and I was there for both inventions."

Everyone laughed except Max, who was fidgeting.

"It's nice to have company," said the priest. His words were somewhat slurred, but his voice was strong, in contrast to his weak body. Flicking his eyes to Gerry, he said, "You're the girl from next door, aren't you?"

"Yes," Gerry answered awkwardly, searching for some way to get to the subject of the Connellys. "Jacqueline told me you were raised in Hell's Kitchen. That must have been quite a place to grow up."

"Oh, it was. It was magical. Our family, like most of them, had no money and our clothes were hand-me-downs, but we had each other, and we had the Church parish. The streets teemed with children. We played stick ball, ring-o-leerio, johnny-ride-the-pony. Not, of course, before we went home and changed out of our school uniforms. If we tore those, we got it good from our parents, and then again from the nuns when we got to school." He laughed softly.

"Father, we wanted to find out a little about the Connellys," said Max impatiently.

Gerry glanced over at Max, then said in a soft voice. "We really would, Father. We know the Connellys lived in our house before they passed."

The priest turned his eyes toward the window and looked across at the house. "Joe Connelly was my friend. He was a fine man." He seemed reluctant to go further. He looked at them as if trying to mentally absorb their motives.

Kathleen decided to open herself to him. She felt benevolence, piety, intelligence - and as his eyes looked over at the house, she felt fear.

Logan looked at Kathleen, his blue eyes searching hers, as if he knew what she was doing. "Tell me something. Are the two young people next door married?"

"No, we're they're...not," Gerry answered. Kathleen suspected the old man was developing Alzheimer's.

Kathleen looked at Gerry and said, "They're getting married a week from today."

The priest's eyes darkened. "Lord protect them," he said softly.

"Why do you say that, Father?" Max leaned forward in his seat, his whole body seeming to point at the priest.

He continued to watch the house, then the index finger on his right hand touched a switch on the chair. An electric whine propelled the vehicle in a half-turn to face them.

"What do you know?" the priest asked.

Max hesitated, then said, "We know terrible things happened in that house, more than once, and we know your friend and his new wife died mysteriously not long after they moved in there."

Gerry decided to plunge. "Father, we believe we're dealing with something out of the ordinary. Maybe something supernatural. We want to find out if you know anything that might help us."

She reached over and touched Max's shoulder. "Max here is a scientist, a parapsychologist. He investigates paranormal occurrences."

"Like Ghostbusters," said Max, failing to amuse the old man.

Gerry started again. "Father, we've done some research on the house, and..."

Max interrupted, "We've discovered a mass murder occurred there in the last century."

"The Carmodys," the priest, said, cutting him off. "I know."

"Yes," Gerry said, surprised.

Logan continued, "I know about the Carmodys, and about the Morrisons."

Gerry straightened in her chair and started to speak.

"Wait, I'd like to show you something," said the priest. "Go over to that bookcase in the corner." Gerry walked to the other side of the room.

"That's it. The one with the glass doors. There's an old album with a leather cover. Not that. Next to the Shakespeare collection. Yes, that. Bring it over." Gerry started to hand it to him, then pulled it back.

He smiled. "Lay it down on the table for me. There. Thank you.

"Sorry," Gerry said, her face flushing.

"Don't be." He looked down at the album. "Open it, dear."

Her stomach lurched when she opened to the first two pages. Max moved his chair near Gerry. On the left page of the open album, a man and woman stared into eternity. The man's face was handsome, with something mischievous about the eyes, as if he planned to take on the world on his own terms and subdue it. The woman was pretty, with a beaming smile. They were standing in front of a solid, heavy car from the forties.

Gerry looked at the picture on the right and became sick to her stomach.

On the right page was another photograph of the same two people, except the man had aged and now had an arrogance in his features absent from the photo on the left. His eyes, once brightly musing, were now piercingly condescending, as if he knew all the secrets locked in your soul. The woman's face looked years older than Mary Connelly's, and her face had a hard, pinched look, totally devoid of humor. The hairstyle was identical to that of the woman in the left-hand picture, with short, tight curls.

"They've turned into the Carmodys too," said Gerry.

"These are both pictures of the Connellys?" asked Max.

"Yes," said Father Logan. "The snapshot on the left was taken a few weeks before they moved into that house. The one on the right was taken right after their wedding."

"Just like the Morrisons," said Max.

"Except the Connellys they weren't married yet when they died," said Gerry, turning to Max.

"Of course they were," said Father Logan.

Gerry turned to the priest. "But the news article we found about the Connellys said they were to be married on the ship."

"Joe and Mary had wanted a shipboard wedding, but there wasn't enough time to organize it. I married them right here at St. Christopher's early in the morning before they left on their cruise. Turn to the next page."

Gerry did, and saw a copy of the same freakish picture of the Morrisons that they had found in the old newspaper. The page to the right was blank.

"Keep going," said Father Logan.

Gerry flipped to the next page. On the left was the original pen and ink drawing of the Carmodys that Gerry and Dan had found in the library records. On the right page was the old newspaper clipping.

She flipped back to look at the pictures of the Morrisons and Connellys again. "I feel like I'm going to be sick," said Gerry.

"Yes, it did that to me, too," said the priest. "I researched and gathered all this before my stroke."

"The Connellys didn't die in an accident, did they?" asked Gerry.

"No," the priest said, in a small voice. "Mary killed Joe, then committed suicide."

Gerry saw intense pain in his face, even after all these years. He turned his chair to face the window again.

Father Logan was quiet for a moment, then said, "The police said Joe was involved with another woman on the ship. I didn't believe it. I never will. Joe wasn't like that. It turned out the woman worked for Joe in his New York office, but I don't think Joe had any idea she was on the ship. The police said that Mary killed Joe, then herself. When the other woman heard of it, she committed suicide. I don't believe her suicide had anything to do with Joe. I found it very hard to believe Joe and Mary were dead. And to end like that."

Logan paused, then said, "Murder of another or oneself is a terrible mortal sin, but suicide is a mortal sin of despair as well. I was raised to fear God, as well as love Him. Not like today. Today they think Hell is a state of mind and the afterlife will be whatever you imagine it to be. Psychological nonsense. What a shock some will have on the day of their death.

"I wanted to tear that house down with my bare hands. I even asked the Bishop for permission to perform an exorcism, although I had no idea if that would do any good. I had to do something. The bishop said I should go away for a while. Take a long vacation, Francis, he told me. I showed him the photographs, but he wouldn't really look at them. Exorcisms were to expel demons, he told me. The poor Connellys died horribly, he said, but it was not the work of the devil, other than the devil that lies dormant in all people. He told me we weren't living in the Middle Ages."

Father Logan smiled bitterly, then said, "Now another young couple have come, and there the house sits...waiting." Gerry and Dan exchanged glances.

He paused, then continued in his slow but clear, deliberate voice, "One Saturday morning in May, less than a year after Joe and Mary's passing, I performed the marriage sacrament for two young people, right here at Saint Christopher's. I still remember their names. Kevin and Sarah Costello. A nice young couple, very much like Joe and Mary, in many ways. The house was vacant at the time. When the ceremony was over, they walked across to the house. They wanted to take a few wedding photographs."

He shrugged with his eyes. "And why not. Back then, the house was still impressive. It would make a lovely background. But I had recently received that photograph from Joe's brother Tim." The old man's eyes looked down at the album. "It was taken by Tim right after the wedding, just before Joe and Mary left on their honeymoon."

"As the newly married couple walked over to the house, I thought of Joe and Mary, and I found myself running to catch up with them. They thought I was insane. I told them the owner had complained about too many people walking around his property after the weddings, and we weren't allowed to let anyone take pictures over there. Insurance issues.

"Of course, I couldn't explain why I was so afraid to let them take their pictures. I couldn't even explain it to myself. That day, I went out and had the sign made."

" 'No Wedding Pictures.' You put that sign up," said Gerry.

"Yes," said the priest, looking at the photograph of the Connellys on the table. "When the Greenvilles moved in, I asked them if they wouldn't mind leaving the sign up. I told them they might be liable if someone came over to their property and was somehow injured. They thought I was a bit off too, but they agreed to leave the sign up.

"Mrs. Greenville was a bit disappointed, I believe. I think she liked the idea of young people taking a bit of her home with them into their new lives."

"So you believed that the act of taking the pictures had something to do with what happened to the Connellys?" asked Max.

He crooked his mouth in a tiny smile. "I don't know. I know what I felt in my heart. I just wouldn't let them take their pictures there. If they had taken the pictures anyway, I would have broken their camera." He laughed. "Then they really would have thought I was a lunatic."

Max said, "Father, would you mind if I borrowed this album for a day? I'd like to make copies of these pictures. I promise I'll have them back by tomorrow."

"Take it," he said.

The priest looked suddenly worn out. Gerry stood up and touched the priest's hand. "We're going now, Father, Thank you so much for your time." Jacqueline walked in with a tray. "Won't you at least stay for tea?"

That didn't sound very sincere, Gerry thought. "No thanks, Jacqueline. We really should go."

"Thank you, Father," said Kathleen. Max muttered a subdued thanks.

Outside Kathleen got into the front seat of Max's car.

"I had a few more questions for him, actually," said Max, annoyed.

"He was tired, Max," said Kathleen. "I think we probably got as much from him as we were going to get."

Gerry said through the car window, "I'll talk to you later, Kathleen."

"Okay, Gerry. I'll call you."

Max pulled out. "Getting pretty chummy, you two," said Max.

"So?" said Kathleen, smiling over at Max.

"So nothing," he said.

"Max, you seem grumpier than usual and you look like you were out drinking all night. You weren't, were you?"

He didn't answer.

Kathleen said, "Michael had some kind of episode last night."

"What do you mean?"

Kathleen told Max everything Michael had told her.

"It must have been very frightening for him."

"Of course," said Kathleen. "A panic attack along with a hallucination would be terrifying. I'm even more upset to think I might have had something to do with his getting involved in this."

"Nonsense," said Max. "Michael is a big boy. Once he heard the tape, he salivated at the prospect of translating it. Any linguist worth his salt would have felt the same. You can't blame yourself for whatever is going on with Michael. He's probably dealing with something stressful that we know nothing about. This manifestation of neurosis would have happened anyway. Actually, I've also been attempting to translate the last section of the tape, so perhaps we won't need him any longer."

"But you know zilch about ancient Celtic," said Kathleen.

"I know, but I have a friend in the U.K. who is acquainted with a professor of linguistics who may be able to manage a translation. Late last night I emailed my friend a flash copy of the recording to see if we could speed up the translation."

"Good idea," said Kathleen.

Max stopped at her building, got out and shut the door. "Thanks, Max. Are you sure you're all right? Maybe you should go to urgent care. You might need an antibiotic or something. I could come with you."

Max laughed out loud, and Kathleen looked at him strangely.

"I'll be fine, Kathleen."

"All right, Max, but at least get to bed early and get some rest."

"Bye now," said Max, laughing. He pulled out. Kathleen looked after him, shaking her head. That was odd behavior, even for Max.

After letting herself into her apartment, Kathleen made a cup of tea, then settled into the couch and Fagin immediately jumped onto her lap.

She called Michael.

"Hey."

"Hey," he answered.

"How are you feeling?" Kathleen stroked Fagin as she talked.

"I'm good. Really. Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

"Definitely. Have you decided where you'd like to eat?"

"Not really," said Michael. "You choose."

"Do you like Italian?"

"I love Italian."

"Gerry introduced me to this place called Amalfi's on the West Side in the Eighties. The food is wonderful. I'll call for a reservation for seven-thirty."

"You're just a few blocks from there, so I'll grab a cab and pick you up. Seven o'clock all right?"

"Kathleen, I almost wish I had really been attacked by a demon."

"Really. Why?"

"I'd rather be assaulted by a bad spirit than to have to come to terms with my own insanity."

Kathleen laughed, "Michael, you're the least insane person I know. I do think you should consider seeing a therapist, though."

"I'll think about it. I'll pick you up at seven then?"

"Seven it is. Bye."
CHAPTER 16

After seeing the priest, Gerry met Dan at the supermarket.

"Did you get what you needed done?" she asked.

"Yes, but I didn't much like getting called in on my vacation, Someone else could've taken care of it."

Gerry inspected a tomato, then put it into a plastic bag.

"Dan, how about a chef salad tonight?" Gerry held another tomato up to the light.

"It's a tomato, Hon, not the Hope Diamond," said Dan.

"Would you get a bag of that lettuce, please?" Dan grabbed one and tossed it into the cart. An elderly man walked slowly toward Dan. He wore an old gray cardigan sweater and had a thick shock of grayish white hair. His hands were twisted with arthritis.

"How're you doing, Carl?" said Dan. Gerry looked over curiously at the man.

"Great, Danny. You?"

"Good, good. Hey. Notre Dame has a shot this year." said Dan.

"Think so?" asked Carl.

"Definitely. They've got two new offensive linemen starting this season. Mike Grieco and Willie Keene."

"Oh yeah, yeah, I heard that," he said, his hand and voice both shaking slightly as he pointed at Dan. "And you watch that young quarterback, what's his name...oh what's that name....McClatchey, that's it."

"You're right. He's going to be the man," said Dan, tossing a tomato from one hand to the next, and Gerry finally noticed that the cap he was wearing had the Notre Dame logo."

"Well, I gotta go, Danny. Gotta get my prescription. See you next time."

"See you, Carl," said Dan.

"See you, Danny." The old man waved and walked slowly down the aisle.

Gerry turned and looked up at Dan. "I didn't know you had a supermarket buddy. And I thought I was the only one who called you Danny."

Dan put the tomato back on the rack. "Nope. But you're my number one. Carl's here almost every Saturday when I stop in for groceries after tennis." He gave her a look. "When I get to play tennis."

"You haven't missed tennis in weeks.

"What about last week?"

"Week, then."

"Anyway, he's a nice old guy," said Dan.

"I didn't know you were into college football, either. What else is there I don't know about you, bunky?"

"Actually, I don't really follow college football. I bought that hat at the discount store because it was only five bucks and it didn't look too stupid on me. One day I stop in here wearing it, and this old guy comes over and starts talking about Notre Dame football. I went along with it, and it turns out he graduated from Notre Dame back in 1945. He's really into it, so I wing it. Next time I see him, he makes a beeline for me. I was compelled to continue my little charade or be made out a liar and have the Gray Panthers after me. After that, I read up on Notre Dame's football program."

Gerry folded her arms. "You studied Notre Dame football history for some old guy you don't even know? What a tangled web we weave," she said, her eyes filling.

She leaned up and held the back of his neck and kissed him on the lips. "You're a good guy, Danny."

On the checkout line, Gerry called Kathleen while Dan lined up the groceries on the conveyor belt.

"Kathleen. Hi, how are you....I'm fine.....Hey, I know it's short notice, but we're having dinner with some friends on Friday evening at Rive Gauche, after our wedding rehearsal. If you're free, we'd like you to join us, and we'd like you to bring Michael."

Gerry waited, biting her thumbnail, then smiled. "Great. Is seven o'clock all right?.....Good....Yes, I did. I found a beautiful dress in a little place on Canal Street. We've really been winging this, but everything is going so smoothly. I haven't had the nightmare for a whole week. It's like the gods are on our side." Gerry listened for a minute, then said, "Oh no, dinner will be just Dan and me and a few friends. Nothing fancy. Normally, we'd have all the relatives coming, but there was just too little time. They'll all be at the wedding, though."

Gerry listened for a moment, then said "What?" in a louder voice.

After loading the groceries into the car with Dan, Gerry got in the passenger seat.

"I'm so sorry to hear that. Of course I agree with you. Okay, I'll be talking to you. Goodbye." She hung up.

"Dan, Michael McGuire may be going through some kind of mental breakdown."

"Breakdown?" Dan asked, driving out of the of the supermarket lot. He made a quick left and headed back home. "He doesn't seem the type."

"I don't know what the type would be," said Gerry, "But Kathleen said he had a kind of panic attack and hallucinated some kind of spirit, or demon or something. She thinks his working on the translation may have something to do with it, and she wants him to stop. She's not sure he will, though. He says his translation is almost complete."

"Well, tell him to stop. It can wait."

"I will. Kathleen also said she had absolutely no sense of anything around him or his home."

"What, you thought maybe he was attacked by a real demon?"

"I don't know, but if Kathleen says there was nothing there, then there wasn't. She's sure it was a psychotic episode."

"I concur."

Gerry smiled in the dark car. "You know, Danny, when I get home from work lately and walk into our place, I feel a huge internal sigh of relief, like I'm completely safe and all the cares of the world have left me. I've never felt that in any other place I've lived."

"Maybe the boogeyman isn't coming, after all," he said.

She looked over to see if he was being sarcastic. She wasn't sure. "Maybe he's not. It's been a whole week without the nightmare, and that's a first."

Farther up the hill, as the road became narrower and more rural, Dan slowed down while a cat froze in the middle of the road, then darted back across the street from the side it had come.

"Make up your mind, Garfield."

"You don't believe in the boogeyman, do you?" she asked.

"No, I don't."

"Father Logan does."

"As a Catholic priest, Father Logan also believes children who die in a state of sin fall into Hell like the leaves of a tree in October. That's what Sister Mary Josephine told us. I was always asking my mother if my shot records were up to date."

Gerry laughed. "I had a teacher like that who said pretty much the same thing. It sounds ridiculous now, but it scared the hell out of us when we were kids."

"Yes it did, and that's the point. They scare the hell out of you so you'll be quiet in school and ashamed of any sexual urges you might have, which by eighth grade was starting to be the only thing you ever thought about."

"That wasn't the only thing I ever thought about when I was in eighth grade. What about the hypnotic regression, and the séance? How do you explain them?" asked Gerry.

"Who knows? I've been reading a bit about regression. I think the information either came directly from your subconscious imagination, or was the result of some type of subtle suggestion by Max during the hypnosis. I imagine the regression and séance would make a great chapter in his book. I don't trust him very much."

"I can't imagine how he could have possibly influenced me like that," she said.

"Have you ever heard of Rasputin, the mad monk?"

"Yes. He supposedly had some kind of hypnotic hold over Alexandra, the last Russian Czarina."

"Right. Maybe Max does something like that. Maybe he influences his subjects, for effect."

Gerry shook her head. "No. Kathleen would know if that were true. They've worked together for years." She shook her head again. "No, no way. Besides, you don't really think I'm that weak-minded, do you, Dan?"

Dan drove silently for a full minute.

She elbowed him in the ribs. "Dan?"

He grinned. "No, you're definitely not weak-minded." He winced a bit. "Your elbows aren't weak either."

"Thank you. I sharpened them this morning. I feel terrible that Michael became involved in this. He must be having some personal issues, and then we push this translation project on him. I'm going to call him tonight and tell him to leave it alone. I just hope he will."

"You didn't push anything on him. He jumped at the chance. You and Max still want that translation, though, don't you."

"Max told me he has a contract deadline coming up and he has to submit his manuscript to the publisher within a week. I want that translation just as much as he does, but I won't get it at the expense of Michael's health. We'll find another way. Well get someone else to translate it."

At his desk late that afternoon, Max looked out his apartment window onto Columbus Avenue and 110th Street. When his book was finally published, the first thing he was going to do was move to an apartment overlooking Central Park. His phone rang.

"Hello, Magdalene? Darling, how are you? Did you speak to Professor Radcliffe?"

He drummed a pencil as he waited for the answer, then said, "I'm sorry to hear that. Did he say why he couldn't do it?"

"Ah, I see. Too busy. All right, thanks so much anyway, Mags. You're a dear. Goodbye now. My best to William."

He hung up the receiver. That was it. At this point, the only realistic option to get the translation finished was Michael McGuire, and he now had something else to worry about. The good professor at University College had a copy of the tape and the option of working on the translation and claiming all the credit. He might even publish an academic paper before Max's book was even printed, and then sue Max for stealing his material. God, people were cutthroats. He had to work fast. He called McGuire.

Michael tightened the belt strap on his light summer bathrobe and walked over to the phone on the end table next to his couch. He sat down and picked it up.

"Hello Max. How are you?"

"I'm fine. And you?"

"I'm great. A little tired, but good."

"Excellent. I'm so glad to hear that, after what happened the other night."

Michael's hand tightened on the phone. "Kathleen told you about that?"

"We're old friends and professional colleagues. Have been for years. I agree with her that it's essential that you cease working on the translation immediately."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me. Gerry McMartin just called to tell me the same thing."

"She's absolutely right. Your health comes first. It's a shame you were unable to finish it, though. As a linguist, you'll probably never see anything like it again. You were so close, too. Unfortunately, we really need the translation, and soon. Gerry has agreed to allow me to use it in a book I'm working on, and I have to submit the manuscript in less than a week.

"I really hate the thought of it, but if you can't do it, I'll have no choice but to find another linguist to finish it. I have a contact in University College in London who might be able to locate someone. I just wish it were you. After all that work you probably won't even be able to publish a paper on this. It's hardly fair."

Michael ran his fingers through his hair nervously. "I didn't realize there was a deadline. I'll bet your contact is talking about Arthur Radcliffe. I can't imagine anyone else who could do it."

"Whatever we do, I don't want you compromising your emotional well being with this."

"There's nothing wrong with my mental health," said Michael.

"No, no, of course not. In fact, it sounds to me like you've had a rather mild incident brought on by a bit of stress. I just don't want to make it worse."

Max paused, then asked "There's nothing else going on in your life that might have caused this, is there?"

"No, nothing. Everything is fine." He paused and said, "Max, I want a favor."

"Anything, Michael. Name it."

"I want you to hold off giving the tape to Radcliffe. Just give me a fair chance to finish it. I feel fine, I really do. In fact, I think I'm going to publish a paper on this after all. Don't worry, though. I won't submit it until your book is safely published."

"Oh, Michael, I don't think continuing the work now would be a good idea, really."

"Thanks, Max. I know you're concerned for me. Look, my little episode could have been caused by anything. It might have been something I ate. Who knows. I'm certain it had nothing to do with my work on the translation."

"I don't know," said Max, hesitating for effect. Then he said, "All right, Michael. I'll leave it in your hands, but I don't want you to overdo it. Will you be working on it tonight?"

"No, I have a dinner date tonight. Tomorrow I really have to work on the syllabus for the upcoming semester. I'll be able to work on it tomorrow night, though."

"Hey, I've an idea. Why don't I pick up something for dinner tomorrow, and I'll bring it over to your place. I'm really fascinated with this tape, and your work with it. I'd like to see you in action."

"Well, I'm afraid there wouldn't be much action."

"There's a gourmet take-out place on Columbus Avenue. Do you like filet mignon, with garlic mashed potatoes?"

"Well, actually, I do."

"Excellent. I'll be at your doorstep with victuals at around six tomorrow, then."

"Um, could you make it seven?"

"Done," said Max. "I'll bring my laptop so I can work along with you. I'm sure you could use a research assistant. This is so exciting."

"I don't really need a...well, I suppose it might be useful to have someone available to search the internet for data if necessary. I manage, but the net isn't really my strong point."

"Excellent, then I'll see you tomorrow evening," said Max.

"All right, I'll see you then." said Michael.

Max hung up the phone. That was a mixed result. He had to have the manuscript completed by a week from Monday or he was in default on his contract with the publisher. He wouldn't allow that to happen. He was going to have the manuscript in on time, and the translation would be in it. If Michael published an insignificant little academic paper it wouldn't matter anyway. His book was going mainstream, and it was going to be big.

On Friday evening at six, Gerry and Dan walked under the floral-decorated fabric canopy of the Rive Gauche Restaurant and Banquet Hall. Gerry smelled a hint of salt in the air. To her right, beyond a wrought iron railing, the Hudson River flowed quietly down to New York City.

Gerry wore a simple, knee-length burgundy dress with a delicate gold necklace and matching earrings, Dan wore a white, open-neck shirt and light-blue sport jacket. He held the door for her. Inside, on a bench to the left, Maura stood up as they entered.

"Love the dress." said Gerry. "You look great in black."

"Thanks, McMartin. You look good too. So, it's just going to be the happy couple and me Larry, the best man?"

"And Kathleen O'Mara. She's bringing Michael McGuire."

"Oh yes, the linguist. Who's the best man, anyway?"

"Larry Burke. I told you that."

Maura laughed. "Oh right. Larry was the one drooling over your next door neighbor at the housewarming party."

"Yes," said Gerry, laughing. Dan walked over to the reservations podium and came back following a tall thin blond in high heels carrying menus. Larry walked in the front door and Dan waved him over. The restaurant was starting to get crowded.

"Very nice place," said Maura, looking around.

"Isn't it?" said Gerry, beaming. The tables were laid with white linen and red tablecloths, the windows dressed in elaborate door-panel curtains printed in a floral and lemon print pattern. The staff were dressed completely in black, with berets and red roses pinned at the right chest.

"We'll have a nice dinner, then we'll run through the rehearsal. There's really not much to it."

As they were seated, Maura asked, "Larry, how the hell are you?"

"Good." Searching for words, he came up with, "You certainly look lovely tonight."

"Why thanks, Larry, as long as that doesn't mean I look pretty bad most other nights." She put her hand on his shoulder. "Just kidding. Thank you, Larry." He smiled painfully.

Gerry looked at Dan. She hoped Larry wasn't falling into Maura's pit of broken hearts.

Maura placed her napkin on her lap and reached for a breadstick. "Gerry, are you composing your own vows?"

"Yes we are. I think it adds a nice touch, although we're not going there tonight." Gerry looked over at the doorway and saw Kathleen and Michael near the front door. She stood up and waved them over. Kathleen wore a dark pants suit and Michael a brown sports jacket and tan shirt.

Michael held the chair as Kathleen took a seat next to Gerry.

"Hello, everyone," said Michael.

"Beautiful venue," said Kathleen.

"Isn't it," said Maura. A young waiter took their drink order and hurried off into the kitchen.

"Are you feeling all right?" asked Kathleen.

Gerry nodded. That was code for "Are you still having the nightmare?"

"I'm doing great. Been sleeping well."

"That's good," said Kathleen. "Very good."

She sensed Gerry and Dan studying Michael, so to eject the eight hundred pound gorilla from the room, she said, "Michael was feeling a bit under the weather this week, but he's back to his charming self." Michael smiled shyly around the table and unfolded his napkin.

"So, what's Max been up to?" asked Gerry.

"Actually, I spoke to him today," said Michael. "It seems there's a contractual deadline for his book, and since he feels it essential to include the translation, he was considering getting another linguist to work on it."

"Oh please, not that again. I feel like I'm hanging out with Scooby Doo and the Gang on Haunted Island," said Maura.

"That would be too bad," said Dan. "Considering all the work you've put into it."

"Well, I'm not giving up just yet." The waiter brought the drinks. Gerry looked at Kathleen, wondering where she stood as far as Michael continuing to work on the translation.

"I don't like to do things half way," said McGuire, taking a sip from his water tumbler. Kathleen didn't seem pleased. It looked like Michael had won that argument.

"You could publish your paper as it is," said Kathleen.

"You're going to publish?" asked Gerry.

"Yes," said Michael. "I decided the provenance of the tape wasn't as important as the content."

"So what did Max say?" asked Dan.

"He told me he has a contact at University College in London who might be able to work on the translation, but I told him to hold off."

"Michael really wants to finish it himself," said Kathleen.

"Of course," said Gerry.

"At any rate, Max is coming over to my place tomorrow to help me with the research."

"I'm coming over too," said Kathleen.

"Do you mind if Dan and I tag along? I would love to be there if you crack that last phrase," said Gerry.

Michael laughed. "Actually, there is more than one phrase, but hey, why not. Let's have a party. Everybody's invited. I may need to isolate myself in my study, though. Oh, and we have to watch the History Channel at 9:00 o'clock."

"How come?" asked Maura.

Michael smiled at Kathleen, "My beautiful date is going to be on 'Paranormal.'"

Larry said, "Cool. I saw that show once. It's a series about psychic phenomena. It was really well done, not like they usually do those shows, and they didn't have that weird music they always have on those things."

"Or the patronizing attitude," said Kathleen. "They give a balanced view of the incidents. If they didn't, believe me, I wouldn't have worked with them."

"Neat. We've got a star among us," said Maura.

"Maura?" said Gerry.

"Gerry?" mimicked Maura.

"Are you coming?"

Maura put down her wine glass. "Why not. I have nothing on for tomorrow night. Just like I had nothing on the week before. And the week before that." She smiled at Larry, who coughed.

"Besides, I could stand some ghost hunting, as long as fine scotch is involved. How about you, Larry. Want to come?"

Larry stammered a "Yes," and Gerry shook her head. Poor Larry.

Michael took out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" asked Kathleen.

"Max. He was bringing over some take-out. He's going to need to bring enough for everyone."

"Great. What's he bringing?"

"Filet mignon from a gourmet take-out place On Columbus Avenue."

Kathleen laughed. Casanova's. I know that place. That'll set him back a few bucks. Tell him to make mine rare."

"I could bring some lasagna, too," said Gerry.  
"Sounds great," said Michael.  
After dinner, they went into the outdoor pavilion behind the restaurant and rehearsed the wedding. It went like clockwork.

That night, Gerry took her dress from the closet and held it against her in the dresser mirror, then carefully put it back. Later, she fell deliciously into sleep dreaming of her elegantly simple wedding gown in white satin with Bateau neckline and tiered veil.

At 2 A.M., she woke up sweat-soaked and freezing and rushed into the bathroom to vomit. The nightmare was back, worse and more horribly vivid than ever. Gerry washed up at the sink, and as she dried her face, imagined her Uncle Earl's strong face in the reflection above her shoulder, warning her it was still coming.

On Saturday at 7:30, Max knocked at the door of Michael's brownstone hefting a large brown bag with the Casanova's logo in script. In his other hand he carried a laptop.

Michael opened the door. "Hello, Max. I see you brought some goodies."

"Yes, which cost a king's ransom. Did anyone at least bring some wine?"

"Kathleen said she was bringing some. Gerry and Dan are picking her up, then stopping at a liquor store."

Max put the bag down on the coffee table and smiled at Maura, who had arrived a few minutes before and was sitting on the couch in a black, sleeveless top and a blood-red, knee-length skirt. "Hello, Maura. You're even more lovely than the last time we met, if that's possible."

"Why thank you, Max."

Michael picked up the paper bag and walked back to the kitchen. "We can eat buffet style when everyone gets here. I'll be right back."

Michael walked back into the living room and said, "Max, why don't you set up your laptop on the coffee table and I'll bring in a few items I'd like you to check for me. When you're ready, I'll log you into the university's online library system with my password. There's an outlet right in the floor by the end table if you need it."

Max plugged in, then said, "Right, then," settling on the edge of the couch near Maura, who was in one of the easy chairs.

"Do you mind if I watch the news?" she asked.

"Please do," said Max. "I just have to fire this thing up, and I'm off. The television won't disturb me."

Maura aimed the remote at the television hanging on the wall above the fireplace mantle. A newscaster breathlessly reported a shooting at a college.

"Good lord," said Max. "Another one?"

"Yes. I heard about this on the way over. At least three are dead plus the shooter, who killed himself. Why can't they just kill themselves first?"

"Amen," said Max, concentrating on his monitor. "But that would obviate their main function in life, which is to make everyone else as miserable as they are. Evil bastards."

"I understand you've got a blockbuster book deal in the works, Max."

"Um, yes, I do," he said, typing. "Hopefully."

"And you need the translation finished to close the deal."

Max's eyes flicked over to her, then back to his screen. "That's true, to a point. I could publish without the full translation."

"But you want the whole thing finished."

"Yes. I'm confident Michael will finish it. Tonight, with luck. I just hope this gathering doesn't distract him."

"Nah," said Maura. "He's enjoying himself."  
Max touched the fabric of his shirt at the neck and could barely feel the soft fabric of the scapular around his neck.

"We're kind of late," said Dan, circling Max's block for the third time. "Finding a spot around here is taking longer than I thought."

"Oh my gosh," said Kathleen. "I'm supposed to bring the wine. Is there somewhere around here we can stop?"

"I'll tell you what. Gerry has a tray of lasagna in the trunk that has to be kept warm, so I'll drop her off and we'll go and find a liquor store."

"Great, thanks," said Kathleen.

Dan double-parked in front of Michael's and let Gerry out. He popped the trunk and took out the large foil pan of lasagna and handed it to Gerry. "Can you manage this?"

"Absolutely. I have a tray of salad in there too. You better bring that in when you get back, though."

"Okay, hon. See you in a few."

A cab's horn blasted them from the rear. "Okay, okay," said Dan.

Michael opened the front door. "Hi, Gerry. Where are the others?" He took the lasagna pan and started for the kitchen

"They're questing for wine. Hey guys," she said, seeing Maura and Max on opposite ends of the couch.

"Hello, Gerry," said Max, continuing to work at his keyboard.

"Howdy, McMartin, want a drink?" asked Maura.

"No thanks. Maybe later," said Gerry, settling into an arm chair facing the fireplace.

Michael came back from the kitchen. "You know, if you're hungry, we can start now. There's plenty of food. Just grab a plate and have at it, buffet style."

"Have you anything to drink?" asked Max.

"We have bottled water, soft drinks, and some liquor in the kitchen."

"Smashing," said Max from the couch. "Do you have a drop of scotch?"

"I do. Glenlivit."

"Lovely," said Max.

"Enjoy yourself, everyone. Watch TV, chat. Max, do you have the hang of that website?"

"Child's play."

"All right, then. I'm going to disappear into my study and do a bit of work. Call me at nine for Kathleen's History Channel debut."

"I'm getting something to eat," said Maura, heading to the kitchen. "Anybody else?"

"No, thanks," said Max. "I'll have some in a bit. But a spot of the Glenlivit wouldn't hurt. Would you mind?"

"Not at all."

"Neat, please?"

"You got it."

"I could stand a diet soda," said Gerry, rising. "I'll come with you."

Maura looked her up and down. Gerry wore black leather jeans and a dark silk, maroon tank top. "You look very sleek," said Maura. "Are you dieting?

"Just a bit. Mostly working out," said Gerry, smiling. She followed Maura into the kitchen.

When they came back, Maura handed Max his drink and munched from a small plate while watching the news.

Gerry leaned back into her chair sipping her soda. "Oh, God. It's that college shooting. We heard about it in the car."

Maura finished chewing a bit of steak, then said, "How awful."

"What causes a seemingly normal young man to flip out like that?" asked Gerry.

Maura said, "He was the quiet type, and always seemed like such a nice young man..."

"That's what they usually say," said Gerry, shivering.

"He was just an evil bastard," said Max, working the keyboard on his laptop. "Or perhaps something walked into him while he was tripping on the drug du jour."

"What do you mean 'Something walked into him?'" asked Maura.

"Demon," said Gerry. "He means something might have taken possession of him while he was on drugs."

"Oh. Sorry I asked," said Maura, standing up. "Hey, I know, let's play 'What Movie is This?'"

"Excuse me?" said Gerry.

She pointed at Gerry. "I got it. This movie is... 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'. Right? I'm right, aren't I? Yay, I win... Okay, if you people are going to talk demon, I'm flying into the kitchen. Want another scotch, Max?"

"Yes, thank you, and..."

"I know. Make it neat."

"Please."

"You Brits are so polite," said Maura. She picked up her plate and walked toward the kitchen.

"Yes, we always say 'please' and 'thank you,' especially when colonizing."

"'What movie is this?'. Very clever," said Max. He lowered his voice. "She's a regular Milton Bradley."

"Yes, but she's quite mad, you know," said Gerry, putting on a fair British accent. "I heard that in an old movie."

Max laughed. He didn't do that very often.

Maura came back with two tumblers, gave one to Max, then sat back onto the couch. "What in the world is that noise from the study?"

Max stiffened. "What noise?" He looked toward the study, which was off the living room to the right, opposite the kitchen. He listened, then said. "Oh. Beethoven, I think. It probably helps him work."

"I perform best listening to Nirvana."

"Do you really?" said Max, his eyebrows rising. "Perform what?"

"Real estate, of course," said Maura with a tiny smile, turning away from him and watching the television.

Max was suddenly typing furiously. "I like the Stones when I work. Of course they're a bit before my time."

"Of course they are," said Maura. "It's funny thinking of the Stones getting ready to apply for Social Security, or whatever it's called over there in Merry Old England."

"Ageism is an ugly thing, Maura. Actually the British retirement system is under the DWP, and it's crap. And by the way, the Stones are still rolling very nicely, I believe."

Maura laughed. "I didn't mean...."

There was a thump in the study.

"What was that?" asked Maura, still watching the news.

Max rushed over to the study door, listening. Gerry stared after him.

Maura said, "God, take a pill, Max. He probably dropped one of those twenty pound books."

Near the study door, Max leaned against the door and said, "Michael, is everything all right?"

"I'm fine," came a muffled reply from inside.

When he came back to his chair, Max asked "Is it getting colder in here?"

"I'm a bit warm, actually," said Maura.

Max went back to his computer and Maura sipped her drink.

After watching television for another thirty minutes, Gerry checked her cell phone to make sure she hadn't missed a call from Dan.
CHAPTER 17

Michael opened the door to the study. "I've got most of it," he said, walking into the kitchen. "All but one last phrase, at any rate. Be right back."

He came out with a diet soda and looked around. "Kathleen and the others aren't here yet? I was going to go over what I have so far, but we probably should wait for them."

"Bugger the others," said Max, wringing his hands.

Maura laughed, almost choking on her scotch. "What did you say?"

Max laughed nervously. "I'm joking. We should wait for the others." He tapped his fingers on the coffee table, then said. "Of course, you could just give us an overview before they get here, then we can go over it in more detail."

"Okay," said Michael, grinning. "There's no harm in that."

Max placed his voice-activated recorder on the coffee table.

Michael sat on the couch between Maura and Max and Gerry listened from her leather armchair. "This is very great. Okay, here's what I've got. Our Celtic princess seems to have concocted quite a doozy of a curse. That's basically what it is. Honestly, it all sounds straight out of a comic book."

Max said, "Michael, I realize you don't believe any of this." Then lowering his voice, "God knows, you'd have no reason to."

Gerry looked at Max. He had a habit of lowering his voice when he was being sarcastic.

Max continued, "Could we just have an unbiased, literal rendition of what you have, without the prejudicial chorus?"

Michael laughed. "Okay, Max. Sorry. I'll be neutral."

"Jeez, Michael, I thought Gerry told me you weren't being paid for this," said Maura. "You can't be doing this for free."

Max raised a hand. "I'm truly sorry, Michael. That was rude. I'm just a bit tired, I think. Please go on."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not thin-skinned. All right, here we go. Our Druidic priestess has asked Sarkyth, a major demon in the Celtic underworld, for a boon."

"Oh for pity's sake," said Maura. Max turned sharply toward her.

Maura said quickly, "Okay, okay. Sorry. I'll be quiet. Go ahead, Michael."

Michael continued, "By the way, Sarkyth was a very obscure but interesting character in the Celtic pantheon. He inspired a rogue cult similar to the Thugees of India. The Acolytes of Sarkyth murdered whole villages of Celts who refused to accept Sarkyth as the head god. Wasn't really helpful for tribal population expansion. Like the Thugees, they were eventually stamped out."

"Is that where they got the word 'thug'?" asked Maura.

"Yes, actually..."

Max drummed his pen nervously on the table. "Michael, could we..."

"I'm sorry....All right, let's see...Our Meg has exacted a horrible retribution on two other souls."

"The Carmodys," said Gerry.

"Yes. By the way, all the players in this little drama have ancient Celtic soul-names," said Michael.

"Which indicates the two principles are very old souls," said Max. "What are their names?"

"Let's see." Michael pushed his glasses to the end of his nose, then took them off. He looked up. "Meg's Celtic name is Dolga, Delia was Hathwa, and the other two unfortunates are Hegwa and Lythga."

"I wouldn't classify the Carmodys as 'unfortunates'," said Max. "The Carmodys were monsters."

"Yes, of course," said Michael. He continued, "Meg's boon from the demon was the violent and premature deaths of Hegwa and Lythga, over and over, lifetime after lifetime, forever."

"A terrible karmic cycle," said Max.

"It sounds like a karmic broken record," said Maura. "No heaven for them." "But they wouldn't know that while they are alive, would they?" asked Gerry. Max shook his head. "No, but I suspect that in the very last moments of their lives, they would realize who and what they were, and what was about to happen."

"It's unthinkable," said Gerry. "In each lifetime, they would meet and fall in love, but just as their lives together began, they would have this horrible realization that they would never live their lives together, never grow old together."

Max added, "Not to mention the knowledge that after their gruesome deaths, they would exist in an unending state of hopelessness, aware of what they had done, and crushed by the knowledge that they can never redeem themselves."

"The very definition of Hell," said Michael.

"What did the demon get out of it?" asked Gerry.

Max answered, "He got the pleasure of repeatedly torturing the Carmodys, and received a commission as well - Meg's soul. Sort of a paid vacation to an evil resort."

"That would definitely suck," said Maura, sipping her scotch. "But I think true Hell is Tuesday night television."

"Michael, you said there was still one small phrase you haven't deciphered?" asked Max.

"Yes, but I almost have it."

"Does it specifically say in what manner they are struck down?" asked Gerry.

"The literal translation is 'by the dagger and the rope.'"

"It seems a bit too convenient that the two souls would find each other in every lifetime," said Michael.

Max shook his head. "Souls gravitate toward those they have loved in the past. Or hated. That's the basis of the law of karma. Familiar souls meet again and again during many lifetimes to resolve their differences, or to continue spiritual evolvement."

He turned to Gerry. "Have you ever come across someone you've never met before and immediately felt dislike, or even fear?"

Gerry nodded. "Yes, I have."

"You've dealt with them before. And will again. Whatever the conflict is, it will have to be overcome. It must be. There's no escape from it. You will continue to meet until it's resolved."

"But I've also felt immediate love. God, when I met Dan, it was like we were old lovers finding each other after a lifetime."

"Perhaps several," said Max.

"It was like being struck by a thunderbolt," she said.

Max smiled. "In loving relationships, the souls may be mother and child in one lifetime, husband and wife in the next. Love never dies. Hate must, but not love." He had a nice smile when he meant it, Gerry noticed.

Maura stood up and smoothed down the side of her skirt. "I didn't know you were such a romantic, Max. I'm getting another scotch. Want one?"

"Yes, please. Thanks. What we're dealing with here is a spiritual abomination. The Carmodys are meeting their karma with a vengeance, deservedly so, and Meg, I'm afraid, has placed herself in a spiritual abyss."

"Damnation," said Michael.

"If you like," said Max. "At any rate, being the tool of a malevolent spirit of such power in a ritual of black magic..." He shook his head. "It's bad. Incredibly bad."

Maura came back into the room with the drinks and gave one to Max. "Gerry, aren't you just the least little bit nervous?"

"About what?"

"All this talk about murder, suicide, death. And weddings. You are getting married this week, and you were the one playing the lead in 'The Three Faces of Eve.' during that regression freak show. Aren't you a teeny bit worried that you two might be 'Carmody, the Next Generation?'"

"No. It's impossible. Dan could never have been evil. In any life."

"You, on the other hand, are a different story, McMartin," she said, pointing her glass.

Gerry stared blankly, and Maura said, "I was just kidding. Hey, McMartin, lighten up. Geez."

Gerry smiled. "Sorry. I'm just tired. Anyway, Kathleen told me there's nothing to be afraid of in the house or around us, and I believe her. Next week, we'll be married and we'll start our married life in our new home."

"I think Kathleen is right. Are you guys flying out right after the wedding?"

"Not right after. Our flight is the day after, so we'll stay overnight at our house, then drive to the airport the following day. We've got an early afternoon flight."

"Where did you say you're going on the honeymoon?"

"Disney World."

"Oh right. Disney World. Dan doesn't have any weird cartoon character fetishes that we don't know about, does he? Because I went out with a guy once who had a thing for Minnie Mouse. Very disturbing." She sat more heavily into the chair than she should have. She was getting tipsy.

"Nope. No fetishes."

"Because there's nothing wrong with that kind of thing. To each his own. Anyway, I had the impression you always wanted to go to Paris on your honeymoon."

"Yes, but I was won over by the charm of the Epcot Center brochures."

"Translation, you're broke," said Maura.

"Not quite, but we're pushing it. We'll make it to Paris, though. Maybe next year. I've always wanted to go to Disney World anyway. So has Dan."

"You've never been?" asked Michael.

"No. Apparently we're the only ones in this hemisphere who haven't."

"Uh uh." Maura raised her hand.

Max said, "Back to topic. One thing is sure. The Carmodys picked the wrong victim when they chose the sister of Meg Fitzgerald."

"She was definitely pissed," said Maura.

"How awful for all of them," said Gerry, folding her arms across her chest. "I

know the Carmodys were murderers, but how much vengeance is enough?"

"The Church says Hell is eternal torment," said Michael.

"Eternity is enough," said Maura, nodding.

"Michael, what physical items were needed for this ritual?" asked Max.

Michael flipped through the pages of the notebook. "Let's see. The main tools required were the dagger, the rope, the blood and the pentagram. Also, it would apparently be extremely dangerous for anyone to interfere in this type of ritual, especially with a demon like Sarkyth involved."

"Interfere in what way?" asked Gerry.

"Once the ritual has begun, anyone who attempts to stop it would create a rift in the wall separating our world from the demon dimension. From what I've read, one really wouldn't want that to happen."

Max said, "No, one wouldn't. It would allow Sarkyth to manifest in total physical form. He would then tear to pieces anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. Sarkyth would then 'feast' on them and take their souls into bondage in the underworld."

"Mm. Sounds yummy," said Maura.

Michael added, "It also says the danger is greatest after the demon joins with the priestess."

"When you say joining, do you mean in the biblical sense?" asked Maura.

"I don't think so," said Michael.

"That makes sense," said Max. "Once the demon joins with his agent, all Hell breaks loose if someone interfered. Literally. Sort of like getting a tongue lashing from the pulpit when you walk into church late."

"Oh, that happened to me once," said Maura.

Max said, "I've done some extensive research on these types of spells. The joining is usually brief, and once the cycle is completed, the demon takes his trophy souls and disappears back into the underworld."

"How brief?" asked Max.

"In this case, as soon as the murder-suicide is complete."

"What if it isn't completed?"

"Then the cycle would be broken. The demon would lose his physical power and leave without his trophies. It would be over."

"No more time-share vacations for Sarkyth," said Maura.

Gerry asked, "Might there be a moment when the two souls realize who they really are, and what they are about to do? Would there maybe be an instant of clarity, where they might be able to exercise their own wills?"

"I believe there is a moment of clarity," said Max. "But their free will alone could not overcome this demon."

"Unless they had some kind of help," said Gerry. "What exactly is meant by joining with the priestess if it's not in a physical sense?"

"It would be a psychic or spiritual joining," said Max.

"Like meditation," said Gerry. "Through intense meditation, the demon and the priestess together could stimulate the chakras of the priestess into a psychic powerhouse."

"Yes, very good," said Max, becoming excited. "That could be just how it's done, physiologically. Normally, even a powerful entity like Sarkyth has only limited power in our world. He would need a power base on this plane. Like a receiver, so to speak. Michael, you mentioned something about red hair and the priestess?"

"Yes. To the ancient Celts, red hair was a symbol of power, and would make a priestess with that attribute much stronger." Max glanced at Maura.

"Don't look at me," said Maura. "This color comes straight from a bottle."

"Maura, your hair was redder than 'Pippi Longstockings' when we were in high school," said Gerry.

"Yes, and have you ever read 'Anne of Green Gables', that other literary classic involving red-headed children?"

"No, but I saw the series on Public Television."

"Then you saw the part where Anne clocked the kid who made fun of her red hair."

"Yes, that was funny." She looked over at Maura, whose eyes were becoming slits. "But it wasn't that funny."

"Michael?" said Max, impatiently.

"That's about it, Max. We have almost all of it now. There's just that one last phrase I'm having difficulty with, but it's tied in with previous sections, and may give us a more complete picture."

Max cracked a knuckle nervously. "Are you going to try to finish it tonight?" asked Max.

"Yes. It's still early. I do want to see Kathleen's show on the History Channel, though. Make sure you remind me when it starts."

"Of course," said Max. "I'm dying to see it myself."

"Have you eaten anything, Michael?" asked Gerry.

"I had a bite, yes. See you later," he said, tucking the stack of papers under his arm and disappearing into the study.

Michael shut the door behind him and sat at his desk facing the wall between two large windows. His laptop was in front of him, and a large book was open in front of the keyboard, so he had to reach over it to work the keys. Bookshelves of dark wood covered all available wall space except where the desk sat. A straight-back chair sat in front of the window to his left, where Michael often read by daylight. An identical one sat at the window to his right.

He pushed his glass of soda far to the corner of the desk, away from the keyboard, to prevent disaster, then looked back down and ran his finger across a line of text.

He felt warm suddenly, so before starting, he walked over and opened the window to his right. The street was still, and barring any sirens, the fresh air should enter quietly. He looked from the written text of the translation back to his laptop displaying a database of known ancient Q-Celtic terms and suddenly he had it. Good Lord, he finally had it. He stood up, started to call Max, then sat back down and checked his data again to be certain. He slapped the top of the desk with the palm of his hand. He had it. God, he should have seen it long ago. Sometimes the obvious was the most elusive.

From behind, Michael heard the sound of the study door shutting. Expecting to see an impatient Max, he turned but saw no one. Leaning over his book, but felt something nearby and turned to his left.

"Jesus," he said, gasping and stiffening against the back of his chair. His father was sitting in the chair to his left, smiling, leaning forward congenially, with his legs crossed. Michael's chest began to rise and fall too quickly.

"Whoa, take it easy, boy. You're hyperventilating. How are you, son? I didn't mean to startle you, but I was in the area and thought I'd stop by. Your friend Max let me in."

His father smiled gently, the way he did before be became a drunk. His wispy dark hair was combed neatly, as it always was, and he wore his old cardigan sweater and loafers. He looked younger than Michael remembered, and his complexion looked healthier, almost glowing.

"Cat got your tongue, Mikey?"

Still breathing fast, Michael tried to smile, but could only grimace. He hadn't heard his father use the name "Mikey" for thirty years.

"What are you working on, son?"

He glanced back at his desk. "Nothing important. Dad, what are you doing here?" As he spoke, Michael's breath became visible and he suddenly realized the room was freezing.

"I told you. I was nearby and thought I'd stop in." He looked around and pulled his sweater tighter. "Chilly in here, isn't it?"

He turned and stared into Michael's eyes. "So Michael, why don't you visit more often?"

"I'm sorry, Dad, I know. I mean to get up there." Then he stopped, disgusted that his father could still draw guilt, like a leech feeding on blood.

"Mikey, that's a pretty picture you have of your father. A leech? Shame."

Michael pushed his chair back with his heels until he hit the wall. He hadn't said that.

His father grinned. "Oops, did you say that, or just think it? Wasn't that weird? Son, could you turn down the air conditioning? I'm freezing."

Michael looked up at the air duct. The strip of paper that hung on the grill to show airflow was motionless.

As Michael stared at him, his father's face shimmered and changed shape. His eyes grew into ludicrously large cartoon-kitten eyes, and his mouth stretched impossibly wide like the painted grin of a clown. Then he was normal again, all in an instant, and he wasn't sure if he had seen it or imagined it. He became nauseous.

Michael turned pale as his father spoke without moving his lips.

"I'm sorry, Mikey. I don't really look this well-groomed at the moment, but I thought it better for you not to see the new me lying on the kitchen floor with my brains all over the dishwasher. Mommy's here too. We're both very dead. I blew my brains out last night. Did your mother first, of course. Always ladies first, remember. You do know that it's all your fault, don't you? You made up all those stories of being beaten, didn't you? Just cooked them up out of nowhere."

"No, I..."

"Of course you did. I never touched you, and you know it. Look at me. Look at me and tell me I laid a hand on you." Michael looked into his father's eyes and knew, without a shred of doubt, that he was telling the truth. The beatings never happened. He had made it all up. His father loved him more than anything.

"Now you're getting it, Mikey. You made it all up because you're borderline psychotic. Always have been. You've been on the edge your whole life, having false memories, blaming all your failures on everyone but yourself. That's always convenient, isn't it? Well son, you got what you wanted. Now your parents, who never did anything but love you, are dead, and it's your fault. Now you can forget us. Don't even bother coming up to bury us. I'd rather have a stranger do it anyway.

"Oh, Mikey," he said, reaching out his hand to his son's face. "how could you have done this to us?" Michael's eyes widened and his skin tingled as feather-light fingers gently touched his face.

"What's wrong, son? You don't look very well. You've been worrying about your heart lately, haven't you? Ever since your last breakdown when you imagined that ridiculous creature chasing you outside. God, Mikey, where did you get that from? Saturday morning cartoons?"

His father made a soothing sound and said, "It made your heart beat a little irregularly, though, didn't it? Poor boy." Michael felt his father's hand stoke his brow, soft and electric, then move down to his chest. The fingers undid the buttons of his shirt effortlessly and rubbed his bare chest the way his mother used to when he was congested.

"Mm. Doesn't that smell great, Mikey? It's that menthol stuff your mom always used on you." Michael could smell it. The hand stopped rubbing and lay still against his chest for an instant, and Michael looked down and watched as it disappeared painlessly beneath his skin.

Michael stared at his father's arm, then slowly looked up into his face. His Dad winked at him as he rooted around in his chest cavity. Michael felt only a mildly unpleasant internal pressure.

"Let's see," said his father, squinting and concentrating, his tongue at the corner of his mouth as if he were trying to reach a coin under a couch cushion.

"There it is."

Michael stopped breathing as he felt cold electric fingers grip his heart, then tighten. He inhaled violently, gasping.

"You know Mikey, I think I can feel that irregular heartbeat. Goodness. You're going to have to see a doctor, but I don't think you'll be needing a cardiologist." His father's eyes glittering in amusement. "I think a pathologist will do, son."

The hand squeezed his heart slowly. Michael took a quick breath to fill his lungs and looked into his father's bottomless eyes. His Dad smiled and Michael groaned as a terrible pressure crushed his chest. As he stared wildly up at his father, his heart felt like a tiny bird struggling in the mouth of a cat until it slowly stopped beating.

The doorbell rang. "That's probably Kathleen and Dan," said Max, walking to the front door.

"It took them long enough," said Maura.

Max opened the door. "Sorry we're late," said Kathleen. "It was my fault."

"Hello, Max," said Dan.

A loud, heavy thump and what sounded like a huge exploding balloon came from the study.

"What the hell was that?" said Max, heading for the study with Kathleen, Dan and Gerry running behind.

Max threw the door open and saw the curtains fluttering outside the open window, then settling down, as if they had been blown out of the room. Michael lay on the floor next to his desk.

Kathleen pushed past Max and screamed, "Gerry, call 911."

Gerry already had her phone out and quickly dialed. Michael lay face up. His skin was deathly white.

Kathleen knelt down next to him. "I think he's had a heart attack."

"Is he breathing?" asked Gerry.

"I don't think so. He needs CPR." Hands shaking, Kathleen tilted his head back and pinched his nose closed while covering his mouth with hers. She breathed into his mouth several times.

"Nothing," she said loudly. She started chest compressions.

After an eternity, Gerry heard a tiny breath. She put her ear next to his mouth. "Kathleen, stop, he's breathing."

"Thank God," said Kathleen, rocking back on her heels "Where the hell is the ambulance?"

"It's coming. It will take a few minutes." Gerry put her arm around Kathleen's shoulders as the others watched from the doorway. Within two minutes, sirens approached from a distance.

Gerry held Kathleen's hand and she held Michael's. "Thank God. Here they come."

An hour later, Dan, Gerry and Kathleen were sitting around a small table in a waiting room at St. Vincent's Hospital. A metallic voice paged a doctor.

"I finally reached his parents. They're on their way down," said Kathleen. "Where do they live?" asked Dan.

"Danbury."

"That's about an hour and a half," said Dan, holding Gerry's hand. They should be here in about an hour or so, depending on traffic."

Max walked into the room and sat opposite Gerry. "I put Maura in a cab. She wasn't feeling well. Heard anything yet?"

"Not yet," said Kathleen, "They can't give us a lot of information, since we're not family, but the nurse let me know Michael is stable and resting comfortably. It looks like he' going to be all right."

"Thank God," said Gerry. "He has no history of heart problems, does he?"

Kathleen shook her head. "No. He's not on any medication, either."

"I feel terrible that this happened while he was working on the translation," said Max.

"So do I," said Gerry. "I called him yesterday and asked him not to."

"I tried to talk him out of it too, but he was adamant," said Kathleen.

"I don't think it would have mattered what he was working on," said Max.

"I'm going to wait until his parents get here," said Kathleen, "But the rest of you should go and get some sleep."

"No," said Gerry. "We'll wait around a while. I want to make sure he's okay. Anyone want coffee?"

Max stood up. "I'll go. I know an all-night Greek place with wonderful cheeseburgers. Their coffee is excellent as well. Sound good?"

"Thanks, Max. I'm a bit hungry now too." said Kathleen. "But make mine a chicken breast sandwich, if they have it."

"I'll have the cheeseburger and coffee," said Gerry.

Dan raised his hand. "Me too. Want some company, Max?"

"Thanks, no. Just relax. I'll be back in two shakes."

"Make that three shakes. A chocolate shake sounds good," said Dan.

"Done."

Max didn't return for an hour and a half. Finally he got off the elevator with two bags and set them down on the table. "Sorry. It took longer than I thought. The food is still warm, though."

"Don't worry about it. I appreciate your going," said Gerry.

"Me too," said Dan, "thanks."

"Thanks, Max," said Kathleen.

"Aren't his parents here yet?"

"Not yet," said Kathleen. "They called about twenty minutes ago and said they hit some traffic. They'll be here soon. I also spoke with the nurse. They said they wouldn't be keeping him in the IC very long. He's doing well. He can't see anyone yet, but it looks good. They said he'd be in a regular room by morning. In fact, they said he'd be in that room there, Room 314."

Max saw the number 314 on the first door on the east wing just across the hall. "Good. That's good," said Max. "Perfect."

They all ate quietly, then sat sipping their coffee. A digital bell rang and the elevator door opened. A young, muscular-looking priest with short, curly blond hair stepped off. To Gerry, he looked like Steve McQueen with a stockier build. She smiled. The priest greeted Max and they exchanged a few words before going into the IC Unit.

When Max came back to his seat, Kathleen said, "I thought only medical staff were allowed in there."

"And priests," said Max, "And rabbis and ministers, I presume."

"So you know him," said Gerry.

"Yes. That's Father Boyle. We worked on an exorcism together. He's a very capable man."

"Why is he here?" asked Kathleen.

Max stretched. "Visiting a sick patient. Lord, I'm completely nackered."

Max saw Gerry's questioning eyebrows. "Exhausted," he elaborated. She nodded.

"We'll make you into a loyal subject of the Queen yet," said Max. Gerry grinned. She felt the tension dissipating. Michael was going to be all right.

"Max, you really should go home," said Kathleen. "Michael's doing well. I'm going to stay for a while, but you should go get some sleep." She nodded toward Gerry. "And so should you two. It's been a long day."

"We'll stay a while longer," said Gerry.

"So will I," said Max. The elevator bell sounded and the doors opened. A striking-looking man walked onto the floor and looked around. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, he had long, straight black hair tied in back with a bone hairclip carved in the shape of a turtle. In his right hand he held a little black bag a physician might carry.

"Goodness," said Max, jumping up. "It's old home week. I'll be right back." He trotted over to the man and greeted him like an old friend. As they shook hands and exchanged a few words, Max rested his other hand on the man's shoulder. The man looked over Max's shoulder at the group sitting in the waiting room, then followed Max's eyes to room 314.

When Max came back to his seat, Kathleen asked, "Who was that?"

"That, Kathleen, is Henry Sipo, a shaman of the Lenni Lenape, the original inhabitants of Manhattan Island."

"And you know him as well?" asked Gerry.

"Yes. We met at a seminar at NYU. Both men come here to visit the more serious patients. I asked them both to visit Michael while they were here."

Gerry watched as the man walked over to room 314, opened the door and walked in. Then she heard the distinctive sound of Native American song. "I wouldn't have thought there were that many Native Americans in this area."

The IC doors opened and the priest walked back out. Max approached him and the two chatted until the shaman came out of the room a few minutes later.

Facing the door to 314, the shaman began a soft, haunting chant while shaking a rattle painted with a swooping eagle. The sound was soft and muted. In his other hand he pointed a black feather like a wand, moving it across the entire outline of the door. The shaman then tied a small amulet on the inside door handle, nodded to Max, and walked into the IC.

"Shamans are allowed in there too," he said to Kathleen. The priest then walked into 314 and shut the door behind him.

"Okay, that was surreal," said Gerry.

Max smiled. "Well, I know Michael is Catholic, but I thought as a multi-cultural linguist, he'd appreciate the spiritual diversity."

"I think it's cool," said Dan.

"Interesting," said Kathleen.

In the morning, Max awoke curled up and cramped on a small, plastic-covered couch in the waiting room. Gerry, Dan and Kathleen had stayed until after midnight, then went home to rest since no one was going to be able to see Michael until morning anyway.

Max opened one eye and saw two strange people smiling at him from the chairs directly opposite.

"Hey, you're awake. Black, right?"

"Excuse me?" said Max grumpily, painfully sitting up.

The man laughed. "Your coffee. Before she left, Michael's lady friend Kathleen told us you drink your coffee black." He set a paper cup of delicious smelling hot coffee in front of Max. The man looked somewhere in his early seventies, with graying, wispy dark hair, and wore an old corduroy sport jacket over a white shirt.

"We arrived just after you fell asleep." He extended a small, delicate hand. Max shook it briefly.

"Tom McGuire. I'm Michael's Dad. This is my wife Sarah." Sarah was blond and plump, about the same age as her husband, and wore a tired, nervous smile.

"We really appreciate your concern, Mr. Luellen," said Tom. He sat in one of the chairs next to Max, hovering solicitously, as if Max were a patient. It made him uncomfortable.

"The nurse told us Michael is doing really well and should be released in a few days."

"That's wonderful. Is he well enough to see anyone?" asked Max, taking the cup of coffee in two hands so they wouldn't see him trembling.

"Not quite yet. They won't even let us talk to him yet."

"Ah, I see," said Max, "I really would like to speak to him."

"I know," said Mr. McGuire, patting his arm. "You're a good friend."
CHAPTER 18

On Tuesday, just after one o'clock, Gerry walked up her driveway to the mailbox. On the way back, she hefted a large manila envelope.

Just then, her phone rang. It was Kathleen.

"Hi, Kathleen. How is Michael?"

Kathleen stroked Fagin and said, "I just called to tell you that Michael's tests came back negative. They say he's fine, thank God, and there was no damage to his heart. The doctors were amazed. It looks like we'll both be at the wedding."

"Wonderful," said Gerry. "I'm so glad."

"Gerry, I'm getting a call from a patient. I'll call you."

"Okay, good. Talk to you later."

Gerry read the sender's address on the manila envelope. "Dan," she called, "Here's the package from Genealogy Masters."

She went into the sun-filled kitchen and sat at one of the high breakfast stools along the huge island next to Dan.

"Let's see what we've got here." She opened the envelope and pulled out a slim, handsome faux-leather album embossed in fancy gold script.

"'Your Family Tree.' Very nice."

"That was pretty fast," said Dan. "It was so long ago, I wasn't sure they'd be able to get anything on them."

Gerry opened it and held the book so they could both see. On the left sheet, on a parchment-colored paper behind protective plastic was written, "The Birth Certificate of Margaret Anne Fitzgerald, born July 12, 1840, in Dublin, Ireland." The words were printed in the center of the page in a bold, calligraphic script in brown ink, to feign age. The actual document on the right page was faded, but the neat, spidery handwriting was quite legible. At the top left of the certificate was a faint, embossed seal.

She turned the page. In the center of the next page was written "The Birth Certificate of Delia Marie Fitzgerald, born January 5, 1850, in Dublin, Ireland," with a document to the right almost identical to Margaret's.

"Margaret was ten years older than Delia," said Gerry.

She turned to the next page and her stomach jumped. "Dan. It's Delia's Marriage Certificate." She read the left page, "Delia Marie Fitzgerald married Sean Michael O'Donnell. It's dated August 14, 1869."

"Part of the document is damaged, but you can just barely make out the dates," said Dan.

"Maybe it was exposed to something that made it deteriorate more," said Gerry.

"What else is there?"

She turned the page and suddenly felt a lump in her throat. "Dan, it's Delia's Death Certificate, dated August 14, 1869." It was as if she had found an old relative, and had immediately lost her when she turned the page.

Gerry walked over to a bookcase on the back wall and came back with another manila folder. She opened it and spread out the copies of the newspaper stories they had found at the library.

Gerry found the old story about the Carmodys and laid it on the counter.

"She died the day after her wedding," said Dan, comparing the date on the wedding document with the date in the news article.

Gerry picked up the copy of the news article about the Carmodys. "No, the story was dated the day after the murders. Look, it says they were found 'yesterday' in the article. She died on her wedding day."

Dan looked at it again. "You're right."

Gerry put the copy down.

Dan said, "She must have really needed the money to be running down a job right after her wedding ceremony."

"Life was tough for immigrants," said Gerry. "You had to have the courage to leave your country, get on a rickety ship and start life from scratch on another continent."

"Money would be hard to come by," said Dan.

She looked at Dan. "Delia saw this ad and went straight over to see the Carmodys after the wedding to get a jump on the job opening. She probably figured she wouldn't miss much of the wedding celebration."

Gerry said wistfully, "It would've been a great party. Food, drink, fiddlers, singing, step dancing, round dancing, laughter. The Irish know how to party."

She touched the plastic covering of the death certificate. "Dan, this is so pathetically sad. She must have been so happy after her wedding, so excited and full of hope. She rushes over to the Carmodys at this grand house hoping for the chance at a job that might give her little family a little financial boost. She might have sat on a chair right in this room. Maybe right where I'm sitting now."

"Her husband and her parents would have been frantic when she failed to return home," said Dan.

Gerry looked around the room. "She gets to the house and lies on her application, saying she had no friends or relatives in this country, hoping the Carmodys would feel sorry for her. She assumed the Carmodys were decent people, like her own family, and tells a small white lie that results in her death. A horrible death. Poor child. It's sickening."

They both stared at the Death Certificate for a moment, then Gerry turned to the next page. It was blank. "That's it. That's all they sent." She looked in the envelope again and found a sheet of paper.

"Wait. There's a cover letter here. It says they couldn't find a death certificate for Margaret, but they'll continue the research if we send additional money."

"Maybe there never was a death certificate for Margaret. Maybe she's still around."

Gerry looked at him and squinted appraisingly, then shrugged. "You're just being Dan-like, aren't you? Anyway, we paid for fifteen hours of research time and I guess they used up the hours short of finding Meg's death certificate."

Dan picked up the letter. "It wasn't cheap."

Gerry's phone rang. "Hello, Max."

Max looked down on Columbus Avenue and watched a woman push a stroller down the street as he spoke. "Michael is much better, and he'll be released soon. They allowed me speak to him yesterday."

"I heard. Isn't that great?"

"Yes, it is. Gerry, I'd like to come up and talk with you and Dan."

"It can't be said over the phone? Sounds ominous."

"I would rather have a face-to-face," said Max.

"Sure, Max. Okay. We'll be home all day."

"How about this evening, about six?"

"That's fine. See you then." She closed her phone.

"What's ominous?" asked Dan.

"I don't know. Max wants to speak to us about something in person."

At ten after six, Max rang the door bell.

"Hey, Max. Come on in," said Dan, opening the door. Max looked tired. "Want a drink or anything?" asked Dan.

"Nothing, thanks."

"Have a seat," said Gerry, leading him into the living room.

Dan headed to the kitchen. "I'll be right back."

Gerry took an arm chair and Max sat on the end of the couch, his back secure against the arm rest. Dan came back into the room with a cup of coffee and sat at the other end of the couch.

"So what's up, Max?" asked Gerry. He seemed thinner than usual, frailer, as if he hadn't been eating very much lately.

"As I said, I spoke to Michael yesterday and he's going to be fine."

"I know. I spoke to Kathleen earlier. That's good news."

After a silent moment, she said, "Max? You're not speaking. What is it? Did Michael finish the translation? Is that why you're here?"

He looked up at them and said, "I'm here because I'm afraid for both of you."

Dan and Gerry exchanged glances. Dan said, "Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of what happened to the Morrisons, the Connellys, and God knows who else we don't even know about."

"Oh, for pity's sake," said Dan, "Max, I know what you do for a living, and I think you mean well, but I don't believe any of this nonsense."

"It doesn't matter whether you believe it or not." He paused and said in a low, even tone, "If you go through with this marriage, it will happen. The day after your wedding, you'll be in the newspaper on page two. You'll make the front page if it's the local rag. Another unexplainable domestic tragedy, another statistic."

"Max. We have no real evidence of anything," said Dan.

"Actually, we do," said Max.

"What do you mean?" asked Gerry.

"Michael didn't have a psychotic episode. He was attacked by the demon."

"You can't know that," said Dan.

"Kathleen said she sensed nothing dangerous around any of us," said Gerry.

Max moved down the couch closer to Dan and Gerry and said, "Kathleen is wrong."

Dan asked, "Did Michael tell you this? I mean, wouldn't someone having a psychotic episode believe that what was happening to him was real?"

"Of course they would, but Michael doesn't believe it was real. He's convinced he was hallucinating. I might have believed the same, except that it also attacked me."

"What? When?" asked Gerry.

"On the night before we went to see that priest, Father Logan."

"So that's why you looked like hell that day. By the way, you also look like hell today."

"Thank you."

Gerry searched Max's face. She was convinced he believed what he was saying. "You never said a word. What happened?"

"It came after me on the street as I walked to my apartment."

Gerry began, "The demon named by Delia in the chant? S...."

"Don't," Max said sharply, holding up a hand. "Don't use the name. That can draw it to us." He laughed, embarrassed. "I just prefer that you wouldn't."

Dan coughed and looked at Gerry with raised eyebrows.

"No problem," said Dan.

"I'm sorry," said Max, "I'm very tired."

Gerry saw his left hand trembling, and he cradled it with the right.

"How do you know it was the same demon? Did it introduce itself?" asked Dan.

"Dan," said Gerry.

"It was he. I have no doubt. Its power is enormous. It gets into your mind and draws out that which most fills you with dread, then plays with it like a toy. With Michael, he used his father. This thing convinced Michael that his father killed his mother, then himself, and that it was ultimately Michael's fault."

"That's awful."

Max paused, then said, "Until that thing came after me, I thought Michael's experience was likely a psychotic episode, and the fates of the Morrisons and the Connellys just bizarre, coincidental parallels with the Carmodys."

Dan opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and looked at Gerry.

"Michael knows his parents are all right, though, doesn't he?" asked Gerry.

"He does. They had a lovely visit. I was in the room with them for a few minutes. His father, though, fills him with dread. I could almost smell it. I think his father beat him as a child, and I have a suspicion it might have been more than that."

"How do you know that?" asked Dan.

"Michael told me, in ways he didn't even realize."

"You suspect sexual abuse?" asked Gerry.

"I'm not sure. Perhaps." Max rubbed his hands together nervously.

"What about you? What did it attack you with?" asked Dan.

Gerry started to say, "Dan, I don't think..."

"It's all right. I don't mind." Max relaxed slightly and sat back against the chair cushion.

"It attacked me in the guise of my Aunt Jane Witherspoon. It tried to make me believe it was her, back to take me to Hell. My mother died the morning after giving birth to me. My father was killed in an auto accident when I was five years of age. He was a clergyman."

"I'm sorry, Max. What a difficult way to start your life." said Gerry.

"Indeed," Max said simply. "Of course, I've always been somewhat scarred by the guilt of causing my mother's premature death. I was raised by my spinster Aunt Jane, a godly woman who considered me an imp on sabbatical from Hell. She blamed me for her sister's death."

"She was your mother's older sister?" Gerry asked.

"She was, yes. It was nothing she ever said, of course, but when my mother's name was spoken..." He lowered his voice sarcastically, "...and Aunt Jane mentioned my mother's name quite often...she made it clear by look and tone that she blamed me."

"What was your mother's name?" asked Gerry.

"Sharon. Her maiden name was Burke. She was an interesting person, from what I understand. According to Jane, of course, she was a saint, but I really think she was a good person."

"My mother spent a lot of time volunteering at a children's hospital in the East End."

"In London?" asked Gerry.

"Yes. We lived just outside London, in Bromley. I rather think I would have liked my mother."

"Of course you would," said Gerry. "She sounds like someone I'd like to have met too."

Max smiled ruefully. "Auntie Jane was another matter. She had a unique, guilt-inspiring faux smile simultaneously conveying contempt, resentment and fear. Jane was a wonderful Christian. We prayed for hours nightly, kneeling on the hardwood floor. You see, she often told me I would ultimately end up in Hell, and that there was no escape for me."

"That's sick," said Gerry.

"Yes. I never could understand why I should have to keep praying, since I was predestined to roast anyway."

"Predestined?" Gerry asked.

"Yes. You see I was one of the Depraved who God unalterably destined before creation to go to Hell. Auntie Jane, apparently, was one of the saved Elect. By the time I reached the age of reason, I was resigned to my fate."

Gerry imagined Max at seven years old. He was probably adorable, with blue eyes and blond hair. She wondered how she could have done that to her sister's child.

"I think she was on the insane side," said Dan. "No offense."

"None taken. She was crazy as a loon. Shortly before I went to university, Aunt Jane passed away. At school I overcompensated a bit. Drugs, alcohol, promiscuous sex."

"Surprise, surprise," said Gerry.

"Well, if you were going to Hell anyway," said Dan helpfully.

"Exactly," said Max, smiling at Dan's flippant tone. "I studied parapsychology and demonology, trying to make sense of it."

"Getting to know the enemy," said Gerry.

"And myself. Unfortunately, I've never fully convinced myself that I'm not truly damned. That's how the demon almost got to me. It nearly induced me to commit suicide."

"It was that strong?" asked Gerry.

"Oh yes," said Max.

"How did you resist it?"

"By rationalizing, and luck. Still, I was almost lost, even knowing what was happening."

"I can't imagine how frightening it must have been for Michael," said Gerry.

"I'm sure it was unimaginable," said Max.

"Why didn't this demon thing just kill the both of you?" asked Dan.

"It doesn't have the physical power yet." He looked from Gerry to Dan. "We really don't want it to get to that point."

Gerry asked, "So you haven't told Michael? He still believes the experience was simply a mental breakdown?"

"I felt it was better to let him believe that. Being temporarily insane is preferable to finding out you were really the quarry of an ancient demon. He wouldn't have believed me anyway. He would have thought we were both crazy."

"Did Michael really have a heart attack?" asked Gerry.

"No. Kathleen said he had all the symptoms, but according to the doctor, there's no evidence of any cardiac problems. If he did have a heart condition when it happened, he probably wouldn't have survived."

Gerry handed Max the folder from Genealogy Masters.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Open it," said Gerry. "It's the birth certificates for Delia and Meg, Delia's certificate of marriage and Delia's death certificate."

He looked at each document carefully, then paused at the Marriage Certificate.  
"Gives one the shivers, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does. It turns out that Delia was killed on the day of her wedding, just like the others," said Gerry.

He closed the book. "Of course. She had to be. Brings it home, doesn't it? Just when you thought they never really existed, that it was all a fairy tale, there they are, hey Dan?"

"It proves they were alive once, that's all."

"Gerry, Michael did finish the last part of the translation. It confirms what I suspected. The trigger for this abomination is your binding together as one."

"What supposedly will happen?" asked Dan.

Max cracked his knuckles, and Gerry shivered. "On the night after the marriage, Meg will sacrifice herself in blood, Gerry will murder you and then commit suicide. It will happen, as sure as I'm sitting here."

"Oh for pity's sake," said Dan.

"Dan, wait," said Gerry.

Max kept wringing his hands together, as if washing with invisible soap and water. He saw them staring at his hands and stopped.

"Before this thing came after me, I might have rationalized all of it - all the similarities with the Morrisons, the Connellys. The Carmodys. After all, here we are, sitting in a nice comfortable home in twenty-first century America. The idea that a demon from Hell, an ancient being who has existed since before mankind even developed the notion of God, should be interjecting itself into our nice, orderly little world is ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," said Dan.

"I was almost willing to settle into that comfortable oblivion as well, until I looked into that thing's eyes. If I ever had any doubt that there really is a biblical Hell, I don't any longer. I think perhaps Auntie Jane was right about everything." He smiled and it sent icicles down Gerry's spine.

Gerry looked at Dan. He probably thought Max was either on the edge, or had already gone over. For all she knew he might be right. "Max, why can't we, hypothetically that is, just cancel the wedding and live together? Then there wouldn't be a ceremony, a ritual, to trigger it."

"It would make no difference. The translation was very clear. The wedding ceremony per se isn't the real key. What matters is the irrevocable decision and intent of the two subjects to bind themselves together. It's that decision which really sets this unstoppably into motion. The ceremony is the symbolic act which the subjects have agreed upon to confirm the decision. If you remain together without benefit of marriage, it will happen anyway. Once you've already decided to spend your life together in love, it's done. The demon can't allow you that happiness. Meg won't allow it."

"And Meg will be the agent for the demon," said Gerry.

"Yes," said Max. "She'll become the vehicle for the demon in an extremely powerful form of black magic."

"And who's going to play Meg in this little comedy?" asked Dan.

"We don't know. It could be anyone," said Max. "In fact, she could be anywhere. Meg might be the woman down the street."

"Or the pizza delivery girl," said Dan.

"She may well be," said Max more loudly. "When the time comes, she'll become Meg and it will begin."

"Okay, so we'll skip pizza this one weekend."

"Dan, please."

"Okay, so what's your solution?" asked Dan.

"Solution? The two of you must separate and never see each other again. That's the solution, and it's the only one. I suggest you separate now. Immediately."

"Oh, is that all? Heck, why didn't you say so?" said Dan.

"That's it? There's no other way around this?" asked Gerry.

"None. The only thing you can do is walk away. Forever."

Dan laughed. "Right. That's going to happen."

"Just for argument's sake, say we did walk away," said Gerry. "We live our lives separately and eventually we're dead and gone. It still wouldn't be over, would it?"

"No, it wouldn't. Like magnets, you'll be reborn, meet again, and renew your love. Then it will happen again."

"Gerry, you can't be buying this," said Dan.

She looked at him with a tiny flash of annoyance, then smiled. "I'm not buying anything, Dan, and nothing is going to stop our wedding."

Dan picked up his coffee cup. "You know what? I forgot some chores I have to get done in the yard. See you later, Max." He gave Gerry a little hug.

Max nodded. "Dan."

When he shut the door, Max said, "I suppose there's nothing I can say to make you believe me?"

"Max, I do believe you."

"Do you? That's excellent. I assumed you'd think me insane."

"I kind of do," she said with a tiny smile, "but I've seen the photographs, I've heard the voice of Delia and felt the footsteps of that thing.

"More than anything, though," she said, jabbing her thumb into her stomach. "I believe what I feel here, and I'm terrified."

"Yet you intend on going through with this? Isn't that unfair to the unsuspecting Dan? You could just walk away, give any reason you want. Tell him you no longer love him."

"I could never do that. It would kill both of us. We love each other, and we've made a decision to spend our lives together. We're beings with free will and control over our own destiny. Besides, I hate bullies."

"Bullies?"

"This demon is a bully. A little scarier than most, but still a bully."

Max shook his head and looked down. His hand was shaking. "This isn't high school, Gerry. You have no idea what you're facing."

"Hey," Gerry yelled. Max flinched and looked up. "You may be giving up on us, but I'm not. You said yourself this thing isn't all-powerful, right?"

"No, not all-powerful. Nothing is all-powerful except Universal Law, or God, if you like. This thing is not a deity, but..."

"Then it can be stopped."

"No, I don't believe it can. Not by us."

"Bull. There's always a way. We just have to find it."

"I'm not sure you really believe what will happen. I think you're rationalizing."

She folded her arms "I know. Denial is the first stage, blah, blah, blah. Max, who was that priest who came to see Michael? And that other man, the one who looked like a Native American?"

"He was a Native American. I told you. His name is Henry Sipo, also known as White Eagle. He has a doctorate in religious studies, and a masters in business. He manages a green mutual fund. He's also a powerful shaman of the Lenni Lenape people, one of the tribes that inhabited Manhattan Island and surrounding areas. Henry Sipo is a prodigy in two fields. He's also a psychic."

"Quite the Renaissance man. And the priest?"

"The priest is Father James Boyle. He has successfully conducted half a dozen exorcisms and is barely thirty years old. Only an extremely just, pious man could do that."

"And these men weren't at the hospital by coincidence, were they?"

Max shrugged. "Well, no. I've worked with both of them. I arranged for them to come to the hospital to erect a temporary spiritual barrier against the demon, until Michael was well enough to give me the final passage in the translation. Now that Michael has done that, he's out of danger. The demon has no more interest in him. Or me."

"You hope," said Gerry.

"I'm sure of it. Especially since you've decided to go through with the wedding. As far as the demon is concerned, everything is on schedule."

"You said they erected a spiritual barrier against the demon at the hospital. Can't we do the same thing after the wedding?"

He shook his head. "Once the demon joins with Meg, it becomes unstoppable, and we can't prevent it from joining with Meg because we have no idea who or where Meg is, or what to do if we did. When her time comes, she will drop everything and find you. She doesn't even have to be in the house."

"Are you staying at the house the night of the wedding?" asked Max.

"Yes. Our flight isn't until the next day. Does it matter?"

"Actually, no. It didn't matter for the Connellys. They died on the cruise ship on the night of their wedding. It will happen no matter where you are, and a simple blessing and barrier won't work."

"Well," Gerry said, looking at the window, then back at Max, "What if we just took a plane to Rio de Janeiro tonight? How could Meg follow?"

"When you got to Rio, Meg would already be there. Meg's soul would simply find a vulnerable addict or a drunk and walk into her body. The Carmodys will never escape from Meg."

"But maybe we can set up a larger, more powerful barrier..."

Max suddenly smacked the table. "No. It's impossible. It will never work. This thing is too strong. You can't..."

"Stop," Gerry yelled. Max flinched, and Dan's head appeared briefly in the window. "Stop with the 'impossible'. Nothing is impossible."

"I'm sorry, Max." She fiddled with her fingers for a second, then looked up and said, "We've decided to have a nuptial mass, the whole shebang. We've already been to see Father Florio. He's the priest who says mass every Sunday at St. Christopher's. Dan and I will go to confession the day before, and we're going to receive communion at our wedding mass. I'm going to ask Father Boyle to perform the ceremony. I'm also inviting Henry Sipo. Does a shaman have a title like a priest?"

"No. I think he prefers Hank, actually. Gerry, they wouldn't..."

Gerry picked up her cell phone. "Could you give me the phone numbers of Father Boyle and Mr. Sipo?"

"Gerry, I don't....." Then Max saw her face, paused and said, "I'll email you their numbers tonight."

She put down her phone. "Great. Thanks, Max. Don't forget."

"Dan has no objection to a traditional Catholic wedding?"

"None. He's been a non-practicing Catholic for quite a few years now, but he's fine with it. I think he misses it. Maybe I do too. Our families will be ecstatic."

"Aren't you supposed to have banns published, and attend Pre-Cana conferences, etc.?"

"We can condense that stuff. I checked."

Max shook his head. "None of this will stop it, Gerry."

"Hey," she said loudly. Max winced.

"Gerry, why do you keep yelling at me?"

"Sorry. I don't know. It just feels right. I think its because you're acting like a whipped dog and it's kind of nauseating and it really doesn't suit you at all. What do you say, Max, will you help us? Are you on board?"

"I've already had my ticket punched," he said. "For me, the final destination will be the same anyway."

She patted him on the shoulder. "No it won't, Max. We're the good guys, and that includes you."

"Sometimes that doesn't matter," he said in a voice she couldn't hear.

"Max, remember when we were discussing free will?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, we all have free will, right?"

"Theoretically."

"Don't be difficult. We all have free will. That's true, so how does this thing make people do things they don't want to?"

"Through black magic. It can exert intense influence on the vulnerable through force of will, suggestion."

"Like hypnosis?"

Max shrugged. "An unimaginably powerful form brought to bear by an ancient, superior intelligence older than mankind."

"Like an angel, only evil?"

"Yes, spot on. I believe this thing was once an angelic being who chose the path of evil."

"So you believe in angels as well as demons?" Gerry asked.

"Most definitely," said Max.

"Can't we kind of enlist an angel or two to help? How can we do that?"

"We could check Greg's List on the internet," said Max.

Gerry blinked and looked blankly at him. "Max, please."

"Sorry. But since we can't Google or text message angels, I suggest prayer. However, both angels and demons must follow the universal law, just as we do. For every act of evil, a price is paid. The Carmodys must continue to pay until their balance sheet is zero. No one, not even an angel, can stop that."

"Maybe it's zero now."

"I don't think so, Gerry." If it were, we wouldn't be here talking.

"Maybe we can find a loophole in this somewhere. Max, I want you to put me under hypnosis. Implant a suggestion in my subconscious that will program me to wake up the instant the persona of Diana Carmody tries to take over my body. When that happens, I want to wake up and be me. Then I can't hurt Dan."

"Do you really think it could be that easy?"

He held up his hand. "Don't yell at me. All right. I'll put you under right now. It can't hurt."

"And shouldn't you set up your equipment in the house again?"

Max stroked his chin. "That's not a bad idea. Just think of the data we might capture. Can you imagine capturing visual and audible proof of a demonic entity, and then showing it on a major network in prime time? Assuming we all survive, of course."

"Max, did I just see your ears wiggle?"
CHAPTER 19

Gerry, in a bulky terrycloth robe, leaned on the balcony railing and looked over at the Church of St. Christopher. She checked the time on her cell phone. It was just after seven-thirty, plenty of time to get ready for the nuptial mass at ten. Jacqueline Armstrong walked out the side door of the rectory in a bright yellow sun dress and straw hat. She looked up at Gerry and waved, smiling. Gerry waived back.

"It won't be long now," said Jacqueline. "The flowers are set up next to the altar. They're beautiful."

"Thanks, Jacqueline." The housekeeper knelt down in the flower bed and began pulling weeds.

Gerry looked down and to the left toward the front of their property. The driveway had been paved in asphalt, and the house had been scraped, sanded and painted a clean white that blazed in the sunlight. The shutters, folded back, were freshly painted in black. The pile of broken marble and concrete was gone, and an expansive new lawn encircled the house in emerald lushness. The place was beautiful. She had intended to restore it to the original condition, but that would have been prohibitively expensive. Gerry and Dan were happy the way it turned out. Fountains with cherubs belonged to another world anyway.

They had slept in different rooms last night, a first since they had met. At a four-hour conference with Father Boyle the day before, the young priest made it plain that it would be best for them to sleep in separate rooms until after the wedding. Dan had gritted his teeth a bit, not for the inconvenience, but for the implication that what they had shared prior to last night had been in some way tainted. He agreed to the temporary arrangement, though. Father Boyle also insisted on final approval of the wedding vows. Like the house, he was a youthful-looking throwback to another time.

Yesterday, they had both made confession to a priest named Father Pantero, at least that was the name on the confessional booth. Gerry's confession had been lengthy and cathartic, and she was shaking when she left the booth with the modest penance of saying one rosary.

Gerry's phone vibrated. "Hey mom. How's it going?"

Gina Martinelli-McMartin, wearing a bluetooth on her ear, was furiously finishing a hem on the wedding dress in the bedroom next door. "There. It's done. You're lucky you have a fashion designer mom. Come in here."

"I'm lucky, period," she said. Gerry checked the sky one more time, then went inside. It looked like a sunny wedding day. The few clouds in the sky were soft and benign.

At nine o'clock, Gerry looked at herself in the full-length mirror as her mother finished dressing in the next room. Her mom took less time than she did to get ready, and that was saying something.

The dress was of white satin with minimal lace detail and a veil ending just below the waist, held in place by a pearl-dappled tiara. It was exactly what her vision of a wedding dress had always been, with a simple, sheath-type body, bateau neckline and a modest train. Gerry's thick, chestnut-brown hair was piled high in soft curls beneath the tiara.

Gerry's mother came in wearing a clinging, deep blue sleeveless dress hemmed just above delicate knees and well-toned legs. She kept herself in extraordinary shape. Gina's hair was also brown but the streaks of gray were now replaced with red highlights.

"That hairdresser of yours is a sweetheart for coming in that early on a Saturday."

"Lilian is great. Mom, I couldn't have wished for a more beautiful dress. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome, honey." Her mother looked into the mirror with her. She looked far younger than her fifty-three years.

"Mom, your hair is gorgeous."

"The highlights were Lilian's idea." She had a slight New York accent, and looked very much like Anne Bancroft in 'The Graduate'. Maura called her Mrs. Robinson.

"Where's Dad?" asked Gerry.

"He's walking back and forth in front of the church, looking at his watch."

Gerry grinned. "He always did that when we were going anywhere."

Her mother tugged at the fabric at Gerry's waist. "It's not too tight, is it?"

"It's perfect, Mom. How much time do we have?"

"About a half hour. Do you want to go downstairs?"

"Yes. Let's." Gerry picked up her simple but beautiful gardenia bouquet. Outside the bedroom door she heard the excited voices of her bridesmaids, and ran down the stairs like she was sixteen again.

At the bottom of the stairs, Maura, the maid of honor, walked over holding a tall champagne glass filled with something orange and bubbling. Her dress was pale yellow, simple and elegant. Sara Prentiss and Jeannine Turner, two of Gerry's closest sorority sisters, sat chatting next to Julie Payson, a friend Gerry had known since childhood. They all wore pale green.

Maura walked over to Gerry and her mother. "Hey, Mrs. Robinson. You look hot, as usual. And thanks for designing a bridesmaid's dress that doesn't make me look like I'm wearing a tangerine clown outfit, like the one we had to wear at Kathy McNamara's wedding."

"Thank you, Maura. And you're welcome. Gerry, I'm going to get one of those orange things."

"What are they?" Gerry asked Maura.

"Mimosa. Champagne and orange juice. Want one?"

"No thanks."

"Who was that guy I saw going into the church? The tall one with the long dark hair?"

"That's Henry Sipo, a friend of ours."

"He looks very interesting, in a gorgeous sort of way."

Gerry smiled. "Yes. He manages a hedge fund. He's also a Native American Shaman."

"A medicine man running a fund? That might come in handy picking stocks. You will introduce us at an opportune time." said Maura.

"Done."

"You know, since you're not going to observe that quaint tradition where the groom removes the garter from the bride's thigh, because you're so stuffy and all, I think we should at least follow the alternate tradition where the Maid of Honor gets to choose a man to put it on her after the garter toss."

"Forget it."

Gerry looked out the window and saw two little girls and a small boy running around the church playing, screeching in delight at just being alive. Cars lined the driveway and overflowed onto the street.

"Big crowd," said Maura. You're not having any of those kids as ring bearers or flower girls?"

"We wanted to, but we either had to have twenty ring bearers and flower girls, or alienate three-quarters of both families. We opted not to have any, so we offended only about thirty percent of the family," said Gerry.

"Good choice," said Maura.

"There's Max pulling up," said Gerry.

"I think I saw Kathleen and Michael going in earlier," said Maura.

Just before ten o'clock, a white limousine pulled up in front of the house.

Gerry's father walked over from the church just ahead of the photographer, a tall, thin man with short dark hair named Saverio Gonzales. The bridesmaids and ushers walked across the lawn to the church.

Gerry's father checked his watch, then took Gerry's arm and helped her into the limo. Gonzales clicked off numerous shots as the bride and her parents entered the vehicle.

"We're taking a limousine to go next door?" asked Gerry.

"This dress deserves a dramatic entrance. We're paying for it anyway," said her mother. They drove a hundred feet or so and reentered the driveway of the church.

"I thought we'd never get here," said Gerry, taking her father's hand as she got out.

At the entrance to the Church, Gerry took her father's arm and looked up at him and smiled. He seemed nervous.

She whispered through her veil. "Hey, I'm getting married, not you." Her father smiled and she patted his arm. He had a slight paunch, and his hair was almost all gray now, but he had a youthful charm that would never leave him.

In his soft voice, he said, "Remember that shaker chest we built that weekend just before you went off to college?"

"Sure. It's the most beautiful piece you ever made."

"We made. Your mother and I want you and Dan to have it. I'm having it delivered as soon as you get back from the honeymoon."

She squeezed his arm, swallowed hard, and almost lost it. "Thanks, Dad. There's nothing I'd value more."

Gerry and her father stepped into the small vestibule behind the bridesmaids and ushers waiting impatiently to start down the aisle. The sweet fragrance of flowers and a pleasant tension filled the church. Dan and his best man Larry Burke waited to the right at the foot of the altar, along with the ushers, Jeff Strieber, John Wall and Huey Graham, friends from Dan's college.

Father Boyle stood directly in front of the tabernacle facing the congregation on the chancel step. The priest looked like a blond action hero posing as a priest, ready to throw off the vestments and fire his nine millimeter at a horde of approaching enemy agents. She smiled. Hopefully that wouldn't happen. Baskets of flowers filled the area to left and right of the altar.

The priest nodded at the organist in the tiny raised alcove above the vestibule and the little church vibrated with the music of the Wedding March. Father Boyle gestured for the processional to begin and the maids of honor walked separately down the aisle, followed by the ushers. As they reached the altar rail, the men lined up to the right, the women to the left. The photographer took shots of the wedding party, then captured a radiant, beaming Gerry as she walked regally down the aisle with her father.

Father Boyle read short passages from the Old and New Testament, then looked down and nodded at Dan and said, "Gerry and Daniel will now share their marriage vows."

Dan looked into Gerry's eyes and said, "I, Daniel Williams, in the presence of God and all those we hold dear, take you, Geraldine McMartin, as my lawfully wedded wife. I will be your faithful partner in all things, and I will love you without reservation. I will honor and support you in all things, and I will treasure you forever." A tiny, odd expression flitted across the priest's face.

Max, sitting next to Michael, whispered, "'Forever'? I thought it always ended with 'Till death do us part'? 'Forever' smacks a bit of paganism, don't you think? Reincarnation and all that." Michael didn't answer. Almost to himself, Max added, "A bit of hubris, I think."

Gerry looked into Dan's hazel eyes and said, "I, Geraldine McMartin, take you, Daniel Williams, as my lawfully wedded husband, to be with in the best of times and in the worst, and all the ordinary days in between. I will always be your loyal friend and your passionate lover, in health and happiness, in sickness and sorrow. I will love you and be with you forever."

"There. Again 'Forever'." He lowered his voice. "It's very odd." Next to Michael, Kathleen shushed him quietly and shook her head.

Larry Burke handed the priest a small case with both rings and the priest blessed them before handing the smaller ring to Dan, who placed it on Gerry's finger. Then he gave Dan's ring to Gerry and she placed it on his finger.

Father Boyle said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife." He smiled and nodded at them, and Dan lifted the veil and kissed Gerry. A few approving murmurs rose up from the crowd. A little boy said "Yew," then fell silent at his mother's hiss.

Father Boyle read the prayer of the faithful and began the Liturgy of the Eucharist while a teenage boy and girl carried the gifts of wine and bread to the altar. The priest took the offerings and performed the sacrifice, then distributed communion, starting with the newly married couple.

When the last communicant returned to her seat, Father Boyle gave the Nuptial Blessing, then led the congregation in the Lord's Prayer. He made the sign of the cross over all present and ended the service with a blessing and dismissal.

The organist played Bach's Arioso while Gerry and Dan led the recessional back down the aisle and into the sunshine. The males in the crowd rang little bells and the females blew bubbles as Dan and Gerry walked to the limousine.

Maura moved closer to Gerry and said, "The bells and bubbles were a great idea, McMartin. I think throwing rice is a form of abuse. After Jeannine's wedding to that baseball player, I had pock marks on my face. Most of his friends were pitchers."

Gerry laughed, "I remember."

Before getting into the limousine, she said to the photographer, "So we'll meet you at Farragut Park, Mr. Gonzales?"

"Yes, I know where it is. It's a beautiful spot, right near the river." Then the photographer stopped and looked across at the house and the imposing marble staircase and broad white columns.

"I understand that's your house?"

"Yes," said Gerry.

He smiled as he looked from Gerry back at the house. "Did your parents already start for the park?"

"I think so," said Dan.

"That porch would make a perfect background. Could we take a few shots up there? The house is Beaux Arts, isn't it?"

"Yes it is." Gerry became suddenly queasy, then flashed a smile. "I think that's a great idea. Come on guys, we're going to take some pictures at the house first."

"I could drive you," the chauffeur said from the other side of the car. He was a dapper man of about sixty, dressed in a black suit, and had a full head of thick white hair.

"That's all right. We'll walk. We'll meet you over there."

The man nodded and got into the driver's seat.

The bridesmaids and ushers followed Gerry and Dan over to the house.

"If everyone except the bride and groom would wait down here please," said Gonzales at the bottom of the marble steps. "Gerry and Dan? Let's get a few shots of just the two of you first."

Dan led Gerry up the steps, the photographer following. Gonzales stopped on the next-to-last step. "Move back slightly, closer to the door," he said. Gerry and Dan backed up closer to the door.

"There, good. Now face each other very slightly. Perfect." He took several shots, then a few more from the top step. "Excellent," he said, finishing. He looked down at the others. "Would everyone else please come up? Ladies to the right of Gerry, men to the left of Dan."

The complete wedding party assembled at the park and Gonzales snapped a series of beautiful shots near the river among a grove of oak trees, then another series with the Palisades as background.

"The pictures will be spectacular," said Gonzales.

When they finished, the limousine led a small motorcade to the reception at Rive Gauche. Gerry and Dan got out of the limousine and walked through the main dining room to the reception hall. The restaurant was busy and a few people clapped as they walked through. Gerry smiled and waved.

They stopped at the doorway to the hall and looked in. Directly ahead, a raised dais faced the rest of the hall flanked by fifteen tables spread out on each side. Crystal flower vases with red and white roses, cockscomb, and nandina leaves sat starkly beautiful against the white linen.

A larger centerpiece of similar flowers in crystal sat in the middle of the dais, with garlands of red and white roses laid out to right and left. Each table was set with heavy silverware and thick, dark-red napkins fashioned in the shape of fans. Gerry looked to the left of the doorway. The band was set up and ready to go. To the right, the bar manned by a young man and woman.

"Oh Dan, isn't it beautiful?" asked Gerry

"It really is. Here come the parents," said Dan. A young man dressed in a black suit walked over. He had short dark hair and had a nervous smile.

"Hi Greg," said Gerry. She was pretty sure this was his first gig as a Master of Ceremonies at a wedding. "Where do you want to set up the reception line?" "I think right over here," he said, "gesturing with his whole body and both arms at the right hand side of the double entrance doors. Gerry almost laughed. He looked like he was doing a Buster Keaton imitation.

Their parents came over and Gerry said, "Mom, Dad, Mr. and Mrs. Williams, we're setting up the reception line right over there."

Maura walked over. "Gerry, do you want the rest of us on the reception line?"

Gerry looked questioningly at Greg.

Greg looked unsure for a second, then said, "Oh, no. We'll just have the parents and the bride and groom on the line. The rest of you can wait in the reception hall."

"I'll be near the bar," said Maura.

After the guests filed through the reception line, everyone took their seats. Greg announced the first dance and nodded to the band's vocalist, a thin, blond man in his twenties with medium length hair. All the band members wore white dress shirts with black vests.

They began playing Bryan Adams' "Everything I Do."

With the whole hall watching, Dan took Gerry's hand and led her out onto the floor. Gerry felt a deep happiness building inside. It felt like a light inside getting brighter and brighter, so bright she felt it would burst from her, filling the hall.

"You're beautiful," he said in her ear.

"Thanks, so are you," said Gerry, grinning. She glanced over at the vocalist, whose voice approached the quality of Bryan Adams.

"He's awesome," she said.

Dan looked down, seeing and hearing nothing but her. "Everything today will be awesome."

After the first dance, the parents took the floor, then Gerry danced with her father and Dan with his mother. After that, the floor gradually filled with guests.

After the first set, Gerry walked over to Maura.

"Maura, hardly anyone is dancing."

"Don't worry, it's early. This band is good. Wait till they get a few drinks in them, they'll be dancing. Hey McMartin, don't you think it's about time you introduced me to the mysterious Mr. Sipo?" asked Maura.

"Come on," said Gerry, taking her hand.

"What's the name of this group?" asked Maura.

"A local band called 'The Wanderers'. They're good, aren't they?"

"They're great," said Maura.

Gerry gathered her dress, took Maura's hand and lead her over to Table 6. Henry Sipo sat to the left of Max, and to Max's right was Michael, then Kathleen. Father Boyle sat next to Kathleen and the last space was unoccupied.

Gerry smiled. "I think everyone knows my Maid of Honor, Maura Kirk, except, I think Father Boyle and Mr. Sipo?"

The priest and Henry Sipo both stood and smiled at Maura. The men were both impressive individuals.

"Father Boyle, very nice to meet you," said Maura. Her eyes moved back and forth from one to the other. Her voice was as silky as it got, much too much for a priest, especially from a Catholic school girl. Gerry, whose hand was resting on Maura's lower back, pinched her slightly.

"Hello, Maura," said Father Boyle. The priest smiled politely and sat down.

"And this is Henry Sipo," said Gerry.

The shaman stood up and smiled. He was well over six feet tall. "Call me Henry. It's a pleasure to meet you, Maura." His light-brown eyes smiled.

"Very nice to meet you, Henry," said Maura. She seemed to look and sound almost shy. Gerry looked at her sideways. This was a new tactic, or perhaps not a tactic at all.

"Please join us," said Henry.

"Thanks," said Maura, taking the empty place.

"I have to visit the rest of the tables," said Gerry. "I'll see you guys later."

"Excuse me for a minute," said Kathleen, rising and catching up with Gerry.

"Hey," said Gerry.

"I just wanted to tell you how beautiful you look."

Gerry grinned. "Thanks."

"And to let you know that Michael and I won't be coming back to the house tonight for the 'blessing'."

Gerry smiled. Kathleen never believed there was any danger, and still didn't. She prayed Kathleen was right. "That's okay. It's no big deal."

Kathleen looked over at their table. "Michael thinks he's completely over what happened to him, but he's not. He's more fragile than he realizes. We're probably not going to stay to the end of the reception. I want to get him home early."

Gerry touched her arm. "Of course. Don't worry. Enjoy yourselves. I'll call you before we leave for our flight tomorrow."

"Good." Kathleen embraced her and went back to the table.

"I've never seen a prettier bride," she said as Michael rose and held Kathleen's chair. Her dark hair was piled high and she wore a sleek black dress and silver earrings and necklace.

Gerry walked over to Table 9, where she had placed Jacqueline, safe from the heathens at Table 6 and right next to Michael Brusci, an attractive, single uncle from her mother's side. Jacqueline wore a pretty peach-colored dress.

"Hi, Jacqueline, hi Uncle Mike."

"Hey, honey," her uncle said in his raspy Bronx accent. Mike was a plumbing contractor and very well off. They seemed to be having fun.

"You look wonderful," said Jacqueline. "Such a beautiful bride."

Gerry smiled. "Thanks, Jacqueline. I'll see you guys later. Dance. Have fun."

"We will," said Mike, who could waltz with a woman as well as he could bend a pipe.

Gerry walked over towards Table 3 and her cousin Maria, who was barely eighteen. Maria got up and hugged her, then stood back and took a picture with a small digital camera. Maria was very pretty, with cute dimples on both cheeks.

"Maria, you look hot, girl," said Gerry. Maria had a smattering of small brown freckles across her nose and cheeks, just like Gerry.

Maria grinned. "Thanks."

"You guys are the most beautiful bride and groom I've ever seen."

"Thank you, sweetie," said Gerry, hugging her.

"Gerry, check out these pictures I took at the wedding." Maria held up the camera and flipped back a tiny screen.

Gerry inhaled and held her breath. She knew it was coming, but she wasn't sure what she would do if the faces were...but as she forced her eyes to look at the first picture, she saw a nice shot of her and Dan entering the church. It was normal. Just a nice, normal picture.

"You okay?" asked Maria.

"I'm fine, honey. Let's see."

"Aren't they great? This one is of you and Dan leaving the church after the wedding. You look terrific in all of them."

Gerry exhaled slowly and put her arm around Maria's shoulder. "These are good pictures. You're quite the photographer."

"Thanks. I kind of like it. I'm thinking of taking some classes in professional photography."

"Looks like you'll do very well with it." she patted Maria's arm. "I've got to make the rounds. See you later." After seeing the pictures, Gerry felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her.

Dan came over and she took his arm and looked up at him with a smile. "I think this is all going to go well."

"Of course it is," he said. "Come on, let's get the table hopping over with."

Maura turned to Henry. "I understand you're a shaman, Mr. Sipo."

"Yes, I am."

"What group are you from, I mean what tribe? Is that the right term?"

He smiled. "Yes. I'm of the Lenni Lenape.

"Are the Lenni Lenape from around here?"

"Yes. Along with other tribes, we lived up and down the coast and into New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and other areas. We lived in this region thousands of years before the white man came. Lenni Lenape means 'Original People'. We are also known as the 'Men of Men.'

"Are there many of you left here? On Manhattan Island?" she asked, genuinely interested.

He took a sip of water. "Myself and two friends moved here from Oklahoma a few years ago. There may be others with Lenape blood still in this area, but I'm not aware of them. As a tribe, we were driven from our lands many generations ago."

"By us," said Maura.

"Well, by European Americans," said Henry with a tiny smile.

"Where in the city do you live?"

"I have an apartment in the Bronx overlooking the Hudson River and Inwood Park. The park is the largest remaining forested area on the island. Our ancestors lived there, fished and hunted there. It still has caves that we once used, and you can occasionally find arrow heads, even today. The park also overlooks the place where Native Americans supposedly sold the Island to Peter Minuet in 1626 for a few trinkets."

"That's where that happened? I had assumed it was in lower Manhattan," said Michael.

Sipo shook his head. "No. The transaction took place under an ancient tulip tree near a quiet cove by the Harlem River. The tree eventually died, but it wasn't until the 1960s when the old rotted tree stump was removed and a rock with a commemorative brass plaque was installed it its place."

"Why did you say 'supposedly sold'?" asked Michael.

"They weren't really selling the land, since they didn't believe anyone could own the land, any more than anyone could own the sky. They were simply accepting the gifts as thanks for temporarily agreeing to allow the use of some of the land by the white people, and we assumed the Dutch understood that."

"I know that area," said Max. "I went apartment hunting over there. Very nice, and it's getting quite pricey."

"He's a fund manager, Max," said Maura.

She turned back to Sipo. "Where do your friends live?"

"They share an apartment near mine. I'm helping them learn the ways of Lenape history and medicine."

"Being near the park helps you do that?" asked Max.

"Yes, for me. The park is the last original forest growth in this area, and is closest to how our original homeland would have looked. I consider it our Garden of Eden. It's where we were tricked out of our birthright by the serpent, so to speak. No offense."

"None taken," said Maura, smiling up at him.

"Near where the tulip tree stood, there's still a deep spring that pools up at the surface. Clear, cold, sweet water from the earth, right in the middle of the city. You can go there now and drink from it. The spring has always been there. It's a sacred place."

"That tradition would be passed down orally. Who taught you?" asked Michael.

"My grandfather. He was also a medicine man."

"And you speak the language of the Lenni Lenape?' asked Michael.

"Yes I do."

"Excellent. I would really love to discuss this with you in detail some time. I'm a linguist."

Sipo nodded. "So I understand. I'd be happy to talk with you."

Max said, "A few people are stopping by the house after the reception. Father Boyle is going to bless the house, and perhaps Mr. Sipo will also."

Henry smiled. "Gerry and Dan are Catholic, so it's more appropriate for Father Boyle to do the blessing. I will say a private prayer for them and their new home, though."

"Excellent," said Max. "Every bit helps. Kathleen, are you and Michael also coming later to see them off on their marriage journey, so to speak?"

"I don't think so. We're both a bit tired. Michael is still recovering."

"Of course," said Max.

"Maura, are you coming?" asked Max.

"Oh, definitely," she said, smiling up at Sipo.

The band began playing "Sea of Love".

"Maura, would you like to dance?" asked Sipo.

She took his hand. "I would love to dance."

At five o'clock, Max slipped quietly out of the reception and went back over to the house to check the equipment, then went home. Father Boyle and Mr. Sipo had already left. They were all due to meet at the house at nine o'clock.

At ten minutes to seven, Dan and Gerry were dancing in a crowd to a slow number, and the restaurant staff was picking up the last of the dirty dinnerware from the tables.

"Almost no one has left yet," said Dan. "I'm going to ask the band to play for another hour. Everyone's having a great time. The owner said we could do that, for extra, of course."

"You'll have to ask the bartenders to stay too. This will be expensive."

"You only get married once," said Dan, kissing her cheek as they walked back to the dais. Dan went over to the band and agreed on a price to continue another hour, then worked it out with the bartenders.

He came back over to the dais, weaving though the dancers. "All done. This has been a great wedding."

"The best. Let's dance."

Just before eight, Greg the M.C. announced the tossing of the bouquet, and Gerry went over to her parents and kissed them, then stood at the doorway to the hall and tossed her bouquet over her shoulder into a crowd of single women. Maura Kirk was in front. Gerry tossed it straight back without looking, and the bouquet bounced off Maura's forehead and fell into her arms. The tiny metal twist tie binding the flowers cut her forehead slightly. She held up the bouquet in triumph, then touched her head and saw blood on her fingers.

Gerry turned and said, "Oh my God. I'm sorry, Maura." She dabbed at Maura's forehead with a tissue.

"I'll live. Thanks, McMartin," said Maura "I didn't know you wanted me married that badly."

"Are you coming to the house later?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I know. Henry will be there."

She kissed Maura's cheek. "See you later."

Gerry kissed her mother and father again, then waved to everyone once more and walked with Dan to the limousine.

Kathleen had just gotten to her apartment when her phone rang. It was Michael, making sure she had gotten in all right.

"I'm safely home. No bogeyman got me on the way over. Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow." She smiled.

Kathleen poured a glass of wine, then opened the window and sat stroking Fagin until she fell asleep watching the sunset.

She woke in the dark, the curtain fluttering from a strong breeze passing through the open window. Fagin was nowhere to be seen. Across the river, New Jersey had turned on its lights. The air felt cold on her cheek, and she sensed something aggressive in it, like sparks coming from a fire raging in the distance. She sat straight and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Under the secretary dresser by the front door, Fagin's eyes were glowing green, staring out in fear, arching his back and hissing ferociously. She didn't think he could make a sound like that.

Then she felt it. It came with the breeze, the same unmistakable stench of evil she had sensed at the house, except this was not simply a memory. This thing was alive, strong - strong enough to reach her even at this distance. Her stomach clenched as she suddenly knew it was coming for Gerry and Dan, and they had no idea what they faced. She had to get up there.

As quickly as it came, it disappeared. She jumped up and slammed the window shut, then closed the blinds and turned on some lights. She checked her watch. It was almost ten o'clock. She pulled out her phone to call Michael, then stopped. He was the last person she was going to call now. She phoned Max.

"Max. Where are you?"

"I'm about to get on the West Side Highway on my way back to the house." "Come and get me. I'm going with you."

Max was able to turn off just before getting on the ramp. He stopped on a side street. "Why?"

"Because that thing is going after Gerry and Dan. I felt it from my apartment. We have to get up there now. Will you come get me?"

"Of course. I should be there in less than ten minutes." He made a u-turn.

Kathleen stood waiting in front of her building when Max pulled up fifteen minutes later. Getting in on the passenger side, she checked her watch.

"It's almost ten, Max. We'd better hurry."

"We've got plenty of time. It's less than thirty-five minutes to their house. Nothing will happen until 11:20," said Max.

"Why 11:20?"

"This demon is ruled by the moon. It's his modus operandi, so to speak. Nothing will happen until after moonset at 11:20."

"How do you know that?"

"Long hours of research told me that, Kathleen. You have so little regard for my work ethic. This thing has always done its evil at the setting of the moon. The Babylonians called him..."

"Max," Kathleen said sharply, "I thought you said not to mention his name."

"Good Lord. You're right. How stupid of me. The name of this thing," he glanced over at her, "Which I will never speak again in this lifetime, is irrelevant. It has a different name in every age it rears its head."

"I'm calling Gerry," she said, reaching into her jeans pocket.

"Don't bother. I've already told Gerry exactly what's in store for her tonight. She thinks she can fight it."

"How can she possibly fight it?"

"She thinks she can stop it with an exorcism."

"You don't think that will work?"

"No, I don't."

Kathleen winced as Max came too close to a pair of tail lights. "Where did you get your license, in a cereal box? Take it easy."

Max laughed. It was forced and too loud. "Hurry up, slow down. Make up your mind."

They drove over the Henry Hudson Bridge and were quickly racing north on the Saw Mill Parkway, where traffic became lighter. A fifty-miles-per-hour sign flew by. The speedometer read sixty-five.

"We're going to be stopped for speeding," she said.

Then Kathleen felt it in the car with them.

She turned her head sharply to look into the empty back seat. "Max, do you feel it?"

"What?" he asked, watching the dark road carefully. His eyes were wide, his hands clutching the wheel so tightly they were almost numb.

"It's gone now. It was in the car with us a second ago. I think it's following us."

Suddenly a wind came from nowhere and whipped against the car. The car shuddered, but kept straight on the road.

Max's eyes flicked to the side of the road and the motionless leaves on the trees, then immediately back as the wind hit the car again. The vehicle shook, but kept traction.

Max grinned like a cadaver, but slowed down. "Your basic black magic. A windstorm, hitting only this car. Oh, this is getting good, Kathleen. It's warning us away.

"Is that all you've got?" Max shouted, watching the road.

"Max, shut up," Kathleen hissed.

She looked behind her. "Could this thing actually manifest? Physically?"

"Oh yes. At this point, I don't believe there's any way of stopping it, but that won't happen until later. No worries."

"Thanks. I feel much better."

"I wonder what this thing really looks like?" asked Kathleen.

"God only knows. I've seen various representations of him, all fantastic and horrible. Babylonian inscriptions say that anyone who lays eyes on him will go mad. When it happens, we'll find out."

"When what happens? What do you really think will happen tonight?"

"The demon will cause Gerry and Dan to die. The text says that if anyone interferes, they'll be torn to pieces and the demon will 'feast' on them, then take their souls with him into the underworld."

"And when you say 'them', you mean 'us', if we're there too."

"Yes. When the police and fire department find the mess, they won't be able to explain it, so they'll probably say it was an explosion of some sort, followed by a fire. They'll rationalize, make something up that looks good on their reports."

"Then why are you going?" Kathleen asked.

"Scientific curiosity. I intend to record the whole thing on the Aardvark System. All data will be immediately transmitted wirelessly to a system in my apartment."

"A lot of good that will do you if you're dead."

"Then it will be left to posterity. I also feel a maudlin need to help Gerry and Dan, if I possibly can. They're innocents. At the end of the day, one has to look in the mirror with the least self-loathing possible, even if it is the mirror in Hell."

"You always put a positive spin on everything, Max. I like that. So if anyone interferes, this thing destroys everyone involved."

"That's about it."

He looked over at her. "And why are you going?"

"Gerry's my friend."

"Where's Michael?" he asked.

"Safe in bed. He doesn't know I'm going to the house."

She looked at the speedometer. "Max, slow down. You're too far over the limit. We'll be stopped." Max eased up on the gas pedal.

"You're right. There's plenty of time."

The road curved to the right, and just as Max looked toward Kathleen when he spoke, the rear of a car doing barely thirty mph appeared around the curve with its hazards flashing.

Kathleen screamed: "Max!"

He hit the brakes violently. The tires screamed and time seemed to slow weirdly down until they smashed into the rear of the car. The vehicle in front lurched forward when they hit it, and the head behind the wheel bobbed backward and forward once, like a bobble-head doll.

Kathleen saw the driver's head and shoulders bunch, and his arms frantically steer as the car slid to a squealing stop. When they regained control, both cars moved onto the shoulder and stopped.

Max slumped back into his seat and said quietly, "Are you all right?"

"I think so. You?"

"I'm fine."

Kathleen looked back at the road behind them. There were no cars coming at the moment, but the situation was dangerous. "Max, do you have a flare?"

He reached into the glove box and took out a small flashlight. "I believe I have an emergency kit."

"If you have any flares, get them out and put one behind us. I would prefer not getting rammed, if possible," said Kathleen.

Max gave her the flashlight and got out of the car. "Right. You wave off any cars with the torch, and I'll get the flares out of the boot."

"I wish you'd learn to speak American," she said, getting out of the car. He looked around. "Our friend is gone, for now, at least." He opened the trunk, found the emergency kit, then sprinted fifty paces behind the car and ignited a flare and tossed it on the ground at edge of the shoulder.

He ran back and stood next to Kathleen. "Keep the torch handy, but turn it off for now. We may need it later."

"We better check the other driver and call the police."

"The police?" said Max. "We can't call the police. That could take hours."

"We have no choice. It's a crime not to report an accident like this. Besides, this man might be hurt."

"You stay here and watch for the oncoming cars. If you see anything coming move the light back and forth and give me a shout. And be ready to run into the woods there."

Max walked over to the other car and saw a bald-headed man rubbing the back of his neck. He turned and looked at Max, groaned loudly, then looked forward again and continued rubbing his neck.

"My neck hurts," he said, "It might be fractured. Somebody better call an ambulance. And the police."

"And your attorney," said Max under his breath, then he said loudly, "Poor man. We're calling them now."

He walked back to Kathleen and told her.

"He might really be hurt," she said.

"It's always possible."

"I've already called the police. I better call for an ambulance too."

Kathleen made another call, then said, "They'll have an ambulance here soon."

Kathleen looked at her cell phone. "Its well after ten."

"We've still got time," said Max.

"By the way, you haven't had anything to drink, have you, Max?"

"Not a drop."

"That's a blessing."

The traffic was heavier but the cars slowed and passed carefully when they saw the flare. Ten minutes ticked by until a police cruiser, lights flashing, parked behind them, followed a minute later by an ambulance.

Kathleen walked to the front of Max's car and played the flashlight over the bumper. Coolant was spilled all over the blacktop beneath the front. She walked back to Max, who was waiting for the policeman approaching on foot from his cruiser.

"We're not going anywhere in your car, Max. The radiator is damaged. The anti-freeze is all over the road."

"Fabulous," he said.

The police officer walked up to them. He looked too young to be carrying a gun.

"You folks okay?" he asked.

"We're fine," said Kathleen. The man in the other car may need medical attention."

The officer nodded and walked over to the ambulance and directed it over to the first car, a Chevy Malibu. The ambulance siren blasted once and drove around and parked in front of the Chevy.

The policeman walked over and took notes as he leaned down to speak with the other driver. His hand, which had been touching the butt of his nine millimeter the whole time, relaxed as he decided they weren't a threat. He walked back over to Max.

"Excuse me sir, but have you had any alcohol today?" he asked politely. He stood very close, obviously conducting an olfactory investigation. Something, perhaps after shave, caused him to request Max take a breathalyzer test.

"But I haven't had anything to drink," said Max, his voice rising.

Kathleen touched his arm. "Max. Just take the test."

Another police car pulled up behind the first.

To Kathleen, he said, "Would you stand over there, ma'am?" indicating a spot some feet away. Kathleen moved, but she didn't like it, didn't like him, and didn't like being called ma'am.

He turned back to Max. "Sir, will you submit to a breathalyzer test?"

Max sighed. "Yes I will. But I haven't been drinking."

"Then you have nothing to worry about, sir." The second officer walked over to the other vehicle.

Michael checked his watch. It was ten-thirty.

The Emergency Medical Service crew gently hoisted the stretcher with the other driver strapped carefully to a spinal board with his head immobilized by straps and blocks. The freshman cop sat in his car running Max's information through the computer, then came back and returned Max's license and registration.

"Your test was negative sir. I appreciate your cooperation."

Kathleen jumped slightly as the ambulance pulled out, siren wailing.

"I haven't cited you, since you don't seem to have gone over the speed limit, and it would have been difficult not to hit the other vehicle given the curve and the slow speed the other vehicle was maintaining."

Sensing Max was going to say something stupid, she said quickly, "Thank you, officer."

The cop stared at him for a second, then saw a tow truck slowing down and directed it in front of Max's car.

The driver got out of the truck. He was short and beefy, chewing on an unlit cigar. A dirty patch on his chest read "Sal" in script. Kathleen noticed his jeans and shirt were a bit dirty.

Max walked over to the driver, who asked, "Where's the key?"

"It's in the ignition. Do you know of a cab company around here?"

The driver put the car in neutral and said, "Yeah. Blue Bird Taxi, but they won't pick you up on the parkway. The shop is only a mile down the road. I'll drop you off there and you can call a cab. It'll be a little cramped in the front seat, but we'll squeeze in."

He looked at Kathleen and grinned, chewing his cigar, then hooked up Max's car and lifted the front into the air. He walked to the driver's side and got in, then waited, grinning and chewing.

"You first," she said to Max, nodding at the space next to the driver.

"Oh no, ladies first, I insist," said Max.

"Get in, Max, or I promise I'll kill you."

"As you wish."

"Could we get going?" said Sal, "I got a wreck waiting on the Sprain Parkway."

"Of course," said Max, "All set." Kathleen noticed Max had his steel-plated, rigid-jawed, polite smile on as he sat as close to her as possible without sitting in her lap.

"What's the name and address of your garage?" asked Kathleen.

"Westchester Auto Service. 115 Putnam Road."

Kathleen called information and got the cab company's number.

She punched the numbers and said, "Blue Bird Cab? My friend and I need to be picked up at the Westchester Auto Service garage at 115 Putman Road. We'll be there in a few minutes. This is an emergency, so please hurry. Thanks...I don't want to call 911. It's not that kind of emergency. Just send a cab quickly. Thank you." She shut the phone, rolling her eyes.

"Bit cheeky," said Max.

The truck was uncomfortable and smelled and they were both glad to reach the garage quickly. Max signed the paperwork and within ten minutes, a taxi drove up to the front door.

At 11:04, their cab drove through the gateposts and pulled up in front of the house. Max tossed a few bills at the driver.

"Keep it."

"Hey, thanks," said the young man before driving off.

The air was warm but pleasant, and the woods were alive with the clicking din of August cicadas.

"Are you getting anything?" asked Max.

"No, nothing," said Kathleen, perplexed.

Max checked his watch again. It was 11:05. He looked back across the front of the property and the woods across the street. Everything seemed normal so far. "Hurry," he said. He ran up the steps and banged on the door, Kathleen following.

Gerry opened the door and smiled. "Hey, guys. Welcome. Come on in. Max, you're a bit late."

"I know," he said. Soft music played in the background, and Father Boyle and Sipo sat in armchairs in front of the fireplace. To Max it looked like tea at the vicarage, and the hostess sounded terrifyingly normal.

Gerry smiled. "Kathleen, I thought you couldn't make it."

"I rearranged my schedule. Is everything all right?"

"Everything is going to be fine." Gerry's eyes were bright, alert. "Have a seat." Kathleen took a place on the end of the couch and Max sat between her and Gerry.

"Where's Dan?"

"Upstairs. He should be down soon."

"Hello, Hank," said Max.

"Hi, Max." Sipo wore a dark sport jacket over a white shirt and held a tumbler of water - the only thing he ever seemed to drink.

Max turned to the priest. "Father Boyle, nice to see you."

The priest smiled and nodded. "Nice to see you too, Max." he said.

"Please excuse me. I have to check on something in the kitchen," said Gerry.

Kathleen stopped her before she left. "Are you all right?"

She smiled confidently and touched Kathleen's arm. "I'm fine. I'll be right back." She looked over at the wall to the left, where a table was crowded with bottles of wine, liquor and soft drinks. "The bar is over there. Just help yourself. Sorry about the plastic cups."

"Thanks," said Kathleen.

After Gerry left, Max turned to the priest. "Father, what has Gerry told you about this house?" Kathleen and Sipo watched the priest.

"Well, let me start by saying Gerry seems to have quite an imagination."

Max waited for more.

"She told me she thinks the house harbors a demonic presence. I told her the truth. Satan has no power over those who have put their faith in Jesus Christ. If Gerry continues to experience such irrational fears, I think she may need to see someone."

"I think you may be right," said Max, with a small, out-of-place giggle as he looked down into the clear, bubbling club soda in his glass. We all may be seeing someone very soon. They all stared at Max.

He said quickly, "Wasn't that a wonderful wedding?"

"Very nice," said Father Boyle.

"Beautiful," said Sipo.

Max crossed his legs and addressed the priest, "So you believe there's nothing unusual lurking around this place, Father?"

He seemed uncomfortable, then said, "I've seen many real infestations, and I sense nothing here."

Max cocked his head. "Father, are you psychic?"

He laughed. "No, Max. But after enough battles, one gets a sense of the enemy."

Max turned to Sipo. "Hank, here, on the other hand, is decidedly psychic. What do you think, Mr. Sipo?"

"I sense a large, architecturally interesting house."

Max nodded. "That's what I like about you, Hank. You go out on a limb with your psychic abilities."

Sipo smiled.

"Kathleen, what about you?" asked Max.

"Nothing. I'm getting nothing either."

"You sound almost disappointed," said Sipo.

"No, believe me, I'm not."

"Father, did Gerry tell you anything else?" asked Max.

"She told me about the regression and the séance. I advised her it was a dangerous mistake to take part in such things, and as a Catholic, she is forbidden to do so again. Incidentally, I also spoke to Father Logan."

Max checked his watch again. "Father Logan, yes. We met him. Very good man."

Boyle continued, "He also seems to think there's an evil presence here. It's possible he was the catalyst for Gerry's ideas about this place. Also, the poor man is suffering from the onset of Alzheimer's disease."

"Yet you're going to perform an exorcism?"

"I only consented to it because Gerry assured me if I didn't do it, she would perform a lay exorcism, and that could be extraordinarily dangerous if there truly was anything out of the ordinary here."

"Are lay exorcisms even allowed?" asked Kathleen.

"An exorcism to expel a malignant spirit from a person must be performed by a priest with the special knowledge and experience needed for such a task, and then only rarely. Technically, a lay person can perform a simple exorcism of a place, but it's dangerous and frowned upon. "

"Gerry is a determined young lady," said Max.

"I've noticed," said the priest.

Of course, what we did in Michael's hospital room was not an exorcism,"

"Yes, I was aware of that," said Max.

The priest smiled a bit, raising one blond eyebrow and said, "I was happy to bless Michael's room, Max, but there was nothing going on there."

Max nodded sheepishly. "I know. Sometimes, I have an overactive imagination too."

Father Boyle's blue eyes looked over the huge room. In each corner were small tripod-mounted laptops, each with a tiny green light and a photographic lens built into the open cover, like a dark shiny eye.

"What are they?" he asked, nodding toward one.

"They're part of our Aardvark system - an elaborate and expensive paranormal detection grid. It will pick up on any unwanted guests." He grinned. "You know, the ones who don't happen to have a current body."

Father Boyle smiled and said, "I see." He sipped a tumbler of water. "At first, the bishop was reluctant to allow this, but I told him the history of this place." He looked up at the top of the stairs. "This was the home of two of the most horrifically evil serial murderers in history. On that basis, I justified performing the exorcism, and Bishop Swain assented."

"I suspect any other priest might have been refused," said Max.

"Not necessarily," said Boyle.

"I'd be glad to assist in any way I can," said Max, checking his watch again and glancing nervously at the front door.

"Are you expecting someone?" asked Father Boyle.

Max laughed nervously. "I'm not sure. I don't think anyone else was invited." Just then, the doorbell rang.

Father Boyle smiled. "Ah, the uninvited."

"Yes," said Max, with a laugh that was a bit too hearty. The priest was delighted at the reaction to his remark.

"Excuse me," said Gerry. She looked at Max. She hoped he wasn't losing it. She might need him tonight.

She opened the door and saw Maura waiting on the doorstep.

"Hey, sweetie," said Gerry. "Thanks for coming."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Maura raised her eyebrows and looked over at the couch at Henry, then back at Gerry and grinned. "Henry said he hoped I'd be here tonight."

"Sounds like he likes you."

Gerry suspected Sipo was as skeptical as Father Boyle, and if he wanted Maura here, he probably didn't really believe anything would happen tonight any more than the rest of them. She and Max were outnumbered, and she wished with her whole being they were right. Her gut told her they were all dead wrong, though.

"Great. No spooky stuff like séances tonight, right?"

"Nope. No séances on the program card," said Gerry, biting her lower lip. "Just a teeny-weeny exorcism."

"But no rotating heads and pea soup, right?"

"Right. That's only in the movies. It's really chicken noodle."

"And I suppose there won't be any naked dancing in the woods either?"

"Um, no, Maura."

"Darn." Maura walked into the living room and everyone turned. She had changed her clothes and was now wearing a simple, forest-green dress cut above the knee. A small, heart-shaped gold locket hung from a thin chain around her neck.

Max, who had watched Maura walk in, picked up on Father Boyle's voice again.

"Gerry and Dan have confessed and accepted Christ in communion. They're a wonderful young couple, but from what Gerry told me on the phone, I think she may have an overactive imagination. She might even benefit from a bit of therapy. Overall, though, she's a healthy young woman with a strong core of faith. Nothing supernatural is going to harm her or Dan."

The priest laid his hand on Max's shoulder. "I won't need your active participation, Max, since Gerry and Dan are assisting. You're welcome to observe, however."

The priest rose. "If you'll excuse me, I have to prepare."

"Excellent," said Max. It was 11:15.

"Here's Maura, everyone," said Gerry, mostly to Sipo.

Maura sat in Father Boyle's place. "Hi, Hank," she said. Gerry noticed Sipo's face light up in his subtle, taciturn way.

Father Boyle walked up the stairs to a spare bedroom where he had laid out his vestments. He saw Dan leaning over the balcony looking at down at Gerry.

"Hello, Dan."

"Hey, Father."

The priest smiled. "Why don't you join me while I get ready."

Dan followed him into the bedroom.

"I know you're not comfortable with this," said the priest. He took off his jacket and slipped the white surplice over his clothes. On the rug near the bed sat an oversized attaché case.

"No, I'm not.. It's bizarre. This is our house. It's not an evil place that has to be cleansed by a medieval rite."

"You're right. It's not an evil place, Dan. It's just a house where evil people once lived. Good, decent people also lived here." He smiled. "A few live here now."

The priest put on the cassock, a long black garment with snaps up the middle, then slipped the white surplice over that, and finally put the stole over his head onto his shoulders, smoothing the ends down the front of the surplice. "We're just going to give the house a spiritual tidy up, so to speak. It can't hurt, Dan. It can only help. It's a rite of the Church, and a part of our faith."

Dan gave a small smile. "Okay, Father."

The priest straightened the stole on his shoulders. "I'm not partial to the color, but the stole has to be purple for an exorcism. It's traditional. In the Church, everything is tradition. Purple is the color of solemnity and penance, and the color of the robe the soldiers put on Christ to mock him when they crucified him."

He looked at Dan in a fatherly way, although he wasn't much older. "You and Gerry are going to be fine, Dan." He grinned and winked. "Lighten up, it's just a simple exorcism." He picked up the attaché case and lead the way downstairs.

Dan smiled. "Okay, Father."

As they walked down the stairs, Max took his small digital camera from his coat pocket and snapped shots of the priest coming down the stairs.

Kathleen looked in the corners, then up at the second landing at the tripods and mini-laptops pointing down each hallway. "Max, does the Aardvark units include digital video cameras?"

"Yes, they do. The lenses are those little green eyes in the middle." He pointed his camera up the stairs. "But I like to take my own shots at these things. You never know what you'll get. I also got some very nice pictures at Gerry and Dan's wedding today. Look," he said, snapping open a two-inch LCD screen showing Kathleen an amazingly sharp photograph of Dan and Gerry coming out of the church after the wedding.

"Very nice," said Kathleen. "And very normal."

He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Yes."

Father Boyle had Dan set up a small table in the middle of the great room facing the staircase, then placed his attaché case on it and snapped open the clasps. The sound was strangely loud. Gerry and Dan stood behind the priest, Gerry to his right, Dan to the left.

The priest gave Gerry and Dan each a small black prayer book, then took from the case two bottles of holy water and a small brass bucket with an aspergillum to dispense the liquid. He poured both bottles into the bucket, then placed the aspergillum into the water, leaning the handle against the rim. Then he took a thick, worn-looking prayer book from the case and tucked it under his arm and turned to the others in the room.

"Please be still during this service," said Father Boyle.

After making the sign of the cross over himself and everyone present, the priest grasped the handle of the aspergillum and sprinkled holy water over Dan and Gerry, then toward Max, Kathleen, Sipo and Maura.

Turning, he dipped the brass bulb back into the water and sprinkled each wall and corner. He nodded at Gerry and Dan and all three knelt on the rug.

Father Boyle opened his book and began the litany of the saints, with Gerry and Dan giving the prescribed responses. Gerry wondered for how many centuries these exact prayers had been recited. She felt a rush of gratitude for Father Boyle, as if her big brother was sticking up for her against a big kid in the playground. She smiled to herself at the ridiculous thought.

In a strong voice, Father Boyle began, "Lord, have mercy on us."

Gerry and Dan responded together, "Christ, have mercy on us."  
"Christ hear us."

"Christ graciously hear us."

"God, the Father of heaven."

"Have mercy on us."

Maura leaned her head over near Max's ear, keeping her eye on the priest

and whispered, "I know this one. Better get comfortable, it's going to be a while."

The prayers continued for what seemed an eternity to Gerry as they requested prayers of each saint by name, then deliverance from all things evil.

"From thy wrath."

"O Lord, deliver us."

"From sudden and unlooked for death,"

"O Lord, deliver us."

"From the snares of the devil,"

"O Lord, deliver us."

After a few minutes, Maura leaned over to Max. "We're at halftime now."

Max noticed that the priest hadn't requested the doors and windows to be left open during the ritual, as was usually done to allow the demon or spirit to escape the house. He saw the slightly-open edge of the front door beyond the foyer doorway and wondered if the priest had left it like that, expecting the exit of a rather small demon. He shifted his weight on the couch and looked around as the prayers reverberated through the huge space. It was never wise to underestimate your enemy.

As the prayers continued, Sipo moved subtly, leaning forward with head erect and spreading his feet apart, as if he had sensed something about to happen. Max noticed it but saw and felt nothing.

With a tiny creak, the front door moved open another inch, as if a breeze had pushed against it. Gerry felt cooler, or thought she did.

The priest read aloud the 53rd Psalm, then a prayer to Michael the Archangel.

"Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in our battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of this world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places."

As he spoke, Father Boyle's voice rose, and Gerry imagined the Archangel with a glittering sword in his hand, guarding her and Dan against an evil prince and his army.

Father Boyle turned a page in his prayer book and continued, "In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God, of Blessed Michael the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints, and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil."

For a minute, Sipo became like a statue, then looked first at Max, then back at the priest. Max pulled his jacket closed against his chest.

The temperature in the room was dropping. Gerry was sure of it. She looked sideways at Dan, who didn't seem to notice. Father Boyle's back was straighter, and his voice rose.

"Something is happening," Max whispered to Maura. Max caught Sipo's eye. He knew it too.

"Oh crap," Maura said, folding her arms.

The priest's voice rose, "God arises; His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him. As smoke is driven away, so are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish at the presence of God."

Gerry and Dan responded. "The Lion of the tribe of Judah, the offspring of David, hath conquered."

"May Thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us."

"As great as our hope in Thee." Gerry began to tremble slightly. A whistling noise descended from the upstairs, like a wind forcing itself through the tiny crack of a slightly open window.

"We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects. In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, may you be snatched away and driven from the Church of God and from the..." Everyone looked to the top of the staircase. As the whistling became louder, two house plants flanking the stairs at the landing trembled.

Gerry stared. She didn't own any fans, and none of the windows were open, as far as she knew.

Father Boyle turned back to his prayer book. "..from the Church of God and from the souls made to the image and likeness of God and redeemed by the Precious Blood of the Divine Lamb."

"I think I'm getting sick," said Maura. Max put his arm around her shoulder briefly, then moved closer to Sipo.

His whispering voice was harsh. "What do you think?"

"There's a very bad spirit here. I'm sure it wasn't here before, but it definitely is now."

"Are you getting it, Kathleen?"

"Oh yes," she said.

The whistling noise stopped and a current of air swirled gently above them near the ceiling, like a predator circling its prey. Gerry saw the paint smudge near the top of the ceiling move, then realized it wasn't a paint smudge after all, but the web of a small spider that had recently set up shop.

The priest had been looking near the ceiling too, then looked back at the book.

"Most cunning serpent, you shall no more dare to deceive the human race, persecute the Church, torment God's elect and sift them as wheat."

"Is the air conditioning on?" asked Maura, shivering.

"Max put his left arm around her shoulder. "No dear, I'm afraid not."

"Jesus," she breathed. "What is that?" Something unseen and disgusting had come into the room. Maura turned pale and steam rose from her mouth. She started to gag. Max grabbed her before she ran to the bathroom.

"No. Don't move." He grabbed a small wastebasket from under the end table and held her head as she retched into it. Maura sat back up and reached into her clutch purse for a tissue and wiped her mouth, then took out a small bottle of cologne and sprinkled it into the wastebasket. Max held her across the shoulders and pushed the trash bin back under the table. Maura was shaking.

Father Boyle's face was ashen but fierce and determined. "The Most High God commands you, He with whom, in your great insolence, you still claim to be equal. God who wants all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. God the Father commands you."

The wind whipped across the ceiling and slammed into their faces. Dan's eyes were wide. Gerry didn't know why, but she winked at him. They clutched their prayer books as the priest's voice roared across the room.

"God the Son commands you. God the Holy Ghost commands you. Christ, God's word made flesh, commands you."

The whole house trembled, as if a quake had begun deep in the earth. A heavy wind seemed to be pushing against the house from the outside.

"This is the strongest spirit I've ever encountered," said Sipo, gripping the arms of his chair. He moved over to the couch and Max shifted so Sipo could sit near Maura.

"And I," said Max.

Sipo put his arm around Maura, who continued to tremble violently.

Kathleen sat straight up, completely still, staring at the top of the stairs.

"Are you all right?" asked Max. Kathleen nodded her head.

"Thus, cursed Dragon," Father Boyle shouted, "And you, diabolical legions, we adjure you by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God, by the God who so loved the world that he gave up his only son, that every soul believing in Him might not perish but have life everlasting."

Gerry riveted her eyes on her prayer book, afraid to look from its pages. A door upstairs slammed loudly, and her eyes snapped to look at the top of the stairs. Another door slammed, and another. The wind whipped around the landings along the balustrade, then down the stairs and around the great room. Gerry's fingers gripped her book like frozen claws.

"We beseech Thee to deliver us by Thy power from all the tyranny of the infernal spirits, from their snares, their lies and their furious wickedness."

"Look," Max said harshly.

On the wall over the bar, wisps of smoke rose from points on the wall, and the smell of burning wafted across the room. The taupe paint began to streak with brown slashes.

"It's writing something," said Max.

"What is writing something?" asked Maura, trying not to look.

The large letters filled in randomly, small wisps of smoke streaming from the outside of the lettering, as if being written with a huge, red-hot stylus.

Max read the words aloud, his voice shaking, "'Vos es totus iens ut abyssus' . If my Latin serves, it means 'You are all going to hell' ."

Father Boyle noticed the words but looked quickly away and kept reading the prayers.

The wind seemed to slap the priest across the face and he flinched, then became angry. He grabbed the aspergillum and splashed holy water into the air above their heads and across the foot of the stairs. As he did, he said in a loud, chanting tenor, as if singing High Mass, "Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's salvation."

He wielded the brass instrument like a sword as he spoke. "Stoop beneath the all-powerful Hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy and terrible name of Jesus, this Name which causes Hell to tremble."

Father Boyle slashed the air viciously with the aspergillum and shouted, "Begone, Satan."

The air hissed like cold water splashing across a scalding hot griddle, and the wind swirled around the room faster and faster, until the front door smashed open violently with a loud cracking noise. The wind exploded out the door and rushed between the gateposts, screaming into the woods like a furious animal. Max ran to the doorway and saw the trees across the street shudder, then become still.

"Holy shit," said Dan, standing behind Gerry with his arms encircling her. She blinked a few times to make sure she was seeing correctly, then looked at the door hanging from one remaining hinge.

"Holy shit indeed," said Max. Everything was quiet.

"It's gone," said Kathleen.

"Yes," said Sipo, rising. He looked at Gerry. "Gerry, I'm so sorry. I didn't believe you."

"Neither did anyone else, except Max," she said.

Gerry turned to Maura. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure. Excuse me," she said, heading for the bathroom.

"Use one of the upstairs baths. Both of the baths down here are out of commission," said Dan. Maura nodded and headed upstairs.

"She doesn't seem too sure on her feet," said Henry. "Maybe I should take her home."

"She'll be all right. Let her get herself together and have a drink. I think she could use one. I know I could," said Max. He started for the bar. "Anyone else? Father Boyle?"

"No. Please wait and please be still," he said. He took the holy water bucket and walked over to the burnt writing on the wall and sprinkled the whole area with holy water, then went up the staircase and stopped on the landing and prayed aloud, sprinkling holy water there.

They waited quietly downstairs while Father Boyle methodically worked through all the other rooms upstairs.

"Would you get me something to drink?" Maura asked Max when she came down.

"Two scotches, coming up," said Max, heading for the bar.

Finally, Father Boyle came back downstairs and said to Gerry, "It's over."

Max turned to Kathleen. "Well?"

"I don't sense anything now," she said.

Sipo nodded in assent. "I don't either."

Father Boyle looked into Gerry's brown eyes. "Thank God you didn't try this yourself."

"Thank God you did," she said.

"That was the most powerful entity I've ever encountered," said Max.

"I'd have to agree," said the priest.

Dan had gone downstairs to the basement and brought up a paintbrush and the remains of wall paint they had applied a few weeks before. He began to paint over the words on the wall.

"Wait," said Max. He snapped off a few photos of the writing and put the camera back in his jacket pocket. "All right. Go ahead."

Dan had the words covered within minutes.

"I'll give it another coat later," he said, putting the can with the brush sticking out on a newspaper under the wall.

"Henry, would you give me a hand with the door?" asked Dan.

"I'd be glad to," he said. They maneuvered the door into a closed position.

"That'll do for tonight," said Dan. I'll call someone in the morning. I'm sure Jacqueline will let them in if we're already gone to the airport."

Just then, someone knocked on the door. Dan pulled the door slightly open and saw Jacqueline on the doorstep, her hair twisted in a towel, dressed in a large, bulky green bathrobe. "Is everything all right?" she asked, peering into the room.

"Come in, Jacqueline," said Dan. She stepped into the room and gawked at the damaged door, then saw the priest heading up the stairs in his vestments.

"What happened?" she asked.

"It was a micro-burst," said Max. "A stray thunderstorm. It happens sometimes. Nothing to worry about." He walked over to the bar and said under his breath, "Move along, nothing to see here."

"I almost called the police," said Jacqueline. "I thought someone was breaking in."

Gerry went over and hugged her. "Thanks for checking on us, Jacqueline. You're a good friend."

Jacqueline touched the towel on her head, as if just realizing she wasn't quite presentable for a get-together. She started backing away toward the door. "I think I'd better go. Good night."

Father Boyle came back downstairs with his vestments on a hanger. He laid them on the small table in the middle of the floor, on top of the attaché case.

In the doorway, Jacqueline nodded at Father Boyle. "Good night, Father."

"Good night," he answered, smiling. Jacqueline hurried back across to the rectory.

Max walked quickly to the back corner of the room and checked one of the Aardvark units. He tapped a few keys and said loudly, "Smashing." "What?" asked Gerry.

He walked back over. "We've gotten it all. The whole bloody thing. Oops, sorry, Father."

"No apologies necessary," said the priest, amused.

"That's not really cussing over here in the colonies, Max," said Gerry.

"Of course. We did get it all, though. Audio, video, temperature and magnetic measurements, everything."

"Super," said Gerry. "So will this be the last chapter of your manuscript?"

"That should do it," said Max. "This may even fetch a cable special. I just wish I had an actual appearance by the demon on the video."

"I'm glad you didn't," said Gerry.

Dan looked at his wife and smiled. She looked immensely relieved, almost physically lighter.

Kathleen said, "I'm going to make some tea. Is that okay, Gerry?"

"Of course. The tea bags and teapot are in the cupboard over the dishwasher. Dan and I have a teeny bit more packing to finish. I hate letting that wait until the morning. We won't be long. Come on, Dan." She turned back as she led Dan to the stairs.

Maura sat heavily into the couch. "Take your time."

"Dan, turn on some music for them before you come up. Father, please stay and have something," she said, then let Dan's hand go and headed quickly up the stairs.

"A cup of tea sounds nice," said the priest.

Upstairs, when they got to their room, Dan looked at the fully packed bags neatly arranged against the wall. "I thought we finished the packing."

"We did," she said. She leaned against his back and ran her hand up his thigh, up to his waist, then slipped her thumb against the skin beneath his waistband, slowly running the tip of her fingernail around his flat stomach from one side to the other.

"Oh," he said.

He turned around, and before they kissed, she said, "I think you should have turned the music on a little louder."

"Do you know how much I love you?" he asked.

Gerry's eyes filled and said, "I do know, Dan, and I love you just as much." She leaned up and kissed him hard.

Afterward, they went back downstairs and found everyone sitting around the fireplace. Father Boyle was sipping his tea and staring into the dark fireplace.

"That was quick," said Maura, her eyebrows raised salaciously. "Packing is great for relieving tension, but usually takes longer than that."

Gerry ignored her and said, "Father, I can't tell you how grateful we are."

"Not at all, Gerry. I'm just relieved it turned out the way it did."

"Hey, we haven't opened all the gifts yet, Dan." She walked over to a table on the wall near the front door that had an assortment of wrapped and unwrapped presents. Gerry picked up a small, flat package wrapped in shiny scarlet wrapping with a matching bow.

Maura coughed. "Gerry, that's from me. Open it later, kay?" she said, wrinkling her nose. Gerry put down the box and realized it was probably an extremely negligible negligee.

"It's a make-up kit. From Victoria's Secret." Maura smiled toward Father Boyle, who had glanced over from his chair.

Gerry put the package down. "I'll open this make-up kit later."

Maura nodded. "Good idea."

Gerry picked up a larger box. "This is about the size of a breadbox." She tore the wrapping and said, "Let's see." She pulled the wrapper off and said, "Hey, it is a breadbox. Okay, no it's not. What is this?"

Dan walked over. "Cool. This is one of those Photo Centers. Let's see. Oh, really cool. It has a 6 inch digital photo viewer with memory cards and photo printer, paper included. It also comes with a universal USB cable. Max, can I borrow your camera?"

"Of course." He handed it to Dan, who set it on the table and plugged the power cord into the wall.

Father Boyle rose and said, "I really should go. I'm quite tired."

Gerry said quickly, "Of course, Father. I'm sure this was all very draining for you."

"And for you and Dan," he said, picking up the wooden hanger holding his vestments.

"Here, let me carry your case," said Dan.

"No, I've got it," said the priest. He picked up the heavy case easily in his left hand. "Good night, everyone."

Gerry and Dan walked him to the door and out to his car, a sleek, late-model black Buick.

"Thanks, Father," said Dan.

"Yes, thanks," said Gerry.

The priest turned and said, "You're very welcome." He looked from one to the other, then up at the house. "This house, and the two of you, by the way, are protected by the Spirit of Christ and by St. Michael the Archangel. Don't forget that. You'll be fine." He smiled. "If you need me, call anytime. You have my cell phone number."

"Thanks, Father. I think we're going to be all right now," said Dan.

He smiled. "I'm sure of it." He got into the dark interior of the car and drove slowly down the driveway.

They went back inside and Gerry sat on the couch near Maura, leaning into her playfully. "Hey girl."

"Hey," said Maura, sipping her scotch.

Dan walked over to the bar for a soft drink.

"Quite a show," said Gerry.

"Quite," said Max, sipping his drink.

Maura stood up to go to the bar, but seemed unsteady and sat back onto the couch.

"Hey, are you okay, honey?" Gerry put her hand on Maura's forehead. "Maura, you're burning up." She seemed about to fall asleep sitting up.

She turned to Dan, who was leaning on the arm of the couch and said, "Dan, take her upstairs and let her lie down for a bit. I want to get some aspirin into her first, though."

Sipo stood and swept Maura up in an easy motion. "I've got her." He walked up the stairs behind Dan and they put Maura gently on the bed in a room two doors down from the master bedroom. She was already asleep.

Gerry came to the doorway with a glass of water and two pills and put them on the dresser.

Back downstairs, Gerry said, "I'm going to leave her where she is for the night. I want to keep an eye on her." She looked sheepishly at her husband. "I know this hasn't been the ideal wedding night. I'm sorry, Dan."

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "I thought it was okay. We did get all the packing done."

"I think I'll be going now," said Sipo. "Thanks for your hospitality."

Gerry laughed. "Oh, you're very welcome. Next year we're doing 'Exorcist, the Return.' I do appreciate your coming tonight, Mr. Sipo, and I'm glad we didn't need to retreat to our last redoubt."

"Redoubt?" asked Dan.

"I'll tell you later," said Gerry.

"It's always better to be ready," said Sipo. "In any case, Father Boyle was every bit as impressive as his reputation."

"And then some," said Max from the couch after draining the last bit in his glass. "He was a regular Father Merrin. I'm getting another drink."

Dan was over at the gift table, plugging in the Photo Center.

"Max, we should probably go too," said Kathleen.

Max settled into his armchair with his glass. "I want another scotch first."

"Good night, Mr. Sipo," said Kathleen, sitting on the couch.

"Call me Henry, please."

"I thought you preferred Hank," said Gerry.

He looked puzzled and said "No, I actually prefer Henry."

"But Max said..."

"I prefer Hank," said Max.

Sipo laughed. "You can call me Hank if you want, Max."

Henry had a good, strong, honest face, Gerry thought.

He said, "Gerry, please tell Maura I'll call her tomorrow. It's very good of you to take care of her."

"Not at all. That's my job as best friend. I've known her since grammar school. I'll tell her you'll call."

Sipo smiled and said, "Goodnight, everyone."

"See you, Henry," said Dan from the other side of the room. Sipo nodded and walked through the foyer, then forced the front door closed after him.

"Goodnight, Hank," said Max. Sipo waved.

Dan switched on the CD player and the Eagles "Hotel California" drifted through the house.

Lip-syncing the Eagles, Dan plugged Max's camera into the Photo Center. The first picture on the digital display was of them leaving St. Christopher's after the ceremony. It was sharp and lifelike, taken by Max from a kneeling position. Gerry held his arm and they were smiling, looking out into their lives.

"Max, these are great pictures. You have a great camera." said Gerry.

"Thank you. I'd like to think my considerable photographic skills had something to do with it as well."

"I'm sure they did," said Gerry, smiling.

"And he had two great subjects," said Kathleen.

"Let's see," said Gerry, walking over. She looked at the screen. "Oh, that is a good one. I want to make copies, Max."

Max waved his hand in languid assent.

Dan opened a package of 5 by 7 photo paper and fed a sheet into the device's paper holder. He pressed a tiny button and Gerry heard a low, mechanical whir as the bottom edge of the photo began to appear from a slot beneath the printer.

Gerry smiled, waiting as the printer showed first the hem of her dress, then slowly revealed her hands holding the bouquet, then her bodice. The dress really looked wonderful, and Dan's tuxedo was sharp. The picture finished printing and fell softly onto the top of the table. Gerry looked at it and put her hand over her mouth.

"Jesus God, no." she said in a whisper, inhaling sharply.

"Oh my God," said Dan.

Max walked over quickly. "What did you do, break it?"

Gerry shook her head slowly as Max and Kathleen both stared over her shoulder. Gerry wanted to pull her eyes away but couldn't stop looking at it. Their features were twisted into the cold, reptilian faces of Diana and Gregory Carmody.

Max turned deathly pale and said nothing. Gerry looked at Dan. He was shaken, and his body posture made him seem smaller. He was petrified.

She grabbed the picture and ripped it into pieces. If she could sacrifice herself this instant to make this all go away, she'd do it gladly.

"I don't understand," Kathleen whispered. "I thought it was over. And why

were all the photographs on the camera normal?"

Max found his voice and said, "Our demon is an old fashioned boy. It seems he's able to influence material texture and color on a tangible medium, but not on electronic images."

"It's going to happen," said Gerry. Max squeezed her arm, then looked around the room, first up at the stairs, then at the front door. In the corners, Aardvark's green, unblinking eyes were glowing and ready.

Next door, Jacqueline Armstrong rolled over and fell into a heavy sleep.

Kathleen suddenly began shivering uncontrollably and looked at the door. "It's out there, coming from the woods." Max put his arm around her shoulder.

"What's coming?" said Dan.

"Dan, you know what's coming," said Gerry.

"I don't think I can stand this, Max," said Kathleen, putting her hands against her ears. She said with a shaking voice, "I can't keep it out. It's the worst thing I've ever felt." She clutched her stomach and said, "I have to use the bathroom," then ran up the stairs.

The rest huddled together as they began to slowly move to the back of the house. Gerry stopped and stood glaring at the door, her fists clenched. Behind her, the others stood still, waiting, ready to run.

Near the tracks by the river, across from an old boarded-up railroad station, the Dew Drop Inn threw a muted glow onto the street, the last business left in a three-store strip mall that should have died along with the station ten years before.

Sam Carr, the bartender, watched the three of them walk into the nearly empty place and sit in a back booth. Above their head, an old, buzzing neon Budweiser sign read "udweiser". One of them, taking an inside seat, rested his head against the dirty wall and fell asleep. Another sat in the outside seat, and the third came over to the bar and bought a pitcher of beer.

Carr pegged these three as druggies right off. They had the haunted, skeletal look of addicts starving themselves with drugs. Physical hunger, a lesser god, was appeased with occasional scraps of food. The only other patrons were two old men sitting together at the front of the bar. Since they closed the station and the rail yard across the tracks, druggies and retired railroaders were all Sam Carr ever seemed to get in there any more, and neither did any real drinking.

Carr pushed the pitcher and three glasses over to the man, whose blue, tired eyes studied him warily as he pushed over a filthy five dollar bill.

All three of them had on worn-out ball caps and dirty tee shirts with slogans on them, the kind you could buy for three dollars at the Korean discount store on Broadway. It looked like none of them had shaved in the last week.

Carr kept his eye on them as the two wakeful addicts spoke in low tones.

"When are we gonna hook up, man?" asked Ace Burke, looking across at Everson Garvey. Next to Garvey, Bobby Cutter was snoring, his head against the wall. The hair sticking out from the side of his ball cap was dirty, stringy, and just starting to go gray.

Garvey was already pouring his second glass of beer. He drank the whole glass down and said, "We all gonna get hooked up later. I got three rocks, man."

"Whatever," said Ace, looking around the empty bar. He wanted to sip his beer slowly, enjoy it like a gentleman, and Garvey was guzzling like a pig. He looked at Garvey in disgust and drained his glass, then refilled it and drained it again.

"Easy on the pitcher," said Garvey.

"I paid for it, man," said Ace.

"Yeah, but I got the rocks."

"Whatever," said Ace.

"Whatever. That's all you ever fucking say, man."

Bobby Cutter was mumbling against the wall.

"Shut the fuck up, asshole," said Garvey, who then laughed along with Ace.

Cutter smiled behind closed eyes. In his dream, he was inhaling a cloud of crack smoke from a huge glass pipe trimmed in solid gold. The rush was incredible, and he rose up into the air like a genie escaping from a bottle. I'm gonna get three wishes, man, he thought to himself. He rose high into the blue sky, then floated in the air above the clouds. Suddenly he felt something cold and dark envelop him, squeezing him out, naked, like a full-grown, hairy fetus into a parallel dark world beyond the blue sky.

He mumbled "What the fuck," into the wall, and Ace and Garvey laughed.

Cutter floated into the darkness, drifting farther and farther away, until he could barely see himself sitting in the booth. Just before he disappeared into the blackness, Cutter saw a scary, fucked-up face look up at him with flickering red eyes. It looked into his soul and grinned, then slipped into his body, instantly absorbing everything Cutter ever knew, every feeling he ever felt, every word he ever spoke.

Cutter's eyes opened.

"Sleeping fucking beauty," said Ace. Garvey laughed into his beer.

Cutter poured himself a beer and said, "Dudes, I know where we can score some candy. Big time."

Garvey and Ace exchanged glances. "Yeah? Where?"

Cutter gestured with his head behind him. "Up on Barker Street. This big old house. It's really a mom and pop outfit just opened a few weeks ago. They're holding five, maybe ten kilos, getting ready to distribute."

"Where'd you hear this?" asked Ace.

"A dude I did time with. Saw him yesterday. He owed me, and now we're even." He leaned forward and said in a lower voice. "Man, all we gotta do is walk in there and take it. These people don't even carry any heat."

"Maybe they're connected," said Garvey.

"They ain't," said Cutter. "The only thing is, we gotta do both of them, and whoever else is with them. Then we just take the candy. No one knows nothin' and there's nothin' to connect us."

He watched the other two, who were silent. "Man, you know how much crack you can make out of ten kilos?"

Ace shook his head. "Enough to get us fucking killed. That much shit ain't just laying around unattached. They got to be working with somebody, man."

Cutter leaned back. "I thought you were a badass. That's what Garvey told me. He said you were a badass."

"That don't mean I'm a dumb ass, too."

"Dude, this is gonna be easy. They're sitting on that shit right now. We can be up there and done in an hour."

"I don't know, man," said Ace.

Cutter looked at Garvey. "You got that Beretta you stole from that old guy's house in Yonkers, right?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"On you?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. And I got my twenty-two."

Cutter looked at Ace. "You never go anywhere without that pretty knife, do you, Ace?"

Ace didn't answer.

"I mean, you don't carry that thing just cause it's pretty, do you? You ain't afraid to really use it, are you?"

"I ain't afraid of shit," said Ace, leaning back and staring into Cutter's eyes. He could always stare down Cutter. After a minute, Ace looked away. Cutter looked different, somehow.

"Garvey told me nobody fucked with you in the joint. He said you had your own bitch. That true? Did you have your own bitch? Or maybe you were the bitch. Is that how it went, Ace? Were you the bitch?" Cutter looked at Garvey and laughed. Garvey looked down, trying not to laugh.

Ace reached his hand to the small of his back where he kept a slim, stainless steel, Spanish-style dagger in a black leather sheath. Cutter had seen it dozens of times.

Cutter looked into Ace's angry eyes and laughed. "Chill, dude. I'm just playin'. I know you a badass. Cmon, man. You down, or what?"

Ace settled back. "Fuckin' A I'm down. That much crack is enough to last the rest of my life."

"I guarantee it," said Cutter.

"Let's do it right now, man," said Ace. "How we gonna get up there?"

Garvey said, "I can get my old lady to drop us off in her car. I'll tell her we're going to score some grass. She don't like me doin' crack." He laughed. "She wants to have a kid and she thinks crack might crack my sperm or something."

"Whatever," said Ace, now tense and ready.

Cutter tapped his finger on the table. "When we're done, we split up and meet back here."

Garvey looked over at the bartender. "We should meet outside the bar afterwards," said Garvey. "by the dumpster. We should just walk back slow, like we're coming home from work or some shit."

"Whatever you want," said Cutter, smiling.

Carr watched them leave. He shook his head, then went over to the table and brought the plastic glasses and pitcher back behind the bar and pushed them down into the soapy water in the bar sink.

Henry Sipo pushed the front door open and came back into the house, then forced it shut it after him. He walked into the living room staring back at the door.

"What's out there?" asked Max.

"I felt it just before I started my car. It's coming from the woods. Coming here, I think." He turned back to the door. "It's bad, very bad. My people call this spirit Mahtantu, the equivalent of your Lucifer, or Satan." He was shaken, and for some reason, Gerry was surprised by that.

"Will we be able to keep it out?" Gerry asked, gesturing back toward the living room.

"I don't know," he said.

"I thought we got rid of it," said Dan.

"No. It simply put on a bit of theatre," said Max. "And we were all taken in by it. I should have smelled it. This thing knew why the priest was here. It sent something in for effect, a lesser demon, or some poor trapped soul he has under his thumb."

"A canary in a mine shaft," said Gerry.

"Exactly," said Max.

"This can't be happening," said Dan. "It can't be real."

"Pinch yourself," said Max.

"Can't we call Father Boyle and ask him to come back?" asked Gerry.

"No. It's too late," said Max. "He's probably in bed by now. By the time he got here, it would be over."

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," said Dan to his wife.

"Forget it, babe. I almost didn't believe me. She kissed him quickly and went through the foyer and the window to the right of the front door, everyone else following. The sound of breaking glass came from upstairs. Gerry barely reacted as she looked outside.

"What the hell?" said Dan. He started toward the stairs.

Gerry grabbed his arm. "No." The sound of muted singing came from somewhere in the house.

"Do you hear that?" asked Dan. "I didn't turn on a radio."

"I hear it," said Max, "and I don't think it's a radio. Where's Kathleen?"

"She hasn't come back down from the bathroom," said Gerry.

"And Maura?"

"She's still sleeping in one of the bedrooms." She turned to Max. "It's Meg, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's Meg," said Max.

Gerry looked back out the window. A mist had settled around the property, diffusing the glow of the street light in front of the gate. Across the asphalt road, a foot-high sea of thick, gray-blue fog slowly advanced toward the house. It washed over the base of the street lamp and crept slowly to the gate pillars. Next door, the church was barely visible. As the fog overtook the stone pillars, they looked as if they were floating in the sky, reaching up through clouds.

Gerry hissed like a cornered animal. Two sharp points of fiery red light glowed from deep in the woods. They seemed to be trying to engage her eyes. She looked away.

Thump. Every nerve in Gerry's body jumped. "Oh, Jesus."

"It's coming," said Max.

"Except this time, it's the real thing," said Gerry. "It made the house vibrate."

Thump. Louder.

"Can't we just get out of here?" asked Dan.

"No," said Max. "It's much too late for that."

"Max, let's move the rug. Now." said Gerry, running back into the living room.

Max began rolling it neatly from one end.

Thump.

"Max, just drag the rug to the side," Gerry shouted. Sipo grabbed a corner and dragged it to the other side of the room, revealing a large circular design.

"Sorry, honey. We did this while you were out. It was easier that way."

"What is this?" asked Dan.

"A double barrier. It's a Celtic pentagram inside a Native American protective circle. It could have been prettier, but it should do the job," said Gerry.

"We hope," said Max

Two large circular designs were painted onto the wooden floor. The outer circle was formed by a foot-wide band, ten feet in circumference. It was decorated with a seamless figure-eight design with stylized symbols of the snake and the eagle, interwoven in an unbroken circle. Painted in red, the inner circle had a border designed with a Celtic protective rope spiral enclosing a five-pointed, equilateral star.

"Henry drew the outside circle. It's a Lenape protective design. I painted the pentacle. The red is for power, the white for purity," said Gerry. Sipo was pulling the rug against the other wall.

"Max, you're standing on the rug. Get off," said Sipo.

"Oops," said Max, hopping off the edge.

Max grabbed a tiny corner of the rug, trying to help as he began speaking quickly, "The pentagram is the most effective protective barrier against black magic. If done correctly, no entity can pierce it, and Mr. Sipo's drawing is an additional effective seal against evil spirits. Right, Hank?" He was speaking incredibly fast.

"Very effective."

"Calm down, Max," said Gerry, in a low voice. He was getting hysterical.

Thump.

Max continued, speaking a bit more slowly, but sounding short of breath, "The apex of the pentagram must face north, which is directly toward the front door, the arms directly east and west. When it comes, everyone must be inside the circle. Anyone outside the circle is toast, so to speak."

Thump. The whole house shook, and the lights went dark. The last vestiges of moonlight filtered through the windows into the house, barely pushing back the blackness.

Gerry looked toward the door. "We have to get into the circle."

She turned and said, "No matter what you do, don't cross the outside of the pentagram's circle. If you do, the seal is broken and we're all finished."

Dan stepped into the circle and waited for his wife. He was frightened.

Gerry suddenly shouted, "Jesus, Max, we have to get Maura and Kathleen." She started running for the stairs.

Max grabbed her arm. "I'll get them."

Sipo bolted for the stairs. "You get Kathleen, I'll get Maura." Max followed at his heels.

Gerry ran over to the window to get a last look outside. The house rattled as a huge hole appeared in the low-lying fog across the street, the footstep of something massive and invisible. Seconds later, another footprint appeared. Invisible, it strode out of the woods, shaking the earth with each step.

Transfixed, she stared as the body began to take form. It was tremendous, a man-shaped being with the physique of a Greek god and a mane of wild, leonine black hair. The skin was translucent, with glittering muscles, arteries and veins throbbing visibly. His face was indescribably beautiful. Stopping for a split second, he surveyed the earth and sky regally, like a prince returning to the land of his birthright. He bowed his head slightly, eyes staring straight ahead, then strode furiously toward the house.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," said Gerry. She looked across the street to the right and saw three dark figures in baseball caps walking quickly at the edge of the trees into the path of the thing. They had to see it by now, but they kept coming, as if it wasn't there. Gerry heard the sing-song coming from somewhere upstairs. It was louder now. She looked behind her for a second, then looked back and saw the first of the three men walking into the path of the demon.

"Watch out," Gerry shouted futilely behind the window, but the man wasn't trampled or torn to pieces. Instead, the demon seemed to melt into the ground behind him. The man pivoted to the left toward the house in full stride, followed by his two companions, their legs pushing the fog aside as they walked quickly toward the house.

The one in front looked directly at Gerry in the window. He grinned and his eyes became brilliant red-orange pools of liquid flame as they locked onto hers. The voice penetrated her mind like a laser, laughing in an impossibly deep bass voice that bored into her brain like a drill. She froze, staring at him, and her legs felt like they wouldn't hold her up any more.

"There's no escape now, Gerry. You'll feel the hopelessness very soon now. That's my favorite part. You'll whine and bargain when you realize Hell is real and you're really going there, but it won't help. I hope you and your companions get along well, because you're all going to spend eternity together. Unfortunately, after a few thousand years, you'll all hate each other. Dan will hate you the most because you'll remind him of all he has lost."

"You're an asshole," said Gerry.

The voice pounded back into her head. "Your priest couldn't stop me, and neither will the Indian or the drunken Englishman. I'm taking you all tonight, one way or the other."

"You really like to hear yourself talk, don't you?"

Ace put his hand behind his back and pulled out his knife. "This looks like it's gonna be easy," he said, walking behind on Cutter's left flank. To Cutter's right, Garvey pulled out his gun and made sure the safety was off.

"Nice clear night tonight," said Garvey, "But it kind of smells out here, don't it?"

"Whatever," said Ace.

Gerry stepped away from the window and ran back into the living room, yelling up the stairs, "Max. Hurry. We have to get into the circle."

Henry Sipo came running down the stairs carrying Maura in his arms and placed her gently in the circle. Max ran down behind him, alone.

"I can't find Kathleen. I looked everywhere," said Max, breathing heavily.

"Did you look on the third floor?" asked Gerry.

"What third floor?" Max screamed.

Gerry blinked, then said, "Never mind. It's too late. Stay inside the circle." Max and Sipo stood utterly still at the east and west points of the pentagram, staring at the doorway. Maura lay unconscious across the bottom two points, well away from the edge.

In the middle of the circle, Dan held Gerry tightly against him.

"Don't move," said Max. He was on one knee watching the door. "Don't anyone move."

Sipo carefully took off his shirt and placed it behind his feet. His torso was painted with the spotted markings of the jaguar, and he began chanting a battle prayer.

"Fine time to play Full Monte," said Max.

Something pushed against the front door and it fell off its last hinge and slammed hollowly on the wooden floor. A fetid, awful smell filled the room, and Cutter walked in. His eyes glowed red, and Max knew immediately what they were looking at.

"He's possessed," said Max. "Don't move."

Ace and Garvey walked in behind Cutter, Ace holding his knife in his right hand pointing outward, just like he always imagined he would in a real knife fight. Garvey pointed his gun sideways, like a gangbanger.

"It's showtime," said Ace.

"Shut up," said Cutter. "And don't do anything unless I tell you."

"Fuck you, man," said Ace. He waved his knife at Max. "Where's the shit?"

Max giggled and said, "The loo is in the back right corner, but it's out of order."

"What the fuck is loo?" asked Ace.

"Max, shut up," said Sipo.

"Why? We're in the circle."

"Max," said Sipo in a harsh whisper. "They have a gun."

"If they break the circle, the demon loses," said Max.

"But that wouldn't stop the bullet," said Sipo.

"You're right. Sorry. I'm still a little drunk."

From the center, Gerry rounded on Cutter and said, "You piece of filth. How many lives have been destroyed because of you and your vicious, disgusting ego. How much blood spilled? Now you're here to steal our lives and the lives of our future children."

She stared at him venomously and said, "I won't let you."

Cutter laughed as he surveyed the perimeter of the circle.

"You check upstairs for the candy," Garvey said to Ace. "I'll look down here."

Ace ran up the stairs and Garvey began looking in the couch, throwing cushions around.

"We should've brought some flashlights, man," said Garvey, running toward the kitchen.

Cutter stood outside the circle with his eyes closed, his arms outstretched. The singsong coming from upstairs was faster and louder now.

"He's joining with Meg now, Gerry," said Max.

In the center of the circle, Gerry turned to Dan and pulled his head to face her. "Kiss me, Danny." He pulled her toward him and kissed her.

It was quiet for several minutes and Max whispered "It doesn't have much time. Once the power is gone, he'll have to leave this body, and it'll all be over. He'll have missed his chance. We just need to stay inside the circle."

Max knelt, biting a fingernail and watching Cutter. He couldn't see the pistol in the back of his waistband. "I think we've really done it, Gerry. The circle is working. Soon the demon will have to release him. I only hope these halfwits just steal the silverware and get out. We have to be careful not to break the circle."

"What if they break it?" asked Dan.

"If the demon or his agent breaks the circle, all his power is gone, and he can't claim our souls. A gunshot will break the circle and the spell, but it might also kill someone."

After a quiet moment, Gerry said, "Damn it...."

Max giggled and said, "Profanity is never appropriate in mixed company, Gerry. Especially from a Catholic School girl."

Gerry continued to speak, as if she hadn't heard him. "I have to go downstairs for a moment," she continued.

She sounded strange. Max turned to her and leaned back on his heels, almost crossing the plane of the circle.

"Max," yelled Sipo. "Watch your foot."

Max pulled his right foot away from the edge. Gerry's face was distorted, her features unnaturally changing expression in a staccato fashion, like a claymation doll shaped by invisible hands. Her beautiful features were changing into those of Diana Carmody. The same was happening to Dan's face as he began turning into Gregory.

"Jesus," Max roared. His mind went blank and he couldn't remember the code word he used when he planted the hypnotic suggestion in Gerry and Dan's subconscious.

"I'll be right back, don't worry, Gregory," said Gerry, her voice no longer her own.

Frantic, eyes bulging, Max kept slapping his forehead, then finally remembered the hypnotic control word and screamed "Dragon."

Gerry blinked, then tried to say something else, but couldn't.

"Dragon," Max yelled again, even though he knew that if it didn't work the first time, it wouldn't the second.

Gerry's face slowly changed back into her own and she looked up at Dan and held his face between her hands.

She looked in his eyes and said, "Danny."

He looked down at her and his eyes focused. His features changed back and he put his hand on the back of her neck and kissed her.

Gerry turned and looked at Cutter, who was stalking around the circle, glaring furiously at them.

Gerry yelled at him, "Hey, what's your face, it's over. You can slink back under whatever rock you crawled out from under."

Ace ran back down the stairs and said "I can't find shit up there. Where is it, bitch?"

"Where's what, you moron?"

"Gerry, we're still vulnerable," said Sipo.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"You know what we want. Where's the stuff. Where's the candy?"

"Candy?"

"Drugs," said Max. "He means drugs. We have no drugs here, I'm afraid."

Garvey was standing next to Cutter. Licking his lips, he raised his weapon, pointed it at Gerry's face. "Wise ass bitch."

Cutter's hand moved to his waistband like lightening and he pumped a twenty-two slug into Garvey's temple before he could squeeze the Beretta's trigger. Garvey was dead before he fell heavily onto the hardwood floor.

"I said not to do anything unless I said so."

He grinned at Ace. "More for us."

Ace looked down at Garvey and stepped around the blood. "Whatever. Where is it?" he said, pointing the knife at Gerry.

Playing for time, she said "It's in a suitcase on the third floor. There's a little staircase in back of the landing."

"Shit better be there," said Ace, pointing his knife at her and running up the stairs.

Max moved his head and said, "I can't hear the chanting anymore."

Just as Ace reached the next-to-last step, a figure jumped out of the darkness and stared into his eyes. Ace screamed like a terrified child and wet himself, stumbling halfway back down the stairs.

Gerry and Max looked up. The figure stood at the top of the stairs with arms outstretched. Gerry felt her blood go cold.

"Jesus, it's Kathleen," she said. "Kathleen is Meg."

"But she's no longer joined with the demon," said Max. "The spell was broken when you heard the code word and snapped out of it."

Ace lifted his bulging eyes. The dark figure stared at him from the top step with wild, insane eyes, holding a huge jagged blade. Its straggling hair was wet and glinted red in the slice of moonlight reflecting from the blade. Ace then realized it wasn't a man, it was a woman, and she was soaked in blood. He knew the coppery smell.

"What the fuck," he said, backing up two more steps.

Gerry looked back at Cutter, who smiled and pointed his gun at Gerry's forehead. She began to shake and the voice came into her mind, "I'm going to have you one way or the other. You're just a little coward after all, aren't you? I feel the fear coming off you."

Gerry spit in his face. "Can you feel that, asshole?"

"Gerry, no," screamed Max, but it was too late. She had broken the circle.

The spit dripped from the corner of Cutter's smiling mouth.

A sudden light flashed from the doorway, hurting Gerry's eyes and distracting Cutter for a split second. With the circle already breached and nothing to lose, Gerry rushed him. Four shots rang out and Gerry stopped, clutching her chest, then looked up and saw Cutter's hand drop to his side and release the gun. It clattered to the floor. Eyes lifeless and blood dripping from his mouth, he sank to his knees and fell forward onto his face.

The demon rose like smoke from Cutter's body and formed back into its own physical body. Standing twelve feet high, arms crossed in front of his chest, it looked down at Gerry in terrible beauty with eyes of liquid fire. Staring into Gerry's eyes, it spread its arms and dark wings sprang from the back of them and across his shoulders like a reptilian crest. Behind Gerry and Dan, Max and Sipo stared up in disbelief.

The demon's muscular hands opened, displaying enormous clawed hands.

The voice laughed into Gerry's mind. "Now, child, I'm going to eat you and Dan whole, and then we're off to hell where I'll add you to my collection. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

Gerry stared up in shock. They had failed. They had failed and it was going to take them after all. Father Boyle said it couldn't harm them. He said the Spirit of Christ and Saint Michael the Archangel would protect them. They had confessed and received the Blessed Sacrament. How could this be happening?

"You lied in confession. You never confessed the sin of fornication with Dan, remember? You rationalized that. You told yourself that sex with someone you loved that much couldn't be a sin. You lied to your priest. Worse, you received Communion in a state of mortal sin and desecrated the Body of Christ."

Her heart beat faster. It was true. She had lied. She hadn't been truthful. The confession had been sacrilegious, and this thing was going to tear her and Dan to pieces and take them to Hell.

"Yes, I will."

A small hand touched the crown of her head and passed through her skull into her brain like a feather passing through air. She didn't even notice it as it reached for and caressed a specific, tiny place deep in her brain. Suddenly Gerry's mind flooded with a crushing, primitive terror.

The hand withdrew and the terror receded, then the voice came again. "You have one last chance to save yourselves from eternal suffering. All you need do is pick up the gun and shoot Dan in the temple, then stick the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. It's easy. If you do that, you'll be saved. You'll never have to feel this again." The hand touched her again and the unbearable fear rushed through her, then fell away as the hand retreated.

"There, see? That's how easy it will be. All the fear will go away, and you and Dan will live again, meet again. You'll have another chance. All you have to do is shoot Dan in the temple, and then yourself. That's all. You'll wake up and be reborn. If you don't, you'll live with this for eternity." The hand stabbed the center of her brain and Gerry covered her face and screamed.

Then the pain left again and the voice told her, "Do it right now, or you and your precious Danny will scream in pain forever. Do it now, Gerry."

Gerry crawled over toward the handgun that was laying in a pool of Cutter's blood.

"Do it now."

She looked at the gun and then back at Dan.

"Gerry, what are you doing?" said Dan.

"Do it."

Gerry leaned over toward the gun, then heard a voice coming from the front door. She looked through the demon and saw a figure standing in the foyer doorway holding a light. It was like looking through a veil. The demon was losing substance.

"Wait a minute. You're getting weaker," she said, standing up and pointing up at him. "You're disappearing." She glanced over at the figure standing at the top of the stairs holding the jagged blade, then back at the demon. It was flickering out of physical existence.

"You almost got us after all, didn't you? You missed your chance and you can't do a thing now, can you? You're done."

It glared at her with unimaginable hatred and slashed at her with his right hand. The claws passed through her harmlessly.

Gerry laughed at him and bit her lower lip. "Aw, are we having performance issues, Spanky, or whatever your name is?"

"Gerry, maybe you shouldn't be quite so rude," said Max.

It was almost completely invisible now.

Gerry walked toward the demon, spit on him again and said "Get out."

It seemed confused and flinched, then disappeared in a breath of wind that sighed past the cop into the night.

Gerry called after it, "By the way, that was a pretty lame exit. I thought your entrance was way more dramatic."

In the doorway, a cop held a flashlight pointed at Gerry in his left hand and a nine millimeter in his right. After shooting the individual laying on the ground near the woman, he had been watching an insane, hallucinating woman who had just spit at him and was far too close to the loaded weapon on the floor. She was probably on crystal meth and the two dead guys were probably here to grab her stash.

"Just stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them."

From the staircase, Ace looked down at Cutter's dead body and licked his lips. More for me, he thought staring up at the figure at the top of the stairs, gauging the danger. He had a few minutes to find the shit and climb down the side of the building. On the way in he saw a strong-looking rain pipe coming down the side of the house.

He had to move now. He switched his knife from his left to right hand like Jim Bowie would have done it and said, "Fuck this bitch," and moved up the stairs toward her.

Seeing motion near the staircase, the cop yelled, "I said nobody move." His light flashed back at him from a mirror on the opposite wall, temporarily blinding him, and he could barely see the staircase. He spoke into the receiver clipped onto his left shirt pocket and asked for backup.

Max crept up behind Ace as he advanced on Kathleen. Almost at the top step, Ace heard something behind him and turned, slashing at Max's throat.

Max fell and scampered backward on the seat of his pants away from Ace. His back hit the banister. Ace walked toward Max and drew his blade back to plunge it into Max's neck. As the knife started forward, Sipo's left forearm closed tightly around Ace's throat, and his right hand grabbed Ace's wrist in a vise and twisted his arm back. Sipo pushed the blade through the ribs into his heart, watching Ace shudder and stare in an almost comically hurt way into Sipo's eyes.

Sipo pulled out the knife and shoved him down the stairs. Ace bounced twice, breaking his neck on the last step. His mouth was open and he seemed to say "Whatever" as his dead eyes stared up at Sipo.

Max rushed to Kathleen. She was covered in her own blood, her wrists were slashed and the fingers of her right hand were almost severed from clutching the huge shard of glass.

"Kathleen," Max said softly, touching her face. She collapsed into his arms.

"Freeze. You people on the stairs. I said freeze." shouted the cop. He held his Glock ready and panned the light over Ace's body at the foot of the staircase, then up to a shirtless, painted Sipo standing motionless on the stairs next to an older guy holding a blood-soaked body.

"Jesus," he said.

Still in the circle on the floor, Maura sat up and saw Sipo, shirtless in the cop's spotlight.

"Oh yes. I think I'm going to like this game. I'll be right up, Henry." Her voice trailed off and she curled back up on the floor and went to sleep.

The Hastings cop spoke into his radio. "This is Mike De Angelis, Wilma. Tell them to hurry. We've got a real situation here. We need a couple of ambulances. Shots have been fired." The woman on the other end said something unintelligible.

With his hands up, Max turned and said, "You're Michael De Angeles?"

"So?" said the officer. "Do I know you?"

Max laughed hysterically. "Gerry. It's Michael De Angeles."

"Michael of the Angels," said Gerry, smiling and pointing at him. Father Boyle was right.

"Stay where you are," said the cop.

EPILOGUE

Dan drove into the hospital's parking lot and took his place behind the half dozen cars waiting for parking tickets. The gate lifted and he inched forward one car length.

"Gerry, does it bother you that we were once murderers?" he asked, staring straight ahead.

"Only in the literal sense. Seriously, it's uncomfortable to think about, but that's not me now, and that's not you, Danny. We've probably lived many lives, some good, some bad. It's not about guilt. It's about learning, and living your life the right way. Doing the right things and doing no harm. It's about love. We need to forget it and start from here."

"You're right, " said Dan. "I want to stop in the gift shop before we go up."

Upstairs, Michael pulled the heavy hospital drapes open and sunlight poured through the thick glass window. Max sat in a chair at the foot of Kathleen's bed.

"How's that, Mrs. Slovnick?" asked Michael. Mrs. Slovnick, the other occupant in the semi-private room, was eighty-two years old and suffered from phlebitis. She smiled over at Michael from the bed closest to the door.

"That's fine. Thank you, sweetheart. You're such a nice boy. This room is so dark." She leaned back into her pillow.

"Can we do anything else for you?" he asked.

She waved him off. "No thanks, dear. I'm fine. You visit with your friend."

Kathleen watched him from the other bed. He came back and sat on the chair next to her.

"You're a good guy," said Kathleen.

"It's not too much light for you, is it?"

"No. It's fine," she said, patting his hand.

"Here's a copy of the newspaper I saved for you," said Max. We made the front page of the Hastings Bee.

He read the headline: 'Home Invasion Results in Three Deaths.' The article says three local drug dealers fought over a drug shipment, but had hit the wrong house. I can't say their untimely demise tugs at the heartstrings."

Max put down the paper. "The demon used those thugs as insurance, in case his little play didn't go the way he wanted. He recruited the thugs to use them to take Gerry and Dan's lives, even if he couldn't take their souls. If it weren't for Gerry, he would have had both, I believe."

The door opened and Gerry and Dan entered with flowers and a huge get-well balloon. Gerry hugged Kathleen gently and Dan placed the flowers and balloon on the nightstand. Even with the sunken eyes and sallow skin, her looks were vastly improved over the night she was admitted.

"You look much stronger, Kathleen."

"You look great," said Dan.

"What a sweet lie," said Kathleen.

"You look far better than you did that night at the house," said Max.

"Thanks. I certainly owe this place a few pints of blood. The last thing I remember was going up the stairs to check on Maura. I still don't understand how I could have been so blind."

"The demon blocked you," said Max. "He needed you to believe nothing was going to happen. It wasn't until the very end that it let you sense the danger. He knew you'd go straight to the house to help Gerry."

"Michael, would you raise the bed so I can sit up?"

Michael pressed a button on the console at the foot of the bed. Kathleen raised her hand when she reached a comfortable position.

"Thanks. That's better."

Michael sat back down and held her hand. An IV needle in her other arm was connected to a glucose bag.

"Michael has spent most of the last two days sitting in that chair," she said.

Gerry smiled at him.

"I don't know how to come to terms with what I did - what I was," said Kathleen.

Gerry said quickly, "Hey, you're not Margaret Fitzgerald, you're Kathleen O'Mara, and you haven't got a mean bone in your body."

Max waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "It's over. Kathleen, Gerry and Dan have all paid their karmic debt. Overpaid, in my opinion. The slate is clean. The best thing for all of us would be to rationalize this and never talk about it again. With the exception of book store signings and talk show interviews for my book and subsequent movie."

An old man in a tweed cap came in, smiled, and went over to Mrs. Slovnick.

"Hi, Mr. Slovnick," said Kathleen.

"Hello, dear," he answered. "You look much better."

"Thanks."

A minute later, Maura walked in wearing business dress, followed by Henry Sipo. "Hey guys. Hey, Kathleen, how are you feeling?" asked Maura.

"Much better. Thanks. How are you feeling, Maura?"

"I'm good. I had a strep infection. Don't worry, I'm taking antibiotics. It's not catching any more."

"How are you, Henry?" asked Gerry.

"I'm fine, thanks."

Maura leaned on his arm. "The police said Henry acted in self defense during a home invasion, so he won't be charged with anything.

"I should hope not," said Gerry.

"So Gerry, when are you having your next party?" Maura asked, "because we sure can't wait."

Gerry smiled. "I'll let you know."

"You're not going to continue living in that house, are you?" asked Maura.

"Actually, no. We're moving into a co-op on the Upper West Side. I loved that house, but it really is a bit too large after all."

"Good call," said Maura. "When you're ready, you have my card. Hey, and we get to have another housewarming." She pointed at Gerry. "But no regressions."

"No regressions," said Gerry.

"And no séances or exorcisms."

Gerry nodded. "I promise."

"Max, do you think it's really over?" Gerry asked. "Is the demon finished with us?"

"Oh, definitely. The contract is null and void, and you've got his number now, so to speak. He'll move on to easier pickings. Also, you're personal friends with a certain angel called Michael. Our unpleasant friend won't be bothering any of us again."

"What about Delia? Is she gone now?" asked Gerry. "She was a complete innocent in this. She never really did anything wrong."

"In that life, as far as we know," said Max. "I'm confident she has moved on, though."

Max rubbed his chin. "You know, a short session at the house with a medium could easily confirm that."

"No thanks," said Dan quickly. "That won't be necessary. I'm sure Delia is on the highway to heaven even as we speak."

THE END
