 
250

whither WILLOW ?

by

## Peter J. Ponzo

PROLOGUE

"Why, that Miss Cassandra, she was standing on the table, naked as the day she was born, 'cept fer stuff tangled in her hair, vines or somethin'."

It was January 27, 1917, in Martin's Bar, and Doc Manner was leaning on the table in the darkest corner, and the others, Jonah Winnich and Saul Shulom and Grubby Baker, they all listened intently, barely breathing, their beer standing untouched. The good doctor sucked once on a dead pipe and continued.

"And her body, covered in black - black streaks, all over her body - like she was painted from head to toe in black streaks. Like wavy lines, all over, head to toe. She was hummin', sort of. Her eyes was closed and she was hummin' and the others, they all was hummin' too, 'cept fer Jake who kept lookin' at me. Even the two gals, pregnant, they just started right in hummin'."

Doc shook his head and frowned. The others were silent, waiting for him to continue.

"I'll tell you, I was scared, just a little mind you, but I was scared. They're weird, this family. The whole lot of them, there in that room, their eyes, they was weird."

He put down his pipe and stared into his beer mug and took a deep breath. They all waited.

"Then Miss Cassandra opened her eyes. You never seen anythin' like those eyes. Fiery red and flamin' and shinin' as to light up the room, which was pretty dark just the same. Well, I starts to back out, toward the door, and bumps right into Arnie. He pushes me into the room ag'in and starts to point. He points at Miss Cassandra, then at the others, then he points to the window and starts to cry, shakin' all over. He runs to the window. The others they just ignore him, but Arnie points at the window. It was dark and I couldn't see nothin' out there, just the branches of that big old willow tree bangin' on the window. Arnie looks scared and keeps pointin' at that old willow, so I starts to go and Arnie runs back and grabs me, pullin' me into the room. Now they's all on their feet, Mrs. Kumar and the others. The eyes, funny ... Miss Cassandra is still standing on the table just starin' at me and I could swear ... I could swear ..."

Doc stopped and dropped his pipe. He looked nervous. He stooped to pick up his pipe, but instead leaned heavily against the table.

"Well? What happened then?" Saul whispered. "Doc? You okay?"

"The lines on Miss Cassandra's body. They was movin'. I could swear they was movin', just movin' back and forth, like snakes or somethin'. Twistin' and turnin' and coilin' back and forth, up and down, and she was starin' right at me, eyes burnin' a hole in my head, those red, fiery eyes burnin' a hole..."
CHAPTER 1  
Joshua Kumar: June, 1895

The house stood tall and narrow beyond an expanse of lush green lawn. Skyrocket junipers echoed its height as did the narrow stained glass windows, each surmounted by an arc of brick and ornate white woodwork. The massive, carved wooden door was set in the center of the building, bordered on each side by slits of glass that now reflected the morning light.

Joshua Kumar walked directly away from the house, down the walkway covered in white gravel. When he reached the dirt road he turned and looked back, admiringly, at the house. It was perfect, even more perfect than he had expected. The warm spring rains had supported a burst of growth, the lawn and junipers and squat mugho pine, planted just months before. A neatly trimmed forsythia had finished blooming and was now thinly covered in bright green.

The front door opened and Melissa stepped onto the small porch and waved. Joshua grinned then beckoned his wife to join him and together they admired the new home. Beyond the house was an aspen forest and beyond that, barely visible, rising in the morning mist, was Tooly Peak.

Joshua looked down and ran his hand gently over her swollen belly.

"He'll like my new house, ain't that the truth?" he said.

"Oh Joshua! Why do you say _he_? You may be surprised." She paused and looked down, running her hand carefully over the thin cord which held her apron. "Would you be very disappointed if it's a girl?"

Joshua stared intently at the house, then turned slowly and looked at his wife.

"Melissa, my sweet, you will give me a boy. Don't even think about anything else, a boy, I want a boy." He pulled his wife closer and gazed at the house. Suddenly he brightened. "Melissa? What is missing?"

"Missing? Nothing is missing my dear. Your house is perfect. Nothing is -"

"No! Something _is_ missing. What is it?" Joshua pushed his wife gently aside and stared at her, frowning. "Well? What is missing?"

"I'm sorry Joshua, I don't know what is -"

"A tree! A very large, very beautiful tree. My house needs a tree. Every house needs a tree. My Pa told me that, every house needs a tree ... and _that's_ what's missing." He stared down at Melissa, pride in his face.

"Yes, Joshua. It needs a tree," she whispered. "What kind of tree do you think -"

"Think Melissa!" he growled impatiently. "A huge tree with branches that hang down, all covered in fine leaves. A tree that you can hide under. The branches will hang to the ground, my boy can hide under the tree. What kind of tree is that?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Joshua."

"Melissa! Think!" Joshua glared. "A tree with branches that my boy can climb. He can hide in the branches. The tree will grow very large and -"

"I don't know -"

"Don't interrupt! I don't like it when you interrupt. Now ... do you know what kind of tree? I will tell you since you seem to know so little about trees." He paused for a moment, until Melissa was attentive to his words. "It is a willow tree!"

Joshua looked triumphantly at his wife. She smiled weakly and he pulled her to him and stared again at the house. "See? Right over there by the left corner, just beside his bedroom window. This tree will grow quickly and will shade his window."

"Joshua, that is a wonderful idea. Now I must go and finish my washing. I am pleased that you have decided on a willow tree. It will make your house even more beautiful than -"

"Yes! Even more beautiful! Now my dear, you go in and do your washing and I will dig the hole for the tree, the very big, very beautiful willow tree."

Melissa walked to the house, holding her stomach carefully as she climbed the stairs to the porch.

"Melissa!" Joshua shouted. "I will call you when it's time to plant the tree! You will help me put it in the ground."

His wife smiled weakly, turned and pulled open the massive door then entered the house.

Joshua walked to the left front corner of the house and stared at the ground. A small rose bush that Melissa had planted stood precisely where he would plant his willow tree. He plucked the bush violently from the ground. A thorn stuck into his thumb and he cursed and threw the bush aside, sucking his thumb and staring at the door through which his wife had entered. She had planted that thorny bush where his willow tree would grow. She was not very bright, but she _was_ pretty.

Joshua smiled to himself. Perhaps he had married her just because she was pretty. Hadn't the boys said that she was quite a catch? Hadn't she refused to go out with any of the boys? When he had taken her to Moss Hill, hadn't he been the envy of the others? The stories he told to the boys about his trips to the Hill, the admiration he had won, and the envy. He grinned at the thought. Moss Hill had done the trick. Her father had insisted that they be married.

Joshua laughed out loud. He was very clever, _very_ clever. His wife was not very bright, but she _was_ pretty.

***

When the hole was deep enough Joshua stood back and wiped his brow. He was a tall thin man with a narrow strip of black beard which ran from his sideburns to his chin, framing his face in a neat border. The rest of his face was clean shaven, his cheeks ruddy and his nose hawkish with a severe corner. Small, bright blue eyes gleamed from beneath shaggy black brows. His hair was straight and long and black, hanging almost to his broad shoulders. Joshua had pulled up his sleeves, the sinewy cords of muscle embossed with veins.

He thoroughly enjoyed manual work. At the mill he amazed his friends by carrying logs that no two others could carry. They talked about that at the mill and he was clearly the envy, and the terror, of the other mill hands. That was because he was just like his Pa. His Pa had been big and strong and everybody in the county feared him. Joshua revered his old man and tried to be just like him, never backing away from a fight and never losing one either. When he was ten his father had taught him to fight, and use an axe. "Don't never mind schooling," his Pa had said. "Learn to fight, to use an axe. Now _that's_ what makes a man."

His father had died when Joshua was sixteen. That was the worst day of his life and he ran away from home and never returned. He cried for days, hiding in the bog so nobody could see him or find him. His Pa had died in a fight. It wasn't fair either. There were four of them against only his old man. But his Pa had killed one of them with an axe, two others had broken bones and had to be taken to the hospital over in Dundee and the last had run away. A coward, Joshua thought, infuriated. When Joshua had come out of the bog he swore that he'd find that last one, and he did. Most people in the county knew Barney Fellows. He and his three friends were always seen together, and when Joshua learned of the three who had attacked his Pa he knew right off who the fourth was.

Joshua found Barney in a bar in Badenberg, waited in Deakins Alley until Barney left the bar, drunk and unsteady, then followed him to Drumbo Creek and jumped him just as he was about to step across the stones which spanned the creek. It wasn't much of a fight. Joshua, even at sixteen, was larger and stronger than Barney so he just plain knocked him down, and chopped off his head with an axe.

"For my Pa. For my Pa and for me," he had said, as the axe fell. "We don't take none to cowards."

Sparrow Lake was more of a swamp than a lake and it was said that it had no bottom. Joshua dragged the body to the lake and threw it in. The body of Barney Fellows vanished immediately and was never seen again.

When Joshua labored alone, he thought of his Pa. Indeed, his Pa seemed closer to him in death than in life. Joshua Kumar was just like his Pa, and his boy would be just like Joshua.

***

Joshua looked into the hole he had dug for the willow tree, wiped his hands on his heavy cloth shirt, stared down at the streak of dirt and smiled. Melissa would clean his shirt just like new. She was good at that. He looked around and saw the tree lying on the ground, almost a single branch with three small yellow leaves at the top. He stooped and picked it up, placed it into the hole and hollered. "Melissa! C'mere! It's time!"

He waited until she had walked carefully to his side, holding her stomach.

"Now, 'lissa, you just hold this here tree in the hole, just like that, and I'll pile the dirt in. Don't move it 'cause it's gotta be straight and true. It's gotta grow tall and straight. Just hold it."

He waited for a moment until his wife held the tree in place, then began to shovel dirt into the hole, stomping it every once in a while. Melissa tried to stand back to avoid the dirt, but her dress was soon covered in mud. She didn't say anything. She knew better than to complain. Her husband had a terrible temper.

Done, Joshua backed up to admire the tree. "It ain't straight 'lissa! You didn't hold it straight! How can it grow tall and true if'n you don't hold it straight! You ain't too bright but ... but, Melissa," he smiled, "you're pretty, right?" Joshua chuckled, grabbed the tree and jerked it. It straightened and he stomped on the ground around its base. "Good! That's done! Now you can git back to yer washin'."

He lifted the large pail of water and poured it carelessly about the tree. Streams of mud ran onto his boots, but he took no notice. Melissa walked slowly back to the house, turning once to see Joshua sitting on the damp ground, admiring his willow.

"She's a beauty," he muttered. "This here tree will shade my boy's window. My boy will climb the branches, the branches will hang to the ground, big branches covered in little leaves. Yup ... she's a beauty, this tree." Suddenly he laughed aloud at the joke, throwing back his head. "Melly is just like this tree ... not too bright ... but she's pretty!" He laughed again and fell backward onto the ground, still laughing. He'd tell the others about Melly and the willow. "Not too bright, but pretty."

When he jumped to his feet his boots and shirt were covered in streaks of dark mud. He walked to the porch, punched open the door and entered the house.

Melissa was stirring the soup. Joshua sniffed the air, patted her on the buttocks then slumped into an upholstered chair, sliding down so his feet were sticking straight across the small carpet.

"I'll have my wine now," he said.

Melissa slid the pot off the fire and walked carefully around Joshua's feet, to the cabinet. Joshua watched her intently. He had admired this little woman. She was half his size, slender and dainty. She was just a piece of fluff. Her hair hung in long neat curls and her eyes sparkled. He had always admired the way her hair hung down and how the dress clung to her slim body.

That was then. Now, she was almost grotesque, with distended belly and a walk, once so delicate, a waddle. He grunted as she placed the jug and glass on the small hand-made table next to the chair and returned to the stove. Lifting the jug to his lips, he drank deeply, the red liquid trickling down his cheeks, vanishing into his beard.

"'lissa? I have an idea. What do you think it is?" Joshua banged the jug onto the table.

"I'm sure I don't know, Joshua." She stopped, turned to look at him, then continued with the soup.

"I'll give you a little hint. It's about my boy. It's when he's -"

"Joshua, what if it's a girl - what if -?"

"Don't interrupt! I hate it when you interrupt!" Joshua leaned forward, frowning, his huge hands clasping his knees. His baby _would_ be a boy. He would be the son that Joshua was to his Pa. "Now listen to me. When my _boy_ is one year old," he said harshly, emphasizing the word _boy_ , "guess what I'll do?" Joshua stuck out his legs and leaned back, frowning and squinting at his wife.

Melissa shook her head and continued to stir the soup, occasionally looking over her shoulder at her husband, cautious not to anger him.

Pleased that he had her attention, Joshua continued. "You can't imagine? Just think a little. Can you do that, think a little?" He laughed at the words. "Can you do that, think a little?"

Melissa shook her head again.

"Okay 'lissa, this is what I'll do when my boy is one year old. I'll take him out to the bog and we'll get us some ducks. That old swamp has lots of ducks in the Fall. They'll jest drop down into the bush and set there in the water, jest awaitin' for me 'n' the boy. I'll teach him to shoot, to catch rabbit and groundhog. When he's one year he'll know how to shoot a gun, handle an axe and -"

"Joshua, that's much too young," she said tentatively.

"Melissa! I don't like it when you interrupt! Hear?" He rose suddenly and stalked out of the room.

Melissa looked at the chair. It was covered with streaks of mud. She sighed and continued to stir the soup.

October, 1895

The first snow had come in early October and stayed on the ground. The aspen in back of the property still waved a few yellow leaves and the dark mushrooms made the ground lumpy, pushing through snow and fallen twigs. Joshua finished chopping the wood, pulled off his woolen cap and wiped his brow. There was enough wood for the Winter even if the snow did come early this year. He was prepared for an early snow, he was prepared for anything. His Pa had taught him to be prepared. His Pa was very clever and he, Joshua, took after his Pa, and his boy would take after _him_. Now he would go into town and have a beer with the boys. He spun about and marched into the house.

After stoking the fire and changing his cap Joshua stood by the kitchen door. His wife was enormous, her belly hanging before her like a cow's udder. He gazed at her for some time as she folded the laundry. He wondered when his son would arrive. He had already warned Doc Manner to be prepared, as prepared as Joshua was: he had made a crib and a rocking horse, a rack to hold the boy's rifle and a box to hold the toys. Melissa had asked for the toy box. Joshua had resisted, his boy would not be playing much with toys, but Melissa had asked and asked and he had finally given in. She was sometimes very persistent. She had a way of repeating some wish so often that he just gave in, instead of listening to her nagging.

Wives shouldn't nag. There was no reason for them to nag. They had no worries, they just had to do the washing and cooking. A simple life, just wash and cook, sometimes darn socks. Once in a while they would do a little wood chopping, but not often. Just darn socks, maybe mend his shirt ... and clean the house once or twice a week. He had to prepare for everything, worry about everything. Wives just darn socks ... maybe touch up the porch with a little paint or carry water from the well or fold laundry or buy groceries or ...

Joshua shook his head. Why was he thinking about such things? The boys were waiting at Martin's Bar.

"Melly, I'm goin' to town ... keep supper hot. The fire's stoked and there's more wood in the back porch."

He turned and walked to the front door without waiting for her response. Melissa nodded and continued to fold the pile of laundry heaped on the kitchen table.

Melissa Kumar was a pretty young woman with pink complexion and, except for the distended belly, every feature was miniature: small nose, lips, ears and twinkling blue eyes. She had let her hair grow since before she was married because Joshua had insisted. Now it cascaded in rolling curls down her back. One day she would cut it short, but only if Joshua agreed.

When she heard the front door close with a thud she went to the window and watched Joshua until he had walked over the hill on his way to town. Then she went to the cupboard and reached behind the pile of dishes. She sat wearily at the table and read the letter, a letter she had read many times in the last week. It was from Doc Manner and it was addressed to Joshua. She had opened it knowing what it would say. Joshua must not see it, but he would know soon, and what would she do then? Joshua was a good provider and almost always had work, mostly in the mill over Dundee way. And she thought she loved him, yes, she was sure that she loved him, but she must not make him angry.

Joshua had always been wild and unpredictable, like an animal, like a storm, like a violent wind that sweeps across the corn, bending all before it. When she was a girl, she had watched him in awe, thrilled. When Joshua's father had been found, dead, she knew that the violent wind would become a hurricane, a volcano, raging.

Barney Fellows had been a close friend, working on her father's farm, a gentle boy who loved her very much and came courting in the Fall of '93. When Barney vanished, everyone knew that it was Joshua's doing: the volcano had erupted. Yet, she did not mourn the passing of Barney Fellows. She fantasized. The hurricane had taken Barney from her, the hurricane must now come to her - and it did, and she was overjoyed, ecstatic, and she gave herself to the raging wind on Moss Hill, and she told her Pa, weeping tears of hidden joy, and her Pa insisted: Joshua must marry her ... and her fantasy became reality.

She married the hurricane in the dead of Winter, January, 1895, and he was gentle and kind as she knew he would be, a warm wind that caressed her, fondling, embracing, loving. And he built a house, even as it snowed and the cold Winter howled, and life was a dream fulfilled. No more the hurricane, no more the violent wind, no more the raging volcano.

Then he killed her dog.

It was acting like any little dog, it was a good dog, she had loved that dog ever since before she got married. It was old, sort of a mongrel, but it was good company. Her mother had let her take it to their new home. It had grown up with her. It just barked when Joshua came home late from his night with the boys. Just one or two tiny barks. Any dog would bark if there were strange noises in the night. Joshua had no right to kill it.

He had staggered into the living room, in the dark, and the small dog had jumped up on his leg, barking, barking. He had kicked it across the room but the dog had squealed, then run back, barking. When Melissa reached the room Joshua had already swept the axe from the wall and was swinging it in a great arc above his head. She screamed, but it was too late. Joshua just left the dog lying on the blood-stained floor, in halves, and had gone to bed. She buried the poor dog that very same night. She had loved that dog dearly, yet she hadn't cried, not one bit. But she was careful not to mark the grave. Joshua should not know where it was buried. She never mentioned the dog again and neither did Joshua.

She was living in the eye of a hurricane, and it was suddenly frightening.

She had left him then, gone home, to her mother, crying. But her father would have none of it. A marriage is for better or worse. A marriage is forever.

Then Joshua came, wringing his hands, tearful. He begged and promised and touched her, once more the gentle breeze on her cheek, and she followed him, again, to his house, tall and narrow with stained glass and arched brick.

Yet the hurricane was there. When would it rage?

Melissa looked at the letter from Doc Manner again.

What would Joshua do when he discovered that their baby was bound to be a girl?

Martin's Bar

"Josh, can't yuh talk about anything ceptin' that boy o' yours?"

It was Saul Shulom talking. They were sitting in almost total darkness at the table in the farthest corner of the bar, as was their custom. Saul, bearded with red cheeks, and Bart with leather cap pulled tight, and Arnie with dancing eyes; they sat facing Joshua.

There were about eight round tables distributed randomly about the small room, all dark cedar with straight back chairs and several tin ashtrays at each table. Most of the other tables were empty and old man Martin was in back. Two oil lamps glowed from the counter and behind that was the beer and whiskey, lined up on the shelves.

"Yeah! What about the little woman? Tell us 'bout her? She still good in bed?" Saul said what all wanted to ask. "Tell us about that. You used to tell us about that little gal in bed. What about -"

Joshua banged his mug on the table, spilling half of the beer. "She's as big as a house. What do you think? She's like a cow. Ever go to bed with a cow?" They all laughed and Joshua grinned and settled back in his chair.

"You know Josh, you may get a gal ... ever think o' that? What if that little wife gives yuh a baby gal ... ever think o' that?" Arnie was serious as he said it.

The grin left Joshua's face and he stood up, fingers resting on the edge of the table. He was much taller than the three other dark and swarthy men. Even in the dim light they could see the fire in his eyes. They stopped laughing. Now he was angry. Best to wait until he calmed down. Best not to say anything. After a minute Joshua did sit down, solemn, frowning.

"You may get a gal," repeated the man across the table, quietly, almost whispering. "Better get used to the idea."

The others looked at Arnie with surprise, then at Joshua, anticipating a violent reaction. Arnie continued. "Ain't nothin' wrong with a gal, Josh. Maybe ... jest maybe it _will_ be a gal and -"

Joshua reached over and grabbed Arnie by his shirt and dragged him across the table. The others jumped up, grabbed Joshua, pulled him away until he had dropped Arnie.

"It'll be a boy!" Joshua was leaning on the table and shouting directly across. "Melly will ... it's for sure ... she'll drop a boy, hear?"

They all stood, watching. They had never seen Joshua this mad. Arnie was on the floor and stayed there, carefully straightening his shirt. The door of the bar opened. The setting sun was at the end of the street this time of year and flooded the dimly lit interior with a band of blinding light. Joshua squinted and sat down abruptly, shaking his head. The others sat. Arnie picked himself up from the floor and began to leave. Joshua raised his hand.

"Arn ... sorry. C'mon, I'll buy the next round of beers. Sorry Arn, I jest get crazy when I think - well, jest come back and set. We'll drink to my son ... uh ... to my baby, okay?"

Arnie looked back and smiled. Josh and he had been friends forever, or so it seemed. They had done everything together: fishing, hunting, climbing Tooly Peak. They even took turns with the gals in town, and the gals from over Badenberg way. Josh had a terrible temper alright, but it never lasted. Now he was real mad. Arnie hadn't seen him so mad since old man Kumar was killed. After that Josh had disappeared, suddenly. Then Barney Fellows disappeared, too. Most folk figured that Barney and his buddies had killed Josh's Pa, and Arnie figured that Josh had done away with Barney ... but who's t'know? Just the same, that would be just like Josh.

Arnie walked back to the table and sat, staring across the beer mugs. Joshua reached over the table and Arnie took his hand. They shook vigorously, smiling across the dimly lit table, the others all relaxed, then Arnie grabbed his mug and raised it in the air.

"Here's to Josh, and his son!" cried Arnie, his eyes bright, his face lit up with a wide grin. Saul and Bart raised their mugs. Joshua grinned too, head bowed just a little, blushing lightly, and put the mug to his lips.

"Don't you mean his _girl?_ " said Doc Manner.

The doctor had stood by the door for some time, getting accustomed to the dark before he noticed Joshua and Arnie and the others. Now he stood by their table, directly behind Arnie, looking very pleased that he had this news to tell.

"I've seen it before, many times," he continued. "Melissa's face is a little puffy and the way she holds the baby, high up ... it's bound to be a girl."

Joshua dropped his mug and stared at Doc Manner, his face contorted, his grin turning to grimace.

Arnie leaped to his feet. "Josh! Wait ... ain't nothin' wrong with havin' a gal."

It was too late. Joshua roared, rose violently to his feet, hands gripping the edge of the table, lifting the table from the floor, flinging it to his side, staggering forward. The others fell back, raising their hands to protect themselves. Arnie grabbed Josh's right arm and was dragged across the floor, in pursuit of the doctor now backing away toward the door. Joshua lunged forward and hit Doc Manner full in the face, then stood for a moment, towering dark and furious above the prostrate form, Arnie still holding on to his arm. Arnie let go, fell to the floor and Joshua shook his head slightly as though to clear it, then turned slowly and stalked out of the bar.

As the door opened the setting sun leapt momentarily across the dark room illuminating the group as they bent over the doctor who lay quietly, bleeding profusely from the mouth.

Then the door closed.

Joshua was heading home, to see Melissa.

***

The sky was streaked with curious red wisps of cloud and the wind began to whistle across the eaves when Melissa heard the front door bang. She continued to mend the shirt, staring intently at her work, fearful and nervous. Joshua stood in the doorway for only a moment then walked briskly to her chair and dragged her to her feet.

"It ain't a boy! You ain't gonna give me a son!" He shouted directly into her face. Melissa shrunk from his grasp and whispered something. "Speak up woman! Why do you not give me a boy! Doc says a gal. Hear?"

"Doc can't be sure. I was going to tell you ... but I knew you would be angry ... I knew that -"

Joshua pushed her and she fell to the floor. He stood over her and stared, his body vibrating with anger, his hands trembling, saliva running thinly down his chin.

"You knew! You _knew_ it wasn't no boy!"

He removed his belt in one long gesture and raised it above his head.

"Bitch!" He struck out and a bright red welt leapt across her cheek; she curled on the floor.

"You won't drop no gal!"

He struck her again and she curled more tightly, shielding her head with one hand, her belly with the other.

"You will _not_ !" He struck her once more then paused, shook his head quizzically, then stalked out of the room.

Melissa pushed herself to her feet. There was no telling what Joshua would do now. She had to get away. She had to protect her baby. Struggling to the door which led to the back porch, she pushed it open and walked through, shaking, then opened the outside door and began to run across the field. It was cold. There had been a snowfall that morning and the welts on her head stung in the light wind. She lost her slippers but continued with bare feet, her thin dress rising behind. Then she heard Joshua bellowing at the back door and quickened her step. She fell, looked back and rose again to her feet, with difficulty. Joshua was running across the field holding in his hand something long and black. She fell again, gasping and he was standing over her.

"You will _not_ give me a gal!"

He was holding a shovel and she cringed, terrified, shaking. He grabbed her by the arm, lifted her from the cold ground and dragged her, stumbling, back to the house, to the left front corner of the house. He pushed her to the ground. The slim willow tree had been removed and only the hole was there, but much larger, much deeper.

Joshua pointed into the hole.

"There! When it comes, you drop your gal _there!_ "

CHAPTER 2

Melissa Kumar: November 6, 1895

Melissa didn't sleep. She hadn't slept in two days, had locked herself in her room. She was still sore from the welts on her face after the beating, but that didn't matter now. Her baby was coming, soon, very soon. What if it _were_ a girl? What would Joshua do to her, to the baby? Joshua slept downstairs in the living room, on the sofa, but she was still frightened. He had threatened to bury her baby under the willow tree. That's what he had said. He had pointed to the spot and said that her baby girl would be buried there. Then he had carelessly replanted the thin willow tree, outside in the snow, by the corner of the house. She was horrified and had cried almost constantly since that night. She never cried before, never. Even when Joshua killed the dog, she never cried. But this was different. It was her _baby_.

But then, sometimes, Joshua would be so gentle, stroking her hair and whispering in her ear, saying that he was sorry, he hadn't meant what he said. For two days he had been gentle, bringing plates of food, crying at her bedside. This huge hulk of a man, his black hair hanging loosely to his shoulders, sobbing and holding her hand.

***

Joshua was sleeping when the pains came. Melissa would not ask him to call Doc Manner. She must save her baby, somehow, alone. She must have her baby, her baby girl, and Joshua musn't know.

She began to breath heavily, panting. Not too loudly. Joshua was sleeping. Could she protect her baby? She leaned forward then fell back on the bed in agony. Sharp pains, pulsating, her body vibrating, her cheeks wet with perspiration. What would he do? Would he be gentle? Would he fly into a rage?

How could she protect her baby?

She rolled out of bed, holding her swollen belly, pains shooting up her legs. She crawled slowly to the closet, paused, breathed heavily, pulled open the door. The throbbing increased and she moaned softly. Not too loudly. She pulled out the shoes and boxes, then she found it, leaning against the back wall of the closet. She must save her baby .

***

Joshua awoke at the first sound. A small cry. A baby. Melly was having his baby. He leapt to his feet and ran up the stairs, three-at-a-time, to her bedroom. She had locked herself in, but now she would let him enter. He was the father. It was his boy, she was having _his_ boy and they would both admire the baby, plan his future. He had the _right,_ he was the father, it was _his_ boy. He knocked gently.

"Melly? It's Joshua. Please open the door. The baby, I can hear my boy. Let me in."

He could hear the baby but Melly wasn't coming to the door. He had the _right_.

"Melly! I have the right! Open this here door!"

His face reddened and he pushed, then raised his fist and brought it hard against the heavy wooden door. It splintered. He stepped back and ran against it and the door fell away, crashing into the room. There was his boy, in Melly's arms. He ran and knelt beside the bed, his head bowed. He began to weep, then looked up at his pretty wife holding the baby tightly against her breast, covered in a blanket.

"My boy," he muttered, tears glinting in the dim light. "My son."

Melly looked frightened. She was hiding something. Then he knew: it was _not_ a boy. Melly was hiding a girl. She had given him a _girl_. He rose slowly to his feet and stared down at his wife. She was trembling, holding the baby girl to her breast, moaning softly.

Joshua towered above her, shaking with uncertain rage. Melissa carefully set the baby on the sheet and reached over the side of the bed. He jumped forward, grabbed the baby, tore off the blanket.

It _was_ a girl.

He roared in anger, held the baby in the air, naked and red, turned and ran out of the room, still holding the baby in the air, the umbilical cord flailing. Melissa screamed.

Joshua ran to the corner of the house, tore the small willow from the snow-covered ground and held the baby in the air, directly over the hole.

"You will _not_ give me a girl! Curse you! You will _not!_ "

***

Melissa cried, trembled; she had been too slow. He had taken her baby, her baby girl, and she had not been able to protect it. She held her face in her hands and cried bitterly, shoulders shaking, the double barrelled shotgun now lying across her knees. It was the only way she knew to protect her baby, but she didn't have time. She had hid the shotgun in the closet, but she hadn't saved her baby.

Then she heard the front door. Joshua had slammed it closed. She could hear him cursing. He was coming up the stairs, cursing, his boots pounding on the stairs. He had taken her baby. She had not been able to protect it. He was an animal. She would be next. He had killed her dog. He had taken her baby. Now he would kill her. She must not be too slow.

Melissa raised the shotgun to her shoulder, pointed it at the open door. It was heavy and she was weak and the long barrel wavered as Joshua leapt into the room, his face red, his hands covered in blood and dirt. He stood for only a moment, staring at Melissa, trying to comprehend, shaking his head. She was holding his shotgun. What was she doing?

Melissa pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing.

Joshua raised his head and roared, leaping forward, hands extended, fingers like claws, a raging storm. The gun wavered. She pulled the second trigger, a violent roar and a thin flame shot from the barrel ... and his face exploded in a stream of bloody shreds which fell over the floor,

over the sheets,

over her face,

and over the twin.

***

Twins.

She had twins and she had protected this one, this beautiful, beautiful baby. This baby girl.

Joshua had taken the first-born, but she had saved the twin girl.

She would never let anyone threaten her or her baby again.

Never.

Melissa rested for a day, leaving Joshua's body on the floor and suckling the baby girl. The next morning she dragged his body down the stairs, across the living room and out the door to the corner of the house. She was weak and rested often, but somehow she found the strength. She carefully removed, once more, the slim willow. The hole was too small, but the shovel was still leaning against the house and she took it and began to dig. When soft pink flesh came to the surface she stopped and cried silently. After a time she straightened, her jaw firmly set, and held the tiny body in her arms, whispering, caressing. Melissa removed her shawl, wrapping her first born carefully, then placed it to the side of the hole and continued to dig, stopping frequently, breathing heavily, leaning on the shovel.

The sun had come up and it looked like it was going to be a nice day even though they had expected snow. She stopped digging and smiled at the sun. Yes, it would be a very nice day.

She looked about, saw Joshua's dead body. The lower half of his face was almost completely missing, hanging strips of flesh, red with dried blood, but his eyes, they were still open. Melissa stared at him for some time then, slowly, deliberately, raised the shovel above her head and brought it down with as much force as she could. Blood spurted briefly from Joshua's hooked nose, but his eyes closed. She smiled, her blue eyes flashing, and returned to her digging. It took nearly an hour to make the hole large enough. She dragged the limp body to the edge of the hole, levered it in with the shovel. He was a big man but somehow she managed, for her and for her baby, she managed. The hurricane was no more. The storm had ended.

She gently placed her first born into the hole. It was wrapped in her shawl, but she arranged the small body so that it wasn't defiled by the touch of Joshua's body.

***

"Hey! Melissa! Still planting willow trees? Is Josh about? I come to help him with the haulin'."

Arnie vaulted easily from his horse and walked toward the corner of the house. Melissa dropped the shovel and ran to meet him half-way. It had started to snow.

"Arnie, come in for a coffee," she panted. "Joshua is in town. What hauling were you going to do?" She took a deep breath and spoke calmly, smiling broadly and sweeping the curls from her face, straightening her wrinkled dress and gazing warmly at Arnie.

"I told Josh I'd help him haul some wood from the bush, back o' the house there. Can't imagine how he'd forgot that. What's he doin' in town? He asked me only yesterday. Coffee? I'd love some coffee, hot 'n' black."

Arnie admired Joshua's wife. He always hoped that Arnie would share her, like the other girls. She was slim and... _slim?_

He looked at her stomach. She _was_ slim! She had had her baby!

"Doc Manner said you would have a girl," he said excitedly, expecting Melissa to confirm or deny. She just smiled. Arnie waited, staring intently at Melissa then, realizing that she wasn't about to say nothing, he continued. "Guess Josh weren't too happy hearin' that, but he'll get used to it, in time. I told him, I says, a gal is jest as good as a boy, but ol' Josh he was real fired up and hoppin' mad."

Arnie followed Melissa into the house and sat at the table in the small kitchen. She smiled as she poured the hot water into the pot. "He got over it soon enough," she said. "Here, have a cup of fresh coffee."

Arnie drank the coffee in several quick slurps. "You shouldn't oughta be diggin' in the garden you know. I'll jest go out there and finish yer diggin' for yuh."

"No! I mean ... it's finished, now. I'll wait for Joshua to come home. He can put the tree in. It's his tree you know. I planted roses but he wanted... he insisted on a tree. Not just any tree, had to be a willow."

Arnie grinned and rose from the table. "Yup. That's Josh alright. Got everythin' figured down to the last sliver. Well Melly, gotta go. Tell Josh I been here."

"Yes," sighed Melissa. "Joshua planned for everything, almost ."

Arnie walked to the front door and looked back at Melissa. She sure was a pretty gal. Dainty, petite, just a piece of fluff. Why didn't she speak of the baby? He waved and left.

Melissa watched through the window. Arnie walked partway down the path, his footprints clear in the newly fallen snow, then he turned and looked at the willow tree and the open hole. He paused, then began to walk toward the shovel leaning against the house. Melissa ran to the door.

"Arnie, please leave it for Joshua! He asked me to let him plant the tree, his tree. He'd be mad if it was already planted, you know Josh." She smiled, a sweet and pretty smile and Arnie nodded.

"Yeah, I know ol' Josh," he said shaking his head. He turned and continued down the walk toward his horse, tied to the hitching post by the road. He waved again as he disappeared over the hill.

Melissa looked at the hole and walked over to fill it with dirt. The body had been covered with a light covering of snow, but the bloody nose still showed, and the eyes looked open again. She pushed the first shovel of dirt onto his face.

After a time she pushed the slim willow into the hole and stamped on the dirt around the base. She finished just as the sun vanished behind a cloud. She looked up at the darkening sky. It was going to snow again. They had been predicting it for several days. It was going to be a real heavy snow. She stamped the ground once more and went inside to light a fire and rest. Tonight she would make a nice hot stew with potatoes from the root cellar and carrots and squash and some of the venison which hung in the shed. Tonight she would sleep soundly, she and her baby girl. Tomorrow she would go to town and buy groceries: bacon and sugar and flour and maybe some candy, some sweet chocolate. She loved sweet chocolate. And the Martin folk had puppies, so she might just pick one up. A brand new puppy. That was good.

She pulled open her blouse and the baby suckled contentedly, and Melissa closed her eyes and leaned back and smiled.

Life was good.

CHAPTER 3

Arnie Brubacher: December, 1895

It had begun to snow early in the morning and didn't let up until late in the afternoon. It was a gentle snow, but before long it was difficult to distinguish the road from the shoulders. Arnie Brubacher stared out the window, then at his pocket watch: 4 o'clock. He had been staring out the window for some time. It was Christmas Eve and he was alone. Tomorrow it would be Christmas and he would _still_ be alone. Last year at this time Joshua Kumar had invited him for a turkey dinner; Melly made a fine dinner with sweet potatoes and kale and Brussel sprouts. She had asked him to collect the kale from out back, covered in snow. _It's best after a frost_ , she had said.

This year he would be alone. Melissa would be alone too.

Josh had left Melly and not returned. Josh was a fool, a crazy fool. Josh had everything a man could want: a fine house, work at the mill and a pretty wife, a very pretty wife. Why would he give it all up? Why would he leave Melly? Somebody would be sure to come courtin' before long. Somebody, for sure.

Arnie leaned out of his chair, stood up and looked again at his watch. Melly would be alone too. She would sit alone at the table, eatin' alone. What would she be eatin' for Christmas? He could bring a turkey, the big tom out back. He could go to Melly and suggest that they eat together, a big turkey with stuffin' and sweet potatoes and kale. No, that would be wrong. Joshua would have to give him an invite. But Josh was gone. Left poor Melly and the baby alone. They would have to eat alone at Christmas, he and Melly. It wasn't right. Everybody needed somebody, at Christmas.

He walked to the door, pushed his feet into the tall boots, pulled his heavy coat from the rack and left. Maybe he should walk. His horse could stay in the barn this Christmas Eve. If he showed up at Joshua's house without a horse then Melissa would say _Arnie, you must stay for the night. It's such a long walk back. You really must stay for the night._

Arnie smiled and went around the back and into the barn and got himself the big turkey and lopped off its head and stuffed it into a burlap bag. Then he started to walk toward Joshua's house.

Melly was sure pretty and Josh was sure lucky and he, Arnie Brubacher, had no a wife, even one _not_ so pretty. Sure, he had gone out with lots o' gals and they seemed to like him, but now that he thought back it was better, much better when Josh was around. Together they could always find some gals for the night, but ever since Josh went away, well it weren't so easy any more. Even after Josh got married up with Melly they would still go after the gals in the next county, which was more than Arnie could figure: Josh already had the prettiest gal in Waterloo County. But now Josh was gone and maybe Melly was a little bit lonely and needed somebody to look after her ... now that she had a baby and all. Especially at Christmas. Everybody needed somebody at Christmas, to share a meal and laugh together and drink hot wine by the fire.

Arnie walked through the early evening, kicking the little piles of snow on the road, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, collar pulled high about his neck, the burlap bag tied around his waist. His parents hadn't thought Christmas was so special, just another day. He had to clean the barn, feed the chickens, brush down the horses and gather fire wood. No fancy dinner, no presents, just another working day. Then his Ma and Pa died, one right after t'other, and Aunt Paula had taken him to live with her. He didn't even know they were sick. They just died, first his Pa then, a week later, his Ma. His Pa was even chopping wood, just the day before he died. He didn't really know his Pa all that well, never talked much. Pa spent most evenings sitting by the window, looking over the weekly tabloid. Arnie was sure his Pa couldn't read, but he spent most evenings turning over them pages just the same.

Aunt Paula lived alone in a big old house just outside the village, never got married and never seemed to know anybody outside the family. But she would say _everybody needs somebody to share a meal at Christmas_ , so, come December, she would start on her cookies and Christmas day all his cousins showed up real early and the house was warm and filled with laughin' and they would have a big turkey dinner with all the trimmings then sit by the fire and tell stories and Aunt Paula would pass around the fancy box of little cookies. She never used that box for anything except those cookies and she never made them except at Christmas. The year she was real sick she still got out of bed and made those little cookies and when they all sat on the floor around the fire Aunt Paula was wrapped in that red blanket on the big old chair by the chimney with her eyes closed, and it wasn't until they all started talking about going to bed that they saw that she was dead.

_Everybody needs somebody to share a meal at Christmas_.

This Christmas he and Melly would share a meal. Arnie stopped and hitched up the burlap bag and tightened the knot, pushed his hands deep into his pockets again and started down the hill to Josh's house, smiling.

It was dark when he got there, but he could see a light from the window running warm and soft across the snow, almost to the road. Just one light, in the kitchen window. He walked up the driveway and around to the side of Josh's house and through the window he saw Melly at the stove. She was wearing a bright red dress and her hair was different, short and curly. And her lips, they were red; she was using red stuff on her lips and powder on her cheeks. He stared through the window for a long time. He had forgotten how pretty she was. Melly slid the pot off the stove and took a plate from the cupboard. Now was the time to knock on the door, just in time for supper. He walked quickly around to the front door stopping only for a moment to gaze at the small willow tree covered in snow.

"Arnie, what a nice surprise," said Melissa, stroking her hair and straightening her dress. "You must have some stew, hot from the stove. I was just about to eat and I would be pleased to have you join me."

"No Melly, I can't stay ... jest came 'cause I brought this tom turkey." He held the burlap bag at arms length, standing as tall as he could manage."Thought you might like -"

"Arnie Brubacher you come in this minute," she scolded. "And you _will_ have some stew. Take off your coat, put it on the hook right there. The stove is hot and the kitchen is warm. Don't track snow into the kitchen. Put your big old boots there."

Arnie grinned and did as he was told. She sure was jest full o' fire.

He finished his plate of stew, filled with potatoes and turnips and beans and thick slices of bacon. Melissa placed the pot in front of him.

"You've a long way to go and it's cold. Dig into the pot. There's more hot stew at the bottom."

She sat back and watched him scooping out the last of the stew with a chunk of freshly baked bread. Finally he leaned back and grunted, placing his stubby hands on his stomach.

"Melly, you sure cook good. Never tasted a better stew. Josh ... he's jest a fool for runnin' off and leavin' you like this." Melissa hung her head and blushed. "You look fine Melly, very fine indeed. I ain't never seen you so pretty."

Arnie stared at her for a moment, grinning. Then, as though he had forgotten something, he jumped up and walked to the window, staring out across the moonlit fields covered in snow, cocking his head to one side.

"Hear that wind? Looks like it's gonna storm."

He looked at Melissa from the corner of his eye and continued. "That big tom turkey, it's for your Christmas supper. It's the last of my toms, but don't worry yourself none. Next Spring I'll get me some more from Jason over in Badenberg." Arnie paused and shook himself. "Did you ever see a wind like that? It's jest blowin' like it was in some big hurry." He looked at Melissa. She was clearing the table. "Well, guess I should head home ... _walk_ home ... in that howlin' wind."

"Arnie, I thank you kindly for the turkey. You must come for supper tomorrow ... unless of course you have plans for Christmas?"

"No! No! None at all. I'd be most pleased to come for supper tomorrow. Indeed, yes. Everybody needs somebody ...," he started to say, then thought better of it and looked once more out the window and shivered. "Well, guess I should be walkin' home."

Melissa walked to the front door and Arnie followed. He put on his coat and slid into his boots, very slowly. She opened the door and he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek as she stood, her back to the wall.

"Mr. Brubacher! What are you thinking, kissing me like that? What if someone saw us?" She closed the door and leaned back against it, staring at Arnie, her hands behind her back, her body arched toward him, breasts pushing tight against her blouse. "I'm surprised at you ... what if someone -"

Arnie pulled her into his arms. "Melly, I need you, I love you. I've always loved you ever since ... since before ol' Josh married you." He blurted it out, stumbling over the words, held her tightly and she clung to him, then abruptly pushed him away and looked up at him.

"Mr. Arnie Brubacher. Take off your coat. It's much too cold to walk home tonight, especially in a storm. You'll stay the night and you'll split some firewood and you'll help me with the turkey tomorrow."

Arnie grinned, put his hand to his cheek, pulled at his nose, stepped back a step, took a deep breath, stumbled to the coat rack, put his heavy coat on the rack and slipped off his boots. His face was bright red, his eyes wide with delight. Melissa stood with her hands on her hips. He never saw her act with such authority. She was just wonderful. He backed awkwardly toward the kitchen, still looking at Melissa. She turned and stared out the strip of glass at the side of the front door. The night was calm and bright. There was no sign of any howling wind. She smiled, then followed Arnie into the kitchen.

"Melly? I can sleep in the living room, on the sofa. I don't even need a blanket, I'll be plenty warm with my coat. I'll just stay on the sofa -"

"Arnie," she said slowly, with exaggerated deliberation, "you will sleep with me tonight."

Arnie stopped talking, stopped breathing, his mouth open, and he stuttered. "Melly, in your ... do you mean ... uh -"

"Arnie Brubacher, tonight you will sleep with me ... in my bed."

Arnie closed his mouth, suddenly. His face lit up the room.

***

Arnie woke to the smell of hot coffee and bacon. He lay in bed, Joshua's bed, staring at the ceiling, hands behind his head. He went over the events of the previous night. Melissa was wonderful. How could he have imagined that she was just a piece of fluff? That's what Josh always said, but she was full of fire and brimstone. He arched his back, stretched, closed his eyes.

"Arnie Brubacher! Come down for breakfast!"

Arnie jumped out of bed so quickly he got tangled in the blankets and fell over the chair. He pulled on his pants and ran down the stairs, to the kitchen warmed by the stove, to the chair pulled out by the table. Melissa was filling his plate with a heap of eggs and potatoes fried in bacon fat, a steaming mug of black coffee beside the plate. She was humming and Arnie grinned then started right in on the potatoes. She blushed lightly and sat at the other chair and watched him eat. When he finished he took a long breath, then a long drink, gulping the hot coffee. He was almost afraid to look up at Melly. She was staring at him, he knew.

"Arnie Brubacher, I will show you something beautiful. You just wait." Melissa left and he pushed his chair back, watching her go, her dress blue and bright and tight all over. She shook her head, just a little shake as she left the room, and the short curls quivered on her head, shining in the morning sun now streaming through the window.

When she returned she carried a small yellow blanket with silk edges.

"See? My baby girl," Melissa whispered. Arnie would be the first to see her baby, a baby she had hidden, protected.

Arnie coughed and the coffee sprayed over his empty plate. "Melly," he stuttered, "it's a beautiful baby and you _did_ have a gal jest like Doc Manner said you would 'cause I been wonderin' .. jest wonderin' when you'd say somethin' about yer baby 'cause ol' Josh ..."

Then Arnie looked about, frightened, as though he expected to see Joshua Kumar walk in, then he continued in a low voice. "Uh, I was thinkin' ... uh, I must go, after supper. What if Joshua comes home ... fer Christmas, I mean? If he finds me here he'll kill me fer sure. You know his temper. I'll come ag'in next week and - "

"No! You will stay tonight. Joshua will not come back. I can promise you that."

She spoke with such conviction, such authority that Arnie didn't know how to respond. He started to speak then just peered into his mug, then sipped coffee ... slowly, staring up at Melissa.

"I will tell you a story," she said. "After supper you will light the fire and I will tell you a story ... where Joshua went. He will not come back, I can promise you that. Then I will tell you about my baby girls."

Arnie sipped slowly, staring up at Melissa who was looking straight ahead, smiling pretty, the yellow bundle in her arms. She was so different.

Baby girls?

Had she said baby _girls_?

CHAPTER 4

Cassandra Brubacher: January, 1896

Arnie had been so concerned for Melissa's health, he had insisted that she stay in bed for several days, nursing the baby. He wasn't much of a cook, but he made all the meals and brought them to her bed on a wooden platter he found in the cupboard. She had refused at first, saying that she was perfectly capable of looking after her baby and herself; she had done just that for weeks now. But Arnie had insisted and she eventually agreed to do as he asked, taking her meals in bed then spending much of the remaining time sewing pink booties and knitting tiny outfits. He sat in the chair by the bed and watched her. Melissa's face was pink and seemed to glow all over and he was convinced that he never saw anything so beautiful. Just watching her was a pleasure and he did it often, even when she slept.

It was a beautiful baby, Melly said, and Doc Manner had complimented her and said it looked exactly like her, but Arnie looked at the baby in wonder. How could anyone see Melly in the baby girl? How could anyone say it was beautiful? It was wrinkled and cried a lot with its face all screwed up, eyes tightly closed, mouth open. It had a huge mouth he thought, filled with gums and not a single tooth in its head, like a big sucker fish down in Sparrow Lake. The arms were too short he thought, and too chubby, and not a single hair on its head. But Melly loved the baby and he dutifully complimented her on the beautiful child. He watched her breast feeding the baby. It was a beautiful sight even though the baby wasn't so beautiful.

"Whatchya gonna call it Melly?" he asked one day.

It was weeks before he got around to asking her. She had just called it "my baby girl".

Melissa frowned, just a little, a mock frown, as though she didn't really mean it.

"Arnie, don't say _it_. Say _her_. She's a beautiful baby girl and don't you call her _it_."

Arnie blushed and dropped his head onto his chest then looked up at Melissa. She was staring at him now, with a faraway look, her eyes twinkling.

"I don't know what to call her. Arnie, _you_ give her a name."

Arnie shuddered at the thought, then pulled in his chin, stared at the ceiling, got to his feet and grunted several times. This required some thought and he would get it right. He hadn't expected this, but he would pick a name as beautiful as Melly. He started to pace back and forth, his hands tight behind his back.

"We-e-ell ... maybe, let's see, I had an aunt once, name of, let's see, Paula, yes, Paula."

Melissa screwed up her face, all pink and petite. Arnie immediately continued.

"Well, I don't really like that name, not a whole lot. But there's more names. My cousin, she was pretty and her name was ... was Cassandra."

He looked down at Melissa and smiled proudly. It was a beautiful name he thought. Would Melly like it? She laughed and whispered the name: _Cassandra, Cassandra._

"Arnie, it's a beautiful name: _Cassandra._ A beautiful name for a beautiful baby."

" _Cassandra Kumar_. I like it, sounds just right -" began Arnie, looking at Melly, his face one big smile. He sat softly on the edge of the bed.

"No!" said Melissa sternly.

Arnie jumped. "But Melly, you said you liked the name, I jest thought -"

"We will call my baby _Cassandra Brubacher_ ," said Melissa, pausing for only a moment, "and _you_ will be her father."

Arnie's jaw dropped, he stared at Melly for a while, then he began to grin, then he jumped up from the bed and began to laugh and dance.

" _Cassandra Brubacher_ ," he shouted, " _Cassandra Brubacher! Cassandra Brubacher!_ "

Melissa held her baby closer and watched Arnie dancing.

Arnie Brubacher was a short man with short hair and short stubby hands and a sort of pushed in nose, but with a heart as big as Waterloo County and she loved him very much. He was sometimes foolish, sometimes silly, sometimes rash and impractical, but he was always gentle and kind. He had lived with her for nearly two months. She had told him the story of Joshua, his anger, how he had chased her barefoot across the snow-covered field, how he had dragged her to the willow tree and said she would drop her baby there.

Arnie had understood and had held Melissa close and whispered into her ear: he knew, Josh had a terrible temper. Melissa nodded her head. Yes, a terrible temper.

Then she told Arnie that Joshua had died in a fit of rage. Joshua's temper had killed him. Arnie understood. It was bound to happen one day.

Then she told him she had buried him under the willow tree. Arnie had been shocked, but he understood. He _said_ he understood, but he had a strange look on his face, trying to imagine little Melly burying big old Josh.

Somehow Melissa suspected that Arnie Brubacher knew the truth, but the subject never came up, and they never mentioned Joshua's name again, and although she had said _baby girls_ , once, some time ago, she never again mentioned a thing about twins.

April, 1904

The years went by quickly. The deep Winter snows were followed by Spring rains and Summer wild flowers in the fields. The aspen bush was bright and yellow each Fall and Arnie often hunted there, bringing home rabbit and deer. He was a good provider and kept the house in good repair, painting the woodwork over the arched windows and putting a coat of shellac on the massive oak door, every Fall, so the dampness of Spring wouldn't split the wood. He had even started to build a stone fence along the back with the boulders which covered the field. He could have used his horse to drag these huge rocks across the field, but he had to be content with carrying and dragging them himself. When he mentioned it to Doc Manner the good doctor warned him against doing a horse's work, but his horse had died last Winter. Nevertheless, he didn't mind. He didn't even mind walking to the mill, even on the coldest Winter mornings. He had sold his house and now lived with Melly and Cassandra. Melly would fill his lunch pail with apples from the root cellar and thick sandwiches of ham and goose fat, wedges of sharp cheddar cheese from Dundee and a large jug of hot black coffee wrapped in a thick towel to keep it warm.

Cassandra. She was almost nine and she _was_ beautiful. Arnie wondered why he ever thought of her as an ugly baby. He was proud, a proud father of a beautiful young girl. He had asked Melly if she wanted a boy, but Melly just smiled and said that she was happy with her baby girl, no more children, not now, not ever. Arnie accepted that and loved Melly even more for her strong will and determination.

Melly always seemed to know what to do, what must be done, in every situation. Even when the back porch blew down during that storm in '98 and the wind blew furiously through the window, covering the kitchen in streaks of snow, Melly just grabbed the coffee pot and marched into the living room closing the door behind her and lit a fire and they sipped hot black coffee until the storm went away. She was a wonder.

Now it was Spring again and the crocuses were popping up in the garden and on the grass. Arnie was always amused when Melly painstakingly transplanted the crocuses each Summer to the garden. The next Spring they would still pop up everywhere - everywhere except by the willow tree.

***

It was Saturday and it was cool and Arnie was lying in the sun on the front porch. Melly was making an apple cake with the withered apples left in the root cellar from the Fall. She had let her hair grow just a little because Arnie liked it that way and she seemed determined to please him. Cassandra was playing under the willow tree as she always did, giggling and talking to her doll, a rag doll with eyes made of buttons.

Now be good... a good baby and you can have another cup of tea.

Arnie smiled. She was very like her mother, nothing at all like _him_. She was slim, almost thin, and her hair hung straight down her back to her waist. But her hair was dark, not like Melly's and not like his and that was strange. But she seemed always merry and full of energy. He talked to her rarely, just to scold her, sometimes, when he could tell that Melly wouldn't mind. Mostly Melly did the scolding, but not often. Now that he thought of it, even Melly didn't talk all that much to Cassandra. But they looked at each other a lot, and smiled as though they was talking without talking. They would smile at each other then Cassandra would go out and bring in some flowers for the table and they would smile again just like they was talking.

Willow will rock you to sleep, but you must be good.

It was strange, the attraction the girl had for the willow tree. Arnie tried to avoid the tree. It was now over 15 feet high. He thought of the body beneath it, in the cold ground, and he shivered. Somehow he thought only of a body, not of Josh. Somehow the memory of Josh kept getting dimmer. Somehow the story of how he, Arnie, came to live with Melly one Christmas eve, how the baby had come ... it was such a long time ago and his memory wasn't so good, but he knew one thing: he was the Pa in this family.

Now Willow, rock-a-bye-baby. That's it. Rock-a-bye-baby.

He had never seen a willow grow so quickly. It now dominated the side of the house and its branches hung to the ground. They weren't like any other willow he'd ever seen. The branches were gnarled and twisted and almost black with lots of tiny hairs which made it seem fuzzy in the morning light. Specially now, in the Spring, when the snow cover had melted and there weren't no leaves.

See baby? Willow loves you. See how Willow loves you?

Melly had asked him not to trim the tree, let it grow as large and ... and as ugly as it wished. Melly sometimes sat on the porch and watched Cassandra play under the branches, almost hidden by the drooping, gnarled and distorted branches. Arnie had objected once when Cassandra had climbed the lower branches, but Melly said it was all right, that the tree would not harm Cassandra, that the two of them got along very well, that the tree would look after the little girl. It sounded like Melly was talking about the tree as though it was a member of the family and, somehow, alive. Well, of course it was alive. He just meant, alive like a person was alive. That was real strange.

No Willow, you mustn't hold baby too tight. Baby will cry.

One day, maybe it was last Summer, Melly had asked Cassandra to come in for supper, but the little gal just stayed under the willow tree. Melly had scolded her and warned her that she would go to bed without supper if she didn't come at once, but Cassandra just stayed under the tree, hidden beneath the branches, gnarled and twisted. Arnie had got up from the table and went out the front door to get Cassandra. Then Melly had screamed and he had stopped just in front of the tree. Melly was standing on the porch, her face was red and she was shaking all over. Her whole body was shaking. She had insisted that Arnie come back to the table, at once, do not take another step, just come back, right away. He was surprised and had looked into the space between the trees. Cassandra was lying there, on her back, staring up into the branches of the tree. He had looked at Cassandra then at Melly then back to Cassandra again. Melly began to shout again and he went back into the house. It was strange. Melly was acting strange and Cassandra was acting strange, but Melly always had her way and he just ate his supper.

Cassandra didn't come into the house until it was dark. That was even stranger: Melly just smiled at Cassandra and Cassandra smiled at Melly and Cassandra just went to bed without her supper. Strange.

Willow! You stop that at once! Hear? Right this minute!

But there was something even stranger. When was it? Just a month ago, maybe. He asked Melly why Cassandra didn't play with the other girls. Just a mile down the road the Martins had three girls, about Cassandra's age. Their son was a little stupid, but Cassandra could play with him too.

"It's good to have friends, boy friends and girl friends," he had said, but Melly just smiled and answered: "Cassandra has her sister".

That one he didn't understand. He asked, "Her _sister_?" and stared, frowning, at Melly. She looked suddenly shocked and a bit flustered and explained. "Not _sister_ , silly. Cassandra has her _doll_. Of course, Cassandra doesn't have a sister. _Arnie, you're so silly_."

That's what Melly said to him. _Arnie, you're so silly_. He thought about it since then. He was sure that Melly had said _sister_ , but maybe he was wrong. Melly was hardly ever wrong.

Mommy! Mommy! Willow is killing baby! Mommy! Mommy!

Arnie jumped up and leaped over the porch railing. The branches of the willow were swaying violently. He lifted a branch, saw Cassandra looking up into the tree and tried to climb under the branch, but it threw him to the ground. He managed to crawl under and tried to grab Cassandra by the leg. He could hear Melly screaming on the porch. The branch was heavy on his back, but he managed to get a good hold on Cassandra's leg and he began to pull. Cassandra looked down at him and her eyes, they were shining, as though they were lit from inside. She didn't look like a 9-year-old. She was frowning. Her face was creased, every crease a dark line, and her eyes, glowing in the darkness beneath the tree. She raised her hands and the tree began to move. He could swear that the tree was movin'. He let go of her leg and tried to back out from under the tree. Melly was still screamin' at him. She wasn't screamin' at Cassandra or the tree, she was screamin' at _him._ He had almost got out from under the tree, one last push and he would be free. That was when the branch grabbed his hand. It spun around his hand like a snake, a black hairy coil, spiralling around his left hand. He tried to pull it away and Melly screamed again ... or was it Cassandra screaming? He didn't know, he just heard the screams. He could feel the bones snap in his hand, could feel the hand being crushed. The pain was unbearable, sharp, shooting pains that exploded in his hand and spiralled up his arm.

_He_ was screaming. He couldn't see straight, things were blurry.

Cassandra? Was that her under the tree, smiling?

Then everything went black.

***

It was Doc Manner who told him about the hand. There was nothing much left, just five limp fingers of skin, bones crushed to powder. It could have been worse. It was his left hand. That was good. He was right-handed. It was at the wrist too. The rest of his arm was okay. The good doctor warned him about carrying those big boulders and piling them on the stone fence. He should have gotten some help from one of the Martins. Dropping a rock on his hand, that was really stupid. That's work for a horse. Arnie didn't know how Doc Manner got _that_ story, but he wasn't about to explain.

When he got home from the hospital, Melly and Cassandra had prepared a party, just for him. On the table was a huge hot apple cake and a jug of red wine that Melly had bought at the market. One large piece of cake had been cut and was sitting, hot and steaming on a plate. They sat him down and watched gleefully as he ate. Cassandra jumped up and down and giggled and carried on so, that Melly had to tell her to sit and drink her milk and eat her cake. It wasn't until much later, after Cassandra had kissed them both and gone to bed, that Arnie had a chance to talk to Melly about the tree.

"Ain't no use arguin' Melly. I'm gonna cut down that ol' tree. Did you see that?" Arnie held up his left hand wrapped in a soft white towel, unwrapped it and held up the strands of skin. "That's what I get fer leavin' that tree stand."

Melissa put her hand on the stump and pushed it onto his lap, then she slowly wrapped it again in the towel, smiling and shaking her head all the time. Arnie stared at her. How could she smile? He could have lost his whole arm. It could have been his right hand. Then what?

"Arnie, you silly thing," said Melly softly. "It weren't the tree that did that. Don't you know? You were so brave, trying to save Cassandra's doll. But when the branch fell down, you remember, it was loose, too much snow over Winter ... I kept telling you, can't have too much snow on the willow. It isn't a strong tree, a willow. Why it just fell right on your hand. Cassandra cried and I cried too. When you were in the hospital we both took that old branch out back and burned it."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek, then she kissed the stumpy towel on his wrist. Arnie was dumbfounded. Was he dreaming? Maybe he _had_ dreamed it. Melly was always right about these things. Surely he had dreamed it all. A tree that tried to - to - it was silly, _he_ was silly. Melly was right.

Arnie smiled and Melly kissed him again.

***

Upstairs in her bedroom Cassandra looked out the window. The branches were leaning against the glass, swaying, and she could just make out the moon through the black coils. Some of the top branches still had leaves, small and thin, left over from last Fall. She placed her small hand against the window and several branches spun upward, pushing against the glass. She smiled and her eyes shone in the moonlight and the branches tapped gently against the window.

CHAPTER 5

August, 1908

Arnie was napping on the front porch when Melissa brought him a cool drink. She hated to wake him up. He had spent most of the day cutting wood, fixing the shed out back, repairing the stone fence, feeding the hogs and building the barn. It was almost three months since he had quit his job at the mill. A one-handed worker was little good to the mill, yet they had kept him on until he just upped and quit. Then he had started hog farming. Pork was getting a good price and they'd been able to buy another horse and a small wagon. Arnie swore he'd finish the barn before the Winter snows and had worked 15 hours a day. He rested only rarely and when he did, Melissa knew he was exhausted.

She sat on the bench and waited for him to wake up.

Cassandra was playing under the willow tree, as usual. She had spent much of the Summer hidden under the giant branches of the tree. Soon it would be Winter and somehow that saddened the young girl.

Melissa could hear her daughter talking, reading from a small book of poems:

Summer sunset, Autumn dawn

Songbirds swarm, and then are gone.

And yet you stand O willow tree

As Winter comes upon the lea.

And still you stand with head held low

amid the winds and winter snow.

Whither Willow?

Whither Willow?

Chad Martin came running across the field.

"Hello Mrs. Kumar! Is Cassy here?"

"Wait just a minute, Chad. She'll be out in a minute."

Arnie opened his eyes and Melissa handed him the drink. He sat up, smiled a weary smile and sipped it slowly. Chad sat on the stairs of the porch, waiting.

"Nice day, don't you think, Chad?" said Melissa.

"Yup."

"How's your mother and father, good I hope?"

"Yup."

"And your sisters?"

"Yup, good."

Chad sat on his hands, then leaned forward, then leaned backward, then slipped his hands out from under his butt and ruffled his curly red hair.

"Mrs. Kumar? When is Cassy coming out? Is she with Willow?"

"Yes, Chad. Wait a little longer. Patience is a virtue."

Melissa walked to the end of the porch and looked into the tree.

"Cassandra? Chad is here."

There was a moment of silence, then, "Tell him to come in."

Melissa stood for a second, staring into the tree. That was the first time that Cassandra had invited someone under her willow tree.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, mommy. Tell Chad to come in. Willow is fine today and would like the company."

Chad needed no further invitation. He jumped off the porch and dropped to his belly then crawled beneath the drooping branches and disappeared. Melissa returned to her bench, frowning slightly and staring at the huge willow, looking for signs of movement.

"Melly? That ain't usual," said Arnie. "I mean, Cassandra asking someone to come under her tree. It ain't usual."

Melissa continued to stare at the tree, the look on her face partially of concern, partially of wonder. The willow was still, motionless.

Even though it was a bright day it was dark beneath the hanging branches of the willow tree. Chad crawled to the trunk and looked up. Cassandra was sitting on a thick branch just a few feet from the ground, looking down, her eyes shining in the dim light. Several smaller branches seemed to be wrapped about her waist. She looked _weirdy_ , he thought.

"Cassy? Will you come down?"

Cassandra said nothing, just grinned, her eyes shining more brightly.

"Cassy? Please come down. I don't like it here. Why do you stay in here? Let's go look for berries in the bush. My dad says there's lots. The bush is full of berries ... can we go and see?"

Chad looked about and shivered. Even the light beneath the tree was _weirdy_. There seemed to be an amber glow that wasn't coming from the sun, but right up from the ground. As his eyes got accustomed to the darkness he noticed the roots at the base of the tree: gnarled and twisted, rising from the base then plunging into the ground, then rising again farther on, then plunging again into the ground. He was kneeling between two serpentine roots.

"Cassy?" His voice was shaking.

"No, Chad," said Cassandra quietly. "We will stay here. I will come down now. We will talk to Willow. Hear Willow? Listen to us now."

She slid off the branch and jumped to the ground.

"Willow? Hear us now."

Chad was about to crawl out from under the tree when the branches stiffened. He couldn't move any of them. He crept back, leaned against the trunk and began to tremble.

"Chad. Look up at Willow."

He looked up, still trembling as the branches of the tree seemed to close in on him. Cassandra sat on the ground and stared, her eyes now gleaming brightly in the darkened vault beneath the tree. She raised her hands and the tree began to quiver, the branches swaying.

"Sister, greet Chad. Embrace him. Take him to your heart. Bring him to the fold. He is one of us, a Friend of Willow."

Suddenly a large branch swung down, spiralling down, coiling, twisted and gnarled, about the boy. He tried to scream, but couldn't. He tried to move, but couldn't. His legs were frozen, waxen. Cassandra placed her hand on his shoulder and he stopped struggling. He was looking with a blank stare directly at Cassandra, his mouth dropped open.

She began to hum, to sway back and forth.

Chad began to hum and to sway.

"Cassandra! What are you doin' in there!" It was Arnie Brubacher. "Come out now! Right now!"

Melissa was trying to hold Arnie back. Her face was screwed up into a frown and she was panting and holding on to Arnie's shirt. He pulled her along behind, then down the porch steps to the tree. Then he began to pull the branches aside. The willow was shaking and he could hear the humming. Suddenly several branches swung aside and there was an opening and he saw Chad, sitting at the base of the tree, hypnotized, a large branch coiled about his waist, his eyes staring blank and straight, his hands lying loose on his knees.

Suddenly Cassandra leaped out and raised her hands above her head, her eyes flashing, the humming growing to a shrill scream.

Arnie stepped back, stunned, and Melissa let go of his shirt. Then Arnie quickly stepped forward and grabbed the girl and began to shout:

"Send Chad home! You go to yer room! I'm gonna cut this tree down, right this minute. Go to yer -"

He coughed and held his throat and released Cassandra who was now standing on her toes, hands raised, eyes glowing, shrieking. He tried to speak. Melissa was crying. Chad was silent, his face white.

Then Cassandra stopped screaming, lowered her hands and backed under the tree. The branches dropped suddenly. She was inside again. It was quiet.

Arnie held his throat, his face red, his eyes bulging.

He couldn't talk.

***

Doc Manner had admitted that it was an unusual malady. Arnie had lost his voice and there was no reason. He had tried to explain to Mrs. Kumar, but she wasn't listening. She just sat there, staring out the window at the old willow tree. Then she had turned, smiled and offered him a drink of lemonade. He didn't understand her reaction, but then the whole family seemed strange. Josh Kumar had left without a trace. Arnie had sold his house, left his job at the mill and settled in with Melissa. Just like that.

And the child? Miss Cassandra was the strangest child he'd ever seen. First she had avoided all the other children, kept to herself. Spent all her time under that old willow tree. She rarely went to school, but was intelligent and advanced for her years. Spoke like an adult. Acted like an adult. Then she started to attract all the kids around. They followed her as though they were bewitched. The whole bunch of them sat for hours around the old willow. They didn't act like kids at all. Just like a bunch of sheep, following Cassandra, doing her bidding, not like kids at all.

And Arnie? He sure wasn't the boss in _that_ family. Just did what Mrs. Kumar asked, just like another kid.

The whole family was strange. Crazy. The lot of them.

He stopped going to check on Arnie in the Summer of '09. There was nothing he could do and nobody seemed concerned.

Doc Manner at Martin's Bar: January 27, 1917

It was the middle of January, 1917, before Doc Manner saw any of them again. It was during a snow storm. He had visited the Martins. Two of their daughters had come down with the flu or something. Anyway, that's what Mrs. Martin had said. When he examined them he found that both girls were pregnant. Mrs. Martin was upset, but Jake Martin just shook his head and went back to his readin'.

"When I left Jake's house the wind was somethin' fierce," said Doc Manner.

It was now January 27, 1917. The others were listening, not making a sound, just sipping their beer at the table in the far corner of the bar. It was their favourite spot. When the door opened the cold wind swept over the other tables, but not this one. Besides, it was close to the fire and old Abe Martin always kept the fire goin' strong at this time of year. Doc had his back to the fire and the others, Jonah Winnich and Saul Shulom and little Grubby Baker from Dundee, they were leaning heavy on the wood table, staring at Doc, mouths open, clutching their beer.

Old Abe owned the bar and was related to the other Martins, but then it seemed that all the Martins were somehow related. Nobody could figure how and nobody ever asked. None of their business. But they all knew Jake Martin and his daughters, knew that they got themselves pregnant - _together_ it seemed \- then lost the babies just last week or so, even before they was born - again, together. Everybody in town talked about it. Nothin' much else to talk about. Two gals, both pregnant together, both lose their babies, together.

Doc Manner sucked his pipe. It was dead and he peered into the bowl then banged it against the side of the table. Jonah leaned over the table and dropped his tobacco pouch next to Doc's beer. The good doctor filled the pipe, slowly, and they waited impatiently for him to continue. He slowly lit his pipe, inhaling deeply. It was a good story and he had all the time in the world to tell it. He knew that nobody would leave the table until he was finished, right to the end. He watched the long spiral of smoke rise from the pipe and leaned back in his chair. The others all leaned forward.

"Like I was sayin', the wind was somethin' fierce. I started on the road back to town. That's when it happened."

He drew on his pipe. They all inhaled deeply. The doctor exhaled and blew a cloud of smoke across the table. They all exhaled.

"That old beech tree, the one that hangs over the road, just this side of Jake's farm? Well, it came down in a crash, near fell right on top of me. Old Sally, my horse, old Sally just jumped about two yards in the air and left me on the road. I wasn't hurt none, just a sore backside."

He rubbed his backside and they chuckled and each took a quick swallow of beer then leaned forward again.

"When I looked, Sally was nowhere to be seen. Gone. There I was on that road, the old wind howlin' somethin' fierce. It was five mile to town and it was cold and I wasn't about to walk. Not at my age ... too old for that."

He took another draw from his pipe and they all took a quick swig of beer.

"So I walked back to the Martin's figurin' I'd maybe stay there. Jake, he'd take me into town just as soon as the storm let up. Then I saw him."

He leaned back, put his pipe on the table and picked up his beer. The others waited.

"It was Arnie Brubacher. He was comin' down the road in his wagon, bundled up good. He stopped and asked me to get in. Well, you know Arnie, can't talk, just pointed at me and pointed at his wagon, and I got in. He kept on goin', down the road past Jake's house. I wanted to get off and said so, but Arnie kept pointin' at me and at the wagon then up the road. Couldn't understand what he was tryin' to say so I just sat there figurin' maybe I'd stay at his house until the storm let up."

Abe Martin came to the table and Doc stopped talking. Abe asked who wanted what, the others quickly ordered more beer, Jonah paying for Doc's beer. Then they waited for the good doctor to continue.

"Well, we got to Arnie's house and he let me off at the porch and brought his horse round back to the barn. Right nice barn he built. Goes straight up in front and sort of -"

"Doc, keep goin' on the story," said Jonah and they all grunted agreement. Doc smiled and took another drag on his pipe.

"Well, I went to the front door and bangs on it expectin' Melissa to come, but it wasn't her. No, it wasn't. Can you 'magine who't was?"

"The kid, the daughter, whats-her-name?"

"No, wasn't Miss Cassandra."

Doc waited. They knew he expected another guess so they mentioned names at random:

"Joshua, he come back?"

"Melly's Pa? Ma?"

"Chad, Jake's boy?"

"Nope. It was the Martin gals," Doc said with a grin.

"But you said ... you said you jest saw them gals at Jake's place. How'd they get so soon to -"

"That's just it," said Doc leaning over the table, his pipe poised in his hand. "They hardly had no time to get there. And it was howlin' that wind, somethin' fierce. Yet, there they was, standin' at the door, both of 'em, pregnant and all. They just upped and ran across the field after I left Jake, right to Arnie's place they ran. And that's not all. Guess who else was there, sittin' right there in the livin' room?"

There was no response. They all just leaned farther forward. Doc smiled and puffed once or twice. "Can't guess? I'll tell you. It was Jake and his wife, and Mrs. Kumar, and Chad and the other Martin gal, the one who ain't pregnant."

Doc leaned forward and puffed once. He stopped talking, as though he had finished his story.

"Well Doc? What then? What happened then? What about Arnie? Where was Arnie?"

"Arnie? He was still out back, in the barn I guess. I walked in and Jake looked sort of surprised. Well ... he _was_ surprised. Didn't expect to see me again so soon. But let me tell you the strangest thing."

Doc took another long swig of beer, coughed once and settled back.

"Cassandra. That little gal ... you won't believe this. Of course she's not a little gal any more. She don't look more than about 10, but I'd say she was, let's see, she was born in '95 so that makes her ... about -"

"Doc! What happened!"

"Why, that Miss Cassandra, she was standing on the table, naked as the day she was born, 'cept fer stuff tangled in her hair, vines or somethin'. And her body, covered in black - black streaks, all over her body. Looked like she was painted from head to toe in black streaks. Sort of like wavy lines, all over her, head to toe. She was hummin', sort of. Her eyes was closed and she was hummin' and the others, they all was hummin' too, 'cept for Jake who kept lookin' at me. Even the two gals, pregnant, they just started right in with this hummin'."

He continued, telling of how Arnie was afraid, of how the willow was banging on the window. Doc stopping frequently to catch his breath, then dropped his pipe and leaned heavily on the table.

"Well? What happened then?" Saul whispered. "Doc?"

"The lines on Miss Cassandra's body. They was movin'. I could swear they was movin', just movin' back and forth, like snakes or somethin'. Twistin' and turnin' and coilin' back and forth, up and down. And she was starin' right at me, eyes burnin' a hole in my head, those red, fiery eyes burnin' a hole -"

Doc Manner leaned back and started to breath heavily.

"Doc?" asked Saul. "You okay?"

"Yeah ... okay," said the doctor. "Guess I'd better be gettin' on. Got to visit Mrs. ... Mrs. Goodman, got a pain in her stomach. I'll just tell her to take oil and wash it down with hot lemon. That should do it. Then old Samuel Forcher, he's not up to snuff. Got to see him."

Doc Manner got up from the table and wandered to the door of the bar. The others watched him go. He seemed confused. Saul jumped up. Doc had left his pipe.

When Saul Shulom left the bar, clutching the pipe, Doc was nowhere to be found.

January 31, 1917

The doctor was confused. He had seen it and had put it out of his mind, the young woman, dancing, the shadows, moving, her eyes ... her fiery eyes.

But now it was gone, done with.

Then he had told the story ... to the boys at Martin's ... and it had all come back, rushing, crashing, filling his mind, and the voices began, deep inside, talking, whispering, urging. He stayed home, alone, huddled behind drawn curtains and closed doors, not eating, not sleeping, ignoring the banging on his door from the sick who sought his help - and still the voices spoke to him.

It was less than a week after his visit to Martin's bar: he had fallen to the floor, weak and shivering, the empty wine bottles by his side, a single slim ribbon of light creeping from the tear in the curtain, from a full moon. Suddenly the ribbon of light grew, brightened, expanded to fill the small room with an eerie glow and he began to shake, uncontrollably.

He pulled an empty bottle from the floor and put it to his lips, sucking in vain. He flung it to the floor and it shattered and the light began to vibrate and the voices to reverberate and they gave birth to a new glow, a new luminescence, rising before him, shimmering figures ... and the voices were now shouting, silently, screaming in his mind.

Then, suddenly, they were gone. The luminescence, the light, the voices - all were gone and he lay alone in the dark ... and he knew what he must do.

Slowly, painfully, he staggered to his feet, brushed the thinning hair from his brow, pulled at his beard, coughed, again and again, then crouched and held his stomach and slipped once more to the floor. Then the voices began, whispering, calling, urging, shouting - and he rose again, faltered, stumbled forward, groped in the corner, insistent whispers urging him on.

He pulled the heavy rope to his shoulder, coughed, fell back - and the voices began to chant, a noiseless drumming in his head ... and he obeyed.

The following week, Jonah visited Doc's house to return the pipe.

He found the good doctor dead, swinging from the ceiling, a rope around his neck.

CHAPTER 6

Bourden-Brown: May, 1937

"I tell you folks, this is the best buy in town. You won't find another house like it within Waterloo county. Why, just look at those stained glass windows. They don't make stained glass for houses any more, know that? And the door ... look at the size of that door. Solid oak, know that?"

The house stood tall and slim just beyond a large expanse of unkempt lawn. Skyrocket junipers exaggerated its height as did the narrow stained glass windows, each surmounted by an arc of brick and ornate white woodwork, now peeled and blistered from years of neglect. The massive carved wooden door set in the center of the building was cracked and slightly twisted.

The property was large for a city lot. Standing on small lots to either side, the houses were covered in white wood siding and green-painted eaves and rows of tiny shrubs across the front, every house identical. _This_ house was different. It had been standing here for over forty years and the junipers rose in spires to the roof. The forsythia, at least fifteen feet in height, was a wild mass of yellow blossoms.

But the most spectacular feature was the tree, a giant willow tree. It was at the front left corner and completely dominated the house with large drooping branches which hung to the ground, twisted, black and gnarled.

Sandra leaned toward Harold and whispered in his ear.

"Darling, I think he's right. We won't find anything at this price ... and I just love it. Look at that willow tree. Did you ever see anything so huge, so magnificent."

Harold smiled, spoke briefly to the salesman, then to his wife. "Okay sweetheart, if we close the deal by the end of the month then I guess we can manage the financing."

"Of course we can," said Sandra. "After my transfer to the accounting department I'll get a raise, it won't start until next month, but we can easily manage a small loan. Well? Are we agreed?"

Harold bent over his wife and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Sure, we're agreed."

Sandra turned to the salesman who was pretending to inspect the forsythia.

"Mr. Cameron, we'll take it."

September, 1937

It took about four months to put the house into shape. The wallpaper was old and faded, the sink was stained and the plumbing was leaking. The shingles were replaced and the basement walls waterproofed. The hardwood floors were cracked and had to be covered with carpet. The paint was peeling on all four exterior walls and the porch railing was rotted. It had taken most of their savings, left after the down payment, but now it was finished and they stood at the sidewalk gazing up the paved driveway.

"Nice house you got there Sandra Bourden-Brown," said Harold.

"Not bad, not bad Mr. Brown." Sandra put her arm about his waist and pointed to the tree. "Have you ever seen a tree like that? Can you get the camera dear? I think we should take a picture."

Harold walked, almost ran to the house and returned with a box camera.

"Here, give it to me. Harold, stand by the tree. I'll take the picture."

Harold walked obediently to the willow tree and stood, hands on hips, smiling. Sandra looked through the camera viewfinder. Harold looked insignificant beside the enormous tree. She smiled and took the picture.

"Harold!" she shouted. "You're just a shrimp beside that tree. It looks like it could eat you for lunch. See that big branch, just above your head? It looks like it's ... Harold ... Harold!"

The branch seemed to collapse and Harold vanished beneath a cloud of tendrils covered in new growth. Sandra ran to the tree as the huge branch rose slowly and Harold pushed himself to a sitting position on the ground, bewildered.

"Did you see that?" cried Sandra. "That tree, that branch, it just came down and -"

Harold jumped to his feet, shook his head and licked his finger, holding it in the air. "See? A wind. Poor old tree, just sags in a heavy wind." He brushed himself and they both laughed then walked to the porch and Sandra entered the house. Harold gave the old willow one last glance before he followed his wife.

The branches of the old willow moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, waving, gnarled and twisted.

October, 1937

They had rented a camping tent, intending to spend two weeks on the east coast. The drive through Vermont and the Adirondacks had been so enjoyable, the leaves beginning their Fall display, and the coast of Maine so spectacular, that they stayed an extra week in order to visit Nova Scotia and the Bay of Fundy. The tent rental agency had no objections, it was available for the extra week. Sandra said she could arrange a fourth week with a phone call to the office, but Harold was concerned that the house would be overgrown with weeds by the time they got back. The neighbours were very accommodating and had agreed to mow the lawn for the extra week, but a fourth week? That was asking too much. They bought extra souvenirs for each neighbour and headed home.

Sandra was driving when they turned onto their driveway. Harold had his eyes closed; he didn't want to see the weeds.

"It's okay, darling. You can open your eyes, looks good, just the way we left it," Sandra said softly. Harold peeked through his fingers. The house was tall and handsome, the grass had been mowed recently and the willow swayed gently, beckoning, as though it were welcoming them home.

They unpacked, Harold brought the tent back to the rental agency and when he returned they both collapsed in a chair with a glass of sherry.

"Mmmm, it's good to be home," sighed Harold.

"Funny eh?" muttered Sandra, eyes closed. "There's a reward at each end of a trip like this. Good to get away, good to get home."

Harold finished his sherry and poured himself another. "Sandy? That old willow ... I guess I never looked at it closely before, not recently. When we drove up the driveway it looked so huge. I mean, it seems to have grown several feet just in the three weeks we've been away. Did you notice that?"

Sandra opened her eyes, grunted, closed her eyes and hummed agreement. Harold paused, sipped his sherry, continued. "Maybe I should trim it a little. What do you think?"

Sandra hummed. He leaned out of his chair and walked to the window. The tree blocked almost all of the daylight from that side of the house. "It's getting straggly ... is that a word? Straggly?" Sandra hummed, not listening. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll trim it, just a little."

Sandra opened her eyes at the sound of the branches tapping the window and Harold peered through the glass.

"Yes, I'll take off the branches from this side ... the ones that keep banging against the window."

The tapping grew louder and Harold stepped back.

"You know," he said in a low voice, "that old tree can hear us."

Sandra leaned back and chuckled.

"No, I mean it," repeated Harold, whispering. "Watch this."

He leaned forward, toward the window, and said in a loud voice as though he were talking to the tree, "I think I'll cut off the branches from this side." Then he stepped back. The tapping of the branches increased. "See that?" Sandra put down her glass and started to laugh.

"You _are_ silly," she said. "A tree that listens into our conversations and -"

"No, wait ... watch this. I'm sure it understands." He leaned again toward the window and whispered. "Maybe I'll chop down the whole tree ... maybe I'll -"

A large branch banged against the side of the house and a picture fell from the wall, the glass shattering as it hit the floor.

"Harold! Now look what you did! You're so clumsy. That was my favourite picture. Now you've broken the glass and -"

Sandra stopped talking, abruptly, and looked at Harold. They stared at each other in silence for some time before Harold spoke.

"Sandy ... I was nowhere near that picture."

They continued to stare at each other for several seconds, Harold now several feet back from the window, Sandra leaning forward in her chair. Then she laughed, a shaky little laugh, uncertain and squeaky.

"Sweetheart, it was the wind. Look out the window. See? That old tree is waving in the wind." Then she got out of her chair and whispered to Harold. "I think it's a good idea, trim the branches away from this side of the house." She turned her head slightly and looked out the window, almost as though she expected a reaction from the tree.

The wind had died down and the black branches pressing against the window were motionless.

Listening.

***

The next afternoon Harold came home early. Nobody at the office seemed to have noticed that he had been away for three weeks. There was actually little to do and he had spent the time daydreaming. That was a favourite pastime. He was a knight in shining armor, a wizard that could command the rain to fall and the sun to shine, a superman with unimaginable powers. He dreamed that he was in command of an army of giants which he directed with vigor and authority against the forces of evil. Then he was the King of some ancient and wideflung land which spread from sea to sea and he would lead his hordes of armored troops against the invading foe.

Then he came home.

When he drove up the driveway he stopped and gazed at the old willow. Maybe he should do a little trimming, now, before Sandy got home. She always complained that he spent too much time daydreaming. He objected. Thinking, that's what he was doing, lying on the couch with his eyes closed, thinking. Now he would surprise her. When she got home he would announce that he had trimmed the tree. He wouldn't make a big thing of it, just a casual remark as though it were a trivial and familiar ritual.

He parked the car and walked to the front left side of the house. There was no wind and the branches hung quiet.

"Today's the day," he said in a whisper.

Sandy was right, he was silly thinking that the tree was listening. Neverthless, the thought of cutting off a few branches seemed exciting, somehow. How could that be exciting? He stood back and looked up at the tree. It soared higher than the roof, the leafy canopy embracing that side of the old house. The top branches had begun to sway, slowly. He looked around. There were no neighbours in sight. He leaned forward and whispered again. "Today ... soon ... just a few branches, just next to the house." Then he said, more loudly, "I'll cut off just a few branches."

He jumped back as the tree rustled, the lower branches now beginning to move slowly. His skin tingled. This _was_ exciting. He quickly ran to the porch, opened the door and ran up the stairs to change his clothes. He could hear the tree banging against the side of the house. When he came down he was wearing an old pair of jeans and a heavy shirt with several tears in the sleeves.

They had added the garage recently, to the right side of the house. It was small, just enough room for one car. He usually pulled his car off onto the grass and let Sandra park in the garage. Now he fished through the junk piled on the floor, in a corner, looking for the saw. It wasn't there. Probably in the shed, out back. He walked around the house, starting to walk to the left side, looked up at the willow then changed his mind and walked by the right side. The saw was hanging in the shed and he took it off the wall and walked slowly toward the old tree. He looked across the yard. There were no neighbours in sight.

He raised the saw and waved it in the air like a sword. The back of his neck tingled and he stopped and swung the saw back and forth, up and down, like a swordsman practising before the tournament. The tree was motionless. He walked slowly to the nearest branch and poked it gently with the saw, his back arched, arm extended. The branch was thin and wavered slightly then hung again, motionless. He crouched and swung his sword from left to right across the thin branch. It caught, stuck, and he pulled back and the thin branch followed, clinging to his sword. He jumped back and raised the sword and the branch fell away. A shiver began in his neck and shook his shoulders and spiralled to his legs. He lunged forward, hacked with his sword, a long downward stroke, then jumped back. A thin twisted branch fell to the groud, severed from the evil willow, the bane of mankind, the dark scourge. He raised his sword and lunged forward again and another thin branch fell to the ground and again he backed away.

Then a large branch swung slowly from above, descending, its shadow racing across the grass toward him. Harold jumped back and raised his sword against the advancing menace. His sword was whipped from his hand, black coils, hairy, spinning about his weapon. He was without excalibur. He reached up and took the sword in his hand and held it tightly against the mighty pull of the wicked tree and it bit into his fingers, but he paid no heed. He pulled, leaned backward, fell, clutching his sword, now gleaming brightly. He scrambled away from the evil tree, sword biting, hands bleeding, jumped to his feet, backed away, several thin branches clung to his jeans and he swept them to the ground in one swift gesture.

"Harold! Are you home?"

It was Sandy.

Had he been day dreaming? Harold shook his head and stared down at his hands. The palms were cut and bleeding. A saw lay on the ground, covered in thin branches. He grabbed the saw and branches and ran to the shed, throwing the branches to the ground and the saw onto the small wooden table. He wiped his hands on his shirt and walked slowly back to the house, his hands stuck casually in his back pockets.

"Sandy? I'm out back. Just trimmed the tree, dear."

***

The party was a great success. Harold knew that from the start. It was the first party of any size they had held since moving into the old house and he started drinking an hour before the first guest arrived. Now it was in full swing and he was feeling no pain. Sandy was running back and forth from the kitchen carrying trays of hot sausages wrapped in bacon and the table in the living room was covered in expensive imported cheeses and a huge pumpernickel loaf filled with cream cheese and spinach dip. He made sure that all glasses were filled at all times. He had even put up a list of exotic drinks with the recipe for each and everyone was taking turns in mixing their own drinks at the table. It was past midnight when he raised his glass and called for a toast. They had all stopped talking and waited for him to make the toast, but he couldn't think of a thing to toast. That was when the branches began to bang against the window. Everyone heard it and Harold walked to the window and toasted the willow tree. There were a few chuckles but everyone ceremoniously made the toast and began talking again. Harold had had too much to drink. He sat on the sofa and closed his eyes. He was very tired.

Then he got up, suddenly, and sat in a chair by the window, then stood up, then climbed onto the chair, then raised his glass again.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted. "I call your attention to my willow tree."

Some of the guests looked, laughed, then continued talking. Harold shouted, louder.

"May I have your attention?"

Sandra rolled her eyes and tried to get him down from the chair. Everyone began to laugh briefly then continued talking.

"I will now demonstrate an amazing act of - of - of intellect. This here willow tree will do as I command!"

Sandra gave up trying to drag him from the chair and continued to hold out the tray of small sandwiches, explaining that Harold was a silly fellow and they should just ignore him when he was this way. Then there was a bumping sound against the wall and some of the guests backed away from the hanging pictures, now swinging back and forth.

"Willow? Are you ready, willow?"

The banging got louder and the talking began to subside as the guests stared at Harold, then at the window.

"Willow? Let us hear from you! Give us a sign!"

The bumping continued and the window began to rattle as a large branch banged repeatedly against the glass.

"Now willow, listen to me! I want you to say hello to our guests. Willow? Say hello to our guests!"

Suddenly, with a cry of shattered glass a black coil broke throught the window and spiralled high above Harold's head, gnarled and twisted, and Harold raised his hands, swinging them from side to side and the coil followed, in rhythm, its hairy spirals high above his head, hovering. The guests gasped and backed away. A second coil leaped through the broken window and joined the first, swaying rhythmically to some unheard melody.

"And now ladies and gentlemen my willow will perform ... ta dum!"

Harold pointed a finger at the nearest guest and a coil leaped out and spun around her neck, pushing her to the floor, spinning about her head, crushing, splinters of bone springing from her face, red and sharp. Someone screamed.

"And for my next trick ... ta dum!"

Harold pointed at a second guest who was trying to climb backward over the table, his legs pumping, his arms spinning. The second coil shot across the room and punctured his face and spun around his neck, his eyes bulged, reddened, popped.

Harold looked to the ceiling, raised both arms, closed both eyes and began to hum and the coils withdrew and slithered to his side, winding slowly about his legs.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen ... ta dum!" And he opened his eyes suddenly.

Both coils spun around Harold's throat and he coughed, a gurgling, choking cough. His face was covered in black coils, his arms fell to his sides, then rose and fell, frantically, faster.

The guests backed away, gasping. A single scream, several screams. They began to rush to the front door. Harold's body was lifted off the chair, suspended, his head and neck now completely hidden by the black hairy coils, his body swinging from side to side, his arms hanging limp like a rag doll. There was pandemonium. Two women fainted, amid shrieks of terror. The table was overturned, cheeses spilled among the guests. Several people fell, were trampled by the rush toward the front door, Sandra vanished beneath a sea of feet, running, madly, shrieking to the door.

A shout. "Look!"

Harold's body fell to the floor, lifeless, headless. The coils still hovered in the air, then opened and Harold's head dropped and rolled crazily across the floor, eyes bulging, staring, blood-red.

"Harold! Harold! Wake up!"

Harold sat up, sweating, holding his throat. His shirt was wet, clinging to his chest. Sandra was kneeling by the sofa beside him, caressing his head.

"The party's over dear. You've been dreaming."

November, 1937

Sandra slipped off her robe and slid into the steaming tub. When they bought the house they had left the old tub in the bathroom. After refinishing, it gave the house an air of authenticity, something from the last century, a relic of the past. Although Harold complained, quietly, she still brought all her friends into the room to admire this piece of old world charm with its ornate feet and brass faucets. Now she lay with her eyes closed and breathed deeply of the perfumed waters. The radio in the bedroom played a slow waltz by Strauss. Harold was gone and, as usual, had apologized profusely; he had to entertain clients in Baden City and wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon. This was her day off and she had spent it reading and making brownies. It was after midnight and she was tired. She closed her eyes. A hot bath was as good as a sleeping pill.

She and Harold Bourden had married during their first year at college. He was shy, always seemed to be deep in thought then suddenly he would open his eyes very wide and stare at her and apologize that he didn't hear what she had just said. Perhaps it was that shyness that had attracted her. He seemed to need someone to mother him, to tell him what to do, when to turn right or left, what to wear and when to laugh or cry.

Sandra smiled and slipped deeper into the steaming water. She didn't notice the water level falling.

Sandra had grown up in a family of boys, rough and vulgar in their way. They would laugh at her, make fun of her curly hair, her breasts, treat her as a weak sister. But Harold was different. When he wasn't day dreaming he would fall all over himself in order to please her. He was thoughtful and considerate and always put her needs before his own. It was he who insisted that she retain her maiden name, Brown, when they got married. In fact he would change his name from Bourden to Brown, become Mr. Harold Brown and she would be Mrs. Sandra Brown. Not Mrs. Harold Something, but Mrs. Sandra Brown. They had debated the name and he had agreed, reluctantly, that her name would be Mrs. Sandra Bourden-Brown. He had apologized for that too, that his name was attached to hers.

She loved him very much.

She didn't notice the thin spiral of dark gray, shimmering, distorted, beneath the surface, then rising slowly, slowly from the foot of the tub.

Suddenly the black coil rose and swayed and rose again until it arched above her, tendrilous, slimy, and Sandra opened her eyes, shrieked and the thing dropped onto her leg, spun rapidly, dragged her across the bottom of the tub. She tried to climb out, was dragged back in. She tried to pull it off her leg, it spiralled about her waist, her arms, gray rugate coils covered in fine hairs. She screamed again, choked, screamed again. It spiralled about her throat, she gagged, choked, coughed. There was little water in the tub, but her head was pulled down, her face sinking beneath the surface. She spluttered, kicked, her body now almost completely covered in scaly, sinuous coils.

Then the writhing slowed, then stopped completely, and slowly the long black root slipped smoothly away, sliding again into the drain, leaving her limp body lying on the bottom of the tub.

The coils had gone.

The water was gone.

The waltz continued in the other room.

***

"I'm sorry Mr. Bourden," said Inspector Jaffre, pulling at his ear. "I really can't say anything more than I've already told you. Your wife was strangled. Her body, you saw it, it was covered in welts. The lab has no theories either. But don't you worry Mr. Bourden, we're still working on it. I think you should go home now. Nothing you can do here. Get some rest."

Harold hadn't shaved in two days. He had come to the police station and stayed, hoping for some news on the investigation. Somehow it calmed him to be where others were concerned about the shocking death of his wife. For two days he had come to the station and waited in the lounge, drinking black coffee and smoking continuously. Sandra had tried to get him to stop smoking, bad for his health. He promised to stop many times, but never did. He eventually resigned himself to the habit saying that he expected to die young anyway, might as well enjoy life, even a short one. Sandra would laugh. She had a wonderful laugh. It began almost silent, then a hissing sound, then the giggling.

He had been lucky. He was awkward, short, his round face too pink and his taffy-coloured hair too thin. He found it difficult to make intelligent conversation. Everyone seemed to speak at once and he would wait for a pause in the conversation, not wanting to interrupt anyone, but there never was a pause, so he didn't say anything. But that wasn't really the reason for his silence because Sandra always waited patiently for him to speak, and he knew she was waiting, and he thought of how he could string together the words, how he could express his thoughts, and when he had constructed a meaningful sentence he was afraid it would sound pedantic, so he said nothing. But he was lucky. In spite of these clear defects Sandra, wonderful Sandra, had married him and as the years went by he acquired more courage, found it less difficult to express his thoughts.

Wonderful Sandra. Beautiful Sandra.

And now she was gone and he was alone. How could he survive, alone?

Harold stood and walked to the window. It had started to rain and people were colliding in their efforts to find protection. Rain? In November? And why did people run from the rain? It was only water. He remembered stories, islands in the Pacific where the rain was completely ignored, the natives ignored it and soon the rain was over and soon they were dry again in the hot sun.

Harold returned to his chair, lit another cigarette. He should go home. He would try to get some sleep. There was nothing he could do. He put out the newly lit cigarette and left the station.

Inspector Jaffre watched him leave through the small window of his office.

"So what do you think, Inspector?" asked his assistant. "Got any theories? What would do that to the body, covered in bruises, dirt and slime in the tub? What would do that?"

Inspector Jaffre stared at the photos on his desk and pulled his ear. "Damned if I know," he muttered. He pulled a small black and dog-eared notebook from his vest pocket and made a note: _dirt-slime-diagonal welts covered in small hairs._

***

For a long time Harold sat in his car, at the end of the driveway, staring at the house. It was getting dark and the moon stood directly over the peaked roof, a bright arc. There were very few stars visible, the big dipper and maybe that very bright star was the planet Venus. Sandra and he had bought a book, intending to learn about the constellations. They did sit out back one night, then they lay side-by-side on the damp grass staring up at the star-filled sky. It was so dark they couldn't read the book. Sandra had laughed. She laughed often, a hiss then a giggle.

The engine coughed and stopped and Harold looked at the gas gauge: empty. He grunted and opened the door and began to walk to the shed in the back of the house. Would the can be full? He always forgot to fill the gas can after he used it, but Sandra never did. She was an accountant, maybe that's what made her so efficient. It was unusual for women to practise this craft, but she was very good at it. She thought of everything, she organized everything. He was clumsy and forgetful and silly. She didn't seem to mind. _You're so helpless_ she would say, _that's your appeal, my sweet,why you're such a terrific salesman._ Then she would laugh, that wonderful laugh.

He opened the shed door and peered inside. It was too dark to see anything. He reached into his pocket, removed the cigarette lighter. Could he light it in here, in the shed? If the gas can were full maybe it wasn't a good idea, dangerous. It would be exciting, but not a good idea. If he stepped outside it would be all right, but then he couldn't see the can inside a dark shed. He shook his head. What was he thinking? This was silly. Maybe he would wait until morning. He was tired, very tired. He looked at the house and the giant willow tree which seemed a black extension to the side, tall and irregular and wild looking, cradling the old house. The tree seemed to move, its branches seemed to rise and fall. Harold rubbed his eyes.

Sandy had loved that tree when they first moved into the old house. After a time she began to complain of the stains on the window and the constant rubbing of branches and the lack of sunlight on that side. He had promised to cut it down, but never did more than remove a few branches. He had tossed them behind the shed and they had immediately taken root. Eventually he burned them, but never tried to remove the entire tree. She reminded him once or twice, but he always forgot.

Harold closed the shed door and walked to the side of the house. The ground was wet after the rain and his feet were now cold and damp. He stopped beside the willow tree and looked up into the chaos of shiny wet leaves glinting in the moonlight. The leaves should have fallen by now, but _this_ tree, it seemed different. A slight wind came up, the leaves shook and he was drenched. He shook his head and brushed his wrinkled suit with his left hand. In his right hand he still held the cigarette lighter. One day he would definitely cut down that tree and burn it. He flicked the lighter and a small flame leaped up. He held the flame to a wet leaf. Silly. It wouldn't burn.

He remembered when he was a kid, leaning over the railing of the porch. His parents lived in an apartment on the tenth floor. He often stared down at the traffic wondering what it would be like to jump. He was a coward, but dreamed of doing foolish things, dangerous things. Somehow the thought thrilled him. It would be so easy, just lean over and jump. He would spread his arms and glide to the ground.

Death was exciting. Driving down the highway with cars coming at you 60 miles an hour, just a foot or two away. Cars passing, just a few feet away, at 60 miles an hour, approaching each other at 120 miles an hour. It would be so easy, just a slight turn of the wheel, no more than a slight pressure with his finger. The thought thrilled him.

He stared at the leaf. The small flame was still flickering about the leaf and it was now dry and burst into flame and the flame died immediately. The black shrivelled leaf hung limp. He put his lighter back into his pocket. Silly, dangerous, thrilling. It started to rain again. If the tree had caught fire then the rain would have put it out. He was tired. Was it really thrilling? The rain would have put out the fire anyway. Under the tree it would be dry. The rain may not get through the dense foliage. He stooped and peered through the branches, hanging to the ground. It was too dark to see anything. He lifted a branch and it watered his arm. He stooped and began to make his way under and through the hanging branches, gnarled, twisted, distorted. Underneath, inside, it was empty. He straightened up and looked about. Dark. He pulled out the lighter again and lit it. It was like a cave under the tree and it _was_ dry. He could hear the rain, tinkling, but he couldn't feel it. He looked up, but couldn't see the sky, not a single star. It was black. A flash of lightning. He counted to six-one-thousand before he heard the rumble of thunder. More than a mile away. He was tired. He should go inside and sleep. Tomorrow he would go back to the station. Maybe Jaffre had some information. Sandra could not leave him, not that way. He must know _how_ , _why_.

He tried to raise the branch, but it was stiff and wet. He tried another, but couldn't move that either. Somehow he had lost track of which way he had entered the space beneath the tree. Every branch was like a steel bar, a prison - he was in a prison, a prisoner of the willow tree. He leaned against the trunk. It was rough even through his suit. He ran his hand over the bark, crevices, scaly, peeling. He was still holding the lighter against the darkness, but now it flickered. Was it running out of gas? His car had run out of gas, hadn't it? He stared at the flame and watched, mesmerized as it decreased, shivered and decreased. Then it went out. He was tired and slid down the trunk until he sat on the ground. The rough bark had torn his suit, but he paid no attention. He saw shapes flickering and rising and shimmering, luminescent in the space before him. They rose from the ground, wavered then fell again. He closed his eyes. He heard a humming, rising and falling, becoming more shrill. The lighter fell from his hand.

The branch dropping slowly from above his head. A gnarled, twisted, distorted branch, coiling and uncoiling, coiling and uncoiling. A flash of lightning. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand ... then a crash of thunder.

***

When Inspector Jaffre arrived there was already a crowd of neighbours. The house had been searched, but there was no sign of theft or damage. The reporter from the _Gazette_ followed him, asking questions, his assistant taking pictures almost at random. The body had been wrapped in a white sheet and was lying on the ground beside the willow tree. Jaffre walked and answered as he walked. "I just arrived ... don't know what happened. A neighbourhood kid found the body. I guess the kid was playing and stumbled across the body. Really ... I know no more than that. Yes, the fellow's wife died three days ago. We're still investigating, don't know the cause of death. The body was covered in welts, bruises. Can't say what happened -"

Jaffre knelt beside the body and removed the sheet. The camera flashed. The _Gazette_ reporter gasped. The first thing he saw were the eyes, they were open and bulging. Jaffre muttered something under his breath and threw the cloth back over the twisted and crushed body, the face covered in welts and slime and small hairs. He pulled the notebook from his vest, read the last entry, pulled his ear then added: _vines-hairy roots._

After the body had been removed the crowd began to disperse, except for someone in a heavy dark gray coat with collar pulled high. The figure stood by the road for some time then turned and walked away, slowly, stopped once, turned, then continued down the road.

CHAPTER 7

Willow Towers: August, 1947

Michael Colby looked at the house for a long time. It stood tall and slim beyond a large expanse of weeds. Skyrocket junipers exaggerated its height as did the narrow stained glass windows surmounted by an arc of brick and ornate woodwork, cracked and peeling. The massive carved wooden door in the center of the building was leaning on its hinges.

At the front left corner stood a gargantuan willow tree with soaring branches which arched high above the house then fell in a wild tangle to the ground. The tree seemed almost to hold the house in its arms.

Although the previous owners had done some renovations just ten years ago it was now run down and bricks were falling from the arches over the stained glass windows. That was good. He could buy it at a good price. It was an eyesore and the city would be pleased to approve a change in the zoning to allow for a highrise building. The lot was over an acre and could accommodate a parking lot as well as the apartment building.

Michael Colby opened the door and bent out of the rusty black Chevrolet. He walked up the driveway and stood in front of the small porch. _This will be just fine._ _Too bad the tree is in the middle of the lot. No matter, I'll still call it Willow Towers. If anyone asks it's because there used to be a huge willow tree in this spot._

He smiled and walked to the back of the house. There was a shed, broken and leaning crazily. He walked to it, peered inside the opening where a door had once been, then stepped inside, careful not to soil his suit. There were several cans, red clay flower pots, a rusty saw and a bench with cardboard boxes. He picked up the red box. _Came's Rat Poison_ : _guaranteed to destroy rodents and other pests._ Colby dropped the box onto the table, removed a clean white handkerchief from his vest pocket and carefully wiped his hands then backed out of the shed.

"Gonna buy this place?"

Colby jumped. The old man was puffing on a short stubby pipe, thin wisps of white hair sticking out from beneath a baseball cap. "Ain't been lived in since the Bourdens left, you know. Funny ... the Bourdens. Wife just upped and died. Strangled they say. She was a good looker too, but a little huffy if you know what I mean. Kept to themselves, they did. When the wife died, or got herself killed ... Mr. Bourden did too. Ever hear of somethin like that? Just got hisself killed too. Work of the devil I'd say. Yup, work of the devil."

"Excuse me," said Colby, pushing past the old man. "I'm late for a meeting. Yes, to answer your question, I do intend to buy this place." Colby walked quickly toward the rusty black Chev, looking back only once at the old willow tree.

"They was funny folk," said old man Shulom, still talking in the direction of Michael Colby even though he had now entered the car. "The wife was Bourden-Brown and the husband was just plain ol' Bourden. Ever hear of somethin like that? But she was a good looker, just a wee bit huffy if you know what I mean."

Colby's car disappeared over the hill at the end of the street and the old man turned to look into the shed. He picked up the rat poison then put it down. He picked up the can of gasoline and shook it; it was almost quarter full. He looked about and saw no one so he took it and walked slowly back to his house across the back field. "House ain't right," he mumbled. "Since Josh up and died, house ain't been right. House o' the devil, I'd say."

Butch Camden: September, 1947

Butch Camden had been a war hero, or at least that's what he told everybody who would listen. He had been wounded in battle, been given command of an infantry unit when the senior officers had been killed, had been the first over the hill when his unit attacked the bunkers, and had been the last to return home when the war was over.

"Butch. Stop relivin' the goddam war."

Harry McGinnis was speaking to the four construction workers gathered in the coffee shop. Harry's face was streaked with red veins and his oversized nose was just as veiny. It was cold and the four of them often dropped in before work, trading stories and planning the day, and the evening. Most were married, but they still spent time each morning planning a joint night out, even though these plans rarely materialized. They usually worked late and when they didn't, they were exhausted. Yet, it passed the time just to make the plans.

Harry often talked of owning a coffee shop of his own, then a string of shops, then a whole plaza full of shops, all his. Then he would retire and watch his three sons look after the plaza. He was the foreman of the construction team and the conversation usually revolved about Harry's dreams. But not this morning.

This morning Butch Camden was on one of his war-story kicks.

"Listen guys," said Butch, "the war was the greatest thing in my life. I was somebody there, people looked up to me, did what I said, they'd stand at attention when I talked and -"

Harry McGinnis immediately jumped up from the table and stood at attention. The others followed suit, then they all saluted Butch.

"Okay, okay, forget it," muttered Butch. "You guys weren't in the war so how'd you know? Go ahead, take all the crap from Colby, work late, get paid peanuts. We're nothin' and we all know it ... but, in the war, I was somethin', really somethin'."

"Butch?" Harry asked, sitting down and finishing his coffee. "Do you really have your basement filled with war stuff, I mean with guns and stuff, so you could start a war, yourself?"

The others looked at Butch for a response. They were sure the rumours were true. Somebody had actually been in Butch's basement and seen all the war supplies. Everybody joked about Butch starting a war some day, all by himself. When he talked of the war, which was all the time, his eyes would flash and he seemed remote, in some kind of trance, and his whole body would twitch.

Butch Camden operated the backhoe, bulldozer, ball and crane. He was good at everything, could fix anything, but they always imagined that Butch was actually fighting some secret war and the construction machinery were his weapons. When he was in the cab pulling the levers and swinging the crane or front-end bucket or back scoop nobody could talk to him; he was in his own world, eyes glassy, staring. _Stay out of Butch's war_ they would say, meaning _stand back when Butch was operating the crane_.

"Yeah. I've got some stuff in my basement, left over war surplus stuff," answered Butch, staring straight out the window. "That's all. Just junk."

They didn't believe him because he had that faraway look when he said it. When Harry McGinnis got up from the table they all jumped up. All except Butch, who continued to stare out the window for some time.

***

Butch Camden finished his eggs and drank his coffee and leaned back.

"Why do you have to go to work this early in the morning?" Lou asked. His wife stood behind his chair and refilled his coffee cup. "It's still dark. You won't be able to see a thing."

"You know Colby," he grunted. "He's in a big hurry. Keeps saying his money won't wait. He don't say _he_ can't wait ... says his _money_ can't wait."

Butch got up from the table and walked to the closet, pulling his army jacket from the rack, slipping into the heavy army boots then kissing his wife goodbye. When he left, Lou watched him pull out of the driveway in the rusty pickup truck. He was a good man and worked hard to provide for their small family. He often worked through the holiday season and on Sundays. It was difficult to accommodate to civilian life after the war and his wife often thought he would have been happier remaining in the army.

The basement of their small home was filled with memorabilia from his army days: two rifles, a dented helmet, a large gray shell which Butch insisted was defunct and boxes of war surplus coats and boots and radio equipment. His favourite topic of conversation was the war. That was sometimes embarassing. Nobody was interested in the war anymore, better to forget. Yet every conversation with friends eventually got around to the invasion of Sicily or desert strategy or the advantages of army over air force. Sometimes she felt that he was still reliving wartime battles. He would talk of winning this battle or that battle and his eyes would shine and his lips would quiver, saliva bubbling from the edge of his mouth. That was frightening, sometimes, but he was a good man and kind and she loved him.

***

When Butch pulled up the driveway of the old Bourden house the day was about to begin. The sky was black with scudding gray masses of cloud and the moon still hung in a slim arc. He parked the truck and walked to the front of the house where he had put the ball and crane the previous evening. He climbed into the cab, started the engine. The neighbours would complain about the noise, but Colby had said he should start anyway, early. It was progress and nobody should stand in the way of progress. Colby was a funny guy, but he was the boss.

"Okay, old house," Butch muttered, "this is one battle you'll lose."

He raised the crane and the huge steel ball swung back slowly then, just as slowly, it swung toward the house.

Michael Colby hadn't bothered to have the stained glass windows removed, but Butch had removed them anyway. They were beautiful and one day he would put them in _his_ house. When he had the money he would build his own house. He had learned to do everything that was needed: digging and pouring the footings and foundation and putting up the framing and the interior woodwork, solid oak and walnut, vaulted ceilings, plaster with embossed trim and double pane glass and a large workshop in the basement and a large yard to hold his construction machinery, and yellow shutters and red brick. He would build a cedar fence eight feet high to hide the machines and a tall privet hedge in front of the fence. He would build a beautiful house for his family, one day.

And it would have stained glass windows.

The radio was playing in the cab and he didn't hear the crash as the side of the house caved in, but he saw the bricks fall and the roof collapse and the big old willow tree lean to one side. Butch stared straight out the window of the cab, leaning forward slightly, his lips twitching, his hands gripping the controls. He pushed the lever and the crane began its slow rise, like a giant arm raised against the early morning sky.

Then he rubbed his eyes. There were two giant arms raised against the morning sky. The crane shuddered once and stopped moving. He pulled and pushed at the control lever, but it was stuck.

Two giant arms? A second arm silhouetted against the gray sky? He wiped the dust from the front window, leaned forward and saw the branch of the old willow tree soaring above the roofline, swinging back and forth, a single massive arm reaching with black fingers against the sky, then down, down toward the cab. He rubbed his eyes again, slid off the seat, the branch came through the window, glass shattering, radio blaring.

Thin tendrils spun about the control lever and the huge crane tottered crazily, the ball swinging slowly. Butch was holding his breath, crouched on the floor, looking up with wild eyes at the coiled branch operating the lever. Then he saw the ball swing into view through the side window, swinging with infinite slowness: out, then stop, then back, directly above the cab.

He reached up, grabbed the door handle, turned it; _must get out before the ball drops_. A black coil leapt from the heavy branch which now filled the cab and spun around his hand. He pulled back, but was dragged upward, onto the seat, his hand and now his arm covered in writhing coils, the huge steel ball swinging slowly, slowly above the cab.

The heavy branch jerked, suddenly, still wrapped around the control lever, the huge steel ball came straight down. Butch closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the door and the door fell open and he tumbled to the ground, black coils twisting and turning out the opened door, spinning about his arm, and the ball hit with a sickening thud, flattening the cab, the shattered front window popping out in a lazy arc, the heavy branch caught in the twisted, crushed wreckage and the coils which held his arm uncoiling, spiralling away.

Butch lay on the ground for several seconds, looking up at the willow tree. It had moved. It _was_ moving! He was beyond the span of branches, then he was at the edge, now he was beneath. It hovered directly over him, its branches reaching out, gnarled and black. He was in pain. The fall from the crane must have broken his leg, but he began to slide backward, pushing himself away from the descending branches, falling in a tangled rage, collapsing about him.

Then he heard the humming. It seemed to come from beyond the tree, _within_ the tree, rising in pitch to a shrill scream. From the dark vault beneath the willow he saw the shapes, glowing, rising, luminescent. The canopy of branches now hung above him, quivering.

Then the first branch fell, landing beside him, shaking the ground. Then another. Then something grabbed him, pulling, dragging him. Then another branch fell and he heard screams.

Then he fainted.

***

When Butch Camden awoke he was lying in the back of his pickup truck, covered in a blanket. Harry McGinnis was standing over him, frowning, concerned.

"Jesus Christ," muttered Harry as soon as Butch opened his eyes. "You gotta be more careful."

"What ... what happened?" Butch groaned, holding his hand to his throbbing head.

"The tree," said Harry. "That tree there, a bloody big branch fell, we cut it off with a chain saw. And the ball just fell, right on the crane, crushed the cab like a tin can. Balls ain't supposed to do that, but the crane was bent good. The tree-must have bent the bloody boom. Lucky we was around else you'd be gone for sure."

Butch pulled himself to a sitting position and stared across at the willow. It rose like a giant black octopus with its branches still waving, agitated, quivering. Huge branches covered the ground around the base of the tree. Several men were standing nearby with chain saws, motionless, just staring up at the tree.

"Jesus Christ!" said Harry. Then, in a whisper, "we gotta watch out for that bloody tree. It's movin', movin' all the time."

***

"Darling," said Lou, "I'm sure you must be mistaken about that tree. A tree can't just attack you. Remember what Harry said, the ball just dropped on the cab and, as for the tree, it was probably the wind or -"

"No, I'm sure it was the tree. Somebody is going to get hurt, I've got to be sure that it won't hurt nobody. Lou, that tree is, somehow, alive. I'm sure it _knew_ what it was doing. It actually pulled the bloody control lever and swung the ball over the cab. I was there. I saw it. I couldn't believe it, but it happened, just like I said."

They were seated around the kitchen table, yellow formica with chrome legs. It was evening and Butch had been home from work all day nursing a sore head, his leg in a cast. Lou was pouring another coffee into the oversized mug, black and strong, just the way Butch liked it. She drank none of it, but sipped from a dainty cup of weak tea, dressed in a light print dress covered in yellow flowers, her hair neatly tied with a pink ribbon. Her husband had talked of the tree all day. At first she thought he was delirious, but when the afternoon had rolled around and his fever had subsided and he was still talking about the tree she knew he meant every word.

After Butch had been admitted to General Hospital she had talked to Harry McGinnis. At first Harry seemed to think that the tree _knew what it was doing_ , but later his story changed: it was just the wind, must have been. Yet, all work would be stopped on the site until the tree was removed.

***

"Lou, I want to go back there."

"Where, dear?"

"To the construction site, to see that bloody tree. I'm not crazy, you'll see. We can just watch it, you'll see."

"But your leg, the doctor said you should stay off it for a few days. Besides, Harry said -"

"Lou, the leg is nothing. I went through worse in the war." He got up from the table, leaned on his crutch and headed toward the door which lead into the garage.

"C'mon Lou. Come with me ... I'm not crazy, you'll see."

Butch walked out the door and Lou sighed and got her coat. No use arguing, not when Butch was in this mood. When she slid into the driver's seat of the truck, Butch was waiting, his heavy army coat pulled about him, staring into the dark garage, not saying a word.

They got to the Bourden house site just after 8 o'clock that evening. Lou pulled only partway up the driveway and stopped. Butch opened the door, slid out onto the driveway, leaned against the truck and pulled his crutches after him. He started to hobble unsteadily toward the willow, his heavy army overcoat flopping from side to side.

"Butch, don't go too near!" shouted his wife. "Be careful, the tree, it doesn't look safe."

Why had she said that? The tree did actually look menacing, black and tall, large branches lying about its base.

Lou slid out and joined him, helping Butch around the pile of wood and bricks and other debris. It was early evening and they could both clearly see the two walls which were intact, next to the huge willow tree which was now moving slowly, caressing what remained of the house.

"What are you going to do?" asked Lou. "What _can_ you do? The other workmen just left the site this morning. They said they wouldn't work here until somebody tore down the tree. What can _you_ do?"

"Watch and see," said Butch. He stopped just short of the overhanging branch and looked up. The tree was moving slowly, the branch swaying. "Okay you bastard, now let's see what you do!" he shouted. He steadied himself on one crutch and reached into the large pocket of his overcoat, pulling out a round metal object. "Get ready to run," he said in a low voice, his head turned slightly toward his wife, then he pulled the pin with his teeth and tossed the hand grenade under the branch. It rolled toward the base of the tree and Butch turned sharply and stumbled. Lou ran to him, helped him up and together they headed back to the truck.

"War surplus grenade," muttered Butch. "Should do it." He smiled and leaned heavily against the fender, waiting. Nothing happened. "It takes just ten seconds, wait." They waited, but nothing happened.

Then they saw a branch rise in the air, coiling and spiralling upward. Then they saw the grenade released, from the fingers of the branch, falling to the ground, rolling across the driveway toward them. It disappeared behind a pile of bricks, then exploded. A column of broken brick rose in the air and fell harmlessly on the driveway. Lou gasped and staggered back against the truck.

"Bastard," muttered Butch. "Just the first engagement ... the war ain't over."

***

The site of the new apartment building was deserted. It had remained that way for nearly a week. Two walls of the old Bourden house still stood against the huge willow tree. Occasionally a truck would drive up and someone would survey the site then the truck would drive away. Several times a rusty black Chevrolet would stop at the end of the driveway, Michael Colby would roll down the window, wait for several minutes, then drive off.

It was a week to the day since Butch Camden had narrowly escaped death at the hands of the willow tree, and the steel ball had crushed the cab. Now he drove up in his pickup truck, in the early hours of the morning, and stopped. The back of the truck was covered in a tarpaulin, brown and black and olive, army camouflage.

He stood for some time by the side of the truck, looking carefully up and down the street. It was too early for any traffic. People were still sleeping. He hobbled to the back and removed the tarp. He could walk, shakily, without a crutch and preferred it that way. He had come through worse than this in the war. He didn't need any help. He was wearing a regulation army outfit with scuffed brown boots, short jacket with plenty of pockets, a belt of bullets hanging over his left shoulder.

The first thing he pulled off the truck was a machine gun. He set it up on the driveway. Then he pulled out the dented helmet, put it on, buckled the strap. Then the mortar launcher: a short cylindrical barrel into which he would slip the shells, shells which he had hidden for two years in the basement. He let the belt of bullets fall from his shoulder, then fed them into the machine gun. He carried the box of three mortar shells and placed them on the ground. This would be the end of the war ... and he would win, guaranteed.

When he squatted beside the mortar his eyes were flashing, his lips quivering, saliva running onto his chin from the corners of his mouth. He stared at the tree, gauged the distance, set the angle and dropped the first shell into the mortar barrel. The shell roared toward the tree before a tongue of flame, in a high arc, landing amid the tangle of branches. There was a deafening explosion and two large branches fell to the ground. Butch screamed with excitement, then settled back and smiled, squinting his eyes, drooling, staring at the willow with its branches beginning to rise in the air. Lights came on, up and down the street.

He dropped in his second shell and it streaked upward, then down into the tree, into the wildly gyrating branches. The explosion tore a large piece of trunk from the tree and Butch was covered in a shower of wood chips and twigs. A fire had started beneath the tree and Butch muttered incoherently. "War ... bastard ... burn." A wall of the old house slowly moved then caved in, sending a fountain of sparks into the air. Neighbours were running to the site, in pyjamas and housecoats.

Butch was now covered in black hairy branches from the shattered tree. He ignored them, staring intently at the old willow. Suddenly the loose branches spun about the barrel of the mortar launcher, smoking, bursting into flame, yet continuing to grow, black coils spinning about the hot barrel, then about his hand. He tore himself away long enough to drop the last shell into the barrel, but nothing happened. A dud. His leg was bleeding now, but he crawled to the machine gun, still covered in small coils of the willow, black and twisting and alive. He ignored them, began to fire, directly into the tree, his head forward, peering out from under his helmet, shouting, eyes wide open, wild.

The tree leaned toward him, dropping, in slow motion, branches reaching out. He was still firing when he vanished beneath the collapsing canopy.

The crowd gathered at the street was silent, gasping. They saw it all.

***

The police arrived within the hour and surveyed the scene. The neighbours fell over themselves, all talking simultaneously, trying to explain what happened. The worker had bombed the tree. He had shot at it, repeatedly. The old willow tree had split, one half falling onto the driveway, and the worker had vanished.

It was more than an hour later when they found Butch beneath the fallen half of the willow. His helmet was crushed and his head had been twisted from his body. But his hands: they gripped a machine gun so tenaciously that they had to remove the gun with the body.

April, 1948

A ball and crane arrived the day before Easter, 1948. Last Fall the death of Butch Camden had been in the papers and the article had mentioned the fears of the workmen, their insistence that the willow was alive, their refusal to work until the tree was removed. Now all of the neighbours and half of the town gathered to watch the building demolished. Trucks had carted away most of the debris, but half of the huge willow tree still stood there, magnificent, almost regal. The neighbours talked among themselves of the problems of removing the house. The tree was always in the way. Its branches seemed entangled in every pipe, drain and sewer. Every time a wall came down a branch or two had to be removed, the entire wall on that side was riddled with roots. When the backhoe had tried to pull the concrete foundation away they found that is was tied to the ground with a thick mass of roots. The tree seemed almost to be protecting the old house. One of the workmen had broken his leg on a twisted root when he tried to remove some bricks. Another had been injured when he was clearing the broken branches; he needed seventeen stitches. Another swore that the tree was moving to take up the space occupied by the house; he had quit on the spot.

Now the neighbours watched as the backhoe began to dig a wide ditch around the remaining half of the tree. Another man started a chainsaw and walked cautiously toward the tree. They had originally intended to simply burn it down, but someone wanted the wood for wicker furniture and old man Colby couldn't pass up a chance to make some extra money. They would now cut off the branches and leave the trunk in large pieces. The backhoe would remove the roots.

The crowd waited and watched as the man with the chain saw stood before the tree, waiting, staring up into the old willow. Then he slowly walked forward and warily climbed into the tree and began to cut the upper branches.

A large branch fell with a resounding crash and the crowd clapped and cheered.

Then another branch fell, and another.

Then there was silence.

The backhoe stopped and the driver climbed out and ran to the base of the tree, disappearing into the hanging branches. He dragged a body from beneath the tree and the crowd gasped. Several other men ran to the tree. Within minutes an ambulance arrived and the body was carried on a stretcher past the crowd. The body of Harry McGinnis was distorted, twisted, crushed. It was covered in welts and slime. The backhoe operator climbed back into his machine shaking his head and immediately left the grounds, muttering to himself. It was some time before the crowd dispersed, talking and whispering among themselves.

The last to leave was a figure in a dark gray coat, with collar pulled high.

***

"That's bloody nonsense!" shouted Michael Colby. "The house ain't haunted and the tree ain't a killer. Harry and Butch was just careless, stupid. The building trade is getting worse. Any idiot gets a job these days. Give the contract to Jake, he'll do the job. We'll have to wait a week until he's finished the Molson project, but it'll be worth the wait."

He hung up the phone and grunted with disgust. "Damn incompetents. We're already three months behind schedule. If I don't have that building renting by next Spring the bank will come after me. Damnation!"

Colby's wife, Dawna, cooed in his ear and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

***

That evening Colby visited the building site. It was deserted, barren except for the huge willow tree silhouetted against a full moon. He got out of his car and walked to the tree.

"So, you're protecting this old house, eh?" He looked around and saw the cut branches on the ground. He kicked at a branch and it moved only slightly. He bent over and tried to pull up a small twig, but it stuck. He pulled again and it came loose in his hand. He shone a flashlight at the twig. It was covered with hundreds of hairy roots. He mumbled, "I'll be damned. Still alive and kicking." He looked up at the tree again and grinned. "Well you won't be kickin long. Next week you'll be just so much firewood."

The tree shook in a slight breeze and Colby backed away. A branch came rushing to the ground and landed beside him and Colby walked backwards several yards, stumbled and fell, jumped quickly to his feet then turned and ran to his car. For a long time he stared at the dark silhouette out the side window of his car. The tree was swaying in a breeze which had now become a strong wind. He started the car and backed out of the driveway.

"Bloody tree. Just firewood," he said under his breath. "Wait and see."

September, 1948

It towered ten stories high. It was the tallest building in New Bamberg. When the ribbon was cut the crowd cheered and the mayor bowed deeply and gave a little speech. Michael Colby was pleased. He had put a full page ad in the _Gazette_ and most of the apartments had been rented before the building was even completed and now the citizens of the town were clamoring to get in. They were even coming from Baden City to live in these luxury apartments. He would have it fully occupied before the Summer was over.

Colby pulled his wife Dawna to his side and whispered in her ear. "This Fall we go south for the Winter. We stay there ... waitin' for the rent to come rolling in." She smiled and hugged him tightly. She knew he didn't mean it. After building Willow Towers he'd want to do more, build more, make more money.

When the mayor left, the crowd left too. Soon, only Colby and his wife were standing by their car in the smooth asphalt parking lot. He looked about. The other houses on the block were dwarfed by Willow Towers and he was happy. They climbed into the car and slowly turned toward the road. Moving vans were pulling into the lot. The tenants had already started to arrive.

***

By late Fall the apartment building was completely rented and Colby was so pleased that he built a walkway around the building with trellises covered in hanging roses. He didn't even increase the rent. The tenants walked there in the cool evenings. They called it Willow Walk. They would stop and chat and describe how they had decorated their rooms, compare views from their windows and complimented themselves on having put their bid in early for an apartment in Willow Towers.

It was John Mullin who first suggested the New Year's Eve party. It could be held in the basement. There was lots of room down there and he would clean it up and he and his young wife would decorate it. The idea was enthusiastically embraced by all tenants except Shulom. The old man didn't like parties, they were the playground of the devil. But all the other tenants agreed to help with the decorations and would bring snacks and soft drinks. In particular Fran Moller promised to bring champagne. She and her room mate, Kay, would also make little paper decorations to hang from the ceiling.

Kay and Fran had been friends since high school and decided to share the apartment as they had shared everything else. It was expensive, but together they would manage. They walked about the rooms and admired the clean white plaster walls and molded plaster trim and doors of solid pine. The small kitchen was furnished with a fridge with two doors, one just for frozen food. The counter was longer than they had ever seen. Neat rows of cupboards lined the wall above the counter and the built-in stove looked like it belonged right there. They walked to the window, together. They had been nearly the first to apply for a room and had their choice; they chose the very top floor where they could see the setting sun. From here they could see the town library and city hall. In the distance they could see Tooly Peak and the communication tower and the fields which led to Drumbo Creek and down to the bog.

They turned simultaneously and looked into the room. There was little furniture, but they were patient. They would save and buy what they needed, little by little. Together, hand in hand, they walked to the bathroom. It was all chrome and yellow and shiny plastic. Even the tub was yellow, with avocado trim. They had bought olive green towels and they each in turn hung their towel on the chrome rack then stood back to admire the effect.

After a simple meal they relaxed on the single sofa and turned on the radio. The announcer was condemning city council for approving the rezoning which enabled the building of the monstrosity called Willow Towers. The girls listened. The announcer was speaking in an excited voice:

"This magnificent old house was a landmark. How many houses are there like this in New Bamberg? None! That magnificent willow tree. How many such willow trees in New Bamberg? None! I'll bet that no tree like that exists anywhere in Waterloo County. And where is that magnificent tree now? Gone! Destroyed! It was taken down with backhoe and chain saw. That magnificent tree was removed, for what? To make furniture, wicker baskets, junk!"

Fran reached over and changed the station. "Magnificent, he says _magnificent_ too many times." Kay nodded. "He wants a willow, we have a willow ... Willow Towers. I think Willow Towers is _magnificent_ ," continued Fran. Kay laughed and they both leaned back to enjoy the story which had just started. This was a weekly ritual: they would listen to the story, sponsored by some soap company, then spend an hour discussing it, then go to bed.

***

It was just before midnight when they went to bed. Although the apartment was small it did have two bedrooms and Fran was pleased; she spent at least 30 minutes each night making entries in her diary. Now she curled with knees raised, hair in curlers, leaning against the padded, cream coloured headboard, writing the events and thoughts of the day:

Kay and I spent at least an hour this afternoon on Willow Walk. The roses are in full bloom except on the front left side of the building where I guess they don't get enough light. I told the superintendent, but he seems resigned to having those nasty weeds sticking up through the marble chips. He said he can't grow anything on that side.

Kay and I sat on the benches watching the tenants go by. Our neighbours are all such nice people, but we only see them in the parking lot or on Willow Walk. When I mentioned this to the Mullins, John immediately suggested a party. Barbie thought we should have some reason other than getting to know one another and Kay suggested New Year's Eve. I promised to bring champagne - I hope nobody expects some expensive variety.

December 31, 1948

When New Year's Eve arrived John and Barbie Mullin greeted everyone at the door to the basement storage rooms. They were all amazed at how bright and clean and festive it looked. In the corner were the storage bins, but even they were hung with little paper bells and white angels.

"Mostly Kay and Fran," said Barbie Mullin. "They worked most of the night, last night, to get it finished. John and I mostly worked on arranging the tables, the drinks and snacks and things. Over in the other room, just past the furnace room, we've stacked the chairs. Just help yourself, drag them back in here, then have a drink and try John's punch. Be sure to put on a hat and get a noisemaker, they're on the table in the far corner."

One by one the guests arrived and by 11 o'clock they had finished the punch, the table was now covered with bottles of whiskey and gin. Everyone was talking simultaneously and it looked like a circus with clowns in gaily coloured hats covered in streamers which had fallen from the ceiling. The snacks hadn't lasted long and John had gone out to the corner variety store to buy more potato chips and peanuts. The store advertised 24 hour service, 365 days a year and he was surprised that they were indeed open, even on New Year's Eve. Perhaps it wasn't so surprising since the old couple which owned the store lived right in the back.

When he returned to the party, everyone was singing, the top ten songs on the charts. He never could remember the words and was glad that he could pretend to be busy arranging the chips and cookies and wandering through the group with the tray. He was also glad that everyone had found a chair. Michael Colby had bought a bunch of them from the local furniture store, on sale. Colby said it was for sentimental reasons. John never could understand what was so sentimental about these chairs. They weren't even well built, some were already coming apart, strips of wood spiralling out from the sides, but no one complained. They just leaned back in their wicker chairs and sang the hit songs.

When it was just minutes before midnight Fran ran to the elevator and pushed the button. She had almost forgotten about the champagne cooling in her fridge. They would toast the new year with champagne. It was a cheap local wine, but nobody would care. They were all pretty drunk. When the door slid open she stepped in, punched for the tenth floor and looked at her watch. It was 11:47 and she must hurry. Why had she forgotten the champagne? Everyone was having a good time. She knew most of the songs and they followed her lead. She had simply lost track of time.

When the elevator opened she ran down the hall and pushed open the door to her apartment. It wasn't locked, not tonight. In a minute she was in the elevator again carrying a green garbage bag filled with six bottles of champagne. The bag was over her shoulder and her back started to get cold. Maybe she should enter the room shouting _Ho! Ho! Ho!_ and swinging her bag of champagne. But Christmas was over. Maybe singing Auld Lang Syne? Yes. That was good. They would all join in as she passed out the bottles; she knew all the words. She looked at her watch. It was 11:54 and she must hurry. The elevator door opened and she began to sing: _For old acquaintance be forgot_ ...

She could hear the commotion as soon as she stepped out of the elevator. There were screams, coming from the party room. She ran to the door, her bag of wine clanking at her back. John was pulling Kay from her wicker chair, the chair was wrapped around her arms, long coils of twine covered in hair, wrapped around her arms and Kay was screaming. Fran dropped the bag of champagne. The sound of breaking glass was drowned in the cries of pain. Barbie was shouting, dragging the chair, clinging to her leg. Fran looked about, frantically, holding her hands to her head. Several of her friends were completely entangled in their chairs, gasping for breath, writhing and twisting and she screamed. Everyone was tied into a chair, John was now on the floor with a myriad of cords about his head, serpentine cords covered in a black hairy growth, and there was a sea of bodies, blood-shot, bulging eyes, gasping, screaming bodies. She backed away and fell over the bag of broken bottles. A thin coil spun out of a chair and wrapped about her leg. She screamed and pushed it off; it clung tenaciously. She reached for a broken bottle and slashed the twisting turning vine. It recoiled and she clambered out the door, still on her back, legs pumping. A remnant of the vine still clung to her leg and was growing, spiralling, black hairs rushing out of every coil. She slashed and opened a large wound in her leg and it began to bleed, the blood spurting red and bright onto the concrete floor. She scurried, still backwards, on her buttocks, leaving a waving ribbon of blood across the floor. She slid against the elevator door, pushed, rising unsteadily to her feet. Her hand reached out, poked the button, the door opened and she fell back into the elevator. The door closed and she lay there, panting, gasping. The broken bottle was still in her hand. She threw it to the floor and jumped up to punch the tenth floor button.

The elevator started with a jerk. She could still hear the screaming below, but it became fainter as the elevator began to rise, slowly at first then more quickly. She closed her eyes. This was a nightmare - she must be dreaming.

Suddenly the elevator stopped, so suddenly that she fell against the wall and slid to the floor. There was silence. There was no more screaming. She could only hear her heart pounding in her head, her panting. She sat for some time, shaking in disbelief.

There was a grinding noise from the ceiling which began quietly then grew louder, keeping in time with the pounding in her head. She looked up and saw the single coil, writhing, spiralling down from behind the plastic ceiling panel. Fran looked around, grabbed the broken bottle and waved it frantically in the air. The coil dropped suddenly, directly onto the sharp edges of the bottle. Fran swung the glass from side to side. A piece of vine fell away, the rest spiralled up into the ceiling. She leaned back, still breathing heavily, her hand fell to her side, clinging to the bottle. She waited, staring at the ceiling. No sound except her own heavy breathing. She closed her eyes, only for a moment. This was a nightmare. She would awaken soon. She would make a hot pot of coffee and wait for Kay. Kay always took such a long time to dress, but she always looked neat, hair pulled back without a strand out of place.

But was that Kay she had seen in the basement, wrapped in the chair, bleeding, hair hanging in strings, eyes bulging?

This was just a dream. Fran curled up and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Just a little more sleep then she would make the coffee. The blanket kept sliding off, she pulled again, opened her eyes and saw that it was not a blanket wrapped around her, but a tangle of vines. She screamed. The coils tightened and she screamed again. Her face was covered with the hairy roots and she pounded at her face. Her hand held a broken bottle. He face grew red, streaked with blood, her left eye gouged.

She continued to slash at the vines on her face until she could see no more.

***

When they found her the next morning her body was crushed and slimy, a thousand welts, nearly every bone broken. But it was her face that shocked Inspector Jaffre's assistant. It was butchered, raw, red. In her hand was a broken bottle dripping with shreds of bleeding skin.

Jaffre himself was staring at something else. On Fran Moller's leg was a twisted, hairy root. He opened his notebook and read the last entry: _vines-hairy roots_ . He pulled out his red pencil and added an exclamation mark.

Every tenant but one had been to the party, and every single one had been mutilated and crushed. It took over an hour to remove all the bodies and the crowd stayed until they had seen everything. Jaffre could never understand the human urge to observe blood and gore, especially from a safe distance. A car that had run off the highway would create a traffic jam that went back for miles. The gawkers would slow down and peer out hoping to catch a glimpse of some bleeding and broken body. Jaffre shook his head and pulled his ear. People. Who could understand them?

While the bodies were being removed, Inspector Jaffre spoke to Mr. Saul Shulom. It always seemed strange to Jaffre that this old gent had accumulated enough money to pay the rent for these luxury apartments. It was even stranger that he was the only person unharmed on New Year's Eve.

"You're very lucky, Mr. Shulom," he said.

"Luck? Nothin' to do with luck," said the old man, pulling his baseball cap tightly onto his head. "Drinkin' and all that, it's feed for the devil, know what I mean? I told 'em, I said: a party'll call up the devil and he'll come, sure as shootin'. Do you want to call the devil? No sir, not me, I said."

"Did you hear anything?" asked Jaffre.

"Nope. I was in bed, closin' my eyes so I'd see no evil and holdin' my ears so I'd hear no evil and closin' my mouth so -"

"Uh, Mr. Shulom ... we might ask you to identify some of the bodies. Could you do that? We may be able to contact relatives, but just in case - "

"No sir!" said Shulom. "That'd put me next to the devil, know what I mean? No sir!"

Inspector Jaffre left soon after the bodies had been removed, but waited in his car in the parking lot, looking over his notes, scratching his chin and pulling his ear.

He didn't see the figure in the heavy dark gray coat standing by the corner of the building.

CHAPTER 8

Kenneth Leland Jaffre: February, 1955

Inspector Jaffre stared out the window for what seemed like hours, then walked slowly to the large red leather chair, dropped the newspaper on the floor and collapsed, his face in his hands.

"Will I ever see him?" he moaned. "Will I ever hold my grandson?"

He was alone and life seemed hardly worth the living. How had he come to this?

***

Kenneth Leland Jaffre had dreamed of being on the police force since he was a child. Perhaps he was influenced by the Saturday matinee theatre, perhaps by the weekly radio shows, perhaps by the picture books which he consumed with astonishing appetite. When he finished police training and became a constable, it wasn't nearly what he had expected. In New Bamberg there _were_ no fierce gangs of hoodlums, no sensational bank holdups, no gory murders and no need to shoot it out with the corrupt and the dangerous ... so he spent most of his time visiting schools and teaching children to walk safely, stopping to look both ways at intersections, helping little old ladies cross the street. He became a scout master, an active fundraiser for the Fall Festival and won the 1935 man-of-the-year award.

Kenneth Jaffre became the darling of the community, his name was part of every conversation and it became politically wise for the mayor to appoint him Chief Inspector, even at the tender age of twenty-seven. If anything, his work became even less exciting. He read and filed reports, assigned duties to the officers, managed the limited funds allocated to the force and gave myriad speaking engagements which involved little more than outlining the history of police work and, for the amusement of his audience, identifying curious bylaws still on the books: the poop-stoop-and-scoop legislation decreed that horse droppings must be removed from the streets by the owner of the animal, before sunset.

It was Spring, 1936, when Kenneth Leland Jaffre married his childhood sweetheart. Although they had invited only a few close friends to the wedding, nearly all of New Bamberg showed up. He was, after all, a celebrity even at twenty-six and his new bride, Betsy Sue Ann Jaffre was delighted. All the guests were invited for drinks in their yard and the celebration spilled out into the street, and others joined so that by evening most homes in town were deserted.

The following year he was appointed Chief Inspector and, soon after, Betsy Sue Ann gave birth to a healthy baby boy, George Alan Jaffre: 6 pounds, 3 ounces. That made up for the days of boredom at the office. He held his son in his arms each evening, knowing that when he was old enough to understand, Kenneth Jaffre would tell him stories of mystery and intrigue, figures that walked stealthily in the night, of evil men and unsolved crimes and frantic races with high powered cars.

Then, in November of 1937, only months after assuming the position of Chief Inspector, a gory death, right in New Bamberg: Mrs. Sandra Bourden-Brown. Nothing like it had happened in his limited experience on the force - and he felt helpless. After her body was found in the bath tub, every neighbour was interrogated, but no one had seen anything unusual or noticed any person or persons near the house. Jaffre had instructed members of the force to check on the house periodically. They reported the comings and goings of her husband, but no other person came near the old house. He began to suspect foul play by the only person who had the opportunity: her husband. Then, in less than a week, Harold Bourden was found dead beneath the giant willow tree.

Yet, there was something strange about both deaths. The bodies were crushed and covered in welts, bruises and small hairs. It made no sense. Who would do that, and with what instrument?

He received a rash of criticism from the press when, after two months, he still hadn't uncovered a single clue. But people forget, and over the year the deaths wandered from the front page of the _Gazette_ to some inner page, then vanished altogether.

In 1947, when the great war had vanished from the pages of the _Gazette_ , the old Bourden house was again front page news. It would be torn down and a modern apartment building erected by a local boy, Michael Colby. People from all over town came to watch the destruction of the Bourden house and were enthralled with the _willow battles_. The newspaper carried the progress each day: the stubborn old willow had become entangled in the walls and plumbing and had refused to stand by and watch the old house demolished, its roots filling the drains, clinging frantically to the walls of the house.

Then, during construction and ten years after the death of the Bourdens, _another_ violent death, at the _same_ place, beneath the _same_ old willow tree. Butch Camden was found dead. He had apparently _attacked_ the tree - and his crushed body was covered in welts and vines and hairs. Jaffre was stunned. The hairs had come from the tree! The explanation, incredible as it seemed, came almost too suddenly. It was unreal, impossible ... and yet, there could be no other explanation: the tree had killed Butch Camden and Jaffre was convinced that it had also killed the Bourdens.

When the _Gazette_ reporter interviewed him, he was reluctant to even mention this conjecture. Could anyone accept such a theory? Clearly not.

***

"Inspector Jaffre," the reporter had begun, "could you describe the body of Mr. Camden, as he was found, beneath that old willow tree?"

"Yes, well, it was crushed ... and covered in small black hairs and -"

The reporter wouldn't let him finish. "Isn't that unusual?" he asked.

"Yes, certainly, I would say that -"

"But hasn't it happened before?"

"Once before, about ten years ago, when -"

"Don't you mean _twice_ before?"

"Well, I guess you could say -"

"And what would do that - to a body - the body of Butch Camden?"

"We're still investigating, of course, but there doesn't seem to be any -"

"What weapon, what instrument of death, would inflict such havoc on a human body?"

"It isn't clear exactly what -"

"Do you have _anybody_ on the force who has even a _single_ idea?"

The reporter was sitting across the table, tilting back his chair, his notebook lying closed on his lap, puffing diligently on a cigarette and blowing smoke over the table. He pointed directly at Inspector Jaffre.

"Inspector, I feel that the public should _not_ be told that the police are tracking down clues, and all that crap." He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "I feel they need to know that not a _single_ idea has come out of this department and you haven't even a _single_ clue - and it isn't even the first time something like this has happened." He waved his hand about the room. "I feel -"

Jaffre rose to his feet, blood rising to his cheek, hands planted firmly on his desk. The reporter stopped talking, his chair fell forward and he quickly pulled the cigarette from his mouth.

"It was the bloody willow!" Jaffre yelled. "The bloody willow killed Butch Camden! The bloody willow killed Harold Bourden! The bloody willow killed ... killed -"

Inspector Jaffre fell back into his chair, breathing heavily. The other officers in the station had stopped to watch. The reporter left, quickly, pausing only once at the door to look back and shake his head.

When the _Gazette_ hit the newstand, the headlines read:

JAFFRE TAKES WILLOW TREE INTO CUSTODY

Kenneth Leland Jaffre became the laughing stock of New Bamberg. Papers all across the county followed up on the story. His phone rang constantly, his wife tried in vain to console him, he couldn't sleep, and he took his 1948 vacation in late 1947, to avoid the reporters.

But perhaps the most devastating attack was from his ten year old son, George Alan. The boy had been hounded at school, laughed at, ridiculed and beaten up by schoolyard bullies - and he avoided his father. When Jaffre returned from a week in hiding, he went to his boy's room and spoke to him.

It was evening and George Alan had eaten, listened to the radio, then gone to bed at seven. Kenneth Jaffre came home shortly after 7:30 and, although his wife objected, he immediately went to the boy's room.

"George Alan?" he whispered, and the boy closed his eyes, hard. "I've been thinking a lot and I'd like to explain what I've been thinking." George Alan buried his head in his pillow, and Kenneth Jaffre continued, standing by the bed.

"I often told you stories, of police work and evil men and their crimes, but they were just _stories_ , they never _really_ happened. I never wanted to tell you about _real_ crimes, about _real_ deaths. I never wanted to tell you about ... about the awful deaths, right here in New Bamberg."

Jaffre ran his hand gently over the blond curls. Betsy stood at the door, her hand held nervously to her cheek.

"But I will. Now, I _will_ tell you. You're old enough and you'll understand." Jaffre waited for a reaction, but George Alan lay still. "There have been three _real_ deaths, the first two when you were just born. Then, just a few months ago, a third death. These were _real_ , not just stories."

Jaffre looked about, saw his wife standing nervously at the door, then he sat softly on his boy's bed.

"Let me tell you about these _real_ cases. All three bodies were crushed ..." Betsy sucked in her breath and Jaffre stopped, waited for only a moment, closed his eyes then continued without looking up. "All three bodies were bruised and all three bodies were covered in small hairs. I've never seen anything like it, _never_. But do you know what else has small hairs, just like the ones found on those three bodies?" He waited. "Guess."

Jaffre waited. George Alan would spin about in bed, eyes beaming, pumping his arms up and down, struggling for an answer. It was always like this. But this time the boy lay still, his head buried deep in the pillow. Jaffre continued.

"The tree, the giant willow tree that stands by the house, the _same_ house where all three bodies were found, the _same_ tree that ... that ..."

Kenneth Jaffre felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, but he ignored his wife. His son _must_ understand. It was _important_. "George Alan, don't you see? There can be no other explanation, no other way those hairs got there. It's the only thing that makes sense, don't you see?"

Betsy kissed Kenneth softly on the head, holding him tightly to her breast.

"Ken, please," she whispered. "George Alan should sleep now. Please."

Kenneth Jaffre let himself be lead to the door. He looked back at the boy hidden beneath the covers, then closed the door behind him and stood for a moment in the hall, his wife clinging to his side.

"A tree can't kill people!"

The boy began to shout.

" _A tree can't kill people!_ "

Jaffre cried, softly, silently and Betsy held him closely.

That day, in 1947, Kenneth Leland Jaffre lost his boy forever. No longer the warm walks along Moss Hill, the nights staring at starry skies, the marshmallows over a flickering fire. Yet, as his son became more distant, his wife became closer and more dear to him.

***

Then, in 1948, on New year's Eve, the holocaust - the bodies of Fran Moller and John and Barbara Mullin and the other tenants of Willow Towers - _all_ were crushed, _all_ were covered in slimy welts and small black hairs - and he _knew_ he had been right. Yet he would say nothing of his hunch, of his theory, of the wicker chairs made from the old willow tree, the tree that had killed Harold and Sandra Bourden and Butch Camden. He would say nothing.

He did all the necessary things, interviewed every previous tenant, every neighbour, old Saul Shulom, the only surviving tenant, and sent bulletins to every police force on the continent. Mr. Shulom had apparently known the people who built the house that previously stood on that site, and in spite of his conviction that the devil lived there, the old man had taken an apartment in Willow Towers.

Then, in the Spring of 1952, when memory of the horror had faded from the minds of the people and the _Gazette_ was filled with local gossip and the maple syrup festival, he closed the book on the case: _unsolved_.

Yet, he knew the truth - and told no one - except his wife.

***

"Ken, you cannot _really_ believe that a willow tree, or any kind of tree, can really attack and kill someone. It might fall on someone, perhaps a weak branch -"

"Betsy, I've thought about this and little else for years and now I'm convinced that it _was_ the willow. Dont' you see? The roots and hairs and slime ... it all came from the tree and -"

"But that doesn't _prove_ it, does it? Suppose somebody wanted you to believe it was the tree. Then they'd sprinkle hairs and such over the bodies."

"It's not just that," Jaffre said. "The bodies were _crushed_. It would take some massive machine to do that, then the person who wielded the machine would have to do this _sprinkling_ , as you say, and why? To make everyone believe it was a tree? That's ridiculous. Nobody in their right mind would _ever_ believe it was a tree. A killer wouldn't waste his time with this _sprinkling_ , to cast suspicion on a tree."

Betsy and her husband were sitting side by side on the sofa. She leaned to him and kissed him gently on the cheek.

"But _you_ believe it was the tree. Are _you_ in your right mind?"

She laughed softly and poked him in the side, then picked the bottle from the small table and filled their glasses.

"Nevertheless, it _was_ the tree, and I am in my right mind and ... well, nobody else is in _their_ right mind."

He drank his wine and grinned at Betsy.

"You see," he continued, "it is the very fact that no killer would try to implicate a tree ... it's that very fact that identifies the tree as the killer." He sipped his wine. "Can you see that?"

Betsy frowned. "There is one thing that bothers me," she said. "You seem to be avoiding an extensive hunt for a _person_ , as though ... as though -"

"As though I go through the motions, not really trying, because I know it's the tree and not a person. Is that what you think?"

"I'll tell you what I think," Betsy snarled in mock anger. "I think we should go to bed!"

And they did. But it was not the last time they would speak of the willow ... or the babies.

***

It was in 1954, after a long illness, that Betsy Sue Ann Jaffre died. She had become his constant companion, his only supporter, his strength and his reason for living. He wept for days. The entire town had come out to the funeral, and they shook his hand and patted him on the back and wept on his shoulder. These same citizens who had laughed at him, ridiculed him, now tried to comfort him. They brought pies and cakes, meat loaf and apple butter, until his fridge was filled with gifts of food. When he tried to resign as Chief Inspector, the mayor refused his resignation.

Then his son left him. At age seventeen, his son just packed up and left.

And he was alone.

***

"Will I ever hold him?"

Inspector Jaffre pushed himself out of the red leather chair, recovering from his reverie, wandered again to the window, then stooped to retrieve the newspaper. It was open at the births and obituaries, except that the _Gazette_ headed this page: "comings and goings".

Mr. and Mrs. George Alan Jaffre are pleased to announce the birth of their son, Samuel Leland Jaffre.

He had known for some time that his son had married, but he hadn't been invited to the wedding nor had he been invited to meet his new daughter-in-law. Now they had a son ... and he might never see the boy.

Inspector Jaffre gazed out the window. He was a giant of a man, tall and gaunt with exaggerated features: massive chin, large nose, high forehead. He looked again at the newspaper, reading the name once more: Samuel _Leland_ Jaffre. It was _his_ middle name. Was that a sign, some indication that his son, George Alan, had forgiven him?

Forgiven him for what? For confiding in him? For telling him the truth about the willow tree?

Jaffre threw the paper to the floor.

If a first move was to be made, it must be made by George Alan Jaffre.

Then the phone rang and the Inspector jumped.

"Dad?"

Jaffre found it difficult to speak. It was his son.

"George Alan? Is... is that you?"

"Dad, Heather and I ... Heather is my wife, we've been married for six months ... Heather and I would like you to come over, for dinner, to see our new son. His name is -"

"Samuel Leland Jaffre, yes, I know," said the Inspector, the words sticking in his throat. "I would be pleased ... honored."

***

When he arrived at the apartment, Heather was waiting at the top of the stairs in a bright yellow skirt, her blond hair pushed high on her head, her son in her arms. Kenneth Jaffre smiled and she beamed, and George Alan appeared at her shoulder, his hand outstretched.

"Welcome, Dad," he said. "I guess you don't know my wife. But ... well, I guess it's time we all got to know each other."

Inspector Jaffre took his son's hand, holding it tightly, and they stared for only a moment, then he embraced his son and they both cried and Heather held them close - and she cried \- and the baby cried, and they all laughed and cried and went into the small apartment and had a modest dinner of salmon and noodles and Kenneth Leland Jaffre spent the evening with his grandson, Samuel _Leland_ Jaffre, holding him close ... and Heather and George watched with quiet joy.

When his grandson was old enough, the Inspector would tell his grandson stories of mystery and intrigue, figures that walked stealthily in the night, of evil men and unsolved crimes and frantic races with high powered cars ... _and_ death at the hands of a willow tree.

CHAPTER 9

Jack Laker: October, 1965

Each Fall, Jack Laker would spend at least three successive weekends, maybe four, working on his _History of New Bamberg_. He took his two teenage sons and they would tramp about Waterloo county talking to people, reading papers and making little notes in a large three-ring binder.

His wife didn't mind one bit. For Rosemarie, it was heaven. The two boys were always arguing and she looked forward to the peace and quiet. That was when she put up her pickles, made the strawberry jam and baked a months supply of bread for the freezer.

She didn't have to do this. It wasn't that Jack didn't have a good-paying job. He went to the carpentry shop each morning and returned each evening and brought home his salary each week and gave it to his wife, then collapsed on the sofa to watch TV. She couldn't get him to do anything around the house. When the plumbing leaked onto the basement floor, he inspected it carefully, saw that the water just trickled to the floor drain, then said, "It isn't worth the effort" and returned to his sofa. It was only in the Fall that he spent every evening and many weekends writing his _History_. It was as though he intended to leave some evidence that he had actually lived on this planet. They argued about this constantly, Jack and Rosemarie. For her, the _History_ was an excuse, a rationalization for his doing nothing else with his spare time. For him, it was a burden he must carry in order to advance the sum total of knowledge.

Today was Saturday, October 16, and Jack had taken the two boys to Dundee. It was a short drive, but it seemed like hours; Bryan and Chuck argued constantly. He had stopped off at the cheese factory and bought some sharp old cheddar, then continued on to the lumber mill where, he was told, some old fellow had a story to tell. He had already called ahead and Mr. Baker had agreed to be waiting in the cafeteria - and that's exactly where he was, alone, sipping black coffee. Jack bought his two boys a chocolate milkshake and sent them outside.

"Mr. Baker?" Jack slipped into the chair opposite the old man who seemed to be talking to himself. "Name's Jack Laker, over New Bamberg way."

The old man seemed pleased to have the company and started right in talking again, even before Jack had a chance to ask a single question.

"Yup, seed 'em all, I has," the old man croaked, a single yellow tooth slipping over his lower lip. His sideburns were thick and pale gray and turned into a massive beard which stopped just short of his chin, leaving a curious bare gap. "Old Grubby seed 'em all, comin' and goin'."

A mill hand walked by and grinned. Old Grubby Baker told a good story and occasionally somebody would sit at his table and listen, but mostly it was the same old stories and it didn't take much telling to know what was coming. The old man spent most of the day there, in the cafeteria, then he'd just fall asleep at the table and somebody would eventually take him home.

Jack took out his three-ring binder.

"Then Barney wuz gone, and we knew Josh done him good, jest like his Pa was done good. Worked at the mill, they did. Same mill, haulin' logs and splittin' and spittin'." The old man laughed, cackled. "Yup, spittin' too, they did." He chomped down hard on his tobacco and a trickle of dark liquid ran to his beard, already heavily stained.

Jack tried to interrupt. "Who is this Barney fellow? Do you know his last name?"

"Ha! You go it, mister, " Grubby shouted. "Fellow, that's him."

Then Grubby Baker kept right on going. "Bottom o' the bog, he is. Then Josh up and got hisself a wife."

"Who's Josh? Josh who?" Jack flipped back through the pages of his binder. "I know of a Joshua Kumar, died in 1895 ... I think. Is that who you're talking about?"

The old man kept right on talking, not listening at all to Jack Laker.

"Mighty pretty gal, Melly, and Josh telled us all about how that gal was ...you know ..."

Old man Baker, paused, fluttered both eyes trying to wink at Jack, cackled, then kept on talking.

"Then Josh goes, mebbe to the same old bog, mebbe to see Barney at the bottom o' Sparrow Lake." He chuckled, stopped, then looked straight at Jack. "Say yer name is Laker, did yuh? Bottom o' the Laker, is yuh?" He began again to laugh, so hard that his wad of tobacco spilled, dripping from his narrow chin. He quickly scooped it up, pushing it across his chin into his gaping mouth, his tooth hanging stained and solitary. When he was satisfied that he had it all, he continued.

"When Josh was gone, then Arn just upped and moved right in. We wuz waitin' at Martin's, but Arn didn't never come by no more. We wuz waitin' to see how Melly was ...you know ..."

The old man tried unsuccessfully to wink again, but just closed, then opened both eyes several times. Jack held up his hand, his pencil waving in the air.

"Mr. Baker, when did all this happen? I mean, Joshua Kumar vanishing and all." Jack glanced at his notes. "According to ... uh, the police files ... uh, Joshua Kumar disappeared in 1895 and was never seen again. Are you saying that he lies at the bottom of Sparrow Lake?"

The old man was now listening intently, staring at the Jack's pencil, held aloft. When Jack stopped talking and placed his pencil in the binder, the old man started right in again.

"Then we hears that Melly got herself a baby and we know why Arn ain't comin' no more to the bar." The old man blinked both eyes, trying again to wink. "He been busy." Grubby cackled and wiped his beard. "Yessir, old Arn was mighty busy." He cackled again, coughed up some tobacco then went on. "Then we hears that Arn gets his hand chopped off ... and he don't talk no more cuz he _can't_ talk no more. Then old Doc Manner gets it good."

"Wait a minute. Did you say _Doc Manner_?" Jack raised his pencil in the air and Grubby Baker stopped talking and stared at it, dark juices oozing from the sides of his mouth. "Is that ... uh, let's see." Jack Laker flipped through his notebook with one hand, the other holding his pencil aloft to retain Grubby's attention. "Is that Doctor Philip Manner, a country doctor who died ... commited suicide, in ... uh, 1917?" Jack was pleased that he had collected sufficient history that he could confirm Grubby's story.

Grubby stared at the pencil, silent, and Jack lowered the pencil slowly to his notebook, and the old man started in again.

"I seed 'em all, I did. I seed 'em comin' and 'specially I seed 'em goin'. I seed Barney and Josh goin', then I seed the doc goin' ... and goin' ... and goin' ..."

Jack stared at the old man. He had leaned over the table, his head falling lower and lower and lower as he spoke, until his face was flat on the table, his hand still clasping an empty styrofoam coffee cup, his tobacco running over his chin. He was sound asleep,

Bryan and Chuck had started to yell, just outside the window, and Jack got up to go. Somebody from the mill came by, saw Grubby and yelled just as loudly as the kids. A second mill hand came by and together they lifted the old man to his feet and carried him from the cafeteria. Jack watched them go, gathered his three-ring binder and walked slowly out into a bright sunny Saturday afternoon.

He would finish his _History of New Bamberg_ ... one day ... and his children would be able to point to it with pride. Bryan and Chuck would know that their dad had accomplished something in his life. His wife and children would see that he had left something for the world that was more important than money or social status or property. Jack Laker stood quietly for just a moment, staring at the clear blue sky and the chaos of Fall colour, his three-ring binder clutched to his chest.

His sons were already in the car, arguing. He sighed heavily, slipped behind the wheel and headed for New Bamberg. He should really come back to Dundee, another time ... but the kids were yelling now, and he groaned and thought: _it's hardly worth the effort._

CHAPTER 10

Inspector Jaffre: August, 1975

Somehow he seemed older than sixty-five. Somehow he felt he should have retired much earlier. But sixty-five was the mandatory age and although he talked to his grandson about retiring early, Kenneth Leland Jaffre just went on and on, as Chief Inspector of New Bamberg.

***

It had been a strange year, 1975, filled with things good and bad.

His son, George Alan Jaffre, had left Heather, his loving wife of some twenty years, and taken up with a boring girl who covered her face with too much makeup. She wore too much, swore too much and bored too much. That was bad.

His grandson, Samuel Leland Jaffre, had joined the New Bamberg police force and, as one of his last duties as Chief Inspector, Kenneth Leland Jaffre had presented him with his badge. That was good.

And the voices became louder, more insistent, talking to him in eager whispers, way back in his head. Voices that spoke of the babies ... and that was bad.

***

He had first become aware of the babies - the stolen babies - back in the early fifties. His wife was still alive and his son still lived with them, though there had been little conversation between the man and boy.

Then he got the phone call. Jerry Huber was frantic and had phoned the Inspector at his house. It wasn't all that unusual, getting phone calls at home. But this one was different. Jerry had lost his baby.

Actually, it was Jerry's young wife who had lost the baby. She was some eight months pregnant, maybe a bit more, and she was as healthy as a horse - and almost as large. There was no reason for the aborted birth, at least three weeks before what would have been a normal delivery.

Inspector Jaffre had taken the call in his study, leaning heavily on the table, his pen scribbling on a scrap of paper.

Jerry Huber - calls from home - wife lost baby - 8 mos pregnant - wife not conscious - baby gone

"Gone?" Jaffre wasn't sure he had heard it correctly. "Jerry, calm down. Is your wife okay? Then, you mean that your baby was stillborn - is that it? Gone? You mean you can't find any ... uh, any evidence of the birth? Perhaps she had the baby ... maybe, somewhere else, not in the house." Jaffre waited, then scribbled:

baby taken from wife - Jerry sees car leave \- maybe red, maroon - no licence plate - wife on floor, bleeding, coma - dress torn off

"Look, Jerry, I'll be there is less than five minutes. Hold on. We'll get to the bottom of this. Don't worry."

When he hung up, Betsy Sue Ann was standing at his shoulder, reading the scribbled notes.

"Somebody _took_ her baby? Before it was born?" She put her hand on Jaffre's shoulder. "How terrible. Oh Ken ..."

But Inspector Jaffre had folded the scrap of paper, stuffed it into his pocket, kissed Betsy quickly on the cheek and left, still in his slippers and robe. She phoned the station to tell them where the Inspector went; that was standard procedure. Then she waited by the phone for any further calls.

When Jaffre arrived, Jerry Huber was in the middle of the living room, holding his wife in his arms. He had covered her in a blanket and was now whispering into her ear - but she was clearly unconscious. There were blood stains on the carpet and when the ambulance arrived they concluded that Mrs. Huber was in a coma. She stayed that way for more than six months; then she died.

And Jaffre could find no one who either saw the car leaving the premises or heard any sounds from the house. He was crushed. It was happening again, another unsolved case. He had come through the years after the New Year's Eve massacre only with constant help from his wife. Slowly he had learned to forget, as had all of New Bamberg. Now it would be back, the criticism, the articles in the _Gazette_ , the people pointing and whispering.

At first he wanted to put the case aside, close the books: _unsolved_. His wife had turned on him. _A young couple have just lost their first born and you only think of your status in the community._ He was ashamed and spent every evening speaking to people in the neighbourhood, and the county and beyond. Yet, what was he looking for? A car without licence plates? A car, maybe red, maybe maroon?

Then Betsy Sue Ann had died, and he dropped the Huber baby investigation and closed the files: _unsolved_. It was better that way.

Then, in the mid-sixties, there were several babies taken, unborn, from pregnant girls, but Inspector Jaffre carried out only a shallow investigation on each and closed the files. If he could not solve the case, it was better not to focus attention on it. Strangely, there was never any criticism when he closed a case, unsolved. The criticism came only while the books were open.

Then, in late 1968, a gang of hoodlums were seen in some neighbourhood and the police were called out to investigate. The gang had vanished, but they found a newly born child. It was bleeding and abandoned, but still very much alive. That was when Inspector Jaffre felt certain that this was not the work of a single unbalanced mind, but that of a cult; religious fanatics who took babies for some unholy purpose. He had every police force in the state on the lookout for wandering crowds. He personally interviewed every unusually dressed individual, every person with shaved head or rings on their ears or brightly coloured apparel or curious habits or hairdo.

By the end of the year, the _Gazette_ was to carry the headline:

INSPECTOR JAFFRE: WE THINKS HE DOTH INSPECT TOO MUCH

But it didn't deter the Inspector. Indeed, he continued the investigation with renewed enthusiasm. Betsy would be proud. This time he would close the file: _solved_.

When someone reported cars heading out towards Dune, he immediately left for the country road. He had travelled Dune Road many times and it was usually deserted, but now he found himself among several cars, all heading in the same direction. When he reached the old house set back from the road he knew this was the place and his heart began to pound. The front yard was filled with perhaps twenty cars, and a crowd had gathered before a big old tree.

He parked at the dirt road and marched up the long driveway. No one seemed particularly concerned even though his car was clearly marked with the orange and blue of Waterloo County police. In fact, no one even seemed particularly unusual. He had expected to see hoodlums with black jackets or shaved heads or unusually dressed or ...

"Good evening, Kenneth."

Inspector Jaffre stopped and stared at the Mayor with a certain unease. Behind the Mayor were three members of city council and behind that, Doctor Berger and Judge Wallberg.

"Uh ... good morning, Mr. Mayor," Jaffre muttered. "Nice day for a ... uh -"

"Picnic," said the Mayor.

"Picnic," said Judge Wallberg.

"Picnic," repeated Doctor Berger.

Jaffre coughed slightly, backed away, apologizing, and bumped into a woman with long black hair that fell to her waist, a beautiful woman with haunting black eyes. She seemed to be the hostess, for everyone was now gathered around her, muttering, staring.

"I'm sorry," stuttered the Inspector. "I just ... uh -"

"Welcome Inspector," she said quietly. "You are very welcome to join us."

"You are very welcome to join us," the others whispered in unison.

She raised her arm and the small crowd fell quiet.

"No, I'm sorry for the intrusion, I just thought ... uh, I'll go now," and he left immediately, the crowd standing on the grass by the tree, stiff-legged and motionless, watching in silence as he left. He thought he saw the tree raise several branches to hover above the crowd in some encompassing gesture, but he must have been mistaken. It was confusing. By the time he had reached the station he wasn't sure what he had seen.

Then the voices came, whispering, and he tried to keep them out of his mind. But they persisted, back in his head, taunting, laughing, then they shouted and the shouting was of babies, unborn, whose souls were given to a higher purpose. And when he thought of the willow tree or the missing babies, somehow it seemed remote and confusing and he wasn't quite sure that he had recalled the facts with any accuracy. Perhaps it was better to forget, to close all the files: _unsolved_ ... and Jaffre found himself placing the files in the archives, _all_ the baby files, buried in the basement of the station, closed, to gather dust and be forgotten.

***

Then he was sixty-five and he had watched his grandson graduate from the police academy and had presented him with a shiny badge, and the force held a party for him and they came from miles around, the police and the good citizens of Waterloo County, and they told him how much he had contributed and that all his good works were much appreciated.

... and he left the station without a single regret

... and the voices stopped their whispering.

CHAPTER 11

Bryan Laker: August, 1977

Bryan Laker, a young Assistant Professor, was tired and depressed. He had marked nearly eighty exam papers and it was late. He leaned back in his chair, stared at the pile of unmarked papers, reached over and grabbed his calculator for the second time and repeated the calculation. It he could mark one paper every five minutes, there were 105 students in his math class, it would take - he punched in the numbers and stared at the digital readout: 8.75, it would take nearly nine hours. He looked at his watch. It was 11 o'clock. He had been marking for seven hours. He'll finish tomorrow. He put down the calculator and grabbed his pipe. He was too tired to refill it and lit the gray ashes, inhaling deeply. He hated marking final exams. Most of the questions on the exam he had already done in classes. Why didn't they pay attention? Was he wasting his time? He had given them a sheet of questions, a review of all the material he had covered during the term. He had told them, several times: know how to solve these problems and you can pass the exam. They didn't listen. Now what? He hated to adjust the marks but a 30% failure rate was high. And if he did fiddle with the marks should he just add 10 marks to everyone? What if the exam were marked out of 90 instead of 100. A 50 would become ... he picked up the calculator again and punched in the numbers: 55.555556, a student with 50 out of 100 would get, let's say 56%. Why did he use a calculator for that? He was a math professor; surely he could divide 50 by 90. He leaned back. He'll finish tomorrow. He was tired and couldn't think straight any more.

When he left the building he headed for the parking lot, his pipe trailing a thin spiral of smoke. It was a fine warm evening and the sky was full of stars. He stopped and gazed up at Ursa Major and ran his eye beyond the lip to the star, Polaris. He pulled his pipe from his mouth and spat on the ground. _I really must clean that old pipe_ he thought, wiping his sleeve across his lips then knocking his pipe against the side of his shoe.

Two students walked by and greeted him. They looked familiar but he couldn't remember their names. He never could remember names. He had read a book on how to memorize: associate each name with an item of furniture and just run through the pieces of furniture, recalling the names as you go. He had done this quite successfully using the furniture in his mother's house. He learned the 40 books of the old testament. The collection of furniture ran around the living room and down the hall to the dining room. The 40th piece of furniture was the large chair by the window. It worked quite well until he moved out and took a place of his own. _Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, ..._ He couldn't even remember the pieces of furniture now, let alone the books of the old testament - just to _Numbers_. Did that have something to do with his being a math prof?

Bryan walked to a bench and sat down to refill his pipe. He would try to associate names with furniture again, this time using his own furniture. Did he have 40 pieces of furniture? Maybe not. Maybe it wasn't worth the effort.

He recalled memorizing the first 40 digits of the number , as a young lecturer, still living at home. He would construct a problem for his class that required knowing  and then he would ask his class for the value. They all knew 3.1416, some answered 22/7. Then, without stopping to take a breath, he would write 40 digits on the blackboard: 3.1415926535 ... what came next? He took a long puff and tried to think. Gone. All those digits gone. But it wasn't worth the effort. The next time he had asked his class for the value and turned to write it on the board he just invented the digits beyond the first few. It was just as effective. Nobody knew the digits anyway. He smiled and leaned forward, rising from the bench.

Several students ran across the field in front of him. One stopped. "Professor Laker? Have you marked our exams yet?" He shook his head and she continued after her companions. What was her name?

When he reached his apartment the parking lot was dark. The security light was burnt out again. The building was in poor repair, but it was cheap and he didn't complain. He walked slowly to the front door and stopped to look up at the sign, slightly leaning, slightly dirty and slightly broken. It said: WILL T WERS, with several letters missing. He sighed and entered, heading for the stairs. The elevator hadn't worked in years and all the tenants lived on the first five floors. The upper five floors were deserted and many of the windows were broken and covered in plywood. His apartment was the only one on the fifth floor.

The fluffy white Bichon began to bark even before he had entered his apartment. He opened the door, stooped and scooped up the dog and it stopped barking. Being alone on this floor was a good thing because he never had any complaints about the dog. He walked to the kitchen, plugged in the coffee pot, opened the fridge, removed the can of dog food and began to fill the bowl, first with canned food, then a pinch of dry food, then some hot water. The dog started to bark again until he placed the bowl on the floor, still steaming from the hot water. He walked to the living room and sat at the stuffed chair under the hanging tiffany lamp, gathering the collection of loose paper on the side table as he sat down. He leafed absentmindedly through the papers until he heard the coffee pot buzzing. He went to the kitchen and returned with a large mug of over-sweetened, over-creamed coffee, collapsing again into the chair, carefully holding his mug in the air as he sat. Not carefully enough; the coffee sloshed onto his pants. He groaned and pulled the papers onto his lap, gazing at the cover page: _A Short History of New Bamberg_ . The word _Short_ had been added recently.

His father, Jack Laker, had told him stories of the early days and had started a history, but died before it was completed. Bryan had tried to convince Chuck to help with the history, but discussions with his brother inevitably ended in argument, so Bryan promised to complete it himself ... but had little enthusiasm for the project. After his father died he worked on the history sporadically, looking through old newspapers and files at city hall and books at the library and magazine articles. It was boring and wasn't worth the effort. Now the Summer was almost over, classes had ended, his papers would be marked by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe he would try again and get the _Short History_ done before Christmas. Nobody would publish it, but that didn't matter. He had made a promise to his dad and this would fulfill that promise. He took a deep gulp of the decaffeinated coffee, put the mug on the side table and closed his eyes. He was asleep within minutes. The papers slipped from his lap and the dog jumped, then curled again at his feet.

***

Bryan woke up with a sore back. He leaned over and collected the papers at his feet, piling them on the side table, rubbed his eyes and pushed himself out of the chair. One sheet of paper clung to the wet spot of coffee on his pants. Porgy was still sleeping at his feet and seemed unwilling to move. The mug on the side table was full of cold coffee and he brought it to the microwave in the kitchen. He was proud of the small microwave. He had saved for months and now used it for everything. He punched the timer, 1:40, and waited, staring at the time counting down. When it reached :01 he punched the door tab, it opened and the timer changed from :01 to 6:47. That was the third time in a row he had caught it before the bell rang. He smiled and drank the coffee in one swallow.

By the time he had washed and shaved it was 7:27 by the microwave clock. He stared into the empty mug and placed it carefully in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes. Not carefully enough; it broke. He removed the pieces and tossed them carelessly in the direction of the wastebasket. Then he put Porgy on a leash and took him for a walk around the building, beneath the splinters of wood which had once been a latticework covering _Willow Walk_. There were still remnants of thorny climbing roses but mostly it was covered in some heavy vines with small leaves, vines hanging to the ground, gnarled and twisted.

He walked back into the apartment and climbed the stairs.

***

Mrs. Perkins, on the fourth floor, was peeking out of her door as she usually did, in her nightgown, inspecting the hallway, hair hanging over her face. Bryan bowed slightly and continued to the fifth floor. He pushed open the door, removed the leash and Porgy went immediately to his chair and slept. Bryan watched the dog for a moment then backed into the hall, closed and locked the door and turned toward the stairway. Then he saw the loose sheet of paper on the floor and reached down to read it. It was from his side table; the _Short History_. It must have slipped out the door when he had left to take Porgy for a walk. He sat on the top step and read the page.

The Bourden house was dominated by a large willow tree. That was where Mr. Harold Bourden was found, beneath that tree. His body had been crushed and was covered in welts, his bones broken, his eyes bloodshot.

Bryan looked up. Where was the Bourden house? He couldn't remember. He really must find that book on how to remember things, dates, names, places, the value of .

He continued to read:

Inspector Jaffre had been unable to determine the exact cause of death and eventually the case was closed and no further investigations were made.

Inspector Jaffre? Wasn't that the old man who was interviewed by the _Gazette_ reporter in last week's newspaper? Yes. Jaffre had been Chief Inspector for over thirty-five years and said that they were the most curious cases he had run across. _Cases? How many cases?_ Bryan couldn't remember.

The house was torn down and Willow Towers was built on the site.

How could he have forgotten that? _His_ apartment building was built on the site of the old Bourden house!

All the tenants except one were discovered dead, New Year's Eve, bodies crushed, eyes bloodshot, bones broken.

All the tenants of Willow Towers? How could he possibly have forgotten that? How long ago was that? What had the newspaper said? Twenty, thirty years? Bryan walked back to his apartment and unlocked the door. In the corner, piled on the floor, were the newspapers. He picked them up and dropped them, one at a time, until he found the article on Jaffre. He sat on his stuffed chair and began to read. Jaffre had a theory about the deaths: the Bourdens, both Harold and Sandra, and the tenants of Willow Towers. Jaffre had kept this to himself until he was admitted to the nursing home, then told his grandson, Samuel Leland Jaffre.

"It was the willow tree," Inspector Jaffre had said. "The willow tree killed them all."

His grandson had explained: the old man had been sick and the nursing home attendants had often heard him talk of the willow tree. He was a sick old man, hallucinating. The _Gazette_ article closed with a picture of the old Bourden house. In the front left corner stood the willow tree, towering above the roof, branches hanging to the ground. Bryan dropped the paper at his feet. He should talk to Jaffre, to add to his father's _History_.

He stared down at the paper on the floor. _Moss Hill Nursing Home_ it said. That he would remember. It was on Moss Hill.

***

It was raining gently when Bryan Laker walked through the front door of _Moss Hill Nursing Home._ He took off his hat, shook it, then walked to the front desk. The nurse ignored him until he coughed lightly. She looked up.

"Yes? What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Jaffre, Inspector Jaffre. Can you tell me what room he's in?"

"Room 151, just down the hall on the first floor, on the left."

Bryan walked down the hall and entered room 151. Four beds, three occupied and one empty, neatly made with taught sheets and brown bed covers. He looked about. Which one was Jaffre? They were all male, all old. He spoke almost in a whisper. "Inspector Jaffre?" The old men turned to stare at him, but no one responded. He asked again, "Is Inspector Jaffre here?" One man smiled, a toothless crooked smile. Bryan walked over and sat down beside the old man.

"I've come to ask you some questions," he said softly. "Is that okay?" The old man continued to smile and Bryan took that to mean a willingness to talk. He took a small notebook and pencil from his back pocket. "I read an article in the paper the other day, the _Gazette_. The article was about the old Bourden house and the strange deaths which had occurred on that site." Bryan paused. The old man continued to smile, nodding. "The article said that you had a theory, that you blamed the deaths on an old willow tree which once stood on the property. Could you tell me about it, your theory, I mean?"

Bryan paused. The old man smiled and nodded his head. Bryan made an entry in his notebook. "I'm very interested. You see I'm writing a history of New Bamberg, a _short_ history. I would be most appreciative if you could tell me about that old willow tree. Was the tree there when the house was built?" The old man continued to smile and nod and Bryan made another entry in his notebook. "How many deaths do you think were caused by ... by the tree?" The old man nodded.

Bryan leaned back in his chair and stared at the old man. Was Jaffre senile? Did he understand anything? "Do you understand what I'm asking? Do you know anything about those deaths? Do you have a theory? What caused -"

"The willow," came the soft voice from the next bed. Bryan looked around. Inspector Jaffre was sitting up in bed pulling at his ear and whispering. "It was ... the tree ... the willow tree ... and the babies ..."

Bryan swung his chair around. "Are you Inspector Jaffre?" The old man nodded and Bryan smiled and tried to write in the notebook. The pencil broke and he carefully bit a piece of wood from the end and began to scratch on a blank page until he was satisfied it would write. When he looked up at Jaffre, the old man was asleep. "Inspector Jaffre? Are you awake? Did you say _babies_?" The old man turned slightly and began to snore.

Bryan watched for a few minutes then left the room.

At the desk he waited for the nurse to recognize his presence. Eventually she looked up. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

"Jaffre. I'd like to talk to him, but he's asleep now. When does he usually wake up? I'd like to come back when he's wide awake. You see, I'm writing a history, a short one -"

"Mr. Jaffre had dementia. He may never be wide awake. He hallucinates you know. He had a willow tree it seems and it's the only thing he can talk about." The nurse giggled. "We call it the willow woggles. It's a new type of senility, the willow woggles." She put her hand over her mouth and began to chuckle. "It's contagious, it's an epidemic -"

She began to laugh out loud then looked about and took a deep breath. Her face turned red. She burst out laughing again and quickly left the desk and ran to the washroom, her hands covering her face, laughing.

Bryan stood there for some time staring at the washroom door, then made an entry in his notebook. The phone rang on the desk. He wondered if he should answer: _Yes? What can I do for you?_ It rang twice more and he was about to pick it up when the nurse returned, stern face, marching, straight and tall, serious. She sat down and frowned, picked up the phone: _Moss Hill Nursing Home. Yes? What can I do for you?_

When Bryan left, the rain had stopped and he wandered about the parking lot looking for his car. He eventually found the car, but couldn't find his keys. When he found his keys he couldn't remember which one unlocked the car. He stepped on his notebook. It had fallen to the wet ground and he bent to pick it up and hit his head on the car. He groaned and counted to ten. When he had finally started the car he waited, sitting, reading his notes. There was not much there: _willow tree - Bourden House - Jaffre - Moss Hill Nursing Home - willow woggles_ _epidemic_.

***

When all the exam papers had been marked Bryan piled them neatly in the corner of his office and entered the marks on his class list along with the weekly assignment and test marks. He grabbed the calculator and began to compute an average. He leaned back and stared at the calculator: 57.296601, a pretty lousy average he thought. Should he add a few marks, here and there? If he simply added 5 marks to everybody then he would have an average over 60%; that was a simple computation.

"Professor? Will you bell the marks?"

That was the favourite question during the last week of classes. Few asked about the Mean Value Theorem, even fewer about the Ratio Test for convergence.

"Professor Laker? Will you bell the marks?"

Did they realize how much work was involved in _belling_ the marks? None of his colleagues _belled_ the marks; not worth the effort. He lit his pipe and thought about the last week of classes.

"Will that be on the exam?" "Are we responsible for that?" "Will there be any theory?"

They were favourite questions. He had been in a rush to finish covering the course material. Maybe too rushed. Maybe he had asked too many questions on the material in those last few weeks. He would add 7 marks to everybody. That would sound like he had some elaborate computational procedure based upon the statistical distribution of grades. Yes, 7 marks to each. But not now; he was tired.

When he got back to his apartment building the sun was low on the horizon, if he could see the horizon, which he couldn't. He climbed wearily up the stairs, bowed to Mrs. Perkins and continued. He could hear Porgy barking when he reached the fifth floor. He paused and looked up the stairwell. The plywood had fallen down. It had been nailed to the stairs to discourage anyone from continuing to the upper floors. He picked it up and pushed it against the wall. The dog was whining. Bryan reached into his trousers and pulled out the collection of keys. He had painted his apartment key with some red paint. He should do a similar thing to his car keys. He made a mental note of that and pushed the red key into the lock and opened the door. Porgy rushed out and jumped on his leg, whining, barking. The dog always seemed to be complaining. _How could you leave me here all day?_ Bryan picked the dog up, pushed the door closed with his hip, pushed off his shoes into the closet and walked to the kitchen. He dropped the dog when he stepped on the broken pieces of coffee mug. He was tired and fed the dog, but decided to wait before he took him for his walk. First a shower, a hot, steaming shower. Porgy waited, looked up, whined, then gave up and returned to his chair when Bryan shuffled into the washroom.

He let his clothes drop to the floor, reached into the shower stall and turned on the hot water. When it was the right temperature, he slipped gingerly into the stall.

It felt good. He raised his head and let the hot water stream over his face. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall so he wouldn't fall. He knew he was accident prone and took great pains to prevent any mishap. Well, maybe not _great_ pains. He thought about it and spread his feet apart for stability and felt the soap on the floor. He opened his eyes and looked down. The bar of soap was at his feet, waiting for an accident to happen. He began to reach down and thought better of it. He would surely slip. Keeping his eyes on the soap he leaned firmly against the wall and kicked it. The soap skipped over the wet floor of the shower stall, bounced against the shower wall and returned to his feet. He tried again and slipped on the soap, falling through the shower curtain and hitting his head on the toilet as he fell. The curtain collapsed in a heap and the toilet seat came down on the back of his head.

Porgy was standing at the door, head cocked.

***

When the phone rang Bryan was just finishing the supper dishes, placing them neatly in the cupboards. His head was wrapped in a towel and ached. He walked slowly to the phone hanging on the kitchen wall, rubbed his sore head and sat in the small chair.

"Hello, Bryan?"

"Hi Liz! I was just thinking about you. How was your trip to Jamaica?"

"Just great! We got back last night and I couldn't wait to tell you all about it. You really should go there you know. Have you got your exam papers marked? It'll be three weeks before the next term starts - plenty of time to lie on the beach and soak in the sun."

Liz had taken this as her off-term and had promised herself a vacation away from the hassle of college life. He had missed her in the lounge. Missed not having their tossed salad together in the cafeteria. It had become such a part of his day that he had sworn off lunches until she returned.

"So what are you doing tonight?" she asked. "Shall I come over and clean up your place?" She laughed. Bryan groaned.

"I've kept it pretty clean. Just washed the dishes, put then all away. Vacuumed just yesterday ... uh, I think it was yesterday."

"Okay. I'll be there by six. We can have a pizza. I'll buy it on the way over, at Marco's. You're in charge of the wine. Okay?"

"The salad ... what about the salad? I haven't had a salad since you left."

"I'll look after that too. Gotta go now - see you at six."

Bryan placed the phone on the hook, smiled and walked to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was thinning, prematurely. And he was pale, ashen, not enough sun. He squinted and opened his mouth. Even his tongue was pale, but his teeth were white and even. He grinned, frowned, grinned again, then closed his mouth and stood as tall as he could. _About average height I would say_. But thinning hair, at twenty six? No matter, I'm not fat, even thin maybe. He pulled in his stomach, leaned forward and gazed into his brown eyes, his hands resting on the edge of the sink. _Ordinary face I'd say._ His hair was so light in colour, almost blond he thought, that it looked even thinner than it really was, and he shaved regularly although one could hardly see any sign of a beard. He leaned closer, still staring, closer, bumped his head on the mirror and staggered back with a grunt.

Liz was coming over, tonight. He really had missed her. It was good to have her back. He could tell her about the history, the _short_ history. They had three weeks before term started. She would have some good ideas; they could spend the evening discussing it.

CHAPTER 12

the Top Floors

It was a fine evening. The pizza was the best he had ever tasted, piled high with cheese and bacon and green peppers. The wine was so-so, but the salad was also great, tangy, with lots of garlic, olive oil, oregano and not too much vinegar. The last time Bryan had enjoyed his dinner was - when? _I guess it was the last time Liz was here_ he thought.

"Okay, so tell me more about your history, your _short_ history," said Liz clearing away the plates. "You said you visited Jaffre. Didn't you get anything at all from him?"

"Nothing ... uh, something about _babies_. I think he's senile. _Dementia_ the nurse said. _Willow woggles_ , she said. An _epidemic_ , she said."

Bryan leaned back and groaned, holding his stomach. "I ate too much."

"You said that the old Bourden house used to be on _this_ property, right where this - this crummy apartment is located?"

"That's what I understand," said Bryan. "The old willow tree, it stood right on this site. I saw a picture of the old Bourden house."

"You did? Where did you see that?"

"It was in the _Gazette_. The article about Jaffre. It was while you were away lolling on the beach at Doctor's Cove."

Liz had placed the dishes in the soapy water, in the sink, and sat down at the table.

"Let's go into the living room," she said. "These chairs are the most uncomfortable chairs I've ever sat in. Your living room furniture isn't much better."

"Okay. Okay. Make fun. What am I to do on an assistant professor's salary? A run down apartment, and run down furniture to match."

They both collapsed into a chair and Bryan read the article in the newspaper. Liz listened intently until he had finished. Porgy had jumped onto her lap and she was stroking the dog and scratching its floppy ears.

"There must have been earlier articles in the _Gazette_ ," she said. "I mean much earlier, when the Bourden house was still standing, about the Bourdens themselves and their unfortunate demise."

"I did read some stuff when I was working on this history, but I can't remember what it was."

"I'm not surprised. Your memory is as run down as your furniture. I guess it matches -"

"Yes, I know. It matches the apartment. So why don't you come with me, tomorrow. We'll go over the articles and _you_ can commit them to memory." Liz laughed and Porgy opened his eyes, panted happily and wagged his tail.

Bryan stared at the ceiling and hummed softly.

"You know, I was thinking," he said. "If the willow tree really did kill all those tenants, like Jaffre said, it was long after the Bourden house was torn down. The tree no longer existed. How can a tree kill anybody when the tree isn't even there?" He looked at Liz and frowned. "Old man Jaffre is crazy."

"The newspaper article did mention a workman who died, remember? You read it only a minute ago. You can surely remember that."

"Yes. I remember that ... uh, Butch or something. A branch fell on him, wasn't that it? That was an accident. Maybe we should forget about this. I'll stash my _short_ history in the desk and forget about it until - until next year. Maybe we can spend the next three weeks doing something more interesting. How about a trip to the lake? We can camp for a few days and -"

"Bryan," she said sternly. "Are you saying it's not worth the effort? I say we go over the articles in the _Gazette_. Tomorrow. First thing in the morning." Liz looked at her watch. "Now it's late. Gotta go. Mom's waiting. She won't go to sleep till I get home and it's already past her bedtime."

Liz pushed Porgy off her lap and got up to leave and Bryan jumped out of his chair, stumbled and grabbed her.

"Kiss me goodnight so I can get some sleep too," he laughed. Liz put her arms about his neck and kissed him. They walked to the hall closet and he watched her put on her coat. She pulled her long blond hair, shook it back with a toss of her head and straightened her collar. Although she wasn't ravishingly beautiful she had a face he could watch for hours. He stared at her now, her blue eyes sparkling, full lips, a smile that was as wide as her face. She often smiled and was always in such good spirits, loved to have fun, do things out-of-the-ordinary, wild and crazy things, on the spur of the moment. He was such a stick-in-the-mud. Just being with her made him feel better. He hadn't realized how much he had missed her. Now that he looked more closely she really _was_ beautiful, ravishingly beautiful.

"Stop staring," she whispered and opened the door and stepped into the hall. "I'll be here by ten. Be ready. Have the coffee hot. Make your bed. Don't step on the soap. Wash behind your ears. Brush your teeth."

"Okay ... I'll remember to do all those things. I'm really glad you're back. Say hello to your Mom. I assume she enjoyed Jamaica too, and -" He watched as she walked to the top of the stairs, pausing to look at the plywood sheet leaning against the wall. "It fell over," he explained, pointing to the sheet of wood. "I just put it against the wall. It keeps nosy people from the upper floors. Nosy people who are unraveling the mysteries of the willow tree. Anyone caught climbing the stairs will contract a bad case of _willow wiggles_."

" _Willow woggles_ ," she corrected. Liz stared up into the dark stairwell. "Have you ever been up there?"

"Nope. Nobody has. Not for a long time, I think."

Liz walked to the foot of the stairs and peered up into the dark. Bryan watched as she climbed tentatively onto the bottom step.

"Don't go up there," he warned. "I don't think it's safe. Besides, it's too dark. No lights. Maybe even wobbly stairs."

"Get a flashlight," she said, still staring up into the dark stairwell. Bryan complained with a short grunt, but Liz had already started up the stairs. He ran back into the apartment and returned with a flashlight. Liz was gone. He stared up into the dark and pointed the light. The beam was faint and kept getting fainter.

"Liz? Are you up there?" He whispered the words, shook the flashlight, it brightened and he started slowly up the stairs, shaking the light as he went.

"Up here, Bryan," he heard her call. "I'm on the next floor. Can't see a blessed thing."

He hurried up the stairs and shone the light down the hall. A door was open and he walked to it, slowly, looking to either side as he went and feeling along the wall. He looked into the open door, but it was too dark to see so he stepped just halfway through the door holding the waning light before him. It looked much like his apartment, which made him feel a little more comfortable, so he stepped into the room, quickly, stumbled over something and dropped the flashlight. He was lying on the floor, in the dark; the flashlight had gone out. He heard noises from his right and he pushed himself to his knees and began to crawl backward toward the hall. Something brushed his leg and he jumped to his feet, scrambling toward the door. He heard the metallic rattle across the floor, the bang against the wall. The flashlight; it came on again. He stooped to pick it up and bumped his head against the door jamb, falling forward into the hall against a pair of legs.

"Listen clumsy, come to the next apartment. It's just like yours - a big mess."

Liz was standing over him and he jumped to his feet when she spoke. She immediately marched down the hall and disappeared into the next apartment. He got to his feet, the flashlight burning dimly in his hand and followed, entering the next apartment very cautiously. Liz was standing by the window. The moon was full and she had pulled back the curtain. The room looked eerie, the pale light streaming through the cracked panes of glass. He looked around: there was one chair and a small table with three legs, the fourth leg was on the floor, and a torn carpet was lying across the table. Liz was walking to the bathroom.

"Let's look in here," she called. Bryan complained again but followed, shaking his flashlight which kept getting dimmer and going off and on, erratically. A shower curtain was hanging in shreds from a rusted metal rod. He shone the light around the room. The walls were streaked with mud; long wavy lines of dirt which radiated from the toilet.

"Will you look at that," Liz whispered. "Like I said, it's just like -"

"Yeah, I know. Just like my bathroom. Liz? Let's get out of here. This place gives me the creeps."

Liz bent over and ran her hand along the edge of the toilet.

"Bryan, put the light here. I think something's been creeping out of the toilet. Look at these stains. They're still wet."

Bryan pointed the light at the toilet, holding it at arms length. Liz was on her knees peering into the toilet bowl. It looked like her right hand was down in the bowl, in the water. Bryan was about to say something.

Suddenly Liz gasped and stumbled backward, bumping into Bryan.

He dropped the flashlight and it went out.

"What is it?" he shouted. "What is it?"

"My foot - something grabbed my foot!" Liz cried.

"Let's get out of here!"

He turned sharply and bumped into the wall. Liz pushed him through the door and kicked the flashlight as she followed. A thin beam of light wavered and illuminated the floor. Liz looked down at her foot, stopped, then laughed shakily.

"What? Why are you laughing?" cried Bryan, now almost to the hall.

He walked warily across the living room to the bathroom and stared at the floor. Liz stood there, hands on hips, smiling. Her foot was wrapped in the shower curtain drawcord.

"Uh, just the cord. Liz? C'mon. Your mother's waiting for you to put her to bed."

He backed away from the bathroom and felt his way across the living room and past the kitchen. It was exactly like his apartment and he miraculously made it to the door without tripping. Liz followed, holding the flashlight which glowed faintly then went out.

He walked her down the stairs to the front door of the apartment building. Mrs. Perkins was peeking through her door and Liz bowed politely as they passed. He waved goodbye and watched her car leave the parking lot, stop abruptly to avoid hitting a shadowy figure in a dark coat, then continue out onto the road, headlights flashing a goodbye. Bryan walked back in and sat on the bottom step for some time. He was breathing heavily. The top floors really weren't meant to be invaded, not in the dark, not ever. He pushed himself to his feet and climbed the stairs. Mrs. Perkins' hair was barely visible through the crack in her door, but not her face. He didn't bother to bow.

CHAPTER 13

the DIARY

The next morning, promptly at 10 a.m., Liz pulled into the parking lot. She stopped for only a moment to stare at the WILL T WERS sign, shook her head and climbed the stairs. Mrs. Perkins opened her door only after Liz had passed. Liz heard it close again and smiled. _Too late Mrs. Nosy Perkins_. When she reached the fifth floor she stared up the stairwell towards the sixth floor then knocked on Bryan's door.

"I'm ready. Let's go," he said. His hair hadn't been combed and his shirt collar stuck out from under his sweater. Liz straightened his collar and whispered something into his ear.

"No! There's nothing up there!" he cried.

"Oh, come on Bryan. It's light now. We can see where we're going. Let's just see what's up there. Aren't you just a wee bit curious?"

"No, I'm not even a wee bit curious. The top floors aren't meant to be invaded, never, ever." He leaned back against the door and crossed his arms, but it was no use. Liz had already started up the stairs, two steps at a time. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and followed. Liz had continued past the sixth floor and was heading to the seventh.

"Hey! Liz! Up there is even more dangerous. These old walls may come crashing down. It's ten stories high, you know that?"

He heard her climbing and followed, grunting and complaining with each step. On the tenth floor he stopped and sat down, gasping for breath. She could search through the rooms all she wanted to. He would rest here. It just wasn't worth the effort.

The hallway was flooded with light from a window at the end. He always thought all the upper windows were boarded. One day he would walk around the building and see. But not soon.

The carpets were dirty but intact. Much of the wall was cracked and the plaster was falling off. Somebody had scribbled _graffiti_ on the cleaner parts of the wall: graphic portrayals of sexual acts and small verses to accompany the artwork. He leaned forward to read the nearest verse.

"Bryan! Look at this!"

Bryan jumped to his feet, embarrassed, and stood against the wall in front of the verse. Liz was waving something, a small box ... a small book. He leaned forward, still standing against the wall.

"A diary. The secrets of the Willow Towers deaths," said Liz with a smile.

She tossed her head and started down the stairs, two at a time, her hair streaming gaily behind. Bryan followed, slowly. When he reached his apartment Liz was sitting in a chair with the diary on her lap. She had taken a nail file from her purse and was prying at the tiny lock.

"Got it!" she exclaimed gleefully. Bryan pulled the next chair closer, leaned back, sighed and looked at Liz as she leafed through the pages, muttering to herself.

"Hmm, mostly garbage ... more garbage ... here's a boy friend ... oh my, really. Garbage again ... ah, here's something. Listen to this:

Kay and I spent at least an hour this afternoon on Willow Walk. The roses are in full bloom except on the front left side of the building where I guess they don't get enough light. I told the superintendent but he seems resigned to having those nasty weeds sticking up through the marble chips. He said he can't grow anything on that side.

Hear that Bryan? The side of the building. The evil willow tree!"

Bryan sniffed and leaned back in his chair. Liz continued to leaf through the book.

"Listen to this:

They were coming apart but we were very careful and stacked them by the furnace. According to Colby they were there for sentimental reasons."

"What are _they_ ?" asked Bryan. He was tired already and couldn't think clearly. " _What_ were coming apart?"

"Wait ... just a sec ... here it is:

The chairs were not real wicker chairs even though they had that appearance. But they were made from an old willow tree that once stood on the site of the Willow Towers.

Wait ... hmm, there's more ... yes, listen:

Kay got a scratch on her leg and a run in her stocking from one of the chairs. She insists that the chair attacked her. She laughed when she said it, but somehow she seemed almost serious.

Looks like that's it. The rest is about preparing for some New Year's Eve party, then it ends right there."

Liz looked up. "The New year's Eve party - didn't the article in the _Gazette_ mention that the tenants all died at a New Year's Eve party?"

"I can't remember," sighed Bryan, closing his eyes.

"Yes. It did. I remember. The bodies were ... they were ... uh -"

"Wait, I'll find the paper." He opened his eyes and looked around. "It's still in the corner." He opened the newspaper and slid into his chair. "Here it is:

The bodies were crushed ... red welts ... covered with dirt.

Let's see ... something about Jaffre, then ... here. It says:

The demolished chairs were lying in shreds about the room. There were barely enough of the shreds to make up a single chair.

What do think about that? The chairs were made of the same old willow tree - they were lying in shreds, but not enough to make up a single chair."

"And Kay said she was attacked by a wicker chair," said Liz almost in a whisper. "The willow tree lived on, in those chairs."

She lay the diary on the side table and became pensive, placing her chin very slowly in her cupped hands. Bryan was staring at her. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again.

"Bryan? Do you believe in the soul? I mean, do you believe that a person has a soul? Can a tree have a soul?"

"What has that to do with the New Year's party?" He grunted, then, "Sorry Liz, I don't even know what a _soul_ is."

"Of course you do. You mean you've never heard of the _soul_? I can't believe -"

"No, no, I mean, what is the definition of the _soul_? Is it some kind of inner being? Something ephemeral? Something spiritual without shape or form or substance? I don't really know -"

"Get your dictionary! We'll look it up."

Bryan rose, wearily. Maybe Liz had too much energy. Couldn't they just rest, just for a while? He slid one part of the large two-part dictionary from the shelf, Q-to-Z, and handed it to Liz. She flipped through the pages then stopped and read aloud:

" _The divine principle of life in man. The moral or spiritual part of man ... considered as surviving death._ "

"That answers your question. A tree cannot have a _soul_. It says the spiritual part of a _man_." Bryan leaned back and smiled.

Liz looked up and frowned. "Since I am _not_ a man then I cannot have a _soul_. Is that what you're saying Bryan?"

"No, no. That's not what I meant. I just meant that ... uh, a tree can't -"

"Listen to this ... young _man_." She continued to read from the dictionary:

" _The animating principle of a thing._ Understand? _Of a thing_ , not of a _man_."

"Ha!" cried Bryan, pleased with himself. "That's it! You're a _thing_."

Liz was not amused. Bryan leaned over and tried to give her a kiss. His chair tipped and he fell, wedged between the two chairs. Liz got up and walked to the kitchen.

"Okay," she said backward over her shoulder. "Let's see you _animate_."

Bryan crawled from between the chairs and followed her into the kitchen. Liz was pouring coffee into two mugs, frowning. Bryan put his arms about her waist and kissed her neck and she grinned then began to laugh.

"You should have seen yourself ... stuck between those two chairs."

"They have _soul_ , them there chairs. Did you see them animate?"

Liz smiled and handed him a coffee; they walked back to their chairs.

"Liz? Why did you ask about _soul_? Are you thinking that the willow tree had this _animating principle_?"

Bryan lowered himself into his chair, carefully holding his mug in front of him. He was almost seated when the coffee spilled. "Damn!" he muttered.

"See? Even the coffee has _soul_ ," said Liz calmly, but smiling widely. "Maybe everything has _soul_ , an _animating principle_. Ever notice how inanimate objects can move, slide, be where they aren't supposed to be, get under your feet, like soap in the shower?" She laughed. Bryan wiped a streak of coffee across his shirt and grunted.

"Look, Liz, I really think we've gone far enough with this thing. Why don't we drop the -" He stopped talking. Liz was staring at the floor, intently, pensive again. He knew that look. She wasn't listening. Might as well wait to see what she was going to say.

" _Epidemic_ ," she said.

"What? What epidemic? What are you talking about?"

Liz turned to Bryan, staring blankly ahead.

" _Epidemic_. That's what the nurse said, didn't she? She said _epidemic_ , a _willow woggles epidemic_."

"Oh that. Yes, that's what she said." Bryan sipped his coffee and crossed his legs. "It was about Jaffre. She was talking about his -"

"I _know_ what she was talking about, but she said _epidemic_. That usually means more than one, wouldn't you say?"

They stared at each other for a long time. It was Bryan who spoke first.

"Do you think - are you saying -"

"Bryan, there's somebody else in that nursing home who talks about willow trees."

***

The nurse ignored them both. Liz reached over the desk and plucked the ball point pen from her hand. The nurse looked up, startled. Bryan said, "Yes? What can you do for us?"

The nurse stood up and began to say, "Yes? What can I -" then stopped and blushed. Liz was smiling sweetly, a wide bright smile that lit up her face. Bryan leaned over the desk and whispered.

"Miss, I was here the other day looking for Inspector Jaffre. Do you remember?" The nurse nodded and he continued, more loudly. "Well, I did speak to him, briefly, then he fell asleep and I asked you when he would be wide awake. You said he was never really wide awake. Then you said -"

Liz interrupted. "Do you have anyone else in the nursing home who speaks of willow trees?"

The nurse sat down again. "Yes. Kumar. Melissa Kumar."

Liz looked at Bryan and smiled.

"She's in the retirement wing, not the nursing home wing." The nurse grunted and looked at her watch. "But she'll be visiting Mr. Brubacher now. She always visits at this time. He's in room 203, second floor, middle of the hall." She looked at Liz, then at the pen in Liz's hand. Liz handed her the pen and the nurse started to write again, ignoring them both. Bryan walked toward the stairs and Liz followed.

"Kumar?" said Liz. "Have you ever heard that name before."

"Not that I can remember."

"Hmm, I could have guessed that; _not that you can remember._ Well, she's another player in this drama. Maybe someone from the apartment building? Someone who escaped the deadly New Year's Eve party? Wasn't there one tenant who escaped? What do you think?"

"Could be. There's the room. We'll see."

The room was brightly decorated with windows covered in delicate sheers and heavy flowered drapes that hung in lazy loops to each side. There were two beds, each neatly made up with tight sheets and light brown covers. A man was sitting, gazing out the window. No one else was in the room. Bryan looked at Liz.

"Excuse me," said Liz. "Are you Mr. Brubacher?" The old man turned and stared for a moment then turned again to gaze out the window. Bryan looked again at Liz.

"We'll wait for ... what's her name? Kumar, Melissa Kumar. Bryan, have a seat," said Liz pointing to a vacant chair. Bryan dutifully sat. Liz walked to the window and spoke to the old man again in whispered tones. "Is Miss Kumar coming today?" The old man began to shake, but didn't answer. "Does she come every day?" Still no answer.

Liz whispered to Bryan. "Doesn't talk much," she said. Then she walked back and sat in another chair ... and they both waited for Melissa Kumar.

***

After about thirty minutes Liz rose and walked out of the room. Bryan followed. They had waited for some time, for Melissa Kumar, at the _Moss Hill Nursing Home_. Old Mr. Brubacher continued to stare out the window. He hadn't said a word, not in all this time.

"Liz? Where are you going? Aren't we going to wait for Melissa what's-her-name?"

"We'll check at the desk. If Miss Kumar visits Mr. Brubacher every day at this time then she's late, and we'll see why."

There was a crowd at the front desk. Several men in white uniforms were talking simultaneously to the nurse who seemed flustered. Liz waited and listened.

"But she was fine this morning," said the nurse. "Her vitals were normal and -"

"Did you call her doctor?"

"Yes, of course. He's on his way now. He's on the premises. I had him paged. There. There he is now."

The doctor walked briskly to the front desk and spoke to the men in white uniforms in a low voice and they left, carrying the body in a stretcher, covered in a white sheet. Then the doctor left and the nurse fished a mirror from her purse and began to straighten her hair. Liz walked up and leaned over the desk.

"We're waiting for Miss Melissa Kumar and -"

"You've got a long wait," said the nurse without looking up from her mirror. She carefully put the mirror back in her purse, snapped the purse closed and looked up at Liz. "Mrs. Kumar just left, just this minute." The nurse giggled and continued, "She left in some hurry and I'm afraid she won't be back." She giggled again and put her hand over her mouth. Liz looked out the glass door and saw the ambulance pull away.

"Was that Miss ... uh, Mrs. Melissa Kumar, just now? Is she ill?"

"Ill? No ma'am. She's dead."

The nurse leaned back in her chair. "A stroke, the doctor says. They always say that. But it's just old age, you know. She was almost 100 years old I'd say, but as bright as a pin, right to the last."

Liz turned and looked at Bryan then they slowly walked out the front door, then Liz stopped.

"Jaffre. What about Jaffre? We could talk to him."

She turned quickly and reentered the building. Bryan grunted then followed and lead the way to room 151 and walked directly to Inspector Jaffre's bed and sat down.

"Inspector Jaffre?" he said. "How are you today?" The old man nodded his head and pulled at his ear. "I was wondering if you felt up to answering a few questions. I just thought, if you feel up to it, you might tell us ... uh, this is Liz ... if you felt up to it -"

"Mr. Jaffre," said Liz. "Could you please tell us about the willow tree deaths."

Inspector Jaffre immediately perked up and mumbled, "It was the willow tree ... it killed everybody, the willow tree killed everybody, the babies ..."

Liz was standing and Bryan gave her his chair.

"Tell us about it, can you? How do you know it was the willow tree? The tree was removed when the apartment building was built. How could -"

"The willow tree," muttered Jaffre. "It was the willow tree. It killed everybody."

"When did you first suspect the tree?"

"The willow tree," muttered Jaffre, "... killed everybody."

"How many deaths do you think were a result -"

"It killed everybody," muttered Jaffre. "The willow tree."

Bryan looked down at Liz . "This is useless. He's crazy, senile. Let's go. Let's forget the whole thing. Let's -"

"Wait," whispered Liz, turning to Jaffre. "Mr. Jaffre? Do you know what time it is?"

"The willow tree," muttered Jaffre. "It was the willow tree ... killed everybody."

"Mr. Jaffre. Do you know what day this is?"

"The willow tree ..."

Liz stood and mumbled, "Okay. Let's go."

They both walked down the hall and out the front door. Bryan stopped to look across the parking lot for the car, Liz continued and Bryan followed her. He fished in his trousers and pulled out the keys. Liz reached in her purse and removed the key, unlocking the door. Bryan looked up. It was _her_ car. He shoved the keys into his trousers and grunted. As they left , Bryan muttered, "Liz, I think we should forget about this investigation. It's not worth -"

"Bryan! Don't you dare say _it's not worth the effort._ "

Bryan sat silently, quietly, as they drove down King Street toward Willow Towers.

CHAPTER 14

Mrs. Perkins: August, 1977

Mrs. Teresa Perkins would finish her tea and visit the bathroom. Her daily schedule never varied. Tea at noon, with small shortbread cookies, then a visit to the washroom. The living room was filled with worn furniture covered in dainty needlepoint throws. The walls were dark and gloomy with faded photographs that used to be black and white, now brown and gray. The tea pot was ornate silver and the tea cups were thin china that tinkled on their flowered plates. Several carpets of varying sizes were strewn across the floor, mostly maroon in colour with zigzag patterns.

When her husband had died he had left her practically penniless. The small government pension was just enough to pay the rent on this shabby apartment and buy the food for her table. She moved in with all her prized possessions and now these rooms were her entire world.

Although she and her husband had two children, they never visited. At Christmas she would get a phone call from each, that was all. How could they ignore her after all she and her husband had done for them? After having scrimped and saved to put them through college, they had left with barely a thank you. Now she was alone and it was sometimes frightening. When she listened to the radio each evening she could hear that the world had changed. Children just didn't have any respect for their elders. Lootings, beatings, theft. It was frightening. Every noise seemed threatening. She would peek through a partially open door when people came and went. You can't be too careful. And strange noises in the night and dirt that crept into her rooms, soiling the bathroom floor, muddy streaks on the wall. Beyond her rooms, her world, it must be even more frightening. At least here she had her cherished possessions. The china plates were a wedding gift and she had kept them carefully stored in the buffet all these years, taking them out each day for meals then washing and drying them and placing them carefully at the back of the first shelf. Her hands were shaky at times but she had never broken a single plate in all those years. And the tea service was real silver. Her husband had bought it on their first wedding anniversary. When he was alive they would spend every Sunday afternoon looking at photographs and drinking from the dainty cups that she had bought at Marcy's before the store closed, right after the big war. Most of the stores she knew had closed. She listened to the notice of sales on the radio nearly every day. Now, outside these walls, everything was different, violent, fast. Inside, it was her world and she certainly would not leave it, not for anything. Even the few groceries she needed were delivered to her door by the local store. Her meals rarely changed: a bowl of corn flakes for breakfast, with coffee, then one slice of bread with tea-sausage for lunch, then a bowl of canned cream of mushroom soup for dinner, with coffee. After her lunch she had her tea and shortbread cookies, then visited the washroom.

She gazed into the bathroom mirror and pulled her hair back off her face, over her head, then patted it firmly. It immediately fell again, but she paid no attention. She removed her worn robe and was about to lift her nightgown when she noticed the streaks of mud on the sides of the toilet bowl.

"Again," she muttered and wiped it clean with a cloth. This happened before and she meant to complain to the superintendent, but he never came around and she didn't have a telephone and she certainly wouldn't leave the apartment.

She turned, lifted her gown and sat on the toilet, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall. She heard the gurgling almost immediately. It was coming from the toilet bowl. She had heard it before. And the soil in the bowl, that had happened before, too. She closed her eyes and dreamed of the days before her husband died. Things were different. The world was different.

She was about to get up when she stiffened, eyes opened wide, mouth half open. He body shivered and she gasped. She started to scream but it was only a cough, a wheezing cough. Her head stiffened and her eyes began to bulge and her arms began to rise stiffly to either side of her body. Her mouth was open and a hollow whine came from deep in her throat. Her head started to sway slowly from side to side and her red cheeks became puffed.

Then a black coil slithered from her mouth, hairy, distorted. Then her eyes popped, two black roots leaping from the hollow sockets. The roots spun quickly about her face, slid down her neck, spun around her frail body, lifted her off the toilet seat.

***

Bryan paused on the fourth floor as Liz continued up the stairs. Mrs. Perkins hadn't peered through her door as she usually did. He shook his head and climbed to the fifth floor.

"Mrs. Perkins ... she didn't come to the door," he muttered.

"Good. Maybe she's lost her interest in the comings and goings -"

"She may be ill," said Bryan and he fished through his keys, separating the red key from the others, unlocking the apartment door. "She always peeks out - maybe she's sick. She's pretty old I guess." Bryan stepped back and Liz walked into the apartment. He waited in the hallway and looked down the stairwell.

"Liz? I'm going to see if she needs help." Liz appeared at the door and watched him disappear down the stairs. Bryan was a good person, she thought.

When he reached Mrs. Perkins' door he knocked tentatively. There was no answer and he called, "Mrs. Perkins? This is Bryan Laker. Will you open the door? Is there anything wrong?" Still there was no answer. He tried the door but it was locked. He looked up the stairs and saw Liz. "She doesn't answer," he said. Bryan looked again at the closed door then started back up the stairs.

They had a small lunch of rye bread and liverwurst and herring in wine sauce. Bryan was quiet throughout, then he leaned back. "I think I should phone the police. Mrs. Perkins could be ill. She always peeks out her door."

He reached for the phone hanging on the wall and started to dial. Liz smiled. He was always concerned about others. He was a very thoughtful person and she loved him for that. Mrs. Perkins was probably sleeping, but she wouldn't discourage Bryan from doing what he thought was his duty.

***

The police officer arrived just before 1 o'clock. Bryan and Liz met him at the front door of the building and lead him to the Perkins apartment. He tried the door. It was locked.

"When was the last time you saw her ... Mrs. ... uh, -"

"Mrs. Perkins," said Bryan. "We saw her this morning, about 10:30, I think. She always peeks out the door and she did this morning but when we got back, about noon I think, she didn't peek out her door."

"You mean you phoned the station because your neighbour didn't peek out her door?" The officer seemed angry.

"Well," mumbled Bryan, "you see, she always ... I mean, when she didn't peek I assumed -"

"Officer," said Liz sternly, "when Mrs. Perkins peeks out her door 364 days every year then there must be something wrong when she doesn't, on the 365th day."

The officer looked from Bryan to Liz, frowned, grunted and pulled out a small plastic box, removed a slim metal pick and began working at the lock. In a minute he swung the door open and walked inside. Bryan and Liz followed. The room smelled musty. The officer called, "Mrs. Parkins? Mrs. Parkins?" There was no answer. He walked to the window and pushed the heavy drapes aside. The room brightened and they looked around.

There was a tea cup and a tray of cookies on the table. The officer picked up a cookie, sniffed it and popped it into his mouth. "Shortbread," he said with a smile. "I'm a sucker for shortbread cookies." Liz had walked to the bathroom and Bryan headed for the bedroom. The apartment was identical to his and he knew exactly where to look. The officer followed Bryan.

That was when Liz screamed. Bryan jumped at least a foot in the air and even the officer jumped. They ran to the bathroom.

"Jeesuz!" cried the officer, involuntarily pulling off his hat, holding it firmly against his stomach.

Mrs. Perkins was lying on the floor. Her body was distorted, misshapen, covered in welts and bruises. Her head was twisted, grotesque, her eyes were black. Liz looked more closely. She had no eyes; just black sockets where eyes used to be. The room was covered in streaks of mud.

"Jeesuz, Jeesuz," muttered the officer.

Bryan backed out the door and continued to back toward the hallway.

"I guess it's in your hands now, officer," said Liz and quickly followed Bryan. Bryan was climbing the stairs, two-at-a-time. Liz heard the officer cry "Jeesuz" one more time, then she ran up the stairs. Bryan was putting on his coat.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Bryan handed Liz her coat. "Here. Put it on. We're getting out of this place. You know as well as I do what happened down there. Those marks on her body, just like the others, that's the way they all died - we're getting out of here."

Bryan grabbed Liz by the arm and dragged her to the stairs. She threw her coat over her shoulder and followed him down. When they reached Bryan's car he fumbled for the keys. She took the key ring from his trembling hand, opened the door and they both slid in and sat there for a moment without speaking. She handed him the keys and he held them tightly in his hands without moving.

"I know what you're thinking Bryan," Liz said quietly. "And you may be right. It sure looked just like the description in the _Gazette_ , just like the -"

"Liz?" said Bryan. Liz stopped talking and stared at Bryan. He was as white as a ghost and she waited for him to continue. "Liz? That willow tree is still alive, somehow, somewhere." He shivered. "It could have been us, you or me." Liz sat without speaking and Bryan whispered, "Where is the tree - the willow tree? It was torn down when the apartment building - when -" He paused and looked at Liz. " _Willow Walk_. The vines on _Willow Walk_. The tree is still on _Willow Walk_. I think I've seen it - the tree - the roots. My God! It's making it's way through the building. Mrs. Perkins is on the fourth floor. I'm on the fifth -"

Liz opened the car door.

"Liz! Where are you going?"

She started across the parking lot toward the front left of the building, toward _Willow Walk_. Bryan jumped out of the car and followed at a run. When he reached her she was staring at the roots covering the broken and splintered trellis, twisted, gnarled. She looked at the key chain in Bryans's hand and pulled off the small red Swiss army knife, flipping open the blade.

"Liz? What are you doing?"

She knelt beside a root and began to cut, drawing the small knife back and forth across a black and hairy coil. The root began to twist. She continued to draw the knife across the root which seemed to move, just slightly, almost imperceptably. Then she stopped cutting.

"Did you see it move?" she asked.

"No."

"I think it _did_ move."

Bryan backed away and turned toward the parking lot, calling over his shoulder, "Liz! Let's go!"

She stood up, stared intently at the root, gave it a kick then turned and walked slowly toward the car.

When the police officer came out to ask them a few questions, they were gone.

***

Bryan looked out over the field of flowers: goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace and wild strawberry, oxeye daisies and blue violet. He was high in a tree and the horizon was a thousand miles away and the clowds were clinging to the hazy purple hills. The tree began to sway and he reached out to steady himself on a thick and twisted branch. It spun around his wrist and he drew back and fell, his hand bleeding. It was a thousand miles to the ground and he fell for hours and the branch caught him just before he reached the ground, pulling him high into the air, its teeth glinting in the bright sun, spiralling about his waist then his neck then he couldn't breath and turned his head from side to side trying to free his arms then tearing the coils from his mouth then he screamed.

Then he woke up.

Liz had waited for nearly five hours for him to awaken. Now he leaned forward on the bed and groaned.

"What happened?" He looked around. "Where am I?"

"You're on my bed, in my mother's house. You've been sleeping for ... for hours. Can you remember anything?"

Bryan scratched his head, sweating. "Yes ... Mrs. Perkins and _Willow Walk._ Did I dream all that?"

"No. I think you went into shock. I brought you home, to my house, my mother's house, you were like a zombie, then you just fell asleep."

Bryan slid off the bed.

"Liz, what do we do? I don't want to live in that - that apartment. It'll happen again." He paused and looked into Liz' eyes. "Liz? The others - in the apartment building. We've got to warn them. They - they -"

"It's okay. I've spoken to the officer who came to Mrs. Perkins' apartment. Do you remember him? Well, I told him about the willow tree, about the roots which still grow beneath the apartment building. He's going to evacuate the building."

"You mean he believed you? He actually believed you? He didn't think you were off your rocker? He actually believed that a willow tree -"

"Bryan ... the officer's name is Jaffre." She paused to let the name sink in. "He's the grandson of Inspector Jaffre. I didn't have to say anything. He just took charge and started to evacuate the building. There are only three other apartments renting and they'll move out, temporarily. He said he'll get city council approval for drilling and injecting a herbicide directly into the root system. He said the roots will die within a week. Even the roots which have invaded the building, the sewers and pipes. They'll be dead within a week."

Bryan collapsed onto the bed, stared up at the ceiling, sighed. "Thank God. Maybe this thing is over now." He pushed himself to his elbows and looked at the bed, grinning from ear to ear. "Guess I'll just have to stay here, in your bed, for how long? A week did you say? Sounds like fun."

Liz shoved him and he fell off the bed, hitting his head on the night table.

New Year's Eve: 1977

Bryan couldn't sleep. For most of the week something had bothered him, but he couldn't place it. It was as though a voice were speaking, whispering, but he couldn't make out what it was saying. He had slept fitfully most nights, had complained to Liz and had lost his appetite. She tried to cheer him up, saying that she would bring something special on New Year's Eve, something to whet his appetite.

He crawled out of bed early, wandered aimlessly about the apartment most of the morning, then, at noon, he turned on Bach and took a hot bath, laying the gray towel on the side of the tub. He lay with eyes closed, the steaming water lapping gently at his chin. Then began the _toccata and fugue in D minor_. He hadn't realized before; Bach was _frightening_. This fugue had always been cheerful, fanciful, one of his favourites - now it was sombre, scary. He felt the apprehension creeping up his leg, and he turned uncomfortably - and still, the creeping. He opened his eyes, lifted his foot. A hairy cord, wrapped about his leg, clinging, and he pushed himself upright and gasped and jerked his foot and the thing leaped wildly out of the steaming tub, up and down, reaching for him, flailing, gray and tortuous, and he pushed himself from the tub, over the side, falling to the floor, and the thing followed, sloshing, cleaving to his face and he couldn't breath and he twisted his head, banging against the tub - and everything went black.

When Liz arrived, she found the door unlocked and the record spinning silently. She placed her packages on the kitchen table and ran to the bedroom, then saw the bathroom door closed. She pushed it open. Bryan was lying naked on the floor, a wet, gray towel wrapped about his face.

"Bryan!" She pulled away the towel, stroked his cheek. "Bryan!"

He opened his eyes, quickly, and stared at Liz, confused.

"Why are you ... why ..." he stuttered.

"Oh Bryan, you gave me such a scare. You must have fallen while getting out of the tub."

"I was ... uh, the thing, something, it attacked me," he said, his voice cracking. "I was attacked!"

Liz held up the gray towel.

"This? Was _this_ the thing that attacked you?"

She threw it over him and he fell back, bumping his head once again on the tub. He pulled the towel from his shoulder, gazed at it for a moment, gazed at himself, then lay the towel carefully across his naked loins, grinning.

"Woman, do you have no shame?" He waved toward the door. "Begone!"

Liz left, smiling, and closed the door behind her. Bryan got unsteadily to his feet, slipped out of the wet towel, stared at it, then into the tub, shook his head to clear it, then threw the towel onto the floor. "Wicked thing," he mumbled, but his voice was shaking and he couldn't stop his hand from trembling.

***

It was after nine o'clock and they sat in the living room. Bryan had feasted for over an hour on the pastries filled with crab, the cheese fondue and the white wine. Liz ate none of it, preferring to watch Bryan make a pig of himself.

"Oink," she muttered.

"Well ... what did you expect," he complained, stuffing the last crab pastry into his mouth and wiping his lips with a napkin. "You brought enough for six. If I had eaten just a little, it'd be insulting. Right?" He got up from the chair which Liz had placed next to a small table, and moved to the sofa next to Liz, with his glass of wine and dirty napkin, collapsing beside her, his wine glass held aloft.

"No!" she cried, but it was too late. Bryan moaned, then flourished the napkin and began to wipe the wine from Liz's blouse. "No!" she cried, but it was too late. Bryan stared silently at the dirty napkin, then at the streaks of crab and cheese fondue on her blouse.

"Gee, Liz, I just wanted to - to -"

"Yes, my dear," she wailed, "you just wanted to feed me." She sighed and lay back on the sofa. "Or perhaps to check out the merchandise." Bryan dropped his napkin on the floor, next to the wine glass, and lay beside her. They were silent for some time, then Bryan drew a deep breath.

"Liz? Do you know what day this is? I mean, do you know it's significance?"

Liz had closed her eyes and answered softly, without looking up.

"It is the last day of the last month of the calendar of Augustus and -"

"No, I mean, do you know what happened this day, in _this_ place?"

Liz opened her eyes, stared straight ahead, then at Bryan.

"Do you mean ..."

"Yes, precisely, exactly, the ... the death of all tenants of Willow Towers, every one, attacked ..." He sucked in his breath. "Like _I_ was attacked, in the tub ..."

"Silly, that was your towel. You were dreaming, again." Liz closed her eyes.

"Well ... it seemed real enouth. Liz, I don't think we should be here, in _this_ place, not tonight, not on New Years' Eve."

"How many _last days of the last month_ have you spent here? Have you ever, _ever_ had a problem ... discounting, of course, vicious towels that -"

"But what about Mrs. Perkins? _She_ was attacked. You know it and _I_ know it. And tonight is the night when all those tenants were attacked."

Liz sighed. "Bryan, the willow is gone, dead, departed. The roots have been destroyed and the danger is also gone, dead and departed." She leaned against him. "But, of course, if you're afraid, we can always spend the rest of the evening at my mother's house." She kissed him gently on the cheek. "Of course, she would be there, constantly, watching our every move, seeing that you behave like a perfect gentleman." She put her arms about his neck, fluttering her eyelids. "No funny business, no signs of effection, passion, wild and erotic lust ..." She pulled him to her and he fell into her lap.

"Okay, okay, I give up," he moaned. "Take this naive and virtuous child and do with him as you will ... but please be gentle."

And they stayed, and New Year's Eve turned uneventfully to a new year, and the subject never again arose - not for a long time.

CHAPTER 15

Sophie Brenner: June, 1983

The party was winding down and the guests were starting to leave, slowly, talking constantly all the way to the closet where they each in turn sifted through the coats, all the way to the front door and all the way down the walk to the cars parked at the curb. When the last guest had left, Sophie Brenner fell backwards into the sofa and groaned loudly. She looked around at the room; bottles and glasses everywhere. Tomorrow. She'll clean up tomorrow. Better still, she'll phone the agency and get a cleaning lady in for an hour or two.

She closed her eyes. Too much talking had given her a headache. Brenda talked too much, so did Brenda's sister ... what was her name? Billy? Funny name for a girl. And that guy with the moustache, what made him think he was master of ceremonies? Well, now it was over. She had given the party for the staff as she had promised and now she could relax. No more entertaining for a while. She looked at the floor, covered in crumbs and potato chips. Some people were slobs. Most of them were slobs.

Derek was nice though, quiet. He had even offered to help with the serving. He was very nice. Where did he work? In the advertising department? Can't think now - time for bed.

She walked slowly around the room and turned out the lights then stopped and looked out the window. It was a warm night and the sky was clear and sprinkled with stars. She stepped out onto the back porch and looked up. That was surprising. Normally the city lights made it impossible to see many stars but tonight was different. She looked over the back fence, over the small tree with its branches rising, curiously distorted against the glow of the city in the distance.

She was glad to have moved to the suburbs. It was quiet and she could do without the constant ringing of the telephone and honking of horns and screeching of brakes. She would sleep well tonight. She walked back into the house, past the bottles and potato chips and crumbs and smiled. Tomorrow she would call the agency: send a cleaning lady. That was good.

***

By the time she awoke the sun had been warming her bed covers for an hour. She lay in bed, thinking. What to do today? It was her day off and she didn't need any groceries. There was lots of stuff left over from the party and she could live off that for at least a day, maybe two. She hadn't been to the Farmer's Market for months. She would go today, look over the handmade dolls and homemade jams and the needlework and quilts. She ran her hand over the bed cover. A quilt, handsewn, with brightly coloured squares; she needed one. She jumped out of bed, dressed and was just about to leave the house when the phone rang. How she hated it when the phone rang. It rang twice more and she wearily walked back and picked it up after the fourth ring.

"Hello," she said cheerily, her eyes closed, a grimace advertising her annoyance.

"Sophie? Just called to say that was a smashing party last night." It was Brenda. God, this was going to take an hour.

"I saw how you were looking at Derek, you can't fool me you know. I can tell these things. I was telling Billie that you had eyes for Derek. Just wait, I said to Billie, she has that look, I said. They'll be dating in less than a week, I said, and then watch out, I said, and before you know it they'll be engaged, I said, and -"

Sophie leaned against the wall, stared at the ceiling, eyes still closed. Brenda went on - and on. Sophie opened her eyes, smiled, then waited for a pause in the stream of words then said:

"Brenda? Guess what? I just -" then she hung up the phone and quickly left the house.

She heard the phone ring and climbed into her car. That was a good trick. Brenda would think the phone had been cut off. Sophie smiled and drove down Kaiser Street to the Market.

It was crowded but she enjoyed the noise and confusion. Strange. _Why would I enjoy this confusion when I live in the suburbs just to get away from it all?_ She jostled her way down the aisles and stopped to watch the man carving wood. He had several small jewel boxes in rosewood, 3 or 4 wooden clocks with a rich umber grain and a shelf full of wicker baskets.

"I bought a wicker basket a few years ago," she said. "It came apart in less than a month. Do your baskets come apart?"

"No ma'am. I guarantee these baskets. They'll last a lifetime. You kin pass them on to your gran chillun." He smiled, a broad smile full of off-white teeth, more like yellow teeth she thought. "You didn't buy the basket from me?" he added, suddenly frowning.

"No. I bought it in New Bamberg. A furniture manufacturer was going out of business. He was selling everything at half-price. It seemed a good buy at the time." She ran her hand over the wicker baskets, then smiled and left.

Where had she put that old wicker basket?

She looked at her watch. Better get home and call the cleaning agency.

When she got home Brenda was waiting on the front porch.

"We got cut off!" she cried angrily as Sophie leaned out of her car. "I called back but there was no answer. Don't know why you moved way out here. Lousy phone service if you ask me. Happens all the time." Then she grinned. "You were about to tell me something. What was it? I'm dying to hear about it, whatever it is. I told Billie, I said, Sophie was about to tell me something then we got cut off, I said, -""

While Brenda went on, and on, Sophie tried to remember what she had said just as she hung up the phone. What exciting bit of gossip could she invent, to tell Brenda?

"Wicker baskets," said Sophie triumphantly. "I wanted to tell you about the wonderful wicker baskets at the Farmer's Market."

"Wicker baskets? I drove all the way out here for wicker baskets?"

"Brenda, you won't believe how beautiful they are. I was going to buy you one. I still remember how much you liked the basket I bought in New Bamberg."

"What! I hate wicker baskets! And that old thing ... it was coming apart at the seams. You threw it in the yard, it was so ugly."

Sophie's eyes opened wide.

"Brenda! That's it! You're an angel. I was trying to remember where it was, where I had put it."

Sophie walked to the back yard and Brenda followed, complaints punctuating each step. Sophie stopped quickly and stared at the small tree by the fence.

"Brenda? Do you remember that tree? Have you ever seen that tree before?"

"No. You must have planted it recently. Listen Sophie, about that phone call. Is that really what you were going to say, just about stupid old wicker baskets?"

"What kind of tree is that?" asked Sophie.

Brenda stopped talking and stared at the tree, leaning forward and straightening her glasses.

"A willow tree," she muttered.

***

Sophie bought the shovel after work and put it into the trunk of her car. She started to dig out the tree as soon as she got home and had changed into her jeans. It was getting dark when she stopped. The roots seemed much too extensive for such a small tree and she had to hack away with the edge of the shovel. She looked at her watch, then dropped the shovel. She hadn't eaten and was hungry. There were still some roots in the hole, but most of the tree had been removed. Tripping over the branches lying on the ground, she grunted, kicked the small tree. It rolled to the edge of the hole. She kicked it back again, away from the hole.

"No you don't," she muttered. "Keep away from that hole. After supper I'll just make a wee fire and that'll be the end of you. I don't want a willow tree in my yard. I never asked you to grow here."

It wasn't until after supper that Sophie heard the scraping at the window. It was dark and she couldn't see anything in the yard. It probably wasn't a good idea to be out at night, even in her own backyard. There had been talk of a gang of young kids that were stealing from empty homes on the street. It seemed that many of her neighbours had moved to the city, leaving their country homes for the realtors to sell. Crazy. Noise, cars, smog... why would anyone move to the city?

The willow tree... maybe she should wait to burn it. By morning it would be dead anyway and by tomorrow evening it would burn quite nicely. It was too dark to do it tonight.

The scraping continued. She should phone the police. The phone was on the wall by the window that faced the back yard. She waited. The scraping stopped, there were no street noises, no wind, just dead silence so she walked slowly to the phone, staring intently at the dark window. She stood back from the wall and reached out gingerly to take the phone off the hook.

The window exploded, a violent eruption of shattered glass, the hairy branch leaping through, wrapping itself about her wrist, she screamed and more black and twisted coils spiralled through the window and spun about her waist, gnarled, distorted, and Sophie Brenner was dragged screaming through the broken window, triangles of glass cutting through her dress, her feet vanishing into the night.

Then the screaming stopped.

CHAPTER 16

Mr. and Mrs. Laker: June, 1983

Bryan was on the sofa, dreaming of the wedding.

He and Elizabeth had been married April 7, 1982; more than a year. It was a small wedding with some friends from the college, and Liz's parents. Bryan's parents had died years ago, but his brother Chuck had flown in from the west coast. Bryan rarely talked to his brother. They didn't get along that well and usually got into an argument within minutes of beginning any conversation. Having him out on the coast was perfectly okay with Bryan, but Liz had insisted that an invitation be sent to him and he had actually come. During the reception the two brothers shared memories about endless trips about the county with their father, collecting data for his _History_. When Bryan admitted that he was trying to finish the work, leaving a Laker legacy, he imitated his father so well that Chuck laughed and Bryan joined him, and they drank and got a little tipsy. When it was over Bryan was pleased. Maybe Chuck wasn't so bad after all.

Liz's parents had made up a guest list that went on to over a hundred names, but Bryan and Liz had insisted that they bear the cost of the wedding and reception and that had determined the size of the guest list: small.

They had spent many hours debating whether to move out of the run down apartment building, but there had been no other strange _willow occurrences_ since the death of Mrs. Perkins: the roots had been injected with a herbicide, the tenants had all moved back in and everything was going well. It was also agreed that financial considerations came first. Most of their income went into the bank so that, one day, they would have a house of their own. The rent at Willow Towers was minimal and that made the decision to stay more palatable. Besides, it was close to the college where they both taught. At Liz's insistence, however, they did buy some bedroom furniture and, in June 1983, they bought a new sofa.

That was where Bryan was now; dreaming on the new sofa.

"Bryan? Did you read this article in the _Gazette_? The one about the lady just outside of Cambridge?" Bryan opened one eye and grunted. Liz straightened the paper neatly in her lap and started to read:

" _Sophie Brenner was found strangled in her back yard. A close friend, Brenda Lowe, said that Miss Brenner often spent many hours working on the garden. The police described the body as having been severely cut and covered in welts and bruises. Neighbours have established a self-imposed curfew and have asked the police to patrol the neighbourhood._ "

"What do you think of that?" asked Liz.

Bryan was sitting straight up on the sofa.

"Bryan? Sounds like a willow murder don't you think? Now how could that be?"

Bryan slid off the sofa.

"Bryan? Where are you going? Bryan!"

"Liz ... that _was_ a willow murder. The tree - it's not dead - it's still around - somehow. Now we _must_ leave this place ... it's not safe, there _is_ a willow tree, and it's _not_ dead. Everyone died here - _we_ might die here - _Mrs. Perkins_ died here."

"Bryan, _our_ willow is dead," Liz said quietly. "This death ...," she raised the newspaper, "... it's just a coincidence. It just _sounds_ like a willow thing, but really -"

"I'm going to phone the police, talk to that police sergeant."

Bryan hadn't thought about the willow tree deaths for years, since Mrs. Perkins. Now, another. He nervously dialled and asked for Sergeant Jaffre. The sergeant sounded as concerned as Bryan and promised to drop by after work. Bryan and Liz waited, hardly speaking a word.

***

They jumped when there was a knock on the door. Bryan let Jaffre in and pointed to a chair.

"I suspect," said Jaffre, "that you two are the only ones, besides myself, who suspect the willow tree. Even the chief inspector thinks it's a gang of hoodlums. I tried to explain, but he just laughs. Says I spend too much time at _Moss Hill_ , listening to my grandfather. My grandfather used to be -"

"Yes, we know," said Liz gently. "We spoke to him a few years ago about the willow tree murders."

"Sergeant," said Bryan, "did you -"

"Please, call me Sam. I'm Sam Jaffre, just Sam."

"Okay Sam," continued Bryan. "Did you find anything that would suggest the willow tree? Roots or vines or -"

"A wicker basket," said Sam Jaffre. "Miss Brenner had bought a wicker basket and tossed it - _planted it_ \- in her yard when it started to come apart. According to her friend, Brenda Lowe, she bought that basket in New Bamberg at the old Jacobs furniture place on Water Street. Anyway, the basket took root, grew into a small willow tree." Sam paused. "I killed the tree with herbicide. That seems to have solved the problem here, at Willow Towers. I assume it will solve the problem there, too."

They were silent for some time, then Bryan spoke. "Your grandfather, he knew of the willow tree. I didn't get a chance to talk to him. He seemed - well, sort of -"

"Senile, dementia," said Sam. "Just mumbles about the willow tree. No use trying to talk to him. He's getting on in years and isn't well."

They sat silent again. Liz spoke. "We tried to talk to a Miss ... what was her name?" She looked at Bryan but he just shrugged. "Melissa, Melissa Kumar. That's it. She spoke of the willow tree - that's what the nurse said. _Willow woggles_ , an epidemic of _willow woggles_ she said."

"Yes, I remember," said Sam, frowning and trying to recall. "Mrs. Kumar used to live in the house that - I think - yes, it was the house that this apartment... her house was demolished and this apartment building was built on the site."

"I thought it was the Bourden house?" said Bryan and Liz, simultaneously.

"Yes, the Bourdens lived in the house for a while," said Sam. "They were both victims of the willow ... I guess, I think. Well, at least that's what granddad thought. But the original owner, the person who built the house in the first place, way back in the 1890's - that was Joshua Kumar. Joshua Kumar is ... _was_ Melissa's husband."

"Then she probably planted the tree," said Bryan. "Maybe she would know why it acts so - so -"

"She's dead," said Liz with a sigh.

"And with her goes the story of why the tree is so - so -" said Bryan.

Sam interrupted, "Of course, there's old man Brubacher. He may know something. He was her lover you know. I tried talking to him but he doesn't talk much. In fact he doesn't talk at all."

"Yes, we know, but it's worth trying again," said Liz. "Let's visit him tomorrow."

Sam Jaffre looked at both of them for a moment. "Why are you interested in this? _Your_ willow tree is dead now. You're safe. Why do you still -"

"Bryan is writing a history of New Bamberg, a _short_ history -" said Liz, smiling.

Bryan interrupted. "I think Sam is right. We shouldn't be concerned, our willow is dead, we should forget about it."

Liz glared at Bryan and he stopped talking.

"Tomorrow we'll go and see Mr. Brubacher," said Liz with such finality that Bryan leaned back and accepted the plan.

***

Arnie Brubacher was napping in his chair when Liz and Bryan walked into his room in the _Moss Hill Nursing Home_. Liz pulled up a chair and started to speak in low tones.

"Mr. Brubacher? We've come to visit you. Are you awake?"

Arnie opened his eyes and looked at Liz then closed them again.

Liz continued. "How's Melissa today?"

Bryan raised his eyebrows. What was Liz doing? Melissa what's-her-name had died years ago.

"She was asking for you," Liz said, almost in a whisper. "She said she couldn't come today, maybe tomorrow."

Arnie opened his eyes, frightened. He leaned forward and his hands began to shake.

"Wait ... it's okay. Melissa will be here soon," whispered Liz. "She's coming today for sure." Arnie leaned back and closed his eyes.

Bryan sat on the next bed and watched Liz. He would let her do the talking. It was obviously working. She seemed to be getting some reaction from the old man.

Liz leaned forward and whispered, "Mr. Brubacher, what ever happened to Joshua Kumar?" Arnie Brubacher began to shake uncontrollably. Liz repeated the name, "Joshua Kumar? Do you know Joshua Kumar?" Brubacher opened his mouth and tried to speak.

"Yes, Mr. Brubacher? What about Joshua Kumar?"

Then the old man closed his eyes, still shaking, and leaned back in his chair. Liz looked at his left hand, shocked. She hadn't noticed before - awful, just a few strips of withered flesh which now lay on his lap. She waited but he spoke no more. He seemed to be asleep. She repeated Joshua's name but there was no longer any response.

"Guess that's it," said Bryan. "He's gone for the rest of the day. Let's go, we can come back another time." He got up from the bed and headed for the door. Liz looked once more at Arnie Brubacher who was now quiet, eyes closed, sleeping, the fleshy strips at his wrist flapping slowly back and forth, rolling on his lap. Then she joined Bryan and they walked down the stairs past the front desk.

"Bryan? Did you see his hand, or what's left of it? And, you know what? I don't think old man Brubacher _can_ talk."

The nurse looked up briefly as they left through the glass doors. Bryan stopped, frowned then walked back into the building and stood at the desk. Then nurse didn't look up so he reached over the desk and picked up a pad of paper and wrote:

If and when Mr. Brubacher starts talking please call me at 463-5211. Bryan.

Having written the note he dropped it right on the desk in front of the nurse, turned and left again. Liz looked at him curiously.

"What did you write?"

"Just asked to be contacted if old man Brubacher ever decides to say anything." Then he scratched his chin and grunted, "Why are we doing this anyway? Sam was right. What interest do we have in this - these willow tree deaths? Our willow tree is gone. No more danger, no more deaths, no more worry. Let's forget it."

Liz frowned but didn't answer. She was thinking of the withered flesh on Brubacher's left wrist, in place of a hand. She hadn't noticed it before. Curious.

***

They met Sam Jaffre in Hammer's grocery store. Liz was squeezing the peaches when she saw him. He looked tired. "Hi Sam. How's everything?" Sam had been staring at the floor, leaning on his grocery cart.

"Huh? Oh, Liz ... hello Bryan, how are you?"

"You seemed to be deep in thought," said Bryan. "Anything wrong?"

"No ... no, just trying to remember what was in the fridge, and what wasn't. I think I need eggs ... but ..." Sam pushed his cart and wandered down the aisle absentmindedly.

Liz pushed her cart into Bryan. "Here. Look after this." She followed Sam and found him staring at the frozen meats.

"Sam? Why don't you come over for dinner tonight. Bryan and I are going to try making something Indian, spicy. We're going to make our own curry. Does that interest you?"

Sam looked up and smiled. "Thanks Liz, but I think I'll just stay home and get some rest, haven't been sleeping too well lately." He gazed at his hands, then at Liz then said, "Indian food? Say, on second thought, that sounds great ... maybe I will come if you don't mind. Actually, I wouldn't mind talking to somebody, been talking to myself most evenings." He straightened and grinned. He was a muscular man with a strong jaw and a broad nose, thinning blond hair and enormous ears which seemed to have too many folds. Liz was pleased. She had grown fond of the tall officer who, along with her and Bryan, identified the willow tree as the source of the mysterious deaths.

"Good! We'll expect you about 5. You can help with the dinner. We don't know what we're doing with this Indian dinner so if you're in on the preparation then we can blame you for any failure. Okay?"

"Sounds great. I'll be there at 5."

CHAPTER 17

the Inspector's Notebook

Sam arrived promptly at 5 but Liz and Bryan had already made the pilaff earlier, saying that it tasted better if allowed to stand and was then reheated. Sam didn't believe them. Before dinner they sat in the living room, Bryan poured the drinks and Sam sat back and finished his rye in one swallow.

"Something's bothering you," said Liz. "What is it?"

"My granddad died three days ago," said Sam, then went silent and Bryan and Liz waited for him to continue. They had read about Inspector Jaffre's death in the _Gazette_. "He was an old man, I expected it, no surprise." Sam was running his finger carefully along the seam in the chair. They waited until he continued. "I guess I'm the only relative around. The rest of the family is out west, couldn't make it to the funeral." Sam was now staring at his feet. Then he looked up and smiled when he saw the others staring at him intently. "Sorry. I'm okay. It's just that - that - well, I went through his things and found a notebook. I don't know why it bothered me."

Sam was wearing a light sweater over a plaid shirt and reached past his collar into his sweater and pulled a small black notebook from his shirt pocket. His collar went crooked and Liz leaned over and straightened it. Sam opened the notebook at random.

"Most of the stuff makes little sense. Granddad just seemed to write a word or two - guess it meant something to him. Listen to this: _Sandra Bourden-Brown:_ _dirt-slime-diagonal welts covered in small hairs._ Then there's a small diagram. Look's like the old Bourden house, a plan view. There's a cross at the front left corner. Then there are several blank pages, then: _vines-hairy roots!_ The exclamation mark is in red pencil."

Sam paused and stared at Liz who said, "He meant the willow tree didn't he? I mean, the cross was where the tree was, when the old Bourden house stood there."

"You mean the old Kumar house," corrected Bryan.

Liz looked at Bryan. He actually remembered something. Amazing.

"Yes," continued Sam, "he meant the willow tree. It's the next part that ... I still can't imagine how ... how ..." Sam stopped and put down the notebook. "Bryan? Can I have another drink? Sorry, I don't mean to be a bother but -"

Bryan jumped up and poured the rye so quickly it sloshed over onto Sam's sweater.

"Oh God ... I'm sorry, let me clean that up." Bryan pulled out a clean white hankerchief and began to rub Sam's sweater vigorously. Liz jumped up but it was too late. Bryan bumped the glass of rye which Sam was holding high in the air and the whiskey spilled onto Sam's trousers.

"Oh God ... Liz?" groaned Bryan pathetically. Liz took the hankerchief, but Sam waved her off.

"Look, this is just an old sweater and old slacks," said Sam. "I'll just toss them in the laundry - no problem, really."

"What!" cried Liz in mock surprise. "We invite you for a spectacular dinner and you come dressed in an old sweater and old slacks? Shame on you."

Sam gulped what remained of the whiskey and grinned sheepishly. Bryan reached for the bottle of rye to refill his glass but Liz intercepted.

"Have a seat Bryan, my love. It's my turn to spill the whiskey." She filled Sam's glass, carefully, he sipped a little, they all sat and Bryan and Liz watched, waiting for Sam to continue. He didn't.

"Sam?" Bryan encouraged.

Liz reached over and took the notebook that Sam had set on the end table.

Sam mumbled, "I'm not a superstitious man ..."

Liz turned the pages of the small notebook. Near the end were several pages with closely written text. She read silently.

"Liz?" Bryan encouraged.

"Listen to this," said Liz. "Looks like Inspector Jaffre is summing up - he's written several pages. Just single sentences ... no dates:

Sandra Bourden-Brown - dead in tub - dirt from drain. Roots in drain?

Harold Bourden - found beneath willow tree. Killed by tree?

Tree removed after house demolished.

Two workmen hurt - one died cutting branches with chain saw. Killed by tree?

Willow Towers - built almost directly over roots.

Roots burned on the site.

Michael Colby reported bones found when backhoe excavated.

Lab report confirms that bones were of a man \- in early twenties.

Other bones - a child - less than a year old.

There's a blank page," continued Liz, "then some more:

Wicker chairs - made from willow tree - New Year's Eve party.

Tree evil - still lives. Everything made from tree is evil.

Fran Moller - root on leg - from wicker chair?

Another blank page," said Liz. "Then:

Identify every item made from tree.

Evil - kills - must destroy everything made from tree.

That's it," said Liz. "Just some diagrams - looks like a map."

Bryan leaned over to look. "I think it shows the location of the furniture place, the one that made all those wicker chairs."

Liz continued. "Then there are a few crosses here and there ... can't tell what they mean."

"Murders," said Sam quietly. "Some crosses indicate a murder. I've looked through the records - in some cases the murderer was found but most are unsolved - bodies covered in welts, crushed. Some crosses seem to be associated with missing babies. I think that's a red herring - there's no connection. Granddad simply used the same map."

" _What_ missing babies?" asked Liz.

"There have been incidents of babies stolen from their mothers," said Sam. "It's not pleasant. It's not even relevant - not here."

"Not pleasant? What does that mean?" asked Liz, now very curious.

"But they're all over Waterloo County," said Bryan, staring over Liz' shoulder at the crosses on the small map in the notebook. "Some crosses are in pencil but some are in pen. Besides murders, what else?"

"Bryan, wait a minute. I'd like to hear about the missing babies," said Liz, looking directly at Sam Jaffre.

"Well, it seems that babies have been stolen, unborn babies, directly from - from -"

"Directly from the mother's uterus?" asked Liz, stunned.

"Well ... yes," mumbled Sam, then added quickly, "but it has nothing to do with the willow tree and the associated deaths."

"Besides murders - and babies - what else?" asked Bryan.

"Wait just one minute," said Liz. We've heard about missing babies before. Bryan, don't you remember?"

"Nope," grunted Bryan. "Can't remember."

"Hmm, might have guessed." Liz stared at Bryan. "Let me think. It was ... it was ... Jaffre! That's it! When we visited Inspector Jaffre. He spoke of babies, missing - or maybe killed, by the willow tree." She turned to Sam. "Your grandfather obviously thought the missing babies _were_ associated with the willow - that they were _killed_ by the willow."

"Yes, I think he did. Personally, I think it has nothing to do with the tree. We've identified some gang of hoodlums who meet periodically, around the county, and - for some reason - steal babies just before birth ... maybe associated with some weird religion."

"Besides murders - and babies - what else?" repeated Bryan, impatiently. "I mean, the crosses on the map."

"Wicker chairs," mumbled Liz. "I'll bet that's where the chairs went. Sam? Do you think your grandfather intended to track down every last piece of furniture made from that \- that willow tree?"

Sam looked at Liz and took a small sip of whiskey. "Yes, I think that was his plan - impossible, I think."

"Is that what worries you?" asked Bryan. "I mean, the fact that there could be hundreds of pieces of that tree, all over the county?"

"No," Sam said very slowly. "What worries me are the bones, the baby ... and the doll."

"The baby?" said Liz, " ... and bones? What doll?"

Sam cleared his throat and took another small sip of whiskey.

"When they took down the old willow tree the branches were twisted ... there were a number of tightly wound coils. Somebody, I can't remember who, somebody cut open one of these coils; like a spring made of willow. Inside was a rag doll with eyes made out of buttons." Sam paused and looked into his glass. His voice trailed off and he looked into his glass.

"What about the baby?" asked Liz.

"And the bones," said Bryan.

Bryan looked at Liz. She shrugged and looked back at Sam. He was silent for a long time then spoke in a soft voice, almost inaudible.

"My granddad never threw anything away - the bones, baby bones - he had sent them to the lab, they came back - then, somehow, they disappeared."

Bryan coughed and slid back and forth in his chair as though he were eager to say something but didn't want to change the subject too drastically.

"Sam ... Liz has a theory. Liz? Tell Sam your theory."

Liz looked uncomfortable then got up and looked in the direction of the kitchen.

"I think we should eat now," she said. "The pilaff is ready, let's eat."

She walked to the kitchen and the others followed.

***

Sam ate as though he hadn't eaten in days. Liz watched him, pleased. Whatever was bothering him had obviously been forgotten. The pilaff was excellent and they promised to try it again sometime. Bryan cleared away the table amd Sam helped with the dishes. When the kitchen was clean and the dishes and glasses put away Bryan poured another glass of heavy red wine for each, very carefully, and suggested they retire to the living room again. They settled back and Sam sniffed the wine, sipped and placed his glass on the side table.

"Liz? What's this theory of yours? I have a theory too, but I'd like to hear yours."

Liz was reluctant to talk and Bryan began:

"Liz thinks that trees might have a _soul_. The willow tree, it might have a _soul_. Maybe that's why it acts - so - so -"

Liz interrupted. "I didn't say that, not exactly. It's just that if the tree _did_ kill all those people then it _acts_ like it has a soul, like it's alive, somehow. I don't know how, but if it did ... then it would explain the killings. Even the pieces that were made from the tree - the wicker chairs for example - they might share in this - this _soul_. But I'd like to hear about the baby," she said, trying to move the subject away from her theory. "Didn't you say something about a baby, just before we ate?"

"The bones," said Sam softly, as though he hadn't been listening. "There was a child's bones among the roots of the old willow tree. It died very young. Did the doll belong to this child? What if ..."

"That's where the _soul_ came from!" cried Bryan. "Oh ... sorry. Didn't mean to shout. I just thought - what if the tree acquired a _soul_ from the child? What if -"

"And what about the furniture made from the tree?" said Liz. "How can we possibly track down all that furniture?"

They looked at Liz in silence. The room was quiet and they could hear that it had started to rain, the tinkling of raindrops against the window sounding much too loud. Sam looked at the window, then at his watch. It was getting dark.

"I must say that I've enjoyed this evening tremendously," he said. "The meal was great, the wine terrific and the company incomparable. In particular I'm glad there's somebody to talk to about this - this willow tree thing. Somehow I think it's my duty to do something about it. Granddad wanted to - I feel he's left it to me. It was always on his mind. I sort of grew up with it." He looked down at his feet. "I haven't slept in days, thinking about it."

"We're in on it too, you know," said Liz.

Bryan grunted. "Yeah, we're in on it too," he mumbled. "Guess that's because of my history, my _short_ history. Wouldn't be complete without a chapter on the willow tree killings."

Liz helped Sam with his raincoat. _He had a raincoat?_ thought Bryan. Must have known it would rain. Maybe police officers just prepared for everything. Sam stood in the hallway and watched Bryan and Liz crowded in the doorway then he leaned forward and kissed Liz lightly on the cheek.

"Hold on officer," said Bryan. "No need for that. We weren't speeding and -"

Liz poked Bryan in the side and he stopped, grinning. They watched as Sam walked slowly down the stairs then Liz ran to the window where she could see the parking lot. Sam was about to climb into his car, he looked up, saw Liz and Bryan at the window and waved, then he climbed in and drove off.

None saw the figure in the dark coat with collar pulled high.

CHAPTER 18

Cassandra: July, 1983

She stared out the window, across the field, to the hills hazy on the horizon, her hair black and straight to her waist, her face pale, chalky white with dark, almost black eye sockets. It had been too long in coming and her patience was growing thin, but soon she would be again with her sister.

Yet did Ahriman rebuke her. Why? Had she not made the sacrifices, again and again? Had she not placed the babies in His keeping? Yet, all seemed in vain.

But she would not tolerate the abuse to her sister, to Willow.

She has seen it all. She had watched the Bourdens move into her mother's house, watched in anger and frustration. She had spoken softly to Willow nearly every night, caressing, trying to hide her anger. But Willow understood; knew and understood her anger.

She had watched when the police came and took away the bodies of Mrs. Bourden-Brown, then Mr. Bourden. Then she was pleased, very pleased.

She watched, horrified, when they tore down her Willow, bombed and slashed her Willow and built the apartment. Then the walkway, covered in roses, right over Willow. She was pleased when they took away the bodies, one by one, on New Year's day. She had spent that night, cold and windy, the collar of her heavy gray coat pulled high over her ears, sitting at the side of the building, the snow swirling about her, speaking quietly to Willow. The vines had begun to climb the trellis, gnarled and twisted and she stroked them and spoke softly. And Willow understood and her anger was unleashed, and the dark shadow of Ahriman enveloped the building and all inside were abolished, all who laughed amid the misery of her sister, all who sang and mocked the soul of Willow. All were purged.

And Willow understood everything.

But no one cared for Willow. The wicker chairs were abused, discarded. Even when Willow sprouted and grew into a vigorous young tree, trying desperately to exist in a world of butchers, they would cut her down, burn her, abuse her, poison her, rape and violate her.

But most cruel, the very cruelest, the most evil thing - they removed her very lifeblood, her inner being: they had removed the bones that gave Willow vitality ... and soul.

She had recovered the bones from the Inspector's house and had placed them reverently with Willow once more. Inspector Jaffre, meddling fool. She called upon Ahriman and the Prince had spoken to the Inspector, and the old files now lay buried in the vaults beneath the station, yet it was not done, for Willow lay still in the cold ground.

She, Cassandra Brubacher, would avenge her sister.

And they came when she needed them, the Friends of Willow. They came to cry to Ahriman, to join her in the quest for souls, to place the delicate pink bodies before Him, to plead for the return of her sister.

Yet, Ahriman had denied her and she knew not why.

***

Cassandra placed her hand to the window and the great tree bent, tendrils caressing the glass, spinning to outline her hand, dancing branches gently swaying. Willow understood.

It had been difficult, but Melissa had encouraged her. _Know your sister, torn from my body, buried among the roots by the evil wind, tempest of the devil. Know that she waits beneath the willow so that one day she may join us and rejoice._

Melissa and Cassandra.

Together they had appealed to Ahriman, groveled, implored. But He had ignored them.

***

It was soon after her twenty-first birthday that Cassandra first entered into unholy alliance with the Prince of Darkness.

It was mid-January, during that first storm of 1917. The winds had howled their discontent. Snow, driven by an angry, raging tempest had roared across the fields and buried the house, tall and narrow with its arched brick and stained glass. Melissa and Cassandra had prayed, again, for the return of the buried twin. To Ahriman they prayed, kneeling before the great tree, in the driving snow, in the dark, amid the tangled branches, black and twisted.

Then the winds stopped and a glowing came from beneath the tree, a light that shone through the shadowy tendrils, and they ceased to pray and stared, afraid, and the glowing grew into luminescent shapes that rose and shimmered and fell upon them and they cried out and crawled to the house, to the great oak door and in, and the shapes followed ... and they knew that Ahriman was with them, was listening, and Melissa alone knew what must be done.

Melissa knew: they would place the first unborn Martin child before the Prince of Darkness.

They asked Arnie to drive into town, to leave them free for this most solemn rite, and when he was gone Cassandra had carefully removed her garments, and together they saw the face of Ahriman, for her body was covered in shadows and the shadows moved and Cassandra felt the power swell within her, and luminescent figures appeared once more and Cassandra felt her strength expand to encompass them.

Then, unbeckoned, the Martin girls appeared and Jake Martin and his wife and the young man, Chad, and they were in awe, and Cassandra danced, wild and passionate, embraced by Ahriman, fondled, caressed, and all gathered about her, falling to their knees to worship ... and Melissa wept with joy, thrilled.

Now, my child, your sister shall come.

And the doctor came, intruding ... and they ignored him, but he saw, and would be purged.

When Doc Manner had left, the first pregnant girl crawled without a word to the table, then moaned and Cassandra stroked her swollen belly and the dark shadow of Ahriman left Cassandra's body and covered the girl, blessing her, and she screamed - and she gave her child, bleeding with life, to the arms of the Prince. Together they carried the child to the tree, for the winds had died and the snow had cleared and the branches of the great willow rose like a fountain and a hollow appeared in the ground, and Cassandra laid the child in the hollow, before the tree, before Willow, before Ahriman, and they all began to chant.

Prince of the Night, we surrender to thy will.

Lord of Darkness, we ask in thy name.

Safeguard this child unborn.

Take this soul to your keeping.

Soul of Willow, arise and rejoice,

complete and whole,

union and life.

Join us now.

But her sister did not come.

And the second Martin girl had pleaded that she, too, may serve the Prince of Darkness for she, too, nourished a life within her. And she knelt before the great tree and was enveloped by the glow of Ahriman and the child came bleeding, and they all rejoiced.

But even this second soul did not appease the Prince; her sister did not come.

Even when Cassandra danced throughout the night, her body wracked with the pain of rejection, the agony of rebuke - still her sister did not come.

Melissa and Cassandra.

Together they gathered the Friends to support them in their supplication: doctors and nurses and police and men of influence and women who held souls within their body, that the Friends of Willow might appease the Dark Prince, Ahriman.

Yet, Cassandra failed, again and again ... and Melissa did not wait for the glorious day of reunion. Melissa was dead.

Melissa and Cassandra.

Had they made the proper alliance? Did Ahriman listen, amid the angry cries of the King of Light? Would Ahura-Mazda submit to this indignity?

Yet they had made their choice early, and Ahriman had come with his ghostly disciples and they knew it was right. Let Ahura-Mazda scream his rage; they had entered the stage of battle and stood with the Prince of the Night and it _was_ right.

And now Cassandra must go on, enduring the hurricanes of doubt, the torment of denial, the violent winds of denunciation.

Yet, one day, one day ... Willow would stand by her side.

***

Cassandra leaned against the window. Tonight she would summon yet another to the Friends of Willow, a meddler, a guardian of the law ... and it was good, for he would summon yet another.

Sam Jaffre: July, 1983

Although Sam Jaffre had little in common with his father, he had loved his grandfather, Inspector Jaffre, dearly. The old man would spend hours telling him stories of mystery and intrigue, figures that walked stealthily in the night, of evil men and unsolved crimes and frantic races with high powered cars. Sam Jaffre knew that, one day, he would be a policeman just like his grandfather.

When Inspector Jaffre suspected that the willow tree was somehow involved in the deaths associated with the Kumar property, one of the first persons in whom he confided, after the death of his wife, was the boy. Sam was not yet ten years old but listened intently, transfixed by the image of a giant tree whose roots invaded drains and pipes and pulled people into the dark recesses of the sewers. He imagined roots within the walls, listening. He had nightmares of coils, slimy and black within the faucets, hiding in the bathtub drain, waiting, waiting. The young boy was afraid to use the toilet for weeks. His father had become furious and in the evening the boy could hear them argue; his father and grandfather.

"You've got the boy all confused with your damn stories of a tree that kills."

"It's a theory, and I think it's the correct theory."

"I don't care what it is - don't feed it to my son."

"He's old enough. He understands. If you were ten I'd tell you and we could discuss it and -"

"You _did_ tell me, or have you forgotten? And I'm not ten any more and I don't have to listen to that bunk and I don't want Sammy to listen to it either."

After the arguments, grandpa still told him of his theory, when dad wasn't around.

When Sam graduated from the police academy, his grandfather had awarded him his badge, then retired from the force. The stories were told less often and Sam watched his grandfather become old, then confused, but he never stopped talking of the willow tree and Sam never forgot the terror he felt as a youth.

Now twenty-eight, Sam Jaffre sat in the study on the second floor, next to his bedroom, and stared at the small notebook on the desk. If he were to continue the investigation begun by granddad then it was fitting that he should make his notes in the very same notebook. He opened the book to the last written page:

Evil - kills - must destroy everything made from tree.

He picked up the pencil and stuck it in his mouth, chewed at the rubber for a bit then added:

Bones of a child - give the tree

He paused and thought of Liz' theory. It complemented his own theory of why the tree was evil. He continued:

Bones of a child - give the tree a soul.

Destroy the bones and the soul is destroyed.

He thought of the death of Sophie Brenner. She was killed by a small willow that grew from a discarded wicker basket - or was it a chair? That was in the next county. If the bones were destroyed ... what about the pieces of the tree? Would they continue to exist as an evil entity? Did all the various parts of the tree have to be destroyed? The chairs and baskets and roots that had sprouted from discarded parts?

He was sure of the answer.

There is but one soul - redeemed from the child - absorbed by the tree.

He turned the page and drew a rectangle at the top. Inside he wrote: BONES.

Beneath the rectangle he drew another. He wrote SOUL within the second rectangle and joined the two rectangles with an arrow. Inside a third rectangle, joined by an arrow from the second, he wrote: WILLOW. Sam leaned back and put his pencil in his mouth again, then leaned forward and drew several rectangles, all on a single line beneath the WILLOW. He wrote, in each, TREE PARTS. Then he drew arrows radiating from the WILLOW rectangle to each of the TREE PARTS. Then he drew another line of rectangles, each containing the words TREE PARTS and drew a haphazard arrangement of arrows from the first line of TREE PARTS to the second such line. He leaned back again, chewed on the pencil, then he got up and paced the room, eventually returning to the desk, staring at the notebook.

He had drawn a tree, upside down on the page; the root was the top rectangle labelled BONES and it grew into a trunk SOUL then WILLOW then into a tangle of branches at the bottom, each labelled TREE PARTS. He sat down quickly, leaned forward once again and wrote at the bottom of the page:

Remove the root and the whole tree dies.

Remove the soul and the whole tree dies.

Remove the bones and the whole

He stopped writing and looked up, into the dark corner of his study. There was a sound, a faint humming from the floor below, but only for a moment then it was quiet again and he turned again to the notebook.

The noise started again almost immediately, this time more insistent. He put down his pencil and walked to the top of the stairs. He was certain that he had turned off all the lights on the first floor, but there was a glow from the living room and the light ran zigzag up the stairway. Slowly he walked back into his study, pulled the revolver from his jacket then back to the top of the stairs. Waiting only for a second or two he began to descend the stairs. The humming grew louder and the light wavered and grew brighter.

At the bottom of the stairs he paused. It might be a break-in, but he would have heard something before the humming. It might be a loose light bulb glowing on and off, but that didn't explain the humming. He checked the gun; it was loaded.

He walked slowly to the arched doorway, paused for a moment, pushed his gun before him and jumped forward, turning his body so that he was standing wide-legged in the hall looking directly through the doorway, arms raised, revolver pointing into the room.

Cassandra spun about and raised her hands above her head and the shapes behind her flickered and rose, shimmering and luminescent and the light was blinding and Sam fell back against the wall. She walked slowly toward him, hands raised, the shapes now spiralling around her head, silhouetting her body and Sam raised his revolver with his right hand, pointing it in the direction of the lights, covering his eyes with his left arm. The room was spinning. The shapes grew larger, filling the room with dazzling light, but he couldn't pull the trigger, his hands were frozen, his legs became wax, melting beneath him and he slid against the wall, slid onto the floor, arm extended, revolver quivering. Cassandra raised her hands higher and the humming grew to a deafening pitch, wailing, shrieking. He watched helplessly as the shapes crowded him, enveloped him, swarmed over him. He dropped the gun. His arms were stiff, he couldn't move, he curled, writhing on the floor, twisting his body. Cassandra stood over him, then lowered her hands suddenly. The room became dark, black.

The last thing that Sam Jaffre saw were her eyes: blood-red, glowing, bright, piercing.

***

"Oh no ... no ... oh God, no," moaned Liz.

Bryan ran from the kitchen. Liz let the newspaper fall from her lap to the floor.

Liz cried out: "Bryan ... it's Sam. He ... he ..."

She began to cry, holding her hands over her face. Bryan stooped and picked up the _Gazette_. The article was on the front page and he stared at the picture of Sergeant Sam Jaffre, in uniform. The headlines read:

POLICE SERGEANT MISSING. FEARED DEAD.

Bryan read as he walked across the room, sliding slowly into a chair.

Last week Constable Hendricks was called to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Corning on Cress Street in Cambridge. The Cornings had complained several times that evening about noises from the next house and the police were sent to investigate. Similar complaints were also made by two other neighbours who have asked that their names be withheld. Constable Hendricks found the home of Sergeant Samuel Jaffre empty. A police revolver was found on the floor of the living room. Since then Sergeant Jaffre has been missing and the police suspect foul play.

Sergeant Jaffre had been a member of the police force for nearly seven years. His grandfather, the late K. L. Jaffre, had served as Chief Inspector for almost forty years.

"Liz ... this is terrible. We just saw him, when? Last week? We were talking about ... uh, about -"

"About the willow tree killings," said Liz quietly. "Bryan? Do you think that -"

"No, absolutely not. What evidence is there to suggest it has anything at all to do with the willow tree thing?" He looked at Liz, not really believing what he had said. She was staring at the floor. He waited.

"Bryan? When he was here last week ... I told him about the _soul_ theory, remember?"

"Yes, I remember. He seemed interested in -"

"But wait, remember? He said that he had a theory too. Remember?"

"No, I don't remember that. He was just interested in _your_ theory."

Liz ran the back of her hand across her cheek, sniffling, smearing her lipstick. "No, I'm certain. He said he had a theory too, but he wanted to hear mine - ours - first." Liz paused and looked up at Bryan. "I'm afraid we never gave him a chance to give us his theory. I just told him about the _soul_ thing, then ... what? He left shortly after, I guess."

They stared at each other for some time without speaking. "Liz? What are you saying? Do you think that has something to do with his being missing? His theory I mean. It was about the willow tree deaths ... wasn't it?"

Liz got out of her chair, trembling. "Bryan, I think we should talk to the police. There's more to this than is in the _Gazette._ I'm sure that he was on to something and that he was - he was -"

"Oh Liz. You've been watching too much late night TV. You do have a weird imagination and I -"

"Bryan! We can't just let this lie there! We've got to know - _I've_ got to know. He was a dear, dear friend and ..." She sat again and began to cry. Bryan reached over and touched her arm and she stopped crying, wiping her cheek. Bryan pulled a small white hankerchief from his shirt pocket and began wiping her eyes.

"Okay Liz. We'll go to the police, but I doubt that they'll tell us anything they didn't tell the _Gazette_." Liz leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

Bryan leaned too, and fell between the chairs.

***

They sat in the car in front of Sam Jaffre's house for almost thirty minutes, arguing about what to do.

"I told you the police wouldn't tell us anything," said Bryan. "Maybe they just don't know any more than that: he's missing, that's all ... maybe dead."

"Why would they think him dead?"

"You remember what that constable said. Sam was working on something - something to do with several mysterious deaths."

"Of course, the willow tree deaths," said Liz.

"Liz. They could be wrong ... I mean about Sam dying mysteriously. Maybe he just went on a trip. Maybe he didn't tell anybody he was going. Maybe he died on a trip, of natural causes, and didn't come back."

"Died on a trip? You don't believe that and neither do I," said Liz. "Sam was as healthy as an ox."

"And he ate like a horse," added Bryan. "Okay, let's go in - I don't know what you expect to find. But wait until it's darker. I don't want any neighbours complaining about noises and calling the police. I'm not so sure we can get in. The doors will be locked and the windows too. He was a policeman you know. I'm sure he wouldn't leave anything open."

"You can always get into a house if you really want to. Just follow me." Liz opened the car door and slid out. Bryan was about to repeat his suggestion about waiting until it was darker, but just shook his head and followed her. They walked down the road, crossed the street and walked back toward Sam Jaffre's house. Two houses away, Liz walked across a neighbour's lawn and into the back yard. Bryan shrugged and followed, crouching. Liz climbed over a fence and across a lawn and over another fence until she stood behind Jafre's house. Lights from the other houses cast long shadows across the lawn and Bryan shivered, shrugged and followed Liz as she went to a basement window and pushed. It didn't move.

"What did you expect?" whispered Bryan. "Did you think it would just -"

"Shhh." Liz walked to the back and looked around and Bryan followed.

"What are we looking for?"

"Shhh." Liz picked up one of the bricks which lined the edge of a small rose garden.

"Hey, you can't do that," said Bryan in more than a whisper. Liz broke the basement window glass and reached in. She twisted something, pushed and the window opened.

"This is breaking and entering, especially _breaking_ ," said Bryan, his voice squeaking in an effort to shout quietly. Liz disappeared through the window and he followed. He hung with head and hands on the inside and legs on the outside until Liz pulled him through, then he fell to the floor and groaned. It was dark and he began to grope for a light switch.

"No, don't turn on any lights," she said. "Then the neighbours would really get suspicious. Just follow me." He did, up the stairs to the kitchen. "I think Sam's study is on the next floor, next to his bedroom," said Liz. _Next to his bedroom? How did Liz know that?_

"Now I wish I had brought a flashlight," Bryan mumbled.

Liz pulled out a flashlight and shone it into the corners of the room and over the walls. He followed her up the second flight of stairs. The stairs creaked and he stopped, then continued, and they creaked again. Liz had entered a room at the top of the stairs and he followed. It looked like a study: a desk covered with papers, shelves filled with hard cover books, a small TV and VCR and sofa and two standing lamps, one arched over the desk.

"Bingo," whispered Liz.

"Bingo what? What do you mean _bingo_? What have you found? What is it?"

"Shhh." Liz held up a small notebook. "Inspector Jaffre's notebook," she whispered.

"What kind of _bingo_ is that? We've already seen that book. What do you think we'll find now? Why do you -"

"Shhh. I hear something. Listen."

They both stood very still. A thin stream of light came suddenly through the curtains and Bryan jumped. "Just the street lights," said Liz. "They come on pretty late around here, eh what?" Bryan couldn't understand her flippant attitude. They were breaking the law and she was -

"Shhh. Listen. Hear that?"

There was definitely a sound, like humming, coming from the first floor. Liz switched off her flashlight, slipped the notebook into her pocket, walked slowly to the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a light, from somewhere. She began to descend the stairs, stopping each time they creaked. The light wavered and she continued to the bottom, looking intently at the arched doorway to the living room. The light came from there. The stairs creaked behind her and she heard Bryan breathing heavily. The light from the room below wavered then brightened then rose and fell in brightness. She wanted to say something to Bryan, to tell him to be quiet, not to breath, not to say a thing, but she thought better of it. Surely he wouldn't speak, not at a time like this.

"What's that?" whispered Bryan hoarsely.

The light dimmed and wavered. Liz turned and put her finger to her lips. They stood for several minutes, silent, staring at the wavering light. The humming had stopped for a moment but now started again. It became louder and more shrill. Surely it would attract the neighbours. At the bottom of the stairs, Liz lowered herself to her knees and began to crawl to the living room door. Bryan sat on the bottom stair and waited, his hands folded between his knees. When he saw Liz stop and peer around the corner into the living room he started to crawl after her. He reached her feet and paused, then climbed over her back. Liz was stiff and motionless, staring into the room. He stopped, crawled forward again and peered around the corner. They both stared in amazement, speechless, lying one on top of the other on the floor, at the doorway. The light had increased and the humming was louder. The far wall of the room seemed to glow and there was a dark figure silhouetted against the glowing wall, hands held horizontally, swaying from side to side. Then they saw that the glow was moving; shapes flickering and rising and shimmering, luminescent. Bryan gasped and the dark figure spun about and raised its hands and the humming stopped suddenly and the shapes rose abruptly.

Bryan scurried back from the doorway, pulled Liz off the floor and ran stumbling toward the back door. Liz followed, running in the dark, running into the kitchen table, the humming growing louder behind her, the room becoming brighter, glowing, and Bryan struggled with the lock and the door burst open and Liz pushed him through. They fell off the edge of the porch, scrambled to their feet and ran across the back lawn, the humming seeming to follow them, and they leaped the low fence simultaneously and continued without stopping across the neighbour's lawn streaked with light from the windows, over another fence and down the alley and across the street.

The humming had stopped.

***

Their car was across from Sam Jaffre's house and there was a faint light from the living room window which flickered, then went out. They crouched behind a bush for several minutes watching the front door, expecting to see some apparition emerge and drift across the street, down the street toward them, shimmering, incandescent.

Nothing. The house was dark.

A neighbour was standing in pyjamas on his front steps looking in the direction of Jaffre's house, shaking his head. Then he turned and walked back into his house. Liz pulled Bryan from behind the bush and began to slink down the sidewalk toward their car. He followed reluctantly. They slid into the car and drove slowly down the street, afraid to look back.

When they were back at WILL T WERS they climbed the stairs, let themselves into the apartment and headed for the living room, collapsing into chairs. They hadn't spoken a word in nearly 20 minutes. It was Bryan who spoke first:

"What ... uh, what did we see?"

Liz wiped her hand across her cheek, first the left then the right. She leaned back and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. Bryan was staring at her, waiting for a response.

"Liz? What did we _see_? What do you think it was?" He waited. Liz opened her eyes and spoke in a voice so soft that he couldn't hear the words. "What? Liz? What was that?"

"The soul of the willow," she whispered. She leaned forward and stared directly at Bryan, face ashen, her hands clinging to the arms of her chair, knuckles red. "We saw the soul of the willow."

CHAPTER 19

Friends of the Willow: June, 1984

Bryan lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking. Liz was sleeping soundly. This had gone far enough and he was glad that Liz had agreed, finally, to drop the whole thing. They had returned to Sam Jaffre's place the day after their night visit - dragged the police along. Nothing. They had explained, as best they could, what they had done and seen that night and they had been charged with unlawful entry. They had explained their concern for a dear friend to the judge and the case had been dismissed.

Then Liz had insisted on inspecting the roots on _Willow Walk_ but the roots seemed to have vanished. Then they had visited the property of Miss Sophie Brenner and had been asked to leave by the present owners. They had tried to explain and had suffered verbal abuse. Indeed, they had never heard such foul language. They had spent hours in the archives looking through old newspapers, but there was nothing which shed any more light on the mysterious deaths.

They were safe at Willow Towers and they should just stay there. Stop investigating mysterious happenings. Stop thinking about unworldly, impossible events.

Yet, they had spent hours debating, creating and destroying theories. They had even begun to differ in their explanations of what had happened that night at Sam Jaffre's house. Liz had insisted that she saw the shape of a tree, tall and black, standing in the middle of the room, branches stretched toward the ceiling. Bryan had insisted that it was the shape of a man, black against the light of a glowing fire. Sam Jaffre's house didn't have a fireplace and Bryan had changed his story: it was a black shadow against the light of the moon, streaming through the window. They had often gone to bed, arguing, then not speaking to each other for days. Bryan's students sensed a difference; his lectures were stilted, monotone, boring. Class attendance dropped off. Liz had skipped several classes complaining of headaches and had been reprimanded by the department head.

So they had decided to drop the whole thing. It was not their problem. Sam may have gone on a trip and might show up at any time. It wasn't worth the effort. That was over a month ago. It took weeks for their life to return to normal. Now it was normal, or as normal as he had remembered it to be.

Bryan rolled over and kissed Liz gently on the forehead. She always slept with her mouth half-open and he could tell when she was about to awaken: her mouth would close. Now her mouth closed and he stared at her. To him she seemed more beautiful than when they had married - how long ago was that? He had forgotten. Her blond hair lay in a wild tangle over the pillow. He kissed her again.

Liz opened her eyes and turned toward Bryan.

"Mornin' darling," she moaned, stretching her arms over his neck.

"Aaah, you're choking me. Help!" She poked him and he grinned.

"I'm the evil willow ... come to strangle -" she began, then stopped.

They stared at each other, quietly.

"Liz," Bryan said slowly, "you promised. No more talk of the - the what's-its-name."

"Okay. Okay. No more ... sorry."

"I'll toss you to see who makes breakfast," she said, running her hands over his stomach. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "On second thought, you're just a little too large to toss. Maybe you can toss me."

He tried to grab her, she jumped out of bed and he fell sprawling to the floor, covered in blankets. She ran out, still in her nightgown, he picked himself off the floor, straightened the bed as well as he was able and walked into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, stroked his chin, ran his hand over his thinning hair, opened his mouth and grunted. It was Saturday. He didn't plan on doing anything except a little reading. No need to change or shave or wash, not just yet. He wandered out of the bathroom, staggered into the hall and into the living room. He could hear the coffee grinder.

"Hey! I thought we were going to toss to see who makes breakfast!"

He ran to the kitchen and tripped over an end table. The drawer slid out, papers and pencils skimming across the floor together with a small notebook. He ignored the mess.

"I say, Miss. Can I be of assistance? I see you are planning to make breakfast," he said, leaning against the door and peeking into the kitchen. "It just so happens that I have a PhD in Culinary Science. My thesis was on Breakfasts: the art of making same."

He pulled Liz away from the counter as she was pouring the coffee into the percolator and the ground coffee scattered across the floor.

"I hope you have a Master's degree in Messy Floors: the art of cleaning same," she said, leaving the room and waving her hand over her shoulder.

He groaned and looked at the ground coffee, covering half the counter and the entire floor.

"As a mathematician I first reduce this double problem to a single problem." He drew his arm across the counter and swept the coffee to the floor. "Now I solve the single problem."

He wet a dish towel and bent to scoop the coffee from the floor and bumped his head on the counter. He stepped backward abruptly, dropped the wet towel and slipped on it.

Liz returned in a print dress with ruffles at the collar, holding a small notebook in her hand. Bryan was on the floor. "Guess what I found?" she said. Bryan was only half-conscious. "Oh no - not again," she moaned, staring at his dormant body, covered in coffee grounds.

Liz sat on a chair and opened the notebook, seemingly unconcerned at Bryan's plight. "Well, let me read what it says here - Sam added something at the end." Bryan groaned. "He thought that the bones of the child, found under the tree ..."

She stopped reading then watched as Bryan rolled on to his side, still groaning.

"Oh well, we needn't go into that," she said. "We're finished with this project, right?"

Bryan groaned again and Liz slipped the notebook into a pocket and pulled him to his feet.

***

They had just finished their first cup of coffee when there was a knock on the door and Liz answered.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bryan Laker? My name is Michael Colby, the owner of this apartment building," said the tall man at the door.

"Yes, Mr. Colby. Please come in and join us for coffee," answered Liz. "We've never met, but we certainly know your name."

Bryan was looking over her shoulder at the man in the dark silk suit and red tie. Colby stooped to go through the doorway and they sat in the kitchen around the small chrome and plastic table. Liz poured a coffee but Colby ignored it, looking instead at the rooms. It had been some time since he had visited Willow Towers; it was a mess.

"Why I've come ... the building has been sold. The new owners want an empty building and would make it worth your while to ... well, seek other accommodations."

Liz sat down. Bryan stood up.

"Why? Surely they want tenants. We're really not excited about moving. The location is perfect for both of us. Liz and I both teach at the college and - "

Colby raised his hand and Bryan stopped talking. "I understand. They can't force you out, not unless they intend to demolish the building, and they ain't doing that. However I understand that the apartments won't be rented. The new owner intends to turn this place into some kind of - what? - some kind of meeting place for a club. I agreed to ask the current tenants to leave and they have all agreed. You're the last I've talked to. The new owner won't need the building for another four months and will give the tenants that much time, rent-free, to find new accommodations."

"Well, if they can't force us out then we'll stay," said Liz. "We won't mind having a club in the building. Maybe we can join this club - what's it's name?"

"Don't know," said Colby, rising from his chair and straightening his tie. "You understand that the four months rent-free may not apply to you," he said, with a hint of scorn.

He started for the door without waiting for a response. After leaving the apartment, Colby stopped at the top of the stairs, stared up the stairwell toward the upper floors, shook his head, grunted and started down the stairs. He turned, said, "Thanks for the coffee," then continued down. They watched from the living room window as he climbed into a huge black Cadillac.

"We didn't ask him who the new owner is," said Bryan. "Maybe we could talk to him, the new owner, and say we'd like to stay, we'll be good, we won't get in the way of the club, we'll go to bed early and wash behind our ears and -"

"No need," said Liz sternly. "We'll just stay, and that's that."

She walked into the kitchen, sat down and finished her second cup of coffee. Bryan followed, frowning.

***

During the next four months they watched all of the tenants leave. There weren't many and those that they spoke to were happy to get out of WILL T WERS. The apartment was deserted by Christmas, except for Bryan and Liz. On Christmas Eve, as they dipped into the cheese fondue and sipped the chilled white wine, they had second thoughts about staying on. They had determined that the new owner was not a person, but some organization. They had tried in vain to contact some spokesman for the organization and looked forward to having someone show up to clean the place. It had always been a dirty apartment with cracked plaster and worn carpets. They assumed that some work would be done before the club moved in - if that is what a club does.

They did notice that the WILL T WERS sign had been removed. Bryan had noticed it when he returned from work. Liz insisted that it was removed after dark one evening, while they slept, but no one came and no work was done on the building and there was no sign of any club.

CHAPTER 20

Christmas Eve, 1984

On Christmas Eve they sat in their night clothes, sipping a cool white wine.

"Liz?" said Bryan. He waited for her to acknowledge, but she was sitting deep on the sofa, her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips.

"I was thinking," he continued.

Liz reached out, patted him on the head without opening her eyes. "Very good, dear."

"No, I'm serious," he complained. "I think it's time we moved out of this place."

Liz opened her eyes, the smile still on her lips. "Why?"

"This is the place where a massacre took place ... New Year's Eve, remember?"

"Bryan, we've been through this before," she said, closing her eyes again, "and New Year's Eve is just a week away and you think -"

"No, that's not it, not exactly." He paused as though he needed to phrase things correctly. "Mrs. Perkins got it, remember?"

"And you think -" she began.

"Wait, hear me out." He put down his glass, carefully, and turned to stare at Liz. "Then Sam disappears ... then we see something really weird at his house, remember? Then everybody moves out of this apartment, remember?"

"Bryan," she groaned, now sitting upright, "the willow is gone from Willow Towers. Sam saw to that. The herbicide, remember?" she said, imitating his phrase.

"And now Sam is gone! Vanished!" he cried. "And now we're alone in this place!"

"Don't get excited. We already agreed to save for our own house and we have this place rent free ... well, at least nobody has asked for rent. What can be better than that? Besides, you said that Sam is probably just on a trip. I agree." Liz leaned back and closed her eyes. "You're just a wee bit afraid, that's all," she added.

Bryan was on his feet. "So were you! I _know_ you were afraid! When Sam disappeared you were in tears, remember? You said we had seen the soul of the willow, remember? Yet here we are, living in this place, the _same_ place where the massacre happened ... on New Year's Eve ..." Bryan looked at his watch as though he were counting the days to December thirty-one.

Liz looked with dismay at her husband. He was clearly upset.

"Sweetheart," she said calmly, "we'll spend New year's Eve with my mother. Okay? Then we'll talk about getting another place, okay?" Bryan sat down and grabbed his wine, splashing the contents onto the sofa. He ignored it and Liz continued. "I know, it seems stupid. We stay on where some awful things have happened, but that was in the past and many things have happened since then. The willow is gone and its roots are gone -"

"And now all the tenants have gone," Bryan moaned, "and Sam ... he's gone too."

Liz pulled him close and they sat embracing for some time.

"We'll look for another place to live, as soon as we come back from mother's," Liz said, cooing into his ear.

***

On the first day of January they returned from a quiet New Year's Eve. As soon as they reentered their apartment, Bryan collapsed on the sofa.

"It's good to be home," he sighed, then added quickly, "It's not that I dislike your mother ... uh, I actually like her very much." Liz was frowning. "I mean, she's a wonderful lady. And she likes me, I know that ... she kept feeding me those awful ... those cookies, gooey -" Liz continued to frown. "I mean, it's just that she won't leave us alone. She's right there, all the time, talking and pushing food in my direction and -"

"Of course she's there all the time," said Liz angrily. "It's h _er_ house. And of course she keeps feeding you, you're her _guest_. And of course she won't leave us alone. If we wanted to be alone we wouldn't have gone to her house in the first place." Liz pushed the suitcase into the closet, slipped out of her coat and stalked into the kitchen. Bryan jumped up to follow and knocked over the table lamp. He bent to pick it up, bumped his head on the endtable, then collapsed again onto the sofa.

"Damn!" he muttered to himself, then, loudly, "Liz! Did I tell you what a _wonderful_ time I had at your mother's?" He grinned to himself. "She's a _wonderful_ lady, gracious and considerate. Her cookies are _wonderful_ and ... and ... she's a _wonderful_ host."

Liz stuck her head through the kitchen door.

"Wonderful," she said, smiling.

Bryan jumped up and ran to the kitchen door. He stopped and looked back at the table lamp, quizzically; it still lay on the floor. Then he turned again and ran into the wall.

Liz came to his side, rubbed his head, whispered in his ear, "So you're glad to be home, are you? But we're moving out, soon, remember?"

"We are? Oh ... yeah ... moving out." Bryan staggered to a kitchen chair. "Should we move out, Liz? I mean, really leave this - this -"

"This old and decrepit building? Why not? You wanted to, just a week ago, or have you forgotten?"

"Well, maybe we were a little hasty. We've become accustomed to this place, sort of like an old shoe -"

"Very old," suggested Liz. "And don't say _we_. I never suggested leaving. _You_ did, or have you forgotten?"

"No, no, I remember. It's just that, well, maybe we should wait and see. Maybe find out about this club that's moving in. Maybe sit tight, just for a while."

"Maybe for twelve months, until next New Year's Eve," Liz muttered under her breath.

"Beg pardon?"

Liz grinned, kissed him on the head and broke two eggs into a bowl.

Bryan leaned back, looked around at the old kitchen and grinned. _Maybe sit tight, just for a while._

***

Two days into the New Year a workman came and they spoke to him. He knew only that he was to check the furnace, nothing more. No, he didn't know who owned the building. He had been paid for the inspection in advance, in cash, by someone who simply walked into his office and spoke to the girl at the desk, leaving the money with her. The man spent an hour in the basement, then left.

By February, 1985, they had almost forgotten about the club. No one had asked for rent, and they hadn't paid any. That was fine with them. This could go on forever so far as they were concerned. The parking lot was covered in snow drifts which hadn't been plowed, but they could put up with that too. They simply parked on the driveway, next to the front door. Nobody complained; nobody else lived there. The electricity hadn't been turned off, they had plenty of hot water, heating oil was delivered periodically and the furnace was operational. In the past they had rarely talked to other tenants, so little had changed in that regard.

Yet, each looked forward to having friends drop by. There needed to be some laughter, some noise, some people coming and going. Somehow, living alone in the old apartment building wasn't right, yet Bryan didn't raise the subject of leaving. Not for some time.

***

On February 9, the newspaper had an article on _Trees of Waterloo County_. Some biology professor was identifying especially large specimens and the _Gazette_ provided a map of the county with the location of each specimen. It was a fine Saturday morning, cold but sunny with bright blue skies and not a single cloud. Bryan suggested the trip and Liz immediately agreed. They could leave right after breakfast, visit eleven of the locations and be home by mid-afternoon. Liz packed a loaf of rye bread and various sausages, Bryan filled the thermos with hot coffee and they left, heading up King Street and across town.

The first tree was a huge oak set back from the road. There were several other cars parked on the road, obviously making the _Gazette Tree Tour_. Some had left their car and were walking around the tree snapping pictures and gazing up into the soaring branches. Bryan said that they could see everything from the car and suggested they just sit there but Liz got out and joined the small crowd wandering about the base of the tree. Bryan grunted, followed, stood back and watched Liz.

The man next to him leaned over and said, "Boring, eh? I don't know what my wife sees in a tree - just a big old tree to me. I see your Missus is the same." Bryan nodded, smiled and continued to wait for Liz to finish her inspection. "Did you see the blue spruce on Seymour?" said the man. "It weren't so big as this oak of course but it _was_ blue and something to look at. Now a blue spruce, you don't see too many of those around. That was a fine tree."

Bryan smiled and nodded, hoping Liz would come back soon. It was getting cold and the coffee in the thermos might start getting cold.

"Of course that willow just out of town - not too many of those either, right?" The man laughed and poked Bryan in the arm. "Funniest old willow I ever seen. Branches all twisted up, not like your ordinary willow. Twisted and curled, those branches were." Bryan looked at the man next to him. He was waving to his wife and started to head toward their car.

"Uh ... , the willow, where did you say - ?"

Liz pulled Bryan by the arm. "Okay, let's go. I think the next tree is just around the corner. We can walk."

"Are you kiddin'?" groaned Bryan. "It's freezing out here. You walk - I'll drive. Just thinking of you dear. You won't have to walk all the way back to the car; I'll be right there, waiting for you." Liz grinned and headed off around the corner and Bryan walked back to the car. The man who had stood next to him was just getting into his car and Bryan waved and shouted, "That willow - where did you say it was?" The man waved back, so did his wife, then they drove away. Bryan drove his car around the corner and waited for Liz. He pored over the _Gazette_ map. Most of the trees were labelled: oak, spruce, elm, ... no willow. Where had that guy seen a willow? He opened the thermos and took a long gulp just as the door opened.

"Hey! I brought cups," said Liz. "Use a cup, they're in the back seat."

"Liz? I was talking to a guy back there at the oak. He mentioned a willow tree but I can't find it on this map."

"A willow? We're finished with willows, remember?"

"I know, but he said this was a strange willow with branches twisted and curled - not your ordinary willow he says." Bryan held up the map in the _Gazette_. "See? No willow."

"Let's drive to Baker Street," said Liz. "There's an elm that must have escaped the Dutch Elm disease. Should be a beauty. Want me to drive?"

"No, I'll drive. Uh ... where's Baker Street?"

They spent the next two hours driving from tree to tree. Bryan was bored and sat in the car munching on rye bread and salami while Liz walked around every single tree. She didn't miss even one. Every tree was different she said, magnificent she said. Bryan found every gulp of coffee different, every bite of salami magnificent. Why had he suggested this tour?

By 2 o'clock they had visited the eleven trees and Bryan was eager to get back. The sun had disappeared, it had become overcast and he was cold. Liz's cheeks were rosy and her nose quite red. She kissed him on the forehead and agreed; they would go home and take a hot bath, together, in that undersized tub. Bryan could hardly wait and finished the last of the coffee.

When they got back there was a new sign above the front door. It said simply: WILLOW.

"Guess the TOWERS comes later," said Liz.

Bryan grunted agreement. Some day he would think about it, about all the things that had happened, about why and when and where ... but not now. Some day he would have the opportunity, the desire, the information. Some day he would return to his _short_ history, he would unravel the mysteries ... but not now. Now he would slip into a steaming tub with his beautiful wife.

March, 1985

The snows had melted early and the parking lot was almost clear and the days were sunny. Soon the school term would be over and they would have the Summer free of teaching. They had decided to celebrate with a special meal: Chinese. They hadn't made anything different since Sam Jaffre had joined them for an Indian dinner. Just the same old roasts and potatoes and salads. It was while shopping in Hammer's grocery store that Bryan saw the man again. He looked familiar, but Bryan couldn't remember where he had seen him before. He asked Liz, but she didn't recognize him either. They had gone to the parking lot and had already stuffed the bags of groceries into the trunk: bean sprouts and ginger and bok choy and hoisin sauce - then Bryan remembered.

"The willow!" he cried. "That's it! The willow!"

"The willow? What on earth are you talking about?"

"The guy who talked to us about the willow tree, remember?"

"Bryan, you have a bad case of willow woggles."

"No ... you remember? The guy we met on that _Gazette Tree Tour_. He mentioned an old willow tree - an unusual tree. Remember?"

"Nope."

"Ha! And you say I'm the one with the lousy memory. _You're_ the one with the -"

"Just kidding. Of course I remember, but what about it?"

"I saw him in Hammer's - just now."

"So?"

"Well ... I think we should talk to him, see where the tree is."

"Why? I thought we were finished with willow -"

"C'mon Liz. We'll just find out where it is, that's all. Wait! Here he comes now!" Bryan closed the trunk lid and ran to greet the man who was just sliding into his car. "Hey! Remember me?" The gentleman stared up at Bryan and squinted.

"Can't say that I do," he said cautiously.

"We met a few months ago, well, maybe two months ago, or was it February, I think. I was standing in front of a tree ... you too. I was cold and it was -"

"The _Gazette Tree Tour_ ," said Liz, leaning over Bryan's arm. "My husband says you mentioned a strange old willow tree,"

"Yes, I remember now. Our wives were wasting time - uh, sorry ma'am - our wives were looking at the trees. I remember."

"Well, can you remember where that old willow was? Where you had seen it?"

"Let me see ... yes, just out of town, on the old Dune Road. You know the road? Toward Cambridge, just -"

"Yes, yes," said Liz. "I know exactly where. Many thanks." She backed away and Bryan straightened, letting the man close his car door. He waved, then opened the window.

"But watch out," he shouted. "The old witch who lives there don't like anybody coming near her tree." Bryan nodded and waved as the man drove off then looked at Liz who was already in the car.

"Liz? Why don't we drive by ... now? We've got plenty of time." He slid into the seat next to Liz.

"I really don't understand you," she said. "First you were pleased to be done with the willow tree thing, you wanted to have nothing to do with it, it _wasn't worth the effort_ as you're so fond of saying, and now you want to -"

"C'mon Liz. It's not far."

"No. We can go after supper else the milk will freeze in the trunk and I've got to put the meat in the freezer."

They left right after supper. Bryan was impatient and they forgot about the chinese dinner and just heated up some roast and made a salad. Liz kept shaking her head all through the meal. Why on earth did Bryan want to see an old willow tree? But, as usual, she humoured him and they left without even washing the dishes. Bryan wasn't sure, himself, why he was so eager to see the willow tree. Perhaps guilt, at not having pursued the matter? Perhaps he had demonstrated his fear too bluntly. Hadn't Liz said just that? That he was afraid? _Was_ he afraid?

***

The old Dune Road wasn't paved and there were few houses and the township snow plows seemed to have forgotten the road, but the warmer weather had melted most of the snow and the driving wasn't so bad. Bryan was a little nervous. He hadn't thought about the willow tree for some time. Why did he think that this was somehow connected? Just an old willow. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of willows in the county; they seemed to grow from a discarded twig. Why was this one any different? The branches: they were twisted and curled ... _not your ordinary willow_ , that's what the man had said. Even so, why did he want to see it? It was on his mind, that's why. He had to see it to satisfy himself that it was just an old willow, nothing special, nothing evil.

When they pulled onto Dune Road, Liz slowed down. It was getting dark and if the tree were far off the road they may have difficulty seeing it. Maybe they should have gone before supper after all. They hit a bump and one of the headlights went out and the other seemed to get dimmer. Liz cursed under her breath. Bryan was peering out of the front window, leaning forward, quiet. She slowed even more, now hardly able to see the road.

"There! There it is!" he cried.

Liz slammed on the brakes and the car slid to a stop, partly on the shoulder of the road.

The house was set back about thirty yards from the road. It was old and delapidated but there, at the front left corner, stood a giant willow tree, black and sinister against the moonlit sky, its branches hovering over the roof of the house. Bryan sucked his breath in a long whistle. Liz pulled off the road and turned out the remaining headlight. The willow was identical to the picture in the _Gazette_. The old Bourden house and the giant willow tree; it looked like an identical tree. They sat and stared for some time before Liz said, "Well, there's your willow tree. Happy?" Bryan's skin began to tingle.

"Yes, I'm happy. Just wanted to see it - now we can go home ... I guess."

"Don't you want to see it up close?"

"No. We can go home now. I don't know why we came. I don't know why I wanted to see it, but I'm happy now. We can go home." He leaned back in his seat and stared blankly out the front window, his hands folded on his lap. "We can go home," he repeated.

"Bryan? Are you all right? Anything wrong?"

"No. We can go home. Liz, let's go home. I don't like this place. Let's go home."

Liz shook her head and turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over once, twice and stopped. She tried again, but there was only a click, nothing more.

"I think the battery is dead," she said with a sigh.

"Liz, try again. Please, try again." She did. There was only a click.

"Oh God," muttered Bryan. "What now?"

"Simple," said Liz cheerfully. "We go into that house and ask to use their phone and -"

"Are you crazy? Remember what that guy said. The lady is a witch."

"Bryan, he only meant that she wasn't particularly pleasant. When we tell her we've run out of gas and just want to call the service station then I'm sure she'll understand. Let's go before it gets any darker."

Liz opened the car door and slid out. Bryan continued to stare directly out the front window, then he looked sideways just a little and saw Liz walking up the driveway. He slid down into his seat, waited for a moment then opened the door and got out. Liz was on the front porch, knocking. He waited at the end of the driveway. Maybe there was nobody home. The house was dark. Maybe there would be no answer. Then a light came on, upstairs, then another light, just beyond the door. Bryan stepped forward, one step, and saw the front door open. He saw a figure silhouetted against the light. Liz was speaking, asking to use the phone. He couldn't hear what was being said. The dark figure stepped aside and Liz entered the house. Bryan looked quickly back at the car then toward the house, then started to walk up the driveway, to the porch. The door had closed, but there was a window, a small window on the door. He peered through. Liz was in the hall, but he couldn't see the figure. Liz was talking, on the phone, he could see her lips moving. She placed the phone back on the hook, bowed slightly in the direction of an adjoining room and turned to the door. A dark figure stepped out of the shadow and Bryan held his breath. Liz bowed slightly and opened the door.

"Thank you, Miss. We really appreciate being able to use your phone." Liz stepped out, running into Bryan. He stepped backward and stumbled against the porch railing. Liz turned to the house and said, "Thanks again," but the figure was gone and the hall light had been turned off. Bryan spun on his heel and started quickly down the porch stairs, stumbling. Liz watched him running to the car and smiled. _Silly fellow_ she thought. _Silly and superstituous_. She walked to the edge of the porch and looked at the willow tree. The branches fell to the ground in a twisting, gnarled series of dark coils. She reached out and a light wind came up and the branches began to wave slowly. She touched a branch. Once ... twice ... and held her breath. Behind her she heard a noise and she turned to see a dark figure standing by the door.

"I was ... uh, just ... thank you for the use of your phone."

Liz turned and walked quickly down the stairs and along the driveway toward the car. The wind died down and the willow was quiet, its long moon-shadow lying sinister across the snow covered lawn.

They waited in the car for the service truck to arrive, Liz staring at the house, Bryan low in the seat with his eyes closed. A black figure was visible on the second floor, then the light went out and the house was dark. They waited. A glow appeared in a window of the first floor, in a room next to the willow tree. It didn't seem like a light; just a shimmering glow. It grew alternately brighter and dimmer and they could see a shadowy figure, arms raised. Bryan had opened his eyes, saw the figure and began to tremble. Liz put her hand in his and they waited, staring at the figure, black against the glow. That was when they heard the noise. It sounded like a humming, growing louder. Bryan squeezed Liz's hand and they both stared in silence at the house. The humming became louder, then their car was filled with light, then a squeal, then a loud honk. Bryan jumped.

"The service truck!" gasped Liz. "It's here!" She opened the door and slid out, blinded by the headlights of the truck behind.

"Couldn't you pick a city street to run out of gas?" asked the man in the greasy overalls. Liz smiled prettily and the serviceman smiled back and pulled the gas can out of the back of his truck. Bryan had slid down into his seat. The light in the window had gone out.

"We're not out of gas. The battery is dead."

The serviceman grunted and went back to his truck, driving it next to their car, then he slid out, a length of cable in his hands. As soon as they had started the car and paid him, the serviceman left. They turned up the driveway, careful not to hit the wooden post, then backed onto the road and headed toward town. No one spoke.

The headlights momentarily illuminated the small sign nailed to the post:

_Friends of Willow_.

CHAPTER 20

Bryan and Liz: March, 1985

They were at the dinner table, quietly eating. They hadn't talked about the trip down Dune Road for almost twelve hours, but Bryan's curiosity had grown unbearable.

"Okay Liz," Bryan said, "tell me what she was like. The old witch on Dune Road who let you in to use the phone."

"She wasn't an old witch. She wasn't even old ... about thirty I'd say. I told you. She came to the door, I asked to use the phone - and I did. Then I just left. That's it. No more than that."

"But the old willow. She has one of those willows, _not your ordinary willow_."

"Lots of people have willows. Nothing strange about that. Look ... let's do as we promised each other. Let's forget about the willow tree thing."

Bryan sat back and held out his fork. "Okay Mrs. Laker. Let's forget about this willow tree thing."

The piece of meat fell from his fork and he tried to catch it in the air, swinging his fork down and up. It caught on the tablecloth, the cloth slipped and his plate slid off the table and landed upside down on the floor. Liz jumped up, her mouth open, she stood for a moment, then she sat down.

"Bryan! You're impossible! Look at what you've done!"

He looked sadly at the mess on the floor and laid his fork carefully in his salad bowl.

"Stop! Don't even try to clean it up!"

It was too late. Bryan had stooped to clean the spilled food, hit his head on the edge of the table and fell sideways. He reached out to grab something and caught the tablecloth. It slid off the table bringing with it a platter of roast pork, two bowls of salad, two glasses of sweet white wine and assorted plastic containers filled with hot vegetables. Liz had rescued her plate just in time and held it suspended in the air above the table. She stared down at her husband in disbelief, shaking her head. Then she looked at the plate in her hand, smiled and tossed it on the floor. Bryan grinned sheepishly.

"Could I interest you in a Pizza from Marco's?" he said. Liz began to grin, then to laugh, then slipped onto the floor to join him.

"Pizza? Sounds wonderful," she said, kissing him gently on the cheek.

Liz cleaned the mess and Bryan watched from a safe distance. They left and drove to Marco's and ordered a large pizza with the works, and a Coke, and laughed all through the meal. When they returned they parked as usual right by the entrance to the apartment building.

Then they saw the light in their window.

" _You_ were the last to leave. Did you leave the lights on?" said Liz.

"I don't remember," said Bryan.

"Might have known ... what a memory. "

"Nothing wrong with my memory. It's quite excellent - just doesn't last very long."

The lights went out as they watched.

"Did you see that?" said Liz in a whisper. Bryan nodded. Together they walked slowly to the door of the building. Liz opened it and they looked inside. It was dark, which was to be expected; the hall lights hadn't worked for months. They slipped inside and waited, listening. There wasn't a sound. "Okay, let's go up. Follow me." Bryan followed. He paused only momentarily at the door to Mrs. Perkin's deserted apartment, then continued. They reached the fifth floor without seeing anyone, but the door to their apartment was slightly ajar. Bryan pulled Liz back and stepped in front of her.

"I'll go first," he whispered bravely. Liz moaned but let him lead the way into the apartment. It was dark and Bryan reached for the light. Liz grabbed his hand and held it for a moment and they waited in the dark, listening. There was no sound. Liz let his hand go and he switched on the lights and breathed a sigh of relief. The room was empty. Together they walked to the living room and sat down. "Must have been a bad light bulb," he said tentatively. "They sometimes flicker when they're about to die."

"You don't believe that and neither do I. Somebody was in here just now." They looked about cautiously. Everything seemed as they had left it. Liz got up and went to the bedroom then the bathroom. She was gone for only a minute, then she returned to her chair. "We've had a visitor," she said and tossed the paper onto Bryan's lap. He picked it up, read it then stood up.

"My God! What's this mean?"

The writing was in oversized, red letters. It said:

YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE

LEAVE THE BUILDING BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE

Liz just stared straight ahead. Bryan waited for her to speak. She would know what to do.

"Bryan. I think we'd better get out of this apartment." She looked up at him. "We shouldn't complain. We've had \- how many months, rent-free?"

***

It was early in April when they found new accommodations. The apartment was slightly larger and more modern and clean and the building was fully rented. It was farther from the college and more expensive, but that didn't matter. They needed to move, and the sooner the better. Unfortunately the apartment would not be available until the end of the month so they waited patiently, never leaving each other alone. They thought of renting a motel room but, after arguing about the expense and the fact that their savings for a house of their own would suffer, they decided against it. They thought of moving in with Liz's mother, but she was less than enthusiastic. They even spent one very uncomfortable night sleeping in Bryan's office at the college. When all the staff had left they tried to move into the faculty lounge, but it was inhabited by sleeping graduate students.

Between them there was little conversation above a whisper. And they couldn't sleep. Bryan started to take sleeping pills. Liz reprimanded him, then joined him. Then Bryan hid the pills.

Liz must _not_ take any drugs - not of any kind. She must eat wholesome foods. She must drink milk and green vegetables and sleep often.

Elizabeth Anne Laker was, after all, pregnant.

***

It was still early in April when Bryan first noticed a change in Liz. At first he chalked it up to her pregnancy. How did a pregnant woman behave? Would she become distant, morose, moody? Would she become enigmatic, deeply engrossed in something he wasn't a part of? Would she speak to him curtly, in short sentences, as though she had little time for conversation? Liz was all of these. Then she seemed normal again, the old Liz ... and he loved her dearly, his old Liz. But the strangeness would come again, and go again.

It was Sunday, April 13 and they had both slept in. Bryan was awake first and made the coffee. He was scrambling the eggs, carefully, when Liz walked in. She said nothing, but sat quietly at the small kitchen table.

"Liz? Is something wrong?" She didn't answer. "Liz? You've been acting strangely lately and I'm worried. I think we should see your doctor. Maybe -"

"No ... nothing wrong," she muttered, staring blankly. "Nothing wrong."

Bryan place a pan on the stove, poured the eggs into the pan then sat at the table. "Something is bothering you. I can tell," he said.

Liz got up, stood at the stove for a moment, turned on the heat, then left the room. Bryan got up, stared into the pan of eggs, shook his head then followed her. She had gone back to bed, so he ate the eggs alone, wondering, worrying. Something _was_ wrong.

Then, on April 20th, Bryan awoke to find Liz missing. He was frantic. The car was still in the parking lot covered in a light snow. He phoned her office at the college but there was no answer. Then he noticed that her coat and boots were still in the closet and concluded that she was still in the building. He started at the first floor and worked his way back up to the fifth, but could find no trace of his wife. Reluctantly he began to climb the stairs to the sixth floor. The hallway was dimly lit from the dirty window at the end. He thought of looking into each room then began to count the rooms and the number of floors above him and tried to do the arithmetic in his head, then decided just to knock on each door.

He walked to the closest door and knocked quietly as though he didn't want to disturb anyone. That was stupid so he banged on the door and jumped back and waited and listened. Silence. He tried the door but it was locked and he breathed a sigh of relief. He walked to the next door. It was locked. He found only one door unlocked and he knocked hard and waited and listened but there was no sound. Liz was not on the sixth floor.

Why would she be on any of the deserted floors above? No reason. They had already investigated the upper floors - sort of. That was enough, so he walked back down to his apartment.

He sat in the kitchen, thinking; she must have left while he was asleep. She didn't take her coat so she was still in the building. She wasn't on any of the floors, unless perhaps she was in an apartment on one of the first four floors, but they were all closed, locked, and she certainly didn't have a key.

The basement. She must be in the basement.

He ran down the stairs and pulled open the door from the first floor hallway to the basement. He had never been down there and it was dark. He felt his way down the basement stairs, running his hand along the walls searching for a light switch. When he reached the bottom step he peered into the blackness, calling softly. "Liz? Are you down here?" No answer. If there was a light switch it must surely be at the top of the stairs. He backed up the stairs, carefully, and felt the wall beside the door. A switch. He flipped the switch and a dim light came on below, so he started slowly down again, pausing at each step to look into the gloomy corners. There were several rooms so he started with the nearest. It was dark and he felt the wall beside the door and found the light switch.

It was a large room with storage bins in the far corner and he could hear the hum of the furnace. Strewn across the floor were strips of paper and strands of wood; they looked like the remains of wicker chairs. Then he remembered the story of the New Year's Eve party and the deaths of all the tenants. He began to shiver and couldn't stop. This was the room where it all happened: the death of all but one of the tenants of Willow Towers, their bodies twisted and crushed, covered in welts and bruises. He could imagine the cries of anguish, the frantic rush to escape, the chairs leaping to intercept, the screams ... he felt like screaming.

Then he heard a noise in another room and stepped backward so suddenly that he fell against the wall and accidently closed the light. Holding his breath he groped in the dark and made his way out of the room, across an open area of the basement, toward the far wall where a light shone from beneath another door. He took a deep breath, considered abandoning the search, then slowly opened the door and peered inside. A light bulb glowed at the end of thin twisted wires hanging from the ceiling. The room was filled with boxes but nothing else, and there was no one there. He was about to back out when he noticed that one of the boxes had been torn open. After looking around and taking another deep breath he walked to the box, pulled off the yellow cord and peeled back the cardboard top.

A black coil spun out, quivered and hung limp over the side of the box. He jumped back, sucked in his breath then saw that the box contained a basket, made of black and hairy strips of wood. There was printing on the side of the box: _Jacobs Furniture New Bamberg_. Bryan stepped back, reaching behind him to find the door. Another noise. It came from deeper in the room. One of the boxes was moving - several boxes were moving. He turned and ran to the stairs, taking them two-at-a-time, stumbled at the top of the stairs then continued to the fifth floor.

***

Liz was sipping coffee in the kitchen, still in her nightgown.

"Jesus! What ... where have you been?" he stuttered, breathing erratically.

She looked up, half asleep. "Bryan? That you?"

He sat down, leaned heavily on the table and stared at her, his mouth open, panting.

"My God! I've looked all over. Where _were_ you?"

"Just out of bed," she said, wiping her eyes. "Where were _you?_ "

Bryan put his face in his hands and moaned.

"Liz ... I was frantic. When I woke up you were gone. I searched all the floors - the basement." He looked up. She was still sipping coffee, calm, unconcerned. "Where _were_ you? You know you must take care of yourself. I almost went crazy. The baby - you must -"

"Told you ... just woke up ... found you gone ... made coffee. Here." She handed him a cup. "Excuse me if I don't get up. I'm still half asleep." Liz yawned.

"You weren't in bed when I got up - I'm sure of that," he said. "You weren't in this apartment, anywhere - I looked."

"Oh Bryan. I heard you shuffling. I was in the bathroom. Did you look there? Course not. Relax ... have a coffee ... calm your nerves ... silly man. Don't worry about the baby. People have babies all the time. Did you know that?"

It wasn't until later that morning that Bryan remembered about the boxes in the basement - the moving boxes. He was sure they had moved. He had been so shocked to find her back in the apartment that he had completely forgotten about the boxes. He was very forgetful after all, but had he really left the apartment without looking in the bathroom? Even if he did why wasn't she concerned to find him missing when she went back to bed? After all, _he_ had been frantic. Yet she was so relaxed. Why was _he_ so frightened?

The boxes, they moved, they were filled with wicker stuff from the old Jacobs furniture place. She would surely be concerned about that.

"Liz? When I was in the basement I saw a room full of boxes."

Liz looked up from her cereal. She was dressed now and had combed her hair back from her forehead, tied it with a ribbon and it looked quite nice that way; different but nice. She would be leaving for the college soon. Her students were writing their final exams this morning and she would have to sit for three hours wandering the exam room, peering over their shoulders, boring. She had complained about that aspect of her job and now appeared just as bored, sipping her coffee and chewing on the cereal. Unconcerned.

"Yes Bryan ... boxes in the basement?"

"Oh, yes ... cardboard boxes. Uh ... they were filled with baskets, made in New Bamberg - they were all black, the wicker I mean - and hairy."

Liz finished her cereal and ran the tap water over the bowl.

"Liz? Are you listening? Those boxes were filled with wicker baskets; I guess they were wicker. Anyway, they were made in that place, what was it called? That furniture place that made all the wicker stuff?"

"Don't know," she said, wiping the bowl and placing it in a cupboard. "Now, if you'll excuse me I ... have to go to work today. Not like some people." She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. He followed her into the hall where she pulled on her coat and opened the door. "Bryan? Take out the garbage? Today's garbage day, remember?"

The door closed and he stood there, staring at the door. He shook his head and walked to the window as he usually did to watch her get into the car. This was a standard ritual: he would wave and she would wave back, then drive away, flashing the headlights. If he left first, he would do the same. Their teaching schedule and their proximity to the college made it easy to survive on one car. Insurance and maintenance was so expensive that they could save enough for holidays just by keeping only one car. Besides, he preferred to work at home. It was quieter, no students banging on his door, no faculty dropping by to chew the fat. He usually spent at least five hours each day working at the small desk in the corner of the living room. It was a small room but he and Liz each had a desk in the same corner. Hers was neat, his was a mess. He kept explaining that mathematical research didn't lend itself to a clean desk. He needed to scribble constantly on pieces of paper and each scrap was important. His desk probably contained many deep and important mathematical results - buried in those scraps of paper. When the time came he would sift through what she called _junk_ and write another mathematical paper, based entirely upon those scraps.

Where was Liz? She should have left the building by now. He started to turn away from the window when he saw her getting into the car. He waved but she closed the door and drove away. She didn't even flash the headlights. That was very strange; it was an important ritual and she had neglected it. Strange.

***

By late afternoon Liz hadn't come home and Bryan began to pace the room. He had to get to the college before the library closed; during exams it closed early. He walked to the window and looked out. The parking lot was empty and the spot by the front door where they parked their car still had the rectangle of black asphalt where the car had stood during the light overnight snowfall. Where was she? The college was only - how many blocks away? Maybe less than twenty. He could walk; he _would_ walk. Bryan pulled on his coat, stepped into the hall and locked the door behind him.

When he reached the first floor he paused and looked at the door to the basement. It was slightly open, as he had left it. Maybe he should carry one of those boxes up to his apartment, to show Liz when she came home. She would see immediately that these were the baskets made from the old willow tree. Someone had bought a huge supply of them. Why?

He pulled the door open and peered down into the darkness. Maybe he should wait until Liz could join him. They could investigate together. Was he afraid? Of course not - it was just that it was easier to have Liz walk to the basement than to carry a box up five flights of stairs. Six flights, if you count the basement stairs. He closed the door and started toward the front exit. Stupid. They were small boxes. They were small baskets. Five, even six flights of stairs was nothing. He could do it two-stairs-at-a-time, even carrying a box.

Besides, Liz was pregnant and shouldn't climb stairs unnecessarily.

He walked back to the basement stairs and pushed the switch just inside the door. The light came on, but it seemed even dimmer down there than before. He walked down the stairs, slowly. The room in the far corner, the room which had the boxes, the light wasn't on any more. Had he turned it off this morning? Couldn't be ... he didn't even know where the switch was located for that room. He walked to the room and reached inside the door, feeling the wall for a switch.

Something wrapped itself about his wrist and he drew in his breath and pulled his hand up and suddenly the light came on. His hand was tangled in a piece of yellow cord which hung from the ceiling, down the wall, by the light switch. The floor was covered in yellow cords, the same cords that had tied the boxes, but the boxes were gone.

Bryan stood for several minutes, staring at the empty room. Had he dreamed all this? Of course not. Somebody had removed the boxes. Who? The building was empty, except for him and Liz. Was that club moving in? Were members of the club storing boxes filled with wicker baskets? What kind of club was it anyway?

***

It took less than thirty minutes to get to the college and he felt invigorated. The air was nippy, his nose was cold and his ears were red but he felt good. He really should walk more often. When he reached Stanton Hall he stepped over the cigarette butts, walked through the door and punched the elevator button. When the door opened J. D. Kalbisch stepped out looking very cheerful.

"Morning, Jim," Bryan said.

The head of the mathematics department looked at his watch and smiled. "Afternoon, Bryan," he said, then headed for the exit, pulling a box of cigarettes from his pocket. The no-smoking policy recently in effect sent many of the faculty to that exit. If you wanted to talk to the department head that was a good place to go, even if you didn't smoke.

Bryan went directly to the fourth floor where the library was located, signed out the book then headed up to his office. He phoned Liz at the apartment, but again there was no answer. He phoned the secretary of the English Department. Had she seen Liz today? No. Her mail hadn't been touched either. Bryan turned on the microcomputer and absentmindedly ran his finger across the screen. It was dusty. He turned it off again, staring at the bright dot slowly fading.

Where was Liz? He left his office and headed home. It wasn't until he turned onto King Street that he remembered that he had forgotten the library book; it was still in his office. It could wait. Finding Liz was more important. Besides, he couldn't concentrate on things mathematical, not now.

When he walked up the driveway he noticed the sign above the entrance. It still said simply WILLOW. He and Liz had joked about it; not WILLOW TOWERS, just WILLOW. The new owners were still thinking about the second word. Why would they call it TOWERS anyway? The ten story building certainly couldn't be described as TOWERS. Certainly not in the plural anyway. Michael Colby sure had some imagination and maybe some ego. Bryan opened the front door and stepped in. As usual the lock wasn't working and he didn't need a key to the front door. He looked back; Liz's car still wasn't there. He walked slowly up the stairs, pausing at the door to Mrs. Perkins apartment, shuddered, then continued. When he reached his apartment it was quiet. He missed Porgy. The little dog had always greeted him, even before he opened the door. When he died, shortly after Liz moved in, Bryan was heartbroken. Now he was alone. The apartment seemed so quiet. He felt sorry for the bachelors in the faculty. All alone, every night.

Where was Liz?

He jumped as the phone rang. Liz! Finally! She was probably stuck somewhere, out of gas. Maybe she went shopping in Baden City. But she had an exam today, didn't she?

"Hello? Mr. Bryan Brubacher?" came the soft voice on the phone.

"Brubacher? No, I'm afraid you have the wrong ... wait. Brubacher did you say? This is Bryan Laker. Did you ask for Bryan Brubacher?"

"Oh, sorry Mr. Laker. I just thought - well, you left a note with us - about Mr. Brubacher. Oh, sorry - I guess I should say this is the Moss Hill Nursing Home. You left a note asking to be called if Mr. Brubacher started to talk. You signed it _Bryan_ . I just assumed - well -"

"You mean Mr. Brubacher is talking?"

"Yes sir. He's talking a blue streak. Can't keep the old ... uh, the gentleman quiet. Just talks a blue streak and -"

"What's he saying? Does it make any sense?"

"Well, we've had this problem before ... I mean, talking about a willow tree. He has a bad case of ... uh, well, he keeps talking about his willow tree."

"You mean he has the _willow woggles_?"

"Why yes, Mr. Brubacher - how did you know?" The nurse giggled once. "Anyway, I found your note in his file. You asked to be called, so there you are," she said curtly. "Visiting hours are from 9 to 3 every day except Sunday. On Sunday the hours are -"

Bryan put the phone back on the hook. Liz should be here now. Old man Brubacher was talking. That was just great ... or was it? Why did he care? They were moving out of this crazy building in a couple of weeks. The willow thing was over and done with. The roots under _Willow Walk_ , the death of Mrs. Perkins, the diary on the tenth floor, the willow tree on Dune Road, the disappearance of Sam Jaffre, the strange apparition at Sam's house that night, the boxes in the basement, the noises in the night, the mysterious note asking them, _warning_ them to leave.

It was all over and done with. Soon they would move out and forget.

Where was Liz?

CHAPTER 21

Willow Circle

It was late; past 11 o'clock in the evening. Liz still hadn't come home. He called the police at 9:30 and they said they would keep a lookout for her car. He had the feeling that they weren't concerned. How many calls did they get about missing wives? Bryan chewed on the piece of summer sausage and stared at the kitchen floor. Sam was missing, now Liz was missing. They should have moved out of Willow Towers sooner - much sooner. It was his fault. He should have insisted. What should he do now? What _could_ he do now?

His life had changed drastically since meeting Liz - for the better. He could still recall his days in High School, with few friends, hearing about the parties the day after, but never being invited. He must be a boring individual. Why did Liz marry him? Did she see something in him that others didn't? Now his life revolved about his wife. He couldn't imagine doing anything, going anywhere, making any decision without her. Just deciding on the colour of the carpet or what to pack for a picnic lunch was exciting. They did everything together.

Yet she had been gone for hours and had not told him where she was going. That wasn't like Liz.

He finished the last slice of Noah's sausage. It was really great sausage, smoky, tasty, made nearby in the Mennonite community of Hawksville. He and Liz drove there several times each year to buy it right from Noah himself. Noah was now, what? Over eighty perhaps. Great sausage.

After putting the plate in the sink along with the breakfast dishes - he had skipped lunch - he left the apartment and walked slowly down the stairs. Who could he talk to? What should he do? Liz always knew what to do. Where was she?

He walked out into the dark night, down the driveway, turned the corner onto King Street, then stopped. He was freezing. He hadn't taken a coat and it was cold. He rubbed his hands, turned back to the apartment building then saw the lights in the window; a first floor window, at the front left of the building.

Bryan walked to the window. It was just above his line of sight so he looked around for something to stand on and saw several concrete blocks by the side of the building. He pulled them beneath the window, piled them one on top of the other and rubbed his hands, now red from the cold.

Why was he looking in through somebody's window? Whose window? There was no one living in the building except he and Liz.

Then he heard a humming from inside the building and saw the lights shimmer.

Had someone moved in? Was he just being nosy? What if he were looking into a bathroom window and somebody was in the tub. He paused, rubbed his hands and looked around. No. This must be the living room window, just like his apartment. Besides, if someone had moved in surely he would have noticed it, noticed the moving truck, the commotion.

The humming got louder and the glow from the window created crazy shadows on the trellis of what remained of _Willow Walk_.

He stepped onto the blocks and eased himself to the window, holding steady with his hands against the cold wall. He could barely see over the sill. There were dark shapes against the glowing light and they were moving, slowly. He put his chest against the wall and cupped his hands over his eyes, leaning forward, squinting into the window. There were several dark shapes, all standing, all swaying, people swaying and humming. Somebody was on a table, standing and moving back and forth. It was a woman and she was – naked, except... except she was covered in black streaks, her slim body painted in spirals of black starting at her feet and spinning in an uncertain line around her legs, her hips, her waist, spiralling about her breasts and neck. Her hair fell in a wild tangle about her shoulders and her face - her eyes, they were blood-red, flaming, piercing. The others, they were standing in a circle about the table, their hands raised, humming, their bodies swaying.

***

Cassandra moaned as Ahriman mounted her, rising in a dark shadow that encircled her naked body, rising as a tree with serpentine branch, to probe, to devour, to protect. She raised her arms and The Friends of Willow began the dance, swaying and humming, a nurse, a man of the cloth, a giver of life, a guardian of the law, a teacher of truth, a builder, a woman of council, they sang in low voice.

Ahriman, Prince of Darkness, hear this prayer.

Take from us these souls defiled.

Return to us our sister, Willow.

Renewal and life - soul of Willow.

Prince of the Night, we ask in thy name.

Then the dancing stopped ... and they looked to the dark figure at the window.

***

Bryan held his breath, clinging to the sill of the window. There were at least eight shadowy figures. One was closest - a man. The circle of bodies began to rotate about the woman on the table. He could barely make out their faces. Then they stopped, abruptly, and the man looked directly at the window.

My God! It's Sam Jaffre!

Bryan fell backward off the blocks and hit the ground, hard. He rolled over and moaned softly. Sam Jaffre? Was it possible? The blocks had tumbled in disarray and he stood up, uncertainly, stared at the blocks then at the window. The light was gone now and the window was dark. He looked to the front of the building, backing slowly away from the wall. Maybe he should go, leave. But was that Sam Jaffre?

He placed the blocks beneath the window again, carefully, slowly, silently. His hands were trembling as he pulled himself against the wall, lifting his hands to hold the sill then pulling himself vertical, his face rising above the sill, looking into the dark window.

Many faces stared at him, right through the window, and one came forward, a face with eyes that glowed, staring directly into his face.

He fell back, scrambled to his feet and began to run. First toward the apartment, then he turned and headed down the driveway.

That face! It was Liz!

***

He didn't stop running until he reached the college campus. He collapsed, exhausted, just inside the door to the math building. He sat there, on the floor, holding his head in his hands.

"Professor Laker? Is there anything wrong? Are you ill?"

Bryan looked up, his face white, eyes dancing wildly. The student backed away.

"Wrong? No ... I'm okay. I'm okay."

He got to his feet and wandered to the elevator. He needed to think. He would go to his office - and think. Was that really Liz? Was that really Sam Jaffre? What were they doing? Who was the woman on the table - the woman with the eyes, fiery and red?

He sat in his office for an hour, thinking. The phone rang so loudly that he jumped to his feet, ready to run.

"Bryan? Is that you? Where have you been? I've been worried sick. It's past midnight. What are you doing in the office?"

Liz sounded strange. Was it Liz on the phone? Was that Liz at the window?

"Bryan? What's wrong? Don't tell me you're there pasting together all those scraps of mathematical ingenuity. I'll be there in less than ten minutes. Wait for me at Stanton Hall. Bryan? Are you okay?"

He managed to squeak a response.

"Liz, where were you today? I mean, all day, you were gone all day."

"I had the most wonderful day! I'll tell you all about it when I pick you up. You won't believe what happened to me today. Ten minutes. Okay?"

Then she hung up. He stared at the phone in his hand. That _sounded_ like Liz. What had he seen in the window? The phone began to buzz insistently in his hand and he placed it on the cradle.

He must have been sitting there for some time because the door to his office swung open and Liz walked in, briskly, smiling, her face pink and radiant, her honey-coloured hair falling in random curl to her shoulders.

"You silly man," she cried, putting her arms about his neck and kissing him hard on the lips. "You silly, silly man. I've been going crazy looking for you."

He rose to his feet, stumbled forward and Liz held him up.

"Whoa! Bryan, where are you going? You look drunk. Come on, let's go home."

She pulled him by the hand and he followed, to the elevator, down to the ground floor, out the door, to the car waiting by the road. She opened the door, pushed him in and slammed the door. He stared straight ahead, out the front window, into the darkness. Liz slid in beside him and kissed him again on the cheek.

When they were off campus she turned and gave him a big wide smile, but he didn't see; he was staring ahead, dazed.

"You'll never guess who I saw today." Her voice was jubilant. "Guess!"

Bryan leaned back in the seat and turned his head slowly. Liz was cheerful, smiling, her face was beaming, her eyes - her eyes were bright, shining. Fiery? Piercing?

A hand grabbed Bryan by the shoulder, from behind, and he jumped and grabbed the dashboard and his heart must have stopped for a moment.

"Well ol' buddy - how've you been?" came the voice from the back seat.

It was Sam Jaffre. Sam Jaffre? Was that Sam Jaffre he'd seen through the window? Had he been dreaming all this? Nothing seemed real.

"Sam ... Sam Jaffre ... uh, where have you ... uh, where've you been?" he managed to stutter.

"A long story. Liz invited me to your place ... hope you don't mind .. tell you all about my travels ... you won't believe where I've been. Can hardly believe it myself."

He laughed loudly and Liz joined him, laughing and rocking back and forth in the car, hardly able to contain herself.

They were both laughing.

Bryan wasn't laughing.

***

"Darling, you were dreaming," said Liz. She ran her hand through his hair, kissing him softly on the forehead. "You know ... your dreams ... they seem more frequent. Maybe you should see a doctor. Tomorrow. An appointment with Dr. Berring. He'll give you something."

He looked at Liz, then at Sam. How could it _not_ be a dream? They were here now, both of them, perfectly normal, sitting in the living room. He stared at his hands clasped tightly on his lap, knuckles white. After Liz had described her exciting day he had thought long and hard about whether to say anything about the faces in the window. Finally he decided to say only that he saw some strange ritual being performed on the first floor. He would not say a thing about seeing Liz, or Sam. He may have been mistaken. It was dark, after all.

"No. I'm sure it wasn't a dream," he said. "It was a strange ritual."

"Strange ritual?" asked Sam, looking at Liz.

" _How_ strange?" asked Liz, looking at Bryan.

"There were several people, standing around, singing - and somebody dancing, on a table." Bryan began to perspire and couldn't look at either of them directly. "The person on the table, she was naked, I think." He looked up, at Liz.

"Really?" she said, looking at Sam. Then, smiling at Bryan she added, "How nice for you, dear."

"And she had black streaks, moving across her body."

"Her _naked_ body?" asked Sam, grinning.

"Yeah, and ... uh, well, it's not important," said Bryan, looking at the floor. "I may have been mistaken. It was dark."

"Yes, mistaken," whispered Liz.

"I think so," said Sam.

"And you were in Baden City, you say," Bryan said quickly, looking up at Liz. "You spent the day there, shopping for furniture, for our new apartment. And you met Sam there. And you had lunch together. And you came home - when was it?"

"About 4:30. Sam joined me. I invited him for dinner. I knew you'd be pleased to see him again." She turned to Sam. "You don't know how worried we were, Bryan and I. You were gone for so long." She smiled and Sam smiled back, then he leaned over and patted Bryan on the shoulder.

"Bryan. You're a lucky fellow. Liz was just beside herself this afternoon, worried about you. Me? Nobody worries about me." Sam smiled and looked at Liz and she smiled back.

Bryan pointed to Liz.

"Your exam! It was today. What about your -"

"Oh Bryan. You know that Andrew owed me a favour. He sat in on the exam for me. Remember? I proctored his exam. Last term. Of course you don't remember that." She turned to Sam and smiled. "Bryan can hardly remember his own name let alone -"

"No! No! No!" cried Bryan. "I checked with the English Department. You hadn't picked up your mail. If you had talked to Andy why didn't you pick up your mail?"

Liz looked at Sam, surprised at Bryan's outburst. "Darling, I was nowhere near the college today. I made those arrangements with Andrew more than a week ago."

Bryan hung his head. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm just tired I guess. All this - this - willow stuff, the note warning us out of the apartment. Your leaving this morning and not coming back until - "

He looked up at Liz, his eyes wide. He remembered something.

"You _told_ me you were on your way to the college! You _told_ me that, this morning! You said you had to leave - for the exam today!"

"Yes darling," said Liz sweetly. "I didn't want to tell you about my shopping spree in Baden City. It was supposed to be a surprise."

She rose from the chair and walked toward the bedroom. "Want to see my surprise? Want to see what I got for you?" She disappeared into the bedroom.

Bryan looked at Sam. Sam shook his head, smiling, shrugged his shoulders.

Liz returned dragging a swivel chair made of black leather.

"See, darling? Just for you - not exactly a surprise, not now, but it's yours. I hid it in the back closet. It's for your desk in our new apartment. Do you like it?" She kissed him on the top of his head. "Now I can hardly wait to see what you buy for me, for our new apartment." Liz sat down and smiled at Sam who smiled back.

Bryan fell back into his chair and picked up the glass of white wine, swirling the liquid slowly. He looked at Sam, squinting, still slowly swirling the wine, the glass held precariously in the air. There was something wrong. It couldn't be that simple. He was _not_ dreaming, not this time.

"Okay Sam. What about you? Where have you been for the last two years?"

"You won't believe this," said Sam. Bryan grunted agreement. "Been out of the country ... saved a little money ... seven years on the force you know. Visited Mom on the west coast. Sister in Bermuda. Guess what? Italy. Six months. Living in a suburb of Bari. Heel of Italy. Great! A dozen kinds of pasta. Took that night course at the college. Conversational Italian. Did fine."

Bryan watched him carefully, watched his lips open and close. Never a complete sentence. Did he always talk like that? Italy? Six months - with a night school course in Italian? Not likely. He was lying. Liz was lying. Sam droned on. Liz was full of smiles, looking from Bryan to Sam to Bryan. That wasn't a real smile. These weren't real people. They were evil. Members of some secret organization - a secret club that met in this very building. They were somehow tied up with the willow tree thing. The tall, black, ugly willow that spun him to the top of the world, a thousand miles above the ground, above the fields of wild flowers running to the purple hills barely visible in the mist on the horizon. The evil willow ...

"Bryan? Are you feeling okay? Bryan!"

Liz was staring into his face. Sam was looking over her shoulder. Bryan shook his head as though to clear it.

"Sorry, Bryan. Guess I just don't know when to stop." Sam was talking. "Guess you're tired. I'll go. See you both later."

Liz argued that he should stay, but he left anyway. Liz followed Sam to the door and Bryan saw her kiss him lightly on the cheek. He kissed her back. They stared quietly at each other for several moments. Liz placed her hand in his.

Bryan closed his eyes.

He didn't feel well.

CHAPTER 22

Laurentian Tower: Tuesday, April 30, 1985

Sam and Liz had left before sunrise, in the rented truck. They would first pick up the new furniture in Baden City and bring it to the new apartment, Laurentian Tower. Another _Tower_. At least it was a _singular_ tower. They were to move in on May 1, but the landlord said the apartment was vacant and he would let them put in furniture on the 30th.

Bryan stood at the window and watched them leave. They both waved and the headlights flashed. Sam was driving. How did he know about that ritual with the headlights? Why would Liz tell him? It was _their_ thing, private, secret, personal. Sam should not have known, not unless Liz told him. What was going on between them, Sam and Liz? She should _not_ have told him.

He turned and walked quickly to the bedroom and grabbed a sweater from the shelf and headed for the door, pulling the sweater over his head as he went, and bumping into the wall.

He drove the car to Stanton Hall, leaning over the steering wheel, his knuckles white, a determined look of frustration and anger on his face. He parked on the road. No parking there, but he wouldn't be long. They'd mark the tires and tow him away in - he looked at his watch - in about an hour. He wouldn't take that long. He would be back before then.

He went to his office and phoned Andy McNaughton. No answer. Damn! It was too early. Nobody came to work before 8:00. He hadn't planned for that. He must think clearly. He had to kill an hour - maybe more. Do something useful. He looked at his watch again: 7 o'clock. He left the office and headed back to his car. There was a chalk mark on the front right tire. He slid in and headed for the coffee shop in McGinnis Plaza. It was closed. Damn! He should have thought of that. Was he simply incompetent? Was it getting to him? He was a mathematician with a mind capable of treading the narrow strands of logic which lead from premise to conclusion.

He drove into the traffic. Where was everybody going? This much traffic this early in the morning? He got caught in a double line of cars and missed his turn. When he did get off, it was a dead end street - almost. There was a lane at the end and he took it. It was bumpy but ran into a paved but unfamiliar street. It was a new subdivision with streets that were all complex curves terminating in little circles. Everything was going wrong. When he came out onto Moss Hill Road he stopped. He looked at his watch: 7:30 and he still had time to kill. Everything would be all right.

Moss Hill? It rang a bell.

He drove to the _Moss Hill Nursing Home_.

***

Arnie Brubacher was sleeping. Bryan coughed but the old man just sniffed once and began to snore softly.

"Mr. Brubacher? Are you awake?"

What a stupid question. Why did people ask such a stupid question? Brubacher stirred and opened his eyes. Yes, that's why: not such a stupid question. It woke him up.

"Mr. Brubacher? My name is Bryan Laker. I'm a friend of - of ..." He'd better make this good. "... of Melissa ..." What on earth was her name? "Kumar. Melissa Kumar."

He got the right reaction. Arnie Brubacher sat bolt upright and started to talk.

"Watch out for the tree - the ol' willow tree. It'll get yuh for sure. And Cassandra, stay outta her way. She's worse 'n the tree. Evil she is. The willow - evil - and Melly, poor Melly, brought right in - dragged right into the evil circle."

The old man talked on, hardly taking a breath. He was excited, leaning forward in the bed, staring directly at Bryan and waving the stump of his hand, strands of gray flesh flapping. "She's a witch is Cassandra. Naked - dancing on the table, naked - covered in mud. She's got 'em in her spell, she has. Red eyes, fire and brimstone. Stay outta her way."

_Who was Cassandra_? thought Bryan. _Dances - naked on a table_ ? He saw someone - through the window - dancing on the table. Sam was there. Liz was there. In the apartment building. Was that Cassandra?

"Mr. Brubacher?" The old man kept talking without a break. "Mr. Brubacher? Could I - could I ask you a question?"

"Friends of the Willow - all in her spell. Evil - willow tree and Cassandra - evil -"

When Bryan put his hands on Brubacher's shoulder the old man stopped and looked up at him, his eyes fearful, his hands trembling.

"Mr. Brubacher? Can I ask a question? Who is this Cassandra?"

Arnold Brubacher stared at Bryan for some time as though trying to piece together an answer. He opened and closed his mouth several times, then stuttered:

"My daughter - November, '95 - Cassandra Brubacher. Melly wanted to call her Brubacher. She -"

"You mean Mrs. Kumar was the mother? You and Mrs. Kumar - are you saying - ?"

"Melly had the baby - Cassandra - an evil baby. Born of an evil woman - killed her husband - ol' Josh, under the willow - see my hand? Gone. My voice? Gone. And Doc Manner, gone. Hanged hisself they say. Cassandra done it, sure enough. Old Doc seen too much - knew too much."

Bryan listened intently, staring at Brubacher's hand-stump-flaps. The old man continued, staring directly at Bryan, thin wisps of white hair running down his red and heavily creased face, his eyes now blinking rapidly.

"Babies - the Martin gals - Cassandra took their babies. Josh wanted a boy - Melly had a gal - killed the gal \- I know it sure. Josh was mad - terrible mad - under the willow -"

Bryan's head was spinning. He should be taking notes. Would he remember all this? He pulled out a small notepad and leafed past the equations until he found a blank page, looking up at Arnie then back to his notebook then back to the old man in the bed.

"Josh had a terrible temper - killed Barney fer sure - we all knew it - then he got it hisself - under the tree \- damnation, that old willow - the Martin gals gave her the babies, just like that they did it - just gave up their babies - and Josh wanted a boy -"

The old man was repeating himself and Bryan had some difficulty in getting things down on paper. Suddenly Arnold Brubacher became silent, falling back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard, his hand flaps vibrating by his side.

***

When Bryan left the nursing home he sat in the car for ten minutes, looking at the random collection of words he had written, then writing it again, neatly, so he could read it:

Melissa Kumar - married to Joshua Kumar.

Melissa kills Joshua - buries him under the willow.

Arnold Brubacher marries Melissa Kumar ?

Cassandra born to them ? - 1895.

Friends of the Willow - evil society - under Cassandra's spell

He looked over the notes. Incredible. Did Brubacher say that Melissa had a baby? And the baby was killed? Then she and Brubacher had another, Cassandra? Was that it? He leafed through the random words. Yes, it seemed that way. Then he stared at the date: 1895. It couldn't have been Cassandra that he saw through the window, dancing, naked on the table. It was pretty dark but there had been some light, enough light, and that woman couldn't have been more than, say, thirty or forty. Cassandra would be, let's see, 1895. She'd be 90 years old!

He looked at his watch: 8:30. He could go back to the college. The faculty and staff would be arriving.

He had work to do.

***

He first phoned Andy McNaughton in the English department.

Andy? Liz just wanted to know how her exam went. Okay? You did sit in on her exam, didn't you? Yes, of course. It went well? Good. Liz was worried about that last question. Thanks.

So, she _had_ made arrangements with Andy to proctor her exam. Next he phoned Baden City Furniture Mart.

Sorry sir, we don't give out information on our patrons. Mr. Laker? You wish to return the swivel chair? Certainly, we would be happy to replace it. Did you like the other pieces your wife selected? That's fine. She was sure you would be pleased.

Okay, so she did go to Baden, shopping for furniture. Next he left and walked to Electrical Engineering to see Petr Rowe. He spent almost an hour there and left with a slip of paper with a diagram and a list of parts. He dropped into Radio Shack at McGinnis Plaza and bought the parts on his way back to the apartment. He drove right past the parking lot, just pausing long enough to see that Sam and Liz hadn't returned, then continued on to _Laurentian Tower_. He let himself in with one of the two keys he and Liz had obtained from the superintendent and went directly to the living room and removed the molding at the base of the wall. He carefully laid the thin wire along the wall and replaced the molding to hide the wire. Then he plugged in the soldering iron, waited, licked his finger and hissed it against the tip to see that it was hot, soldered the thin wire to the button microphone and slipped the mike under the shag carpet, right against the wall so no one would accidently step on it. The other end of the wire he tucked under the carpet and pulled it along the wall to the closet door. He stripped the insulation from the end of the wire with the Swiss pocket knife on his key chain, soldered on a phono plug then placed it under the carpet, just inside the closet door. He closed, then opened the closet door. It couldn't be seen and was out of the way of any careless feet. Petr Rowe had been very helpful.

Bryan left the apartment and headed back to Willow Towers just as Sam and Liz drove up in the rented truck.

"Bryan!" shouted Liz. "Got the stuff from Baden City. Help us pack the truck. We'll have lunch in our new apartment. Won't that be fun?"

Bryan and Sam carried the smaller boxes down the five flights until there was no more room in the truck. The movers would carry the heavy stuff. Both insisted that Liz just watch. She had to rest, both for herself and for her baby. Then they headed for Laurentian Tower. It was noon when they sat in the middle of the living room floor, around a blanket, and ate the picnic lunch that Liz had prepared. Liz was on a large pillow, leaning back against the foot of the sofa, carefully eating over her belly.

"When do the movers arrive at Willow Towers?" asked Sam, turning to Liz.

"Not until 3 o'clock." She turned to Bryan and squinted. "Bryan? The girl at Baden City Furniture Mart said you called and wanted to return the swivel chair. Aren't you happy with the chair?"

Bryan almost choked on the last bite of muffin. That was a mistake - he shouldn't have phoned until after Liz and Sam had left Baden City. Stupid. He can't make any more mistakes.

"The swivel chair?" he sputtered. "Oh that ... no, I'm very happy with it - it's great. But I thought I saw a tear in the leather ... wanted to see if they'd replace it. Turned out not to be a tear after all, just a seam, a piece of cloth. You know me, Liz. Silly - it wasn't even close to being a tear. Just a little piece of cloth sticking out - I took it off. It's great, just great. The chair is great."

Liz smiled and Bryan breathed deeply and choked again on the muffin. He took a large swallow of Coke to wash it down.

Sam looked at his watch. "Okay, let's go. It's almost 1 o'clock and we should get things ready before the movers arrive."

Sam jumped to his feet and pulled Liz to her feet and she started right away to clean up. Bryan stared into the corner where he had laid the wire and small microphone. Everything looked perfectly normal. You couldn't see a thing.

They were back at Willow Towers by 1:30 and began to carry smaller furniture to the truck, Liz directing the operation. At 3:30 the movers arrived and by 6:30 they were sitting in the kitchen at Laurentian Tower sipping chilled Spumanti.

"Sam, you've been just wonderful," said Liz. "I don't know what we'd have done without your help. Now you and Bryan can sit in the living room, on our brand new sofa, and I'll whip up something for dinner in our brand new kitchen."

They ate egg salad sandwiches and Noah's sausage with cheese until 7:30 and Sam left before 11 o'clock. Bryan and Liz were tired and went to bed soon after, Liz falling asleep almost immediately. Bryan lay still, staring at the streaks of light shimmering on the ceiling from the window. There was a full moon and the room was quite bright.

Sam and Liz had been - almost normal. They had laughed a lot and they had enjoyed the move. He could hear Liz breathing steadily at his side; he turned his head and watched her mouth open slightly, then he slipped quietly out of bed and went to the closet. The door squeaked once and he held his breath. There was no sound except the ticking of the clock in the kitchen. He reached up and carefully slid his briefcase from the shelf and removed the small battery operated tape recorder. He slid the phono plug out from under the carpet, plugged it into the back of the tape recorder and placed the recorder in his briefcase, careful not to break the thin wire as he closed the briefcase. He leaned the briefcase against the wall just inside the door, out of the way. That was where he usually kept it, in the last apartment. Liz wouldn't touch it. His briefcase would stay there until needed. Inside was the tape recorder, connected to a thin wire which ran across the room to the button microphone under the shag rug. He closed the closet door, it squeaked one last time, then he walked to the bedroom. He paused at the bathroom door, reached inside and flushed the toilet, then continued to bed.

"Mmmm ..." moaned Liz, turning over and putting her arm across Bryan's chest.

"Just went to the bathroom, sweetheart," he whispered, smiling grimly.

The lights on the ceiling danced. The moon was now visible just at the edge of the window.

CHAPTER 23

Best Friends

It took just three days to paint the trim and put up the wallpaper and decide on an arrangement of furniture which they all agreed upon - even Sam. Liz seemed to spend more time discussing the colour of paint and design of wallpaper with Sam Jaffre than with Bryan. Sam wasn't working, but never seemed to be in need of money. Indeed, he usually brought something for the apartment every time he dropped by - which was every day.

They had just finished a delicious dinner of herbed pork with a thick creamy sauce that Sam insisted upon eating with a spoon. Liz was delighted. Bryan was quiet. The two of them seemed altogether too friendly.

"Okay, you two go to the living room and I'll clean up," said Liz, rising from the table and starting to gather the dishes.

"No. Bryan and I will clean up. _You_ go to the living room," said Sam with a grin. Liz chuckled and left the kitchen without comment. "A great gal. You're a lucky guy." Sam was staring at Bryan, a strange look in his eyes. Then he abruptly rose and began clearing the table.

"Yeah ... lucky," muttered Bryan. Maybe there wasn't a strange look in Sam's eyes after all. Maybe Bryan just hadn't studied his face that carefully before. Sam was a large, muscular man, in his early forties Bryan thought. He could have been a wrestler or a bouncer. Although he had a broad face with high cheek bones and a ruddy complexion he also had a quick and ready smile and his eyes twinkled when he spoke, and when he did speak it was forceful, confident, resonant.

"Sam, what are you doing for a living these days?"

Sam piled the dishes in the sink and turned on the hot water. "Writing. Always wanted to be a writer. Mystery stories. Lots of ideas from cases I've been on. Should have the first story finished by the end of the year." Bryan grunted and pulled a towel off the rack and started to dry the dishes.

"Got enough money to last until your story is published?"

"Sure. Dad died last year. Left me and mom some money. Helped, in Italy. Still got some. Don't need much."

Did Sam always talk in half-sentences?

"The police. Think of going back? More cases? More stories?" said Bryan.

Now _he_ was talking in half-sentences ... must stop that.

"Nope. Got enough."

"We ... I mean Liz and I ... we're pleased that you've become such a good friend, helping with the moving, picking the wallpaper and all that." Bryan wasn't sure he was all that happy with the arrangement, but it somehow seemed the right thing to say.

"Best Friends. We're best friends," said Sam. "That's what best friends are for."

They finished cleaning the dishes and pots and piled them on the counter. Only Liz knew where they belonged so they just left them on the counter. Liz was reading when they entered the living room. She looked up, then put the book away, sliding it under the sofa out of the way and smiled at them both.

"Well gentlemen? Finished?" Liz smiled and shook her head, a familiar sort of jerky motion that seemed always to arrange her hair neatly down her back. "Sherry? On the table."

Did she get that half-sentence thing from Sam? Bryan walked to a chair then paused, thinking.

"Aargh. I've run out of tobacco," he said with an exaggerated groan. "Why don't you two enjoy your sherry and I'll just pop over to Fornell's Variety and pick up some."

"No smoking in the apartment, Bryan," said Liz with mock anger. "Remember? Not in our new apartment." She laughed and Sam joined her. They looked comfortable, together on the sofa.

"In that case I'll be a little longer," moaned Bryan. "I'll just sit on the front steps and have a puff." He walked to the closet and pulled out his coat, then dropped it on the floor. "Ooops. Clumsy." Liz and Sam chuckled.

"Watch out going down the stairs. Don't fall," laughed Liz.

Bryan smiled and reached inside the closet to get his coat from the floor, opened his briefcase and pushed the _Record_ button on the tape recorder, then carefully closed the briefcase, leaving it behind a closed closet door.

"I'll be careful, mommy," he said, and left.

He could hear them laughing as he closed the apartment door behind him.

***

Bryan went to the office the next day. Liz was surprised. Why wouldn't he work at home? His desk had been set up in the extra bedroom which they used for a study. Even his scraps of paper had been piled on his desk - his deep and important mathematical discoveries, brought with care and much fanfare from Willow Towers, in a small cardboard box.

He had to return a library book. He would be back for lunch. He'd drop by Marco's and bring home a pizza. Before he left he cautiously went to the closet, opened his briefcase, disconnected the wire which ran to the microphone, pushing it into a corner of the closet, then he straightened, clutching the briefcase.

"Bye, sweetheart," he said, loudly.

When he got to the office he opened the briefcase and pulled out the small tape recorder, setting it on his desk. He held his finger poised above the _Play_ button for some time before pressing. Nothing but a scratching sound. He grunted, pushed _Stop_ , then _Rewind_ , then _Play_. It began to hum and he turned up the volume:

_Bryan. So clumsy. So simple._ It was Liz speaking.

Suspect anything?

Nothing. Phoned Andy McNaughton. Confirmed the exam proctoring.

Baden Furniture?

Thought he saw a tear - swivel chair. Nothing more.

Seems preoccupied.

No. That's Bryan. You know. Absent-minded professor.

Like you?

Liz laughed.

Not like me.

The half-sentences. They both spoke in half-sentences.

_Meeting on Friday._ It was Sam talking.

Yes. At the WILLOW. Ten o'clock.

Bryan?

I'll look after him.

How?

Sex. He'll sleep. I'll leave.

Sure?

Sure. Always happens. Sleeps like a baby.

I'd like that - sleep like a baby.

Patience.

There was silence and Bryan turned up the volume. Was that Liz? What were they doing?

Sam. Wait. Soon.

Bryan twisted the volume control. It broke. The tape recorder clicked and began to hum. Bryan poked it and the tape began to spin on the reel. Damn! A broken tape. He pushed the _Stop_ button and leaned back in his chair. They were in this thing together, Sam and Liz, his wife Liz, _his_ wife.

What were they in together? The meeting tomorrow night - at the WILLOW, the old apartment building. He would have to go there and see what was happening. _Friends of the Willow_. Wasn't that what old man Brubacher had called it? It was a meeting of the _Friends of the Willow_. Cassandra Kumar, or was it Brubacher, was she one of the _Friends_? The dancer, naked on the table, covered in - what? Streaks of mud? Who were the others? The willow tree was involved, somehow. The willow tree deaths. The boxes in the basement, filled with willow baskets. They were parts of the old willow tree. Liz and Sam were _Friends of the Willow_. Some secret cult, evil. That's what old man Brubacher had said.

What was he to do? What _could_ he do? Would the police believe him? Would _anyone_ believe him? He was alone in this - Liz wasn't there to help, to plan, to provide encouragement and lead the way. She had always been so strong. He had always relied on her - too much, perhaps. Now she was ... she was the enemy. She and the tall, muscular sergeant. What could he do - alone?

He jumped when there was a knock on the door. Bryan quickly opened his desk, pushed the tape recorder into the drawer and closed it.

"Yes? Hold on - just a second." He leaned toward the door.

"Bryan? Is that you?" It was Bruno.

"Come in, Bruno. Just cleaning up my desk. It's a mess and now that classes are over I have a little time. Guess it'll take me until next term to finish." Bryan laughed, a shaky little laugh.

Bruno was Italian and short and a ladies man. He often dropped by to expound on the techniques of lovemaking, his latest escapade, and trout fishing. They had been friends for years.

"I thought you just moved into a new apartment," Bruno said. "Why aren't you home, painting and hanging wallpaper and arranging furniture? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

Bryan pointed to a chair and Bruno sat down, reaching for the jar of hard mints which Bryan kept on his desk. He never took one; always three. He didn't suck them; always chewed them. Could he talk to Bruno about the willow thing? Maybe.

"Bruno. I want to tell you something," started Bryan.

"Let me tell you about this girl - she's beautiful. Met her at the faculty club last week. Works in Classics \- assistant prof. - smart as a whip." Bruno chomped on the mints and Bryan heard them crack, one by one. "Beautiful. Likes me - crazy about me."

Was Bruno talking in half-sentences? Had he always talked like that? Bryan couldn't remember. Damn this memory. I must read that book again; how to remember places and names and the value of . Bruno kept talking.

"Follows me ... like a puppy. Beautiful. Going to Luigi's tonight. Prosciutto, melone, linguine, vino rosso ... the whole bit."

Why the half-sentences?

"Then we go to my place. Turn on the record player. Turn off the lights. Turn on the charm."

Enough. Bryan got up and Bruno stopped talking, then said, "Well, gotta go. She's waiting for me. Ciao." Bruno waved as he left.

Bryan looked at his watch: 11:37, time for lunch.

When he left the building the sun had broken through the clouds and the sky was filled with airplane trails. He drove to Marco's and ordered a large pizza with bacon and green peppers.

"Professor Laker? Your pizza. $11.95. Chili peppers?"

He stared at the young girl in the white uniform behind the counter. He vaguely remember her from a calculus class. "Beg your pardon?"

"Pizza. $11.95. Chili peppers?"

Half-sentences. Was everybody talking in half-sentences these days? Maybe they were and he had forgotten, didn't remember. He paid for the pizza and left. When he got out of the car and started to walk toward the apartment building he noticed that he had driven to Willow Towers by mistake; force of habit. He turned to leave and noticed the sign above the door.

It said: _friends of WILLOW_.

The words _friends of_ had been added recently. It didn't say _friends of the WILLOW_. Just _friends of WILLOW_. He shook his head and drove slowly back to Laurentian Tower. Liz was reading and slipped her book beneath the sofa when he entered.

"Hello dear," she said. "Get the pizza?"

Bryan nodded vigorously, even though he knew she couldn't see him in the hall. He placed his briefcase in the closet, thought about connecting the tape recorder then remembered it was still in his desk at work. Damn!

CHAPTER 24

sister of WILLOW

"And yet shall I bring Ahriman to my side," she moaned, "and Ahura-Mazda shall see it and weep, for we shall be victor in this struggle."

Cassandra smoothed the long black gown that fell directly from her shoulders to the floor, and walked slowly to the window. The dark shadows beyond began to move, to coil, to rap gently, and she touched the glass and they danced to her hand.

"And the Friends of Willow shall rejoice that night, for a child shall be taken, unborn, with soul unclean ... and I shall be one with my sister."

A black branch spun wildly and she smiled and walked to the door and out to the porch. It was still dark although the sun had risen, for the giant tree cast a somber shadow over the house. Cassandra walked to the tree and the branches parted and she entered the lightless vault.

"Willow, my sister," she cried, raising her arms. "We shall prevail."

A hairy limb wound gently about her waist and Cassandra was lifted within the shadowy dome, her hair rising in a wild tangle, her eyes flashing scarlet. Luminescent shapes arose from the ground, shimmering in the gloom, encircling her slim body.

"Soon, my sister, we shall engage the Gods and have thee released. Soon, my sister, we shall stand together, defiant and free."

There began a faint hum, rising in pitch until it screamed with an urgency born of anger, of fear, of frustration.

"Soon, my loved one, I shall place a soul in His hands and He shall release you." She began to shout. "Ahriman, Prince of the Night, hear me well, for I shall lay before thee a soul!"

And the glowing shapes shivered and embraced her, caressing, fondling.

***

Barbara Finney was short and stocky with hair straight and black, cropped just to her neck. Her dark complexion seemed even darker in the dim room and her eyes were almost black. She lit up a cigarette, crossed her legs, pulled her triangular nurse's cap from her head and drank the last of her tea. Smoking was permitted in the small lounge and some one had provided a tea kettle and pot. She stared straight ahead at the wall, inhaling deeply. She couldn't remember much of the day. Everything was a bit hazy. She had come to work early and checked the schedule and talked to the night nurse and then the doctor on call. But something was on her mind, bugging her, from way back in her head, talking to her in whispers. It had been there all day. It was there yesterday too, and the day before that. Indeed, the voices had whispered to her for weeks.

Last month she was on holidays. She remembered that. Perhaps the voices she heard, they started when she had visited her uncle on his farm, just outside of town. Her parents were in Europe, their yearly pilgrimage to the great churches and cathedrals of France and Italy and her uncle had called and asked her to visit. She said she had holidays: two weeks. He said _come stay with me_. His wife had died years ago and he was alone and she had agreed. She needed the rest and it would be a cheap vacation.

It was idyllic. Every morning Uncle Kite would fry a mess of bacon and eggs and they would sit and eat on the porch and watch the sun come up. His name wasn't really Kite, but that's what they had called him since he was a boy and no one saw any reason to change it. When Barbara thought of it, she didn't know his real name. When she asked him one beautiful sunny morning, between the first and second cups of coffee, he just laughed and scolded her for being too nosy. He often scolded her, laughing and scolding, with his eyes lit up and winking like a bonfire, shaking his finger, then laughing again and giving her a big hug and saying he was just joking and how much he appreciated her coming to visit an old man with no one to talk to - or to scold.

Each evening after dinner she would go on long walks, along the country roads which surrounded the farm, pausing to pick wildflowers, listening to the sound of jays and watching the purple martins swooping over the fields. The sun would dip slowly into a reddening sky and the shadows would lengthen and the wind would come up warm and sweet, lifting her long black hair and rushing gently across her cheek.

Every day she would take a different road, following it until it was almost dark, then returning back along the road until she saw the warm amber lights of the farm house in the distance and the smoke spiralling from the chimney against the starlit sky.

It was during the second week that she got lost. The road seemed familiar, but they all looked much the same: dirt road flanked by fields of corn or wildflowers or green woods of aspen and birch.

Then she saw the house in the distance. She had never noticed it before, with its warm orange windows of light, and the tree. A giant tree towering by its side.

It was too dark to try to find her way back to Uncle Kite and she might get more confused as the night progressed. She would phone her uncle and he would pick her up in his red truck, smelling wonderfully of pipe and he would scold her as he always did and take her back. Then he would bring out the dusty bottle of red wine and they would sit on the porch and watch the stars, saying nothing, just watching and listening to the frogs in the duck pond and the crickets in the field. Then he would cough and poke his thumb over his shoulder at the house and she would get up and kiss him on the cheek and go to bed. Uncle Kite would sit awhile and puff his pipe. Then he would visit the washroom. Then he would go to bed.

***

When she walked up the driveway the tree began to shake even though there wasn't any wind to speak of. But the light in the window got brighter and that made her feel more comfortable so she edged past the tree, toward the porch.

She thought of how nice it would be if she were home. She would knock on the door and Uncle Kite would answer and he would have his pipe sticking from his mouth, grinning out the side and the fire would be lit even if it was a warm night.

Barbara Finney knocked on the door and the lights in the window went out and it was dark, black. She shivered. It wasn't cold, but she shivered just the same. She heard a sound to her left and held her breath. The tree scraped the porch railing and she let out her breath again in a low sigh.

She imagined Uncle Kite peering through the window of the door and she smiled. His pipe was stuck right up against the window and his nose was pressed flat and he was grinning.

When the light in the hall came on, Barbara jumped. She could see a dark shadow beyond the door, then heard the knob turn with a scratching sound, then the door opened very slowly and a dark figure appeared and held out its hand and she walked in and ...

She couldn't remember, but she must have phoned her uncle because the next morning she was lying in her bed on the farm and the sun was full and warm on her face and she could smell the bacon frying.

Then she cut her hair short; she didn't know why. And somebody was talking to her, way back in her head, in whispers.

***

Barbara Finney blinked twice, slowly turned her head, stared about the lounge, at the tea pot, at the cigarette in her hand then at the ashtray filled with butts. She dropped her cigarette into the tray without putting it out. She ran her hand across her forehead, over her head, smoothing the short hair down to the neckline, then she picked up her nurse's hat, pushed it on her head and pinned it. She was about to leave when Sandy walked in.

"Hi Barb. Is there any tea left in the pot? And how's old man Brubacher? I noticed this morning that he had been moved out of the nursing wing to intensive care."

"Yes. Chronic care. Sick. As a dog. Not much time left. Gone soon. Just waiting."

Sandy Pringle poured the warm tea into a cup and sat down. "What do you mean _gone soon_? Is he leaving _Moss Hill_ \- to go where? He really needs the care he gets here and Miss Brubacher won't be able to provide it. If she takes him away he'll be gone for sure - dead gone. That's what you mean isn't it? _Gone soon._ You mean he'll be dead soon. Right?"

"Yes. Dead soon." Barbara got up to leave, stopped at the door and looked back at Sandy. "You're on tomorrow. Evening shift. Me too."

Sandy stared at the door as it swung closed. Barb was getting sort of cool, distant. They had worked at _Moss Hill Nursing Home_ for over three years, starting together as part-time and now full-time nurses. They were best friends. Even in nursing school they went everywhere together, studied together, shared boyfriends. But Barb seemed less friendly these days and didn't want to talk. They used to talk for hours over the phone - until her ear was hot and red. Barb had changed her hair style, cut it real short and hadn't said a thing about it. Usually that was something they would discuss for days. And she smoked a lot more than usual. Now Barb was almost unfriendly. And the _way_ she talked. Just a word or two in each sentence, as though she couldn't be bothered to add the rest and wanted to get it over with. Funny.

Sandy Pringle shook her head and stared into her cup, then began sipping the warm tea.

***

Arnie Brubacher was tied down and two tubes ran to his arm and up his left nostril. The device on the side table provided a continuous readout of his temperature and several wires ran from under the covers and were plugged into the side of the table. His eyes were closed. He was heavily sedated. He didn't move.

Barbara Finney walked in with head lowered, gazing at a notebook in her hand. She walked slowly to the bed, took Arnie Brubacher's hand and took his pulse. She didn't see the slim figure sitting by the door. Then her face became ashen, and she shivered and turned to face the dark shadow at the door.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I ... I didn't see you." She seemed confused, agitated. "Anything wrong?" she said.

Cassandra didn't move.

"What it it? Why are you here? Something wrong?"

Cassandra's eyes burned and Barbara Finney stood, entranced, trembling, still clinging to Brubacher's wrist.

Cassandra whispered, "Tomorrow night."

Nurse Finney whispered, "Tomorrow night."

Cassandra rose and turned to the door, pausing to look back at the nurse. Barbara dropped Brubacher's arm and stared at Cassandra, her eyes fixed and blank.

"Tomorrow night," said Cassandra, then walked out.

"Tomorrow night." The voice repeated it, echoing in her head. "Tomorrow night."

Then she shook her head vigorously as though to clear it and picked up Brubacher's arm again.

Arnold Brubacher's eyes were wide open, wild and fearful, but he couldn't speak.

CHAPTER 25

Twins

Cassandra Brubacher walked to the window and placed her hand against it. Branches spun slowly out and brushed against the glass.

"Yes, my sister. You understand. Soon you will be with me again. Soon."

She put her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes, humming softly. The coils quivered, swaying from side to side.

It was Friday morning and the meeting would be tonight. Tonight she would begin the ritual to restore the soul of her sister. The Friends of Willow would all be there - tonight. They would bring the child - the unborn child.

She had not been able to keep her mother alive. Melissa had died. She grew old and died. But _she_ , Cassandra Brubacher, would not die. She would never die so long as Willow lived. She had aged with every sacrifice. She had aged during the weeks that the bones were removed. But now she would never die. Willow lived and she would live - forever. And soon her sister would be with her. Soon.

They had removed the bones. Inspector Jaffre had kept them. A meddling old fool. Sacrilege. Profanity. They had violated Willow.

But no more. The bones now lay quiet and resting, beneath the new Willow, held precious in the roots of the tree, providing sustenance, life, immortality, the immortal soul of Willow. She had placed roots in the soft ground, touching the bones, embracing the bones. Roots of the old tree, embracing the bones. Willow had grown strong and tall, her sister, her tree, embracing the bones.

She put a hand against the window and the coils spiralled up and outlined her hand.

Melissa had died and now she was alone - with Willow. But they had talked of it often - she and Melissa and Willow - and she knew exactly what to do. Yet why had she failed? Why had the Prince denied her? Again and again he had taken the soul and returned nothing. Again and again she had called upon the Friends of Willow and they had pleaded to Ahriman, but to no avail, and Cassandra became unsure, doubting the alliance with the Prince of darkness, but Melissa had been certain.

Cassandra wept, for Melissa was gone and now she was alone and must continue the struggle. It was her pledge, her sacred trust, for one day she _would_ succeed and be joined by her loved one and Melissa would return and together they would rejoice.

Tonight, the Friends, they would come with the unborn baby. This time she would succeed. No more failures. It was time.

Tonight.

***

Liz dropped the newspaper on the floor and smiled. Bryan picked it up after she had left the living room and looked at the article:

Mr. Arnold Brubacher was found dead in his bed last night at the Moss Hill Nursing Home. The feeding and antibiotic tubes had been removed as well as all vital sign electrodes. Nurse Sandra Pringle is being held for questioning. Miss Barbara Finney, another nurse on duty, confirmed that Miss Pringle was the last person to see Mr. Brubacher alive.

Mr. Brubacher had been in the Nursing Home for four years and in the intensive care unit for several days. His wife, Melissa Brubacher, died earlier in the same Home.

He is survived by his daughter, Cassandra Brubacher of Dune Road.

Liz had read it and said nothing. She should have said _something_. She should have been surprised, annoyed, confused ... something.

This was Friday. The meeting of the Friends of the Willow - it was tonight. Cassandra Brubacher. Bryan would see her again, dancing, the circle of people slowly moving about the table. He shivered, leaned back on the sofa, dropping the paper to the floor.

Liz was standing behind him and her eyes flashed. She was smiling, a small, curious smile and her hands were raised, fingers pointing delicately in his direction.

"Early to bed. Tonight. Tired," Liz said in a whisper.

"That's good Liz. You need the rest - both of you need the rest - you and the baby. I'll just stay up and work for a while, maybe read a little, maybe work on my research paper."

"No ... you're tired ... come to bed."

Bryan looked back over his shoulder. He had let the newspaper slip to the floor and he looked down then up again at Liz. She was still behind him, dressed, almost, in a thin negligee which fell transparent to the floor. Even pregnant she was beautiful, perhaps more beautiful. She leaned over him and placed her head on his, ran her hands down over his chest, caressed his cheek, her breasts, now swollen with her pregnancy, enveloping his head.

"Come to bed."

He remembered the tape. What had she said to Sam? He couldn't remember. Sex. Yes, that's what she had said.

Sex. He'll sleep. I'll leave. Always happens. Sleeps like a baby.

"You go to bed Liz. I'll be in shortly. Just have to finish writing up the introduction to the paper. It should be a good one - maybe good enough for a promotion to Associate Professor. I'll just -"

"Come to bed. Come to bed."

She wasn't going to leave. She was stubborn and would stay until he agreed, caressing his cheek, her warm body pressing his neck.

Sex. He'll sleep. I'll leave. Always happens. Sleeps like a baby.

Surely he could stay awake. He would pretend to sleep. That was it - he would pretend. She would sneak out for the meeting at Willow Towers, thinking he was asleep, and he would follow her and ...

"Come to bed."

"Okay sweetheart. You know I can't resist when you put on the charm."

Bryan followed her into the bedroom. She had slipped out of her negligee and stood there, naked, beautiful, her skin pink and glowing, arms held out - he held her closely and she moaned into his ear.

***

He wouldn't sleep. It was wonderful. Liz was wonderful, but he wouldn't sleep. Close his eyes, pretend. She lay there quietly at his side, breathing softly, her finger tips touching his, her mouth slightly open. He could hardly see the stone fence. She slipped her hand away and the hills seemed to rise from the distant mist, across a thousand miles of wild flowers, goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace and wild strawberry, oxeye daisies and blue violet. He was high in a tree and the horizon was a million miles away and the clouds were clinging to the hazy purple hills. The tree began to sway and he reached out to steady himself on a thick and twisted branch. It spun around his wrist, its teeth biting, grinding, screaming. He drew back and fell. It was a thousand miles to the ground and he fell for hours and the branch caught him just before he reached the ground, pulling him high into the air, spiralling about his waist then his neck then he couldn't breath and he turned his head from side to side trying to free his arms then tearing the coils from his face, gasping, then he screamed.

He sat up, sweating, the collar of his pyjamas clinging to his neck and cheek. He had fallen asleep, dreaming again. He looked quickly beside him.

Liz was gone!

He looked at his watch. Almost 11 o'clock! Bryan jumped out of bed and ran to the hall, pulled open the door and ran down the stairs. He flung open the front door and ran to the car. It was still there. Liz had gone with Sam - yes, in Sam's car. He slid into the car and drove to Willow Towers, hands clamped white to the steering wheel, leaning forward, breathing quickly, heart pounding.

***

Cassandra stood by the open window, tender branches caressing her cheek.

"Yes, my sister, tonight," she whispered, pulling a fragile limb to her lips.

In the room, behind her, gathered the Friends of Willow, standing solemn amid the rising and luminescent mists of Ahriman. She turned to address them.

"Tonight, my Friends, we shall appease his Holiness and offer unto Him a soul, safe to His keeping." She paused and they all repeated, softly, "... safe to His keeping."

"Tonight, my Friends, we shall defy Ahura-Mazda and bless his enemy with a soul tainted of mortal sin." She paused and they all repeated, softly, "... tainted of mortal sin."

Cassandra moved among them and they parted and she went to the door and out, and the giant willow rose and the congregation followed and fell to their knees before the tree, and one by one, each was caressed by its fingers, gently, as the moon rose ochre in a darkened sky, and the glowing shapes hovered above the prostrate figures, and the humming and singing began.

Prince of the Night, we ask in thy name,

to take a soul defiled.

That the soul of Willow may arise and rejoice,

complete and whole,

union and life.

And they rose without another word and followed Cassandra, for they would go to the place of genesis, to the ground which first held the tender body of Willow, to the site of first alliance with the Prince of Darkness, and there they would appeal to Ahriman and He would take the unborn child from a willing womb and together they would carry the infant to Willow, to lay the child among the roots of the tree and invoke the power of the Lord of the Night to raise the sister of Cassandra from the cold ground, complete and whole, and they would all rejoice in the union.

***

Bryan couldn't remember how he had come, what streets he had taken, what stop lights had been red, but now he was parked at the road in front of Willow Towers. He stared at the sign: _friends of WILLOW_. He opened the car door and slid out, then ran to the side of the building. The concrete blocks were still there. He reached down and saw that he had no shoes. He was still in his pyjamas. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was dark and the ground was bumpy with roots and he couldn't slide the blocks so he carried them and placed them under the window. First one, then the other.

The window was dark. Was this the night? Had he forgotten what night?

He climbed carefully onto the unsteady blocks and peered into the window, his hands clinging fiercely to the sill. Dark.

He looked at his watch. Too dark to see, but it must be about 11:30.

Then he saw the faint glow through the window. It seemed to be coming from the floor, rising and shimmering, a willowy shape, luminescent, rising from the floor of the room. The glow brightened and he saw the people, standing in a circle, hands raised. Then he heard the humming, rising and falling, and saw the table in the middle of the room, dark and sinister. Then he heard the voices, softly at first then more loudly, rising in pitch.

***

Cassandra began to sway, shadowy spirals coiling about her naked body, her eyes crimson with inner fire. The Friends had gathered to celebrate the sacrifice. Cassandra moaned softly and they laid the body of the woman on the table and began their chant.

Prince of the Night, attend us now.

Before you, a child unborn.

Take this soul, tainted of man.

Take this life, safe to thy keeping.

The dark figures began to circle the table, moving slowly, singing.

Cassandra stepped forward, from the dark into the glow, covered in streaks of black, moving lines which spiralled from her feet to her neck, the spirit of Ahriman, and she raised her hands, swaying and singing.

She stood before the table and the willowy shapes glowed, brighter, shimmering, hovering luminescent above the table.

"Prince of Darkness, hear us and acknowledge. We seek to please Thee, to place before thy most unholy countenance the soul of an unborn child. Acknowledge and give us thy blessing."

Cassandra stroked the swollen belly and the dark shadow of Ahriman left Cassandra's body and covered the woman, blessing her, and she screamed - and she gave her child to the arms of the Prince and all moaned and chanted and wept with the joy of the sacrifice.

***

Outside the window, Bryan began to shake, his chest pressed against the cold brick, his face screwed into a frantic, quiet, terrible frown. He couldn't blink; he stared into the dark yet glowing room.

Someone was lying on the table. A woman. Distorted. Bloated.

Pregnant!

Then she began to scream!

He stepped back, sucked in his breath, slipped off the blocks, clambered back. Who was the woman?

Liz? The woman - pregnant and naked on the table - was it his wife?

Something slid over his bare foot. It was dark and he could see nothing. He kicked and fell backward into the tangle of ... of willow roots spinning up, coils, black and serpentine, and he pushed with his legs and skidded across Willow Walk onto the wet grass and the coils followed, scraping against the gravel. He jumped ... ran ... to the car.

He drove randomly, away from the building, down the block, across town, Main Street - thinking only of Liz - on the table. Was is really Liz?

He stared up at the winking light and saw the sign: _New Bamberg Police Department_. He was parked at the curb, staring at the sign and couldn't remember driving there. Bryan slid out and ran up the stairs, pushing open the door.

The officer looked up, turned off the TV and walked to the desk.

"Yes? Something wrong?"

"My wife ... they're ... uh, I think they're killing her. Her baby, my baby - on the table. You must do something - before it's too late. Something ... uh, Willow Towers - Friends of the Willow ..."

"Slowly. Wife's name?"

"Name? Elizabeth Anne Laker. Please hurry. There's no time - hurry - "

"Your name? Address? Phone? When?"

Bryan backed away from the desk, mouth open, terror in his eyes. Half-sentences. The officer was talking in half-sentences!

Bryan turned and ran to his car, driving into the darkness.

***

And Cassandra carried the child in her arms, and the congregation followed in solemn procession. Ahriman had given his unholy blessing. Now must they lay the child before the tree, before Willow, before Ahriman ... and they all followed, to Dune, to the arms of the Prince, that a sister may rise and be united, be made one with Cassandra.

That the soul of Willow may arise and rejoice, complete and whole, union and life.

CHAPTER 26

Coma

Bryan sat in the large chair, huddled, sitting on his feet, holding his knees. He was cold, still in his pyjamas, dirty and torn. How long had he been there, frightened, alone?

What had he seen? Was it one of those dreams \- those crazy dreams? No. The dreams - they were always the same, the field of flowers, falling. This wasn't a dream. It was _not_ a dream. Liz and Sam - had he seen Sam? No, just Liz - on the table - naked, pregnant - on the table. Or was it Liz?

Who were the _Friends of the Willow_ \- or was it _Friends of Willow?_ Cassandra Brubacher - evil - a witch. Yes ... a witch, with a spell on his wife, on Liz, on Sam. On all of the - the _Friends_. Break the spell - how to break the spell and free his wife and her baby - _his_ baby?

The phone rang and he stopped breathing and put his head between his knees. It rang again.

Liz. She would ask: _where have you been? Sam and I have looked everywhere. We were worried. Where have you been?_ She was evil. No. _Cassandra_ was evil. The witch had captivated them - stolen their freedom - their soul - cast a spell.

The phone rang again. He raised his head, slid his feet to the floor, leaned out of the chair and picked up the phone.

"Mr. Laker? Is that Mr. Laker?

"Yes."

"You reported that your wife was missing. Is that right?"

"Missing? No - not missing. They were - they were -"

"Mr. Laker? Your wife is resting quietly in New Bamberg General Hospital. It isn't ... well, it isn't too serious. She was found in the parking lot at the old Willow Towers apartment building. She was wandering about the lot, alone. It's not safe you know - to walk alone at night. And ... uh, Mr. Laker? Are you there? Your wife - she was naked. I mean, she wasn't dressed - not at all. The doctors have looked her over and ..."

Bryan listened without saying a word, staring at the wall.

"... a coma. But she seems to be healthy, no signs of rape - I mean, no signs that she was attacked, nothing of that sort ..."

"Coma? Did you say coma?"

"Yes, Mr. Laker. Your wife is in a coma."

Bryan dropped the phone and stared straight at the wall, leaned forward to steady himself, shook his head then picked up the phone.

"Mr. Laker? Are you okay?"

"Yes ... thank you. Thank you."

Bryan hung up the phone and walked to the bedroom to change, looked at his pyjamas, stared into the mirror, backed into the bathroom, took a shower.

***

When he reached General Hospital the parking lot was dark and empty. He walked to the front desk and asked for Mrs. Elizabeth Laker. Room 419. He walked to the elevator feeling sick, staggered, held himself steady against the wall. The halls were dimly lit. Dark figures moved in the shadows. One approached and reached out to him and he cringed, raising his hands to protect himself.

"Are you all right sir? Are you ill?"

The nurse looked concerned and he shook his head. He was just a little dizzy. He was feeling better now. Room 4-something. He was looking for Liz. Liz who? Mrs. Elizabeth Laker. Yes, she was admitted earlier. Room 419. Right this way, sir.

***

Liz was ashen, face hollow, creased. Bryan hardly recognized her. She seemed to have aged. He sat on the chair by the bed and whispered, "Liz?" She didn't respond. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly twisted, her hair tangled about her face.

"You understand Mr. Laker - your wife is in a coma. She's been that way for over two hours. There is little you can do here. You should go home, get some sleep. We'll call you the minute -"

"My wife - she's so pale. Is she ill? I mean, can you tell?"

"She seems to have had an ... uh, Mr. Laker ... was your wife expecting a baby?"

"Yes. Yes. A baby - she _is_ expecting a baby. Is she - is the baby -?"

"Mr. Laker I'm afraid the baby was aborted. Your wife -"

Bryan stood up and glared at the nurse. "Why? Why? How _could_ you -"

"No ... the baby was aborted before your wife was admitted. We found no baby - but there was evidence that she _did_ have a baby. I'm sorry Mr. Laker."

Bryan sat again, abruptly, collapsing in the chair, staring at Liz. He sat there until the morning sun streamed through the window and he sat all through the day. The nurses came and went, talking among themselves, but he stayed, waiting for some sign.

But Liz never moved.

***

Bryan awoke with a start. It was dark and he sat up and peered into the darkness. He was in the living room, on the sofa, fully dressed. He had been sleeping. Liz? She was - where? At General Hospital - in a coma. He had sat by her bedside for hours, maybe the whole day, then he had come home, tired. He could do nothing. He felt helpless. The cult - the witch - she had taken Liz's baby - done something to his wife. Why? He looked at his watch. It was nearly 1 o'clock in the morning.

Bryan made a cup of instant coffee, daydreaming, not able to concentrate, his mind wandering. Not the usual freshly ground coffee, perked and filtered. He didn't have the energy. Instant. It was good - a different drink - not real coffee but a good drink. Why did people say _not real coffee_? Coke wasn't real coffee either, but a good drink.

He shook his head - getting off the track. Think. Do something.

He wandered to the small study and sat at his desk, staring at the scraps of yellow paper, the neat rows of mathematical equations, the pencils and ball point pens and the pad. He pulled the pad of paper to the center of the desk, pushing the scraps to the side, set down his mug. His ball point hovered over the paper for several minutes. He didn't know what to write, but he had to put down the assumptions, the theorems, the premises, the axioms.

Finally he wrote:

Friends of the Willow

Friends of Willow

Was Willow a tree - or a person? Was his wife under some spell - some spell that could be broken? Hadn't Brubacher mentioned a _spell?_ What _had_ Brubacher said? Bryan got up and wandered into the bedroom, searching through his coat pockets until he found the notebook. He returned to the study and leafed through the pages. His notes were there, written after he had visited Brubacher - before Brubacher had died - or was he murdered?

Melissa Kumar - married to Joshua Kumar.

Melissa kills Joshua - buries him under the willow.

Arnold Brubacher marries Melissa Kumar ?

Cassandra born to them ? - 1895.

Friends of the Willow - evil society - under Cassandra's spell

Yes, there it was. A _spell_. And two sets of bones under the willow tree. Sam had said that. Was it Sam who had said that? He couldn't remember. A baby. A man. What else had Sam Jaffre said? Think. The police had identified the bones as belonging to a child, less than a year old, and a man in his early twenties. A baby and Joshua Kumar. Melissa had killed them both. Wasn't that what Mr. Brubacher had said? That was before she married Brubacher and had another child - Cassandra.

Why was her name Melissa Kumar? Why not Brubacher? Think. She never married Brubacher. Yes. They didn't marry. But the child, the second child, it was named Cassandra _Brubacher_. Think. If Melissa and Brubacher weren't married then would they have a child? Nothing wrong with that. Happens all the time. 1895. Cassandra was born in 1895. It wouldn't be common practice in 1895; having a baby by someone other than your husband. Would it?

Think. When was Joshua Kumar killed? Before 1895? That would prove something.

Bryan began to perspire. He slid back on his swivel chair and pulled out a drawer. Somewhere he had the partially completed _Short History of New Bamberg._ The history begun by his father. He pulled out another drawer, filled with loose papers. There, the _Short History_. He leafed through the pages. They were no longer in order and the pages weren't numbered. Damn! He brought the handful of typewritten sheets to the kitchen table and spread them out. He picked up a page and read it.

The Bourden house was dominated by a large willow tree. That was where Mr. Harold Bourden was found, beneath that tree. His body had been crushed and was covered in welts, his bones broken, his eyes bloodshot.

Yes, he remembered reading that. But before it was the Bourden house it had been the Kumar house. Here was another piece:

The house was torn down and Willow Towers was built on the site.

Before that. He wanted something long before that. Had his father written anything about the Kumars? There was a piece on the building of Moss Hill Road, the TV tower on Tooly Peak. Nothing about the Kumars. He walked back to the study and picked up the mug with cold coffee and spilled it over the desk. Damn! Why was he so clumsy? He must be careful, act carefully, think carefully, logically. He was a mathematician. Logical thought, his trademark.

He pulled a tissue from the box and began to wipe up the coffee which was running down the side of the desk, into a drawer. He opened the drawer. More loose sheets of paper. More of the _History_. He pulled them out and sat down, ignoring the coffee stains.

The old house was originally built by Joshua Kumar in 1895, the same year that he married Melissa Kumar. Mr. Kumar disappeared that year and was never seen again.

Joshua disappeared? Of course he disappeared \- beneath an old willow tree! Bryan smiled. If his father only knew. He, Bryan Laker, had added another piece to the _Short History_. But this was no laughing matter. Joshua disappeared - was murdered - in 1895. Cassandra was born in 1895. Joshua could have been the father. Bryan picked up the notebook and pad of paper and walked back to the kitchen, adding the coffee-stained sheets to the others on the table. What had the notebook said?

Melissa Kumar - married to Joshua Kumar.

Melissa kills Joshua - buries him under the willow.

Arnold Brubacher marries Melissa Kumar ?

Cassandra born to them ? - 1895.

Could everything have happened in 1895? He cleared a place on the table, pulled the writing pad into the clearing and wrote:

1895:

House built/completed.

Melissa and Joshua married.

Melissa has a baby - kills it - puts it under the tree.

Melissa kills Joshua - puts him under the tree.

Melissa marries Brubacher.

Melissa has a second girl - Cassandra Brubacher.

Impossible. Somebody was mistaken. Was his father mistaken about the date when Joshua married Melissa? When Joshua disappeared? Was Brubacher mistaken about when Cassandra was born?

Bryan got up and made another mug of instant coffee. Then he sketched a calendar at the bottom of the page. He began to talk to himself, aloud:

Suppose that Cassandra was born in 1895, with Brubacher as father. It must have been late in the year. After all, Melissa had already had a baby that year. We'll put Cassandra down for December. If Melissa and Joshua got married and had a baby \- all in 1895 - then the marriage must have been early. We'll put that down for January. Okay. Count from January - 9 months. The first baby was born in October. Two months before Cassandra? Crazy. Two kids born 2 months apart? Crazy. Two years maybe, but not two months. Even two minutes maybe, but not two months.

Bryan ran his hands hands across his hair, pulled at his hair, picked up the coffee mug, then thought about what he had just said.

Born two minutes apart? That would make them ... twins!

Cassandra has a twin sister? Is that possible?

Bryan took a long swallow and stared at the calendar of the year 1895 which he had sketched. _Twins_. Yes, that was certainly possible. One was the baby that Melissa had killed, buried under the willow. The other? Cassandra! Cassandra the witch! The evil Cassandra! Yes, that made sense.

He leaned back, then put down his coffee and frowned.

What am I talking about? Cassandra is now, what? Eighty, ninety years old? She is certainly not the leader of the Friends of the Willow. That woman was about thirty years old, no more than forty. Damn!

Bryan stared at the top of the page where he had written:

Friends of the Willow

Friends of Willow

Is Willow a tree or a person? He shrugged and got up. _I'll take a bath and think about it - in the bathtub._ He brought his coffee with him, turned on the faucets, poured some liquid soap into the water and stared into the swirling bubbles for some time, then undressed slowly, dropped his clothes to the floor, stepped into the water.

He lay in the hot tub until the water had cooled, thinking.

Willow is both a tree and a person.

He sat up and stared at the wall.

Willow is the baby - killed - buried.

Willow is the tree.

Friends of the Willow - friends of the tree.

Friends of Willow - friends of the baby - buried beneath the tree.

He jumped out of the tub and ran naked toward the kitchen, stopping in the living room and staring back at the bathroom. _I didn't slip. The tub is slippery, I'm soapy and wet, but I didn't slip_. He pushed the hair from his face. He was accident prone and had to be careful. Now he couldn't do anything wrong. He had leapt from the tub - a slippery tub - and hadn't slipped. Liz would be proud of him. Liz - in a coma. He frowned and started again toward the kitchen, bumped against the end table, reached out to steady himself and slipped on the small rug in front of the sofa.

He lay there for some time, counting to ten twice, his eyes closed, stretched out before the sofa. When he opened his eyes he was staring at a book, slipped beneath the sofa. It was the book that Liz had been reading.

He pulled it out and read the cover: _Twins and the Soul_.

CHAPTER 27

the bones of WILLOW

It was noon when Bryan finished reading the book and the shafts of light ran brightly across the room and up the far wall. He set down the book, leaned back and thought about what he had read:

All mankind participates in a cosmic struggle between Good and Evil,

between the King of Light and the Prince of Darkness.

A new struggle between Good and Evil begins with each conception.

Every child is conceived with a life-force, a soul, provided by the King of Light.

This soul gives no advantage to the King of Light in the struggle.

Indeed, all children of Adam descend into the abyss, a world governed by the Prince of

Darkness ... and this descent begins at the moment of conception,

for each soul is tainted by original sin.

The struggle is further complicated in the case of twins.

Twins, monozygotic twins, identical twins - they share a soul until after the hour of birth

when the King of Light blesses the twins with individual soul.

Yet, the souls of each are fouled by the evils of mankind, tainted by original sin,

souls contested by Ahura-Mazda, the King of Light, the God of Good

and by Ahriman, the Prince of Darkness, the God of Evil.

Baptism decides the victor.

Bryan stared at the ceiling. Liz's _soul_ theory - maybe she was right. If Cassandra had a twin, killed and buried before baptism, then they would share a soul which was evil, tainted by original sin. But then the twin must have been killed before birth. Were the bones found beneath the old willow tree those of an unborn child?

Unborn child? Liz lost her unborn child! Were the _Friends of the Willow_ looking for unborn children? Did they want Liz's child - _his_ child - for some reason, for some evil purpose? He got out of the chair and walked again to the kitchen, looked at the sheet, turned a new page, sat down and began to write, speaking aloud:

Conjectures:

Melissa had twins - Cassandra and another - in 1895.

I need a name for the _other_ twin. I'll call the twins T1 and T2.

Melissa had twins - T1 and T2 - in 1895.

T1 was killed - murdered at or before birth.

The evil of the single, unbaptized soul is shared by T1 and T2.

The evil manifests itself in the willow, in whose roots T1 was buried.

T2 seeks another soul for T1 - or T2?

T2 establishes the Friends of Willow - Willow is her twin, T1.

Unborn children are sacrificed,

to the willow,

to Ahriman,

to the Prince of Darkness.

He stopped writing and dropped his pen. _His_ baby ... _sacrificed_. Was that why Liz was on the table, that night when he had peered into the darkness through the window at Willow Towers? Were the Friends of Willow gathered there, to sacrifice her baby, unborn, helpless? Bryan put his face in his hands and began to sob, his shoulders heaving, his breath coming in gasps. Then he rose from the table.

"By God ... you witch!" he shouted. "My baby \- my Liz. Damn you! _Damn you!"_

***

By late afternoon Bryan had a plan. He had found the key to the Willow Towers building in an old pair of trousers even though it was rarely needed: the front door lock never worked. And no new owner had asked for the key to the apartment and he had simply kept that too. He would let himself into the old building and plant the device. A long phone conversation to Petr Rowe in Electrical Engineering and the parts for the device were identified. Simple. A transmitter and receiver and a relay to close a switch. He had explained to Petr that he wanted to turn the coffee pot on from his bedroom. In fact he would use it to start a fire in Willow Towers. He would be in the next block with the transmitter - nowhere near the apartment building. He would spill gasoline over the floor in the basement. That should do it. Bryan grinned. That surely should do it. He'd get them all - all the _Friends of Willow_. A great, cleansing conflagration.

Is that what he wanted? He fell back on the sofa. Did he want to kill them all? Weren't they just like Liz? Under Cassandra's spell - somehow. Innocent of any crime? If Liz weren't in the hospital then would he want to kill her too?

What was happening to him? He was no murderer. This was stupid. He wasn't thinking straight. He wanted to kill Cassandra, _only_ Cassandra. Maybe that would free Liz. Maybe Liz would wake up from her coma.

But what about the others? _The Friends of Willow?_ Would they be after him then, or would they come out of some spell? He was gambling that it was a spell - they would come out of it when Cassandra was dead.

What had Cassandra done - really? Did she kill anyone? Weren't the willow tree deaths caused by the willow tree itself? Did he have any reason to believe that Cassandra killed anybody? Maybe he should concentrate on the willow tree - kill _it._

What willow tree? It was gone. Just some roots were left, by Willow Walk. Would it be sufficient to kill those roots? What about the other stuff made from the tree - the baskets and chairs? Did he have to kill those too, somehow?

He was getting a headache. It was a puzzle - a mathematical puzzle. He always hated mathematical puzzles.

It was a chess problem. White to play and mate in two moves. If he did this, then they would do that, then he would do this. He hated chess problems. Not worth the effort.

He had to do something. Liz's life was at stake. Liz wasn't here. He was alone on top of the tree. Liz was nowhere to be seen, just the field of wild flowers: goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace and wild strawberry, oxeye daisies and blue violet. The horizon was a million miles away and the clouds were clinging to the hazy purple hills. The tree began to sway and he reached out to steady himself on a thick and twisted branch. It spun around his wrist, its teeth biting his hand, cutting his hand, bleeding. He drew back and fell. It was a thousand miles to the ground and he fell for hours and the branch caught him just before he reached the ground, pulling him high into the air, spiralling about his waist, then his neck, then he couldn't breath.

He awoke gasping for breath, sweating and frightened. He jumped off the sofa, walked about the room, shaking, then returned to the sofa.

The dream again. What did it mean? Anything? No ... nothing ... just a dream.

He must think of another plan. He must think of how to free Liz - and all the others. He must think clearly, logically, like a mathematician. He must state and prove a theorem.

Theorem: All Friends of Willow will be restored to normalcy if ??? is destroyed.

If _what_ is destroyed? Cassandra? The willow?

He fell back into the sofa and closed his eyes.

Some theorem.

Some theory.

Theory?

Sam had a theory.

Bryan sat up. What was Sam's theory? Liz had explained _her_ theory, then Sam had - had - had _not_ explained his theory. He had left to go home. But Liz had said something about Sam's theory. What was it? When was it? Think. He had a terrible memory, but he must remember now. Sam's theory was in Sam's notebook.

Bryan got off the sofa and looked around as though he would see Sam's notebook on a table or chair. He pulled a pillow from the arm of the sofa and looked under it. Stupid. Liz had taken Sam's notebook from his study that night when they had broken into Sam's house. Where would she have put it?

Bryan began methodically, logically, starting in the bedroom, going through all the drawers and closets and clothing and pockets and shelves. He finished with the kitchen and stopped. It was not in the apartment. Liz had hidden it. Of course she would hide it, as she had hidden the book beneath the sofa. She was under a spell. She wouldn't want him to find it. It held the secret. No one must find it. She would destroy Sam's notebook. It was gone, burnt, trashed. Damn!

He sat dejectedly on a chair in the kitchen and stared at the opposite wall. The dish towels hanging from the rack were filthy. He must wash them - soon. Why was he thinking of washing towels? Why had Liz put her dress on that rack, with the dirty towels - her print dress with ruffles at the collar? She rarely wore that dress, but that was no reason to -

Bryan leaned forward. Something about that dress - and the notebook. What was it? He pulled the dress from the rack and a notebook fell from the pocket.

His heart pounded as he picked it up and walked very slowly to the living room and sat on the sofa. He was afraid to look inside. It was clearly Sam's notebook, Inspector Jaffre's notebook. It could have an answer, or maybe it contained nothing, nothing at all. He leafed through and saw the notes of old Inspector Jaffre. At the end Sam had added something:

Bones of a child - give the tree a soul.

Destroy the bones and the soul is destroyed.

There is but one soul - redeemed from the child - absorbed by the tree.

There was a diagram with boxes labelled _BONES_ and _SOUL_ and _WILLOW_ and _TREE PARTS_. They looked like a tree upside down, with lines joining the various boxes. Below the diagram:

Remove the root and the whole tree dies.

Remove the soul and the whole tree dies.

Remove the bones and the whole

The last line wasn't finished but the meaning was clear:

Remove the bones and the whole tree dies.

The bones of the child - of the twin, T1 - he must destroy the bones.

He had his theorem:

Theorem: All Friends of Willow will be restored to normalcy if the bones are destroyed.

Bryan got up, excited, and paced back and forth. He would destroy the bones. That would destroy the tree - the willow - Willow, the twin T1 and all the parts, the chairs, the baskets.

He was elated.

But where _were_ the bones? Bryan sat down again. Sam had the bones - hadn't he said that? His grandfather had kept them and Sam had acquired all his grandfather's possessions. The bones were in Sam's house. He would go there and find them. He would let himself in just as Liz had done. He'd break a basement window.

But Cassandra would already have done that - wouldn't she? If the bones held the soul of her twin then she would have taken them.

Of course! The night Sam had disappeared!

Bryan could see it all very clearly now. He squinted, placed his hands on his cheeks, rubbing, caressing.

It was like finding the truth in mathematics \- proving a theorem. Near the end it all came clear. After the jumble of contradictions and false starts and dead ends it became clear. Then he would write up the mathematical result for publication; just the clear progression to the truth. No dead ends, no false starts. The papers he wrote made it seem as though he saw everything clearly from the beginning. Now he did see clearly.

Cassandra had taken the bones from Sam's house. Sam had seen her, met her, joined her, coerced into the secret cult, _the Friends of Willow_. He had disappeared for two years, serving Cassandra's evil purposes. Then he returned to coerce Liz.

Liz was about to have a baby.

Cassandra needed that baby.

She needed the soul of an unborn child!

CHAPTER 28

Dune WILLOW

Bryan must tell somebody, talk to somebody. If he had someone to talk to he could decide what to do - how to find and destroy the bones. Who could he talk to? Who could he trust? So many people spoke in those damned half-sentences. That was a sign of membership in the _Friends of Willow_ \- wasn't it? Sam, Liz, the girl at Marco's Pizza, the officer at the station, even Bruno.

He put on his coat, went to his car and drove to the New Bamberg General Hospital. When he reached Liz's room the nurse was just leaving. Liz was the same - eyes closed, breathing slowly, still. He sat by the bed and whispered:

"Liz? Let me tell you what I think. I think that Melissa Kumar had twin girls. She killed one of them - God knows why. But the other ... the other is Cassandra Brubacher."

He looked at Liz. There was absolutely no response. What had he expected? Did he think she would jump out of bed and tell him what to do - where to find the bones? But he felt better, explaining his thoughts to Liz. It was his custom, it was natural. He continued in a low whisper, speaking slowly so that it would come out clearly, concisely:

"They shared a soul, and the premature death of the twin guaranteed that the soul was tainted with original sin \- evil. The surviving twin acquired that evil nature. The first twin was killed and buried beneath a willow tree. The willow became evil, absorbing the evil from the unborn sister. Cassandra doesn't distinguish between the tree and her sister buried among its roots."

Liz didn't move. Bryan stared at her face for a moment then continued. Explaining it to Liz somehow made it clearer in his own mind.

"Now Cassandra seeks another soul - a free soul, from an unborn child. _Your_ child. She had established a cult to assist in gathering the pieces of her sister, the tree, the twin. The Friends of Willow collect the baskets and the chairs \- store them in the basement of Willow Towers."

He paused, still staring at his wife who had not moved, but lay with her eyes closed, her hair framing her face. Then Bryan took her hand and kissed it gently.

"Liz, I know how to destroy the cult and the spell that Cassandra has on these people, on Sam, on you. I will destroy the bones of the child buried under the old willow tree." His voice was rising, trembling.

Bryan looked up at Liz.

Her eyes were now wide open, staring directly at him.

He gasped and held his breath, dropped her hand. She stared but did not move. He began to breath again, staring into Liz's eyes.

"Mr. Laker, would you please leave now. Dr. Banter would like to examine your wife and ... oh my! Her eyes are open! Mr. Laker, please leave now. Dr. Banter will want to examine your wife."

Bryan got up, still staring at his wife. The nurse caressed Liz's forehead, drawing her hand over her eyes and the eyes closed.

"Is she ... is she dead?" asked Bryan, sucking in his breath.

"No, of course not. That sometimes happens ... with the eyes. Nothing to worry about. Now, if you'll leave then I can get her ready for Dr. Banter."

Bryan left, backing out of the door and bumping into the doctor. The doctor started to say something, but Bryan turned and walked quickly down the hall to the elevator.

***

Bryan hadn't eaten for more than a day - and he wasn't hungry even now. He lived on instant coffee, slept fitfully and hadn't bathed in some time. He kept poring over the sheets of paper and notebooks on the kitchen table. There was no clue as to where the bones were. Inspector Jaffre had taken them - from the site of the new apartment building, Willow Towers, when the old willow tree was removed. That was sure. He had sent them to the forensic lab and an identification had been made: a child and a young man. That was sure. Then they disappeared. Isn't that what Sam Jaffre had said? They just disappeared. Bryan was convinced that Cassandra had taken them from Sam's house - on the night that Sam disappeared.

Think. If that were true then Sam wouldn't have said that the bones had disappeared. He had made that remark _before_ he himself disappeared. So the bones had disappeared _before_ the night Cassandra visited Sam's house and even before Sam himself disappeared. Then why had she come to his house at all? Why was she there when Liz and he visited Sam's house?

He knew now - was _certain_ now - that it was Cassandra that he had seen that night when he and Liz had peered into the living room of Sam's house. But why was she there?

Think. Sam was on to something - even Liz had thought that - his theory of the bones and the soul. Maybe his investigations had worried Cassandra and she had gone to his house to determine what he knew, to destroy any evidence he had collected, to get rid of him. But she didn't get rid of him.

Sam was still alive - or was he?

Wasn't that Sam he had seen - recently? Or was it some ghost - some creation that Cassandra had conjured up. Stupid. Of course it was Sam. Cassandra had gone to Sam's house for another purpose - not to get rid of him. What could he give her? What did she want?

She wanted babies - unborn babies. Liz was pregnant and Sam knew Liz ... too well perhaps. Bryan frowned at the thought. He shook his head. Keep on track - think.

Cassandra needed Sam to get Liz into the _Friendship_ \- the cult. Sam would have convinced Liz to go, somewhere, and Cassandra would be there and put some spell on Liz. Sounds like a fairy tale - placing an evil spell on Liz.

Okay, then where were the bones?

Cassandra had the bones.

Maybe the bones were back in the ground again, embedded among the roots of the willow at Willow Towers. Hadn't he been entangled in those very roots when he fell off the concrete blocks - looking through the window at Liz, on the table, pregnant and - and -

Bryan put his face in his hands for several minutes. Then he placed his hands, slowly, on his lap and stared straight ahead.

The willow wasn't dead - the willow at the old apartment building. Would Cassandra bury the bones again? She would want to stay with the willow - Willow - her sister. Was Cassandra living at Willow Towers? The meetings were held there and he had been aware of the meetings - at least two of them. But he wasn't aware of anyone living in the building, at least not while he was there. Then where did Cassandra live? The bones would be with her - wherever she lived.

Bryan sipped his coffee absentmindedly, staring at the papers on the table. Then suddenly he _knew_ where Cassandra lived. Where did he get that information? How did he know? He had forgotten - but he _did_ know, once. He read it somewhere. Where?

Had Cassandra Brubacher lived with Arnold Brubacher? The old man was dead. That was in the newspaper. The newspaper had said some nurse was being held for questioning ... that Brubacher had a wife ... and a daughter, Cassandra ... and the newspaper had given Cassandra's address!

Bryan jumped up and ran to the pile of newspapers in the corner of the living room. He and Liz kept old newspapers for the collection which occurred every month. He sat on the floor and shuffled through the old papers. There!

Mr. Arnold Brubacher was found dead in his bed last night at the Moss Hill Nursing Home. The feeding and antibiotic tubes had been removed as well as all vital sign electrodes. Nurse Sandra Pringle is being held for questioning. Another nurse on duty confirmed that Miss Pringle was the last person to see Mr. Brubacher alive.

Mr. Brubacher had been in the Nursing Home for four years and in the intensive care unit for several days. His wife, Melissa Brubacher, died recently in the same Home.

He is survived by his daughter, Cassandra Brubacher of Dune Road.

Dune Road!

Cassandra lived on Dune Road!

They had gone to see a willow tree on ... on Dune Road! It was in the list of special trees of Waterloo County which were in the _Gazette Tree Tour_. No. It wasn't on that list. Someone had _told_ them about the willow - and they had gone to see it. They had run out of gas or maybe the battery went dead and - and Liz had actually gone to the house and used their phone.

My god! Liz had actually talked to Cassandra Brubacher!

He _knew_ \- somehow he _knew_ that the willow on Dune Road was evil. Didn't he know that? He must have sensed it. He was drawn to the tree. He had insisted. Liz hadn't been enthusiastic, but he had _insisted_ on driving to see the tree.

But he didn't know about the evil witch.

Bryan began to shake, putting his coffee mug carefully on the table. He must go to Dune Road - find the bones - destroy them. They would be buried under that willow, he was sure of that. That meant he had to first destroy the willow, else how could he get the bones out? The willow was evil and would try to stop him.

God, that was crazy. A willow tree trying to stop him from digging out some old bones? He could buy a chain saw \- cut down the tree. A shovel to dig up the bones. Gasoline to burn the bones. Then it would be over. The spell would be broken. He would get his wife back.

When he finally got up and left the kitchen he was sweating profusely and his shirt stuck to his back, but he knew exactly what he had to do - and he would do it tonight.

CHAPTER 29

Dune Road

Cassandra stood in the space under the willow and stared at the newly opened ground about the base of the tree. The branches hung gnarled and twisted, swaying gently, caressing her.

"Why?" she whispered in a low and trembling voice. "Why do you try to defeat me? Why do you not accept my offerings?"

A thin branch curled gently about her leg.

"No! Do not mock me!" she cried. "I have given you the unborn child. How many times must I do this thing? How many times must I place the child in your care - the unborn child - the _soul_ of an unborn child?"

The thin branch uncoiled from her leg, sliding into the shallow hole at the base of the tree, coiling about the small pink and bleeding body lying there. Cassandra stood back and watched as the branches moved inward, sweeping the ground into the hole, covering the body and sliding over the soil, smoothing it, cleaning away the small stones.

"It is done ... once more it is done. Now you must rise up to join me - we must be together - to survive, together. You have failed each time. I gave you the babies, the Martin babies - both unborn - and countless others - and you have failed. This is the last time. Now you must join me! Now!"

Her voice has risen to a shout, yet the branches moved slowly, quietly, coiling about her leg then uncoiling, rubbing, smoothly, silently.

"Willow, have I erred in this alliance with Ahriman? He mocks me and yet I do this thing, to bring you to my side." Her voice trembled and a tear ran delicately to her cheek. "Willow, give me a sign of your approval, for our mother is gone and cannot - and I must continue, alone."

She waited but there was not a movement of the solemn branches which hung limp and twisted by her leg.

Cassandra turned abruptly and walked out from under the tree, the branches parting to let her pass. She stopped once and looked back. The ground moved slightly and shapes, glowing and luminescent, rose and shimmered in the darkness beneath the tree. She left and the branches slowly descended, gnarled and twisted, hanging to the ground, hiding the shapes in the vault beneath the leafy canopy.

A man, tall and muscular, stood just beyond the porch, staring blankly at the tree, his body straight and motionless. Cassandra went to Sam Jaffre and took his hand.

"Come my lover," she said quietly. "We have done what we must. Now we wait - for Willow."

Together they walked into the old house and closed the door behind them. Sam followed Cassandra to the bedroom, his face expressionless.

She was thin, almost too thin, her cheeks hollow and her eyes black. The hair which hung straight and dark to her waist swung slowly from side to side as she walked. Her hands were bony and veined like those of an old woman, but she had the appearance of someone not quite forty. When she let her robe slip to the floor her skin was smooth and white - except for the thin wavering shadows which began at her ankles and crawled up her legs, spiralling about her waist. It was as though she stood in the myriad shadows of a tree whose branches cast a darkness upon her body, hiding, here and there, a bright white sun.

She held out her arms and Sam took her in his arms, pushing her gently, delicately, backward onto the bed.

"Come my lover," she whispered. "We will wait. There is time."

She moaned and let herself be taken.

***

Bryan had stopped at the hardware store and purchased a chain saw. He sat in the car and read the instructions carefully. Liz had always used a new device without reading the instructions, but he was more cautious. He read the little booklet twice. Then he went back into the store to buy chain saw lubricating oil and an oil additive for the 30:1 mixture that the booklet called for. Liz would have filled it with gas and started it right away - not knowing that it needed a gas/oil mixture. He was proud of himself.

He stood on the sidewalk and filled the chain saw with lubricating oil, careful to pour it into the correct hole. Then he opened the trunk and took out the can of gasoline and poured the entire oil additive into the can. Who knows what 30:1 required? He would use the chain saw for a few minutes only. Surely it would survive as long as was required to cut down the willow tree. He placed the can beside the shovel, in the trunk, closed the lid and slid into the car. Now he could just wait until dark.

Why was he waiting until dark? That would mean he needed a flashlight. The tree was somehow alive, evil. Did he really want to cut it down in the dark? Not likely. When, then? He looked at his watch. It was nearly 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Now ... he should go _now_. The thought made his heart pound. He had planned on going later and would have had an opportunity to screw up his courage. But he should swallow hard and head for Dune Road - _now_.

He fished for his keys, turned on the engine and waited, breathing deeply.

As he drove out of the city he went over his plan. He would wait near the house until he was sure that no one was home. He would knock on the door. Hadn't Liz done just that? If there were no answer then he would take the chain saw from the trunk and cut down the tree. First the outer branches, then under the tree to its trunk. He had seen it done on TV: a straight cut, a diagonal cut meeting the first, a cut opposite, not quite meeting the first. The tree would fall slowly and he would stand back and watch. Then dig, with the shovel, until he exposed the bones. Pour the gasoline right into the hole and light it - right there. Gasoline! Had he forgotten? No, he had some left, from the chain saw. The tree would go up in flames as well as the bones: a proper cremation for the twin of the evil Cassandra. Matches. Had he forgotten matches? No, they were in his jacket. Good. He checked the gas gauge in his car. Plenty of gas. Good. He had thought of everything.

The sun was bright and the glare from the hood was in his eyes. He slowed and pulled the visor down, peering from under it at the dirt road flanked by fields of wildflowers. He drove for some time, then, there was the house, standing alone about 100 feet back from the road. At the side was the tree - a willow tree which towered over the house, its branches still and motionless in the afternoon sun. Bryan drove past and brought the car to rest at the side of the road. He waited for a moment then turned to look at the house out the back window. There was no sign of life. Even the willow was still.

He waited for perhaps ten minutes then opened the door and slid out. His neck was sore from looking back over his shoulder. He closed the door, tossed his head from side to side to rid himself of the stiffness, then began to walk slowly back to the house to verify that it was empty.

At the driveway he stopped and stared at the tree, mentally going through the motions: cut the branches, then the trunk, watch it fall, dig the hole, pour the gasoline, light the match.

The tree began to sway in a light breeze and he shivered slightly, then walked to the porch and knocked on the door.

What if someone answered? He had only figured on knocking and waiting to make sure that no one was home - but what if some one _did_ answer? What if someone _was_ home?

He was out of gas, that's what he'd tell them. Could he use their phone, to phone the service station? But then the serviceman would come and find that he had plenty of gas. What then? He wouldn't wait for the serviceman to arrive; that's it. He would use the phone then just drive away. What if the lady of the house - Cassandra - took note of his licence plates? He looked at his car. It was hidden by the willow tree, and too far away to see the plates.

The door swung open and Bryan opened his mouth, but was unable to say anything.

Sam Jaffre was standing at the door.

***

"Yes?" Sam said slowly, looking over Bryan's head.

"I ... the phone ... uh, your phone ..."

Sam looked down, staring quizzically, as though noticing him for the first time. Didn't Sam recognize him? Sam just stood there, staring, right through him.

"The phone ... I've come to repair ... uh, the phone," he heard himself saying.

What a fool! Why did I say that!

Sam Jaffre stepped aside. "Come," he said. "Phone."

Those damned half-sentences again. Maybe he should talk in half-sentences. Would that make him seem like a _Friend of Willow?_ Bryan stepped inside and headed directly to the phone. He had seen Liz use it the night they had first seen the Dune willow tree, and he knew exactly where it was. That was good. A repairman would probably know the location of every phone in the county. Sam just stared straight ahead. He _didn't_ recognize Bryan! Sam seemed remote, hypnotized - under a spell. Yes, under a spell.

Bryan took the phone off the hook and spoke into it. "Hello? Hello?" Stupid. Is that what a repairman would do? He put the phone back on the hook and knelt by the phone jack, removing the connector, inspecting it, then replacing it again.

"Okay," he said. "Phone okay. Good. Not bad. Perfect. Works."

He was overdoing this half-sentence thing. He got up and backed toward the door, looking intently at Sam. The door was open and he turned and walked quickly through the door, directly into the living room.

"Sorry," he said, "... wrong door ... I thought ... uh, the front door, I thought ..."

No. Wrong language, wrong syntax, wrong sentence length.

"Wrong. Go. Front. Door."

Sam was still staring straight ahead, hardly noticing him.

"Well, Mr. Laker. Won't you come in and join Sam and me? We were just having a glass of red wine. Would you care to join us?"

Bryan spun around and saw the shadowy figure in the chair, a chair that rose high above her head, hovering, ornate.

Cassandra!

"Uh ... I came to repair the phone ... uh, it's okay. I mean, okay. Good. Perfect."

"Come Professor Laker, you surely haven't turned from the college and taken up with the telephone company, have you?"

Bryan stumbled forward as Sam pushed him from behind and he sat on the nearest chair. Sam took a spot, standing, behind Cassandra's chair. She waved at him, a careless wave of her hand, and Sam stepped back against the wall.

"You know me, do you not? You have been following me, have you not?"

Bryan tried to talk but only stammered. "Brubacher."

"Yes. Cassandra Brubacher. But you learned that from Arnie, did you not? Poor Arnie, he spoke too much. Years of silence, then ... well, no matter, he is gone now."

Bryan found his voice. "His daughter. You were his daughter." Then he shook his head and corrected himself. "No. You were the daughter of Joshua Kumar."

"Very good Professor Laker. Arnie didn't tell you that, did he? He was getting old -thought I really _was_ his daughter. But you are quite right. My father - my _real_ father - that was Joshua Kumar." She spoke the name with venom.

Bryan began to relax. What could she do to him? Could she help him? Could she release his wife? The baby was gone - but his wife was in a coma. Could she, _would_ she, release Liz?

"My wife, Liz. She's in a coma - General Hospital. Why do you keep your spell -"

Cassandra laughed, a hard, crackling, shrill laugh.

"My spell? Do you think I have cast a spell on your wife?"

She laughed again, then leaned forward, her voice suddenly becoming serious, harsh, stern.

"Your wife is a fool! She tried to _keep_ her baby - keep it from the embrace of Ahriman - and almost succeeded!"

Her face flared in anger, then softened and she chuckled, leaned back and pointed over her shoulder to Sam.

"He was in love with your wife. Did you know that? He tried to save the child; tried to take your wife away, deny the Prince of Darkness. But my sister was there. Together - Willow and I - we took the baby. Now Willow has it. It is hers, to deliver unto the Prince. Do you understand, Professor Laker? Do you understand?"

Bryan stuttered. "Your twin sister ... buried under the willow ... killed, murdered by your mother ..."

"No!"

Cassandra was on her feet.

"No! My mother loved us, loved us both!"

Sam stepped forward.

"No!" Cassandra screamed. "My sister was killed, murdered, torn from the womb of my mother, violently, shamelessly, taken by the most evil of men, tempest of the devil: Joshua Kumar!"

Sam stepped to Cassandra's side, staring blankly. Bryan leaned back into his chair and raised his hands as though to shield himself. Cassandra walked quickly and stood before him, shouting.

"My sister, newly born, with a soul still tainted by the sins of mankind, a soul we shared, then ... and now! Willow, my sister, taken from my arms, taken and murdered while I watched - while my mother watched! Her soul - _my_ soul - given to the willow, still warm with a blood we shared, a soul we shared!" Cassandra lifted her face, a bright beam in her eyes. "Great God of Light, see us and weep as thy children weep! Great Prince of Darkness, listen to our plea!"

Bryan could now see her face in the dim light. It was contorted, in pain, eyes flashing blood-red, hair rising wild and tangled about her head. Her face was pale, white, chalky. Her lips were pressed to a thin red line. She wore a long black robe which hung straight from her shoulders to her ankles. Her arms were extended to her sides, her hands bent at the wrists toward the floor, bony fingers spread apart.

Bryan recalled, vaguely, the book which told of the God of Light, the Prince of Darkness. Liz had been reading it ... and this woman seemed to embrace precisely this mythology. He began to shudder, tremble.

Then Cassandra backed away, slowly, her hair falling again to her shoulders, her hands falling slowly to her side. She pointed to Bryan with a single finger and spoke softly.

"But wait. Soon my sister will be with us, born again, free again, rising from the ground beneath the willow. My sister will be with us ... soon." Yet she seemed uncertain, as though it were merely a wish, a blind hope. Bryan thought she looked beaten, somehow.

Cassandra slowly slipped back into her chair, her arms lying casually on the high arm rests, fingers hanging off the end like thin strips of ribbon - and Bryan held his breath. Sam stepped back, against the wall.

There was no sound from Bryan but his breathing, and he tried to keep that from being noticed. Cassandra sat in the darkness of the room, silent and still. They sat like that for what seemed like hours. Bryan was afraid to move, to say anything.

Then he heard the humming.

***

Cassandra stood and raised her hands above her head as the shimmering figures rose and quivered about her. Bryan stared, mouth open. They seemed to come right out of the floor and envelop her body. The humming was coming from the shapes but soon Cassandra began to hum - and Sam, who had stood motionless until now, began to hum and rock back and forth.

Cassandra dropped her robe. She was covered in black streaks which moved across her body, rising from her ankles, wrapped about her waist, coiled about her breasts, gyrating, pulsating. She began to sway and then to shout.

"Ahriman, release my sister from your evil grasp!"

Her hair began to rise, a wild tangle, black and violent.

"You have your soul! I have paid your price! Give to me the soul of Willow! Give to me the soul of my sister!"

Her eyes began to glow, first a soft pink, then a deeper red, then bright, blood-red orbs shining in the dark room.

"God of Light, take my sister into your arms \- bless her with the gift of life - carry her from the depths to the light - from the root to the branch - from the evil grasp of Ahriman to the arms of Ahura-Mazda! My alliance with the Prince of Darkness has ended!"

The shapes swirled to the ceiling, filling the room with light. The humming grew louder until it was a scream, shrill and piercing. Cassandra swayed more violently, her arms rocking above her hair, fingers outstretched, the dark shadows rising and falling across her body, swirling, revolving.

Then, a sudden flash of light, luminescent figures exploding in a glowing cascade of brilliance - then all went dark.

Cassandra collapsed into the chair, moaning and running her hands over her body. Bryan could see very little, but it seemed that her body was now completely white and free of the moving shadows. He realized that he had been holding his breath and he let it out in a long, low groan. Cassandra looked up and stared at him, eyes still flashing red.

"He has denied me," she said in a voice at once quivering with rage and yet whispering, low and sinister. "I have given my life to his work, yet does he deny me. Ahriman, Prince of the Night, deny me no more! Ahura-Mazda, God of Light, I have turned from Thee, from the Light to the Dark, and He rebukes me!" She rose from her chair and walked to the window and threw open the heavy drapes and the sun came blinding through the glass. "Ahura-Mazda, I seek the Light once more! Come to my aid and I shall deny the Prince of Darkness!"

Bryan stared in amazement. She had grown older! Her face was more creased, her hands more bony and wrinkled.

She turned and walked slowly from the room. Sam followed, as in a daze.

Bryan looked about. She had left him alone. Was it possible? He could leave - escape - tell the police. Would she let him leave? He rose shakily and went to the front door, looking back over his shoulder. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. The brightness of the afternoon sun was staggering and he lowered his head, shielded then closed his eyes, stumbled forward and down the stairs. He walked into a dark shadow and opened his eyes. The willow tree towered above him with branches waving and agitated and he fell backward onto the damp ground. The dark tree descended, coils covered in hair, descending. He pushed with his feet, back, away from the tree and yet it came, straining, waving, fingers of wood, reaching. He jumped to his feet and stumbled and fell and jumped up once more, then turned and ran as fast as he could, afraid to look back.

When he reached the car he slid inside and started the engine. He would go to the police and tell them everything.

What would he tell them? A woman who thought her sister was a tree? Who thought that she could trade souls and have the tree take human form? Was that what Cassandra expected? He looked back, out the rear window. The tree was still.

Now. He must do it _now!_

Oh God. Please give me the strength.

He turned off the engine, slid out of the car and opened the trunk, panting. He lifted the heavy chain saw in one hand and the shovel in the other. His hands were shaking so much that the shovel banged against the side of the car, a noisy clang. He looked around at the house expecting to see someone, something, coming toward him, evil and dangerous. Nothing. He took a deep breath and started across the field toward the tree. He would stay on the side away from the house. He would not be seen by Cassandra \- or by Sam. He would cut down the tree - quietly, then it would be too late for them to do anything. Quietly? Was a chain saw quiet? It didn't matter - he had to do it, _now_.

When he reached the tree he dropped the shovel and tried to remember the directions from the chain saw manual. Think. He must remember. Rotate the choke lever to _Full Choke_. Push the safety bar to _Disengage_. Place the saw on the ground, steadied with his left hand and pull the starter handle, vigorously. The chain saw roared into life and he fell back, still holding the saw. It made a terrifying noise, screaming as though in pain, but he would finish quickly.

He got to his feet and swung the saw up to the nearest branch. The branch fell away from the tree. He moved forward and swung the saw across another branch. It spun away and landed beside him. It worked! The saw cut through the branches like butter. Another branch, then another. The branches got heavier, thicker - but they didn't stay still. The next branch withdrew and rose in the air, hovering, black and hairy. He reached up and swung the saw in a wide arc across the branch. There was a scream, as though the branch itself was screaming. His saw caught and stalled. Damn! He tried to tear it away from the branch, but it was stuck. He was in trouble. Then the branch coiled about the saw and whipped it from his hand. Bryan backed away - into another branch. It spun about his waist and lifted him from the ground, higher and higher, and he was passed to a second branch, then to another, up the tree, from branch to branch, his hands bound so tightly by coils that he couldn't move them, his body held so tightly he could hardly breath, and he was passed through the inner darkness of the willow, a hollow core of blackness, then suddenly out into the light, bright, blinding, at the top of the tree.

He could see the field of wild flowers: goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace and wild strawberry, oxeye daisies and blue violet. The horizon was miles away and the clouds were clinging to the hazy purple hills, and the tree began to sway and he reached out to steady himself on a thick and twisted branch, but it spun around his wrist. Then he saw the chain saw, held by the branch, held high, swinging to and fro. The teeth were moving, slowly, and the branch swayed like a cobra, holding the saw before him, then the teeth moved more rapidly until the spinning became a blur and the sound rose to a shriek and the branch shivered with its prize.

The saw leaped forward, and he fell back against a twisted limb, but he was thrown forward, against the saw, and the teeth screamed and sliced - to his hand - and the blood leaped out in a scarlet arc and a finger fell away, away from the tree, in a lazy spiral, down, down. His arm was free and he drew back ... and he fell. It seemed that he fell for hours. Then a branch caught him, spiralling about his waist, pulling him high into the air, then a shrill screeching filled his ears and he saw the teeth, spinning, falling, and he drew back against the branch and it broke ... severed by the whining teeth of the falling chain saw.

He landed on the ground, on a heap of branches, gnarled and twisted, and jumped to his feet, running. When he reached the car he tried to open the door and found a bleeding hand pushing against the handle. He cried out and opened the door with his right hand. He placed the bleeding hand under his right arm and squeezed tightly.

The engine roared and the wheels spun on the loose dirt. He leaned forward as though to push the car ahead. The wheels whined, a high pitched howl, but the car stood still. Then, suddenly, the car leaped out onto the road, tires screaming.

Bryan glanced just once in the rear view mirror.

A dark figure was standing on the porch.

CHAPTER 30

General Hospital

"He's still in shock but the bleeding has stopped and his vital signs are normal - except that his heart rate is slightly elevated," said the nurse. The doctor grunted and hung the chart at the foot of the bed then left without looking back. The nurse stood for a moment by Bryan's bed, straightened the pillow, then left.

Bryan stared straight up at the ceiling. His worst fears had been realized. He had failed at every turn. The witch knew him - might be after him - Liz was still in a coma - the tree still stood as it had before ... and - and - he tried to remember.

He had lost a hand. Oh God! Had he lost a hand? He raised his arm and saw that his left hand was bandaged. A finger. He had lost a finger of his left hand.

How could he be so inept? So clumsy? He looked with pain at his gauze-wrapped hand.

He longed for Liz - for his wife to be there, by his side. Together they could ... they _would_ find a way.

He lay for some time, breathing slowly, trying not to move, then he sat up and looked around. He hadn't really seen the room before. He didn't know how he got there. He must have been in a daze. The room was small. There was another bed but it was empty. A tiny TV hung in the air, delicately supported by a thin and shiny metal pole. There was a bedside table with tissues and a phone. There was a closet in the far corner. He didn't want to, but he looked down at his arm again, at the end covered in gauze, slightly streaked with red.

He fell back onto the bed.

Oh God! What am I doing here?

***

Down the hall the nurse on duty had stepped into the lounge, chewing gum. She was frizzy-blond and fat, her uniform vanishing into folds of flesh, in a series of three horizontal creases below her ample breasts.

"Come with me," she said to the young woman. "This lounge is a smoking area."

They sat across a small table with an ashtray and a small lamp and several scattered magazines.

"You'll find it pretty routine," the frizzy-blond was saying. "Just don't forget the vitals. If there's a problem call the doctor on duty." She chewed continuously. "Mrs. Kronecker is the worst ... complains all the time about pains in her groin. Give her a placebo." She stopped chewing, ran her tongue over her lips, then began chewing once more. "The two gents in the end room are incontinent - they wear diapers and that does the trick. Messy, but okay. Laker, he just came in. He's okay too. Lost a finger, so keep the dressings clean."

The blond stopped chewing long enough to take a long drag on her cigarette and lean back, staring at the young woman across the table, staring at her hair, short and black, and at her eyes, almost as black as her hair.

"You'll be fine. Did I hear you worked at _Moss Hill Nursing Home?_ Say ... I don't even know your last name. What did you say it was?"

"Finney. Barbara Finney."

Twins

After he finished the slice of roast beef and mashed potato and drank the coffee, Bryan pushed the tray aside with his good hand and slid out of bed. The throbbing in his left hand had subsided and now he could feel nothing - except a cold draft. He ran his right hand down his side, then his back. The gown was torn. He was completely exposed on his backside. He thought of asking the nurse for a replacement gown, then he saw someone walk by. An old gentleman with his gown torn, right down the back, completely exposed.

Bryan grunted and looked in the closet. His clothes were there. His hand was hurting again and he had some difficulty, but he pulled his sweater from the hanger and put it over his head and tugged until it came down over his buttocks, over the gaping hole in his gown. Then he walked to the desk.

"Excuse me, ma'am. Could you tell me how to get to room four ... uh, four-something."

"I'm sorry sir, but who did you wish to see?"

"Mrs. Laker - Elizabeth Laker."

"Yes ... let's see. Laker, here it is. Just down the hall, there. Room 222."

"No - that's me. I don't want to see me. I'm Laker, Bryan Laker. I want to see my wife. She's in a coma you see and I'm now in the hospital myself and since I'm here I thought -"

"Room 419, sir. Just go up that elevator to the 4th floor, go to C-wing and ask at the desk."

"Okay ... thanks."

Bryan turned and walked to the elevator, holding down his sweater with his good hand. His left hand, wrapped, was concealed carefully under his right arm. The door opened and he stepped in just as the nurse called:

"Mr. Laker! Come back - you should stay in bed until -"

When he reached the 4th floor he saw the arrows indicating A- and B- and C-wings and walked briskly in the direction of C-wing. There was a crowd around Liz's door and he stopped there, conscious of the wind at his back, pulling down his sweater.

"Do you get many cases like this Doctor Fielding?"

"No ... it's unusual but not unheard of."

"Why wouldn't you constrain her - I mean, if she walks in her sleep then one would think that -"

A group of reporters was standing before the doctor, pencils buried between the pages of notebooks.

"Yes, of course ... we could constrain all our patients," the doctor responded, "but we don't. Sleep-walking is highly improbable in cases like this and we certainly wouldn't -"

"But you agree it _is_ possible. It _did_ happen - to this woman."

An excited young reporter looked straight into the doctor's face, pointing into Liz' room. "You should anticipate even the improbable ... sounds like gross incompetence to me," she said.

Doctor Fielding was clearly becoming angry as Bryan joined the group standing at the door. He could see Liz lying on her bed, eyes closed, face ashen.

"Young lady," said the doctor angrily, staring directly into the face of the reporter, "it is highly improbable that a car would lose a wheel and drive onto the sidewalk. Are you suggesting that the city build fences separating sidewalks from roads? Just because it _could_ happen, though improbable. That's ludicrous!"

Bryan leaned forward and asked, "Doctor? Did the ... uh, woman hurt herself?"

Doctor Fielding looked at Bryan, at his sweater and at his gown. Bryan slipped behind another reporter.

"No, she did not hurt herself," replied the doctor matter-of-factly. "She simply left the building, we got a few calls from people who saw her in a hospital gown, walking across a street, stopping traffic. We found her wandering down Main Street - but I've already _said_ that." He stopped abruptly, frowning at Bryan. "I'm afraid that's all the time I have to answer your questions."

With that, Doctor Fielding walked quickly down the hall, the group of reporters following. Bryan entered the room and sat beside his wife. Her hands were slightly soiled and her hair slightly dishevelled but she looked much the same as before, eyes closed, hair neatly piled on the pillow about her face.

"Liz? It's Bryan. Can you hear me?"

"Sir. If you will leave I can clean her up. Visiting hours don't start until ..." The nurse looked down at Bryan's gown sticking out from beneath his sweater. "Sir? Is that a hospital gown you're wearing? Are you related to this woman? Why are you - ?"

Bryan left immediately.

His hand was throbbing when he slipped back into his bed. Maybe it was his hand - he didn't have a little finger anymore. Hadn't Brubacher lost a hand? It was his left hand that was missing and Bryan was right-handed. That was fortunate. What would require both hands? Could he get along with just one hand? Opening a door, writing on the blackboard, typing at the keyboard, driving a car ... driving a car would not be so easy. Besides, surely the loss of a single finger, the most insubstantial finger, that would not deny him the use of his left hand, would it? He had got back from Dune Road by himself, hadn't he? Or had he? He couldn't remember.

Dune Road. What had happened there? Sam was there - drugged or under a spell. Cassandra was there. The strange ritual in the living room ... the shapes rising from the floor and Cassandra's chant. What had she said? She was asking some god to release her sister. Bryan remembered the god from that book - the one Liz had been reading. The God of Evil and the God of Good. She was asking the God of Good to release her sister. Cassandra had given an unborn child as some sort of sacrifice to this god and expected to get her sister in return. Why would she ask the God of Good? Maybe he was mistaken. He couldn't remember. Maybe she was asking the God of Evil to accept the sacrifice and return her sister. Yes - that must be it. The soul was tainted by original sin and the struggle between the Gods was one-sided until ... until the child was baptized. The God of Evil held the advantage. Cassandra was bribing the God of Evil. Take another soul - another unborn - and give me back my sister. That must be it. A pact with the devil. He had read that somewhere - a pact with the devil. The God of Evil was the devil and she had made some pact. Wait. Why was she asking the God of Good to - how had she put it? _from the evil grasp of one god to the arms of the other_. Why would the God of Good accept her sister into his arms? Cassandra was evil. Surely a God of Good would not make an arrangement with someone evil, like Cassandra.

She had seemed uncertain, confused. Was she turning from the God of Evil to the God of Good? Had she made some unholy pact with the devil which she now sought to sever?

Stupid. He had read too many bad books, seen too many bad movies. He rolled his bandaged hand back and forth and stared at the ceiling.

Her twin sister still had a soul tainted with sin. Cassandra shared that soul. An unborn child would provide another soul. Now there would be two souls - one for Cassandra and one for her twin sister. Is that how it went? But they would both be souls in sin. Baptized. Her twin sister must be baptized - Cassandra too. The God of Good must have something to do with that. Cassandra was offering her soul and that of her sister to the God of Good.

Stupid. Do the Gods fight over souls? Bryan closed his eyes.

She had tried this before. Cassandra had failed on previous attempts to complete the transaction with these two Gods. How many unborn children had she used? The newspaper must be full of reports of premature births - mothers who had mysteriously lost their children - abortions - unborn babies stolen by the _Friends of Willow_.

Hadn't somebody mentioned just that? Hadn't somebody mentioned the loss - the death of babies? Yes, it was Sam. This had happened before, many times. Why hadn't the police done something? Surely they must have found something that would lead them to the evil tree.

Stupid. Of course not. How could any thinking person point an accusing finger at a _tree_?

Bryan stared at the ceiling. His stump was throbbing again. Think. Was there some clue - some detail that would help in destroying the evil tree, the sister, Cassandra and her twin?

Twin.

Twin?

Bryan sat up.

Twins!

Cassandra had it all wrong! An unborn child was not enough. It must be unborn twins!

Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that before?

He felt like driving to Dune Road and telling Cassandra. Why hadn't she thought of that herself? That was perfectly logical, like a theorem in mathematics. He was a mathematician and trained in the intricacies of logical thought: axioms, lemmas which follow axioms, theorems which follow lemmas. Cassandra was not.

He smiled and lay back again and closed his eyes.

Cassandra would be pleased; he was certain of that.

When he knocked on the door and Sam answered he walked straight past and headed for the living room. Cassandra was there, a dark figure in the tall chair, her black robe flowing onto the floor, her hair falling about her shoulders like water as it slipped past the smooth rocks in a fast and shallow stream.

"You have failed before and you will fail again," Bryan said in a whisper.

Cassandra leaned forward and beckoned him to come to her. He sat at her feet and looked up into her eyes, flashing, bright. She was beautiful. He saw that now. Her skin was like alabaster, her lips carried the blush of roses, relucent eyes like gems.

"Tell me what you know," she said in a low voice. She ran her hand over Bryan's head and he was thrilled.

"You have sacrificed countless of the unborn to the god Ahrimash," he said.

"Ahriman," she corrected.

"You have appealed to Ahura-Musha for acceptance," he said.

"Ahura-Mazda," she corrected.

"You seek the rebirth of your sister from the bowels of the willow. But you have erred."

He paused. Let the statement seep into her awareness. Let her think on it and urge him to continue.

"Continue," she urged, stroking his hair, gently, caressing, lovingly.

"You share a soul - a vitality - a communion with your sister," he whispered. "Your _twin_ sister."

He waited for her to recognize the significance of that statement. He continued. "Twins - a common fabric of being - a shared awareness - a single soul."

He rose to his feet, slowly, raised his good hand, held it out to her. Cassandra took his hand and he pulled her gently from the chair and she rose as a fountain, shining, her eyes beaming in the dimness, her radiance illuminating the room.

"Go on, my lover," she said in a voice that quivered, trembled.

"You have placed at the feet of the devil an unborn child. The devil god wishes something more."

He paused and breathed deeply, pulling her to him, her body warm and vibrant, her soft breath in his ear, her smooth cheek upon his. She began to pant, slowly at first, then more rapidly. He put his mouth to her ear and whispered the words.

"Unborn twins."

She swooned and he held her gently in his arms, letting her slip to the floor, her robe falling from her shoulders, her white breasts heaving, her lips partly open - beckoning.

He lowered himself onto her slim body, pulling away the robe, casting it aside, a robe that moved and rose and hovered in the air above them. Cassandra moaned softly.

"Willow ... my sister ... at last."

He looked up and saw that the robe was filled with light, red, glowing, eyes that shone like rubies, skin like alabaster, lips that carried the blush of roses. He fell back and became afraid. Willow drifted down, enveloping Cassandra, covering her nakedness. The two bodies rose as one, shimmering, luminescent. Bryan couldn't breath. He held his throat and couldn't breath. Cassandra smiled and the smile was echoed in her sister. Cassandra raised her hand and the stance was echoed in her sister.

Bryan gasped ... but no more. He closed his eyes. This was the end.

When Bryan opened his eyes he was staring into the face of Barbara Finney.

Bryan tried to move but couldn't. He was suffocating. The nurse held the pillow tightly over his mouth and nose and he couldn't move. The room began to rotate - slowly, spiralling inward. He was drugged. He could taste it on his lips. Then the humming. Barbara Finney was humming, softly, pressing the pillow to his face. He began to cry, the tears welling in his eyes, the room becoming blurry. He closed his eyes. This was the end.

When he opened his eyes again he was staring into the face of Elizabeth Anne Laker and she was smiling.

He sat up, gasping for breath and holding his throat with his good hand.

"Liz? Liz! I thought ... I thought ..."

Liz stared down at him, smiling, a blank stare. He took a deep breath and saw the nurse lying on the floor by the bed, the small TV lying broken by her side.

"Liz! She ... she tried to kill me ... she ..."

Excited, he pointed a shaking finger at the floor.

Liz turned and walked slowly out of the room, her gown torn down the back, her hands straight by her sides. Bryan blinked and called out, but she didn't answer.

CHAPTER 31

Hallucination

"Mr. Laker, this won't take long, but I have to ask you some more questions." The officer was standing by his bed, notebook in hand. "You say that you saw the nurse, Miss Finney, only after you woke up. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Had you ever seen this nurse before? Had she treated you - changed a dressing - anything?"

"No."

"Have you ever used the small TV, the one that usually sits on that stand?"

"No. I don't watch TV. Dulls the brain - clogs the mind - fills the gray cells with -"

"Yes, quite so. Now Mr. Laker ... Professor Laker isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, Professor Laker, that nurse is dead. Did you know that?"

"No ... uh, yes." Bryan sat up and stared at the floor where the nurse had been laying.

"No, she's not there now. Coroner's office. Autopsy. Head injury."

Bryan stared at the officer. Was he speaking in half-sentences?

"We've been looking for that nurse for several days now. She used to work at the _Moss Hill Nursing Home_."

Good. Regular long sentences.

"She's wanted in connection with the death of ... well, we needn't go into that."

"Brubacher," stuttered Bryan. "Arnold Brubacher."

The officer sat on the chair, placed his notebook on his lap and leaned forward.

"Yes, that's right. How did you know that?"

"He was her father ... uh, no, not her father. What am I thinking? Sorry. Don't know what I'm saying."

Bryan shook his head. It was swimming, a dull ache. So was his left hand.

"Her father? Is that what you said?"

"Sorry. I was thinking of someone else. Sorry."

"What do you know about Mr. Brubacher?"

The officer opened his notebook again.

"He's dead. I mean, he was killed - by the _Friends of Willow_."

"The friends of what? What friends?"

"How's my wife?" said Bryan.

"Your wife? Do I know your wife?"

"Look officer, my wife is a patient, here in this hospital. I'd like to go and see if she's all right. You can join me if you like. When we get back I'll tell you a story - a fantastic story. You won't believe it, but I'll tell you anyway."

"What about these friends you were talking about?"

"Yes ... I'll tell you about the _Friends of Willow_ , or _Friends of the Willow_ if you like."

Bryan slipped out of the bed and walked briskly out the door. Constable Hendricks followed him, notebook in hand, staring at the slit down the back of Bryan's gown.

When they reached room 419, Bryan sat on the bed beside his wife.

"This is my wife. She's in a coma. She was pregnant you see and - and -"

The tears came quickly and he put his face in his hands.

"Sorry. We can go back now. I'll tell you everything."

Bryan leaned over and kissed Liz gently on the cheek, then walked out, his gown swirling behind him. Constable Hendricks followed.

***

"It all started with the _History of New Bamberg_. The _short_ history. My father had started to write it and I intended to finish it."

Bryan leaned back in his bed and Hendricks leaned back in his chair, leaving the notebook closed on his lap.

"I noticed that the old Bourden house had been torn down and my apartment built on the same site. That's Willow Towers. I used to live there. Now I'm living at Laurentian Towers ... uh, Laurentian Tower - singular, you see. Anyway, they were all killed at the New Year's Eve party. The bodies were mangled, crushed. I went to see him at the nursing home, but he didn't make a lot of sense - kept talking about the willow tree."

"Went to see who?" asked Hendricks, opening his notebook again.

"Jaffre. Inspector Jaffre. He had _willow woggles_ the nurse said and that's when -"

" _Willow woggles?_ Did you say _willow woggles?_ "

"Yes, and he wasn't the only one. Brubacher had it too. They both talked about the willow tree. Well, actually Brubacher didn't talk at all. Not till later. But Melissa Kumar talked about the willow tree. That's what the nurse said. Anyway, Liz had this theory - that the tree had a soul and -"

"Tree? What tree?"

Hendricks had his pencil poised above the open notebook.

"The willow tree that used to stand by the Bourden ... uh, the Kumar house, before it was torn down to build the apartment building. Well, when Mrs. Perkins died - was killed by the tree you understand - we were quite sure that her theory was correct. Well, at least as far as it went. There's more - much more to it than just that. Then Sam disappeared and we went to his house -"

"Sam? Sam who?"

"Sam Jaffre. He was -"

Hendricks stood up and looked down at Bryan who immediately stopped talking. Hendricks was frowning, then he sat down again.

"Yes, I know who he was. Sam Jaffre was the inspector's grandson and I went to his house in response to a complaint by the neighbours and discovered that he was missing. Hasn't been seen for - what? Two years? Maybe three?"

"No. I saw him recently, Liz and I -"

Constable Hendricks rose to his feet again and stared at Bryan. "You _saw_ Sam? Recently? Where? How? When?"

Half-sentences again. Everybody spoke in half-sentences.

"He said he had travelled - for two years. Italy and some other places. But that's not true. He was taken in by the _Friends of Willow_. He became a member of that evil cult -"

"Where is Sam now? Do you know?"

"Dune Road. He lives on Dune Road, with Cassandra."

"Cassandra? Who in God's name is Cassandra!"

Hendricks was still standing, shouting, frustrated. Bryan continued, calmly, slowly rolling his left hand across his stomach.

"She's the witch, the cult leader, the evil sister who seeks unborn children to feed to the god ... uh, the God of Evil."

"Unborn children? This Cassandra seeks unborn children?"

Hendricks sat down again, collapsing in the chair and running his hand through his curly red hair. "God Jesus. Unborn children." He got up again and stared at Bryan who lay quietly with raised eyebrows. Then Bryan raised himself to a sitting position. He had clearly touched a nerve with this officer.

"Do you know how many children were reported missing in the past few years?" said Hendricks, speaking loudly, agitated, his face twisted. "I don't mean just children ... I mean babies, aborted babies, taken right from the pregnant mother ... I mean unborn children!"

"See?" said Bryan and fell back onto the bed, his head spinning, his hand throbbing.

"So where did you say Sam was? Dune Road? Mr. Laker? Professor Laker? Are you still with me?"

Doctor Fielding walked in. "Excuse me but I think it best if you left. Professor Laker seems to have fainted. He's been on drugs and hallucinates occasionally. His hand you know."

Hendricks looked from Bryan to the doctor. "Hallucinates? You mean he talks gibberish? You mean that all he's been telling me .. it may be just hallucinations?"

"Yes. But he should be okay in a day or two."

"You mean he doesn't really know what he's saying?"

"Well, you could say that, but sometimes he's quite lucid and -"

Hendricks stared at the pages from his notebook. "Gibberish," he grunted, snapping the notebook closed. He turned to leave, wondering if there was any truth at all to what Laker had said.

"Officer? Professor Laker will be ready to leave the hospital soon. If you want I can ask him to stop by the station. It's just that he's been through a lot. It's a miracle that he didn't kill himself. He was found in his car. It had driven off the road ... Dune Road."

Hendricks took a deep breath, grinned and patted the notebook, then left.

CHAPTER 32

Michael Colby: June 1986

Michael Colby looked out of the office tower and gazed at Tooly Peak. He had been successful, very successful. His office was in the penthouse and even the washroom was larger than a standard office. He had made it in real estate, a meat packers, a tool and die plant, investments, communications. Tooly Peak was the citadel upon which his success was emblazoned. The TV tower on the peak carried his name: Colby Communications Corporation - triple C. That was Michael Colby. He could walk into the mayor's office without an appointment. He had paid good money to place people in important positions and he could call on them at any time. His black Cadillac was recognized by everyone in New Bamberg. People would tip their hats when he walked by, even when he drove by. The girl in the donut shop always bowed when he walked in for his morning coffee - maybe that was because he owned the donut shop.

Tooly Peak had started it all. The Tooly's lived in the shack at the bottom of the hill. Old lady Tooly must have had some money stashed away because when her husband died she tore down the old shack and built a bungalow, all brick with red shutters and a garage - even though she didn't have a car and couldn't drive even if she had one.

That was when Michael Colby moved in. He was just a kid, but he mowed the lawn, cut wood, repaired the fence, did odd jobs and even went to town to buy her groceries - and he did that for more than four years. Old lady Tooly really appreciated it and Michael knew that when she died - and that would be soon enough, she was that old - she would leave him something. The Toolys, they never had any kids and he never saw anyone coming for a visit so she was bound to leave him something. Who else _was_ there? No family, no friends. But he didn't expect what he got.

The day she got sick he was right there and he ran into town and got the doctor and he came right away, but she was already dead when they got back. The very next day he learned that she had left him the property that he had looked after all those years. Tooly Peak was his. He was nineteen years old and owned the whole place, the bungalow and the forty acres and Tooly Peak. He would call it Colby Peak, but they had called it Tooly Peak for a hundred years and wouldn't change, so he gave up. It was Tooly Peak, but it was his just the same.

Before he got Tooly Peak, Colby had always dreamed of being rich. They would laugh at him, the other kids. Kooky Colby they called him. When he spoke of owning a car longer than any garage, they laughed at him. When he spoke of having the whole town working for him, they laughed. When he spoke of having a house with maids and swimming pool and 3-car garage and marble stairs, they laughed at him.

Michael Colby remembered it all - all the laughter and derision and taunting.

***

It was in the Fall of 1937. He was twelve and it was his birthday. His parents were poor and couldn't afford anything elaborate so only his closest friends were invited to the party: Ronnie, Cail, Willy and Philip. Just bologna sandwiches and cherry pop and they ate on the roof of the barn. Philip would pull out the thin slices of bologna and fling them across the field in back. Then they all did, flinging the slices, laughing and making fun of the meagre lunch. Michael swore then that he would never be poor. One day he would have them all on his payroll.

He made the mistake of telling them his plan to get rich. He would start by buying Tooly Peak, he said. Of course, that was before old lady Tooly died and left him the place. They wouldn't listen to the rest. They just laughed. They laughed so hard that Willy slid down the roof and fell into the haystack.

That was when he decided to teach them a lesson. They weren't interested in money, eh? They were his closest friends, but he would teach them a lesson anyway. They wouldn't know he planned it - but Michael would know and that was enough. He figured it out very carefully and by the week following his birthday, he was ready.

It was Friday and they met in the halls at school as they usually did, gawking at the girls and chewing gum before the first class, English Lit. at 9:00.

"Did you see the ducks fly into the bog this morning?" Michael asked.

"Nah ... who cares?" said Phil, chomping hard on his gum and pushing his hair from his face. Nobody paid any attention to Michael, but that was what he expected. The only valid topic of conversation at this time of the morning was girls, so Michael leaned against the locker and whistled at Sue Lynn as she walked by with her nose in the air.

"Hope them ducks don't find the money," Michael said casually. "Hid it pretty good."

"Money?" asked Cail. "What money? Who'll find _what_ money?"

Michael saw Cail's face go slightly red. That always happened when he was excited.

"Nothin' ... just look at Sue Lynn will you. What a snooty dame," said Michael.

"Hey! You said somethin' about money in the bog. What about it?" Cail asked, looking intently at Michael and ignoring the traffic in the corridor. Cail was the most interested in money and big cars and fancy houses and Michael knew he would be the first to press him. His face was now pretty red and Michael knew that he had him.

"It's nothin' - shouldn't have said nothin'. Just slipped out," said Michael, turning and walking to the class room. The others didn't follow. He knew they wouldn't. When he turned into the room he glanced back up the hall. They were talking to each other and he could imagine the conversation:

"He said there was money, hidden in the bog."

"He's nuts. You know Kooky, always talking 'bout money."

"Yeah. Works at Fellow's Grocery on Saturdays and doesn't spend a cent of it. Just squirrels it away."

"Yeah. Always moochin' gum from us. Never buys anythin' hisself."

"But maybe he squirrels it away in the bog. Ever think of that?"

"Hey! Maybe! You know his old man. If he found Mikey's money in the house he'd just take it and booze it away."

They laughed, all except Cail who looked very serious.

"Look, you guys," Cail said in a whisper. "Why don't we keep an eye on Mikey. If he heads for the bog, we'll follow. Okay?"

"Sure. Why not? He gets paid tomorrow, right? When he gets off work, we follow him."

"How do you know he'll head right for the bog?"

"Are you kiddin'? If he comes home with the loot his old man will -"

"Yeah, yeah. Right. Okay, let's meet at the Pop Shop across from Fellow's. What time?"

"At 4. Mikey gets off at 4 and he don't work any extra."

"Great!"

"Okay!"

"Right!"

And they headed for English Lit, smiling.

Sparrow Lake

Michael saw them gathering at the Pop Shop, starting at 3:30 Saturday afternoon, but he didn't wave or anything. He just carried the cases of apples up from the basement and arranged the cabbage and carrots and swept the sidewalk in front of Fellow's Grocery. In the Fall there was always more vegetables than the store had room for and he kept having to make room, piling the cabbage high and keeping them from falling over with the bags of carrots. Then some stupid old dame would come along and pull out a bag of carrots. Not from the top, but from the bottom - and he would pick up the cabbages and rinse them off and pile them up again, then sweep the cabbage leaves from the sidewalk.

He looked at his watch. It was almost 4 o'clock. He carried his last case of apples from the basement then went down and hung his overalls on the hook, pulled off his jacket and washed his hands. At 4 o'clock on the nose he left Fellow's Grocery and headed down the street, his pay in his pocket: $3.00 in one dollar bills. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Willy looking out the window of the Pop Shop so he started to trot up the street. When he turned the corner the four of them were scrambling down Coots Road to keep up. He ran across Moller field and hopped over old man Bishop's fence. The old man came out onto the back porch as usual and cursed, waving his arms, red in the face. That would slow up Cail and the other guys; they would have to go around Moller field.

When he reached Drumbo Creek he stopped and looked back up the hill. They were nowhere in sight so he continued, hopping across the creek from rock to rock and on down the hill to the bog. There was only one good way into the bog and the other guys were sure to take that route. If you didn't follow the ridge you'd sink to your knees in the peat. Some said that Sparrow Lake had no bottom, just muck to the center of the earth. It was a pot hole they said. Scooped out of the ground by the ice - during the last ice age. But the ducks liked it there. In the Fall they'd drop onto the lake and find something good to eat. Maybe the weeds. Maybe the gunk that stuck up out of the murky water. The ducks never stayed too long though and they never ever had baby ducks there. The black shapes that moved through the dark water, fins or something, they were carp maybe - or suckers or turtles maybe. Anyway, some said that ducks were sometimes pulled under and eaten. Maybe that's why they never stayed too long and never had babies there. But they always came back the next year before heading farther North.

The ridge ended abruptly and ran down among the cedar and tamarack and got mucky. That's where Michael stopped, reaching inside his jacket pocket and pulling out a one dollar bill. The tall boots were there, just where he had put them yesterday. He slipped them on, poked his shoes into his jacket pockets and headed down the hill, careful to keep to the line of cedar where the ground seemed to well up a bit. He had done this many times before and knew exactly where to walk. When he got to the bottom he could see Sparrow Lake in the clearing. The water looked still today and the afternoon sun glinted on the smooth surface. It looked like a great place to swim except that is was maybe two feet deep. Two feet of water and a thousand miles of muck. There were stories of dead bodies lying in the muck. Stories of witches, of demons, of ghosts... all rising from the mud at night. Old man Fellows, where he worked, he even talked about one of his relatives buried in the muck.

Michael stopped at the edge and looked at the dollar bill. It was really a shame that he had to do it this way, but he had planned it all out and this was the only way. He threw the bill out onto the lake and waited to see that it wouldn't sink. No. It just stayed there, maybe three feet from the shore, still in the water. Then he ran back up the hill a way and grabbed the rope hanging from that big old tree and hauled himself up, pulling the rope up after him. Just in time too, because he could hear the other guys coming.

"I didn't see him go down there," said Phil.

"How else would Kooky go?" said Ronnie.

"Yeah, where else? This here's the only way down," said Willy.

"But what if he didn't even come this way?" groaned Phil. "My dad says it's dangerous - the bog - I should stay away and -"

"If you kept away from everything your dad says, you'd spend the rest of your life in bed," said Ronnie.

"Yeah," laughed Willy. "With his sister. Don't you sleep in the same bed, Philly boy?"

"Hey ... not a bad idea Philly. Spend the rest of your life in bed with your sister."

"Look guys," Phil said. "Bess is only ten years old. Are you crazy or something? She's a dummy, stupid."

"Don't you know Philly boy? They're all the same upside down."

They began to laugh until Cail raised his hand. Cail was the serious one and although no one admitted to being a leader or anything like that, somehow they always followed Cail.

"C'mon. It'll only take a minute to get to the lake," said Cail.

So they headed down the hill, single file, keeping to the line of cedars where the ground was a bit higher. Phil was the last and he complained all the way down. When they got to the muddy edge, Cail stopped and looked out over the lake. Their shoes were covered in muck, but they all paid no attention, just peered out over Sparrow Lake.

"What are we lookin for anyway?" complained Phil." Are we lookin for Mikey or are we lookin for his money?"

"Either ... both," said Cail. "If we find Kooky, we find the money. If we find the money then who needs Kooky?"

"Right!" cried Willy. "Who needs Kooky Colby. We just need his loot."

"There ain't nothin' here. Let's go back," said Phil.

They stood there for some time, peering into the dark corners of the bush and staring out over the lake. Michael Colby could see them all from the tree. When would they see the dollar bill? Had it sunk? Did money sink? Maybe he had wasted the dollar. Maybe he had just thrown it away - for nothing.

"Hey! Look out there!" It was Willy. He was pointing out over the lake. They all rushed to the edge and pointed.

"Yeah! I see it. Looks like a bill."

"Why would Mikey toss his money out there?" It was Phil. "That's crazy."

"Maybe he hid it around here - someplace - and it just sort of blew away - onto the lake." It was Ronnie.

"Let's look around. Could be more around here." It was Cail and they all began to stomp through the bush looking under rotting logs and into stumps. After a few minutes Cail said, "What would you say that bill was ... floating out there?"

"A buck," said Phil.

"You kiddin'? Looks more like twenty bucks. Kooky's been stashin' his loot for years."

"Yeah ... it's a twenty at least," agreed Willy. Willy always agreed with somebody else. He rarely had an original thought in his head. He was a little chubby, always dirty and downright stupid at times.

"Okay," said Cail. "Who's goin' in to get it?"

"Are you crazy?" cried Phil. "They ain't no bottom! That lake goes down forever!"

"Willy? How much money do you think is floatin' out there?" Cail looked directly at Willy and Willy straightened up as best he could. Cail didn't usually talk to him directly, but now he did.

"Twenty, sure as shootin'."

"Well, if we split it four ways then it's five bucks apiece. But the guy who goes in to get it oughta get more." Cail rubbed his chin and Willy leaned forward. "I'd say the guy who gets it should go home with six bucks in his pants instead of five." Willy began to smile and Cail stared up and rubbed his chin again. "Maybe even seven."

Willy didn't even wait for any further discussion. He just ploughed right into the water, sloshing and rocking from side to side.

"How much does that leave us?" asked Ronnie.

"Yeah ... why'd you say that, Cail?" said Phil. "And what if it ain't a twenty? Looks like a buck to me."

But Cail was looking out after Willy who was up to his waist in muck by the time he got to the bill.

"Hey! It ain't a twenty!" shouted Willy. "It's a buck!"

"See? I told you!" cried Phil. "A buck! So how much does that leave us?"

Willy struggled back, but began to sink further into the lake. Then he just disappeared under the water and there was only a few ripples and a dollar bill floating where Willy used to be.

"Holy Christ!" yelled Ronnie. "Let's get the hell outta here!"

Ronnie turned and ran up the hill and Phil followed. Cail pushed a log from the bank and it floated lazily to the spot where Willy had disappeared. The spot was now murky and swirling.

Willy's hand came up.

"Grab the log, Willy!" shouted Cail, his face now bright red.

Willy's head came up, gasping, spluttering. He reached for the log but it slipped away and headed out across the lake. Cail stepped gingerly out into the murky water, his hands held high. Then a rope snaked out over his head and landed right beside Willy who was trying desperately to swim in the muck.

"Grab the rope, Willy!" shouted Michael. Willy did and together Cail and Michael dragged him to the edge of Sparrow Lake. When he crawled out of the muck, Michael said, "Your mom ain't gonna notice a thing Willy. You're just as filthy as usual."

Phil and Ronnie started to laugh. They had heard Michael shouting and had stopped running up the hill and came back to see Willy being dragged from the bowels of the lake.

"Christ, Kooky ... uh, Mikey," gasped Willy. "You got here just in time. I was gone good."

"Yeah, Michael," said Ronnie. "Willy was real lucky."

Phil nodded his head in agreement, but Cail looked at Michael and frowned.

"How come you just happened to have a rope?" Cail asked.

"Yeah," said Willy, wiping the muck from one place to another across his shirt. "How come a rope?"

"Rope?" said Michael softly. "To climb a tree. What else?"

Ronnie looked up at the nearby trees, then at Michael. "A tree? Why are you climbing trees in the bog?"

"Well ... " said Michael putting his hands in his jacket pockets and pulling out two dollar bills. "I didn't want to say anything to you guys, but ... well, maybe I _still_ shouldn't say anything." He looked around as though someone might be listening. "Never can be too careful you know." They were all staring at the money in his hand. "I guess nobody's around and I know you guys wouldn't tell nobody." Michael pointed to the huge tree he had climbed. "See ... I've been stashing my money here. You know my Pa. If he got his hands on it then he'd just take it for sure. So I've been stashing it up in that big old tree. Keep this here rope around so I can climb up to where I keep it - up there in that big old tree." Michael pointed and they all looked up into the tree.

Nobody talked for a few seconds then Cail said, "There was a buck on the lake. That yours?"

"Yeah," grunted Michael. "Dropped it when I was up the tree. Just floated down and out onto the lake." He looked at the lake. The bill was gone. "Guess I lost it now," he said.

Phil started back up the hill and Ronnie followed. Willy kept trying to push the muck from his clothes, but it looked worse and he just stared down and groaned. Cail shook his head and started after Phil and Ronnie.

"Hey you guys!" shouted Michael. "You didn't tell me why you were here? What you all doin' at Sparrow Lake?"

They all stopped to look back at Michael, then at each other, then they all started to talk at once:

"Lookin' for ducks."

"Nice day for walkin'."

"Nothin' else to do."

"Had to pull me out of the lake."

Michael smiled and pushed the bills back into his pocket. They all saw him smile. Then they started up the hill again.

They knew what had really happened, and Michael knew, and they knew that Michael knew ... but nobody ever mentioned it again - not for a long time.

CHAPTER 33

Colby Clinic

Michael Colby turned away from the window, slid into the huge black leather chair and looked across the walnut desk at his office. He was a big man, six foot five, without a trace of hair. His head rose like a mountain from his broad shoulders. And his office was built to match his physique. He always felt his size contributed to his success. When he was ready to close a deal he would make sure he was standing, towering over his opponents. He would put his hand on their shoulder. That always made them look up at him. That was intimidating. And he always wore black suits. That seemed to increase his stature too. Michael Colby, big and black-suited, driving a Cadillac, big and black.

His office was sparsely furnished. To either side of the door were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, built into the wall, every shelf filled with large and impressive books. He hadn't read any of them but when Lawrence, Whittaker and Manny decided to retire he had bought every book in their law office.

On his left was the heavy oak door to the washroom and on his right was a circular walnut table with magazines arrayed neatly, overlapping, in a gentle arc from one side to the other. Around the table were four padded leather chairs, almost as large as the chair he sat in now. His desk was completely bare. Even the telephone was in a sliding drawer and his cigars and ashtray were in another. He had visited a vice president of IBM last year and saw that _his_ desk was bare. How did he manage that? Michael Colby always had papers and pencils and phone and paper clips and other junk on his desk. _My secretary looks after everything_ the man had said. _She tells me what to do and when to do it. That's efficiency, organization. I just make the decisions_ the man had said. Colby had immediately ordered a large desk with plenty of drawers and a huge surface which he now maintained free of junk.

He ran his hand over the surface of the desk and smiled. Cail Vinney would be here soon, _Doctor_ Cail Vinney. He hadn't seen Cail since they graduated from high school. Ronnie was working as a manager in one of Michael's plants, the tool and die plant near Cambridge. Phil was in sales; Waterloo County Meat Packers. He was actually good at that. All the stores and butchers within two hundred miles carried Waterloo County sausages and sliced meats. And Willy? Good old Willy. Stupid old Willy. He worked in the Packers, too - butchering hogs. Willy loved his job. The hogs would run down the ramp, squealing and snorting and old Willy would ...

Miss Capricorn knocked, opened the door and peeked in, just her head showing.

"Mr. Colby? Mr. Vinney is here now. Shall I send him in?"

"No ... wait just a minute. I'm busy right now. I'll tell you when. I'll buzz."

Miss Capricorn smiled sweetly and her head disappeared and the door closed quietly.

Let old Cail wait for a minute. Colby looked at his watch. It was nearly noon and Cail could wait. Colby could walk into the mayor's office, right into her office without an appointment, without waiting - but Cail could wait until Michael Colby was good and ready. Colby pulled out a pad of paper from a drawer and placed it in the center of his desk, then a pen, then walked to a shelf and pulled down a large book and put it on the desk. He was a busy man and Cail couldn't expect to just walk in, even if he had arrived exactly at 11:45 as arranged.

At precisely noon Colby pushed a button by the side of his desk and opened the book. When Miss Capricorn led Cail Vinney into the room Colby was copying from the book onto the pad of paper. Cail stood for a moment before Colby looked up.

"Cail! You old dog! Have a seat. Take the weight off."

Cail looked around. There was no nearby chair so he stood. Colby leaned back and stuck his pen in his jacket pocket along with the other six pens, ignoring the fact that Cail had nowhere to sit.

"Long time no see. So ... how you been Cail?"

Colby smiled and reached into a drawer for a cigar, taking his time to light it, then blowing smoke across the desk.

"I'm okay Mikey," said Cail. "How have you been? How's Marg?"

"How'd you know I married Marg Kultise?"

"Everybody knows. You're sort of ... well, famous, if that's the right word."

"Yeah - I guess that's the word. Marg's fine, just fine."

After a long and bitter divorce which had been a primary source of local news, Colby had married again: Margrit Kultise. Marg had been a beauty queen when she was 18, a well-known baton twirling champion, a leader in several fund raising campaigns and more recently a crusader for a clean air policy. She was the darling of New Bamberg and a frequent guest on the local news. The marriage had been in all the papers and the entire town had been invited for a barbecue. They jostled and shoved to get a look at the newlyweds. The men had lined up to shake hands with Michael and the women had crowded around Marg.

"I still remember when she won the baton twirling contest," said Cail. "She's a great girl, Marg. A little young but ... I mean ... uh, we're all proud of you Mikey. Local boy who makes good - to the top of the financial ladder. I think everybody is glad you decided to stick around Waterloo County. You could have gone off to where the action is - where the big money is \- but you stayed here and I guess that's why we're all proud of you."

Colby smiled and blew his smoke off to the side. Cail was a nice enough guy.

"Let's sit over there Cail ... more cosy." They moved to the round table in the corner and Colby looked around for an ashtray. There was none so he dumped his ashes on the floor. "Cleaning lady ... comes in every night," he said. "Okay Cail. Let's have it. Why did you come to see me?"

Colby knew precisely why Cail had come. He had opened his clinic in rented quarters less than a year ago and couldn't get government funding. Several doctors in town had put up some money but Cail had put in everything - and the other doctors were pulling out. Cail was broke. His house was mortgaged to the hilt, his wife was working full time and their combined salary wasn't enough to pay the bills. He had to raise his fees to cover the rent and the people started going back to General Hospital, more crowded, less personal attention, but cheaper and, in the end, that's what counted. The almighty dollar. Colby smiled. He had bought the building less than a year ago; the building in which the clinic was located. Cail paid rent to _him_.

"You probably know why I'm here Michael," said Dr. Vinney, slowly. "The rent is more than I can manage. I really don't want to close down the clinic, but I may have to. I think New Bamberg needs a clinic like this - a place where people can get the personal attention they need. A place where -"

"Look Cail," said Colby, leaning towards Cail and staring him right in the eye. "You just don't understand the masses. I mean, give 'em a choice between steak and beans and they choose steak. Now tell 'em the steak is going to cost them and what do they do? They eat beans."

Colby got up and walked around the room. Cail twisted in his chair to follow him. Colby stood by the window and watched Cail, twisted in his chair, the light from the window glaring in his eyes.

"If you come for money I got mine all tied up. People think I've just got money sticking outta my pockets. Not true. In a business like mine you gotta have it all invested, workin' for you. If you've come to have the rent lowered I can't help there either. See ... I look after the properties owned by Colby Enterprises but I don't make all the decisions. There's a board of directors. They agree on a figure and I just see that it's done. Got that?"

Cail got up from his chair, nodding his head.

"No. I haven't come for any handouts. Not for any reduction in rent or any special consideration. I have a proposition to make."

Colby walked around his desk and sat down at the table again. Cail remained standing.

"The clinic is losing money. I have to tell you that. We're doctors not business men. But it doesn't have to. It can be profitable if someone with some business acumen runs it - I mean the business end of it. That's the proposition. You take over the clinic and we'll work for you." Cail sat down and took a deep breath.

Colby leaned back and smiled. So. Cail would be working for him after all. He had the others under his thumb: Phil, Ronnie, Willy - now Cail Vinney - _Doctor_ Cail Vinney. The clinic was a dead loss, he knew that, but this was too good to pass up. He already owned the building. He'd forget about the rent and take a cut of their salaries. Not much, but they would be working for him. He might even decide on their salaries. Yes, that was good. He would decide how much Doctor Cail Vinney brought home to his wife and family. Cail might even have to work overtime to make ends meet.

"Tell you what I'll do, Cail. The clinic is a losing proposition and not the kind of investment I'm used to, but I'm a community-minded man. The new wing of the library - didn't I pay for that? And the Colby Complex on King Street, with the home for wayward girls - don't charge them a cent. But that's okay. I'm just that sort of guy. Here's what I'll do. I'll take over the clinic. I'll pay all the bills and buy whatever equipment you need and advertise in the _Gazette_ and have the townsfolk clamoring to get in - for all that special treatment they'll get at the clinic. And I'll pay your salary. You and the other doctors there. And you won't have to worry about anything except looking after the patients, giving them that special treatment. How's that?"

"Sounds great Michael. I'll have to discuss this with the others of course, but I'm sure they'll agree." Cail grinned. "We'll probably haggle over salary, but that's to be expected, eh?"

Colby got up and walked to the door.

"I'll have a contract made up for early next week. I'll need the signatures of all the doctors in the clinic. Capricorn will give you a call. You can drop by, pick up the papers, get the signatures then drop the stuff back here."

Cail held out his hand and Colby shook it briefly, then closed the door as Cail left. He went to his desk and pushed the buzzer. Miss Capricorn stuck her head around the door.

"Come in, Capricorn. Sit down." Michael Colby always said that, even though he never had a chair by his desk, so Miss Capricorn stood, as usual. "I want you to make arrangements for my wife to be admitted to that clinic ... what the hell is the name of that clinic anyway?"

"Do you mean Vinney Clinic?"

"Vinney? No ... Colby Clinic, double C. Yes, perfect!" Colby chuckled. "Make arrangements for my wife."

"But it's not that sort of clinic ... I mean, it's just a group of doctor's offices, specialists who do special surgery - that kind of thing. Your wife should really go the General -"

"Capricorn! I _own_ that clinic! If I want to put my wife in there, then by God I will put her there. See that it's done. Tell 'em I own the bloody clinic. Understand? And when you talk to them, call it Colby Clinic. Got that?"

"Yes, Mr. Colby, I understand. That's wonderful Mr. Colby. It's a wonderful clinic. The doctors are so wonderful and -"

"Yes, yes. Just do as I say. Marg's expecting in about two weeks so get her in there by the end of next week."

"I most certainly will Mr. Colby. Mrs. Colby will be so pleased. She's expecting twins, isn't she?"

Room 47

It was probably the hardest thing that Cail Vinney ever had to do, but now it was done. The doctors had agreed to the terms of the contract after much debate and he had taken the papers back to Colby. By the following week Colby had put a full page ad in the _Gazette_ advertising the opening of the all-new Colby Clinic for the best in personal care. As Vinney had expected, the mayor turned out for the ceremonies as well as many members of city council. The paper had carried it on page three. How did Colby miss not having it on the front page? Surely it was more important than some middle-east crisis. Anyway, they could hardly keep up with the demand for their services and other doctors wanted to join the team. They weren't so excited about being on Colby's payroll, but they came anyway.

Some of the offices had to be turned into a maternity ward at Colby's insistence, but that turned out to be an attraction too. All the well-to-do wanted to have their babies in the clinic and would be willing to pay extra for it. It was quite remarkable how much extra a husband was willing to pay when it involved his brand new son or daughter. Nurses were hired for around-the-clock service and a part of the clinic operated like a small hospital. Not the usual practice, but it seemed to be working well.

In particular Cail got a chance to drop in on Marg Kultise, that is to say Marg Colby, every day. She was a beautiful woman and he had always admired her bubbly personality. He never could understand how she wound up with Michael - he was at least 15 years her senior. It didn't occur to Cail that he, too, was 15 years her senior.

Cail had married even before he entered Med School - a childhood sweetheart. Somehow his wife had seemed more exciting, more appealing, more attractive _before_ they got married. After they married she had stopped wearing that exotic perfume, stopped going to the hairdresser, stopped wearing those tight fitting slacks and sweaters. But he shouldn't complain: she looked after the kids and cleaned the house and cooked the meals - often in curlers and housecoat - and still held down a full-time job. He must remember to appreciate that, but it wasn't easy. He had to remind himself, often. Working late at the clinic was no hardship for Cail Vinney. Going home and trying to carry on a rational conversation with his wife - that was the hardship. Her entire conversation revolved about the state of disrepair of the dining room carpet and the worn spot on the wallpaper and the weeds in the yard.

The first time he had seen Marg Kultise was from a distance. In fact every time he had seen her it had been from a distance. Marg was speaking about the annual beauty contest. There had been a number of complaints, it was degrading to women, it was a parade of meat on the hoof, a cattle auction, the city should not contribute tax dollars for its support. Marg's speech was televised on the 6 o'clock news and again at 11 o'clock. She urged the people who were opposed to the contest to boycott it, don't buy tickets, tell their friends to stay away from the coliseum where the contest took place. The financial contribution made by the city was minimal and a massive boycott would end the annual event. The people could and should speak with their dollars. Simply stay home. Don't even watch it on TV. If there was enough opposition it would certainly be the last year for the competition. Let only those who supported the contest put down their money.

Marg was beautiful and eloquent and 18 years old. The result of her speech was phenomenal. The lineup began five hours before the doors were open and the coliseum was filled to the rafters by the time the contestants were introduced. When Marg was introduced the crowd went wild, shouting and waving. When the evening was over she had been crowned Queen of Waterloo County.

Cail smiled. He remembered that day well. He had followed her career since that very day.

***

It was Monday evening and Cail was working late, again. He had already called home to warn his wife that he would be late for dinner and now he checked his watch and saw that he'd have to do without dinner. Maybe he'd drop by and have a burger and fries on his way home. He was starved and that sounded good. A burger with the works: cheese, lettuce, onion, relish, catsup, bacon - the works. Oops. He'd forgotten to include the hamburger meat. That would make it a _zero_ burger.

When he was younger he thought he could make a fortune selling burgers with the works: everything except the hamburger meat. And with all the condiments nobody would even know it was missing. He'd call it a zero burger and sell it for less than anyone in town, and he'd make his fortune.

But no mustard. It was a sin to put mustard on a burger - it belonged only on hot dogs. That's what he told his kids. The 11th commandment: thou shalt not put mustard on a burger. But his kids did anyway and he always thought they did it to upset him.

***

Cail had wandered absentmindedly down the hall and was now standing in front of room 47. Why had he come here ... again? He had no business in the maternity ward. He must be tired - but now that he was here he might as well drop in to check on Mrs. Colby. She was nearly 46 years old and this was her first birth - well, births. It wouldn't be easy for a woman of her age and it was his duty to make sure that everything went well.

"Hi Marg," he said, seeing that she was awake and reading in bed.

"Hello Doctor Vinney. Working late?"

"Can't you call me Cail? I feel like a member of the family. After all, I've known Mikey for at least fifty years and been a fan of yours for ... well, for a long time."

"A fan? It's Michael who's well known in these parts, not me. He gets his picture in the paper, but I hardly ever do - not that I'd want to, of course."

"Ah, but that's not true. I first laid eyes on your lovely face when you won the baton -"

"Doctor Vinney, that was years ago. I was only seventeen ... but thank you for the compliment."

"Compliment?"

"Well, about the pretty face and all."

"Oh ... yes. Guess I shouldn't really be saying things like that - to a patient, I mean. Just slipped out."

"That's because you're almost a member of the family and have known Michael for fifty years. Right?"

Cail laughed and sat on the side of the bed. "Right. Now I'm going to act like your doctor. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Just fine ... but, Dr. Canon is my doctor isn't he?"

"Of course, but he's not here now and I am. We usually check on each other's patients."

Cail lied and felt a little guilty about it, but he checked her pulse anyway. Then he ran his hand gently over her stomach and took her temperature. When he felt the blood rising to his face he got up and left with a quick goodbye.

Marg smiled. He was a good and gentle man and she looked forward to his visits. She had been in the clinic for almost a week and he had dropped by every day. He always stayed until his face went red, then left. In a few days she would have her babies. They had already told her they would be twins and just this morning Dr. Canon was pleased to tell her the latest news: twin girls.

***

When the news got out that Michael Colby of Colby Enterprises was about to be the father of twin girls it started talk of a Colby Empire run by women. In the _Gazette_ , the letters to the editor were 3-to-2 in favour of females at the head of financial institutions: cool heads, sympathetic to the needs of the workers, progress not profits, duty not dollars, fair and equitable salaries without sexual discrimination. The anti-female contingent wrote of closing down plants when the boss had a baby and menstrual holidays for all the workers.

The paper carried the news of the imminent twins on the third page.

Three people in particular read the article with great interest.

One was Constable Hendricks.

One was Bryan Laker.

One was Cassandra Brubacher.

Twins

Bryan had been released from _New Bamberg General Hospital_ after five days. His hand still throbbed somewhat, but there was nothing more they could do for him and he went home. He could have left much sooner, but he enjoyed the days at _General_ but was ashamed to tell anyone – and the hospital had plenty of empty beds. You're not supposed to enjoy hospital food or the regimen or the pills in the middle of the night or the lack of privacy, but he enjoyed it just the same. Maybe it was because his own cooking was so bad. Maybe it was because he could visit Liz without regard to posted visiting hours. She was still in a coma but her colour was good and all the nurses said she was very healthy.

He sipped instant coffee in his living room and looked at the pictures in the _Gazette_ and read the large print. He wasn't interested in reading the news. It was all bad. He had stopped watching the news on TV for almost a month last Summer and had never opened a newspaper once. When he had started again in the Fall, nothing had changed. The same crises in the same geographical locations, riots and bombs, tax hikes and border skirmishes and political scandals. Was there any good news?

Once, he had asked that of Liz: _Why doesn't the paper publish any good news?_ She had responded: _What would you regard as good news?_ He hadn't been able to think of anything that was simultaneously "good news" and "newsworthy". The winners in the annual pie baking contest? The opening of a shopping mall? Would that fill a newspaper? What _was_ "good news" and "newsworthy"? Maybe just the sports page ... sometimes.

When he saw Michael Colby's picture in the paper he stopped and read the entire article. He had seen the picture before. It was a common picture in the _Gazette_. Colby was standing beside his black Cadillac. Why did they put _his_ picture in the paper? It was his wife who was having the baby - or was it babies? He read the article again. Twins. Twin girls.

He put the paper on his lap. That rang a bell.

"Colby is having twin girls?" he muttered. "Twin girls!" He straightened up. "Christ, if the witch reads this ..."

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. No, maybe not. She's just looking for unborn babies - not necessarily twins. _He_ was the one who realized that unborn twins were needed. Colby was having unborn twin _girls_ \- that was even better. Well, even better for the witch. But of course she didn't realize that. He had come to that conclusion by the sheer power of logical thought. If the witch read the paper would she see the connection? Would she realize that unborn twin girls would solve her problem with that god - what was his name?

Bryan sat up then walked to the kitchen to make another coffee.

She wasn't stupid. She would certainly realize that twin girls - unborn - was what she needed. But there must have been dozens of twins born in New Bamberg since Cassandra started looking for souls. She would certainly have thought of it before now.

Maybe not. How many births get on the third page with pictures, _even before they're born_?

The more he thought of it the more he became convinced that Cassandra would realize the opportunity that presented itself and would take the twins - somehow. He must warn the mother - or Colby himself.

Yes, he must warn Michael Colby.

***

Miss Capricorn knocked lightly.

"Come in, Capricorn," said Colby. He was looking through the financial statements of his new clinic. It had been in operation for less than three weeks, but it seemed that it might have been a good investment after all. When Miss Capricorn opened the door she walked to his desk and announced that a Mr. Bryan Laker was here to see Mr. Colby.

"Bryan who? Do I know him? Who the hell is he?"

"He says that he has an important message for you. It's about Mrs. Colby."

Colby collected the papers on his desk and shoved them into a drawer. "Okay. Show him in." He lit a cigar and leaned back. About his wife? Was he a doctor from Colby Clinic? His wife was a little past due but they had told him that her birth - or births - would nevertheless be normal.

"Mr. Colby? My name is Bryan Laker. I'm a professor at the college - mathematics. I know," smiled Bryan, "it was your worst subject. Everybody says that, but - "

"What did you want to see me about, Baker?"

"Laker, Bryan Laker. Yes ... well, I was reading the _Gazette_ last night and saw the article on your twins. A very flattering picture of you. Your car is famous in New Bamberg. I think that a picture of your car, all alone, and everybody would know the article was about you."

"Baker, if you have something to say then say it. I'm a very busy man."

"Oh, sorry. Uh ... Mr. Colby, I think your wife is in danger."

Colby got up from his desk and leaned forward, hands on the desk, his cigar pointing at Bryan.

"Are you telling me that you bastards at the clinic have screwed things up? Is my wife okay or not?"

"I'm not from the clinic Mr. Colby. I'm a professor - mathematics. I just saw this article in the paper and thought I should warn you about Cassandra Brubacher. It's my opinion that she will -"

"Brubacher? What the hell are you talking about? What does she have to do with my wife? You said my wife was in danger. What kind of danger?"

"Well, Cassandra Brubacher is looking for souls - souls of the unborn. She sacrifices them to the god ... can't remember his name - the God of Evil. Especially twins. Especially twin girls."

"Jesus Christ, Baker! What the hell are you talking about? I sold that crummy apartment building to Brubacher years ago. Hey! I remember you now. You were the prick that refused to move out. So what the hell ..."

The phone rang and Colby raised his hand and Bryan, who was about to say something, closed his mouth. The phone rang only once then Miss Capricorn knocked and peeked in past the office door.

"Mr. Colby? Sorry to interrupt, but the man on the phone said it was urgent."

"Who the hell is the man on the phone?"

"It's a police officer. Constable Hendricks."

"Yes ... he'll tell you!" said Bryan, leaning over the desk.

"Sit down Baker," snarled Colby, pulling out a drawer and removing the phone. There was no chair so Bryan remained standing.

"Yeah, what is it Hendicks?" Colby listened for several minutes. "No shit ... are you kidding? My wife? How many others did you say? Who? Elizabeth Laker? Yeah ... yeah .... okay. Then do it, right now. Don't waste time. And if you screw this up Hendicks I'll have your ass."

Colby looked pale as he placed the phone on the cradle. He looked straight at Bryan.

"He says my wife is in danger. He says some Laker woman had it happen to her. He says -"

"Liz! That's my wife!" cried Bryan. "They took her baby! Now she's in a coma - in General Hospital!"

"Yeah ... that's what he said," grunted Colby. "Your wife eh? And what did you do to protect her from this Brubacher dame?"

"Protect her? Well ... uh, I didn't really think ..."

"You're tellin' me," said Colby, lighting his cigar again. "Well, I'm doin' something about it. There'll be a 24 hour police guard at the clinic, starting now." He blew smoke across the desk. "Okay Laker, is that all?"

"Yes, that's all, I guess." Bryan turned and headed for the door.

"Hey, Laker," said Colby getting up from his chair and walking around the desk. "Thanks. I mean ... thanks for coming over and warning me about this Brubacher dame." Colby held out his hand and Bryan shook it. "If there's anything I can do for you - anything at all - just ask and it'll get done. Hear?"

"Yes, thank you Mr. Colby." Bryan left and Colby returned to his desk, spinning his chair to look out the window.

"No way that Brubacher dame gets near Marg," he muttered. "Bitch. I sold her _Willow Towers_ for a song. Now she wants my twins does she? Bitch." He spun about and pressed the buzzer at the side of his desk. Miss Capricorn peeked in.

"Capricorn, find out where Cassandra Brubacher lives then call Harry Welks and tell him to buy the property. The sky's the limit - just buy the goddam property."

"Yes, Mr. Colby. That would be wonderful. Another property, that's wonderful."

"Just do it, Capricorn."

Cail Vinney - Marg Colby

Cail Vinney stopped to talk to the officer.

"Do you really think this is necessary?" he said.

"Just doing my job, doc."

"Yes, well, I'm glad none of our other patients feel it's necessary. There's a staff lounge at the end of the hall. Coffee. Pot's always full. Help yourself."

"Thanks doc, but I'll get it in the ass ... 'scuse my French ... if I leave my post."

Cail smiled and walked in to see Marg Colby.

"Good morning doctor."

"Cail, remember?"

"Right. Friend of the family. Forgot. Sorry." Marg grinned and Cail sat on the bed.

"Okay, Marg. It's time you know. Were going to induce labor. You're past due and that's not good."

"Is it bad?"

"No, not bad. It's just that you're taking up valuable space and we need the bed." Cail smiled and Marg pushed him in the side. That was the first time she had displayed any sign of affection, he thought. Was it a sign of affection? Maybe not.

"I won't give up my room without a fight," she said. "I have police protection you know."

"Does that bother you? The police outside the door, I mean."

"It makes Michael feel better. I don't mind. He's always treated me like a child. When we first got married ... well, I don't think you'd be interested in that."

"Of course I am," said Cail. "I'm interested in everything about you." Marg blushed and straightened her hair.

"Well, Michael called me his baby - still does. He even bought baby clothes for me - insisted that I wear these dainty little -" She blushed and looked into her hands. Cail took her hands in his.

"Go ahead Marg. Member of the family, remember?"

"Well, it was silly. He wanted me to wear these frilly things ... he would insist that he dress me himself. Said I was just a baby and needed to be dressed. He was very gentle and I loved him very much so I just let him. It made him happy so I just did it, wearing those frilly things I mean. Nothing would fit \- too small - but that didn't matter. It was a little embarassing sometimes. Nothing fit and I would stick out everywhere and -" She took her hands from Cail's and began to straighten her hair again.

"You said you loved him. It sounded like the past tense," said Cail softly.

"No, no, I didn't mean that. I do love him. He's given me everything. Everything a woman could ask for."

"Do you see him much? I don't see him here, at the clinic. Has he come to visit since you were admitted?"

"Cail, he's a busy man. He phones but he's always going to some meeting. He'd come if he could find the time. You know how it is."

"No, I don't. I wouldn't let you out of my sight - not for a minute." He took her hands again and kissed them gently.

"Cail, I'm tired. Must be these twins - so demanding you know. Twice as much work. Twice as much tired." She withdrew her hands from his and slid deeper into her bed. Cail stood up and walked to the door.

"You'll have your twins tomorrow morning," he said. "Have a good rest." Then he left.

Marg sat looking at the door for some time. Why had she told him about the baby clothes? He was so sweet and concerned. He sat by her side every day - twice a day. He always held her hand. Do doctors always hold your hand? But he had kissed her hand. Doctors do not kiss hands. She closed her eyes and pulled the covers up.

Cail Vinney was in love with her, she was certain.
CHAPTER 34

to Dune Road

When the buzzer sounded, Bryan was sleeping on the sofa. He jumped up, looked about and noticed that it was morning. He had been sleeping for some time. How long? The buzzer sounded again and he stumbled to the hall and pressed the button. Someone was at the front door.

"Yes? Who is it?"

"Bill Hendricks. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Bryan unlocked the door to the apartment building before he realized who he was letting in. Hendricks was the officer he had spoken to in the hospital when that nurse died - was killed - by Liz. Hendricks had said that the police department would wait - must wait - to see if Liz came out of the coma before they could proceed with the investigation. He had also said that the nurse, a certain Barbara Finney, was now suspected of old man Brubacher's murder at _Moss Hill Nursing Home_.

And it was also Hendricks who had warned Colby about the Brubacher witch. How had Hendricks managed to get through to Colby after _he_ had tried to explain the situation, without much success? After all, Bryan was a teacher. Not only that, he taught mathematics. That required careful and logical phrasing, a delicate choice of words, subtle and concise terminology. Yet he had little success in warning Michael Colby of the danger to his wife ... then the phone call from Hendricks, just a minute or less and it had done the trick.

Bryan was waiting at the door when Bill Hendricks came out of the elevator. Hendricks was dressed in a sweater and jeans.

"Doesn't look like an official visit," said Bryan.

"I'm off duty but I thought I should talk to you - if you don't mind?"

"No, not at all. Come on in and have a coffee \- instant."

They sat at the kitchen table. Bryan was about to open the conversation, talking of the weather, when Hendricks began:

"You told me about Sam Jaffre - that you had seen him. Remember?"

"Yes, we did see him. Liz and I. Then I saw him again."

"Dune Road, that's what you said, isn't it? You said Sam was living on Dune Road."

"Yes, with Cassandra Brubacher."

"Well, I've been out to Dune Road. There's a house with a big willow tree. You said that the tree kills - something like that. Didn't you say that?"

"Yeah - but not _that_ willow tree. It was the one that used to be right here, on this site, before this apartment was built."

"Before they put up Laurentian Tower?"

"Laurentian ...? Oh, sorry, I meant Willow Towers. There was a willow tree there, before that apartment was built. But the willow on Dune Road, that's evil too. Took off my finger. See?"

Bryan held up his hand, still wrapped in white gauze. "You don't believe me do you? I mean, it's pretty weird and I wouldn't expect you to -"

"No, I believe everything you said." Hendricks had been leaning forward in his chair; now he leaned back. "I must admit that when you first told me - at the hospital - I thought you were crazy. Then I went through Sam's files. He was on to something and kept a record of all his investigations, mysterious deaths around the county and the kidnapping of babies - "

"You mean ... uh, Sam associated the missing babies with the mysterious deaths?" Bryan was sitting upright, staring at Hendricks. "He said - I _think_ he said that there was no connection. That the baby kidnappings were ... were ..."

"The work of a gang of hoodlums," suggested Hendricks. "Yes, that's the current thinking at the station. A gang whose religion required the acquisition of babies, unborn babies."

"And do you know who these hoodlums are?"

Hendricks sipped his coffee, answering slowly. "No ... unfortunately. There have been reports, by citizens, of groups of people meeting during the night, here and there, all over the county. We've investigated some - just office parties or birthday parties or -"

"Can I ask you a question?" interrupted Bryan.

"Sure."

"How do you kidnap a baby - an _unborn_ baby?"

"Sometimes it was a midwife - sometimes a nurse - sometimes the expectant mother was found in a coma and no longer pregnant." Hendricks gazed down at his hands, realizing that the Laker woman was in this category. "It seems like there were lots of people involved in this. You mentioned the _Friends of the Willow_ and I guess that's who it was. I didn't know the name of the gang, not until now. These _Friends_ must have included nurses and doctors."

"And policemen," added Bryan.

"Yes, like Sam Jaffre ... and that's why I'm here." Bill Hendricks took a last gulp of instant coffee. "This isn't real coffee," he said peering into the mug.

"How 'bout a Coke? That ain't real coffee either."

Hendricks grinned and put down his mug.

"Sam had a locker in the station. It was locked and only Sam had the key. Of course the Chief could open it, but some of us felt that Sam might show up some day and there were plenty of lockers to go around so we just left it locked."

"Do you think there's something important in the locker, is that it?" asked Bryan.

"No, not at all. Just his uniform. But last night when I came on duty - my locker is right beside Sam's - we were good friends - anyway, last night his locker was open."

"And what was in it?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Anything wrong with that? If you didn't think it contained anything important - just his uniform - then is there any great loss?"

"Look. Sam had the key. The locker is open and the uniform is gone. That means that Sam opened the locker and took the uniform."

Bill Hendricks was trying to imply something. Bryan scratched his chin. As a mathematician he should be able to deduce some important result from the evidence presented. Think, logically. He didn't have a chance to reach any conclusion because Hendricks continued.

"Bryan ... can I call you Bryan?"

"Yup, that's my name."

"Bryan, did you know that Michael Colby's wife is having twins - soon?" Before Bryan had a chance to respond, Bill continued. "And did you know that Colby has insisted on a round-the-clock police guard? Well, actually, it was my idea. I told him that his wife might very well be the next victim of a certain Cassandra Brubacher who, I suspect, has arranged for the kidnapping of babies many times in the past ... _your_ wife being the most recent."

Bryan frowned. So _that's_ what Hendricks had said that day he had phoned Colby. How come Hendricks could get Colby to understand the danger when _he_ hadn't been able to? Did it make a difference if the warning came from a police officer? Maybe.

Hendricks continued. "Now imagine this: Sam Jaffre shows up at the clinic, dressed in a regulation uniform, then he -"

"I've got it!" shouted Bryan. "Sam's a member of the _Friends_. He pretends to be protecting Colby's wife, as a police officer, on duty, and then he steals the baby ... uh, he brings someone to the room who will steal the baby - the babies, a nurse or something."

Bryan smiled, then frowned. "Wait a minute. Why don't you just warn all the guards that Sam might try that? After all, Sam's not even on the force these days, is he?"

"No, he's not ... and I've already mentioned the possibility of Sam showing up in uniform. The Chief thinks I'm crazy - just like I thought you were crazy. But he did agree to tell the guys standing guard - they're to look out for Sam Jaffre. But I have another idea and it involves you."

Bryan choked on his last gulp of coffee.

"Wait a minute. I'm not on the force. I'm just a math prof. What do I know?"

"Hear me out. I said I've been to Dune Road. I looked in all the windows and nobody was home. I even let myself into the house - I'm telling you this in confidence. The place is weird. Dark as sin with all the heavy drapes, boxes of wicker stuff in the basement, the damn willow tree banging on the wall. Anyway, I found some clothing that could be Sam's, I'm sure it's his, and I found woman's clothing, probably Cassandra Brubacher. I'm now convinced that Sam actually lives there. We want to be ready when Sam shows up at the clinic so we watch the house and you wait for him to leave - "

"Hold on! Then _I_ wait for him? What do you mean _I?_ "

"You're not teaching this term. I checked. I have to be on duty, every day. I can't keep my eye on the house at all times and hold down this job too. We have to do it together, you and me."

"You mean 24 hours a day? For how long? It could be weeks before - "

"Mrs. Colby is having her twins tomorrow morning. That means Sam will move tonight."

"And you? Where will you be?"

"Like I said, I'm on duty. I have a long day today but, by a stroke of luck, I've been assigned to the clinic tonight. All you have to do is give me a call the minute you see Sam leaving the house on Dune Road. Don't try to stop him and don't let him see you. Just stop at the nearest phone booth and call the clinic, ask for me. I'll be there by 6 o'clock this evening. If you phone before that, call the station. They'll get in touch with me. I'll be ready for Sam Jaffre when he gets there, don't you worry about that."

Bryan began to breath heavily. He was hoping to avoid the house on Dune Road. Now he was going back again. He rubbed his stump lightly. But Hendricks was right. Knowing in advance when Sam was on his way would give Hendricks an advantage and he might need that advantage. He could call other officers and they could all be waiting for Sam. Sam was a pretty big guy.

"Okay, I'll go," groaned Bryan. "When do you want me to leave?"

"Now."

Bryan opened his mouth to complain but thought better of it. He closed his mouth, shrugged his shoulders and got up from the table.

"Thanks for coming by, I guess," he said.

Hendricks put his hands on Bryan's shoulder then turned to leave. He turned back at the door. "Don't let anyone see you. Hide down the road, behind a tree or bush or something. Keep your car out of sight too. You'll have plenty of time to get to your car and to a phone. Good luck."

After he left, Bryan waited for several minutes, breathing heavily, his heart pounding, his stump throbbing. He looked at his watch: 10 a.m. He got up and shaved and left for Dune Road.

***

Bryan waited until late in the afternoon, but Sam didn't come out of the house. He sat behind the tree just up the road. His car was pulled onto a sideroad and he could see the house from where he sat. He had forgotten to bring anything to eat and he was starved, and thirsty. He wondered what would happen if he knocked on the door and asked the witch for a drink of water. Would she recognize him? He couldn't take that chance. What if he drove to the nearest store and bought some peanuts. He could be there and back in less than ten minutes. Would Sam leave by then? He couldn't take that chance.

He was getting a sore. He twisted his neck and peeked out from behind the tree every minute or so and his neck was getting stiff. He just looked to see if the car was still in the driveway. If Sam were to leave then surely he'd take the old rusty Ford parked there. There was no sign of life around the house. The only movement was that damned willow tree which was swishing back and forth even though there wasn't any wind.

By 5:30 Bryan though he should phone Hendricks even though Sam hadn't come out of the house. What if he didn't come out at all? Maybe the witch would take the twins by some other means. Why was Hendricks so sure that Sam would show up? There could be some other explanation for the open locker and the missing uniform. Bryan was getting tired. If he fell asleep - and that was a distinct possibility - then he'd miss them both.

Both? Cassandra and Sam? Had Hendricks thought of that? Maybe Sam wouldn't come alone. The witch could put a spell on Hendricks and then where would he be?

Bryan peeked again around the tree. It sure looked like there was nobody there. What about that? Maybe there _was_ nobody there! Maybe they had gone even before he showed up! Had Hendricks thought of that?

Well, he'd just have to wait. If he fell asleep or if they had already gone or ...

A rusty Ford drove by.

Bryan jumped to his feet, ran to his car, fussed with the key ring, pulled out the one marked in red and started the engine, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

Room 47

It was after 6 o'clock. Cail Vinney was finished for the day and was about to leave when Michael Colby's black Cadillac pulled up to the front door of the clinic. Cail thought about leaving by the side entrance to avoid meeting Michael, but instead straightened his tie and waited.

"Hello Michael," he said as Colby pushed open the glass doors.

"Hi Cail. How's Marg?"

"Everything goes smoothly. You'll be a father of twins by 10 tomorrow morning."

"Are the police on duty?"

"Yes, but I don't really see the need -"

"Leave that to me Cail. You just see that my wife gets all that personal care that I've been advertising for this place. Now, I'd like to see her. Where is she?"

"Follow me, I'll take you to her room. First time here, Michael?"

Cail smiled as Colby followed him. He knew that it was Colby's first time and thought he should rub it in.

"Yeah. Busy. Meetings."

Colby sure didn't waste words. Talked in half-sentences.

"Marg's fine, just fine. I think she misses your not visiting. But I can understand - meetings come first."

Colby grunted. When they reached Marg's room, Colby stopped.

"Where's the cop? There's supposed to be a cop here at all times! Where the hell is the bloody cop?"

"Probably gone for a coffee. There's a lounge at the end of the hall and -"

"I don't give a damn about no lounge! The cop is supposed to stay right by the door!" Colby pulled the door open and rushed in. The officer inside seemed surprised and stood at attention.

"You on duty here?" growled Colby.

"Yes sir."

"You're supposed to stay outside in the hall. I'd like to see my wife, alone. Beat it."

The officer walked out the door without a word and Colby grunted. "What was he doin' here anyway?"

Cail just shook his head and was about to sit on the bed, but decided to stand. Marg seemed to be sleeping. Colby looked at her for a minute then said, "Well, no use waking her up. Tell her I was here will you?"

Cail nodded and they both left. Outside the room, Colby pulled himself to his maximum height and looked down at the tall officer that he had found in the room. "What's your name?" he growled.

The officer answered mechanically. "Jaffre. Sergeant Sam Jaffre."

***

"Hello, this is Bryan Laker. Could I speak to Constable Hendricks please? He's expecting my call."

Bryan phoned the police station even though it was already after 6 o'clock. When he had called the clinic they said Hendricks hadn't arrived yet. The conversation with the officer at the clinic had been strange. Bryan had asked if Hendricks was on duty. The officer had said simply, "No." Then Bryan had asked if Hendricks' whereabouts was known. The officer had said, "No." Then Bryan had asked if Hendricks was expected tonight. Same response. The voice had sounded familiar, but then everybody who spoke in one-word-sentences sounded the same.

So Bryan called the police station.

"Sorry. Constable Hendricks is on duty this evening. He's not here at the station."

"On duty? Where?"

"We don't give out that information. If you'd like to leave your phone number I can contact him and he can get back to you."

"I'm phoning from a phone booth. I think I know where he is. Thanks."

Then Bryan hung up and drove faster than he had ever driven, to Colby Clinic. Surely Hendricks was at the clinic. If not, then the officer on duty must be warned of Sam Jaffre's imminent arrival - if it weren't too late.

Bryan had already decided to park right in front of the clinic. The parking lot was too far away and this was an emergency - a matter of life or death. When he got to the clinic there was a long black Cadillac parked at the front door. Michael Colby. Bryan was delighted. He could tell Colby and let _him_ handle it. After all, it was Colby's wife.

He pulled up in front of the Cadillac and parked.

"Get that goddam car outta my way! Don't you know there's no parking here?"

It was Colby. Bryan ran to Colby's car and spluttered, "Mr. Colby! Your wife is in danger! We've got to go in, right away!"

"What are you talking about? I just came from her room. There's a cop stationed right in front of her door."

"Well ... uh, was it Constable Hendricks?"

"Hendricks? No. Some guy named Jaffey - something like that."

"Oh my God! That's him! It's too late! Hurry!"

Bryan ran through to the glass doors of the clinic, pushed them wide and rushed to the desk. Colby muttered to himself then followed him in. When Colby got inside, Bryan shouted, "Room 47! Come on! Hurry!" Colby was caught up in the urgency and started to run. He wasn't the youngest man any more and running wasn't his thing, but he ran anyway.

He saw Bryan enter room 47 and paused just outside the door, panting. Where was that bastard who was supposed to be on guard? Bloody cops, couldn't trust any of them. Then he heard the cries from inside the door and barged in.

The first thing he saw was an officer with Marg in his arms. Then he saw a nurse standing beside the officer, a bloody big needle in her hand. Then he saw two bodies on the floor. One of them was the guy he followed into the clinic, Baker or something. The other was - a doctor maybe, lying on the floor. Marg was crying and the nurse was about to poke her with that goddam needle. Then Colby saw red.

He roared and charged into the room and knocked the nurse across the room with a sweep of his clenched hand. Jaffre dropped Marg on the bed and turned to face Colby just as Colby placed his fist halfway through Jaffre's nose. Blood spurted from Jaffre's nose, clearly broken. Before he could recover Colby had punched him in the stomach and he doubled up, holding his belly and groaning. Then Colby brought his knee up into Jaffre's face and he fell back on the bed and slid onto the floor, his face red with blood. Colby kicked him in the head.

Sam Jaffre was unconscious. So was the nurse lying across the room. Marg was crying, holding her face in her hands. Bryan groaned and climbed to his feet. Cail Vinney remained on the floor, shaking his head.

"Jesus," muttered Bryan. "And I thought I needed Hendricks. Mr. Colby, you pack a mean punch."

Michael Colby shook his hand. It hurt. Then he rose to his full height which he felt was at least ten feet and gazed down at Jaffre.

"Goddam cops," Colby grunted, finding it hard to hold back a smile. He went to Marg's bed and sat down. She put her head on his chest and he turned his head, slowly, regally, and surveyed the bodies on the floor. "Don't you worry none, baby. Daddy's here."

"Holy Christ. What happened?" It was Bill Hendricks. He had just walked in, breathing hard.

"Bill, where the hell were you?" cried Bryan, standing unsteadily.

"A pile up of cars, down the road. Couldn't make it until just now. Just left the squad car there. Ran all the way." Hendricks looked at Sam Jaffre, bleeding and unconscious. "Who did that to Sam?"

Colby raised his hand as though he were in school. Marg hugged him and Colby grinned.

Cail Vinney pulled himself to his feet, leaned against a chair and stared at Michael Colby.

"Kooky, do you want a job? Colby Clinic Bouncer. Don't pay much - but then money ain't everything."

God of Evil

Cail arranged for a nurse and Marg was sedated and put to bed.

Bill Hendricks called the station. They sent a squad car, took away Jaffre and the nurse and left another officer to stand guard.

Then they all went to the lounge at the end of the hall and had a coffee.

"Okay," said Colby, "tell me more about this Brubacher dame."

Bryan and Hendricks started to talk simultaneously then Bryan pointed to Bill and said, "You tell him. I'd just get it screwed up anyway."

"Well, it's a long story but the short of it is that she's collecting babies - unborn babies. She's the leader of some weird cult and they feed these babies to a tree - a willow tree. Don't ask me why." Bryan opened his mouth, but shut it again. Hendricks continued. "This tree is really something. It's evil and can kill. Several murders have been traced to the tree. Maybe I should say that several murders only make sense it they are attributed to the tree."

"Make sense?" asked Cail. "How can a murder make sense if attributed to a tree?"

Colby put his hand on Cail's shoulder. "Let the man talk, Cail. Go ahead officer."

"The first person to suspect that the tree was the cause of these deaths was Inspector Jaffre. That was some time ago. Old man Jaffre died recently but insisted to his dying day that the willow tree was responsible for the deaths at Willow Towers and -"

"Willow Towers?" said Colby. "I used to own that dump - well, it weren't no dump then. You mean the New Year's Eve deaths _were_ caused by that bloody old willow tree? I'll be damned. After _that_ nobody wanted to move into that place and I just let it fall apart. Then it really got to be a dump. I was lucky to get rid of it. You know that bloody tree gave us trouble even when we pulled down the old Bourden house. Killed one of my men - two in fact. Didn't believe it at the time."

"Well," continued Hendricks, "after Inspector Jaffre left the force his grandson took up the investigation - on his own. Nobody would believe him, you see. Nobody believed old man Jaffre and nobody believed his grandson either, but Sam Jaffre kept on with the investigation anyway and when -"

"Did you say Sam Jaffre?" asked Cail.

"Yeah. Sam Jaffre. Inspector Jaffre's grandson," answered Hendricks.

Cail looked at Colby. Colby coughed up his coffee.

"Wait a minute," said Colby. "That bloody cop I just put away. Wasn't _his_ name Sam Jaffey?"

"Yes," said Hendricks. "Sam Jaffre. That's right. This isn't a simple story. It seems that -"

"Bill? Can I take it from here?" interrupted Bryan. "I'll try not to screw it up."

Hendricks smiled and waved in Bryan's direction. Colby and Cail turned to look at Bryan. Bryan took a deep breath. He would make this explanation as clear as he could. He had repeated the explanation so many times, to himself...

"It's like this," said Bryan. "Cassandra Brubacher had a twin sister who died at birth. The twin was buried under a willow tree and the tree inherited the soul of the twin - an evil soul which had not been baptized and cleansed of original sin. That was back in ... uh, 1895 I think. Since then, Cassandra Brubacher has been collecting unborn babies and feeding them to the God of Evil - can't remember his name. The tree is evil as is everything made from the tree. The New Year's Eve party at Willow Towers? Those deaths were caused by wicker chairs made from the willow. Anyway, Brubacher expects to get her sister back. I mean, back _alive_. She really expects that her sister will just come out of the ground and join her. Come right out from under the willow tree. Cassandra's tried many times but failed. She's got this club, the _Friends of Willow_ , and they're all hypnotized or something - under her spell. The members of this club collect the babies and I think they also collect parts of the willow. Wicker baskets and wicker chairs, made from the remains of the tree at Willow Towers."

Bryan took another deep breath, saw that everyone was quiet, listening intently so he continued. "Sam Jaffre was a member of the club, the cult. He's under Cassandra Brubacher's spell - if that's what it is. Anyway, he works for her now. When I saw the article about your wife having twin girls I knew that Brubacher would be after them." Bryan was looking, and talking, to Michael Colby. "It was perfect, don't you see? Twin girls. Just like the witch and her sister. But I have a theory. The bones -"

"This is crazy," interrupted Cail. "Getting her sister back from the God of Evil? Does anybody really believe this?" Cail looked about, staring in turn at each, expecting agreement.

Colby put his hand on Cail's shoulder again and Cail stopped talking. Colby pointed to Bryan and nodded his head. Bryan continued.

"The bones of the twin sister are under the tree. Somehow the bones hold the soul and if we could get rid of the bones - destroy them - then I believe that the tree would die and Sam would come back to normal and ... and ..." Bryan held his head, his bandaged hand obvious to all.

Colby leaned forward, frowning. "Anything wrong Baker?" he said.

"His wife," said Hendricks softly, "is in a coma. She was - or is - under this spell too."

"Sorry," said Bryan. "Stupid. Sorry. My wife was coerced into being a _Friend of Willow_. My wife was expecting a baby and ... and ..." Bryan's eyes began to water and he lowered his head into his hands.

"She lost her baby," explained Hendricks. "Lost it to Cassandra Brubacher."

Colby stood up and banged on the table so hard that they all jumped in concert with the cups and saucers.

"By Christ!" he shouted. "We can't have any more of this! I'll put an end to that whore! Friends of the Willow eh? We'll see how many friends she has! We'll see if she has more friends than _I_ have!"

They all leaped to attention and stared at Colby who was getting red in the face.

Bryan thought he looked like a night in shining armor - black armor.

Cail didn't remember Mikey being so tall.

Bill thought Colby would make a good cop - maybe Chief.

***

The following morning at precisely 10 a.m. Marg Colby had her twins without further incident. Michael Colby and Cail Vinney were both there. Colby had stayed the night, sleeping on a cot brought into Marg's room. Bryan phoned at 10:20 and was told that mother and daughters were all fine. Bill Hendricks phoned at 10:27, talked to Michael Colby and congratulated him. Three days later Marg went home. One day after that, Colby had Cail Vinney, Bryan Laker and Bill Hendricks over to his house for dinner.

Michael Colby had a plan.

CHAPTER 35

the PLAN

Shrimp cocktail, duck a l'orange, cauliflower with a white cheese sauce, baby carrots sauteed in butter, Caesar salad with croutons, creme caramel. It was a fine dinner.

They had all toured the wine cellar in advance and picked a Chablis from the racks; three, in fact. After dinner Michael dismissed the servants and poured the Cointreau himself. Now they all sat in the huge living room around a crackling fire, the lights turned down, sipping the liqueur. Colby had a large, straight whiskey.

"Okay," said Colby, "now we talk."

He put down his glass and leaned back in the largest chair in the room.

"Two weeks ago I sent Harry Welks to buy Brubacher's house on Dune Road. She won't sell. Then I talked to Madam Mayor Saunders. The property will be expropriated for a sports complex: the Colby Complex - double C. Brubacher will be given a good price, but she has to be out in three weeks. Then the bulldozers move in: Colby Construction - double C. The house will be demolished. The goddam tree goes with it."

Colby leaned back and smiled and looked around. They were all smiling, except Bryan.

"Well Baker ... uh, Bryan. What's wrong? Did I miss something?" said Colby.

"It's just that there was a willow tree ... you know ... when the old Bourden house was torn down. The willow was torn down too - I guess you did that Mr. Colby."

"Call me Michael."

"Okay, Michael. Well, the murders continued and now there's another willow tree. I just don't think that doing it again - I mean, tearing down a house and a tree - I don't think it's going to solve the problem."

"He's right Mr. Colby," said Hendricks. Cail nodded his head in agreement.

"Okay Bryan. Tell me what to do and I'll do it," said Colby emphatically.

"It's the bones. Somehow we have to get to the bones and destroy them. Cassandra, if she takes the bones away before the bulldozers come, then she can bury them under another tree and -"

"Right!" said Colby loudly. "First we get the bones!" Then, more quietly, "How do we do that ... Bryan? Can we go in with a bunch of backhoes? A hundred men with shovels?"

They all looked at Bryan who looked into his lap, then sipped from his glass, then looked at each of them in turn, ending with Colby.

"It has to be done secretly. She musn't know we're coming for the bones, else she'll just take them away." He paused, rolling his hand, still lightly bandaged, on his lap. "Does she know that her property is being expropriated?"

"She'll know by noon tomorrow," said Colby with a satisfied smile.

"Jesus," whispered Hendricks. "Then we have to do it tonight."

"What?" cried Colby. "Do what tonight?"

"Get the bones," groaned Cail.

Colby leaned forward and stared at Bryan.

"Is that what you're saying? That we oughta go there and dig out them bloody bones - tonight?"

"Looks like it," whispered Bryan past his glass, which he held shaking at his lips.

"Christ. I could hire a hundred men and a dozen front-end loaders and -"

"No good, Mikey," said Cail. "All your money won't do any good." Cail seemed almost pleased to say it. "Like Bryan said, it has to be done with stealth, secretly, tonight."

They stared at each other for a long time without saying a word, then Colby coughed lightly and they all stared at him.

"Well, what are we waiting for. Let's go," he said. "Sounds like it could be fun. Ain't had so much excitement in years."

"The tree is dangerous. How do we take the bones from the tree?" said Bryan, holding up his gauze-wrapped hand.

"I been meaning to ask you about that," said Colby, staring uncomfortably at Bryan's hand.

"I tried to cut down the tree, with a chain saw. It took the saw - I don't know how - and cut off my finger."

"Christ!" said Colby. "You're a real fighter ain't yuh?" He looked around at Cail. "See that? What a fighter."

Colby paused, scratched his chin, then said, "Okay, we spray the tree and kill it. Don't have to come close even. I'll get my plane to fly over and drop the stuff - herbicide. Colby Crop Cover - triple C. We wait and go in when the goddam tree is dead. How's that Bryan?" He leaned forward, waiting for approval.

"Hey! That sounds good!" said Hendricks with enthusiasm. "Then you can send in your hundred men with shovels - your bulldozers or whatever."

"No good," said Bryan. "It'll take time for the herbicide to kill the tree. In the meantime -"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," said Colby. "Old lady Brubacher takes the bones."

"I've got a better idea," said Cail, looking directly at Colby. "Brubacher might beat us to the bones if the tree is sprayed, but if we ... uh, if _you_ burn it to the ground -"

"Yes, that's better," said Hendricks. "I doubt if lighting a match to the tree will work, but if we spray it with gasoline and -"

"Okay, said Colby, "I send in a plane and it drops gasoline then ... what's wrong Bryan? You're frowning again."

"The tree may very well burn to the ground and the bones, buried beneath the tree, may remain intact. Somehow, we have to get at the bones." Bryan was rubbing his bad hand with his good hand. They all watched, silently.

"Okay," said Colby with an air of finality, "we send in an army helicopter and it drops bombs and blows the goddam tree to smithereens - and everything that's buried under it goes with it!"

They looked at each other then at Colby. Bryan was the first to speak.

"How can we get the army to -" Bryan began.

"Leave that to me," said Colby. "Okay. It's settled. The army goes in - tonight. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."

A small voice came from across the room. "What about Miss Brubacher?"

It was Marg. She was standing by the door. Colby and Cail both jumped up, followed by Bryan and Laker.

"Marg, baby," said Colby sweetly. "You're supposed to be resting. Were we talking too loud, baby?"

"No. I can't sleep. Marion is looking after the twins so I thought I'd come down and say hello to our friends. Hello Dr. Vinney ... and Professor Laker. I can't say how much I appreciate your trying to help when - when -"

"Marg," said Cail softly. "I really think you should rest, as Michael suggests. I see the sedative has worn off, but you still look tired."

"I'm all right. Constable Hendricks, good evening. Thank you for your concern."

"Baby, please go back to bed," said Colby. "We're working on something - it doesn't concern you and -"

"Yes, I heard what you're working on - bomb Miss Brubacher's house. Michael, that's barbaric. She lives in that house. It's her house for another - what did you say? Three weeks? You can't just drop a bomb on her house - _her_ house."

Marg looked faint and Cail Vinney rushed to her side and caught her just as she fell. He carried her gently to a sofa.

"Good," said Colby. "She can rest. Cail, call the nurse. She's probably upstairs, in her room. She can look after Marg. Now - to work. I think we can all go to Dune Road and watch the fireworks within the hour. Wait here."

Then he walked to an adjoining study, sat at the large desk, picked up the phone and dialled.

"This is Michael Colby of Colby Enterprises. Get me Major Forster - and hurry." Colby paused, then, "I don't give a damn if he _is_ in bed! Tell him it's Michael Colby!"

Colby waited and the others walked into the study and stood by the door and waited.

"Hello? Derek? Is that you? Look, I want you to do something for me - tonight. Have you got a pencil and paper? Take this down. Okay. Yes, I know it's late, but it has to be done tonight. Listen, you owe me and now I'm collecting, hear? Okay. Take this down. There's a house on Dune Road. It's going to be torn down to build a sports complex, the Colby Complex, double-C. It's located about ..." Colby looked to Bryan. "Bryan? How far is it outside the city limits?" Colby held the phone at an angle so Bryan could be heard.

"About 5 miles."

"Hear that? Five miles outta town, along Dune Road. You can't miss it. It's got a bloody big willow tree growin' right beside it. Here's what I want you to do. Get a helicopter out there and ... listen to me ... I'm tellin' you what I want you to do and you bloody well better do it! I can get you off the army payroll just as easily as I got you on. Okay. Take this down. Get a helicopter out there and drop a bomb on the goddam house and don't miss the tree - in fact, drop a whole mess of bombs and -"

Colby stopped talking and his face grew red. He got up from his chair and began to shout into the phone.

"Listen you asshole! The property is mine! I own it! I can do whatever I bloody well want to do with it! If I want to bomb the goddam place then - listen - I'm telling you it belongs to me. What citizens? The goddam house is 10 miles outta town. There ain't nobody living within miles of the goddam place! The bloody house is empty! Don't tell me your goddam choppers can't hit a bloody house that's standing all by itself. Okay - go ahead, call Mayor Saunders. But after that I want you to have choppers out there with plenty of bombs at ... when?"

Colby looked at the others, holding the phone in their direction. Hendricks looked quickly at his watch. It was almost 11 o'clock in the evening.

"At 2 o'clock," said Hendricks.

"Hear that? Have the choppers out there at 2 a.m., sharp. Drop a whole mess of bombs, maybe some of that napalm too - so it burns real good. Don't miss the bloody tree. Yeah, go ahead and call the Mayor. But don't waste time, hear? 2 o'clock sharp!"

Colby banged the phone on the hook. "Bloody asshole," he muttered. "Don't know where his bread is buttered."

Colby sat back and dialled again.

"This is Michael Colby. Give me Mayor Saunders ... oh, Sue, is that you? Sorry for callin' so late ... yeah, I know. I'm looking forward to it myself. Should be quite a showplace for the area. I was thinking that the name Colby Complex doesn't really tell what it is. Maybe _Saunders Sports Center._ How does that sound to you? Like it? Good. Then that's what we'll call it. I'm eager to get started and I've convinced the good Miss Cassandra Brubacher to leave the premises early. In fact she left yesterday and the place is now empty. Yeah, yeah, completely empty. I want to move the machinery in tomorrow morning. I was also thinking that we should start the project with a bang. Reporters everywhere in the country will come by to take pictures and interview you and ... sure, of course they will. They'll surely want to talk to you. Why? Well, that's the bang I was talking about. The army will bomb the old house."

Colby leaned back and grinned.

"That should bring the reporters out, don't you think? Hurt? Don't worry about hurting anybody - I've looked after that. It's 15 miles outta town. If we advertise the bombing then the place will be crowded with gawkers - they'll all drive out to Dune Road to watch, and somebody's bound to get hurt. You can't have that - too dangerous you know. I know you wouldn't want anybody to get hurt. So first you do it, the bombing I mean, _then_ you tell everybody. Let them come out to see the place after you've arranged the bombing. Can't you just see the front page in the _Gazette?_ Mayor Saunders starts the Saunders Sports Center with a bang. The bombing? I can certainly arrange for that if that's what you want. Are you sure now? You don't think it's too dangerous? Okay, I'll phone Major Derek Forster and say that that's what you want. I'm sure he won't believe me and will want the go-ahead directly from you - and that's as it should be. If I'm not mistaken he'll phone you immediately - for your OK. First thing in the morning I'll get my machines out there. Your office can get in touch with the papers in the area so they come out to see the ruins. Wear something nice - that red dress I saw you in last week was terrific. You'll be in every paper in the country you know. Sure, okay. And regards to Bernie."

Colby placed the phone on the cradle and smiled. The other three were standing just inside the door.

"Mikey," said Cail in a low voice, "I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't hear it. The top army brass - then the top city official - and she thinks it's _her_ idea - bombing a house with army helicopters - quite remarkable." He paused as though he were struggling over the next words. "And Cassandra? She's in there ... in the house. Shouldn't we warn her?"

"Are you kidding?" said Colby. "Ain't she a witch? She goes down with the house."

"And down with the bones," added Bryan in a whisper.

"She's responsible for a long history of deaths - murders," said Hendricks. "She's been tried and found guilty and now she pays the price."

"But then _we're_ the jury," said Cail. "That's hardly a trial. Maybe there's another explanation for all those deaths. Maybe she's innocent. Maybe we're killing an innocent -"

"She tried to get my twins - tried to take my Marg," said Colby. "And I don't take lightly to nobody doing that to my baby."

"But it was that Sergeant, Jaffre," said Cail. "How can we be sure that Brubacher was -"

"Sam Jaffre was - _is_ \- my friend," said Hendricks. "Sam would never do anything like that. He's under her spell. Sam was just doing her bidding. Sam would never do anything -"

"How can you be so sure?" interrupted Cail. "We never saw Miss Brubacher at the clinic - just Jaffre. If she's innocent then she'll get killed - we'll kill her - the army will kill her."

Bryan whispered something.

"What's that Bryan?" asked Colby.

"My wife. She has Liz in a coma. She took Liz's baby - _my_ baby."

"Hear that?" said Colby, raising his voice. "She's a witch! And that goddam New Year's Eve party! Nobody wanted to live in Willow Towers after that. Almost lost my shirt. Cail, you just can't see the truth even when it's staring you in the chops ... just like that time in the bog when you went after the buck on Sparrow Lake. Thought you was going to get all my money. Couldn't see it was a setup."

Cail looked at Colby with a curious frown.

"A setup? What do you mean Michael?"

"You know exactly what I mean," said Colby, gulping down his whiskey. "I lead you guys out to the bog, toss the buck on the lake. You was always making fun of me - of my plans to be rich one day. But there you was, slogging through the mud looking for money. I knew money meant something to you - to you all \- Phil and Ronnie and Willy and even you."

"So it was all a lie. You never had any money in the bog. You just - just -"

"Set you up. Right. I set you all up. Never figured on Willy jumping into the lake - stupid Willy. The others, they all ran but you stayed. I always figured you for a sucker. You just walked right into that old lake to get sucked up - trying to save stupid old Willy. When I read in the paper that you graduated from Med School I figured that was just like Cail Vinney all right. Looking out for others. And what did all those _others_ ever do for you? Nothing. When you was in trouble with the clinic did all those _others_ come running with money? Not on your life. Who did you come to, when you was in trouble? Good old Kooky Colby. Right? You bet. And did I turn you away? No. I got the clinic in the black and now look at it - a going concern - in just a few weeks."

Michael Colby banged his glass on the desk and jumped to his feet. "Okay, let's get going! Who's coming out to Dune Road for the fireworks?"

They all raised a hand, then Colby flicked off the lights and they followed him in a single line to the front door.

***

When they had left, a figure walked uncertainly to the phone, stood for a moment in the dark, then dialled.

"Yes?"

"Is that Miss Brubacher?"

"Yes."

"Of Dune Road? Have I the correct number?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good. There are so many Brubachers ... uh, you must get out of your house right away. Please leave right now. They will bomb your house tonight and you must leave - right now."

"Who is this?"

"My name is ... uh, I don't think that's important. Please leave - now. You don't have much time."

Margrit Colby hung up the phone and fell back in the chair, shaking. She had listened to the discussion and gone through the phone book and found a Brubacher on Dune Road. Now it was up to Miss Brubacher. There was nothing more that Marg could do except pray that she had done the right thing. Now she would just wait for Michael to come home.

She jumped when the phone rang.

It was for Michael. She ran to the door and called.
CHAPTER 36

to Dune Road

"Tell 'em I'm busy! We got work to do!" Colby was shouting at his wife who stood in her nightgown on the front steps. But she waited, and they all waited, then Colby stalked angrily back to his study. "What is it?" He shouted into the phone, at the same time sliding into his chair. The others filed back, peering through the door to his study. Colby was listening, carefully. Then he slowly rose to his feet, standing straight, an arm stiffly at his side.

"Yes, General, I understand perfectly. Certainly General. I only wanted to ... yes, Mayor Saunders insisted, but I said ... yes, I understand." There was a long pause, then Colby placed the phone carefully on the hook and slumped into his chair. "Bastard!"

"Mr. Colby?" said Bryan. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah, something's wrong." Colby pushed himself wearily to his feet and leaned on the desk, staring at the floor. "We ain't goin' nowhere tonight. It's all off." Then he slid back into his chair. "Bastard General."

The others waited, then looked at each other and at Colby sitting, dejected, at his desk. After several minutes of silence they slowly backed away from the door and quietly left the house.

Outside, it was Cail who spoke. "Guess even Kooky Colby can't command the army to drop napalm." He seemed almost pleased. "I think we should go home." He looked at Bryan and Bill for a moment, then turned quickly and headed to his car without another word.

"But, what do we do now?" Bryan watched Cail's car drive off. "What _can_ we do now?" He looked at Bill Hendricks. Bill shrugged, then moved slowly toward his car. Bryan watched him go, turned in time to see the light go off in Colby's study, then just stood there in the dark. His hand was throbbing, it was _always_ throbbing, and his head was aching and he was tired.

When he got home he fell into bed fully dressed, tossed and turned uncomfortably for what seemed like hours, then finally fell into fitful sleep.

It was almost 1:00 a.m. when Michael Colby called. Bryan fell from his bed and half-crawled to the phone. He didn't have time to say "hello", Colby began talking immediately. Bryan wasn't sure what was happening, but when the phone went dead he knew that he was to be in the parking lot, waiting, within five minutes. He shook his head, looked about for his clothes, saw that he was already dressed then left immediately.

***

It was just after 1:30 a.m. when the long black Cadillac pulled off the sideroad about a quarter-mile up Dune Road from the Brubacher house. There was a full moon and they could see the house rising darkly against the moonlit sky, dominated by the giant willow tree.

Colby looked at the digital clock on the dashboard and grunted. "We've got time. Let's have a drink." He pressed a button and a small door dropped from the dashboard revealing an array of glasses and a whisky bottle. "Laker, do the honors."

Bryan was now wide awake, but frightened. Was Colby frightened, too? Why the delay? Did he need a drink to screw up his courage? That thought made Bryan even more nervous.

"I don't really think this will work, Mr. Colby," he said. "You can't just shoot her. I mean, you can't just barge right in and ... and _shoot_ her. It might be better, safer, if Bill Hendricks had come. And the tree. What about the tree ... and especially the bones?"

Colby pulled two glasses from the tray and poured the drinks.

"Look, kid, if there's one thing I learned it's you gotta do things yourself if you want it done right." He took a long drink. "Bastard General." He refilled his glass and swallowed it in a single gulp. Bryan hadn't touched his. "Okay. Let's go."

Colby popped open the glove compartment, removed the oversized hand gun and slid out the door. " Laker, you comin'? It's just you and me now. They got your baby ... tried to get mine ... we don't stand for such crap." He waved the long gun barrel in the air. "Let's go."

Colby didn't seem frightened in the least, but he did seem somewhat inebriated. Perhaps that was good, the part about not being frightened. Being drunk? That wasn't good.

Bryan peered through the front window of the car. Several lights had come on in the Brubacher house and now the whole house seemed to glow in the dark.

Colby looked at the watch: 1:53 a.m. Why was the time important? Did Colby do everything by the clock? Maybe he had decided that 2:00 a.m. was the time to attack. Yes, of course, that was the time the army helicopters would have come in - wasn't it? Bryan couldn't remember.

The willow tree was silhouetted against the bright moonlit sky. It seemed to raise its branches and become larger, more sinister. The base of the tree was illuminated from below as though bright lights were shining up into the branches.

"See the tree?" said Bryan. "It's alive. I told you."

"I gotta see this," said Colby, striding confidently down the dirt road, his hand holding the revolver swinging at his side. No, Colby certainly wasn't frightened. Bryan slid reluctantly from the car, held his hand to his chest and followed the gunslinger.

When Colby was almost across the road from the Brubacher house he saw the figures dancing beneath the tree, luminescent, shimmering. The branches of the willow were raised like a great umbrella, shaking against the sky. Now he could hear humming. It was growing louder. He pushed the revolver into his belt and lit a cigar. He was obviously enjoying this.

"Mr. Colby?" whispered Bryan. "Stay back. It's dangerous. The tree, it can kill. I know."

Then they heard the humming grow to a shriek and the glowing shapes rising from the base of the tree. Michael Colby was standing across the road from the house with back arched and a hand on his hips, the large cigar sticking out from his face, his bald head glinting in the moonlight, his gun waving back and forth as though he intended to spray the entire area with gunfire.

There was someone standing before the tree, a dark figure against the glow. Brubacher? It was Cassandra Brubacher! Her hands were raised above her head, waving. The luminous shapes were rising from beneath the tree.

Colby's mouth opened; his cigar fell out. This was unreal. He began to mutter in a low voice, still waving his gun. "Come on you bastards."

Cassandra turned slowly, her eyes blood-red and flaming, staring out from under the willow tree, staring across the road at Michael Colby. The glowing shapes drew about her. The branches of the great willow drew about her. Cassandra pointed to Colby and the branches rose and the figures began to move across the lawn toward the road.

Colby was now shouting, cursing, waving his gun. Cassandra walked slowly toward him, the shimmering figures just in front of her.

Colby stopped shouting when he saw Cassandra standing across the road, her hands raised above her head, the shimmer of ghostly bodies to either side, her hair rising in disarray. He lifted his gun to fire, backed up to get a better shot, stumbled and fell into the culvert by the side of the road. The luminescent figures immediately rose, quivered in the air above Cassandra Brubacher, then streaked across the road. Colby pointed, fired once, then began to cry out as the figures descended. He could hear Bryan shouting. He staggered to his feet and began shooting, wildly. The figures still came. He fired again, and again, then fell forward, enveloped in an unearthly glow.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, the shapes vanished and the dark figure of Cassandra Brubacher was standing above the prostrate body of Michael Colby.

Bryan stood beyond, silent, shaking. Michael Colby lay without moving.

"You've ... you've killed him," Bryan moaned.

Cassandra turned slowly to face the cringing figure.

"Mr. Laker," she whispered hoarsely. "Do come in." She wheeled about, her long gown swirling, her long hair rising unruly above her.

Bryan wanted to turn and run, but couldn't. He wanted to back away, to drive away, to go to Michael Colby. He could do none of these things. Instead, he followed the dark figure of Cassandra Brubacher, ponderously, mechanically, to the porch, to the door, into the dimly lit room.

Cassandra went immediately to her chair, black and malevolent, spun about and watched Bryan march slowly, methodically to the center of the room. She sank into the tall chair and held out both arms.

"Come to me," she sighed, and Bryan came, his eyes fixed on hers, his arms limp by his side. She took his hand, his bandaged hand, lifting it to the dim light. There was a noise, a banging, at the wall and she smiled, her teeth even but yellowing. "So, my Willow," she said, "you did this thing." She let his hand fall lifelessly and gazed with glossy eye at the stiff figure before her.

"Ahriman has not been good to us," she said, quietly. "He has ignored our offerings, resisted our supplications, defied our demands." Her voice grew in strength, in pitch. "The Prince has refused us, rebuked us, berated us." She shrieked at Bryan. "And the King of Light tolerates this abuse and does nothing! But, this day, the Prince of Darkness shall have another offering, another body born of sin, yet cleansed of the misdeeds of man! Another soul, tainted then purified! A soul mature, a soul retained by the King of Light! And it shall be offered up to Ahriman by Willow!" She pointed with thin finger at Bryan. "Willow shall have you!"

Cassandra rose smoothly from her chair, her arms held before her, her hair rising, her eyes beaming red in the dim light.

"Ahura-Mazda," she wailed, "beware, for we shall take from thee a soul and cast it to the Prince, to my sister, to Willow."

Then ghostly figures appeared at the window and they filled the night with their radiance and the room was bathed in an eerie glow. A single dark branch also appeared at the window, a silhouette, and it knocked gently and the window slid open as though by an invisible hand and the branch entered the room and moved to Cassandra, caressing her waist, fondling her neck, kissing her cheek.

"Yes, my sister," she said, her voice low and hoarse, "You shall have him," and she glided to the door, the hairy limb slipping from her shoulder. She turned, beckoned, and Bryan followed.

Together they walked to the door, and out, and the giant willow rose like an octopus, its branches black and twisted against the moon. They walked to the tree and the branches parted revealing an inner sanctuary glowing with ghostly forms. Together they entered and the branches fell behind them.

"Willow, my sister," Cassandra moaned, "he is yours."

A single grotesque limb shuddered and reached out, coiling about Bryan's waist.

"Take him, his soul, and seek not the favour of Ahura-Mazda, for this soul is clean."

Bryan's body was lifted with infinite care, rising in the dimly lit cavern beneath the tree.

"Willow, my sister, do not beseech the Prince for he has lost this soul long ago."

The branch shivered, coiled, and Bryan's body was limp.

"Willow, my sister, do not beseech the King, for he has cleansed this soul long ago."

Bryan hung motionless, his eyes staring glassy at the figure of Cassandra, her hair flaring, her arms extended.

Cassandra shouted. "Willow, my sister, take to thyself this soul and rise from the cold ground and we shall rejoice in our union!"

Bryan shuddered at the outcry, shook his head as though he had heard for the first time.

"Wait ..." Bryan looked down, began to struggle. "No, wait! My God, wait!"

Cassandra squinted, her eyes slits of fire. "Do you summon Ahriman?" she whispered. "Do you summon Ahura-Mazda?" Her voice crackled, rising, now shouting. "Do you appeal to your God of Love? Let him defy me! Let him defy _us!_ "

The bough tightened, spinning about him and Bryan screamed in agony. The twisted branch was joined by others until his body was enclosed in a seething mass of gnarled and hairy limbs covered in fine green-black leaves, and he cried out, but in vain.

Then, there was a noise from beyond the tree.

Cassandra raised her hand and the ghostly figures rose to her side. She turned and the branches parted. She slid from the gloomy sanctum into the light of the moon.

There, at the road, two brilliant eyes, lights beaming across the lawn. A car. And beside the car, two figures bent over the body of Michael Colby. Cassandra roared hoarsely and the luminescence leaped from the vault beneath the tree and glided swiftly to the road.

"Jesus Christ! What's that?" It was Cail Vinney.

Bill Hendricks jumped to his feet. A gun leapt into his hand. A sharp report, another, and the ghostly figures rose and descended.

... and Cassandra fell to the ground.

The figures rose once more, hovered. Cail Vinney sunk to his knees, his hands covering his head. Bill Hendricks fired again - but the glowing shapes wavered, faded and then, suddenly, were gone.

Within the tree, Bryan struggled to free himself. He could barely breathe. It seemed hopeless. Then the branches parted and he fell gasping to the ground. The black limbs spun up, agitated, then leaves withered and fell dry and shrivelled to the ground.

Someone called his name. He crawled to the edge of the void within the tree, scrambled under the hanging boughs, out to the dank grass and onto a body - the body of Cassandra Brubacher and he gazed into her violent eyes, fire-red, and he was straddling her thin body and he gasped and held his hand to his mouth.

"Kin to the devil," she muttered. "My Willow, my sister, help me." She held out a fragile hand and a thin branch reached out, a tendril twisted and dry, barren of leaves and shaking, yet it spun about her hand.

Bryan scrambled away, staggered to his feet. Cassandra raised her arm. She seemed weak, old, impotent, yet the luminescent figures appeared once more and she seemed to gather strength from their presence.

It was then that Bryan knew exactly what he had to do. Nothing could be clearer.

Cassandra shrieked, but he turned and flung himself into the opening beneath the shivering willow. He clawed his way to the base of the tree and began to dig, feverishly, the fingers of his good hand bleeding, his bad hand pushing the loose dirt aside. Outside, the witch was screaming. The willow began to shake violently, uncertainly, the quivering branches dropping parched and shrivelled leaves. He heard his name, again and again, shouted in a voice filled with alarm. Bill Hendricks. Cail Vinney. But there was no time. Willow began to move, slowly at first, then black and hairy tendrils fell from everywhere, across his back, then twisted branches coiling, spinning, descending.

First a bloody carcass, small, pink. Bryan stopped. A child, unborn? _His_ child! He cried out, "God help me!" and began again to claw the ground, deeper, beyond the shallow grave.

Then he had it, exposed, the whitened bone, a skeletal hand, small and fragile, fossils of unseeming horror. He scooped them to his chest and the tree cried aloud and the wind roared and Cassandra, mistress of Ahriman, witch and concubine of the devil, the ghastly creature stood behind him, wreathed in trembling branches, her eyes flaming.

"My Willow!" she cried, in pain, her face contorted, enveloped in a mask of dark and moving shadows. "My Willow!"

Bryan pushed himself to his feet, the bones held firmly to his chest. Cassandra backed away, out of the sanctum, out to the moonlit yard, screaming ... and Bryan followed.

"Ahriman!" she screeched. "Ahura-Mazda! We do not turn from thee, but beseech thee! Take my sister again to your care!"

Bryan plucked a bone with his free hand.

"For Liz!" he shouted, and held it aloft, then snapped the small bone and it crumbled into many pieces.

Cassandra wailed, a rising howl of agony and despair, and she fell to her knees with withered and twisted limbs collapsing about her, devoid of leaves.

"For Mrs. Perkins!" Bryan shouted and snapped another dry bone.

"For Sam and for Margrit Colby and ... and ..."

Bryan fell to one knee, weeping, his shoulders heaving, and the bones dropped to the grass. Cassandra gasped, lurched forward, her eyes a pale glow, her hand reaching for a frail bone, a distorted twig spinning then curling tenderly about her hand. A shot rang out and the bone disintegrated before her and she moaned and the twig fell away from her hand, shrivelled, withered, atrophied. She crawled again, reaching. Another shot and the bones exploded in a puff of dust and the tree sighed, branches falling in limp cascade about her body.

Cassandra lay motionless.

Bill Hendricks stood over the fallen body of the witch, firing repeatedly into the pile of bones until his gun was empty and the bones were dust.

Bryan pushed himself to his feet, a grim smile on his lips. He couldn't speak. He stared at the body of the witch, at the fragments of bone, at the silent and shrivelled branches of the giant willow. He began to cry.

"Is .. is it over?" he moaned. "Is it really over?"

"Bloody right!" It was Michael Colby. He leaned heavily on the shoulder of Cail Vinney. Together they stood and stared at Cassandra.

Then Bill Hendricks looked up at the dormant willow hanging silent, and shook his head. There was not a single leaf on the old tree.

"The willow," he said. "It's dead, can you see? The tree is dead." He turned to leave.

"Wait," said Bryan. "Wait. I want to see that it's done, that it's over."

He knelt by the fallen figure which lay face down in the dirt. Carefully he reached out and put his hand on Cassandra's shoulder, and pulled. The body rolled over quickly, an arm swinging up, grabbing his hand and Bryan gasped and drew back - and the arm fell lifelessly to the ground.

He gazed into Cassandra's face, opened his mouth, held his breath. Her eyes were open, red and fiery in black sockets - but her face - it was cracked and bony, shrivelled, a dry parched skull.

"Oh my God!" he sobbed. "Liz... Liz, it's over."

"Not quite," said Colby. "One last thing." He turned to Cail. "Did you bring it?"

Cail Vinney hoisted the tank of gasoline to his shoulder. They all watched as he poured the liquid about the base of the tree and over the limp branches.

"It's all yours, Kooky," Cail said, pulling Cassandra's frail body away from the tree.

Michael Colby pulled the lighter from his pocket, lit it and threw it flaming to the ground. In a great whoosh, a ball of flame leaped to cover the withered tree and they backed away as the flames rose in a bright fury, lighting up the sky, and they watched in silence as the conflagration enveloped the house, a cloud of dark smoke rising in a slow, heavy spiral and beneath the smoke, a wall of flame.

"Okay ... okay, let's go," said Colby, his voice shaking. They all turned, slowly, and walked to the road, then turned once more to see the house collapse in a shower of sparks.

"It's over, Liz," Bryan whimpered, his bleeding stump held to his chest. "It really is over."

EPILOGUE

It was one week after the destruction of the old Brubacher house. Michael Colby had extended the dinner invitation to Cail Vinney, Bill Hendricks, Sam Jaffre, Bryan Laker and his wife Elizabeth. Margrit Colby had overseen the preparation of dinner and was pleased that all had eaten heartily. After dinner, Michael suggested that they retire to the living room for a glass of drambuie, before the glowing fire. He poured himself a large, straight whiskey.

"Liz," said Marg, "we're so glad that you've recovered sufficently to join us."

"I understand," said Colby, "that you came out of your trance soon after we put an end to the Brubacher house."

"Yes," said Liz. "That's what Bryan tells me." She looked at her husband warmly, holding out her hand to Bryan. "And Sam, dear Sam, he came out of his - his -"

" _Spell_ I guess you'd could call it," said Sam Jaffre. "When Bryan told me what had happened ... the last few months ... I could hardly believe I was _that_ involved. Actually, I can't remember much since ... well, it seems like years ago."

Sam looked at Michael Colby. "That's a mean punch you throw, Mr. Colby," Sam said, rubbing his hands over his face which still had a large strip of gauze across his nose and a strip around his head.

"Call me Michael," said Colby with a wide grin. "Not bad for a sixty year old man, eh?"

"Sixty-one, dear," said Marg.

"Yeah, well, I guess we fixed her wagon - that old witch," grunted Colby.

"That's really strange," said Hendricks. "They brought her body to General Hospital. She had a bullet wound in her thigh."

"That was _you_ , your shot, Bill," said Cail enthusiastically. "Nice shooting."

"Well, not so nice," Hendricks said. "I was actually aiming at those... those weird shapes."

"Well, I'm just glad you showed up," said Bryan. "How did you know we were there, Mr. Colby ... uh, Michael, and me?"

"Mikey phoned us," said Cail. "He was furious that the army wouldn't go along with his scheme."

"What?" cried Colby. "Furious? Not so. I was just - just -"

"Furious," suggested Margrit Colby, blowing a kiss in his direction.

"Anyway," continued Cail, "Bill and I didn't know exactly what Mikey had in mind, but he asked us to be there at 2 a.m. and for gasoline so we figured he had worked out _some_ kind of plan. But I tell you, when we saw Mikey lying by the side of the road we figured his plan, whatever it was, hadn't gone that well and -"

"We got the witch, didn't we?" said Colby.

"But the curious thing is, she didn't die from the bullet wound," said Bill Hendricks. "It clearly weakened her, but couldn't have killed her."

"That's right," said Cail. "I called a friend of mine at General and asked about Cassandra Brubacher. He said the death certificate will say: _died of old age_. Her skin was cracked and dry, dehydrated, her eyes black and hollow. Quite remarkable. A skeleton ... a withered old body. It seems she was at least ninety years old, maybe more."

"She was born in 1895," said Bryan. "That would make her ... uh, about ..."

"Go ahead, dear," whispered Liz. "Demonstrate that mathematical genius."

Bryan groaned. "Well, about ninety, maybe more."

"I think the willow tree kept her young," said Liz. "She grew old as soon as the willow died. She had been holding back old age for so long - it just came all at once - coinciding with the death of the willow."

"Or the soul of the willow," said Sam Jaffre.

"Or the bones," whispered Bryan.

"Did you see those weird shapes?" said Hendricks. "I don't know what to make of them, do you?" He was looking at Bryan.

"They almost got _me_ ," Colby groaned. "One minute I was there, shooting at that old broad, the next minute they was all over me." He shook his head. "Don't know what happened ... guess I just ... just ..."

"Getting old, dear," suggested Margrit Colby, planting a kiss on her husband's bald head.

"Well," said Bryan, "I suspect that Cassandra not only had people helping her - _Friends of Willow_ \- she also had some help from the Prince of Darkness, Ahrimash - or whatever her name was."

"Whatever _her_ name was?" said Liz, scowling at Bryan.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you Liz," said Bryan, smirking. "I read a book on that. It's not my analysis, of course. The book said that the Prince of Darkness, the God of Evil, the ruler of the Kingdom of the Devil - well, she's _female_." He raised his glass, to make the point. "You see, that makes sense. If the God of Good is male then you'd expect that the God of Evil -"

"Bryan Laker," said Liz in a low and menacing voice. "The _Prince_ of Darkness is _female_?"

Bryan put up his hands in self defence, his drink held precariously in his good hand.

"I agree," said Sam Jaffre. "There's no reason to believe that the two top gods are both male. I mean, everybody knows that witches are in league with the devil and witches are female and that implies that the devil is also -"

Liz swung at Sam and he drew back, smiling. Bryan thought the swing was for him and jerked his hand, throwing his drink into his face.

Liz leaned back with a smug look and the others laughed.

"Atta girl, Liz," said Marg.

Bryan wiped his face and straightened in his chair. "Well," he said cautiously, grinning, "all the females on Dune Road got it. Cassandra, Willow and the weird shapes."

"Well, all I know is, _this time_ , my people didn't have no problem," said Colby. "No problem, not like a certain Willow Towers." He winked at Bryan. "They've already cleared the site, dug the foundation and poured the footings for the Sports Center. The _Saunders Sports Center_ \- almost triple S, wouldn't you say?"

They all laughed.

"And the article in the paper, did you read it?" asked Cail. "The Chief of Police said _his_ people have finally solved the babies mystery ... all those disappearances. He said they knew it was some cult, knew all along that Cassandra Brubacher was the leader." The others began to laugh. "That's right," continued Cail, chuckling. "He said they had been working on it ever since Sam's grandfather was Inspector, and it had taken years, but they knew they were on the right track and finally honed in on the house in Dune. They even dug up the old files, buried in the basement of the station. They had stored them there, some time ago, for safe keeping."

"And Mayor Saunders publically congratulated the Chief for a job well done," said Liz.

Everyone laughed again and Marg went around and filled the glasses.

"Another interesting thing," said Hendricks. "Brubacher owned Willow Towers - it isn't called that anymore, of course - but anyway, some of the guys from the station went there to look around, search for her belongings, that sort of thing. They found a room full of boxes. Guess what was inside the boxes?"

"Wicker baskets!" cried Bryan.

"Yes, how'd you know?" asked Hendricks. "Baskets ... well, almost. Just touch them and they turn to dust. That's what the guys said: they just turn to dust. Guess that's the end of the willow tree."

"And all its pieces," said Sam with a sigh.

"It's going to be strange to go back to teaching math," said Bryan. "I mean, after all this. Liz and I, we've been living this thing for some time. Liz lost a baby - I lost a finger. We won't be able to think of anything else for awhile, I don't think."

"Not the kind of adventure you'd expect of a math professor," said Sam. "And now, it's all over. Sort of an aftermath."

"Very funny," groaned Liz. "Anyway, Bryan is now determined to finish the infamous _History of New Bamberg_. It's been hanging over his head as it was for his father."

"The _Short_ History," added Bryan. "I'm almost looking forward to writing the last chapter."

"And I'd like to thank _you_ , Mr. Colby -" began Sam.

"Michael. Please call me Michael."

"Okay, Michael, I'd like to thank you for putting in a good word on my behalf, to the Chief of Police - and you too, Bill. I thought I'd be taken out and shot for attempting to ... well, Mrs. Colby ?" He looked sheepishly at Margrit Colby.

"We understand," she said. "It wasn't really _you_ , was it?"

"Just one thing I don't understand," said Michael Colby. "Old lady Brubacher was there, outside the house, even before Laker and me arrived. She was ready for us. She and her \- whatever they were - those ghosts or whatever - like she was tipped off, somehow."

Margrit Colby coughed softly and they all looked at her. "Didn't you say she had magic powers? Well, that proves it, doesn't it?" she said. Then she raised her glass. "Enough about the willow and the witch. I think we need to toast the renaming of the clinic," she said. "Lady and gentlemen ... to the Cail Vinney Clinic."

And they all drank to that.
