 
A WANING MOON

By

Bliss Addison

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2007 Bliss Addison

First Electronic Publication 2009

Second Electronic Publication 2012

*Previously Published by Red Rose Publishing and

Previously Titled _The Canted Curse*_

This book is a work of fiction based entirely on the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental. Real places mentioned in the book are depicted fictionally and are not intended to portray actual times or places. All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

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

Also by Bliss Addison:

A Battle of Wills (Shannon Murphy – Book I)

With Malicious Intent (Shannon Murphy – Book II)

Restless Souls

Wolfe, She Cried

Murder at the Villa Maria-Sedona Retirement Home

One Millhaven Lane

Deadly Serum

Prophesy

An Equal Measure

Sleight of Hand

Watching Over Her

A Silver Lining (The Monahans – Part I)

A Little Rain Must Fall (The Monahans – Part II)

A Mistaken Belief (The Monahans – Part III)

_Summary_ :

Blossom McDougall, the last descendant of Agnes Frederica Drummond, has eight days to undo the curse of Hesper Higginbotham or her life will end.

With no other plan than to lock herself in a room the day of, a man enters her bookstore and introduces himself as her Aunt Zella's step-son, a private investigator from Minnesota in Newfoundland on business. The two had met when Blossom was a child and she only vaguely remembers Ian P. Mahoney.

Hoping for a chance to reminisce, Blossom offers Ian lodging.

After the two get reacquainted, Ian asks Blossom to help him with a case. Accompany him on an adventure, he says.

As the two set out, Ian quizzes Blossom about the Drummond curse and offers his assistance in locating Hesper's sole surviving relative, the only person who can help Blossom with reversing the curse.

Their journey quickly becomes more than Blossom anticipated when they stumble onto kidnappings, a nefarious money-making scheme, unscrupulous characters (one of whom wants her dead) and a man from Blossom's past, one who this time will not accept 'no' for answer.

When the wrongs of long ago have been righted, one question remains: Who does Blossom love - the man from Minnesota, or the man destined for her?

Contents:

Chapter One

Chapter Two – Detective Favian Quinn and a Jack Daniels Buzz

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven – Blossom, Ian and the Jack O'Lantern Cabins

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen – Whit and Lyron Find Malloy

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen – A Quaint B&B on Old New Water Street

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty – A Feline in Heat

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three – A Terrific Start

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six – Whit, Blossom and The Blue Flamingo

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One -The End

Chapter One

Ages Ago —

_On a balmy summer night upon the waning of the moon (the most propitious time for casting a curse) Hesper Higginbotham sat before a fire in a corner of her garden. As the fire glowed and flickered and the black moon cavorted with cumulus clouds, she threw a dollop of_ _Hungarian bull's blood onto the fiery coals and cursed Agnes Frederica Drummond and her descendants to an early grave._

"As she has done unto me, let it be done unto her and any who comes after her."

Present Day, Dickeyville, Newfoundland and the Last Descendant of Agnes Frederica Drummond —

Eight days from now, on the eve of her thirtieth birthday, following in the footsteps of her foremothers, Blossom McDougall would end her life.

How, she didn't know.

The cause: A curse, one that spanned more than a century.

Except for her best friend Vivian, she discussed the Curse with no one.

Town folk knew her history and probably talked about her plenty, even possibly took wagers on how she'd do herself in, but not one of them ventured a remark or kind word. God knew too, of course, and He wasn't saying anything either, and though she prayed daily for His guidance and assistance, none seemed forthcoming.

A lost cause, she was; even He thought so.

There she went again.

She needed to stop obsessing.

No more with the Curse.

Not one more thought.

Not one.

She ran down the stairs from her apartment and entered her bookshop through the back entrance. She flipped on the lights and cut a path through dust motes quivering in the shaft of light streaming through the window. At the front door, she peeked through the glass and looked for Vivian. She usually dropped in for coffee before heading to work but this morning, Vivian was nowhere in sight. Disappointed, Blossom turned the dead bolt and walked to the counter, trying not to look at the calendar on the wall, but not succeeding.

Her doomsday drew nearer and nothing would prevent its happening. She'd come to terms with the unfortunate truth long ago and had made the most of her remaining days by doing, not which she'd never done, but which made her happiest, being normal day-to-day living. Some might find that strange, but those who did, have never lived under a Higginbotham curse.

Now, it was zero hour and from her perspective, she had two choices. She could either throw the covers over her head and wait for the end to come, or she could take a stand and fight the Curse to her last breath. She would like to settle on the latter, arguing she was a Drummond and came from strong stock, but it would be a lie. Truth was, she didn't come from strong stock at all. Every one of her foremothers had killed herself.

The store suddenly seemed small, suffocating. Cold sweat beaded her forehead as a feeling of unrest coursed through her. She peered around the store. Everything was in place and nothing seemed amiss, yet she couldn't shake the feeling something was about to happen. If she allowed herself the indulgence, she'd blame the sensation on the Curse.

Not one more word on the subject.

Not one.

The bell above the door jingled and Blossom turned, a ready smile to greet her friend. But it wasn't Vivian who entered. As though star-struck, Blossom stared at the handsome brown-haired, long-legged man striding toward her. Perhaps he was a jinker, though she'd be daft to think this man could bring anyone bad luck.

"Blossom?" he asked.

"Yes." He looked at her like he recognized her. She didn't know him, though. She'd definitely remember those rich brown eyes and dimpled cheeks.

He handed her a business card.

_Pendexter Investigations,_ _Ian P. Mahoney, Pres._ the card read.

"You don't remember me," he said.

She took another good look at the bayman. "I'm sorry, I don't."

"You're sure?" He raised his eyebrows and half-smiled.

He seemed so certain they'd met before, she second-guessed her memory and thought hard, but she couldn't recall meeting him.

"The summer of eighty-five. The annual fall harvest, pumpkins, squash and jambalaya ring any bells?"

She shook her head, wondering how he could think she'd remember twenty-five years ago.

"I'm crushed." He placed his hand against his heart. "You pledged your love to me on the teeter-totter in the school playground."

She laughed. "I was five at the time. How would I." She stopped mid-sentence when the recollection surfaced. A second later, she was walking around the counter and hugging her Aunt Zella's step-son. How could she have forgotten the freckle-faced, all arms and legs teen who she'd vowed to marry when she was old enough?

She came out of his arms and stepped back, grinning. " _Lard tunderin' Jaysus b'y_ , it's good to see ya," she said, slipping into local dialect in her excitement.

He held on to her hands. "Look at you, all grown up and that red hair and those green eyes...."

"See what you missed?" She laughed, embarrassed by his unabashed appraisal.

"I do, and I'm downright angry with myself for not coming back for you." He ran his hand across her ring finger. "Why hasn't some lucky man snatched you up?"

"Someone did. Three times, in fact."

"Marriage isn't for everyone," he said, smiling.

"Ain't it a fact. Auntie Z, owshegettinonb'ys?"

"She's fine and sends her regards," he said and smiled some more.

Blossom was happy to see him too and hoped he was in town for a while. "What brings you back to Newfoundland? Last I heard you were living in Minnesota."

"Still am. I'm here on business. Thought I'd drop by to see the woman who stole my heart all those years ago."

She slapped his arm. "Oh, shut up your prate!" Laughing, she walked back behind the counter and sat on the stool, eyeing his business card. "You're a private investigator?"

"I am."

"What's your business in our capital, or can you say?"

He shrugged. "No reason I can't. The son of a friend of mine went on a joy ride three weeks ago and hasn't been seen since. I got word yesterday his credit card was used for a purchase at a gas station in St. John's. I'm working my way up through the province –"

Blossom turned with Ian toward the door when the bell jingled and watched sixty-five-year-old Olive Henderson, a loyal patron of her bookstore and one of Blossom's tenants, walk into the shop.

"I have to tend to her," Blossom said to Ian.

"Of course." Ian walked over to a display of books and browsed the new releases.

"Good morning, Olive," Blossom said.

"What's good about it? Weather forecast said sunny skies all day. No sunny skies I can see."

"How are you today?" Blossom asked, smiling.

Olive rested her hands on her walker, her breath coming in uneven gasps.

"My rheumatiz is bothering me something awful. I didn't sleep a wink last night."

"Medication not working?"

"Oh no, dear. Pain didn't keep me awake." Olive peered around the shop and, apparently satisfied no one eavesdropped, whispered conspiratorially, "Jennifer came to me again."

"Oh?" Like the other instances where Olive told Blossom her dead granddaughter had appeared to Olive, Blossom couldn't think of anything to say except to ask, "How is she?"

"She was crying and begged for my help." She brushed tears from her eyes.

Blossom patted Olive's hand. "I'll say a prayer for her." Who knew? Maybe God would send Olive an angel to help her.

"Thank you, dear. Did the book I ordered come in?" Olive peered at her over her bi-focals, the matter of her beloved granddaughter obviously forgotten.

Blossom took the book from a shelf beneath the counter and held it for Olive to see. "This is the one you wanted, isn't it?"

From where he stood, Ian looked at the book cover and exaggerated a gag.

"Shush." Giggling, she eyed him peripherally.

"What was that, dear?" Olive tapped her ear. "I must be getting hard of hearing."

"Just muttering to myself."

Olive dug in her purse and came out with two crumpled twenties.

"I'll be by at the usual time with your supper," Blossom said, opening the cash register.

Olive squinted, cagey-like. "What are we having tonight?"

"Rabbit pie." Blossom handed Olive her change.

"Again?"

Blossom smiled and helped Olive from the shop.

After the door closed, Ian said, "Tell me about her missing granddaughter."

"There isn't much to tell. Olive's eighteen-year-old granddaughter Jennifer went missing from the university a few years ago. Olive believes a cult is holding her captive but the authorities believe Jennifer's dead, though her body was never found." Blossom wondered about Ian's curiosity, but only until she remembered his line of work. Investigators were probably inquisitive by nature.

"Hmm."

Blossom left Ian to his thoughts while she waited on another customer.

Minutes later, she rejoined Ian, hoping to reminisce. He quickly dashed her hopes.

"I can't believe where the morning went," he said, lifting the cuff of his coat and looking at his watch. "There are a few things I must attend to before the end of the day, but maybe we could have dinner after I finish with business."

Blossom had a better idea. "Where are you staying?"

"I haven't checked in anywhere yet, but I was thinking about Castle's Inn."

"Why don't you stay with me?" She didn't realize how much she wanted his company until she extended the invitation. "I have three perfectly spare bedrooms, and I'll even throw in a home-cooked meal. What do you say?"

"How can I refuse?"

"Great."

"I'll see you later, then." He looped his red cashmere scarf around his neck and buttoned his top coat to brave the frigid outdoor temperature.

At noon, Vivian breezed into the bookstore, looking suitably contrite and haphazardly put together, even for Vivian who thought haute couture translated to mismatched colors and styles.

Blossom narrowed her eyes and prepared to give her friend a good-natured reprimand for needlessly frightening her. Before she could say a word, Vivian apologized.

" _B'tunderin_ , you should be sorry," Blossom said, her anger forgotten. "No call, no text, no e-mail, no communication of any kind. Where were you?" She cocked a brow. "And your excuse to blow me off had better be good, young lady," she said in good fun.

"Were you worried I wasn't going to be around to sequester you to a closet de night of?"

"Very funny, but yes." Blossom had to smile. They'd made a pact that on the eve of her thirtieth birthday Vivian would put Blossom under lock and key and not release her until the following day. If the next day the veracity of the Curse proved itself once again, then she would have lived one day longer than her foremothers. At least, the Curse would die with her. Some consolation, she supposed.

Vivian walked over to her and gave her a hug. "I overslept."

Blossom found that strange. Vivian, despite her laissez-faire way with her wardrobe, took her commitments seriously and was punctual to the second. "Did you forget to set your alarm?"

"No," she said, squeezing her eyebrows together, then shrugged. "Maybe."

"Speaking of, did you call your boss and explain your tardiness?" Vivian's employer was a curmudgeon. Her friend sometimes forgot that fact.

"Yep. Everything's cool." Vivian studied Blossom. "How're you doing?"

"Good." At her skeptical expression, Blossom added, "Really." She told her about the unexpected visitor. "Come by tonight, and I'll introduce you."

"I'd love to, but I have the thing with Gram."

Ah yes, _the_ _thing_. Her things-to-do-before-she-turns-eighty list. Blossom was afraid her situation (the Curse and dead before her time) had inspired the old lady to do today what she might not be able to do tomorrow. The last she heard was that Gram Nugent's list grew lengthier every day.

"What is it this week?"

"Bungee jumping." Vivian rolled her eyes.

"Appropriate after sky-diving, I guess," Blossom said. Though she grinned, she worried her bff might not survive her grandmother's B'day list.

_Duckish –_ between sunset and dark – Ian returned to the shop.

Blossom grabbed her cell and laptop and sped toward the rear door, saying to him over her shoulder, "Don't expect much. My furniture is ratty, and I'm not a woman who likes everything in place."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," he said, following behind her.

In the upstairs landing, Ian looked up and down the hall then jerked his chin at the closed doors. "Are they apartments?"

She nodded. "I have three tenants." She opened her apartment door and splayed her hand to Ian. "Make yourself at home," she said and watched him gaze first at the couch and chair that sprouted springs and stuffing, then at the scratched, stained, and cigarette-burned tabletops before moving on to the chipped and cracked knick-knacks, the scuffed and worn hardwood floor and frayed area mats.

"Sure you don't want to back out?" she asked.

"Not a chance."

# Chapter Two

Favian Quinn's bad day started at seven-thirty that morning when his alarm woke him before he'd slept off the Jack Daniels buzz from the previous night. Feeling wearier than other mornings, he went into the bathroom where he learned that some time through the night, the electric water heater had experienced a meltdown. Not unlike him, he supposed, only his meltdown had occurred years ago when his colleagues accused him of a crime he didn't commit. Insubstantial evidence, his superiors had said after the investigation, two words that ruined his career as surely as a guilty verdict would. Since then, he'd suffered through many bad days, but today had turned into the mother of them all.

After a cold shower, he left his pitiful excuse for home and learned someone had deflated the tires on his unmarked car. Then, he'd no sooner entered the station house before the Chief was on Quinn's ass about the disappearance of those kids. The Chief wanted a status report, and he wanted it yesterday.

Quinn couldn't figure out what Littleton was fired up about.

If the boss wanted the case solved and the matter closed, or if he really thought someone abducted those kids, why had he assigned Quinn to the case? It didn't make sense. Everyone knew Quinn cared more about the bottle than he did his job.

Maybe the Chief had a hidden agenda. A lot of people did, especially in that precinct, and especially where Quinn was concerned.

If he were still of an age and the frame of mind where opinions of his integrity and worth mattered, he'd show them.

Wouldn't the Chief and his colleagues be surprised if he solved this case?

That'd bugger up the Chief's plan, it would.

The idea appealed to Quinn, but only for a moment.

Screw the Chief. Screw them all. He didn't need to prove anything to anyone. He was innocent of any wrongdoing, which was more than he could say about a few of his fellow police officers. The Chief had something going on the side, too. Quinn didn't know what. If he were so inclined, he could find out.

He took Mary Ellen Tucker's photograph in his hand and studied her. If ever a face said "studious," hers did. No make-up that he could see, not even lip-gloss. Her mousy brown hair fell to her shoulders and a spattering of freckles grazed on her nose. High cheekbones that many women would die for accentuated her face. Finely arched, dark brows framed blue eyes that would mesmerize, if she wanted. Nothing in her facial expression indicated it, but he sensed she was at odds about having her picture taken, as though shyness had overcome her.

Where are you, Mary Ellen? What happened to you after you left the Harlow campus library Thursday night?

And, you, Mr. Graham Earley, where are you?

Quinn ran a hand over his balding pate and replaced Tucker's photo with Earley's. His straggly brown hair, acne, large black-framed glasses, and clothes one size too large for his small frame virtually screamed "nerd". He didn't smile into the lens. His brown eyes appeared distant, as though he computed calculus equations in his head. Earley had lived all of his life in foster homes until he turned eighteen when he moved into a roach-infested apartment something like Quinn's. Earley held down two jobs, working his way through college with help from student loans and grants. Average in every way except intelligence, which went for his girlfriend, Mary Ellen, too. Both were exceptional students. From their first years in school, they surpassed the above average, often making perfect grades.

According to a couple of their roommates, Tucker and Earley studied and ate together but slept apart. They had no friends other than each other. Quinn understood. They would have little in common with the other students.

He'd seen kids go crazy with a taste of freedom. They'd party, do drugs and booze 'til dawn, then turn up on a park bench or the backseat of a car in a drunken stupor or drug-induced haze, wondering what happened.

Social ostracism, including verbal and physical violence, sometimes forced students to disappear, though none of these scenarios would apply to Tucker or Earley.

Nothing fit.

Kidnapping? he wondered.

The Tucker kid's stepbrother, Whitfield Hawkes, a millionaire, would pay a ransom, but no demand for one had been made.

What about Earley? How did he fit into a kidnapping? The wrong place at the wrong time seemed the sensible conclusion.

Quinn thought back to the Jennifer Lamb and Theodore Hanscomb disappearances. At the time, he suspected they'd run off together and hadn't put too much effort into finding them, reasoning they'd reappear at some point. No one had missed them, and the investigation was eventually bumped by higher priority cases.

What were the odds that Tucker and Earley had run off too? Slim to none, especially taking into consideration both these kids were too involved in their studies to take part in something not of an academic nature. They weren't attention-getters, either. Maybe someone pulled a prank on them. No, that wasn't it. Their fellow students hardly knew their names.

Okay, then, what in hell happened to them?

He'd talked to every student in Tucker and Earley's dorms, all of their professors, and anyone even obliquely familiar with them. As he had done in the case of Lamb and Hanscomb, he'd gone through the process — nationwide APB and missing-persons report through NCIC, but nothing. People didn't vanish into air or disappear without a trace, although it was what seemed to have happened in all four cases.

Superficial bastard, as if you really care, Quinn's mind heckled. Why don't you just admit you're putting in the hours until retirement so you can sit by a cozy fire in your camp and drink, fish and hunt to your heart's content? He didn't need his conscience to tell him he hadn't done all he could on the Lamb and Hanscomb disappearances.

His thoughts turned back to his earlier argument with himself. As a matter of form, he got the cases no one else wanted, and given Tucker's connection to Whitfield Hawkes and his status in the community, Quinn should not have been given this assignment. Yet, he had. Any one of his colleagues would have leapt at the chance to work this case.

Again, Quinn asked himself why him? Why did the Chief assign him to the case?

Something wasn't right, not right at all, and he didn't need to have a genius IQ to realize it. If the Chief wanted the case solved, many of Quinn's colleagues were better qualified for the task and would have jumped at the chance to prove to Whitfield Hawkes they knew how to do their jobs.

The answer came to him.

The Chief didn't want the case solved.

Why?

There had to be something in it for him.

What?

Quinn drew a blank.

He looked up from the file when Jocelyn Kerr, his bean-thin partner of six months, sat in the chair across from him.

"Here're the files you asked for," she said.

"Thanks." He'd wanted the Lamb and Hanscomb files to make comparisons, but now he didn't need to look through his notes to see the similarities between the four cases.

"Anything on the missing kids?"

"No." Quinn picked up a paper clip and clasped it tightly between his thumb and forefinger. "Were you able to get anything new from the girl's brother?"

"Step-brother. Nothing we don't already know. He's upset we haven't made any progress." She shook her head. "Both these kids can't have gone misplaced."

"Kids like them get misplaced in plain view all the time. Other than intellect, they neither stand out nor blend in. They're the kids left standing after the teams have been chosen."

"I know what you mean. The first question the students asked was, "Who?" Then, "Oh, her". Then they'd become surprised and say, "She's missing? Since when?" Then when I told them how long, their reaction was, "Really?" It was the same for Earley. Neither of these kids left a lasting impression with anyone."

Quinn cleared his throat, knowing precisely what she meant. "If they were druggies or boozers, we'd think they crashed somewhere." He dropped the paper clip on the files, massaged his face and let his hand fall flat on the desk.

"How can two people disappear like they never existed?" he asked puzzled.

"Your guess would be as good as mine."

He laughed a hoarse laugh from too many years of booze and cigarettes. "I don't even have that. If I did, we'd at least have something." To keep his hands busy, he flipped through Lamb's file, then Hanscomb's.

"Are those cases related to ours?"

"See for yourself." He handed her the files, leaned back in his chair and waited while she read his notes.

Five minutes later, she looked up, sat back, and studied him. "Same scenario — kids disappearing without anyone seeing anything. Highly intelligent students, average looks, low to average income backgrounds and, with the exception of the Tucker girl, no relatives." She looked at Quinn. "You think these latest disappearances are linked to Lamb and Hanscomb?"

"Don't you?"

"I might, if Tucker didn't have a relative interested in whether she was alive or dead."

"Supposing these kids were all intentionally taken, would an abductor know Tucker had a brother? On her admission form, she listed Hawkes as her guardian, not step-brother, and their different surnames make it appear they aren't related."

She studied him from across the desk. "What are you suggesting?"

"You tell me." He didn't know what he was getting at exactly, but whatever it was appeared too preposterous for him to voice.

"You think these kids were kidnapped and by the same kidnappers."

He shrugged, hoping to make the idea not appear as incredible as he thought it was. "It's possible, isn't it?"

She stared at the floor.

Quinn let her ruminate.

After several seconds, she looked up. "Why? What would anyone want with them?"

Quinn took his pen in his hand and flicked his thumbnail on and off the top. "That's the big question."

She took the photos of the four missing kids from the files, spread them side by side on the desk, and looked at them. "Something..." She rapped her finger against the desk.

Quinn looked at the pictures, then at Jocelyn. "What is it?"

"I don't know." She pursed her lips. "They're all ordinary. One blond and blue-eyed, one brown-haired and brown-eyed, one red-haired and green-eyed, and one black-haired and blue-eyed."

He didn't understand what she was implying. "So?"

"Seems like a variety. Almost like they were hand-picked." She stared at the pictures of the missing kids, then squared her hands and looked through them as she would a camera lens. "Fix them up a little...nice clothes, flattering hair-dos and a little make-up on the girls and they'd all be someone to look twice at."

He studied their photos and understood what she meant. "What are you thinking?"

She shook her head, looking like he felt a couple of minutes ago — too embarrassed to say. He had an idea and, now that his foolish notion had been said, he was no longer too ashamed to talk it through. "Slaves or play toys."

She stared at him, a surprised expression forming on her face. "Maybe." She chewed the inside of her cheek and shook her head. "Seems farfetched, though."

He watched her place a strand of hair behind ears too large for her head. "What's your take on this Hawkes guy?" he asked.

"He seems genuinely concerned about his step-sister, and Earley, too, for that matter, and knows all the right questions to ask. He should, I suppose. He's a lawyer, after all. He knows people who know people, and won't be shy about calling in a favor or owing one. He's respectful enough of our position and efforts and appreciates that we looked into his step-sister's disappearance unofficially before she could be officially declared missing."

Quinn swiveled his chair and looked out the window at the parking lot where dirty plastic bags fluttered in the air and gusts of wind sent powdered snow swirling across the panes of glass. He picked at a hangnail and said absently, "He can put the heat on us."

"In some circles, we are the heat."

"To criminal defense attorneys, we're bugs to be squashed," he said, without turning. "Anything else?"

"He paid her bills and kept a close watch on her, though he was the one who insisted she live on campus. Giving her responsibility and independence, I expect."

"I bet he's kicking his ass now."

# Chapter Three

Blossom took the dish from the oven and shut off the timer, reflecting on her failures and the choices she'd made over the years. Deep in those thoughts, Ian startled her when he entered the kitchen.

"Sorry. I'm light on my feet," he said.

"Nothing to apologize for," she said and smiled.

"Need any help?"

"I've things under control. We'll eat after I serve my tenants, if that's all right."

"No problem."

She set three plates on the chrome kitchen table and heaped pie onto them.

Ian eyed the pan and asked, "Do you bring your tenants supper every night?"

"Mostly."

"That's very commendable."

She shrugged. "They're old, have a hard time seeing and getting around, and have no one, at least no one who wants anything to do with them." She covered the plates with plastic wrap and placed them on the serving cart.

Wheeling the trolley toward the door, she said over her shoulder, "I'll be back da rackley. Make yourself comfortable."

He walked fast to catch up with her. "I'll tag along, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." She led a very dull life and wondered how long this Minnesota man would last should his business keep him in town.

Ian darted around her and opened the door.

She walked through the hall toward the front of the building and knocked on the apartment door next to hers. "It's Blossom with your supper. Open up."

After hearing the last of the three dead bolts being thrown, she moved the serving cart in position in front of the door and waited while Lawrence undid the safety chain and turned the key in the lock.

"Trusting sort, isn't he," Ian said.

"He fears vandals will break into his home, beat him up, and steal the money from his mattress."

"Things like that happen in Dickeyville?"

"No, but it happens in other towns and cities. He watches the news and too many movies."

"Ah." Ian nodded as though he understood.

"Thing about us Newfoundlanders is that there's no need to steal. We'd gladly give you what money we had believing you needed it more." She looked at him questioningly. "You wouldn't know that because you were here such a short time and a long time ago, but your step-mother is a born and bred Newfie. Didn't you notice – "

The door creaked open, taking Blossom's thoughts from Ian to her tenant.

Lawrence Peet, a slim man with hair as dark as dates, lively nut-brown eyes, with nary a deep wrinkle on his face, rested his liver-spotted hand on his walking cane and said wet-blanket-like, "You're late."

Actually, she wasn't. "I know. I'm sorry," she said, moving past him and into the apartment. She made room for Ian and watched as Lawrence redid the locks.

"How old is he?" Ian asked.

"Seventy-five," she said out the side of her mouth.

Ian raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise. "He doesn't look it."

She kept her voice low. "He uses age-defying creams." At his skeptical expression, she said, "I pick them up for him."

Blossom introduced them.

Lawrence let on like Ian was invisible.

Blossom leaned in close to Ian and said, "Don't be offended. He's anti-social sometimes."

Ian nodded again.

"Your usual place?" she asked, taking Lawrence's dinner plate in her hand.

Lawrence led the way into the living room, muttering about the strange things that happened in the building.

Blossom wondered what he was talking about but wouldn't ask. She followed behind him with Ian keeping step beside her.

"Who's the next meal on wheels for?" Ian asked as they walked from Lawrence's apartment.

"Rose Andrews. She's a young seventy-four-year-old with white hair down to her waist. She has a little problem with her weight and doesn't take guff from anyone. Try not to say anything that'll upset her because she'd tell you where to go."

Ian grunted. "Wherever that is, I'm sure I've been there. Been a flea on a man's ass before and half a cabbage up someone's ass, so a fat old lady will not, I can guarantee, frighten me."

"If you say so." She grinned and knocked on Rose's door.

"Come in. It's open."

In Rose's living room, Blossom set a dinner plate on the coffee table and introduced Ian.

Rose grunted and examined the meal through a magnifying glass. "Braised rabbit again?"

"I'm sorry. I forgot we had it last week."

With some effort, Rose stood to her five-foot height and assembled her three hundred and fifty-pound weight into one unmoving mass before walking across the room.

Ian gasped. "Lord in Heaven," he whispered. "The woman's frickin' huge."

"Didn't I warn you?"

"Not sufficiently enough." He chuckled.

"Aren't you coming?" Rose asked. "I always eat in the kitchen. You know that."

If she had found Rose in the kitchen, she'd say she always ate in the living room. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

She followed Rose into the kitchen where Blossom set Rose's supper on the table, and made a hasty exit with Ian playing catch-up.

In the hallway, Blossom walked to Olive's door and rang the buzzer. "It's Blossom."

"Use your key, dear."

Blossom took her keys from the pocket of her jeans, unlocked and opened the door then made her way through the hallway and into the living room. "Hi, there."

Olive turned and smiled, gazing briefly at Blossom before moving on to Ian. "I didn't know you were bringing company," she said, fluffing her hair. "I'd have put on lipstick."

"Olive, I'd like you to meet Ian Mahoney. He's the step-son of my Aunt Zella here from Minnesota on business."

"That's nice, dear." Olive smiled and took the plate from her hand. "Dinner smells wonderful. I thought of nothing else all day."

Blossom recalled Olive having a different opinion on her rabbit pie that morning when she was in the shop.

The telephone rang.

When Olive didn't make a move to answer, Blossom said, "Your phone's ringing."

"I know, dear. I never answer on the first ring. Wouldn't want the caller to think I sit by the phone waiting for someone to call." Olive drummed her finger on her knee and stared straight ahead.

The phone rang a second time.

"Yeah, yeah," Olive said, huffing a sigh. "Don't get yer bloomers in a twist, I'm coming." She leaned over the armrest, plucked the receiver from its cradle on the end table, and put it to her ear. "Hullo." She waited a moment. "Is anybody there?" She waited another moment. "Jennifer, is that you? Why won't you talk to Grandmamma, baby?"

Blossom heard enough and took the receiver from Olive's hand. She listened to the monotonous hum of a dial tone. "Whoever it was, hung up."

Olive shook her head. "It was Jennifer. I just know it. She's trying to get in touch with me, but something's preventing her."

If Olive subscribed to feature creatures or call display, Blossom could star sixty-nine the caller or show Olive who had called. She wanted to tell her it could have been a telemarketer, or a wrong number, but doubted the woman would believe her.

"How long has Jennifer been gone, Olive, if you don't mind me asking," Ian said.

"Not at all. Three years. She was last seen coming from the university library. The police think she's dead, but she's not. I'd know. I'd feel it here." She patted her heart.

"Was there anything to suggest to the police that foul play was involved in her disappearance?"

Olive shook her head. "They wouldn't tell me anything other than it was an ongoing investigation. If her parents still lived, they wouldn't have gotten away with it." She stared at the floor a moment, then shrugged. "Later on, it became an unsolved case."

"How about a boyfriend? Did she have one?"

"He disappeared at the same time."

Blossom sat on the sofa. "Maybe they ran off together."

"What would be the sense of that? They didn't live at home and did what they wanted. Besides, Jennifer was too focused on her education for anything else to catch her attention."

"Didn't you mention something about a cult?" Blossom asked.

"They've got her. I'm sure of it." Olive clamped her lips together.

"Where is this cult, do you know?" Ian asked.

"I don't know, but Jennifer would never join a cult. She's too strait-laced." Olive looked at Ian. "She wants to be a doctor."

"She must be a smart young lady," Ian said, smiling. "Do you remember the name of the police officer who investigated her disappearance?"

Olive looked upward and studied the ceiling as though his name were written somewhere among the cracks. "It's an unusual name. Fargo...no, Favian. Yes, that's it. Favian Quinn."

In her apartment, Blossom set the table and spooned their supper onto plates, noticing that Ian had been quiet since they'd left Olive's. Something troubled him. "A loony for your thoughts," she said, breaking the silence.

He turned from the spot on the table that had held his attention and stared at her. "I was just comparing my missing person's case with Olive's missing granddaughter. The two cases are similar."

"How so?"

"For one, my client's son might not have gone missing on his own. No one can locate his girlfriend, and they were last seen together. I didn't find it strange until I heard Olive's story. What do you say about a little adventure?" he asked.

"Like?" It had been a long while since she'd done anything spontaneous and an adventure sounded exciting.

"Accompany me to St. John's and help me with my case. I have a few leads to follow up, and you definitely know the city better than I. At the same time, we can look into Olive's granddaughter's disappearance."

She took a seat across from him and placed a napkin on her lap. "How long will we be gone?"

"It depends on what we learn. Maybe a day or two."

"I have a store to run, and who will cook for Olive, Lawrence, and Rose?" More and more Blossom was liking the idea of taking off, like she didn't have a care in the world. She couldn't think of a better way to spend her final days. With that thought...no, she wouldn't let the Curse ruin the moment.

Not one more thought on the subject.

Not one.

He shrugged. "Get them to look after the store. They'll appreciate a few days away from the television and waiting for the telephone to ring."

Blossom agreed. "Okay."

"Great." He slapped his hands together. "Tomorrow you can tell me all about this curse," he said.

# Chapter Four

"Detective Quinn?" a perfectly modulated alto voice asked.

Quinn turned from the window and stared at the six-foot man wearing an expensive three-piece suit, with a wool overcoat draped over his arm and a leather attaché case in his hand that probably cost what Quinn earned in two weeks. The man looked vaguely familiar. "Yeah."

"Whitfield Hawkes." He extended his hand. "We've never formally met. It's a pleasure."

Quinn jumped to his feet and shook the lawyer's hand. He barely managed to keep his nerves under control. Hawkes had that effect on most everyone.

"I thought we should touch base," Hawkes said.

Jocelyn, who had been absorbed with reviewing the files on the missing kids, stood abruptly and offered her chair to the lawyer. "Please, have a seat, Mr. Hawkes."

Though his manner appeared cordial, his intense expression told Quinn something entirely different. Whitfield Hawkes was not a man to cross.

"Can I get you a coffee, counselor? It isn't gourmet coffee, but it's decent." He ran his tongue over suddenly parched lips. The high-profile lawyer was bad news at any time, and if they couldn't find his sister, to say it would not sit well with Hawkes would be an understatement. He would undoubtedly make him and the whole department pay. Quinn couldn't take more harassment. The slander from the accusation that he stole confiscated marijuana from the evidence locker had almost done him in, emotionally and professionally.

"I'm fine, thanks." Hawkes placed his coat over the back of the chair and sat.

"You've heard nothing from your sister?" Quinn asked, sitting back down. He held his breath, hoping for a positive response.

Hawkes shook his head. "Have you any leads?"

Quinn figured there was no sense b-essing the lawyer and answered truthfully. Hawkes didn't look like a man who would appreciate sucking-up, either, and Quinn nixed the idea to cajole. "No." He added, "unfortunately", when Hawkes fixed him with a steely stare. Quinn understood now how his colleagues had felt under his cross-examination in court. In the silence that followed, the tension in the air grew thick and heavy. Quinn never needed a drink like he did now. He wanted a smoke, too. And more than one. Of each.

"So, you're no more closer to finding my sister than you were three days ago?"

Knowing whatever he said would not be looked at kindly, Quinn swallowed and hoped for the best. "We're going back out to the university today to question more students. It's a big place, and we're only two people."

"I'll call the mayor and arrange for more manpower."

Hawkes made it seem so simple. For him, it probably was. "This could all be a mistake," Quinn said. "Your sister might be staying with a friend."

"Are you suggesting I jumped to the wrong conclusion?" Hawkes cocked a thick, black brow.

Quinn answered quickly. "No, not at all. It's just that...sometimes...you know...." He clamped his mouth closed to stop from babbling.

Hawkes nodded, appearing calmer and less defensive. "That Mary Ellen didn't show up for any of her classes on Friday is a big red flag for me. Since grade one, she's had perfect attendance. Even when she was ill, she didn't miss a class."

"Could she have run off with her boyfriend?"

"As I told Detective Kerr, Graham is not Mary's Ellen's boyfriend. They're friends, study partners really, and only that."

"Maybe she let her hair down. Decided to have some fun."

"Mary Ellen wouldn't know how."

"Can you think of any people who she would have come into contact with prior to last Thursday? A hairdresser, dentist, doctor?" Quinn asked, feeling uneasy again under Hawkes scrutiny.

"Mary Ellen doesn't have a hairdresser. She trims her hair herself, and hasn't been to her dentist since her six-month check-up in November. The same goes for her doctor."

"You have a good relationship with your sister? No problems?"

"None."

Quinn saw a flicker of anger in Hawkes eyes, but only for a moment. The question had sparked his temper. Reversing their roles, he would hate it, too, if a question insinuated unwarranted fault. "Your sister was living with you until last September when she started college?"

"Correct."

"Was she happy at home?" Quinn watched for a reaction. If Hawkes really had nothing to hide, the question should upset him.

"She was."

Quinn determined from the muscle twitching in Hawkes' jaw he was perturbed. He also realized something else. This was a token visit on the lawyer's part. Hawkes would take matters into his own hands, and soon, if he hadn't done so already. No doubt the SJPD would end up looking incompetent, just as they looked when Hawkes had them on the stand giving testimony.

Quinn knew he would push Hawkes with his next question, but the query needed to be made. "Why didn't she continue to live at home, then? Seems to me a studious girl such as your sister would get more studying done at home. Dorms can be noisy, and roommates can be distracting."

Hawkes stood, draped his coat over his arm, and took his attaché case in his hand. "I have my investigator working on the case, and the morning paper and the local radio station will broadcast the reward I'm offering for any information leading to Mary Ellen's whereabouts. Have a good day, Detective Quinn." He nodded at Jocelyn. "Detective Kerr."

With that, he left.

Quinn turned and looked out the window until he saw Hawkes' black BMW pull onto Main St.

"A shit storm is brewing," Jocelyn said.

"And we're going to be hip-deep in it."

***

Hawkes turned into the parking lot of his office building, a four-story brick structure he had built a few years ago that housed dentists, doctors, architects and accountants.

He pulled the car to a stop at the front of the building, took his cell phone from his pocket, and punched in Lyron Otten's telephone number on the keypad. His friend and investigator picked up on the first ring. "It's Whit. Get me everything you can on Detective Favian Quinn and fax it to me asap."

He closed the phone, but didn't make a move to get out of the car. He laid his head back and prayed that Mary Ellen was safe and warm and that he would find her soon.

Hawkes had never felt as inept as he did at that moment.

In the lobby of his office building, he forced composure and nodded at the doorman sitting at the reception desk.

"Evening, Howard. Beautiful day, wasn't it?" The temperature hovered near twenty below, but Whitfield was only cognizant of the fact as it related to a weather forecast.

"Indeed, sir."

"Any day the sun shines is a beautiful day to a Newfoundlander, huh? Have a good one." Anticipating that Howard would ask him about Mary Ellen, and that those questions would plunge him deeper into guilt and remorse, Hawkes hurried toward the stairwell. He took the stairs to his fourth floor office as he did every day. He was surprised to see his secretary still at her desk.

"Priscilla, you should be home," he said to his brown-eyed brown-haired secretary. "It's after five."

"I was just getting ready to leave. Any news on your sister?"

"Unfortunately, no." He set his attaché case on the desk and rested his hands across the top.

"I'm sorry."

"I'll find her." And whoever has her will pay.

"Yes, you will. I'll keep the two of you in my prayers."

"Thanks. Did you get the motion to Judge McLellan?"

"Yes, and I filed the trial record on the Moody case with the clerk, too."

"What would I ever do without you?" He managed a smile for her.

"Pray you never find out." She handed him his messages. "I cleared your calendar for the remainder of the week, like you asked. Irene Langston wants to see you tomorrow at ten and won't take no for an answer."

He let out a deep breath. "There's nothing I can do for her."

"Did you tell her?"

"In so many words."

"Maybe it's time to be blunt."

Shaking his head, he flipped through the pink message slips. "I'll see her. She has no one to talk to. Go to voice mail and go home. The latter is an order, not a request."

"Aye, aye," she said, grabbing her handbag from the desk drawer.

He strode through the hallway, the luxurious carpet a soft cushion beneath his feet. His office, a tastefully but inexpensively decorated, non-expansive space that portrayed the image he wanted to project to his clients — efficient, discreet and reliable — came to light beneath the fluorescent fixtures.

Whit hung his coat in the closet, dropped his briefcase on the beige burlap sofa, sat behind his desk, and let out the sigh he'd held back for the last ten minutes.

With each passing day, he thought more and more Mary Ellen had been abducted. But why would someone abduct her? It didn't make any sense.

He took the photo in his hand of the two of them taken at her high school graduation. Even on such an auspicious occasion, she didn't smile.

Always serious and involved with her studies, he had wanted her to enjoy life. Knowing he could trust her, he had given her some freedom, hoping she would come into her own, have a little fun. Look what his good intentions got her — tomorrow's headline, her picture pinned on a corkboard at police central, and on her way to becoming a statistic.

From the moment his mother Angela married John Tucker, Whit was Mary Ellen's seventeen-year-old big brother. The day focused clearly in his mind. Mary Ellen had been four years old at the time. Dressed in a pink frilly dress, white tights, and patent leather shoes, she skipped to him, pigtails bobbing on her shoulders, and said, "Daddy said you're my big brother now. I never had a big brother before. Will I like you?"

He'd never had a little sister before, either, and took his role seriously. He'd fought her grade school battles, putting the bullies in their place, chasing the bogeyman from beneath her bed, reading bedtime stories to her and teasing her as older brothers tend to do.

Eight years ago, a drunk driver had collided head-on into John and Angela's car. His mother died instantly, but John hung on long enough to ask Whit to look after his daughter. Up until three days ago, he had kept his promise.

He pulled a legal pad in front of him and wrote: Last seen: 8:00 Thursday evening by librarian when Mary Ellen checked out a book. They chatted a bit. Nothing much of consequence, except that Mary Ellen mentioned she was calling it a night. Librarian confirms Mary Ellen left the library alone immediately thereafter.

She didn't return to her dorm, so whatever happened, happened somewhere between the library and her dorm. If someone took her, why hadn't anyone seen anything?

He dropped the pen across the pad and leaned back in his chair, staring at the pad. She couldn't just vanish, though it appeared that way. Mary Ellen wasn't outgoing and certainly wouldn't talk to strangers let alone go anywhere with one willingly.

Her disappearance didn't have anything to do with him. At first, he'd considered the possibility. If he'd worked a trial like Somners vs. Love, in which the defendant was affluent and influential, he would think differently, which left him with the same conclusion rolling around in his mind like a pebble in a clothes dryer. She'd been abducted. Not for ransom, though. He would have heard from the kidnappers by now. It had to be something else. What?

At first, he had thought Earley had something to do with Mary Ellen's disappearance, but now that he knew everything there was to know about him, Whit cancelled him out as figuring into her disappearance. The only thing he could think of was that the young lad had happened upon her abduction and was abducted himself, or he was killed and his body disposed of. Either that or his disappearance was some bizarre coincidence. Stranger things happened.

His fax machine started. One sheet whirred into the paper tray. Whit took Lyron's report in his hand and read:

Favian Quinn, 56, 28 years on the SJPD, up until now assigned nowhere cases, questioned 3 years ago when 5 bricks of hashish went missing from the evidence room. Did a stint in rehab for alcohol abuse. Still has a drinking problem, but is smarter now about hiding it. Twice married, twice divorced. No children. Not well liked among his colleagues. Paired up with Jocelyn Kerr 6 months ago. So far, no complaints. My contact on the SJPD said Quinn's filling in the days until his retirement.

Whit flicked the sheet of paper across the desk and looked down the hallway at his secretary. "Priscilla, before you leave, get the mayor on the phone for me, please."

# Chapter Five

Dr. Anthony Kinlock entered his makeshift lab, shrugging out of his parka as he walked to the monitor. He watched Mary Ellen dart about her cell like a butterfly on steroids then come to an abrupt stop at the steel door. She did the exact thing at least a dozen times a day. There was nothing for her to hear. There never was. She must know the door was soundproof, yet she never gave up hope.

Now she looked upward and muttered something. He turned up the volume.

"God, if you can hear me, show Whit where to find me. Please, God, please."

Her plaintive cries for help trailed off until she only mouthed the words. Her tears fell freely, and she flopped onto the bed and pounded her fists against the mattress.

Kinlock could understand her anguish. He was a captive, also. True, he could leave the premises when he pleased, and there weren't any locked doors he couldn't open. He had access to a telephone and communication with the outside world and every night he went home to the one he loved, but he was still a prisoner. That would change, though. Soon, he would be free again.

He watched as she sat up, her fingers pulling at a loose thread on the bedspread. "My brother will look for me and won't give up until he finds me. He has a private investigator. It might take some time, but Whit will rescue me. When he does, he's going to whup your ass. Just wait." She stared at the corner across from the camera lens. "I thought you were a nice guy. Whit warned me about men like you."

"You should have listened to your brother," he said though she couldn't hear him.

"I bet your name isn't really Anthony Baleman." She stared into space a moment. "Everything makes sense now. Doesn't it always, after the fact? Our meetings...they weren't accidental, like you made them seem, were they? I should have been suspicious from the beginning. Why would anyone as cute as you be interested in me?

"I understand, too, why you were interested in whether Graham and I were involved. You didn't want to be blindsided, but not for the reasons I thought. You were covering your tracks. It doesn't matter how careful you've been, my brother'll find me. He'll find you, too."

Kinlock remembered back to the night he'd abducted Mary Ellen. She'd been easy game in comparison to Jennifer Lamb.

When he'd called Mary Ellen's name as she walked out of the library, she'd reacted as he'd anticipated and followed the sound of his voice without question or worry.

As he knew it would, the sight of him on the ground writhing in agony in a pool of blood (goat's blood from the local butcher, but she didn't know differently) shocked her.

He remembered her backpack sliding from her arm and falling to the snow-packed ground when she knelt beside him.

"What happened? Who did this to you? How long have you been here?" The questions came without a break as she wiped the blood with a tissue from his forehead, lips and chin.

He held out a hand, and she helped him up. He cried out and clutched his chest. "I may have broken ribs. Can you help me to my car?"

"We need to call campus security and get you to the hospital."

When she took her cell phone from her backpack, he grasped her hand. "I'll be fine. I'll deal with this myself."

Reluctantly, she agreed and helped him to his car. It took all her strength to hold him upright.

When they stood beside the old Honda, he miraculously revived. She'd been too concerned about him to notice the chloroform bottle and gauze he took from the driver's seat. Nor could she fend him off when he captured her in a stranglehold and pressed the anesthetic against her nose.

Later, she woke here, in a room identical to her bedroom at Whit's. The same cherry wood double canopy bed, white satin bedspread, dolls, stuffed animals, carpeting, white rocking chair in one corner, a parlor palm in the other, and a bookcase holding all her favorite books. He'd gone through a great deal of trouble to make the kids feel comfortable and keep them healthy.

Kinlock wouldn't worry about anyone finding him when this was finished. He had a long time to prepare and plan for his departure and left no detail to chance.

What he told her about himself — that his alcoholic parents had beaten him and locked him in a closet for days at a time — were lies to draw on her sympathetic nature. It had worked. She had hugged him and told him no one would ever hurt him again.

He turned his thoughts back to the present and watched her pull the afghan around her.

The dampness in the basement made the air cold. He adjusted the thermostat two degrees higher and took the tray of syringes, alcohol swabs, empty vials and a rubber band in his hand. Movement on the monitor caught his attention as he passed. Mary Ellen was acting the spoiled child again, crying, and flinging herself backward onto the bed. He pressed a fingertip to the screen on the monitor. "It'll be over soon, Mary Ellen. No harm will come to you. I promise." He turned down the volume on the speaker and walked out of the lab.

Kinlock entered Mary Ellen's cell. "How are you this morning, Mary Ellen?" he asked as though he didn't know. He set the tray of supplies on the bed.

"What do you care?"

He cared, but couldn't tell her.

Kinlock watched Mary Ellen pretend to study him when, in fact, her focus was on the open door and the hallway beyond. He could virtually read her thoughts: _If I can make it to the door, I'll be able to escape. I can outrun him._ She eyed him covertly as she bit the inside of her lip. Any minute now she'd build up enough courage and make a run for it. Several seconds passed. Her expression changed and a split second later, she took off in a sprint as he'd anticipated. He hated to have to do it, but he put a foot in her path. She tripped. He caught her before she fell.

She straightened, turned and glared at him. "You're going to be very sorry you abducted me. My brother is not someone you want to mess with."

"Your brother has no idea where you are, nor will he. No one knows about this place. Now why don't you get up and sit on the bed like a good little girl."

"I'm not a little girl!"

He waited.

After a moment, she walked to the bed.

"Sit."

She crossed her arms against her chest, cocked her hip and glowered at him.

He chuckled. "I never would have thought you had it in you, Mary Ellen, but you are feisty, aren't you?"

Her attitude probably came as a surprise to her, too.

When she didn't move, he said, "Have it your way." He took her hand and raised her sweater to her upper arm.

"What are you doing?" She jerked out of his grasp, lost her balance and fell backward onto the bed. She dug her heels into the mattress and moved upward until her head hit the headboard. "Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me again!"

"I need to draw some blood. Don't fight me. You'll only make it worse for yourself. It'll be over soon, and you won't feel a thing. I promise."

"Why do you want my blood? What are you going to do with it?"

Mary Ellen could speculate, but she would never come up with a feasible answer to either question. It would make sense later, but not now.

Without speaking, he took her hand again, and again she yanked it back.

He sighed. "Cooperate or I'll make Graham suffer. You don't want that, do you?"

She perked up. "Graham is here? You took him, too?"

"He's in the next room."

"What do you want from us? If it's money, my brother will pay."

"I don't want your brother's money."

"Then what do you want?"

"You'll find out soon enough." He patted her hand. "Now, do I have to torture Graham to get your cooperation?" He forced coldness into his eyes. She needed to believe he would carry out the threat.

"No." She held out her arm.

No longer the timid, bumbling blockhead he'd portrayed when they first met, he worked with the skill of a phlebotomist, tying the rubber band around her upper arm, swabbing the area over a large vein with alcohol, then tapping it. He took great caution not to hurt her when he sank the syringe into the vein.

He filled six vials, placed a wad of cotton against the puncture and secured it with clear adhesive tape. Gathering his supplies and her blood samples together, he said, "I'll be in with your breakfast in a little while."

"I'm not hungry." She pouted.

"Don't be like that. You know you're hungry, and you know you have to eat."

"Not if I want to die. And don't treat me like a child. I hate you. You deceived me and made me think you were interested in me. You lied about everything, and you lied just now! You did hurt me, you arrogant son-of-a-crow."

He left, without saying another word.

In his lab, he stored her blood samples in the cooler for a later analysis and took a moment to check on her. She stared into space. He understood how lost and alone she must feel and wished he could console her.

It startled him when she suddenly jumped from the bed, ran across the room and squatted on the floor next to the wall.

He turned up the volume on the speaker and heard her say, "Is someone there? Graham is that you?"

No, it isn't Graham, Mary Ellen. It's Jenny, someone you don't know.

Kinlock unlocked the door to Graham's cell and entered, taking a surreptitious look at the young man biting his nails and pacing the room.

"How are we today, Mr. Earley?"

Graham flung his arms into the air and stopped in mid-stride. "You have me caged like an animal. How the fuck do you think I am?"

"Didn't your mother teach you it isn't nice to use crude language?"

"I don't have a mother, and you can go screw yourself."

He set the tray on a table and prepared a syringe. "A physical impossibility for any man, unless, of course, he's hung like a horse. Are you hung like a horse, Graham?"

"Something you'll never find out."

"Don't be so sure. Sit down and roll up your sleeve."

Graham folded his arms against his chest and glared at him.

"Do it, or Mary Ellen will pay for your defiance." The threat worked on Mary Ellen. Kinlock hoped for the same result with Graham.

"Mary Ellen? You're holding Mary Ellen a prisoner, too?" Graham unfolded his arms, strode to Kinlock and grabbed him by the lapels of his lab coat. "What have you done to her? If you've hurt her, I'll —"

"What will you do, Mr. Earley? It seems you're in no position to do anything." He stared at the hands that held him, then at Graham. "Remove your hands, please." He watched as Graham looked at the open door. "There are armed guards in the hallway." He bluffed. He was getting good at it. "There's nowhere for you to run, and there's no escape. See for yourself if you want." When Graham didn't move, he said, "Go ahead, but be warned, the guards have been instructed to use any means necessary to prevent an escape."

Graham eyed the open doorway, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

While Kinlock waited for the young man to do what was best, he neatened the supply tray and prepared an alcohol swab. "I'm ready when you are."

Graham set his gaze on Kinlock and said, "I know you from somewhere."

"You mean this guy?" He messed his hair, swept his bangs across his forehead, put on a hound dog expression and turned his feet inward. "Imagine me with blond hair." Mary Ellen had recognized him right away, but she'd been in his company more than Graham.

Graham nodded, frowning. "You're the guy who was sniffing around Mary Ellen."

"I like to think of it as befriending her."

"Yeah, right." Graham scoffed. "Why are you keeping us here? What do you want?"

"It's not what I want. It's what you can give me."

"And what's that?"

"All in due time, Mr. Earley. All in due time. Now, are you going to sit and roll up your sleeve so I can draw some of your blood, or do I have to pay a visit to Mary Ellen?"

Graham did as he was told.

A moment later, Kinlock labeled and stored the blood samples in the tray.

"If these come back clean, and if you behave, I'll let you see Mary Ellen later." He hated lying, but Graham needed something to look forward to. Hopefully, this nasty business would be finished before Graham could call him on the lie.

Kinlock reentered the lab to the ring of the telephone. Knowing who was calling, he sighed and answered the phone. "Hello."

"How are the new recruits settling in?"

"Good." Kinlock gave away nothing to his blackmailer. The least said, the better.

"We may have made a mistake taking the Tucker girl. She isn't an orphan, like I thought. She has a step-brother, Whitfield Hawkes, and he's becoming a problem. Dispose of him."

"Yes, sir." Kinlock hung up. Soon, he'd be done with this bastard, too.

Chapter Six

Blossom woke to sunlight streaming in her bedroom window and something soft tickling her nose. She swatted the feather from her pillow, opened her eyes, and stared at the red numbers on her alarm clock: 8:30. Shocked, she threw back the covers and was about to dash to the clothes closet when she remembered Olive, Lawrence and Rose tended her bookshop today and possibly for the remainder of the week.

In no hurry now, she yawned and stretched and sat motionless for a few minutes, savoring the peace and quiet.

Dressed in a pink chenille robe, her hair looking like a bird's nest and yesterday's mascara blackening the skin below her lower lashes, she shuffled into the kitchen.

Ian, dressed in faded blue jeans, an ecru fisherman knit sweater and cowboy boots sipped coffee at the counter.

"Good morning," she said, half-yawning.

He smiled, showing teeth so white they seemed one solid piece. "Sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you," she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

He set his mug on the counter and moved toward her. Instead of taking a step back as she would at any other time, she held onto the calmness that had enveloped her. When he brushed a tendril of hair from her eye, she savored the scent of his aftershave, a crisp fragrance that had her closing her eyes and raising her nose into the air for more.

"That's better," he said, smiling.

He did a slow study of her hair, eyes, and mouth, then his gaze lingered on the v-shaped area where her robe had fallen open. Feeling unsteady, she drew her belt tightly around her waist and knotted it — twice.

That amused him, she noticed. His eyes virtually sparkled.

"I have croissants." He poured her a cup of coffee, adding sugar and cream to the precise measurement she would. "We'll get on the road after you have breakfast and do the things you women do to get ready."

"Right. For St. John's."

Another dazzling smile sent her heart racing again.

She wondered how long she could stop herself from jumping into his arms and begging him to make love to her. When it came to handsome men and abstinence, she had the staying power of a lightning bolt. All part of the Curse. It made her do crazy things.

She looked into his eyes, those sparkling eyes with specks of gold, and her brain stalled. She forgot how to breathe and gulped for air. The next thing she knew, Ian held her forearms in an iron grip and screamed her name. His fingers burned hot against her skin through the thick fabric of her robe. She wanted him. God, how she wanted him.

"Blossom, are you all right?"

His calm voice brought her back to reality. She concentrated on breathing and managed those wanton feelings into submission. "I'm fine." Her voice faltered, betraying her. She saw the concern in his eyes and reassured him. Ian should not have to worry about her. "I am. Really." Her strength returned, and she managed a smile.

Careful not to touch him, she opened the refrigerator.

"How long will it take you to get ready?" he asked.

"What? Not long." She poured a tumbler of orange juice. Her hands shook, she noticed, when she raised the glass to her lips. She drank greedily and put the empty glass in the dishwasher. "Fifteen minutes tops." She fled to her bedroom and threw clothes into a carryall.

Thirty minutes later, out of sorts and out of breath, she shuffled into the kitchen. Nothing had cooperated. Not the water, not her clothes, not her hair. She showered in cold water, brushed her teeth in hot and every pair of jeans seemed to hug her waist tighter than usual.

Ian grabbed her bag. "All set?"

"Yep." Like liquid gelatin. "I'd like to check on the seniors before we leave, see how they're doing."

She led the way down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Ian opened the door for her. She entered her bookstore amidst a cacophony of twenty or so golden-agers talking, all at the one time it seemed, and Sinatra belting a tune from the stereo. The scent of sandalwood incense mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Lawrence, she noticed with concern, had dispensed his cane to a corner and stood talking to three ladies near a shelf of books. Though rapt in conversation, he took a second to tip his sou'wester in her direction.

Knowing instinctively Ian would follow closely enough behind to pinch her heels, she walked to Olive who apparently had cash register duty. "I don't need to ask how everything's going." She smiled.

"I hope you don't mind, dear. Some friends from church stopped by."

"Not at all." She looked around the room again at the smiling faces, listening to the animated voices. Even anti-social Rose seemed to be enjoying herself, acting as mistress of the shop, serving coffee and muffins. The ol' folks found a place to assemble.

Olive leaned across the counter and cupped a hand around her mouth, slanting her eyes toward Ian. " _Lardy_ , he's a hunk. If I were thirty years younger, I'd make a play for 'im." She exaggerated a wink, stepped back and fanned her face with her hand.

Blossom looked at Ian and found him peering around the shop, nodding and smiling at the ol' folks. "We should get going if we want to get there before nightfall."

"Why are you going to St. John's?" Olive asked. "You never said."

Before Blossom could open her mouth, Ian answered, "I have business there and invited Blossom along for company." He frowned then, as though something occurred to him.

"Your granddaughter disappeared from the university in St. John's, if memory serves."

"Yes, that's right."

"It must be very difficult for you not knowing what happened to her. Would you like us to talk to the police while we're there?"

Olive took no time to decide. "Would you? I'd be so appreciative. The detective never returned any of my calls. I can pay you for your time."

Ian patted her hand. "It's not necessary. Favian Quinn, isn't it?" With Olive's nod, Ian asked what she knew about Jennifer's disappearance. Olive rattled off the answers to all his questions like she read them from a cheat sheet.

"Would it be all right if I told Detective Quinn that I'm looking into Jennifer's disappearance on your behalf?"

"Yes, of course. Whatever you need to do to find my Jennifer."

"I'm not making any promises, but I'll do what I can." Ian leaned across the counter and kissed Olive's cheek.

Outside on the sidewalk, Blossom turned to him. "You are such a schmooze."

"Jealous, darlin'?"

Blossom was feeling a lot of emotions, and jealousy was one of them.

He steered her down the sidewalk, past the driveway leading to the back of her building where her Honda was parked. "Where are we going? My car is back there." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder.

"Our ride is there."

She followed the direction of his outstretched finger and stared at a new Mustang convertible. According to superstition, a green car was bad luck. She didn't need more of that and said so.

Ian scoffed and muttered something about childish superstitions as he stowed her luggage in the trunk.

She tried hard not to notice the tight fit of his jeans over his butt or the broad shoulders outlined in his suede jacket. When he turned, she forced her eyes away from the bulge in his crotch.

"Meet with your approval?" he asked.

Her voice squeaked, like a mouse. "What?" She gulped.

"The car."

"It's fine."

"Don't let Mustang lovers hear you say that." He turned his chin upward. "Looks like a storm's coming in."

She glanced at the snow clouds, claiming the sky. "Looks like."

He helped her into the car, then got in behind the steering wheel.

She found it disconcerting sitting so closely to him. His body generated an electricity she found hard to resist. She squirmed and fidgeted and wasn't at all surprised when Ian noticed.

"Something the matter?"

"No." She forced her body to still, wondering how she'd resist throwing herself onto his lap and finding out how his lips would feel against hers. My God, Blossom, what's the matter with you? Pull yourself together, woman.

To take her mind off Ian, she ran her hands over the rich leather of the seats and savored the new-car smell, something her old Honda lost a long time ago.

Minutes into their journey, snow fell in large fluffy flakes and the wind picked up.

She sneaked a peek at Ian. Brow crinkling, his focus devoted to driving. If the snow didn't let up, this would be a long, tedious drive.

"Tell me about Hesper's hex," Ian said, breaking the silence.

Happy to hear something other than her heartbeat drumming in her ears, she answered, "There isn't too much to tell. Hesper Higginbotham, the woman who my great-grandmother, Aggie, stole her husband from cast a whammy spell on Aggie and all her successors." Blossom made her voice sound heavy as she imagined Hesper's voice had sounded when she'd cast the spell. "From that moment forth, Agnes Frederica Drummond and her descendants would not have a smidgeon of good fortune, nor would she or her successors know true love, or live to celebrate their thirtieth birthday _._ " She stared blindly out the windshield. "None of us have."

"Do you believe you're cursed?" he asked, looking over at her.

"Wouldn't you?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, turned his attention back to driving. "I believe we make our own way in life and our own luck. Do you know what the words to the curse were?"

"How would anyone but Hesper know? The story I just told you was probably fabricated, for all I know, or at least, embellished. Great-granny wrote about the effects of the Curse in her diary, and everything she experienced, I've experienced." She shook her head. "You wouldn't believe the things I did to improve my luck. I stuck thorns from white roses into three garlic cloves and buried them in sight of a church while reciting the Lord's Prayer. I drew curious looks and a few insults all for nothing. The spell didn't work and neither did the terminator spell the priestess I hired cast, which she'd guaranteed would remove all obstacles preventing me from enjoying life to the fullest. Nothing worked."

Ian flicked on the windshield wipers. "If a victim knows of a curse and believes they're doomed, then the curse is all the more potent and helps to cause their demise."

"So you do believe in curses." She looked at him, smiling.

"I didn't say I didn't believe in them, just that there are other things that could account for what happened to your foremothers."

"Such as?"

"Accidents that not one of them saw coming."

"All three? That's a stretch, to say the least." Blossom didn't know how anyone could accidentally poison themselves with a known toxin, or how someone who knows a terrain could unsuspectingly walk off a cliff, or how someone could drown in a bath and leave the medical examiner baffled as to a cause of death. An inconclusive finding, her mother's doctor had told her.

She recalled what Ian had said about victims of a curse. "Maybe that's why my foremothers killed themselves. They believed Hesper had cursed them and were therefore defenseless against themselves." She swallowed. "The same could happen to me."

"Only if you allow it."

How could she not? The force of the Curse was stronger than her will. She knew that through experience. She'd done things she knew at the time would come back to haunt her, yet she'd done them anyway.

"Tell me about your ex-husbands," Ian said.

"There isn't that much to tell. My marriages did last long and all of my husbands cheated on me. There's a lot I can tolerate and much I can forgive, but adultery ... I couldn't excuse that breach of my wedding vows." She looked down at her lap and thought back over her three marriages. "It seems I'm always in the wrong place at the wrong time. I tried to change that by going left instead of right, but it doesn't make any difference which path I choose. Bad luck and misfortune are my constant companions."

When Ian didn't make any comment or give her more sagacious advice, she asked, "Did you notice the charcoal drawing of a woman in my dining room?"

"The one who looks like an army general?" He brought his brows together and sank into thought a moment. "She's a woman?"

"Uh-huh." She giggled. "I always thought she resembled Hitler. What Milton Higginbotham saw in her is beyond me. Great granny Aggie was not a good looking woman." She raised her eyes to Heaven. Just then something occurred to Blossom. "How'd you know about the Curse?" She looked sideways at him.

He shrugged. "From my step-mother."

Blossom nodded. "Auntie Z."

"And Vivian filled me in on the parts I didn't know."

"Vivian?" Blossom frowned. "My friend Vivian?"

"Uh-huh."

"How do you know her?"

"I don't. I introduced myself to her at the bank, and we got to talking."

"And she just told you everything she knows about me?" She huffed a breath. "Unbelievable." She'd have a word with Vivian when she returned home. If she was still alive.

"Don't be mad at your friend. I have a way with getting information from people. Learned how in private investigation school."

She looked at him. "You did, did you?" Unable to help herself, she laughed.

"For the record, I'm sure she didn't tell me all your secrets." He grinned.

The day grew darker and snow fell crazily, some to land on the car and some to settle on the asphalt and the shoulders of the road. The windshield wipers slapped a mournful tune. No other motorists traveled the highway. Smart Newfoundlanders knew better than to brave a Nor'easter outside.

She watched Ian, his fingers tense on the steering wheel, the skin between his brows creased. Thinking music might make him relax, she turned on the radio in time to hear the DJ say the storm would follow them the entire way to St. John's.

"Looks like we'll have to hole up in a motel and wait out the storm," Ian said.

She hoped this wouldn't be like the movies where only one room was available. As though on cue, Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart sounded from the speakers. In her mind, she sang along. I need you now tonight... She gave her head a shake and shut off the radio.

"We should have checked the weather forecast before we left," she said.

He smiled. "Yes, we should have. Why didn't you?"

"You're directing. I'm following."

"Is that how you live your life?" Ian looked at her.

"Not always." If she had, she probably wouldn't have made some of the mistakes she did. There was nothing she could do about it now. What's done, stayed done.

Blossom sat quietly and gave Ian full rein of the motoring. A few minutes later and one hundred miles into their trip, snow came at them like a blanket of white and gusts of wind slammed against her side of the car with the force of a battering ram. For the first time since the storm began, she became uneasy. That alarm quickly turned to outright horror when a whiteout blinded them. She looked at Ian, mentally willing him to pull over or stop somewhere to wait out the storm. Only a fool would venture onward. A second later, her body jerked forward against the seatbelt when Ian slammed on the brakes, bringing them to a standstill in another whiteout.

Wind rocked the car, and snow violently drifted past in a sideways spiral. A half-minute later, the road cleared and Ian, who had been sitting motionless and wordless, put his foot on the accelerator. The car moved forward slowly and smoothly.

Blossom raised her eyes upward and mouthed a silent thank you.

From then on, they made slow progress through high winds and drifting snow. On the outskirts of Dildo the neon light of Jack O'Lantern Cabins flashed a vacancy sign.

Without a word, Ian pulled into the parking lot and drove up to the office.

Blossom sighed with relief.

Moments later, he came back, snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. He held one key in his hand.

Chapter Seven

Blossom stared at the key. "Why didn't you get two cabins? One for each of us," she said stupidly. "Surely, they couldn't all have been occupied, not in the middle of a snowstorm. Who'd venture out in weather like this?" She recognized the absurdity of the question the second the question left her lips. Of course, strangers and travelers got caught unawares, especially when a storm came in unexpectedly, and those strangers and travelers would have the sense to find a place to wait out the storm. Like they had.

Ian grinned. "Is there some reason why you don't want to share a room with me?"

"No reason at all." How would he react if he learned she behaved like a sex fiend when it came to handsome men? What was she thinking? He was a man who liked women. Of course, he'd love the idea.

"We spent last night together, and you didn't seem to mind."

"That was different."

"How?"

"We didn't sleep in the same room." There. She said it.

"I won't rape you, if that's what you're worried about." The corners of his mouth crinkled with a grin.

She was conflicted, and he was finding it amusing. _Lardy_. "I know you're a man of your word."

"I am. Why don't we get something to eat? They have a nice restaurant."

Through the path the windshield wipers made, she watched snow swirl in small flakes to land on the thick blanket on the hood of the car. "I could use a bite to eat." Maybe she'd relax with something to drink. Yes, that was what she'd do. Ply herself with alcohol and pass out until morning, then she wouldn't be a threat to anyone. With her luck, though, the restaurant wasn't licensed. "Do they serve liquor?" She crossed her fingers.

"They're licensed. See? Your luck is already changing."

Behind his grin she read that Ian expected he might get lucky tonight. He just might.

On a mat inside the door of the restaurant, Blossom shook snow from her hair and clothing, noticing the smell of fried onions, grilled beef and over-used grease in the air and country music blaring from a jukebox.

She welcomed the heat and peered around. The place was filled to capacity with couples, probably travelers, and men dining alone, probably truckers or salesman who, like them, got caught in the storm. She returned their nods and smiles and exchanged pleasantries of the day.

Ian helped her out of her jacket. He hung his coat next to hers on a peg near the door, then ushered her to a window booth.

She admired him from across the table. Red whiskers mingled with the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw. The lines at the corners of his eyes enhanced his handsomeness rather than aged it.

When she finally understood the finer points of the Curse, her life, though not all she hoped for, smoothed out, but only for brief periods of time. Someone or something always managed to come along and knock her on her butt, like this situation with Ian, for instance. She'd gone a long time without a man in her bed and the Curse seemed to know it.

Unable to stop herself from thinking, she wondered how his skin would feel against hers? What kind of lover was he? Was he patient and tender or –

Don't go there, Blossom. Refusing to give in to her desire to find out, she picked up the menu and hid behind it.

"Something wrong?" Ian asked.

"What? Nothing. Have you decided what to order?"

"You have the menu."

A waitress in a pink blouse and leg-hugging jeans appeared with a water pitcher and two glasses. "What'll it be, folks?" she asked, pouring water into the tumblers.

Blossom handed Ian the menu. "I'll have the moose hunter's delight and the figgy duff dessert." Food first, liquor later. "And a beer. Whatever you have as long as it's cold." She scrunched her nose. "Not that light stuff, either." The more alcohol content, the better.

The waitress turned to Ian. "And you, handsome?"

"The same as the lady." He propped the menu between the salt and pepper shakers and a bowl of sugar packets.

"Coming right up." She walked away, wiggling her hips, obviously for Ian's appreciation.

Noticing he paid no attention to Miss Wiggly Hips, Blossom smiled and gave him a point for discretion.

Ian winked. "I like a woman with a good appetite."

_Lardy_ , he had no idea. She smiled, praying he would never learn first-hand about her sometimes-uncontrollable sexual urges. Those feelings of lust lingered too close to the surface, and it wouldn't take much for her to act on them.

Ian looked out into the storm. "No sign of it letting up." As though confirming his assessment, snow salted the panes and the wind howled like a beast determined to break through the barrier that stopped it from proceeding farther. "We might be stranded here more than one night."

How would she resist giving in to temptation for that long? Ian looking the way he did, all handsome and heavenly, posed a complication she hadn't anticipated. She didn't know why she hadn't. Maybe she'd been so caught up in the idea of an adventure she experienced a momentary lapse.

Her mouth went dry. She gulped her water, draining the glass, hoping to get her mind from her wanton self and the gorgeous man sitting across from her. "We should have outrun the storm."

"Outrun it?" He looked at her like she'd become unhinged. "We moved toward it."

"Aren't there studs in the tires?"

"Studded tires won't help the car plow through snowdrifts the height of hydro poles."

His sparkling eyes caused her heart to beat erratically. Hot with desire, her entire body blazed. Another flash of his delicious dimples and she'd be putting out shamelessly. Right there. In the restaurant. For everyone to see.

Lard tunderin'.

She needed a diversion and quickly. "Where's the waitress with our food and beers? I'm starving."

Ian unwrapped a packet of crackers and shoved one in her mouth.

She chewed and swallowed. "Thanks," she said, brushing crumbs from her lips. "I'm thirsty."

He caught the attention of the waitress — how could he not? Wiggly Hips couldn't seem to take her eyes off him. Ian, seemingly oblivious to her blatant admiration, asked, "Could we have more water, please?"

Feeling less _needy_ , Blossom followed Ian's gaze around the diner. He was an interesting man, one who could adapt to any environment, and she wanted to know more about him. "Tell me about yourself, Ian."

"Ask away."

"Were you always a PI?"

He shook his head. "I worked for the IRS as a tax examiner for a few years."

"You have some stories to tell, huh?"

"Oh, yes." He smiled.

She watched as his expression turned melancholy and his gaze moved to a corner of the diner. She suspected he recalled those years and gave him a few moments alone with his memories.

"How's your dad? I haven't heard from Auntie Z in ages."

"My father died several years ago."

She caught a glimpse of his sadness before he looked downward. "I'm sorry," she said. Twice now, she'd brought up subjects that either saddened or depressed him.

He raised his head and stared at her. "It was a long time ago."

She noticed the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. "Were you ever married, or are you one of these guys who think wedding bands are effeminate."

"Never found a woman I wanted to share my life with."

Blossom wished she'd asked herself that question before each of her proposals. Her life might be different today. "I hope we have good news to bring Olive. She'll be devastated otherwise. She doted on her granddaughter."

"Jennifer's not dead."

"You sound sure."

"I have an instinct about these things."

She hoped Ian's intuition was spot on.

The waitress arrived with their orders.

With a ravenous appetite, Blossom devoured everything on her plate, finishing her meal before Ian. She glanced at her watch. 2:05. Not trusting herself to be alone with him, she wondered what excuse she could use to remain in the diner. She wanted him, and now that she knew him better, that want had intensified.

"I'd like another beer," she said, batting her eyelashes. "How about you?"

Ian flagged the waitress and ordered them another round.

She noticed a sign above a doorway leading to another room. "They have pool tables. Feel like a game?"

"Why don't we settle in first? Go to our cabin, unpack, relax awhile."

No way. No-no-no. "A couple of games," and a half-dozen more beers, "then we'll go to our cabin. Okay?" Judging the set of his jaw as determination, she decided Ian needed more persuasion. "We might not want to come back out in the storm. One game." She smiled her brightest smile. How many beers could she guzzle in the time it took to play one game? A lot, if she prolonged the game. She wished she knew how to play pool.

He agreed.

"Great!"

Four beers, two shots of Tequila and three hours later, Blossom was sloshed and barely able to stand. Outside, the snow bit at her cheeks and a blast of wind veered her off-balance. Strong hands encircled her waist and kept her from falling. The next thing she knew, her feet left the ground and she found herself in Ian's arms, snuggling against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her through snowdrifts the height of his knees. "Please don't drop me."

"I won't. I promise."

Flopping her head under his jaw, she breathed in his masculine scent, closed her eyes and sighed.

Blossom was right where she wanted to be.

Chapter Eight

Whit had been keyed up the entire day. He left the office early, something he rarely did, and mindlessly wandered the city streets. When the storm offered him no alternative, he went home, and sat, disconsolate and alone, in his study.

Through the windowpanes at his back, he could hear the fierce breath of the wind and when the wind settled, the distant howl of a coyote. Another soulful cry set his nerves more on edge.

He swiveled his desk chair and stared out the garden doors where snow still fell heavily. The pot lights under the eaves cast the trees and shrubs in a yellowish hue. Evening came upon them early and quickly, the stars invisible above a thin layer of cloud.

In his mind, he saw Mary Ellen, as she had often done, meander the five acre lot, making friends with the squirrels, rabbits and the occasional deer that happened through.

What if he couldn't find her?

For the first time since she'd gone missing, it seemed a real possibility.

He wouldn't let himself think it. He opened one of the files he brought from the office. Busy work, something to occupy his thoughts while he waited for news on Mary Ellen. Nothing was more important to him than finding his sister.

He read the client name. "Let's see, Mr. Cousins, what kind of mess you got yourself into and how I'm going to help you."

He read his notes on the assault charge from the initial consultation, reacquainting himself with the case, but his mind was not completely on the matter. After several seconds of staring at the file, he gave in and chucked the dossier. He looked at the phone, willing it to ring. The doorbell rang instead.

Anticipating Lyron had come by to give him a report, he strode through the wood-paneled hallway toward the foyer, hopeful his investigator had good news to impart. He swung open the door. "It's about time –– " His words died on his lips when he saw his girlfriend, a tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty and the daughter of a judge, standing on the stoop. "Candace." He couldn't mask his disappointment, but she didn't seem to notice.

She pecked him on the lips and let herself in. "Since you haven't answered any of my voice mail, I decided to come in person."

From her specific enunciation of each word, he deduced the level of her irritation — red zone — and knew from experience how this would play out if he didn't employ diplomacy. "I'm sorry. I should have called."

She ignored his apology. "Has there been any news on Mary Ellen?"

Closing the door, he said, "Nothing. The police are typically stymied, and no one has come forward with any information." He helped her out of her mink coat and draped it across the hall table.

"Someone must have seen her, seen something."

"You'd think so." He led her into the living room.

She sat on the provincial sofa. "Daddy said to tell you if you need any doors opened to let him know. He can call in favors."

"Tell him thanks." Whit hoped it wouldn't come to that. He didn't want to be indebted to her father, or anyone else. "Would you like a drink?"

"My usual. You look like you could use one, too."

He walked to the bar, poured her a glass of Chardonnay, a Glenlivit for himself and sat across from her in the leather wingback chair next to the fireplace.

"Have you been sleeping at all?" she asked.

He noticed how concerned she sounded. An act, he knew. The only person Candace cared about was Candace. Everyone else, including him, she played. "Not much. Every time I close my eyes Mary Ellen's frightened face flashes on my eyelids." He gulped his drink, enjoying the slow burn down his throat.

"Oh, you poor dear." She set her glass on the table and walked over to him.

Standing at his back, she gave him a neck rub.

"That feels good." He lost himself to her touch, though he suspected her compassionate act was self-served.

"Why don't we go upstairs, and I'll give you a full body rubdown?"

Ah. There it was. Candace's answer to everything was sex. Lately, it perturbed him. "As much as that tempts me, I can't. I have work to do, and I expect Lyron will be here any minute. We wouldn't want him to catch us in an embarrassing moment."

"We'll lock the door."

Using her body as a promotional tool, she coaxed him into submission.

It was always this way. She never took 'no' for an answer. One of the things about her he had found enticing. Now her uncooperative attitude vexed him.

Last week, before Mary Ellen's disappearance, he'd decided to break it off with Candace this weekend. If he ended their relationship now, she would argue he wasn't thinking straight because of Mary Ellen's abduction, that he was hurt and frustrated and wanted to lash out. Then she'd tell him to use her as his personal mental punching bag, knowing full well, of course, he wouldn't.

Whit inched off the bed, careful not to disturb her. He slipped on his boxers and skulked to the bathroom, praying she wouldn't wake. He needed a few minutes of solitude.

He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. She — not Candace but the mystery woman — flashed in his mind. The woman with no name, the woman of his dreams, the woman who'd stolen his heart. He pictured her vividly — red curly hair framing a heart-shaped face, smoldering green eyes, full lips, the spattering of freckles across her nose. He could even remember how the air smelled the first time he'd seen her, and how leaves, caught in an autumn breeze, fluttered across the grass. Regret built slowly within him for the years he'd lost with her, wasted years that could have been better spent, then, within a moment, the repentance became so powerful he found it difficult to breathe.

He'd been love-struck, but she'd wanted nothing to do with him. He told himself to forget her. Damnedest advice he'd ever been given. No woman before or since had touched him like she had. If their paths crossed again, he'd pursue her until he won her heart.

Lost in thought, he jumped when Candace's arms encircled his waist. He mustered a half-smile and laid his hand on her arm, ready to break the embrace. "Lyron will be here soon," he said.

Her fingers ran a circle around his navel. "Surely, we have time for a shower." She pressed her naked breasts into his back, leaned in, and kissed his shoulder blade.

"I can't. I'm sorry." He untangled himself from her arms and turned, holding her away from him.

"But now we're both in here...." She looked at him, batting her mascara-ed lashes seductively. "I'll loofah your back."

He brushed a strand of hair from her eye and said softly, "I'm not good company. It's probably best you leave."

"Your front, then?"

The woman was merciless. Taking her elbow in his hand, he ushered her to the bedroom.

While he dressed, she lounged naked on the rumpled sheets.

"Why can't I spend the night?"

He had used Mary Ellen as the reason for her not sleeping over before, and now he needed a different excuse. "I'm up and down all night and what sleep I do manage is troubled. You'll be more comfortable at home." He sat beside her and took her hand in his, awaiting her argument.

"We discussed marriage, yet I haven't spent an entire night in your bed. It's stolen moments here and there. I deserve better, Whit. I deserve more."

He nodded. "You do, but you know my reason."

"Yes, Mary Ellen, but she hasn't been living at home for the past four months and she isn't here now."

Could the woman be any more callous and self-serving? Other than a meager sigh, he kept silent.

She pulled the sheet to her chin. "I don't like to see you alone at a time like this. Let me be here for you, Whit. Why can't I stay?"

"I know it's unfair. I can't ask any more of you than I already have."

She stared into his eyes. "I've been more than patient, haven't I?"

"You have."

"And when you insisted I keep living with Daddy, I agreed, didn't I?"

"You did." The one argument he'd won.

"For awhile, you said."

He squeezed his brows together as lawyers tend to do when their words boomeranged. "I don't recall saying that." The cold look in her eyes prompted him to add, and only because he wasn't in the mood for a fight, "But if you say I did, then I must have."

"Trust me, you did."

Whit didn't want this relationship anymore. Not because she argued or that he couldn't win an argument with her, but because she didn't see her future as he saw his.

He wanted children, lots of them. She couldn't stand the "little buggers," as she referred to kids, not thinking for a moment she was a child herself once and probably a "little bugger" as well. Not thinking, either, that if her parents had felt that way about children, she wouldn't exist.

He wanted relaxing nights at home before a roaring fire. She wanted nights on the town, social functions and her name in the society column.

Candace knew from the onset of their relationship how important it was for him to set a good example for Mary Ellen. Instead of giving her more fuel for the firestorm she attempted to start, he said, "I'm sorry things didn't turn out the way you anticipated."

"I'm not getting any younger, Whit. I don't want to be an old maid when I walk down the aisle. Six months is a long time for any woman to be on stand by."

Did women really consider six months a long time to wait? He didn't know and certainly wouldn't ask. "You're right. I appreciate your patience and the sacrifices you made and the proposals I'm sure you missed out on because we were together." He smiled.

"You know, I could have my pick of any of the men in this town, but the truth of it is, I don't want anyone else."

He knew she meant that and it caused him concern. She would not take their break-up well, not that he ever thought differently.

"Whit?"

"Yes?" He looked at her.

She stared into his eyes and frowned. "I shouldn't have to ask, but I will. Do you feel the same way about me?"

Knowing this was not the time for honesty, he forced a smile and agreed with her. "Of course, sweetheart."

"Since you're hell-bent on spending the night without me," she rose to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck, "why don't you show me how much you'll miss me?" She locked onto his lips, sucked his tongue into her mouth, and fondled him through his trousers.

He broke off the kiss and stood, stepping back out of her reach. Where the hell was Lyron? "As tantalizing as that is, I really need to get some work done."

Another lie. He hated himself for it.

She pretended to pout, but he knew better. She meant every sulky crease. He laced his shoes and left the bedroom, forcing himself to take slow steps.

A few of the stair treads creaked as he fled down the steps. He found the sound relaxing and reminiscent of his childhood home. The Queen Anne style house had come on the market when he had about given up his search. He knew what he wanted and when he gazed up at the house, he had to make it his.

After years of neglect, it had needed a major overhaul. He included Mary Ellen in the renovation process and she enjoyed it as much as he.

He wound his way through the hall and entered his study, the house as silent as a monastery. He flicked on the television and listened to the news, keeping an impatient eye on the clock. Where in hell was Lyron?

Ten minutes passed before the melodic chime of the doorbell sang through the house. "It's about damn time."

Whit arrived at the front door at the same time as Candace.

She opened the door, paying no mind to Lyron, turned to Whit and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll call you later." She reached up and smoothed his eyebrow.

"I'll look forward to it. Careful on those roads. The snow is piling up."

"I'm using Daddy's car service. Besides, it's not that far a drive. I'll be fine."

Relieved she left on a pleasant tone, he smiled and welcomed Lyron in with a greater degree of graciousness than he might have given his investigator's tardiness.

Lyron, a retired cop with a full head of hair the color of the setting sun, watched Candace as she walked down the front steps. "She's a looker all right."

"She is." And pompous, bourgeois and of no substance. "Let's go into the study." Whit led the way. "I expected you earlier," he said over his shoulder.

"Have you been outside at all?" Lyron asked.

"When are you going to break down and get something suitable to our weather?"

"Actually, I was helping someone else from a snow bank this time."

Whit entered the study and waved Lyron to a chair in front of the desk. "What have you got for me?"

Lyron flipped through his coiled note pad, came to a stop, and read from his notes. "Jerome Dixon, a sophomore at the university, remembers seeing Mary Ellen in the library with a guy on several occasions." He looked at Whit. "Dixon overheard him introduce himself as Anthony Baleman. He hasn't seen him around since your sister disappeared."

"Suspicious." Whit nodded along with Lyron. "Any chance of it being a coincidence?" When Lyron shook his head, he asked, "What did you find out about this Baleman guy?"

He filled his lungs with air and blew out the breath through pursed lips. "He doesn't exist."

Whit stated the obvious. "An alias." He sat back, thinking about what it meant. "If he has Mary Ellen, this was a carefully orchestrated plan. For what purpose?" he asked more to himself than Lyron.

"When I find him, you can ask."

"Did you get anything else from Dixon?"

Lyron shrugged. "Not much. He described Baleman as slouching, brown-haired, disheveled, and poorly dressed."

"Could be any one of a number of kids today. Why did Dixon notice him?"

"He said Baleman was always looking over his shoulder, like he was making sure no one watched."

Whit nodded. "Did the police do a thorough job in Mary Ellen's dorm?"

"They collected trace evidence on every fiber, carpet, clothing, everything, belonging to both Mary Ellen and her roommate. She's a strange one, that one."

"Mary Ellen said. Fingerprints?"

"Only Mary Ellen's on her side of the room and high double digits on the roommate's side. She entertained a lot and had her own little marijuana farm growing. Used condoms, empty coffee cups, empty boxes of pizza, Chinese take-out containers gathering mold. She slept, ate, toked and screwed in the room. You name it, the girl did it — everything, apparently, but study. Her marks weren't cutting it."

Whit stood and ran his fingers through his hair, thinking about what Mary Ellen must have gone through rooming with a high-flier. He paced the length of the study, cursing himself again for suggesting she live on campus.

Lyron cleared his throat. "Why would Mary Ellen put up with it? She had options."

Without breaking step, he said, "She wouldn't want to complain. Anything else?"

Lyron unwrapped a mint candy and popped it in his mouth. "That's it so far."

"Did you get fingerprints from any surface where this guy might have touched in the library?"

"Whit, you know I won't be able to get a solid —"

"Try. I don't care how long it takes. Get them. Get them all." His temper spiked. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Did you get anything from Earley's dorm?"

"Nothing other than he had it bad for your sister. Her name is written on every piece of paper I found in his room."

Whit noticed Lyron frown and knew intuitively he wouldn't like what Lyron was thinking. "What is it?"

"They could have run off together." Lyron shrugged. "It's possible."

"Uh-huh, but not probable." Whit sighed. "We've already been through this, Lyron. Mary Ellen wouldn't just run off." He gave Lyron a look that said he didn't want to hear any more on the subject. "How did you do on the list I gave you of people who might have reason to take Mary Ellen to get at me?"

"They all checked out. Solid alibis for the night she went missing." Lyron shifted his eyes from Whit's face and peered over Whit's shoulder. In the next instant, he sprinted around the desk, unholstering his side arm as he moved. "Stay here," he said over his shoulder. "Someone's in the back yard." He flung open the garden door and bounded across the snow-covered terrace.

"Wait – " The reverberation of a gunshot pierced through the sound of howling winds, stopping the words in Whit's throat.

Chapter Nine

The bullet shot past Whit, missing his head by a hair's breadth. He dove to the floor on the side of the desk, his heart thumping. As he told himself this couldn't be happening, another bullet tore into the desk inches from his face.

He peeked out from the desk. Snow, caught in a gust of wind, blew in the open doorway. Through the haze, he saw Lyron crouched behind a flower planter, returning fire.

Without taking his eyes from the trees at the far end of the yard, Lyron yelled, "Cut the lights and call the police."

Whit stood and flicked off the lights. He called 9-1-1 on his cell, and shouted for police units to be dispatched to his home. "Shots fired! Move it!"

From his position against the wall on the side of the doorway, he said loud enough not only for Lyron to hear but also for the person firing at them, "The police are on their way." He hoped it would scare the shooter away.

The sound of another gunshot cut through the roar of the wind.

Whit heard a _thump_ followed by a _thud_ , sickening sounds that made his stomach flutter. He looked out and saw Lyron sprawled on his back, blood already saturating the snow around him. Above the growl of the wind, Whit could hear him groan.

Lyron rolled over and made it to his knees, swayed, then collapsed on his stomach.

Whit leapt out, grabbed Lyron's gun, fired two shots wildly into the yard then hefted Lyron over his shoulder and carried him into the study.

At the sound of sirens wailing, Whit breathed a sigh of relief as he laid Lyron on the sofa. He propped his head on a cushion. The air hung heavy with the scent of blood and gunpowder.

Lyron moaned and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Stay with me." Whit peeled back Lyron's jacket. Blood ran from the wound below his right shoulder blade. Whit pulled off his dress shirt, wadded it and applied pressure to the wound.

Lyron grunted. "Bet you never thought you'd have a chance to use your paramedic training practicing law, huh? How bad is it?"

Whit noticed the perspiration on Lyron's face and the pain in his eyes. "You're going to be fine, Lyron." A couple of inches lower and they wouldn't be having this conversation.

"The shooter?"

"Gone." Whit hoped. He eyed the gun that lay in the snow outside the door. In his haste to get Lyron safely inside, he had forgotten to retrieve the weapon. "The sirens must have frightened him off." He sat on the floor next to Lyron and snaked his fingers through his hair, his breath coming in uneven gasps. "What in hell is going on?"

"I don't know, but someone wants you out of the way."

Flashlight beams crisscrossed in the back yard.

Whit sprang to his feet and ran to the doorway. "In here. Call the EMT's. A man's been shot." He returned to Lyron's side.

Two police officers, weapons drawn, burst into the room. "Police! Freeze!"

Expecting nothing more of the SJPD than for them to see the good guy as the bad guy, Whit threw his hands in the air and looked at the officer who issued the warning. "I'm Whitfield Hawkes, and this man needs immediate medical attention. Get the paramedics here."

The police officers took a quick look around, then holstered their weapons.

"They're on their way," the older of the two said.

As though on cue, a siren blared, sounding close.

Two more police officers rushed into the study and gave the all clear. "Shooter's gone. Fled on foot."

Minutes later, the room overflowed with uniformed men, rushing around issuing orders and tending to Lyron.

Whit, in lawyer-mode, took note of the proceedings, implanting in his mind who did what and where and to whom in case this came back to bite him in the unmentionables one day.

Someone draped a blanket across his shoulders. He realized only then he shivered, partly from shock and partly from the cold blowing in through the open garden doors.

Whit answered questions all the while keeping a close watch on Lyron, pale and bleeding, being worked on by two paramedics.

"He's lost consciousness," the paramedic whose nametag read, "Cleary," said. "Let's get him to the hospital."

"I'm going with him," Whit said.

"It isn't permitted."

Whit stared him in the eyes. "I'm sorry. Did you think that was a request?"

The following morning, Whit walked into Lyron's hospital room, private accommodations arranged and paid for by Whit. "How's the patient doing today?" he asked, smiling and taking notice of Lyron's pallid complexion.

Lyron leaned forward, grimaced, shimmied his body higher on the bed, then leaned gingerly back against the pillow. "Better than last night." He cocked a brow and said with his tongue in his cheek, "Hear you shot the hell out of the Juniperus virginiana. The paramedics said they did all they could for the cedar but to no avail. I'm told it died a painless death. First time shooting a gun, huh?"

Whit appreciated Lyron's attempt to lighten the happening, but couldn't smile. Lyron had almost been killed. "And I hope the last."

Lyron turned serious. "Thanks for pulling me out of the line of fire. I owe you my life."

"You would have done the same for me." Whit knew Lyron's admission came with great difficulty. He didn't express gratitude easily or often. Wanting to change the subject for his sake, he said, "Think we'll get anything from the radio broadcasts today?"

Lyron shrugged and grimaced. "We should. Fifty thou is a substantial reward. Did you get a look at the shooter?"

Whit shook his head. "Did you?"

"No." Lyron waved his good hand in the air. "Blowing snow and trees blocked the view."

Whit paced the short expanse of the room. "Detective Quinn paid me a visit last night after I got home."

Lyron snorted. "What did he have to say?"

"Not much." Whit could almost feel Lyron's eyes boring holes in his back. He turned and faced him. "He thinks it's a random shooting."

"Well, we both know he isn't the sharpest tool in the shed." Lyron shook his head. "Random shooting in the middle of a snowstorm? God." He shook his head again. "Any idea why someone wants you out of the way?"

Whit walked to the side of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair.

"I've been over it a thousand times and each time I come up empty."

"First Mary Ellen disappears, then there's a hit on you."

Whit nodded. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Are you sure her disappearance isn't related to a case you're working on?"

"I'm sure." Whit shook his head to reinforce his response.

"An old case? A grudge, maybe?"

"I won't deny I've made some enemies along the way, but nothing that would warrant kidnapping or a hit."

"Any pending trial that someone may want you take a fall on?"

"Nothing." At Lyron's unconvinced look, he said, "There's nothing. I'm sure."

"Okay, I believe you. Maybe we're getting close to finding Mary Ellen or learning why she was abducted. I'm being released later today, so I'll be able to give you a hand with the calls from the reward offer."

Whit frowned again. He did it a lot with him. Lyron marched to his own drummer. "Your doctor said you'd be here for a couple of days."

"It's what he wants and thinks will happen."

"Is it wise? Exertion could dislodge your stitches and open your wound, not to mention the risk of infection."

"There're pills for that." Lyron huffed a frustrated breath. "You sound like him."

"He knows what he's talking about."

"I don't care. I'm still leaving. Inactivity drives me crazy. You know that."

Whit also knew better than to argue. He checked his watch. "I have to be in court in an hour. What time do you plan on busting out?"

"After the doc comes by. Around eleven, the nurse said."

"I'll be back to pick you up. Don't give him a hard time. If he's adamant you stay, you stay. Understood?"

Lyron stared at him, unmoving and saying nothing.

"Lyron?"

"All right. All right. Now go. I need to rehearse the speech I'm going to give him so he'll discharge me."

Whit smiled, knowing the yarn Lyron was about to spin would be as good as any closing argument Whit could prepare.

The Doc didn't have a chance.

As Whit got behind the wheel of his car, his cell rang. He dug the phone from his coat pocket and answered the call. "Hawkes."

"My God, I just heard about Lyron and the shooting. Are you all right? Why didn't you call?"

"Candace. I'm fine. I'm sorry I didn't call. Things have been pretty hectic."

"Tell me what happened."

He did.

"My God, Whit, you could have been killed. What were you thinking!"

I was thinking my friend would be killed if I didn't help him. He couldn't tell her that, of course. Candace firmly believed in care for thyself and let others look after thyselves. "I didn't think. I reacted. Maybe it was foolish."

"Yes, it was. Very foolish."

Patience was at a premium for him. He hardly slept last night and what sleep he'd managed was plagued with nightmares of the shooting. "Candace, I'm sorry, but I have to go. I'm due in court in a few."

"I thought you said you didn't have any trials for awhile."

"I don't. Not until the spring sitting. It's a motion."

She sighed. "I have to go. I have an appointment. I love you."

"Me too." Whit disconnected and leaned his head back against the headrest, her lack of compassion left him feeling sad and helpless.

He looked out the windshield. The sun shone brightly, glistening on the freshly fallen snow. Distantly, he could hear plows laboring to clear the parking lot. He rubbed his eyes, then dragged his hands down his face, regretting that he hadn't broken it off with Candace months ago. Delaying had only made things more difficult.

His cell phone rang again. This time he checked call display — private caller. He answered the call. "Whitfield Hawkes."

"Are you the guy who's looking for his sister?" a raspy voice asked.

Whit lifted his head, fully alert. "Do you know where she is?"

"Are you offering a reward?"

"Yes, and if it leads to her whereabouts, you'll get it."

"I have what you need, then."

Chapter Ten

Outside, the air horn on a big rig blared, two long toots followed by a short one, awakening Blossom. She lifted her eyelids. The pounding in her head and the ache behind her eyes forced her to clamp her lids together. She couldn't recall ever experiencing a headache of this magnitude. Then she remembered the reason for it and considered the hangover punishment for her indulgence.

She reopened her eyes, slowly this time. In her line of sight, Ian lay on top of the covers fully clothed and curled in a fetal position, his hands shaped in the classic prayer pose beneath his cheek. He smiled in slumber and looked as contented as a baby. Why? The answer came as sudden as heartburn.

Holy crap. She didn't...they didn't...

She peeked under the blankets. Almighty Lord, not a stitch of clothes.

The pounding in her head accelerated, keeping time with her galloping heart.

Ian opened his eyes. "Mornin', sweetheart."

She yanked the blankets to her chin and said the first thing that popped into her mind. "Morning."

He yawned and stretched and shook his head repeatedly, the loose skin on his cheeks flapping against bone. "You were wonderful last night."

Oh dear God, no. She wouldn't...No, she would remember having sex with him. Through the hangover-induced haze, she searched her memory. No recollection of their night together surfaced. She called him on it. "Nothing happened between us." They were practically related, for Heaven's sake. She wouldn't have let it happen. She wouldn't. What of all the precautions she'd taken?

He placed a hand against his heart. "You don't remember? That hurts. I performed —"

"Nothing happened." She would remember. Ian was teasing her.

"I see you need convincing." He sat up and folded his legs beneath him. "There's this little dimple on your right butt cheek, and you especially liked it when —"

"Nothing you can say will make me believe anything happened between us." Denial was good. If she didn't believe, how could she feel guilt? Doubt was fault inverted, her granny always said.

"You were smokin'. I gotta tell you, I never did it in a bubble bath before, but now that I have..." He lifted a lock of hair from her eyes. "How about a repeat performance? Whaddaya say, hot cakes?"

She jerked out of his reach. "In your dreams, stud muffin." She yanked the sheet from the bed. The movement came so unexpectedly, Ian didn't have a chance to prepare himself. He lifted into the air, landed on the edge of the mattress and slid off, falling with a kerplunk onto the wooden floor.

"That's what you get for messing with a Drummond." Her voice was stern, but inside she was laughing. With a snort, she wrapped the sheet around her torso and walked around the bed. She looked at him, harrumphed and trotted off to the bathroom.

Behind a closed and locked door, she leaned against the pedestal sink and grabbed her head. The pain was excruciating. She needed drugs. Maybe if she asked nicely, Ian would fetch her aspirin.

She splashed cold water on her face and glared at her reflection in the mirror. Nothing happened last night. Nothing. Believing it, she rooted through her carryall, which Ian had obviously brought from the car some time last night, and found her toiletries.

When she came out of the bathroom, looking as presentable as she could given her bloodshot eyes, droopy lids and pounding head, Ian was talking on the phone. She met his gaze and held it, determined not to let him affect her in _that_ way. Much to her surprise, he didn't. A result of her ill-functioning brain, she supposed.

"We'll give it an hour, then. Thanks." He hung up.

"Who was that?"

"DOT. I called to get the road conditions."

"And?" She held her breath and said a silent prayer: Please God, don't strand us here another night. This cabin with its pine-paneled walls, gleaming hardwood floors, brass bed, and handmade patchwork quilt was too cozy and she, too wanton.

"The provincial highway is clear, but Dildo is still being plowed out. Why don't we have some breakfast in the meantime?"

Her stomach churned at the mention of food. "I can't eat anything. My 'ead feels right logy after the 'time' last night, and me eyes 're like a caplin goin' offshore. Hangovers 're der worst."

He cocked an eyebrow and said, "Food will set things right."

She doubted it, but nodded anyway, thinking a coffee might pick her up.

"I'll get the bags."

When he turned toward the bathroom, she looked out the front window.

The snow had stopped, but left an impression that would last until spring. Drifts the height of corn stalks sat haphazardly across the yard. Approximately seventy-five feet directly in her line of vision, a few motorists braved the precarious road conditions and above her, the sun shone in an unblemished azure sky.

She thought about the long car ride ahead. Would she manage this composure once the hangover wore off? Would they learn something in St. John's that would lead them to setting right the wrong of great-granny Aggie? Ian had mentioned trying to find a descendant of Hesper's. Maybe he would have better luck than she.

She turned when Ian dropped the bags near the door.

He studied her a moment. "All set?"

"As I'll ever be."

In the restaurant, Ian took charge, ordering two breakfast specials — scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes with homemade blueberry syrup, tomato juice and coffee. "And would you bring us some aspirin if you have it."

The waitress, already in motion to leave, halted abruptly, her massive hips coming to a stop seconds later. "We only have acetaminophen."

"That'll work, too. Thanks." Ian smiled and looked out the window. "I wonder what Dildos do for fun."

In a mid-sip of water, she sputtered and coughed. "What?"

"The people of Dildo. Dildos."

She nodded. "Ah. The same as people in any other small town. Movies, bowling, bingo, Parcheesi."

"How's the head?"

Fishing her cell phone from her purse, she said, "It only pounds when I move." She punched in the number for the bookstore, realizing this was the first time she called herself. No one had ever minded the shop for her before. One ring...two...three, Olive cut into the fourth ring. "Ye Ol' Book Shoppe."

"Olive, It's Blossom. How's everything?"

"Smashing. Yesterday's sales totaled four hundred dollars."

Blossom barely contained her surprise. The ol' folks sold in a day what she sold in a month!

"Rose made fudge, vanilla, chocolate and divinity, and sold them for a buck seventy-five a piece. They went like hot cakes. Speaking of which, they're on the menu for tomorrow. Just a sec."

Blossom heard a hand cup the mouthpiece, but could still hear Olive say, "Rose, this is the third time this morning you lost your dentures. If you'd keep them in your mouth where God made a place for them, you'd know where they were. Check the pocket in your apron." Olive huffed a breath and came back on the line. "And Lawrence is doing his part by entertaining the customers with stories of his sea-faring days. He made a kiddie's corner and hustled children off the sidewalk after school yesterday and read to them."

Blossom smiled. "I should have put you fellas in charge before this."

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

"Did you make it to St. John's yesterday?"

"No. The storm got too bad. We couldn't see where we were going."

"We watched the newscast of the storm on television last night. It was a humdinger."

"We?"

"Rose, Lawrence and me. We ate in your apartment. You don't mind, do you? None of us have a microwave and those frozen dinners you had made up in your freezer take so long to thaw in the oven."

"It's fine, Olive. If you take the meals out of the freezer in the morning, all you'll need to do is warm them." In all the years that Olive, Rose and Lawrence rented apartments in her building, they never once hung out together. Now they seemed inseparable. Go figure.

"We never thought of that. How's that hunk, Ian? Did you get some last night?"

Blossom wondered that herself. "'Fraid not."

"A shame. The two of you look cute together. Where did you lay over?"

"Dildo."

"You didn't get very far. If you happen to meet up with Dusty Rhodes, tell him his wild Irish Rose says hi."

"I will." She closed her phone.

"How's everything on the range?" Ian asked.

"They're having a ball."

"What did I tell you?"

"You were right."

The waitress brought their orders, shook out two acetaminophen tablets from a bottle and slapped the check on the table. "If you need anything else, holler."

"Will do." Ian smiled.

Blossom looked at the food without an appetite.

Ian took the knife and fork in his hands, smiled and said, "Eat up. You'll feel better. Garnteed, b'y."

"Guaranteed, huh?"

"Okay, Ian," Blossom said after they settled into the Mustang. "What really happened last night?"

"Back on that, huh?" He steered the car onto the highway. The wheels slipped, spun, then dug in. "What do you recall?"

She thought a moment, but not too hard. Her head still hurt. "Playing pool, bacon cheese dogs, turkey quesadillas, nachos, burritos, beer —"

"And can you toss them back!"

She glowered at him. "I remember coming out of the restaurant, almost falling, and you carrying me to the cabin."

"Not too much to tell after that. I set you on the bed, you stripped, mumbling something about burning up and insects crawling under skin, then you got under the covers and promptly fell asleep."

"The God's truth?"

"As He is my witness."

She sighed with relief.

"I was a perfect gentleman, by the way. I closed my eyes when you started to take off your clothes."

"Uh-huh. I believe it." His laugh told her he hadn't.

As the sun glared in the windshield, bright rays that blinded their vision, he donned sunglasses that seemed to materialize from nowhere. She rooted around in her purse until she found hers.

She looked out at the countryside — the hills covered in a generous white coat, the trees laden with snow, the blanket of white covering rooftops, and smoke streaming from chimneys in a straight plume — a sure sign of snow. It wasn't unusual for them to have back-to-back storms.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said.

"Yes, it is. Very beautiful."

She turned from the window and found him studying her. "Is something the matter?"

"Everything's perfect."

"Good." Her eyes felt heavy. She yawned and covered her mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm suddenly feeling sleepy." She laid her head back against the seat.

"Blossom?" Ian asked.

"Yes."

"Did you have a happy childhood?"

She smiled as her mother's smiling face flashed before her eyes. "What I remember about my mother —"

"What do you mean?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "My mother died when I was seven. She committed suicide. All Drummonds affected by the Curse kill themselves on the eve of their thirtieth birthday. Didn't you know? Didn't Vivian tell you?"

He frowned and appeared deep in thought. "That means..."

"Uh-huh. I have eight, no seven days to put an end to the Curse, or I'll end up like my foremothers — dead by my own hand."

"Time is of the essence."

"I'll say. I wonder if suicides are really refused entrance to Heaven?"

"I like to think God measures the gravity or responsibility of the sin. In the case of suicides, His judgment is based on psychological disturbances, anguish, hardship, suffering, or torture in the life of the victim."

"Exculpatory and mitigating factors, so to speak."

He grinned. "So to speak. Who raised you after your mother died?"

"My parents were divorced at the time, but my father stepped up to the plate. He died a couple of years ago. A natural death. That's how I came about owning the book store and the building."

"Tell me about yourself, Blossom. What you were like as a little girl."

She told him.

No one had ever asked before.

Blossom yawned, opened one eye, and stretched.

Ian looked at her. "Did you have a good nap? How do you feel?"

She blinked off the last traces of sleep. "Fine." Squinting, she looked around outside. "Where are we?"

"Just arriving in St. John's." He downshifted and turned onto Water Street.

She watched pedestrians bundled in fur or wool coats, scarves, hats and mittens, maneuver the snow-packed side of the road — the sidewalks were the last to be cleared after a storm. They moved with ease and comfort, obviously accustomed to the weather.

St. John's brought back fond memories. Excitement grew within her and she smiled. "I forgot how beautiful this city is. There's so much to see. The Government House, the Colonial Building, Cabot Tower, the War Monument bordering on Duckworth Street, Cape Spear." She paused to take a breath. "Which is North America's most easterly point, and Signal Hill, where you can see all of St. John's. If we have time, I'd like to show you around. You definitely have to see the Peter Pan statue in Bowring Park."

He smiled. "I'd like that." Coming to a stop at a traffic light, he asked, "Do you remember where the police station is located?"

"Take a right at the next light. If it were summer, we could enjoy the concerts in Harbour Park. How are we going to play this?"

"What?"

"With the police. Don't we need a game plan?"

He shrugged. "I figured we'd start with questions, see where that takes us."

It didn't sound like much of a plan, but she didn't voice her opinion.

# Chapter Eleven

Whit drummed his nails on the steering wheel.

"Stop that," Lyron said. "It's making me antsy. Remember, I have a gun."

"You wouldn't shoot me," he said, returning Lyron's smile. Nevertheless, he quieted his hands. "He's late." Though a bright sun shone through the windows of the BMW, the interior had chilled. He started the car and turned on the heater.

Lyron nodded and looked at him. "Are you sure he said 'in the alley behind Bubba's Blues Bar'?"

He gave him a look. "I earn my living from listening. Of course, I got it right."

"Okay, okay." Lyron raised a hand in the air in mock surrender. "Thought the question needed asking. Still, though. Thirty minutes."

"Maybe he's not the punctual sort."

"What did he say again?"

"Just that he had information that would lead me to Mary Ellen."

Lyron harrumphed. "Probably a four-flusher hoping to cash in on your misfortune." He looked around at the buildings. "We're sitting ducks here."

"You worry too much." Whit sat tensely silent, wanting to pace — he did his best thinking with his legs in motion. He looked out the windshield, staring hard at the doorways at the backs of the buildings as though he could will the tipster to materialize.

His mind wandered, his thoughts, unbidden and unbridled, led down a straight and unfettered path to his sister. Was Lyron wrong? Was this the lead they looked for?

He shouldn't get his hopes up. Lyron said they would get all kinds of crank calls, probably hundreds of them once the public got wind of a reward. All they needed, though, was one lead, one solid tip that would direct them to Mary Ellen.

Was she alive?

He refused to think negatively and closed his mind to the possibility that she might already be dead. "Come on," he said in exasperation. Normally, he made things happen. Waiting for something to happen, red-lined his patience.

Whit sat up when a lanky man, his long, blond hair flowing in the wind, pranced toward them in black tasseled loafers and a beige ankle-length trench coat.

Lyron shifted positions. "Maybe this is our guy."

Whit looked at Lyron when he unholstered his nine millimeter and placed the gun in his lap. "Is that necessary? He looks harmless."

"One attempt on your life has already been made. We can't be too careful."

Whit lowered the window when the man stopped at the driver's door.

"Mr. Hawkes?" he asked.

"Get in." Whit jerked his head toward the back.

He sat in the middle of the seat and introduced himself. "Trevor Malloy." He smiled at Lyron and batted his eyelashes. "My friends call me Kiki."

Lyron introduced Whit, then himself. "What have you got for us?"

"Have you got my money, Mr. Hawkes?"

Whit opened his mouth to answer, but Lyron answered for him. "You'll get it, if your tip leads us to Mary Ellen. That's the way it works."

"That's fair." Malloy crossed his legs at the knees and placed his manicured hands on top of them.

"Start at the top, Mr. Malloy," Whit said when it occurred to him Kiki needed prompting.

Malloy cleared his throat and nodded. "Last Thursday night, as I walked past the library toward my car, I saw a woman. I didn't know it was Mary Ellen at the time, they were a ways ahead with their backs to me —"

"They?" Lyron asked.

"Yes, Mary Ellen and the guy I saw her with in the library the last few weeks. It surprised the pee out of me that he liked women, because the man certainly raised the lever on my love-o-meter, if you know what I mean." He fanned his face with a beige leather glove. "Ooh-la-la. A real hottie."

Lyron glared at him. "Can you stick to what you saw?"

Malloy shrugged. "Well, he had his arm across her shoulder, and she had her arm wrapped around his waist. At first they seemed like lovers, but that wasn't it. She was supporting him."

"What made you think that?"

"He stumbled a few times and Mary Ellen had to catch him, or he would have fallen. I thought he was drunk or something."

Lyron nodded. "Go on."

"They finally made it to his vehicle. She propped him against the side of the car while she opened the driver's door. That's when things happened lightning fast." Malloy slapped the side of his face and rolled his eyes. "The guy made a miraculous recovery, reached into the car and came out with a white handkerchief or gauze or something. He placed it across her mouth and nose with one hand while the other held her around the neck in a stranglehold, then she went limp in his arms. Probably chloroformed her, huh?"

"What happened, then?" Lyron asked.

"He opened the back door and put her on the seat."

"Then what?" Whit asked, forcing composure he didn't feel.

"Then he looked around, probably to see if anyone watched. I was hiding behind a fifty-year-old maple tree by that time. Then he got behind the wheel and drove off like he had all the time in the world and like nothing had happened.

"Cool character," Lyron said and looked at Whit.

Malloy clucked his tongue, nodded once, twice, then said as he laced his fingers together around his knees, "Stone cold."

"What time was that?" Lyron asked.

Malloy tightened his lips at the corners and looked upward. "Around eight fifteen or so. I went straight back to my dorm, feeling like bull pucky. I was sure he was gay. Drat." He unlaced his fingers and slapped his thigh. "Just my type, too." He flapped his hands in the air. "The brightest blue eyes I ever saw and that dimple in his chin sent my heart a pitter-patter. Darling little..." His voice trailed off as he stared into space.

Whit raised his eyebrows and looked at Lyron.

Lyron rolled his eyes but asked pleasantly, "Can you describe him for us?"

When, after a moment, Malloy didn't answer, Lyron snapped his fingers in Malloy's face.

"Huh? What? Excuse me, I drifted off for a second. Did you say something?"

"Describe him. Approximate height, weight, hair color, skin color, distinguishing marks, moles or scars."

"Well, he has this tiny mole above his right lip. Right here." Malloy indicated the area just below his nose.

"Uh-huh." Lyron said, frowning. "Go on."

"One of his front teeth overlapped the other. Don't you just love that?"

Malloy squeezed his legs together and hugged himself.

"Can't say I placed too much thought on it," Lyron said, deadpan. "What else?"

"He stood about five-nine and was about my weight – one-sixty – and he had the sweetest nose. Short, but it had a little bump in the middle." Malloy's brow creased and he appeared deep in thought a moment. "His feet turned in, like...like..."

"He was pigeon-toed?" Lyron asked.

Malloy pointed a finger at him and nodded. "Too cute." He stared into space again and said in a whisper-soft voice, "He had the smallest ears. Just made me want to —"

Lyron cut in. "Anything else?"

"That's it, I guess."

"You didn't happen to get his name, did you?" Whit held his breath.

"No. I tried to find out before that incident. Lordy, did I try. I wanted to hook up with him. But no one knew his name." He rolled his eyes.

Whit exhaled, feeling deflated.

"I got his license plate number that night, though." Malloy dug in his coat pocket, came out with a slip of paper folded in a square and handed it to Lyron.

Whit looked at the paper in Lyron's hand, excitement flowing through him. A break, finally.

"Did you report what you saw to the police?" Lyron asked.

He nodded. "Uh-huh. Later that evening, after I got over my heartache and came to my senses. I don't think Mr. Policeman believed me, though. Probably thought I was just a gay cracker looking for attention." He tsked. "Like I have to fabricate stories to get my kicks, know what I mean?" He exaggerated a wink.

Lyron faced forward and wrote furiously on his coiled pad.

Whit gave Lyron credit for keeping his cool. "Thank you for your time, Mr...uh, Kiki, and for the information. You've been very helpful. Where can we reach you?"

Malloy gave him his cell phone number. He opened the door and looked at Whit. "Look man, the guy wasn't rough with your sister. I mean, he didn't dump her in the back seat, he placed her, like she was a fragile piece of crystal."

Whit nodded. Hearing that gave him some comfort. He hoped her abductor continued to treat her well.

Lyron turned and faced Malloy. "Would you be available," he checked his watch, "say around four? I'd like you to describe this man you saw with Mary Ellen to a friend of mine so he can make a computer-generated picture of him. You'll get paid for your time." Malloy shrugged. "Sure."

Lyron gave him Whit's home address.

When the door closed behind Malloy, Whit turned to Lyron. "I think he liked you."

Lyron holstered his gun and grunted. "And I think he smoked some bad weed a time or two. His gay-dar needs to be recalibrated. It's way, way off."

"Do you think he was telling the truth?"

"I'd say so." Lyron bit the inside of his cheek. "We know now how Baleman," he made air quotes, "got Mary Ellen, and if we rely on Kiki's intuition, the guy's gay. We'll check out the local bars, see if anyone remembers seeing him."

He raked his fingers through his hair and blew out a breath. "The bastard played on her vulnerability and sympathetic nature and used it against her. She wouldn't have anticipated any danger."

Lyron reached into his jacket pocket. "Not many people would."

Whit opened his mouth to speak but Lyron stilled him when he held a finger in the air and with his other hand punched in a number on his cell phone. "Evelyn, how's it going?... Ah, you know me too well... How's Sun Sushi sound?" He grimaced as he listened. "Okay, dinner at Rumpelstiltskin's, then. ... Great." He unfolded the paper and read the license plate number Malloy gave them. "No, I'll wait. Thanks, sweetie."

Lyron swung the phone against his chest and looked at Whit. "You're going to owe me big time for this. Evelyn Parks is not any man's dream, if you get my drift. Rumor has it she has three nipples. Two of them are on the inside of her thigh." He visibly shook, then grimaced and held his hand against his shoulder. "Keep forgetting I was shot." He put the phone back to his ear. "I'm here... Okay... Uh-huh... Got it. Thanks, hon. See you Saturday at eight... Yeah, I'm looking forward to it, too." He flipped the phone closed and looked at Whit.

"Well?"

"The car was reported stolen Thursday afternoon and hasn't been found yet."

Whit slammed an open palm against the steering wheel. "Damn." He thought for a moment and realized something good could still come from Malloy's tip. "When the car is found, maybe we'll get lucky and get a print."

Lyron shook his head. "Don't fool yourself. It's probably at the bottom of a river or burned to a crisp by now, and if it's not, it's been wiped clean, believe me." He worried his bottom lip.

"What is it?" Whit asked. "You only chew your lip when things are not going as you expected."

"This guy is slick, and I wouldn't put too much stock in his description, either. He's covered his tracks and covered them well. Like you said, this was a carefully orchestrated plan." Lyron flipped open his cell phone and punched in a number.

"Who you calling now?"

"My computer guru so we can get the composite made. He should be back in town by now. Just so you know, he likes to be paid in cash before he does any work."

Whit shrugged. "We'll stop by the bank before I drop you off at the house." He checked the time.

Lyron raised a brow. "Have to be somewhere?"

"I have a pre-trial motion before Duplessie at two."

"You couldn't have it postponed?"

Whit huffed a breath. "The old fart wouldn't allow a postponement if the lawyer on record were dead."

Lyron snorted and flipped his phone closed. "No answer." He looked out the window. "Damn. We're behind in the investigation. Getting shot didn't help, either. We should have had a composite made from Dixon's description of Baleman and had those pictures plastered around town long before this."

Whit started the car. "We'll go to him, then. Where does he live?"

Lyron gave him the address.

***

On the sidewalk outside The Royal Newfoundland Constabulary, Blossom could tell something was up with Ian, but she didn't ask. When he was ready to talk, he'd tell her.

The sun sat high in an unblemished sky, and the breeze was resplendent with the scent of freshly fallen snow. She took in a lungful of air and blew it out slowly.

"What a jackass," Ian said. "Four kids disappear from the same place within a space of three years, and he doesn't find it odd?"

She frowned. "Whoa. Four kids?"

He showed her the front page of the newspaper. "I snatched this from Quinn's desk."

She read the article below the crease. "Well known criminal lawyer, Whitfield Hawkes, is offering a fifty thousand dollar reward for any information leading to the whereabouts of his step-sister, Mary Ellen Tucker. Ms. Tucker was last seen leaving Memorial University campus library last Thursday evening. Graham Earley, a friend of Ms. Tucker's, is also missing." She lowered the newspaper. "Jennifer disappeared from the library, and her boyfriend is missing, too."

"Uh-huh. Tucker's brother employed a PI to help the police in the search for his sister."

"So?"

"Maybe we can join forces with him."

"We just knock on his door and explain we're looking into Jennifer Lamb's disappearance on behalf of her grandmother and say, Mr. Hawkes, I think we should join forces, and thank you, we'd love to stay for supper..."

"Why not? I can be very persuasive."

"You do have a way of making things happen." By Jupiter, did he! Sometimes she thought God stood at his back giving him a needed push now and then.

He smiled, a dazzling smile that had her heart racing like an over-revved engine. Blossom, stop! Keep talking, and take your mind off his handsomeness. "It's worth a try, I suppose."

He cupped her elbow in his hand and led her toward the car. "Need something to eat?"

"I'm feeling a little weak-kneed."

"And something to drink?"

She groaned. "I don't want to see beer again for as long as I live." She thought about her words and saddened. "That may not be such a long time."

"You've got to start thinking positive, Blossom." He opened the car door and helped her onto the passenger seat.

"Any place in particular you'd like to have lunch?" he asked after settling behind the wheel.

"How about the Bloomin' Teapot?"

He threw his head back and laughed. "God, I love this province."

***

Detective Quinn wound his tongue around an antacid tablet and watched Ian and Blossom leave the precinct.

He took a sip of stale coffee and looked at Jocelyn over the rim.

She tugged on her earlobe and returned his stare. "That was strange."

Nodding, he cleared a place on his desk and set the mug down. "Why now, after all these years, is someone interested in the Lamb investigation?

"Maybe Tucker's and Earley's disappearances triggered interest back in Dickeyville."

"Do you really believe that? Where was he when Lamb disappeared? Why didn't he look into it then? Why now?" Ian Mahoney bothered him and Quinn couldn't understand the reason for it. "Anything about that Mahoney guy that seemed off to you?"

She grinned. "Everything about him was right, believe me. Long, lean legs, tapered fingers, all male, sexy as all get out, chiseled features. Whoo-hoo." She used her fingers to brush perspiration from her upper lip. "Something was definitely not right about her, though."

"The McDougall woman?"

"Didn't you notice? The way her eyes kept darting around the room and her skin looked like it was on fire from the inside out."

He shrugged. "This is getting weirder by the day. Mahoney's got an agenda. I can feel it."

"Maybe it's coincidental. He could be in St. John's on business and promised the grandmother he would look into Jennifer's disappearance while he was here, like he said. It's plausible."

"He's here on business, all right, and it has everything to do with the missing kids."

"What do you think that is?"

He sighed. "If I knew, I'd know where to find those kids. If they're alive and in the province." He was still clinging to the slavery-slash-sex toy angle. He gave his face a massage. "They may turn up somewhere no worse for wear." With each passing day, the chance of that happening became less likely, he admitted. "Any word on Tucker's car?"

"No, but Hawkes' investigator called Officer Parks a while ago to run a license plate number."

"And?" He hated that he needed to prod her for every bit of information. The one thing about Jocelyn that irked him.

"The car was reported stolen last Thursday afternoon."

"The afternoon of the evening the Tucker girl went missing. Hmm."

"Too much of a coincidence for his interest in the car to be about another case."

"I agree. Hawkes would have Otten working exclusively for him now."

He rubbed his temples. "This damn case is giving me a whopping headache. It doesn't help, either, that the Chief is riding my back, constantly wanting updates. What's up with that? Any idea?"

"He's probably got the mayor on his back. Hawkes is a good friend of Her Worship. Contributed heavily to her campaign."

Quinn harrumphed. "Parks still on board with us?"

"She negotiated a dinner with Otten for Saturday night. That was good anticipation on your part, by the way."

He shrugged off the compliment, made a grab for his mug, then changed his mind when he saw coffee grounds floating on the surface. "Deductive reasoning. Everyone knows Otten uses his retired status for getting information from his former colleagues. He still has friends on the force."

"She'll get what information she can out of him."

"Good. He has resources we don't, can do things we can't and is a leg ahead with the offer of a reward, not that I'd like to answer all those crack pot calls they're going to get. We'll piggy-back him, and when it looks like he's found those kids, we'll be the ones making the arrest." He couldn't get Mahoney out of his mind, and there was only one thing to do when he got that bothered. He booted up his computer.

"What are you looking for?" Jocelyn leaned across the desk. "Maybe I can help."

"I'm checking out our friend, Ian Pendexter Mahoney."

Chapter Twelve

His pretrial motion attended to, Whit strode through the corridor on the main floor of the courthouse toward the exit, his attaché case clutched tightly in his tense fingers. He pushed open the wooden door and stopped short on the cement landing when two reporters rushed at him.

A tall man, looking barely old enough to shave and bundled in a khaki parka with a fur-trimmed hood, shoved a microphone in his face. "Mr. Hawkes, has there been any word on your sister?"

"Nothing yet, but we have some promising leads." Whit's breath frosted the air before him.

"Who do you mean by we? Are you working with the police?"

He turned to the squat, middle-aged woman, wearing a lavender snowmobile suit. "I hired a private investigator to look into my sister's disappearance, and we're coordinating our efforts with the St. John's Police Department, who are doing everything in their power to locate Mary Ellen."

"Has your sister ever run off before?" Khaki Parka asked. "Do you have any idea where she might have disappeared to?"

"If I knew that, I'd know where to find her, now wouldn't I?" He smiled to soften the sting of his rebuttal. Never burn bridges you may need to cross later.

Snowmobile Suit stepped in front of Khaki Parka. "Is it true you believe your sister was abducted? If so, why would you think that? Has there been a ransom demand or a threat?"

A woman on the sidewalk strolling past caught Whit's attention. She looked like... He held his breath. Could it be...?

The moment stood still. A gust of wind came up, whipping her curly red hair around her face. She canted her head, and with her middle finger, delicately swept the tendrils to the side. Their eyes met and held for a mere instant before she looked away, but that was all he needed to recognize her as the woman who'd haunted him the past six years. He exhaled and willed his legs to move.

"Excuse me," he said to the reporters, pushing past them and clambering down the courthouse steps. He sprinted down the sidewalk in the direction she'd walked and elbowed a path through pedestrians, calling out, "Miss...Miss!" in one breath, and excusing his rudeness in the next.

People stopped and stared, craning their necks to locate the source of his interest, but like him, were unable to do so. She had disappeared. Again.

You fool, his mind chided. All those years wasted because you think she's the woman you're destined to live your life with. For once, just admit defeat and get on with living. Wise advice. He should take it. But he couldn't. Her power over him was greater than his resolve.

Her image flashed before his eyes at the most unexpected of times — during closing arguments, during jury selections, over oatmeal — as though taunting him. _Catch me if you dare._

He determined it would take nothing short of a miracle for him to catch her; she seemed as elusive as the fabled leprechaun with a pot of gold. Even still, he wouldn't turn his back on a miracle happening.

What was so special about this woman that he couldn't erase her from his mind? Lord knew, he tried.

His pragmatic self believed he would live the remainder of his life without ever meeting her, without ever knowing her name or anything else about her. He turned and sloughed toward his car parked at a meter on the street.

"Great," he muttered when he spotted the parking ticket under the windshield wiper.

Life went on despite us.

Whit entered his study and found Lyron sitting at the desk and talking on the phone.

With his eyes on Whit, Lyron nodded and said into the mouthpiece, "Thanks for the tip." He held the receiver over its cradle, stared at Whit a moment, then let it fall into place. "You look like you saw your worst nightmare."

He grunted, upset still that his red-haired beauty escaped him again.

Lyron frowned. "Want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "Who was on the phone?"

"Someone who wanted us to know he saw Mary Ellen being beamed up to a triangular-shaped spaceship. The call came through on your home line. I answered it. Didn't think you'd mind."

Whit nodded and sat on the sofa, loosening his tie and unfastening the top button on his dress shirt. "We'll be sure to follow up on that tip." Sarcasm was unlike him, but the lack of progress in Mary Ellen's disappearance and being so close to his mystery woman and not catching up with her had put him in a foul mood.

Lyron folded his arms across his chest. "Priscilla is doing a bang-up job screening calls. You should give her a bonus. She deserves it."

"Any other calls besides the nut job?"

"Nada. After we get the composite made, we'll run off copies and distribute them around town. We should follow up on the gay angle, too, and check out the local watering holes just in case Malloy's gay-dar isn't off."

Whit arched his brows and checked his watch. "Malloy's late."

"He'll show. He needs the money."

"You checked him out," Whit said.

Lyron nodded. "He's harmless." He flicked on the television and switched channels until he found the five o'clock local news.

"And this just in," a Barbie-look-alike said into the camera. The screen changed to the courthouse and a camera zoomed in on Whit.

Whit stood, walked over to his desk and took the bottle of scotch from the bottom drawer, wondering how he missed noticing the cameraman when the reporters interviewed him.

"I'll have one of those," Lyron said without looking away from the television.

He poured two generous shots into tumblers.

The clip came to an end and Lyron muted the sound. "Coordinating our efforts with the SJPD who're doing everything in their power to locate your sister?" He snorted. "You schmooze."

Whit shrugged, but couldn't hold back a smile. He handed Lyron a glass. "You're still on medication. You shouldn't be having any alcohol."

"Yes, Mother." Lyron drained the scotch in one swallow.

Noticing Lyron check the time on the wall clock, Whit said, "He's really late. Maybe you should call him. See what the hold-up is."

Lyron fished his cell phone and Malloy's number from his coat pocket.

While Lyron made the call, Whit sipped his scotch, staring without seeing out the garden doors.

"You're making yourself an easy target. Get out of the doorway." Lyron flipped his phone closed. "No answer. I'm getting a bad feeling."

Whit knew better than to downplay Lyron's premonitions. "He could be on his way and left his cell at home." He moved into the room, out of sight of the window.

"May...be." Lyron bit the inside of his lip.

"Where's your computer guru? Shouldn't he be here by now?"

"He's always late." Lyron took his coiled pad from his back pocket and made another call.

"Who are you calling now?"

"It's just a hunch." Lyron held a finger in the air. "Jerome Dixon?... Are you his roommate?... Uh-huh.... When was the last time you saw him?... Has he ever done this before?... Okay, when he turns up, have him call Otten. He has my number." He closed the cover on his cell and looked at Whit. "That bad feeling?"

"Yeah?"

"It just intensified. According to his roommate, Dixon hasn't been back to his dorm since Sunday afternoon."

Whit frowned. "That's when he met with you."

Lyron nodded. "He hasn't shown up for any of his classes the last two days, either, and his roommate said he's never done that before."

"That doesn't sound good."

"No, it doesn't." Lyron stared into space.

Whit thought about the attempt on his life Sunday night. "Baleman?"

"He has something to do with Dixon's sudden disappearance. I'd bet my life on it."

Lyron's anxiety rubbed off on Whit. "Maybe we should check out where Malloy lives. Do we know where that is?"

"We will in a minute." Lyron opened his cell.

Whit paced the length of the study, his steps clearly audible on the hardwood floors. He got Malloy and Dixon involved because of his offer of a reward. If anything sinister had happened to them because of it, he would never forgive himself.

"Okay, got it." Lyron closed his cell. "Let's roll."

Whit grabbed his coat and followed behind Lyron.

Chapter Thirteen

Whit pulled the car to the curb across the street from Malloy's apartment building and stared at the dilapidated brick structure. Plywood covered the two windows at the front of the building and someone had spray painted a peace sign in red on the front door. "Are you sure this is the address?"

"It's where his bills are delivered." Lyron unbuckled his seat belt and leaned between the dash and Whit to look out the driver's side window.

"I don't want to know how you got that information."

"Good. Keep it that way because I have a feeling this is going to get very messy and I won't be playing by the rules by the time this is over."

Whit nodded. Whatever it took to find Mary Ellen, he'd go along with. Later, when she was at home, safe and sound, there would be time enough for self-recrimination and remorse.

Lyron pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and checked the clip. "All set?" he asked, reholstering his weapon.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Stay behind me. Understood?" Lyron raised his eyebrows.

"Understood."

"All the way. No matter what happens, okay? Don't do something crazy like saving my life again if things get hairy. Get yourself to safety."

"Got it."

Lyron led the way across the street, up the chipped cement steps and into the dimly lit lobby of the building. "Second floor," he said over his shoulder.

"Apartment 2C."

Closing his mind to the odor of urine and garbage, Whit walked up the rickety steps behind Lyron and halted when he stopped on the landing and pointed to Malloy's apartment door. Whit nodded and followed Lyron through the hallway.

Lyron knocked on the door.

A child's cry came from an apartment across the hall.

Lyron knocked again. After a moment, he turned the doorknob and found it locked. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Whit leaned in close to him.

"Get with the program, counselor. Someone inside is calling for help. Don't you hear him?"

Whit caught on. "Yes, I did hear something."

"Good. Now turn around. You shouldn't see what I'm going to do. Wouldn't want to blemish your stellar reputation by making you an accessory to a misdemeanor." After Whit turned, he could hear Lyron using his lock picks to open the door.

"Well, will you look at that," Lyron said. "The door is unlocked. Remember, stay behind me." He took his gun in his hand and with the stealth and poise of a cat moved into the apartment.

"Smell that?" Lyron asked in a hushed voice.

Whit smelled it — the metallic odor of blood and the putrid odor of vomit.

"Watch my back." Lyron stepped forward through the hallway and into the living room, his footsteps as soft as a baby's breath. With his gun extended at arm's length ahead of him, he swept the room from side to side. Then, he looked down and said, "Crap."

Whit turned. In the light of the bulb overhead, he saw Malloy lying in a pool of blood on the floor in the middle of the room.

"Tend to him," Lyron said, already on the move. "I'll check the rest of the apartment. Be careful not to get his blood on you. He might be infectious."

Gathering his topcoat tightly together in front of him, Whit knelt beside Malloy and felt for a pulse in his neck. He let out a breath of relief when he found one. He pulled his cell from his coat pocket, punched in 9-1-1 and checked Malloy's pupils while he waited for someone to answer. When dispatch picked up his call, he said, "A man's been hurt. Pulse is thready and pupils are dilated and nonreactive. He's lost a lot of blood and may have internal injuries." He gave her the address. "Apartment 2C."

Malloy moaned and tried to move his head.

"Don't move," Whit said, calmly but sternly. "You're going to be all right. The paramedics are on their way."

"How...bad..."

Whit looked at Malloy's lacerated face, broken nose, bloodied lips and swollen eyes. "Nothing that can't be fixed. You're going to have one hell of a story to tell your friends."

Lyron ran back into the room carrying blankets and draped them over Malloy. He crouched beside him. "Kiki, who did this to you?"

"The guy...the guy..."

"The guy you saw Mary Ellen with?"

Malloy managed a nod before he slipped into oblivion.

An hour and a half later, Whit hung his coat on the rack beside the door in his study and heaved a weary sigh.

"He's watching every move we make," Lyron said, throwing his jacket over the chair in front of Whit's desk. "Bastard. When I get my hands around his neck..."

"I know how you feel. I'm just thankful Malloy is going to be okay. Internal injuries, broken bones...." He grimaced. "Baleman really worked him over."

Lyron nodded. "He left him for dead. He would have been had we not showed up when we did."

"That's a fact." He poured them each a scotch and handed one to Lyron.

"Thanks. I wonder if my computer guy showed up while we were gone."

Whit strode to the doorway and called to his housekeeper. "Mrs. Butterworth." A moment later he heard footsteps. "Did anyone come to the house while we were out?" The footsteps stopped.

"No, Mr. Whit," she said from close by. "No one."

"Okay, thanks." He walked to the sofa and looked at Lyron. "Should we worry?"

Lyron shook his head. "Not about him. Dixon, though." He chewed his bottom lip.

"One of us should file a missing person's report."

The doorbell rang, and Whit jumped.

Lyron grinned. "Getting too much for you, huh?"

"This may be old hat to you, but not for me."

"I'll get it, Mr. Whit," Mrs. Butterworth sang from somewhere.

Whit paced the length of his study, thinking about the lives he put in jeopardy, albeit indirectly and unintentionally, because of the reward. If he could prevent anyone else from getting hurt, he would. "I'm going to rescind the reward." When Lyron gaped at him, he said, "Malloy almost lost his life because of it."

He stopped and rubbed the ache in the nape of his neck. "Can you arrange to have someone guard his room in case Baleman intends to finish what he started? I'll pay for it."

Lyron nodded.

Whit spun around as a horrible thought struck him. "There's a good chance Dixon suffered the same mishap as Malloy. He may already be dead. Christ."

"You didn't know this would happen. Don't beat yourself up and don't jump to —"

"Mr. Whit?" Mrs. Butterworth said from the doorway.

He turned. "Yes, Mrs. Butterworth?"

"Detective Quinn is here to see you."

Whit glanced at Lyron, then said to his housekeeper, "Show him in, please. Thanks." He strode to his desk and leisurely sat.

"Let me do the talking," Lyron said. "Don't volunteer anything and keep your answers to yes and no."

As a lawyer, Whit was used to giving that advice to clients, but hearing those words from someone who once earned his living as a cop made him smile.

Thirty seconds later, Quinn entered the room, nodded at Whit and Lyron.

"Good. You're both here." He took a coiled pad from his jacket pocket. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened tonight to Mr. Malloy."

Whit nodded and Lyron said, "Shoot."

"You were the ones who found Mr. Malloy?"

Lyron gave Quinn the hairy eyeball and said, "Why don't you cut to the chase and save us all a lot of time and ask the questions you don't already have the answers to?"

"Good enough. I forgot you used to be a cop. How did you get into the apartment?"

"Through the door. It was unlocked." Lyron looked Quinn directly in the eyes.

"Did you touch anything? Either of you?" Quinn looked at Whit.

Lyron walked to the desk and rested a hip against it, blocking Quinn's view of Whit. "I touched the doorknob when I opened the door, of course, but other than that, neither of us touched anything."

"I see. What business brought you to Mr. Malloy's tonight?"

"I received a tip he had information for us regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Hawkes' sister."

"Uh-huh. And do you always just walk in to a stranger's home uninvited?"

"Mr. Malloy invited us in when he cried for help after I knocked," Lyron said.

"Did you see anyone leave Mr. Malloy's apartment, or anyone hanging around the building or the street?"

Lyron shook his head.

"Do you have any idea who beat up Mr. Malloy?"

Lyron crossed his arms against his chest. "No."

"Would you tell me if you did?"

"No."

Quinn flipped his note pad closed and looked sternly at Lyron. "I didn't think so. I could haul you in for obstruction."

Lyron shrugged. "How's the investigation going into the disappearance of Mr. Hawkes' sister? Any leads?"

Quinn shook his head. "We feel confident we'll locate her shortly." He peeked around Lyron and looked at Whit. "Is this how you saw everything happening in Mr. Malloy's apartment tonight, Mr. Hawkes?"

"To the best of my knowledge."

"Do you have anything to add to Mr. Otten's statement?"

Whit steepled his fingers beneath his chin and shook his head. "Nothing."

Quinn nodded. "That'll be all for tonight, gentlemen. I may need to ask you more questions at a later date, so keep handy. I'll find my own way out."

When he walked through the doorway, Lyron said to Whit, "Maybe you should show him the way to the door. He has trouble finding his way out of bed in the morning."

"He knows we're hiding something."

"Uh-huh, and that he has no idea what it is will sit like an unreleased belch in his stomach." Lyron grinned.

Whit couldn't help but smile. "You're getting some perverse satisfaction knowing that, aren't you?"

"Damn straight. The guy is as crooked as a fork in a road, and just because the charges against him were dropped in the missing hash incident doesn't mean it ain't so."

The doorbell rang again.

Whit threw his hands in air and said, "What is this tonight? The Do-Drop Inn?" He took a deep breath and reined in his temper, wondering how much more he could take without reacting explosively.

A moment later, Mrs. Butterworth poked her head in the doorway. "Mr. Whit, there's a lady and gentleman here to see you." She moved into the room. "The gentleman said to give you this."

Whit took the plain white business card in his hand and looked at the gold embossed letters that read: I. Pendexter Mahoney. He flipped the card over and found it blank. The card warmed his hand. He frowned. Lyron walked over to him. "What is it?"

He handed him the card and watched as Lyron repeated what he had done a moment ago. He hefted the card from one hand to the other and said, "It feels heavy. Strange. And what kind of business card is that with no details on it other than a name?"

Whit shrugged. "The old kind. It's a calling card." He looked at Mrs. Butterworth.

"Did they say what their business is with me?"

She shook her head.

"Show them in, please." He stood, buttoned his shirt and tightened his tie, and slipped into his suit jacket while Lyron resumed his position at the front of the desk.

With the sound of a double set of footsteps approaching, Whit walked to the door and waited, preparing to dismiss them abruptly if they tried to sell him something.

The woman came into the room first. When Whit looked into her face, his legs elasticized and time stood still for him again.

"You," he said.

Chapter Fourteen

"You," Blossom said. The shock of coming face to face with her stalker even after this many years froze her through and through. With time, she'd been able to purge the episode from her memory, but now, the unpleasantness of it all came flooding back. She put her hands against cheeks that were deathly cold but warmed quickly beneath her fingers. Her stalker smiled at her, and her hand went instinctively to her heart in the same second her mouth went dry, her throat closed and her upper lip dampened. She willed her legs to move, but they refused to co-operate.

"You two know each other?"

The question came from Ian, and while it bounced off the walls of her brain like an echo, her stalker said, "Yes. We've never formally met, but I recognize the young woman from Memorial campus." He looked at her. "Perhaps you remember seeing me?" He extended his hand. "Whitfield Hawkes."

Did she remember seeing him! She couldn't avoid him at the time. Where she was, he was. Where she went, he ended up there, too. One time, he had even followed her into the ladies room. Luckily, the window provided a quick exit. Shortly after, she dropped out of college and that was the last she'd heard or seen of him. Praise be.

She stared at his outstretched hand wondering if he actually thought she would take it.

After a half-minute, Ian stretched his arm around her and grasped her stalker's hand in a gentlemanly grip. "Ian Mahoney, sir. I'm afraid my cousin is weary from our journey and has forgotten her manners." He looked at her. "Mr. Hawkes, meet Blossom McDougall, my cousin. Distant cousin. Many times removed, in fact."

What was Ian doing? She hoped he wasn't making her available. She looked at him. He winked. He was! _Lard t'underin'._

She needed to leave. Now. The ever-present dread that idled beneath her skin rushed to the surface, paralyzing her with fear of happenings over which she would have no control. No control over her life — normal events where people make their own decisions and choices. Big or small, petty or great, others had choices she could only wish to experience and all because of Hesper's curse.

Before she could rein in the self-pity, her chin quivered uncontrollably. A voice, calm and soothing and unrecognizable to her, penetrated the wall of emotion and impacted hard into her brain: _Fear_ _you_ _not_ , _beautiful_ _darlin'_ , _happiness_ _awaits_ , _lest_ _you_ _forgot_.

She hoped against hope this event was a bizarre coincidence, and they merely happened upon the wrong place at the wrong time. Or perhaps there had been a mix-up along the cosmic airwaves. Or maybe this was a temporary misdirection that would straighten itself out and place them on the correct path.

Even as this argument formed in her mind, a rebuttal came as quickly and more powerful than anything she ever experienced. _This_ _is_ _where_ _you_ _should_ _be_ , _Blossom_. _This is the life you were predestined to live_.

Live it.

Live it.

Live –

On the periphery of cognizance, she became aware of the wind whistling at windowpanes, and the chime of a pendulum clock, sounds familiar yet foreign. She managed to quell those first tendrils of fear, the ones that made themselves known just before out and out panic, the ones she looked back on and thought: Ah, yes, that's when I lost it. This time, however, the Curse had snuck up on her, had come at her from a different direction. Not from right or left or front or back, but from below, probably from the coal pits of Hell.

For many months, she had wisely used every minute of her life, forever conscious that destiny might bombard her with doom at any given second, always mindful of fate, evermore compulsive about taking control of her life, and utterly obsessive about the time she had left. With good reason, the superstitious would say.

She had lived a solitary existence since her last divorce — keeping company with the ol' folks, passing time with the dogs in the park, and talking up strangers on the other end of a wrong number — and she had not encountered one temptation, not even the littlest one. Not that this black-haired man was a temptation — the man was as ugly as great-granny's mortal sin. Maybe, though, this was a curve in the Curse.

Maybe by micro-managing her life, she had forced the evil behind the spell to change tactics. In one of her mother's letters, she had written that she couldn't escape the jinx. "Don't mistakingly believe you can, Blossom. The Curse will win, one way or another."

Of course, this might well be fate coming at her. Fate did that — hit when it was least expected. Without warning. Out of the blue. Smack! Right between the eyes.

There was one thing she knew for sure. She couldn't stay here, not in such close proximity to this man, even with Ian at her side. She turned and looked into Ian's eyes. "Get me out of here now."

Ian took her elbows in his hands and asked with concern, "Darlin', what's the matter?"

She jerked her head toward Hawkes. "He stalked me when I was in college." Though she spoke in a whisper, the bugger overheard.

"Stalked you?" Whit threw his head back and laughed. "Is that what you thought? I'm sorry. I was trying to meet you, to introduce myself. I wanted to ask you out, but every time I got close, you disappeared."

Ian lifted her chin with his forefinger and looked into her eyes. "See? It was a simple misunderstanding, Blossom."

Was what happened as simple as that? Could she have misconstrued the whole thing? She turned and looked into her stalker's eyes, eyes that virtually twinkled. Maybe she had been mistaken. Would a stalker, when confronted with the truth, look so innocent, appear so cordial? Honestly, he looked like he wanted to take her in his arms and hug her. His wide smile almost had her smiling. Almost.

Now that she studied him, he didn't seem the stalker type.

Were stalkers types? Would she pass one on the street and think: Stalker?

She doubted it.

Still, though, she would keep on the defensive around him. She was here because Ian seemed to think there was a link between her and the missing kids, which would lead the way to undoing the Curse, whatever that was. For now, she'd tolerate Whitfield Hawkes. Ian would protect her. God would protect her. Faith was everything she needed.

When this was over, and it would eventually end, she'd tell Mr. Too-Cool Hawkes to take a flying leap off Lover's Bluff.

Ian extended his hand to the man standing beside her maybe-not-stalker.

"Lyron Otten," the man said. "Mr. Hawkes' private investigator."

Ian nodded. "You're looking into the disappearance of Mr. Hawkes' sister. How's that coming?"

"Why are you here, Mr. Mahoney?" Otten looked at his watch. "Not to be rude, but we have matters needing our attention."

Ian smiled. "I'll get right to the point, then. I think we can help each other." He looked at Hawkes. "Perhaps you recall similar disappearances three years ago? Jennifer Lamb and Theodore Hanscomb?"

Hawkes nodded. "Yes. A young woman and her boyfriend, rumored at the time to having run off together. In fact," he drew his brows together, "I recall hearing something about them being spotted in Niagara Falls. Outside a wedding chapel, if memory serves."

Ian shook his head. "That may not be true, at least not according to her grandmother."

"What is your interest in all this, Mr. Mahoney?" Otten asked.

"I've been asked by Jennifer's grandmother to look into her disappearance. When I learned your sister," Ian turned to Hawkes, "as well as her boyfriend had disappeared, too, which seems to be the same case scenario as what happened three years ago, I thought we could collaborate."

"Do you have any investigative experience or investigative skills, Mr. Mahoney?" Otten asked.

Ian shrugged. "I'm on hiatus at the moment, limbo-esque you might say, but in another life, I worked for the IRS. Does that help?"

Blossom watched Ian perform. She had been skeptical he'd be able to finagle his way into their investigation. The doubt faded. With that smile and those sincere-sounding words, who could refuse him anything?

She looked at Otten, who bit the inside of his cheek, obviously weighing the prudence of agreeing to the alliance. Feeling someone scrutinized her, she peripherally eyed the man who she thought had stalked her and became uneasy under his gaze. Maybe he wasn't a stalker, but there was something about him that frightened her. She grabbed Ian's arm. "Why don't we leave and give Mr. Otten and Mr. Hawkes time to discuss your proposal in private?"

"No!" Hawkes said.

She jerked her head toward him, as did Ian and Otten.

Hawkes cleared his throat. "Excuse my outburst. In my desire to find my sister and with the offer of additional help, I'm afraid I became over-zealous in my response." He smiled and looked at Otten. "He does have a point, Lyron. We could use the help. Four heads would be better than two, and I'm sure Mr. Mahoney has demonstrated his worth with his area of employment. What do you think?"

Otten shrugged. "Whatever you decide is fine."

Hawkes slapped his hands together and smiled. "Great. Now, since we'll all be working together, we should probably be on a first name basis." He looked from Ian to Blossom. "My friends call me Whit, and," he indicated Otten, "this is my friend, Lyron."

Ian said, "Mine call me Ian."

Blossom, the sides of her legs hugging Ian's, said, "Mine call me Blossom."

Whit grinned and splayed his hand toward the sofa and chairs. "Why don't we sit and Lyron and I will bring you up to date on what we've discovered so far. Once you hear what we have to say, you may change your mind about joining in our search, though."

"I don't scare easily." Ian grabbed Blossom's elbow and whispered in her ear as he ushered her farther into the room. "This Whit guy is handsome, don't you think?"

She looked at Ian. "I didn't notice."

"No?"

She shook her head.

Lyron grabbed Whit by the arm and said, "While you tell Ian and Blossom about our investigation so far, I'll attend to the two matters we discussed earlier."

Whit nodded. "Good."

Lyron excused himself.

Blossom made herself comfortable into a corner on the sofa and Ian sat beside her. She turned to Whit when he cleared his throat.

In a matter of minutes, he brought them up to date with everything that happened from the moment he discovered his sister missing. "A short while ago," he said, "Lyron and I found Mr. Malloy bleeding to death on his living room floor. There's a chance as well that our other informant, Jerome Dixon, might have suffered a similar fate. He appears to be missing at the moment. Still want to join forces?"

"I don't frighten easily," Ian said. "According to the newspaper report, you believe your sister was abducted. That's an interesting choice of words. Why not "kidnapped"?"

Whit shrugged. "Kidnapping implies taking for ransom. That's not the case."

Ian nodded and stared at the floor, obviously pondering Whit's conclusion. After a few seconds, he looked up. "Assuming the disappearances of these four missing kids are linked, why would someone want to abduct them? They're too old for the usual perverted reasons."

"Lyron and I have discussed it at length and we can't think of one logical reason."

Blossom had little to contribute to the discussion that followed, but enjoyed paying particular attention to Whit's articulate speech, how his eyes included both Ian and her in what he had to say. Typical lawyer, she thought. Self-absorbed, calm, confident. How could a woman fall in love with a man like that? She'd bet he was conceited, over-bearing and chauvinistic, too. Why, his body language virtually screamed, Look at me, ladies. Aren't I a prize?

Harrumph. She wouldn't give him directions if he were lost. She forced herself back to the present and joined Whit in mid-conversation.

"And Lyron thinks it would be worthwhile to check out the gay bars in town. See if someone remembers seeing this Baleman fellow. We could do that tonight if you feel up to it."

Blossom had no intention of traipsing from gay bar to gay bar. She opened her mouth to ask how she would occupy herself in the interim, but Whit's housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

"Mr. Whit, supper is ready. I'll be retiring to my quarters now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Butterworth. Have a good night." He turned to Ian. "Would you care to stay for supper?"

Ian smiled and winked at Blossom. "We'd love to – "

Blossom stood and continued from where she'd interrupted Ian, "But we should really get checked into a motel for the night."

Lyron strode into the room. "No one is going anywhere."

Chapter Fifteen

Kinlock marveled at how easy it was to make his captives believe they were being held in a high-security complex. Of course, their naiveté worked to his advantage. At their age, he might have believed just as readily, too.

He flipped his cell open and punched in a series of numbers. He drummed his fingers as he waited through three rings. _Come_ _on_. _Answer_ _the_ _call_. _Everyone_ _knows_ _how_ _important_ _you_ _are_.

The man infuriated him. Always playing the hot shot.

Another ring that seemed to stretch longer than the last, annoyed him no end.

Answer your frickin' phone.

He waited through two more rings before his blackmailer answered his call.

"Yeah."

"Now is that any way to answer your phone?"

"Modern times. Caller ID."

"So, you reserve your civility for others." Kinlock huffed a frustrated breath.

"I know who you are and what you did, remember? That little mistake in the ER you covered up for your boyfriend makes you mine. How is he, by the way?"

Kinlock's temper flared. "Jason is off-limits to you. Leave him out of this. I've done what you asked. I kept my side of the bargain. You keep yours."

"Relax. Your secret is safe with me."

"I mean it. Come near him and I swear to God I'll —"

"You'll what, Kinlock? Kill me?"

The sound of his raucous laughter chilled Kinlock to the core. The same cold he experienced when he imagined Jason dead. "Shut up, you son-of-a-bitch."

"Chill, pretty boy. Not that I'm not enjoying this trip down memory lane, but why did you call? Problems with the inmates?"

Kinlock breathed deeply and blew the air from his lungs. "The Tucker kid. She's Type 0 negative. It's a rare blood type. Only —"

"I'm not an idiot, Kinlock. I know how rare it is."

"It might pose a problem."

"Well, if it does, I'm sure you'll be prepared for it."

"If she needs a transfusion, the blood will be hard to come by, and in case you've forgotten, we're not exactly living in a metropolis."

"If it comes down to that, you know who comes first, who you must save."

Kinlock nodded and sighed. "Yes. The baby."

"Good boy."

"You're a callous son-of-a-bitch, you know that? Someday you'll pay for playing with people's lives."

"If I pay, so will you. Don't ever forget it."

Kinlock pressed End on the keypad and wished he could sever the relationship with that arrogant s.o.b. as easily. One day he would, just not today.

The cries of that young man rang in Kinlock's ears. He closed his eyes and Malloy's terror-stricken face flickered on the backs of his eyelids. He groaned, despising himself for what he had become.

He grabbed his parka from the hook behind the door and walked through the hall on leaden legs. When he opened the basement door beneath the abandoned church, a gust of wind rocked him back on his heels. "Damn weather." He pulled the hood of his coat over his head, ducked his face against the onslaught of ice pellets and dashed to the shed.

Sitting astride the snowmobile, he pressed the electronic start and the machine roared enthusiastically to life. "We all need a purpose." He doubted, though, that what he was doing was what God had intended for him.

Five minutes later, deep into the woods and two miles north of acres of spruce and pine trees, Kinlock guided the snowmobile along what was the gravel drive in the summer months. He accelerated and sped along for a half mile, then slowed for a sharp turn at his marker – a thick clump of birch trees – barren and lifeless now, like him in a way, he supposed. He rounded the bend effortlessly but breathed a sigh of relief nonetheless that he hadn't landed in Tatamagouche Lake.

He maneuvered a sharp turn to the right and chugged up the steep hill, the tracks of the snowmobile dug down into the heavy, sodden snow. Kinlock rose to a kneeling position and opened the throttle wide. "Come on, baby. You can do it. Just a few more yards."

At the top, set a distance away on the hill, stood his temporary residence — a log cabin amid dense compilations of every tree indigenous to the area — spruce, pine, juniper, their limbs reaching fifty feet toward the darkened sky with maple, birch and oak trees beside them trying to measure up.

He pulled to a stop in his usual place in front of the covered veranda, cut the engine and breathed in a deep breath of ice cold air. He jumped off the machine and looked around. But for the wind whistling through the trees, the night was dead to birdcalls and the chatter of wildlife.

On the top step, Kinlock took another moment to look back, knowing what he would see but unable to stop himself from doing otherwise. Just as he expected, everything looked white. Beneath that blanket, though, lay beds of tulips and daffodils, rock gardens, a Koi pond, the clear, blue water of the lake, the rose bushes he helped Jason plant last spring that he tenderly nourished to full, luscious blooms of pink, red and white.

Deflated by the thought that Jason might never see another spring, he shambled across the snow-covered cedar floor of the veranda and turned the doorknob.

The cottage was quiet when he entered. Lights set on a timer came on a second later.

He removed his parka, brushed snow from his face with a sweep of his hand, and climbed out of his boots. The inside of the structure had grown cold in his absence. He walked to the stone fireplace that stretched from the floor to the cathedral ceiling and tossed logs onto the dying embers from the fire he had built before leaving at noon. He added birch bark to ignite the wood. Satisfied the fire would take, he jogged up the hardwood stairs leading to the bedroom loft he shared with Jason.

The sight of his lover's emaciated body curled beneath layers of thermal blankets and a hand-made quilt made his eyes water and his heart flutter. As he always did at these times, he felt at such a loss, helpless to save the man he loved from the virus that was slowly robbing his life.

Jason opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling a moment, then turned his head and smiled at him. "You made it home. I knew you would."

In that moment, Kinlock became a man who could do anything, a man who could overcome any obstacle. He moved to the bed, crouched and took Jason's bony hand in his. "How do you feel? Did you take your meds?" He looked at the pine bedside table and noticed the pills he set out for him at noon were gone.

"Yes, Doctor. At four o'clock as you instructed." He pushed himself up on the bed. "How was your day?"

Kinlock fluffed the pillows beneath Jason's head. "Fine." His day hadn't been fine at all. He hated what he was being blackmailed into doing, but he wouldn't burden Jason with the details.

Jason studied him. "Why do you insist on doing that?"

"Doing what?" Kinlock gave him his poker face, the same face he once used to render bad news to his patients.

"Protect me from the truth."

"I don't."

Jason laughed, a laugh that sent him into a coughing fit that only time would extinguish. Each one of his coughs stabbed at Kinlock's heart. He felt so helpless.

When he lay back against the pillows, Kinlock fed him water through a straw.

"I'm so sorry I put you in the position that you felt you had to cover up my mistake. If only I could turn back time." Jason stared up at the ceiling and let out a wheeze that sounded both wistful and regretful to Kinlock's ears. "I'd do things differently."

"It's all in the past now, and you didn't force me to do anything. You didn't know. We've been over this, Jase."

"I suspected I had AIDS, though." He shook his head. "One slip with that scalpel and my blood flowed with hers. I killed her, Alex. I killed her." He sobbed into his hands.

Kinlock cradled him in his arms. "Shh. You made amends and you made your peace with God. We've been over this." When this was finished, when Jason succumbed to death, Kinlock would have nothing to lose. Nothing. Everything that meant anything to him would be gone then, forever, and he would take great satisfaction in busting open his blackmailer's money-making operation.

Yes, great satisfaction, indeed.

Chapter Sixteen

"There's another major storm hitting us," Lyron said. "After it's all said and done, we'll be shoveling out from under twenty-four inches of the white stuff, according to the meteorologist."

No, they couldn't be stuck here. No. No. No. Blossom jumped from the sofa, stood blinking rapidly for a moment, then tore across the study to the nearest window. She peered out, aware of the silence that had befallen the room. Then, as though more definitive evidence than heavily falling snow and high-velocity winds battering the windowpane were needed, she dashed to the garden doors and flung aside the velvet drapes like a mad lady. She couldn't deny what her eyes saw and what her mind registered. The woman, her, of course, staring back at her with a frantic-looking expression mouthed the word, 'no'.

She needed to calm down. While she forced her breathing to an even rhythm, a voice in her head said, You can't stay here. You need to leave. Your life is in danger.

Her heart thumped. She didn't want to die. Not yet. When she grew old and gray, sure, but not now. Not before she held her firstborn in her arms. Not before she smelled her baby's breath. Not before she knew her child's love. Distantly, she heard someone ask — Whit, she thought — if she was all right. Without turning, and though she experienced an intense sensation of imminent danger, she nodded.

She placed the palm of her hand against her forehead, took a long, deep breath, and spun around to the men, prepared to answer questions intelligently and return enquiring looks with innocent ones, but no one, not even Whit, paid her the least attention.

Relieved, she walked to the sofa and sat.

Whit and Lyron appeared deep in conversation about someone named Dixon and how his grandmother's demise probably saved the young lad's life. While they discussed ways to keep him safe once he returned to the city, Blossom decided to use the time to convince Ian to leave.

"Let's go," she whispered. "The storm isn't as bad as Lyron said. Visibility is still good and the plows should still be clearing the roads. We can make it downtown. There's this quaint B&B on Old New Water Street that you positively have to spend a night in." She smiled, sidled closer to him and linked her arm through his, purposely brushing her breast against his forearm in a shameless effort to entice him to agree.

He kissed the top of her head and unhitched his arm from hers. "Not tonight, love."

Her mouth dropped open. No man had ever refused her before. Arghhh! What an infuriating man. She was about to tell him so when Whit stood and slapped his hands together. "Now that Mother Nature is keeping us under this roof for the night, I say we should make the most of the situation by putting our heads together and coming up with a plan to find these missing kids. First, though, why don't we adjourn to the dining room and have something to eat?"

Blossom jumped back when Ian sprang to his feet. She was a bundle of nerves.

"An offer I can't refuse. I always think better on a full stomach."

As she followed behind Whit, she ventured one good excuse after another hoping he would retract his kind invitation. Not that anyone sane would send anyone outside to battle blizzard-like conditions, but that didn't stop her from trying to convince him. "You weren't expecting company. It wouldn't be right to put your housekeeper to the trouble —"

"Mrs. Butterworth is used to cooking for ten. I'm sure there's more than enough for us all. There always is."

"We're strangers."

"I feel like I've known you all my life. Besides, you wouldn't get too far in weather like this. Have you forgotten about the snowstorm?"

Damn. There it was again. The Curse working its magic and buggering her up. Old lady Higginbotham probably looked down on her at that very moment, enjoying every second of her mental and physical anguish. She stared up at the ceiling, closed her eyes tightly, and concentrated hard. _Here's_ _to_ _you_ , _Hesper_. She gave the departed old woman the finger.

Feeling childish, she glanced at Ian keeping stride with her through the hallway. If his wide smile were any indication, he enjoyed himself. How could he when he must know the distress she experienced? _Lardy_ , he was disgusting. She turned and studied Lyron trailing behind. He, on the other hand, seemed irritated by their presence. The scowl on his face gave him away.

Not wanting to be there anymore than he obviously wanted them there, she could commiserate. She pulled Ian aside, smiled at Lyron when he passed, then attempted again to persuade Ian to leave. "Why don't we pack it up for the night, express our sincere thanks, and decline his kind invitation?" Her words came out rushed, her voice carrying the tone of a crazed woman. "If we hurry, we can catch happy hour at The Busted Goose."

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing." If Ian was right in his hypothesis, and they needed Whit to change her destiny or banish the Curse, that meant they'd spend time with him, probably a great deal of time and that, for reasons she couldn't explain, frightened her more than the thought of suicide. As though to establish the validity of her concept of the situation, her heart flip- flopped.

"Why do you want to leave so badly? I don't understand. Didn't you tell me one of the side affects of the Curse is that you want to jump any handsome man you come in contact with?"

She returned Ian's frown. "Yes. So?"

He jerked his head in Whit's direction. "He's handsome." Then, as though he experienced an epiphany, his face took on the solemn look of someone giving confession after a fifty-year hiatus. He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Sometimes I can be so dense. That's it, isn't it? You're sexually attracted to him and want to leave before you do something to embarrass yourself."

She shook her head. "I don't find him good looking at all." At his doubtful expression, she added, "I don't. Really. Trust me. You'd know if I did. So would he." Unable to hold the nervous laugh back, she giggled.

Ian elbowed her in the ribs. "I'd love to see pictures of your ex-husbands. I can only imagine what they look like."

She closed her eyes. Visions of Whit following her around school flashed in her mind. He wanted her, then. Now, all these years later, nothing had changed.

What if he couldn't control his desire, his urges? She imagined him grabbing her by the hair and dragging her cave-man style down a steep set of stairs leading to a dank and dark basement where he would shackle her to water pipes with the handcuffs he had hidden in his back pocket.

No, that was the Curse and her fertile imagination at work. Remember your promise to yourself? Not one more minute... not one more thought about the Curse. Not one.

She watched Whit as he paused in the hallway, waiting, no doubt, for them to catch up. He turned, said something to Lyron, and laughed. How could he laugh and smile when no one knew what happened to his sister? The man was certifiable.

Ian ushered her forward. She looked at him, comforted that she had him to protect her. Whit wouldn't make a move on her with witnesses around.

Her breathing returned to normal.

Whit led them into a spacious dining room where a rectangular cherry wood table and four chairs sat elegantly in its center. Four place settings had been laid out, obviously the doing of the housekeeper. Above the mahogany wainscoting, professionally-framed needlepoint and cross-stitch patterns decorated the azure walls. In the opposite corner, a flourishing fichus stood next to a silk-screen with renderings of exotic birds in golds and blues. Two matching chairs kept each other company below the piano window at the far end of the room.

She hesitated only a moment when Whit cupped her elbow and guided her to a chair at the far end of the table. Ian took a seat to her right and Lyron to her left.

Blossom conceded that Whit's invitation to supper shouldn't surprise her. Any Newfoundlander worth his wing tips would offer house and home to friends and strangers alike. The way Ian strutted himself he obviously thought his dimples and blue eyes had won the invite. She would set him straight later and take great pleasure doing so. The man was just too cocky. The fact that she wanted to take Ian down a peg had nothing to do with her not getting her way. Nothing at all.

Whit removed the lid from a warming dish and smiled. "I hope everyone likes fried cod tongues." He parted a red-checkered cloth over a wicker basket revealing home baked rolls before uncovering steaming bowls of mashed potatoes and green peas.

Blossom and Lyron answered enthusiastically while Ian murmured less so. The three looked at him, like they couldn't believe he hadn't tasted this delightful dish.

"I'm sure I'll love it," he said rapidly.

At Lyron's urging, Ian related some of his work-related experiences with the IRS, while they ate.

Blossom listened half-heartedly to Ian poking fun at a blonde who got caught holding a bag of money that belonged to Uncle Sam. "Oh, is that what those cute little forms are used for? I thought they were solicitations for donations." Robust laughter drowned her groan of distaste. Only men could enjoy dumb blonde jokes.

She cleared her throat roughly, getting everyone's attention. "Not all blondes are dumb."

Lyron slipped his linen napkin from his thigh and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. "Name one who isn't. Quick. Right off the top of your head."

She searched her memory for a name or a face but envisioned instead a dark, boundless and empty space. The question had come at her too fast for her to think clearly. "Er...um —"

Whit guffawed. "Lyron rests his case."

She laughed, too. "I'm sure I'd come up with a name if ya'll give me ten minutes to ponder it." She looked at Ian, grinning like a man who'd just been bedded. For the moment, she decided to change the subject. "Has anyone come up with any ideas as to why these kids were abducted?"

Whit shook his head. "Aside from the usual reasons, no."

She nodded as she fiddled with her knife. "The usual reasons being of a sexual nature?"

Lyron pushed himself back from the table and crossed his legs at the knees.

"Uh-huh."

She pondered that a moment. "Have other kids gone missing from the province?"

"The usual runaways. Teenagers unhappy at home or those scholastically challenged, drop-outs who just up and leave to go out West or to where they think are greener pastures."

She looked at Whit, thinking how to phrase her next thought without causing him anguish, not that she had any feelings for the man. She didn't. After a moment's thought, blurting the question seemed the sensible choice. "How about unwilling organ donors? People are paying big money for organs today." She wondered what a fresh kidney went for on the black market. Fifty thousand? One hundred thousand? "Sure, there would be other factors, but what happens to organs of the legitimate organ donors in the event of an accident. There are always recipients who meet the criteria. Why, we hear the helicopter making organ donor runs to the hospital here all the time."

Judging from the looks that passed between the men, no one had thought of the possibility, or perhaps they thought no one but a dumb redhead would have the audacity to voice such a ludicrous reason. She shrugged. "Just a thought. I'm a horror movie buff. What can I say?" She could feel the creep of a blush rising up her neck. Crazy idea, Blossom. _Crazeeee_.

Whit turned to Lyron. "An operation, excuse the word choice, such as that would take a relatively large facility, sophisticated equipment, knowledgeable staff, experienced surgeons."

He thought too much within the parameters of the area, Blossom surmised. All it would take was a sharp knife, a little alone time, a general idea of anatomy, an ice chest and a buyer. Or maybe she was the one inside the box. Two kidneys, two lungs, two eyes... How much could be gotten from one liver? One healthy, living body could be worth millions on the black market. She looked at Ian.

He winked at her. "Good thinking."

"Really?" She drew her brows together.

Whit focused his attention on her. "Yes, really."

"Just being creative. Happy to help." She couldn't cover up a smile.

"Yeah, good thinking," Lyron said.

Though he complimented her, his eyes told her something else. What? She studied him a moment, but couldn't read him. Perhaps he was wary of all people, or perhaps he was simply wary of strangers ringing doorbells, inviting themselves in, offering their aid, and dropping ideas, or maybe he just didn't like her, plain and simple.

"Are there any vacant or recently activated structures in the city or surrounding area that might be used for something like that?" Ian asked.

Lyron nodded, stared at his empty plate, and puffed air from his cheeks. "There may be."

Whit rested his forearms on the table. "You're thinking about the federal building that housed a division of Revenue Canada. Now that it moved to Quebec, it's vacant." He rubbed his whiskered jaw. "It's too visible to the public, though. They wouldn't want to draw unnecessary attention to themselves."

"Hide in plain sight," Lyron said.

"True," Blossom said. "But you're assuming these kids are still in the province. Maybe the abductors scout the area first, have or get access to records, private and personal, giving them insight into family histories, etc. Whit, didn't you say, with the exception of your sister, that none of these teens had anyone who either cared about them or had the resources to look into their disappearances?"

He nodded.

"Maybe the abductors didn't know your connection to Mary Ellen. Maybe that's why someone, and by someone, I mean, the ones who abducted her, are trying to kill you."

Whit and Lyron stared at each other and on Whit's nod turned to Blossom.

"You may be on to something."

Blossom swallowed the lump in her throat that had formed while she waited for Whit and Lyron's approval and said, "Prudence Anne Ratcliffe."

"Who?" Whit asked.

"An absolutely brilliant blonde. No one in my kindergarten class could sing the ABCs like Prudence Anne."

***

Unwilling yet to pledge credence to Blossom's hypothesis for the abductions, Whit let his mind wander back in time a couple of hours.

Lord, he'd almost choked on his saliva when she entered the study. She belonged here. With him. In this house. He knew that as surely as he knew his name.

He'd recognized her immediately, of course. No memory could compare with the real person, though. He liked everything about her, her height, her weight, her style. God, he even loved how her eyes darted crazily around the room like she stood among lunatics brandishing meat cleavers.

Women didn't come more beautiful than she. He knew it then, and man, did he know it now. Her freckled nose, the goofy grin, those green eyes, that mouth, those luscious lips, her hands. He'd been kidding himself all these years when he thought another woman would make him happy. He studied her sitting across from him. She wasn't smiling at him exactly, but the way her eyes traveled over his body belied what she wanted him to think.

She, too, was interested in him. _Hallelujah_. All these years waiting for her to enter his life again hadn't been a mistake. He would make the most of the time they were sharing and make her see destiny intended for them to be together.

He watched as her gaze cut a slow path up his chest. He waited patiently when she stopped to study the Windsor knot in his blue and red striped tie, then crept over the cleft in his chin and up to his lips, stopping, studying, moving upward, then changing her mind and giving his mouth a second look, one more appreciative than the last, a sigh, barely audible, then on up the length of his nose and on to his eyes. He was only able to hold contact a second before she looked away.

She wanted him; she just didn't want to admit it. And the stalker story... a ruse to momentarily derail him. He knew women feigned disinterest at first.

He would give her all the time she needed.

Every few seconds, her gaze drifted back to his face. She was curious about him. He could see it. She probably wondered how his lips would feel on hers and whether he was a passionate, tender lover.

He shook his head to clear his mind of the image of them in a heated embrace and turned to Ian, agreed with something he'd said — what, he couldn't say. When he turned back to Blossom, she was placing her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her cupped hand. She appeared totally relaxed for a moment, then as though chastised by a parent, she bowed her head reverently, looking as fervent as a child saying bedtime prayers.

Everything considered, he found the evening enjoyable. The love of his life, as cliché as it sounded, was spending the night with him...well, not technically _with_ him, but that would come in time. Winning her over would be a challenge, one he relished undertaking.

He looked at her in wonderment, and before he could act on his impulse to throw his napkin onto his plate, take her in his arms, and kiss her hard on the mouth, Lyron's cell phone rang.

Chapter Seventeen

Whit nodded at Lyron when he pantomimed he needed to take the call. After he disappeared behind the swinging door leading to the kitchen, Whit turned to his guests. "Why don't you make yourselves at home in the study while I clean up here."

At another time, he would have accepted Blossom's offer to help him, but he needed time away from her. He couldn't trust himself not to make an overture. It would be reckless of him when she was unsure of him. He could see how his aggression toward her in college had frightened her. He wouldn't make the blunder again.

Whit placed the dinner dishes on the serving cart and wheeled it into the kitchen, thinking how life could frighten yet exhilarate simultaneously.

Lyron, red-faced and holding the counter edge in a white-knuckle grip, turned away from him, mumbled something into the receiver, then flipped the phone closed with a snap.

"Problems?" Whit asked.

"Bureaucratic shit."

Whit would not follow up the statement with the usual question, knowing instinctively Lyron wanted to huff and puff. When things didn't go as Lyron expected, he fancied himself the big and bad wolf.

He rinsed the dishes under steaming water and placed them in the dishwasher. "Priscilla hasn't checked in for awhile."

Lyron let out a breath. "I'm sure there are no more promising leads, otherwise she would have called, but I'll call her, just in case."

Whit bobbed his head, wheeling the trolley to a corner. "I'll be in the study." He wiped his hands on a tea towel, noticing Lyron's knitted brows. Recognizing he was in for a lecture, he wanted it said and done now rather than later. He heaved a sigh nonetheless. "Spit it out."

Lyron wasted no time on diplomacy. "What's the story between you and this Blossom woman?"

"No story, really. I saw her around campus, wanted to get to know her, but every time I got close, she disappeared. I had no idea she'd misinterpreted my intention." He stared into space for a moment. "I always felt..." He let his voice trail off. Lyron, who wined, dined, and dropped 'em, wouldn't understand about destiny, love at first sight, or the right place at the right time.

"Always felt what?"

Whit shook his head. "Nothing." When Lyron narrowed his eyes to slits, Whit knew Lyron didn't believe him, but would let the subject drop. For now.

"When was this?"

"During my last year in law school," Whit said.

"And because you chased after her on a couple of occasions, she thought you stalked her? Don't you find that strange?"

Whit shook his head and gave a to-each-his-own shrug.

Lyron raised his eyebrows, prompting Whit to explain how he suspected a woman placed in such a situation might feel. God knew he didn't understand women, but at least he attempted to, which was more than he could say for Lyron. "Maybe she led a solitary life before college, or maybe, like she said at supper, horror movies give her too wild an imagination. Maybe she thought I was Jack the Ripper reincarnated. Who knows?" He shrugged.

"I'll check her out."

"No." Without intending to, his answer came out sharp. How could Whit tell Lyron without seeming loony that he and Blossom were destined for one another? He believed that now more than ever. Soul mate. He'd heard the term often enough, but until this moment, never fully grasped the significance. Having her investigated before they got acquainted seemed...well, just wrong, not to mention Blossom looked like a woman who would learn of the investigation, either directly or indirectly. He pictured her confronting him and saying: You had me investigated? How could you? Why didn't you just ask me what you wanted to know! I would have told you, and that would end their relationship. No. He would take no chances where she was concerned. He smiled, happy to having settled the issue. "Why don't we play it by ear, see where it takes us?"

Lyron nodded. "What's your understanding of this Ian guy?"

Whit shrugged. "Seems on the up and up."

Lyron scowled.

"What?"

"You have to ask?"

Whit walked to the center island across from Lyron, leaned back against it, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "Something's been bothering you all night. Out with it."

"Their sudden appearance on your doorstep. Their offer to help in the investigation, not to mention the snowstorm that came from nowhere forcing you to offer shelter for the night. And if you don't find that weird, why after three years is the Lamb's grandmother seriously looking into her granddaughter's disappearance?"

Lyron wouldn't let this go, Whit could see. He furrowed his brows and took on the face of someone deep in thought. "I'm sure it's as they said, and if it turns out that's not the case, we'll deal with it then. The weather, on the other hand...." His attempt to lighten the moment had failed, judging by the scowl on Lyron's face. Whit recognized that Lyron needed at least one concession. He turned serious and said, "I see your point. Look into this Ian character." Actually, he thought it a good idea now. There was something not right about him. "Keep me apprised of the results."

Lyron nodded, shoved off the counter and winced.

Whit noticed his discomfort. "Shoulder giving you trouble?"

"Some." Lyron held the wound with one hand and rotated his arm.

"Take it easy. Wouldn't want to dislodge those stitches."

"Yes, Mother. Shouldn't we get back to our overnight visitors?"

"Good idea. We'll get them settled in their rooms, then we can all have a night cap in the parlor."

"Sounds cozy. Maybe Ian and I should make ourselves scarce so the two of you can get it on."

"Nonsense."

"Nonsense?" Lyron scoffed. "Do you think I didn't notice how you looked at her? What about Candace?"

_Lardy._ Candace. Whit had forgotten about her.

"Blossom really turned your mind to pulp. Good Lord, man, hup to before you make a complete ass of yourself." Lyron frowned. "I've never seen you like this. It's scary."

Whit rolled up his sleeves. "I'm marrying that woman, Lyron. You can stake your life on it." He looked off into space, picturing the two of them together.

"What do you think about her theory on the abductions?" Lyron asked.

A chill passed through Whit. He envisioned a surgical-garbed man with a scalpel in his hand standing over Mary Ellen, preparing to harvest her organs. Forcing composure he didn't feel, he managed to keep eye contact with Lyron. "We shouldn't discard it. It's plausible. Maybe you should put the word out on the street." He hoped it wasn't too late for her already. He raked his fingers through his hair and blew out a lungful of air. "This all seems surreal."

Lyron nodded. "It does."

"We should get back to Ian and Blossom."

"Yes, before they steal into the night with your grandmother's silver tea service."

Whit disregarded Lyron's jab as his mind drifted back to Blossom's theory. He didn't want it to be true. Would any reason for the abductions be better than another? One worst case scenario versus another? Would he want his druthers?

No. He would like to have a little control, but that, too, appeared an unlikely possibility as things were progressing.

Everywhere he looked he saw images of Mary Ellen's body in his mind, lying like a rag doll across a filthy floor, partially healed jagged incisions closed with slapdash stitches over her torso, gaping holes in sockets that once held her beautiful eyes.

***

At midnight, a full moon, known to some as the moon after Yule, hung low in the sky as Whit followed the path through the trees in his backyard. The worst of the storm had already happened, and the dark, thick storm clouds had moved on to reign down on land or dissipate over the Atlantic Ocean. Snow still fell, just not with the tenacity of a shaken snow globe, and the wind still blew, but without the urgency of an hour ago. Nothing smelled cleaner than the air after a freshly fallen snow. It was Nature at its best.

His breath frosted before his face. In that moment, he thought it was the most spectacular sight he'd ever seen. Normally, this was the time he liked best, but tonight, he had difficulty appreciating it. His life hadn't been anything near normal since Mary Ellen's abduction. In fact, it was what drew him out from beneath his down comforter...images of her mutilated body flashing on the backs of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

If he had not suggested she live on campus, she would probably be asleep upstairs in their home right now.

If he had kept a closer watch on her on campus, would she have been abducted?

He'd wanted to give her some freedom and to enjoy her college years without him hovering over her like a mother hen.

A lot had happened since the time he set his feet on the floor this morning: Lyron's release from the hospital, their meeting with Kiki, dealing with Candace, attending to his pre-trial motion, the impromptu television interview, the chance sighting of Blossom, Kiki's beating, Detective Quinn's questioning, Blossom and Ian's introduction into his life. Indeed, the day had been full of the pleasant and the unpleasant.

All of this, all that had happened, was meant to be, he thought. Destiny. Mary Ellen needed to be abducted to bring him and Blossom together. And how did Mary Ellen profit from the abduction? A life's lesson well learned, perhaps, or maybe the stars were lining up for her, too.

And Ian — how did he fit? There had to be something in it for him.

Whit had no idea what it was, but he had the feeling whatever the something turned out to be, it would be sensational.

Snow dropped from branches of pines to the snow-covered ground as he brushed past. A breeze as pure and soft as a baby's breath blew fat flakes of snow onto his face.

A coyote howled hungrily in the distance and the distinctive hoot of a great horned owl came from a nearby balsam fir.

"Stop," a male voice said at his back.

Whit halted in his tracks amid a thicket of saplings and shrubs. Something hard pressed between his shoulder blades. A gun, he suspected. His pulse quickened. He made a move to turn.

"Stay facing forward," the voice said.

"This is about my sister, isn't it? Tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you. Just don't hurt her. I beg you."

"Your sister is safe."

Whit clenched and unclenched his fists, wanting to slug the guy behind him and force Mary Ellen's whereabouts from him, yet knowing in some indeterminable way that if he tried, she would suffer from his rash behavior, probably with her life.

"If it's money —"

"This is not about money, at least not for me."

Whit remembered Blossom's theory. "Organ donations. You abduct these kids and farm out their organs. That's it, isn't it?"

"Body parts? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe your sister is better off without you."

"What, then?"

"I'll ask the questions."

Whit recognized he needed to shift who held this meeting. To attain that objective might be as simple as letting him think he was the one in control by telling him some of what he knew. "Shoot. I meant that metaphorically speaking. For a moment, I forgot who I was speaking to."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Baleman. I saw your handiwork on Mr. Malloy. I'm happy to report he'll live."

"Good."

"What do you mean? You almost beat the life out of him."

"Don't believe everything you hear and see. Things are not what they seem."

Whit cocked a brow. "What in hell do —"

"Shut up!"

Whit sensed the man's anxiety. Something was taking place behind him, something that might put Whit in jeopardy. He needed to know what that was. Just as he was about to turn, Baleman said, "Someone's coming. Say nothing to anyone about my visit. Do, and your sister is dead. Understood?"

Whit nodded, staring straight ahead.

"I'll be in touch."

Birds took flight from their perches in the trees, their screams echoing eerily in the ensuing silence.

"Having trouble sleeping?" Blossom's melodic voice said at his back.

He turned and, appearing casual, cast a glance over her shoulder, but wherever Baleman was, Whit couldn't see him. He couldn't let on to Blossom that Mary Ellen's abductor had paid a visit. She'd want to tell Ian. Chaos could ensue and Mary Ellen could die as a result. He would never take that chance with a life.

"Uh-huh. Can't shut off my mind. What's your excuse?"

"Strange bed."

"Yes, I always thought they should be square rather than rectangular."

She shook her head and gave him a lopsided grin. "A lawyer with a sense of humor. Now that's a surprise."

Mindful that Baleman might still pose a threat to them, Whit kept a covert eye on his surroundings. Even when he smiled and watched as she drew in a deep breath of crisp air, one part of his brain absorbed the sounds of the night and sought out any change that might indicate an unwelcome trespasser.

"Don't you love it?" She spun in a slow circle, head bent backward, hands splayed wide at her sides. "The scent of pine and spruce mingled with the ashy odor of a wood fire and the sweetness of a new snow. There's nothing more heavenly than the outdoors after a storm."

Yes, he thought, there is. You. From the light of the moon, Whit saw the wall come down. Not a visible wall, of course, but one just as impenetrable. The self-imposed wall that refused entry to all strangers, or perhaps just him. Why did she fear him, or did she fear all men? She appeared comfortable with Ian. That he conceded to let Lyron check him out relieved Whit. If Ian was his competition, then he wanted to know everything about him. "Are you a skier?"

She shook her head. "No, but I love winter. It's said those born in the winter months prefer cold to warmth. When were you born?"

"March 6th." He saw surprise register in her eyes, like it was a freak date that came around only every fourth year. "Bad date?"

She shook her head, then laughed, a nervous laugh, he noticed. She was still frightened around him.

Take it easy, Whit. Keep your voice quiet, calm. "What is it, then?"

"We have the same birth date." She moved the toe of her snow boot in a tight circle in the snow and looked at him.

"Shockin' that is, shockin." In the event Baleman was within listening distance, Whit needed to make it appear he had no intention of telling anyone about his visit.

"Walk with me." He took a chance and held out his hand, hoping she would take it but knowing she wouldn't. "I know where all the bear traps, stake pits and snares are."

She stared at his hand, looked over her shoulder at the house that he knew represented relative safety to her, then back at him. He managed not to laugh when her face took on a jamboree of expressions — fright, curiosity, excitement. There was something else there, too. What was it? Intrigue? Interest? Usually, he had no trouble reading people. Not so with her.

"You're not serious," she said wide-eyed.

He couldn't help himself. He threw back his head and laughed. "No." He slid his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I won't bite."

"Said the fish to the bait."

He chuckled, thinking he was the one in danger. How could she not perceive that his insides turned to jelly in her presence? "Did you see anyone just now when you walked along the path?" He kept his voice low and made the question sound casual, though considering the late hour and the weather conditions it was anything but.

She shook her head. "Were you expecting someone?"

"I thought I heard something earlier." The lie came easily. When for the greater good, lies sometimes had a way of doing that.

She nodded. "I came across some deer tracks near the house."

"Maybe that's what I heard."

They stood as they were — assessing, admiring, appraising — each other and as much as Whit wanted the moment to never end, he had no choice. Baleman proved himself to be someone who could come and go and do as he pleased and not get caught. He would not knowingly place Blossom in danger.

He noticed her shivering despite the warmth of her sheep's wool jacket.

"The temperature is dropping. Shall we turn in?" Whit had decisions to make, not the least of which was whether to tell Lyron about Baleman's visit.

# Chapter Eighteen

In the darkness of her second-story bedroom at the rear of Whit's house, Blossom stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling, marveling at the incidents that had led her here.

The sound of a door closing and the crunch of footsteps over frozen ground had her hopping from bed and striding to the window. Through the gossamer curtain, she watched as Whit shone a flashlight on boot prints in the snow, leading away from the area where they had stood moments ago.

_Bajaysus_ but the man was odd.

When he turned and walked through a growth of small trees, she thought, nice buns. Long, muscular legs, too. She couldn't see why Ian found him handsome, though.

She admired the way he moved — confident, forceful, purposeful, — and seemingly without effort, or perhaps he sensed her watching and performed for her benefit. As though clairvoyant, he turned and looked directly where she stood.

Surprised, she jerked to the side, out of his line of sight. Her heart pounded, then logic overcame foolishness. What was she thinking? He couldn't see her. Not through floral filmy curtains and the room in darkness. She chewed on a thumbnail and tentatively pitched her head around the window frame and peered into the back yard, searching the area frantically when she didn't find him. "Where did you disappear to, Mr. Hawkes?"

"Do you always talk to yourself?"

She recognized the voice and smiled. "When I need to talk to someone intelligent, I do."

Ian switched on the lights and the room came to life beneath the soft glow of table and floor lamps.

"What did you learn about our generous benefactor?" he asked.

That he has a sense of humor; that his eyes light up when he speaks of things he likes; that he has a dimple near his right eye; that he enjoys teasing. If circumstances were different, she felt sure she could fall in love with him. Maybe she already was. A shiver swept her body. Her clothes felt grimy against her skin. She looked at Ian who looked as fresh and polished as the boots of a cadet and as tempting to her as a chocolate fondue.

A sudden chill overcame her and she shivered.

"Is something the matter?"

"Something gave me the creepie-crawlies. "Whit, probably. After he deposited me back in the house, he went outside again." She pointed to the window. "Take a look." She watched as Ian looked through the curtain into the yard and stared for a moment. When he turned away from the window, she noticed him eyeing her oddly.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"For the record, I don't like doing your bidding. If you want to pump someone for information, do it yourself from now on."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, and ambled to her, stopping a foot away. "I couldn't very well be in two places at the one time." He peered around the room. "Nice digs."

She looked at the rose-colored walls, the white cornice moldings, the paintings, the antique armoire, the brocade love seat, the velvet cushions, the brass urns and the ferns. In ordinary circumstances, she would have appreciated her surroundings.

He plopped onto the four-poster bed and bounced in place. The springs squeaked beneath his weight and the floor creaked from the movement. "I got the blue room." He grinned.

"Stop that," she said, feeling like a mother admonishing a child. "Someone will think I'm doing gymnastics or swinging from the chandelier."

"If you ask me, the place could stand spiffing up." He reached up and brushed a curl from her eye. "You bring this old mausoleum to life."

"Have you forgotten why we're here?" Strange, but the time since Ian came into her life had been the most enjoyable. Her birthday fast approached, the day where, as the Curse decreed, she would take her life, yet her imminent demise didn't frighten her, not in the least, certainly not like it had before. Was this how her foremothers had felt? Were they resigned to the terms of the Curse and considered their suicide inevitable?

"Nope. I did a little reconnaissance while you were entertaining Mr. Lawyer-Smarty-Pants in the bushes."

"And?" Mentally, she compared this give-and-tell with pulling teeth from a bear and figured Ian won the competition hands down, but she wouldn't let him sidetrack her with clever remarks.

"And nothing. He has no family tree I could find."

"Maybe we should drop the name Higginbotham into conversation."

"It might work." Ian jutted his chin and massaged his jaw.

She admired his slender fingers and well-manicured nails. Suddenly, the temperature in the room warmed five degrees. "Do you find it hot in here?"

"No," he said distractedly.

"What are you thinking about?" She ran her finger inside the collar of her sweater from side to side.

"Nothing."

A gust of wind with the density of a bowling ball rammed the house, sending shivers of cold through her. She edged closer to Ian.

"What's the matter now?"

She shook off the chill. "Nothing."

"You didn't answer my question, Blossom. Did you learn anything from Whit?"

She noticed Ian's authoritative manner. All of a sudden, he was totally business.

"He seemed agitated."

"Why?"

"How would I know? Whatever the cause, he got over it fast enough, so it couldn't have been anything serious." She watched as he crossed his arms against his chest, pulling his shirt sleeves tight against his muscular biceps. An intense heat infused her body.

"You might have had something to do with it."

She frowned. "I don't know how."

"My God, woman, have you never looked at yourself in the mirror?"

"Yes, of course, all the time." She crossed her legs at the knees, and swung the top one back and forth, back and forth.

"Whit is quite smitten with you."

"He's going to have to get over it because it's not reciprocated."

"No?" He bent and stared into her face.

She held his look. "The man is a self-absorbed boor. Probably eccentric, too." As Ian splayed his fingers on his thighs, she wondered how his hands would feel on her body. With her forefinger, she wiped perspiration from her upper lip.

"If you say so."

"I do." She didn't mean to spit the words and wished he'd get off the subject of Whit.

"Okay." He held his hands in the air, palms outward. "I believe you."

"Believe it." Why did Ian insist on bringing up Whit, like she should be interested in him? The prodding grew unnerving. How many times did she need to tell him she felt nothing for Whit before Ian would believe her? "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"And how's that?"

"Like I'm PMS-ing. What is it with men? Just because women voice their opinion or suggest an alternative point of view, or show temper, it's," she stopped to make air quotes, "that time of the month. God, I despise those words. I'd like to meet the man who coined the phrase and set him straight. Man, would I! Considering the week when women are pre-that-time-of-the-month', the week during that-time-of-the-month and the week post-that-time-of-the-month, it's a wonder men bother with us at all."

When she sat in silence the next few minutes, Ian was wise enough to follow suit.

Ian, apparently tired of sitting, stood and paced the floor.

About a hundred steps later, he broke the silence.

"We'll have to find lodging tomorrow. With the storm over and the roads passable, there'll be no excuse for us to stay."

"Uh-huh."

He captured his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. "Do I have your attention?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Yesterday, you couldn't wait to get on our way, now you seem indifferent about the idea."

"I still want to leave."

"Good. I think it's best anyway. You mentioned a B&B?"

"Yes. It's not far from here."

"What's your take on this Lyron guy?"

Half-heartedly, she shrugged. Why would she want to talk about the little guy when she could feast her eyes on Ian's chest? In her mind, she saw ridge after ridge of muscle, glistening, taut, bronzed skin that trembled beneath her fingers.

Ian interrupted her reverie the beam of a flashlight shot through the panes of glass. "What the – " He walked to the window.

Blossom sprang from the bed and stood next to him, breathing in the sea-salt and sand scent of his after-shave. "What is it?" She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, savored the aroma and exhaled slowly.

He parted the curtains and peered out. "Lyron's joined Whit, and they seem to be searching for something. They look like bloodhounds on a fox."

She stared at the pinkness of his nail bed and at his narrow fingers holding the curtains apart. Her stomach quivered. Using the moment, she moved closer to the window on the pretense of getting a better view to the outdoors.

He pushed the left side of the gossamer wider and let his arm fall to his side. Her breast brushed his forearm. Her skin shivered, goose bumps the size of marbles broke out on her arms.

She couldn't resist him one more second. She slammed herself between him and the window and smashed her lips against his.

Chapter Nineteen

Whit followed Lyron, who blazed a trail through a foot of snow. His decision to inform Lyron of Baleman's visit worried him. Since the abduction, his body had remained in a constant state of nervous tension and dread, and his encounter tonight with Mary Ellen's captor added to it.

What if, like Baleman had warned, she suffered because he told someone?

How could he live with himself, then?

He halted when Lyron came to an abrupt stop. "What is it? Did you find something?" Whit shone his flashlight in every direction over the snow.

Lyron paid him no mind. "How long ago was he here?"

"From the time it took me to get to the house, get you up and moving — you sleep like the dead, remember — and back out here, probably fifteen minutes."

Lyron grimaced, looking at the single set of boot prints leading away from them.

"He's long gone," he said and turned. "Let's go back inside."

Whit agreed. Only stupidity would keep Baleman hanging around, and he didn't strike Whit as stupid. "Why don't we keep following his tracks?"

"They lead to the road."

Whit followed the beam of Lyron's flashlight, puzzled by his negativity. For once, Whit questioned Lyron's expertise. "He may have dropped something along the way. If he did, it may be a clue to where he's holding Mary Ellen."

Lyron nodded. "We won't find it in this snow or darkness, and as far as what kind of transportation he used to get here..." He turned toward the road and cupped a hand around his ear. "Listen."

Whit heard the sound of a plow rumbling down the road.

"When we came out of the house, the plow was going up the road which would —"

"Remove the evidence of whatever mode of transportation he used to get here."

"What else do you hear?" Lyron asked.

The sound of snowmobiles traveling the woods reached his ears. "If Baleman used a snowmobile, how would we distinguish his from any other?"

Lyron looked at him strangely. "Why do you refer to him as Baleman? How do you know it was him? Did he introduce himself?"

"No, but I called him Baleman, and he didn't object. Besides who else could it be?"

"Oh, I don't know, Whit." Lyron spun around. "It could have been anyone, and we know there's no such person as Anthony Baleman."

"True, but we don't know that he didn't use his first name."

He noticed Lyron's frown. "What is it?"

"You weren't going to tell me, were you?"

Whit hid his eyes behind a mask of disapproval and heaved a sigh when Lyron switched off the light.

"I thought so." Lyron scowled. "You're not being objective. And don't think you can handle the guy, Whit. Going it alone will probably get Mary Ellen killed."

Lyron was right. Whit didn't know what he'd been thinking. "I'm sorry. I don't know what overcame me."

Lyron slapped Whit on the shoulder. "Forget it. We all have our moments. But no more hesitation. If this guy contacts you again...."

"You'll be the first to know." Whit watched as Lyron, seemingly satisfied with his response, turned and directed the beam of his flashlight into the trees.

Something, perhaps intuition or premonition he would later guess, urged him to look back at his house.

The sporadic bursts of brilliant white light shooting from Blossom's bedroom window mesmerized him, rooting him to where he stood. His breath stalled in his throat and heart quickened. When, like a kaleidoscope, the pristine color changed to blue to green to red to orange, he found his voice. "What the hell..." He reached out and flailed his hand until it came in contact with Lyron. When he saw Blossom's head cant and strike the window sash, he left Lyron standing in a cloud of snow.

Whit expected the door to be bolted and was prepared to kick his way into her bedroom. To his surprise, the knob turned easily in his hand. He rushed in, took quick stock of the scene — Blossom standing limply amid pinpoints of variegated, dazzling light and the scent of sweat and sulphur pervading the room. In that moment the radiance dimmed to nothingness and Blossom, resembling a rag doll, slumped toward the floor. He sprang forward and caught her before she landed. He took her in his arms, carried her to the bed and placed her gently on the mattress.

"I'll look after her," he said to Lyron when he entered. "Secure the rooms. We may have an intruder."

Whit noticed Blossom's normally rose-hued skin had taken on the pallor of the dead. "Blossom, honey." When she didn't stir, he experienced the same intense feeling of horror when he'd looked at his mother's lifeless body after the car accident.

"All clear," Lyron said. "Ian's gone missing."

"We'll deal with it later." Whit raised her hand to his cheek and whispered her name. "Blossom." He knew how the overture would look to Lyron, but he didn't care what Lyron thought. "Take from my strength, Blossom."

He closed his eyes and concentrated deeply on transmitting energy to her. "You can't die. I only just found you again."

***

Blossom opened her eyes and sat up. She looked around, squinting into the darkness.

Where was she?

She peered to her left, to her right, then over her shoulder. Darkness and silence surrounded her.

Her head ached. She massaged her temples. Had she died and gone to...where? She looked around again.

If this was Heaven, she would be terribly disappointed. What happened to the bright sunshine, the green grass, the fields of wildflowers, the endless sky with puffs of snow-white clouds floating by, the lakes of tranquil water, and the blue jays nestled on the branches of oak trees she'd imagined of Heaven?

Maybe she was banished to a life of darkness as punishment and torment, after all.

Hell.

She sucked in her cheeks. Doomed to an eternity of damnation shouldn't surprise her. She'd hoped for salvation, or in the alternative, Purgatory or Limbo. Sometimes we just couldn't have our druthers.

Determined to make the most of her after-life, she believed she could get used to the blackness. She'd make it her friend. She twisted her bottom lip between her teeth. Maybe she could make a pact with the devil — not that she would do his work, but only pretend to.

At least, she wasn't put in the general population, among murderers, child molesters, rapists and cheaters.

The sound of footsteps froze her in place.

The devil coming to welcome her?

Since God appeared not to have taken into consideration the good in her and the time had passed to gain His grace, she thumbed her nose, but before she could spew the string of curses that she knew would give her some satisfaction, the devil called her name.

"Blossom."

Hands, cold and clammy, grabbed hold of her forearms. She fought them off. "Get away from me. Git!"

The devil didn't listen. Instead, he tightened his grip.

She kicked her legs and applied all her strength into pulling her hands from his grasp.

Something smacked her cheek, the sting of the slap felt straight to her toes. Tears spilled from her eyes. She cried from the pain, but most of all she cried for all the years the Drummond curse took from her, her failed marriages, for the years she didn't have with her mother, for the pain her father endured in the months before his death, his anguish for not being able to help her, for the –.

"Blossom, honey."

_Honey?_ The devil wouldn't call her 'honey'.

She opened her eyes, looked into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, then her chest was crushed against something hard and unyielding. Her breath blew from her mouth with an oooff. She closed her eyes again.

"Careful, Whit. You're squeezing the life out of her."

She recognized that voice. The little red-haired guy.

He died with her? How had that happened?

"Blossom. Oh, thank God."

She recognized that voice, as well. The Whit fellow. Everyone around her had died? _Lardy_ , was she responsible?

Wait. Someone was missing. Ian. She looked around for him. He was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he went to a different place, a different after-life. "I'm sorry, Ian. It's not your fault. The Curse is too strong, too powerful. At least, it died with me."

Dimly, she heard someone say, "She thinks she's dead." Then she felt the sting of another slap across her cheek.

She opened her eyes wide and grabbed the hand by the wrist. "Do it again and I'll be takin' at ya with me mother's broom, I will."

Ian entered the bedroom just then and she used the distraction to get her temper under control.

"You'd be smart to heed her advice," Ian said, walking to the bed. "The woman packs a wallop."

Chapter Twenty

"You're sure you're feeling fine?" Whit asked.

Blossom nodded. "Thanks."

"If you need anything —"

"I'll holler." She watched him and Lyron leave the room.

"I'll be right back," Ian said. "There's something I need to ask Whit."

"Take your time." Blossom closed her eyes and before long she fell into a light sleep. The door opening and closing woke her several minutes later.

"Whit's really worried about you," Ian said and sat on the bed beside her.

She sat up. "He shouldn't be. I'm fine."

"Do you remember what happened?"

The moment flashed in her mind: her kissing him; him jerking backward in surprise or fright, she didn't know which; her falling back against the window and hitting her head against the window frame; her spine scraping the window ledge as she slid downward, then merciful nothingness.

"Unfortunately, yes." She wanted to scream. It was this damn curse. It made her do things she wouldn't normally do. Like behaving like a feline in heat.

"There can never be anything between us, Blossom," he said softly.

She looked at him. "Don't you like me?"

"It's not it."

"Then what is it?" The matter seemed simple enough to her. When two people liked each other —

"I have commitments to fulfill that require my full attention and time." He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "You would be too big a distraction for me. I'm sorry."

She jutted her chin and hoped the hurt she felt didn't show on her face.

"Besides, Whit is who you were destined to be with," Ian said. "The one who fate intended you to father your children, and the fact that you don't find him handsome reinforces my conclusion. Free yourself, Blossom. Let yourself live. Love him."

She considered that more difficult to do than say. There were times when she really liked Whit and other times when she could barely stand the sight of him. "Do you find him handsome?"

"Well..."

She smiled when a blush colored his cheeks. "Speaking strictly from a woman's point of view, of course."

"In that case." He grinned and said, "He's drop dead gorgeous."

"I don't think so."

"Exactly!" He check-marked the air.

It took her a few seconds to catch on. "I should."

"Exactly!"

It was her turn to nod. "So there must be some part of the Curse that prevents me from seeing Whit as I normally would, as my Mr. Right."

"That's what I'm thinking. From what I see and hear, Whit's been waiting for you all his life."

"Really?" That made her smile and hopeful for the future until she remembered she might not have one and saddened. _My thirtieth birthday. The day when...no, I will not think about it. Not one more thought on the subject. Not one!_

"Really."

She believed in Ian. "Now to find a Higginbotham relative, preferably one who doesn't carry a grudge."

"That's turning out harder than I anticipated." Ian pulled at his bottom lip. "It's not Whit, nor is it Mary Ellen. Whit doesn't think there were any Higginbothams in Mary Ellen's family, but he's not absolutely sure."

"You asked him?"

"We shared a moment in the parlor before a fire and over a cognac." He grinned and rolled his eyes.

"He's mine, remember." She kidded, but the notion sat well with her. "So, what we have to do is right the wrong of great-granny Aggie, then I fall madly in love with Whit as my destiny prescribes." She massaged her cheek where the skin was still tender from Whit's slap. "He has a strange way of showing how much he cares." Was it her imagination, or did she detect a sheepishness about Ian? "What are you not telling me?"

"He isn't the one who slapped you." He hung his head.

He appeared so contrite, she couldn't be angry.

"Whit had a visit tonight from the man who abducted Mary Ellen."

"Really? That's odd. What did he want?"

"He didn't have time to say. You interrupted, but he told Whit he would be in touch and also instructed him not to tell anyone about the visit."

"This whole matter is getting weirder by the second."

***

The following morning Blossom brushed snow from the Mustang while the engine warmed and the interior of the car heated. Ian, Whit and Lyron took turns peeking out the living room window to watch her. She didn't mind, really. Seeing someone care had encouraged her to take this time to think about her situation, about her remaining time on this plane, and to prepare for the end. Not that she believed anyone could do that. The incident last night had scared her. The darkness and the loneliness had opened her eyes, she supposed, to what she might expect when death claimed her. She suspected, though, the experience would do nothing to make her demise easier.

Peripherally, she glanced at the living room window but didn't see anyone spying on her. Once she left the house, she imagined Whit and Lyron, with Ian ambling along behind, running to the kitchen to sit around the table and discuss her at length. Her injuries, her behavior, her reaction.

She smiled at the thought as she cleared snow from the taillights, strolled to the driver's door, then positioned herself behind the steering wheel, all the while pretending to be unaware that one of the three men watched. She backed out of the driveway, tooted the horn, waved to the house and drove down the road.

When she set out, she had no destination in mind but found herself driving straight to the Cathedral. For so many years, she had done exactly this, come to the one place that gave her a feeling of serenity, to seek answers to questions beyond her comprehension and understanding. She would pay a visit on Ol' Faithful.

Traffic was heavy on the downtown streets but moved at a fast pace.

Nothing too much slowed a Newfoundlander, certainly not a foot of snow, a dusting to anyone born and bred in the province. She stopped to give a pedestrian who jaywalked the right-of-way. He tipped his fedora at her. She smiled in return.

Five minutes later, as she climbed the stone stairs of the Cathedral, she remembered cushioning herself against Whit's chest last night and the security she experienced. She stopped, let out a deep breath, closed her eyes, and fought hard to recover the memory of his smell — soap and shampoo. She remembered his cheek brushing against hers. The scrape had a soothing, comforting feel, and the stubble, a masculine feel. Everything about him was masculine, his walk, his talk, his body. It should have been easy for her to let herself go, to taste him. Maybe Ian was right when he said Whit was her destiny. She decided to leave herself open to the possibility. Whit seemed willing to act on what he felt for her, but held back, perhaps waiting for a cue from her. A gentleman would.

The handle slipped from her grasp and the double doors of the church banged closed after her. Looking around from the back of the church, she breathed a sigh of relief the parish priest was not around. She wanted this time alone with God. To tell Him about the events of the last few days and ask for His understanding, for the strength to accept what might befall her in the days to come, the grace not to think and the willingness to forgive herself for the wrongs she'd done.

At the back of the church, she slipped into a pew, knelt, bowed her head, and lost herself in prayer.

After a brunch of bacon, eggs, toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice, and while Lyron and Ian brainstormed, Whit became optimistic that everything would turn out well. He'd find Mary Ellen and Graham unharmed and Blossom would fall in love with him and they'd marry and live happily together for the rest of their lives.

He pushed his chair away from the table and agreed with Lyron's assessment. "The police don't need to know about Baleman's visit last night. In fact, the less they know, the better." He told himself it was the right decision, yet a part of him argued he should have informed Quinn. Of course then the police would launch an official investigation, which would soon become public knowledge. Baleman would then sign Whit's sister's death warrant. A shiver swept through him. No, they were doing the right thing for the kids by not reporting the incident to the police. Whit had no faith in the police department. Lyron had set him straight on the integrity of his former colleagues with his stories about dirty cops and evidence going missing from the police evidence locker.

"Who's your nearest neighbor?" Ian asked.

Whit turned his full attention to him. "The Humbys. Two acres away. This house is the last on a dead-end road. You're thinking someone, a neighbor, might have seen someone or something around?"

Ian nodded.

"Not too many of us pay any particular notice to a storm, particularly one that only has wind gusts of a highway speed limit." Whit smiled.

"Been there, done that, seen it all before, huh?"

Whit shrugged. Without intending to, his mind drifted back to last night. In that second, the world had consisted only of the two of them. Setting aside that Blossom was unconscious at the time, she felt soft and pliable in his arms, like she'd been meant to be there. When she had turned to look at Ian, her lips had brushed his cheek. Though the contact was minimal and purely accidental, he wanted more. He wanted to feel her naked in his arms and knew if he'd touched her, placed his mouth on hers, she would have accepted his kiss and welcomed his touch with as much love for him as he had for her. He knew that as surely as he knew himself. How he knew didn't matter, just that it was God's honest truth. The intimacy wouldn't have gotten him slapped around, either.

His stomach fluttered as he imagined his hands running over her body, his fingers tangling in her hair, his – . Something hard kicked him in the shin. He looked at Lyron. "What?"

"Ian suggested we use snowmobiles to scout the area." Whit noticed someone in the backyard and stood, recognizing Favian Quinn immediately. "One of St. John's's finest is paying us a visit," he said.

Lyron looked out the window and shook his head sadly. "The man couldn't find an Eskimo in Alaska. Shall we wait to see if he can find his way to the door?"

Whit grabbed his coat. "Why don't we go to him, save him the trouble. Besides, I'd feel obligated to offer him a coffee, and I'm not feeling very charitable to the police at the moment."

Lyron grabbed his jacket. "I'm right behind you."

"Me, too," Ian said, racing them to the door.

Gathered in a loose circle around a holly bush, Ian, Lyron and Whit nodded their greetings to Quinn. Whit, anxious to cut Quinn's visit short, dispensed with the usual niceties of the day and went straight through to the chase. "What can we do for you today, Quinn?"

"You can tell me why you didn't inform me that Mary Ellen's abductor contacted you last night."

"What makes you think he did?" Whit kept an unreadable expression when Quinn looked him directly in his eyes.

"You're not the only one with sources."

"Whatever your contact saw or thinks he saw, he's mistaken." Before Quinn could get out a word, Whit draped an arm around Quinn's shoulder and steered him toward the pathway at the side of the house. "Forgive me for being abrupt, but I was just heading to the office." He checked his watch to further his statement. "I've already kept my client waiting too long."

Quinn stopped. "Just a minute, Mr. Hawkes. I have a few questions for Mr. Mahoney."

Whit cocked a brow, turned and watched Quinn, hunchbacked and waddling, backtrack. When he stood in front of Ian, he said, "Did you know you're dead, Mr. Mahoney?"

***

Blossom, expertly maneuvering the snow-packed streets, headed home. _Home_. That the word rang melodically in her ears both frightened and exhilarated her. She took notice of everything in her line of vision — the rich blue of the sky, the brightness of the setting sun, the trees laden with snow, the white-capped hills in the distance and the smoke puffing from chimneys.

Motorists either dipped their heads or executed an imitated salute as they passed.

She was reminded how in love with life she was. She didn't intend to miss one second of the time she had left.

Her father's voice popped into her mind. _Why're you being so negative, girl? I raised you better. It ain't over 'til it's over._

He was right. Negativity would get her nowhere, and she had fought too hard to give up now.

When she pulled into Whit's drive, she spotted someone, a man she didn't recognize, surveying the house from behind a blue spruce. She parked the car, dropped the keys into her purse and strode around the house to where he'd stood. When she reached the area, the stranger had disappeared.

She turned and peered at the house where he'd been looking, and for the second time in as many days, she felt the blunt force of something hitting the back of her head and darkness descending upon her.

Chapter Twenty-One

Blossom, feeling like she floated through air, opened her eyes, then promptly closed them. Her head hurt too much. She reached out. Her hands fell on muscled arms. She was being carried.

A short blast of wind, warm and smelling of mint breezed past her face.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"You're going to be fine."

"What happened? Where am I?"

"You must have fallen and bumped your head. I found you on the ice. I'm taking you somewhere safe where you can rest and recover from your injury."

"I don't remember what happened." She squinted her closed eyes, hoping to force the recollection from its hiding place.

"You may be suffering from short-term amnesia. It'll come back to you. Don't force the memories, though. Do you know your name?"

"What kind of stupid question is that? Of course, I know my name. It's...It's... what is my name?" Her mind went blank. "Damn. I can't remember."

"It's okay."

"No, It's not! Gotta remember who I am, otherwise..." Her voice trailed off.

"Otherwise what?"

"What? I don't know. Can't remember that, either. _Bajaysus_."

"I'm sure it'll come —"

"Yeah, yeah. Come back to me, too. Blossom Tahnee Drummond Patterson Anders McDougall."

"Who's that?"

"Me, silly."

"No wonder you had difficulty remembering."

"You asked." She worked up saliva in her mouth and swallowed. "It's my curse to bear."

"You mean cross."

"Cross, curse. Tomato, tomahto." Her mind turned black.

A bird chirped above her head. Blossom sang along with it. "Cuc-koo, cuc-koo."

Something warm and soft clutched her hand and a gentle voice told her to rest.

"Thanks. I think I will. Feeling tired." She snuggled into blankets that smelled of a crisp autumn morning and closed her eyes to let sleep come. She imagined star-lit skies and bright, sunny days where no one could hurt her and where bad luck couldn't reach her.

Against the chill in the air that was her dream, she pulled her sheepskin coat tighter around her and stopped in the breadth of an open doorway. Feeling the familiar rush of excitement from freedom the great outdoors brought, she turned her face upward and welcomed the warmth of the sun. She stepped onto snow-packed ground and walked toward the woods. Her breath, coming evenly, formed milky clouds before her face. She wouldn't hurry. If she did, like a house of cards, this moment would come tumbling down.

A gust of wind came at her through the branches of pine trees, bringing with it the scent of pine, cedar and fir trees. Flecks of snow spattered her face. She laughed, the sound carried backward on the wind. A bird, perhaps a partridge, frightened by her presence flapped its wings in protest, then sought refuge in a towering pine deeper in the forest.

She came upon a clearing. The path she walked continued ahead in a straight line, branching to the left and to the right. All roads appeared well-traveled.

Something stirred. A bear, maybe, waking early from hibernation. The idea of coming face to face with a wild animal of mammoth proportions scared the courage from her. She scanned the area for a hiding place. It was one thing to enjoy nature and an entirely different matter to come too close, especially with one of nature's beasts grumpy to be woken early from its winter nap. The nearest tree with limbs strong enough to support her weight stood approximately twenty yards away. Too far away to reach quickly.

She looked over her shoulder and wondered if going back weren't wiser and safer. When she turned, the path to her left seemed more traversed than the one on which she stood. A voice in her head said, "Take that path."

For the first time in her life, she turned a deaf ear to intuition. She put her legs in motion and veered to her right, taking the path least journeyed.

Why, she didn't know. Where her journey would end, she didn't know, either.

On the edge of consciousness, Blossom became aware of movement around her, or perhaps above her, and the sound of someone talking, distant and muffled.

She opened her eyes and stared at a pine-paneled ceiling supported at even intervals by rough-hewn pine logs, then downward at the scattered rugs spread haphazardly over hardwood flooring.

The tick-tock of a clock sounded strangely familiar and welcoming. She looked backward at the wall clock just as small double doors, all but hidden in the peak of a miniature chalet decorated with carved leaves and animals, opened and a bird slid out, singing, "Cuc-koo...cuc-koo" while the clock struck on the hour. She counted the number of birdcalls.

_T'underin_ ', it was six o'clock. She'd been gone since eleven this morning. Ian would be worried. She had to get to him. She threw back the patchwork quilt and sat up, taking a moment to wait out a wave of dizziness that would have forced her to lie back down at any other time. She swallowed the bile in her throat, walked to the foot of stairs leading upward and stopped, listening for the voice she'd heard.

The odor of illness hung like a curtain in the air, bringing back memories of her father. She had vowed never to remember him smelling of anything but Old Spice, cinnamon and musk. After her father closed his eyes for the last time, she refused to fall asleep as though staying awake would keep her father alive in her heart. She managed three days.

"I just checked on her," a man said. "She's still sleeping.... Her vitals are strong.... No, I'm not overdoing it.... Yes, I took my meds....Yes, I'll rest now."

What happened came back to her in a dizzying blur: Arriving back at Whit's from her excursion into the city; the man skulking in the backyard; her walking around the side of the house to investigate, then blackness.

She glanced out the floor to ceiling window at the front of the cabin and wondered if this man had rescued her. She ventured up the stairs, one step at a time. The fourth stair from the top, she stopped.

"Come on up," the man said. "Don't be shy. I won't bite."

Kneeling on a step, she peeked through the rails at the man lying beneath a colorful mix of blankets that added width and depth to his emaciated shape. She quickly determined her life and virtue were not in jeopardy. The blond, blue-eyed man staring back at her appeared too weak to pose a threat.

His lips curved in a devilish grin and he said, "You're not going to make me come to you, are you? I have to warn you. I may pass out from the exertion then you'll feel obligated to get me back in bed. I'm heavier than I look."

Blossom drew in a deep breath, raised to her height and let out the air in her lungs. She climbed the remaining stairs and walked toward him. "How did I get here?"

"My friend found you traipsing on the Tatamagouche. Aren't you happy the lake was frozen?" His laughter sent him into a fit of coughing. A minute later, the cough tapered off to throat clearing.

"I'd like to thank him for rescuing me. Is he around?"

"Not at the moment."

She looked out the window. There didn't seem to be anything but hills, trees and snow for miles. "Where's here?"

"Deep into the woods in the middle of nowhere on the east side of Bear Lake."

"Never heard of it." His skin, almost translucent and tight against fine bone structure, shone in the light from the bedside lamp. How could someone so close to death look so peaceful? A burning need to know pressed at her, but diplomacy tamped the question before it came from her lips.

"Not surprising. My friend will be back shortly. He'll give you a lift across the lake, or if you like, I'll show you from the turret window how to get to our secret path off the mountain. There's still a little light left...."

When his voice trailed off, she nodded, but didn't see the urgency of leaving immediately. In fact, she felt the opposite. She wanted to stay.

"I'm Blossom." Drawing closer, she became aware of the odor of medicinal alcohol mixed with the scent of emollients. She held out a hand toward his slender fingers. Piano-playing fingers, she thought, but he didn't seem a pianist. She remembered the many hands she'd held and squeezed when she practiced nursing. "Everything will be okay," she would say as she looked into the terrified faces of patients. She blinked, recalling how hard she'd thought those words and how fervent and strong she made them seem so that no one, not even God, would dare go against her.

He stared at her outstretched hand. "I'm Jason. Jase, to my friends. I have AIDS, in case you haven't guessed."

On steady legs and keeping her eyes determinedly averted away from the prescription bottles lining the bedside table, she moved closer to him, refusing to drop her hand so much as an inch. She caught his hand in hers before it fell to the bed. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Jase."

With nothing to support the knowledge, she knew they would become very good friends. "Do you feel up to a little company? I'll like to stick around and personally thank your friend for saving my life." When he nodded, she asked, "Do you have a phone I can use? I need to call my friends to tell them I'm okay."

While she spoke to Ian, Jason sat there, head resting against a striped pillow and looking intrigued. She could virtually see the questions rolling around in his mind: Who is this woman standing before him? Why is she refusing to leave?

She liked that she was mysterious to him. He needed excitement.

She liked that she'd forged this friendship. He needed a friend.

***

Whit's knee bounced nervously beneath the kitchen table. He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock. "Where is she? She should have been back by now."

"Relax," Ian said, taking a chair across from him. "She knows her way around and can take care of herself."

Whit shook his head. "Something's wrong. I can feel it."

A minute passed, then another.

"Has she ever done this before?"

Ian looked at him. "Done what?

"Disappeared." Hadn't he always known on some level that life with his mystery woman would be fixed with ups and downs, twists and turns, chance and risk?

"She hasn't disappeared. The Mustang is in the driveway, and there's no evidence that anything happened to her. She probably went for a walk." Ian looked out the window. "It's a lovely night for a stroll."

"You're as worried about her as much I am," Whit said. "Why won't you admit it?" Ian was an enigma. Whit followed the direction of Ian's eyes, staring into the darkness settling in for the night beyond the windowpanes. "There are no street lights on this road. Soon it'll be so dark she won't be able to see her hand in front of her face."

When Ian opened his mouth, Whit held up a hand, palm outward. "Don't tell me to relax."

"Actually, I was going to suggest —"

Lyron strode into the kitchen and placed a single sheet of paper in front of Ian.

"All jokes aside about the competency of our boys in blue, Quinn is right. You are dead, Mr. Mahoney."

Ian let his hands fall flat onto the table. "Please, one crisis at a time."

Whit stood. "While you boys sort that out, I'm taking another look outside for Blossom."

Lyron watched Whit leave the kitchen, then turned to Ian. "What's with him?"

"Don't ask. Now, what's this about my living status?" Ian skimmed the printed page. "This is for Ean B. Mahoney. My first name is spelled Ian and my middle name, the name I use in business, is Pendexter, with a P. Besides, this poor fellow died ten years before I was born. That's some brilliant detective work on Quinn's part, huh? But I can understand how you would have mixed them up, Lyron. You were just seeing what you expected to see."

Frowning like he read the printout for the first time, Lyron said, "The stupid, son-of-a-crow Quinn."

Whit sprinted into the kitchen and threw Blossom's handbag onto the table. The purse slid across the polished surface.

Ian caught it before it hit the floor. "This is Blossom's. Where did you find it?"

"In a snow bank around back. Now tell me I have nothing to worry about." Whit swept his hair off his forehead and looked at Ian, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "Didn't I tell you there was need to worry? There always is when it comes to her. She flits into my life, and then wham, she vanishes. She didn't just decide to take a walk. Someone took her." He put his hands on his hips and stared at Ian. "I swear to God, if I ever catch up to her, I'm never letting her out of my sight again."

The phone rang.

Whit let it ring.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Ian asked.

"Mrs. Butterworth will get it. She's screening my calls."

Then, as though on cue, the housekeeper stuck her gray-haired head in the doorway. "Telephone call for Mr. Ian. It's Miss Blossom."

Ian looked at Whit. "Didn't I tell you she was fine?" He pointed to the phone on the wall. "Is it all right to get it in here?"

"Go ahead." Whit gripped the back of the chair and hung his head.

"Hello," Ian said into the receiver. "Uh-huh...really.... I understand...uh-huh....uh-huh... Who would have thought? Sure, not a problem. Whit found your purse...Okay, I'll do that. Take care. See you soon, darlin'."

Ian whistled his way across the kitchen. "She's fine and spending the night with friends. She said to thank you for finding her purse and that she must have dropped it in her excitement when she noticed her friends pulling into the driveway behind her."

Whit nodded, once, twice, then stared at his shoes. When he looked up, he said, "And you believe that story?"

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next morning a soft knock sounded on Blossom's bedroom door. "Come in. It's open." In the reflection of the vanity mirror she watched Ian stride into the room.

"I heard you come in last night," he said, getting right to the point. "Where were you really?"

"Nothing gets past you, huh?" She tied her hair in a ponytail, deciding he needed an apology. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth. I can't explain why I didn't. I just didn't. Perhaps, it was the Curse working its evil." She looked at him, silently pleading his forgiveness. He nodded as though the matter was already forgiven and forgotten.

"So, where were you?"

She related what happened — the where, when and how — and leaned her head forward when he insisted on examining the back of her head. "I'm fine. Two doctors examined me, and their prognosis is the same. I'll live." She winked. "At least, the bump won't do me in."

"That's not something to joke about. What are the names of these doctors?"

"Are you planning on suing for malpractice if they're diagnosis is wrong?"

He scowled. Obviously, her flippant remark didn't sit well with him. "One is Jason. I have no idea what his last name is, and I don't know the first or last name of the other one. Just that he's a friend of Jason's. He was supposed to get me back here last night, but he didn't show up." Her thoughts turned to Jason. There was no hope for life for him, yet he was filled with hope. There was hope still for her, yet she found herself helpless.

"How'd you get home? Taxi?"

"No," she said, laughing as she envisioned the hill atop which the cabin sat. "There isn't a plowed road leading to their place. They travel to civilization by snowmobile. To answer your question, I snowmobiled part way and walked the remainder." She stood, strode to the window and lifted the curtain. "That wide-open space you see at the end of the tree line is a lake. Tatamagouche Lake. And up there..." Noticing he hadn't followed the direction of her finger, she took his chin in her hand and raised it. "High in that mountain is where their cabin is."

"You walked that distance?"

"Not all the way. Jason let me borrow his snowmobile, and I drove myself to the lake, parked the machine on an old wharf, covered it with a tarp and walked the rest of the way with the help of a flashlight."

"Can you tell me anything about the man you saw studying the back of this house?"

"Just that he was tall and wore an overcoat, dress pants and rubbers." When his face took on the look of someone who checked his mental dictionary, she said, "Those little rubber thingies that fit over dress shoes."

"Spats." He nodded. "Not much use for those in Minnesota. Anything else?"

She shook her head. "Just that he might have been bald."

"Might have been?"

"He wore a hat, but I got the impression his head was as hairless as a parsnip."

"Take it from the top and tell me exactly what happened after you walked to the back of the house."

"The rubbers guy must have knocked me out, carried or dragged..."

Shaking his head, he said, "Carried. There's no evidence of drag marks."

"Okay, carried me to the lake and dumped me, probably hoping I'd freeze to death. I came to, how much later I don't know, and instead of walking toward this place, I walked away from it. That's where Jason's friend comes into the picture."

She frowned. He noticed.

"What is it?"

"Jason told me his friend said I walked like I knew where I was going, like I walked toward something."

"A destination, perhaps?"

She remembered her dream. Maybe someone, someone like the Hand of God, or someone who loved her, directed her by showing her which path to take. "Perhaps, though I don't know how because I don't know the area. Thankfully, Jason's friend does. There's nothing around for miles except forest and wildlife, and suspected something was wrong with me."

"Thank goodness. We could have lost you last night. The temperature dipped to minus ten."

An intense feeling came over her that someone had watched over her last night. "And the prophesy of the Curse would have been fulfilled. Are you going to tell Whit the truth about what happened to me last night?"

"He was already hypothesizing someone took you, but since the man in the back yard last night doesn't appear to be the one these guys call Baleman, I'm thinking no."

Blossom tied a yellow ribbon around the elastic holding her hair in place.

"The man who knocked me out may have some bearing on Mary Ellen's abduction. He's a very dangerous man, if what we've determined is accurate."

"I still want to keep it between us for the time being."

"Okay. You know best." She'd trust Ian with her life. In fact, she was. "I want to go back to see Jason today. I like him."

"Oh?" He raised his right eyebrow.

"Uncock the brow, mister. He's a friend, and he's gay."

Ian placed his hand on his heart. "Thank God. I wouldn't want to be the one to tell Whit you fell in love with someone else. Spend some time with him before you go. Give the man something to dream about tonight. He's becoming unhinged. Since you came into the picture, he forgets sometimes his sister is missing."

"He does, doesn't he? I noticed it, too." She giggled. "It's almost like he's under a spell."

Ian guffawed.

Fifteen minutes later, Blossom, dressed in a yellow turtleneck, jeans and worn boots, strolled into the study. "Knock, knock," she sing-songed. Everything was right with her world, and she wanted the same for everyone, even Whit.

He took a moment to lift his eyes from what he read. She laughed to herself, but only until his face beamed like sunlight from the brightness of his smile. She made him feel that way, and she experienced a moment of guilt for not being able to reciprocate. _Maybe in time...._

"Well, hello there." He stood and offered her a chair at the front of his desk.

She hadn't intended to spend much time with Whit — her primary focus was on Jason — but now that changed. She wanted to stay. "Thank you for finding my purse."

"My pleasure." He sat back down after she took a seat.

"I wouldn't want to lose it. The handbag was a gift from my father."

"Yes, Ian said." He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk.

"Did you have a good time with your friends last night?"

"Friend."

She noticed his body going rigidly still before he asked, "Oh?" She wanted to delve into his mind...whoa there...no, she didn't want to go there. "He's gay."

His exhaled breath was one of relief, she thought. Was this what love did? Made fools of the intelligent? Reduced the strong to blathering idiots? Had she followed Ian's advice and given Whit something for the poor man to dream about tonight? She considered jumping across the desk and kissing him, but quashed the notion. That would be cruel. "Has there been any news on your sister?"

He grasped a corner of a sheaf of paper between his thumb and forefinger and flipped the pages. _Pppft. Pppft_. "Nothing. Quinn paid us a visit yesterday. It seems he investigated your cousin and learned he's dead."

She laughed out loud, then covered her mouth with her hand. "Shockin' that, shockin. He's quite the detective, isn't he?"

He joined in her laughter.

"Seems like Quinn doesn't have his priorities in order. He should be focusing his efforts on finding your sister."

He grimaced. "I couldn't expect anything more from him."

"Don't you find that odd?"

Frowning, he said, "That Quinn has the IQ of a head of lettuce?"

"No, that he was assigned to your sister's case. You're well respected in the community, aren't you?"

"I'd like to think so."

She hesitated a moment, watching him preen. "And because of that status, shouldn't you have gotten the best there is, the best the SJPD has to offer?"

"Perhaps."

"Why then was Quinn assigned to Mary Ellen's case? It's almost as though someone doesn't want your sister found."

He looked off to a corner of the room, appearing deep in thought for a moment. When he turned back to her, he asked, "What are your plans for today, if you don't mind me asking?"

"No, not at all. I thought I'd visit my friend —"

"The gay guy?"

"The gay guy." Unable to stop herself, she smiled. Love seemed painful for Whit. He looked like he would suffer a stroke every time she mentioned something or someone who didn't fit into his plans where she was concerned.

"And then?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead."

"Would you have dinner with me tonight?"

The idea of suffering through an entire meal alone with Whit seemed undue punishment, but since Ian had asked her to be cooperative, she would agree to his invitation. Ian would repay her in kind, she'd make certain of it.

"I'd love to." Whit appeared a man who enjoyed the finer things in life. Believing he wouldn't step foot in a hamburger joint, she scrunched her face and taking on the look of someone infinitely disappointed, said, "I'm afraid, though, I don't have the proper attire for fine dining. I only have jeans with me."

"I was thinking McDonald's."

"Fine." Damn but the man shifted gears with the speed of a well-tuned transmission. So could she. "But I get to choose the meal, and I get both toys."

Chapter Twenty-Three

Whit watched her walk from the study, staring at the empty doorway long after she left and long after the echo of her footsteps receded to silence. He hadn't wanted her to leave — he would have gladly stayed in the same position all day if it meant time with her — but pushing himself on her would be unwise.

He stretched his legs and leaned back in his chair, feeling pleased with himself. She'd agreed to have dinner with him — okay, it was only to a fast-food joint, but she'd said yes. He hadn't thought she would accept the invitation, but asked anyway and would have kept asking until she gave in.

"In lust is hard, isn't it? Pun intended," Lyron said from the doorway.

Whit rolled his eyes and scowled.

"If you want to daydream without interruption, close your door."

Whit held a hand in the air when Lyron opened his mouth. "Enough." The day was off to a terrific start, and he promised himself nothing or no one would ruin his good mood.

Lyron paced the study. "They're hiding something."

Whit knew who he referred to and didn't answer.

On his next pass by, Lyron turned and looked at Whit. "And whatever it is, they're both in on it. Ian and Blossom."

Whit nodded, but remained silent.

"I could be wrong," Lyron added. "My gut could be off. There's a first time for everything."

"Blossom and I are having dinner tonight," Whit said.

Lyron stopped pacing, and his face lit up with excitement. "Great. A little one on one and away from Ian's influence and you might get some answers from her."

"Maybe."

"You're not sounding convincing. We're on the same page on this, right?"

Not even in the same book, Whit thought. "Of course," he said. Wait long enough and good things happened. Remembering his conversation with Blossom and what she brought up about his status in the community, he asked, "Do you find it strange Quinn was assigned to Mary Ellen's case, given his track record?"

Lyron shoved his hands in his pockets. "Uh-huh, I do, and after you had me look into his record, I dug a little deeper. The assignment appears on the up and up."

"So there was no one more experienced available. Luck of the draw. Best suited for the case and —"

"Coincidental also that Quinn was the lead on Lamb and Hanscomb disappearances," Lyron filled in for him. "You know how I feel about coincidences."

"They're only coincidences if they're made that way. Let's hope we hear from Baleman soon." Whit was a take-charge man and all this waiting and depending on this thing or that thing wearied him.

"It didn't matter to me who got assigned to Mary Ellen's case because I had you working it. Now it seems this has been manipulated from the beginning. It has to be someone in authority...the Chief of Police, the mayor, for the obvious reasons, blackmail, payola..." His voice trailed off to nothingness as he pictured their five-foot, chain-smoking, nail-biting, butt-kicking butterball mayor allowing anyone to blackmail her. "I think we can rule out Her Highness Olympia."

"If the mastermind behind this abduction scheme is on the police force, why take Mary Ellen, knowing you have the resources to search for her and knowing the heat you can bring down on the police force?"

"Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe whoever took her didn't know she's my sister. We don't share the same last names."

"I could hire more men, cops I trust who could use a little extra to their paychecks, to keep their eyes and ears open in the precinct."

"Let's hold off on that. I'd like to give Baleman a chance to get in touch. I trust you and your instincts, but if someone on the police force is behind this or is assisting the one who is, I don't want to forecast our suspicion."

Lyron shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "I thought having Quinn assigned to the kidnapping was in our favor. We could use him. Maybe it's the other way around. Maybe he's using us, or maybe someone is using him to use us. We didn't report a prowler, yet he knew about Baleman's visit."

That had entered Whit's mind periodically through the night when sleep eluded him. "Someone's tipping Quinn off and that someone has me under surveillance. If we uncover who that is, we'll find who abducted Mary Ellen."

"Kiki's saying it might not have been Baleman who beat him up."

Whit threw his hands in the air. "Might not?"

"Wasn't. He has no recollection of seeing his assailant. He was attacked from behind, but he seems to think Baleman administered to, rather than caused, his injuries. I believe him."

"How about Jerome?" Whit asked.

"He understands the risks and that his life's at stake if he comes back to town before we get this cleared up. For now, he's enjoying the vacation you're paying for."

"He should. I'd like to go to Aruba sometime, too." Whit stood, wordlessly calling the impromptu meeting to an end.

Lyron strode to the door and turned. "I have a couple of things to attend to. I'll check back with you later."

After he left, Whit added to his notes on the abduction. He needed to talk to some of St. John's's oldest prominent citizens.

He scribbled OLYMPIA and circled it.

The mayor had previously assured him that Quinn was assigned to the case because he was the only available officer qualified for the job. If she spoke the truth, or if she wasn't being hoodwinked or manipulated, he wondered whether she kept her finger on the pulse of the situation like she promised.

There was only one way to put his mind at rest.

He lifted the telephone receiver and punched in the mayor's private number.

She picked up on the second ring. "Olympia, Whit Hawkes here. How are you this fine winter morning?" He heard her puffing her way through her first pack of the day.

Five minutes and four tickets to the St. Patrick's day gala later, Whit ended the call, feeling good about his talk with Olympia. She had confided her suspicion of corruption within the police department and had her own investigation going for some time, but had nothing of any consequence to report.

Looking at the phone, he had one more call to make and couldn't put it off any longer. But before he made that call, he needed to check his voice mail to ascertain how nasty Candace would make this call for him.

Fourteen voice messages and, with the exception of three loud sighs before the click of a hang-up, all had the same resounding message. "This is Candace. Whit, where the hell are you? Why aren't you returning my calls? Bud needs to know whether you'll be attending Rotary Monday or not."

He sighed. His sister had disappeared and was probably being used for some purpose he preferred not to speculate about, and the very people who took an oath to protect and serve may have taken part in her abduction, he was the cause of someone nearly losing his life, and all his girlfriend could think about was his social calendar? Thank God his eyes had been opened before he made a mistake that would inevitably cost him his happiness.

Candace answered before the end of the first ring.

"Before you go off on me, which you have every right to do, let me apologize for not getting in touch with you sooner," he said.

"Whit, what in hell is going on? It's not like you to be uncommunicative. God. I thought the people who abducted Mary Ellen abducted you. I was about to call in the National Guard, I've been so worried. I ate half a box of chocolate cookies and now I have blotches all over my face! Blotches, Whit."

"I'm sorry." Though the time was early, and he had a few hours of restful sleep he didn't have the energy or the patience to finesse the apology. With little inflection or enthusiasm in his voice, he said, "You can tell Bud I'll be attending Rotary." As soon as the words left his lips, he knew the mistake he made. To give her the in she needed to make a jab wasn't like him. He usually chose his words carefully with her, which went to show how sleep-deprived he was.

"I'm not your social secretary, or your secretary for that matter, Whit. Bud only phoned me because he couldn't get a hold of you, and your secretary was unreachable."

"Fine. I'll look after it myself." He wished he could have put off calling her indefinitely, but now was not the time to break it off with her, even knowing how much satisfaction it would give him. She acted like a horse's patootie. He wished he could tell her.

After he ended the call, he opened the bottom drawer for something to settle his stomach and spied the whiskey bottle lying next to a roll of antacids. While he was debating whether to take a swig, the kitchen door opened and closed. Wondering who was going where, he swiveled in his chair, looked into the backyard and saw Blossom, snowshoes in hand, weaving through the trees as she walked toward the end of the property. Her stride seemed too purposeful for a stroll.

He watched her fade into the distance until she became a speck to his eyes, and then he grabbed his binoculars from the credenza. The magnified, central-focusing, coated lenses that limited glare and the halo effect, which he debated at the time were too extravagant for bird watching, provided him a clear view of Blossom reaching the opposite side of the lake and climbing the snow bank.

_Where_ _are_ _you_ _going_?

Not realizing how tightly he gripped the binoculars against his eyes until the pressure hurt his cheekbones, he loosened his grasp, adjusted the sights and watched her throw off a tarp covering a snowmobile. "What the hell?"

***

What was she doing, agreeing to have dinner with Whit tonight? And to be playful with him on top of that. _T'underin' Bajaysus_.

Was she out of her frickin' mind?

Blossom expertly snow-shoed across the frozen, snow-packed lake, cursing herself, but most of all cursing Ian for implanting the notion in her mind to be nice to Whit. She envisioned their tête-à-tête and growled. Never before had any man paid such specific attention to her, speaking directly to her, his eyes never once wandering to her bosom or her lips like she'd grown accustomed to men doing.

_Bajaysus_.

She climbed the gentle, sloping snow bank, got out of the snowshoes, threw the tarp covering the snowmobile over them and hopped onto the machine.

It was the Curse talking, she knew, manipulating and doing its fiendish work. Still, though, she couldn't help but feel inadequate beneath the weight of her failures.

Sighing and expelling warm air through the crack in her tightly clenched lips, she maneuvered the snowmachine around turns, up steep slopes, down long, winding hills and through trees toward Jason's cabin, paying particular attention to the dips and crevices hidden by mounds of driven snow.

As he said it would be, she found the door to the cabin unlocked. "Jason?"

Blossom threw off her snow boots as soon as she closed the door and headed toward the stairs in stockinged feet. "It's me. Blossom."

"I'm up here," he said.

She smiled. Of course, he would be. He was too weak to do much of anything. A trip to the bathroom almost did him in. It must have taken every ounce of his strength to check her vitals yesterday when she lay unconscious on the sofa downstairs.

When he caught sight of her, he shimmied to an upright position in bed.

She laid her jacket across the back of a recliner and rushed across the room.

"Here, let me help you with those pillows."

After she made him comfortable, she sat beside him. "Did you have a good night? Sleep well?"

"Yes, I did, actually, because of you."

"Why?"

"Knowing you would be back today and the prospect of seeing your smile again."

"Why, sir," she batted her lashes, "do I detect a bone or two of heterosexuality within thee?"

He grinned and held a finger to his lips.

"Don't worry your secret is safe with me. Now, how about the massage I promised you yesterday?" She stood and lighted the candles on the dressers and tables. Soon, the scents of vanilla, jasmine and cranberry filled the loft. She heated body oil, rubbed it into her hands and fingers and worked the muscles of his legs and arms.

After the massage and while he rested, she rooted through the loft like a well-intentioned snoop, opening closet doors and dresser drawers, until she found more cheerful bed wear than those dreadful blue and white striped pajamas, buttoned to the neck, that probably, but subliminally, sent him the message he should be confined to bed.

When she helped him into the freshly laundered clothes — lounging pants and a T-shirt — she gave him an abridged version of how she ended up in St. John's.

While she changed his bedding, she told him a few of her if-it's-going-to-happen-to-anyone stories, then took his temperature and pulse, and judging from the bulge of his eyes, almost surprised the life from him.

"You're a nurse?" he asked, after he found his voice.

She nodded, laughing at the expression on his face, a mixture of amazement and genuine appreciation.

"Do you work at the hospital?"

The question was a simple one requiring a simple answer, either yes or no, but the memories the question invoked were too painful to remember, even after the passing of so many years. She shook her head, tears springing forth to fill her eyes. Jason noticed and inquired if he had said something wrong. "No, of course not." She patted his hand, hoping to reassure him and was rewarded with a smile.

"Will I live?" he asked, eyeing the thermometer.

"To love another day?" She smiled. "You betcha."

Every time she looked into his eyes she couldn't put aside the thought of how easily they'd slipped into this kinship, as if all of it — the conk on the head; the wandering around in delirium; Jason's friend being in the right place at the right time; ending up here — had been predestined.

Jason was an exceptional listener, and though she did most of the talking — she had many stories to tell, some sad, some not, but chose only those which would give him a chuckle or two — he gave away precious tidbits of information about himself.

She listened attentively as he spoke of his friend, a magnificent smile transforming his face. Beneath the pain etched in his eyes, she saw the man he once was — the compassionate man with a goofy sense of humor who loved life, the man who had devoted his life to helping the ill.

He considered her his friend.

She would hold that dear to her heart forever and thought how fortunate his friend was to have known Jason's love. She hoped he realized it.

Her heart suddenly grew heavy. She didn't want him to die. She wanted him to live. She wanted him to have the life the Higginbotham curse would soon rob from her.

It occurred to her she didn't know Jason's last name, and she giggled at the thought. When he looked at her oddly, she winked and said, "Here we are talking and trading secrets like we've known each other for ages, and we don't know each other's last names." She held out her hand. "McDougall. Blossom McDougall."

He smiled, taking her hand in his. "Higginbotham. Jason Higginbotham.

Chapter Twenty-Four

"Shut-up!" was all she could manage after a hit between the eyes with the strange-development-fastball. With her fingertips resting against her lips, she watched with dismay the smile in Jason's eyes flicker, then burn out.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

Dear, sweet, Jason. Of course, he would think that. "No," she said around a catch in her throat.

"What is it, then?" he asked, his voice barely higher than a whisper.

As certain as her freckles, she knew the answer to the question she was about to ask, but asked anyway. "Was your great-grandmother's name Hesper?"

He nodded. "Why?"

Impulse prompted her to answer, and she almost did, were it not for the Curse.

Trusting herself not to tempt fate, or give away too much of the story, she gave Jason an abridged version of her life, the words spewing from her lips in one steady line, then she jumped up. "I've got to go." At Jason's shocked and frightened face, she leaned forward and, as naturally as she would kiss a long-time friend, she planted one on his cheek. "I'll be back." She ran to the recliner and grabbed her jacket. "Tomorrow."

She reached the staircase, grabbed the newel post with one hand and turned. "Okay?"

"Okay."

When she saw his bewildered expression, she said, "I'll explain everything then."

Despite the noise of her thumping down the steps, his voice carried to her. "I'll be here."

She high-throttled the snowmobile across the lake. Pillowy, soft snow that had laid in silence parted as the powerful machine cut a path, sending puffs of flakes flying into the air and over her. Enjoying their cool touch against her exposed skin, she broke into boisterous laughter and turned the throttle even more.

Soon Whit's property came into view. She slowed and the machine effortlessly climbed the bank. Only when she dodged fir trees and zig-zagged toward the back of the house did it dawn on her she had ridden Jason's snowmobile directly to Whit's rather than parking it on the dock across the lake.

It was something she would never have done, or would even consider doing without permission, which went to show her state of mind. No matter. Jason would understand, and he would make sure his friend understood, also. She was not a thief.

Like a woman on an overdose of happy pills, she burst into the kitchen expecting to find Ian helping Whit's housekeeper make bread at the butcher's block, but didn't.

She threw off her boots, and undeterred that only Mary Ellen's parrot was there to ask, "Wassup, matey?" she flounced through the hallway and peeked into each room for Ian. In the foyer, she stopped and asked in a sing-song-ey voice, "Are you here, Ian?" When she realized only the walls spoke to her, she muttered, "Bummer."

Wasn't it just her frickin' luck? She had good news to impart and no one to tell.

Her revelation should be delivered to Ian first, but right now anyone would do. "Hello, is anyone here?" she asked in a desperate attempt to reach someone. If she didn't unburden herself soon, she'd detonate.

When her pleas went unanswered, disappointment crushed her rib cage against her heart.

No one was around to hear her news.

After a moment of spinning her heels in the spacious entryway, an idea came to her. She pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket and called the one person who knew everything about her and the one person who was sure to answer her call. She smiled in anticipation of finally be able to impart the glorious information she'd acquired. Her fingers trembled as she punched in the number to call her home in Dickeyville.

The answering machine picked up on the sixth ring. "Hello. You've reached Blossom. Please leave a message at the beep."

She let loose the information and continued to chatter long after the machine stopped recording.

When she ended the call, she felt weightless. She sighed, closed her cell and skipped up the stairs.

In her bedroom, she fell across the canopy bed and stared upward, thanking God for Ian and for giving her the courage not to give up.

For years, back before disillusionment and pessimism and somewhere between faith and optimism, she traced Hesper and Milton Higginbotham's ancestral tree and learned of one Allan J. Higginbotham. To her knowledge he was the last living relative of the original Higginbothams. Strange, but both she and Jason were the last living relatives of their lines. Jason probably hadn't procreated and neither had she.

Go figure.

Comfortably positioned on the queen-size bed, she speculated how finding the great-grandson of Hesper Higginbotham would change the course of her life, if indeed, it would. Soon she fell asleep to the sounds of laboring snow blowers, snowplows and gusts of wind against the window panes and images of her blowing out thirty birthday candles.

Blossom woke to the feeling of someone watching her. She opened her eyes, stretched languidly and smiled at Ian. "Hi."

"Have a nice nap?"

She looked around his head at the clock on the bedside table — five-ten — and calculated she had slept almost three hours. It seemed only minutes ago her mind shut off and she drifted off. She nodded and stretched her arms. "Uh-huh."

He swept a curl from her eye. "What time are you leaving on your date with Whit?"

Still not yet fully awake, her eyelids drooped, but she was not so dopey not to keep the facts accurate. "He didn't say, and it's not a date." She rolled onto her stomach.

He slapped her heinie playfully. "Time to rise and primp, then. Whit is pacing the study, muttering to himself and has the look of a man who thinks his date might have had second thoughts about going out with him."

"If you stop hitting me, I'll tell you my news."

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants.

She didn't need more convincing. The words rushed from her mouth. "It turns out my new friend, the gay guy, is the great-grandson of Hesper Higginbotham." When she saw Ian's eyes widen and his smile broaden, she nodded. "Yes, indeed. Coincidence, or what?"

"I don't think it was a coincidence at all. More like fate getting it right."

"For a change. Now that we finally discovered a descendant of Hesper Higginbotham, how do we use the information? We originally thought we could ask him to forgive my ancestor for her past indiscretion and the two of us could make a pact, but now that I've gotten to know Jason, that feels calculating. I won't use him."

Ian nodded.

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know, but I'll come up with something."

Blossom didn't doubt for a moment he would. It filled her with hope. She jumped from the bed and hugged herself. "I'm going to live," she said, repeating it over and over as she danced around the room.

"Not so fast."

She stopped abruptly. Tears filled her eyes. "Let me have this moment, please." She desperately wanted to believe finding Hesper's long lost and only surviving relative meant putting an end to the Curse.

Ian obliged her.

She took no longer than what she'd asked for. "Okay, where do we go from here?"

"It's more like where you're going."

With both brows raised, she asked, "Where might that be?" An image of an endless pit of fire and the devil pricking her behind with a blackened pitchfork flashed in her mind. "Oh God, this is it, isn't it? My time has come. I'm going to Hell, aren't I?" She couldn't take a breath. The room spun before her eyes. Her legs turned to mush. She reached out and latched onto something hard and sturdy. Ian's bicep, she realized.

"Are you feeling _squamish_?" Ian asked, pronouncing the word as any good Newfoundlander would. When she nodded, he said, "Easy, easy." He led her to the bed and sat her down.

His voice soothed her and his arm around her waist reassured her. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. She took a long, deep breath, exhaled and took from his strength. Her resolve came with little effort. "I'm fine now."

He sat beside her. "Why do you always assume the worst?"

She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. "It's what always happens to me. I know how that sounds, and I'm not feeling sorry for myself." She sniffled.

He wrapped his arm around her neck. "I would never think that of you. Never."

She relaxed against his chest.

They shared a quiet moment.

Blossom used the time to reflect, ponder and give thanks for all that she was and all that she had. She didn't have a clue what Ian thought about.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Blossom knew why Ian checked on her. He wanted to make sure she went on her date with Whit. Though she had assured him she would go, he insisted on staying with her until she left.

She perched herself at the foot of the bed and pouted, which was only part act. She snuck a sideways peek at Ian who lounged lazily on the bed, head resting against the padded headboard. His eyes were closed and his breathing, even and relaxed. Hoping to wake him, she gave the air a swift, hard kick with her foot. The bed shook from the movement. His eyes flew open.

"It's not fair," she said now that she had his attention.

"It's not."

"I shouldn't be having to deal with Whit."

"You shouldn't."

She filled her cheeks with air and exhaled noisily. "Maybe Hesper had a book on spells or something and maybe Jason has it. Maybe there's a spell in it to undo the Curse she cast on great-granny and her successors."

"Maybe."

"We should be questioning Jason." She wouldn't put sound to her thoughts that Jason might not have much longer to live and the one source they could get answers from might be gone.

"We should."

His response brought her to her feet. "Then let's do it." She grabbed his hand and yanked him to a sitting position.

"First things first."

_Criminey_. Didn't she know he wouldn't waver on his decision. Could he be right? Could Whitfield Hawkes be her answer? The little voice in her head, the one she trusted, told her to chance it and go along with Ian. Absently, she fingered the scar on her chin, a souvenir from her third husband, faded by time, but the abuse indelibly imprinted in her memory forever.

"When then?" She needed something, anything to cling to.

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow brings me one day closer to – "

"I haven't forgotten."

She nodded. "What are your plans for tonight?"

"I'm tagging along with Lyron, following up on a lead he received. What it is, I don't know. He plays his cards close to his chest."

She harrumphed. "Like someone I know."

"It's for your own good, Blossom, and you know the reason for it."

"Uh-huh. The Curse directs my life. But knowing why you're secretive with me doesn't make it easier to accept." She plopped on the bed, landing all floppy arms and legs like a raggedy Ann doll.

Ian gathered her in a tight bundle against his chest and swept a kiss to the top of her head. "I know, darlin'. But it'll soon be over."

"Yeah. When I'm dead."

***

Ian suggested she give Whit a chance, but they could never work as a couple. For one thing, a man like him — career-oriented, social-ladder-climbing lady killer — wouldn't want to have the children she planned on having once she was free of the Curse. For another, she was a homebody; Whit appeared a man who liked to travel. He also seemed like a man who wouldn't accept 'no' for an answer.

From the upstairs hallway, Blossom watched Whit pace the foyer, probably worrying she'd changed her mind about dinner. She also saw how important she was to him. He would be disappointed when he learned she didn't return his feelings.

Seemingly sensing her presence, he stopped pacing, looked upward and broke into a wide smile when he spotted her.

Ian was right. Whit was in love with her.

She descended the stairs, coming up with a few how-to ideas to make him fall out of love with her. Maybe she wouldn't need to do anything at all. Maybe once he knew her better, his feelings for her would change.

"Hope I haven't kept you waiting too long," she said, smiling.

"Not at all," he said. "I only just got ready myself."

If he hadn't said that with a straight face, she would have believed him. Uh-huh.

She put her arm through his, bumped his hip with hers and, clinging to him like the hounds of Hell bore down on them, led him out the door. If he didn't like a woman in charge, this would certainly inflame his temper.

As they approached the side of the house, Whit pressed the button of a remote control and the garage door pried loose from its frozen confines.

Three quarters from the roof and the invisible space where the panels of the door folded into, he turned to her. "What shall it be? Four-wheel drive or two?" He pointed to the vehicles.

_Holy_ _Toledo_. BMW or Land Rover? Land Rover or BMW? She swallowed her drool, determined not to show her excitement. "Well, I can see where you stand on environmental issues," she said, lifting a brow to demonstrate her feigned disdain. "Have you seen the new go-green cars? They're quite fetching."

He walked to the side of the Beemer and opened the passenger door. "And quite impractical for our climate."

True. "I don't need any help, thank you," she said when he attempted to help her. "I'm capable of getting into a car without assistance." At another time, she'd give him points for chivalry.

"Of course." With a practiced flick of a button on his key chain the engine ignited.

She swung the door closed before he had a chance to grab the handle. In the seconds it took him to walk around the car, she ran her hand over the leather seat, hiccupped her awe, choked up at the sight of the buttons and switches on the dashboard, and bit into her forefinger at the quality of the CD changer.

He settled into the driver's seat, inserted the key in the ignition, adjusted the tilt of the steering wheel, buckled in and looked at her.

"What?" she asked. Was there drool on her chin?

"Buckle up."

Everything-done-by-the-book-Whit. He was so predictable. "I never wear one."

"I don't mind paying the fine, but the seatbelt is for your personal safety. Humor me."

Before she had a chance to protest, he reached around her and fastened her seatbelt. She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet scent of his after-shave. Heavenly. She sensed him looking at her, quizzically, she thought.

She opened her eyes. "Something the matter?" Her voice virtually purred.

He drew his brows together in a neat V. "I was about to ask you that question."

"It's your..." She let her voice trail off.

He dipped his head in slow motion. "Yes?"

"After shave." Heavenly after shave. She swallowed, hard. "It's cloying."

"I'm not wearing any."

"Cologne, then," she said, opening her eyes wide and hoping to God something man-made caused him to smell so divine.

He shook his head. "No cologne, either."

"Oh." He just smelled like that naturally? _T'underin_ _Jaysus_. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "Okey, dokey, then. Shall we get moving?"

"About that..." He put the car in reverse.

She knew it. He'd changed his mind. Fast food was beneath him.

"Could we stop by my office first? I need to check on a few things."

Wrong again. This was beginning to be a recurring happening where he was concerned. She didn't like it a bit. "Sure."

Ten quiet minutes later, Whit pulled into a parking space at the front of a four-story brick building.

"I'll just be a minute," he said.

He thought she would wait in the car like an obedient pet? _Ya!_ She unfastened her seat belt. "I'd love to see where you work miracles."

He chuckled. "I wish I could. I'm only a lawyer."

Humble, too. Just then she pictured him naked and atop her. She choked on her saliva, but recovered nicely with the aid of a pretend yawn. "I imagine you're pretty impressive."

"So I've been told." He grinned impishly.

"Modest, too, I see," she said, enjoying the playful banter and forgetting the role she played.

It was a close race to the building, but she managed to outrun him. She pulled open the door before he had a chance and pranced toward the lobby aware he watched with obvious appreciation her rear view.

"I'm on the top floor," he said when he caught up to her. "Stairs or elevator?"

She liked to keep fit and at any other time and with someone other than Whit, she would have chosen the stairs. "Elevator, of course. Why walk when you can ride?"

Seemingly undeterred by her lackadaisical approach to fitness, he ushered her to the elevator.

Inside the six-by-six mirrored cell, she saw a man running toward the elevator. Using the man's timing to her advantage, she banged the close door button repeatedly. "Someone's coming," she said over her shoulder. "With any luck, we won't have to share the elevator."

She hammered the button with her index finger one more time and the doors slid slowly toward the middle.

She jumped to Whit's side when a hand slid between the panels and forced them apart.

"Close, but no cigar," Whit said in her ear.

She looked up at him, hoping to gauge the level of his displeasure for her ungracious behavior. He seemed more amused than perturbed. Stronger measures were required if she wanted to prove she wasn't the woman for him.

On the fourth floor, Blossom walked alongside Whit, keeping time with his lengthy stride. He unlocked the main door, flipped the light switch, and continued walking. Wordlessly, she followed him through the dimly-lit hallway.

At the doorway to his office, he stepped aside and ushered her inside.

She looked around. His office impressed her. Under other circumstances, she would have commended his choice on the tasteful decor. She was certain his clients felt secure in his capable expertise. If she ever needed a lawyer, she'd seek his assistance.

"Perhaps you might be more comfortable sitting on the sofa in reception?"

Blossom would not accept his suggestion. "I'm fine," she said and sat on a chair at the front of his desk. "Carry on like I'm not here. There's no hurry."

It had occurred to her he brought her here to boast his accomplishments and to put on a show. That wasn't the case, she noted now as he judiciously read through his messages, returned calls, checked his calendar and left instructions for his secretary. His manner was cordial and his tone pleasant and without airs.

She needn't have worried Whit had lost sight of his missing sister. Here was a man who possessed the ability to juggle many aspects and events at one time and never, for one minute, forget any detail, no matter how minor. His office had not only inspired her, but he had, as well. She could easily fall in love with him.

Blossom recovered from her mental lapse and continued with her plan to dissuade him from loving her. She would only bring him misery and Whit was too nice a man to be hurt.

In the parking lot of McDonald's, Whit opened the car door for her.

"Would you like to go somewhere for a drink?" he asked.

"Sure." Her response popped out of her mouth before she remembered the charade.

Within seconds, they became one of a thin stream of traffic flowing from the city. In a flash, they were cruising along the highway, alone it seemed, until the occasional oncoming car approached them and passed them by, their headlamps temporarily blinding their vision.

At the main entrance of The Blue Flamingo, Blossom pointed to a plaque nailed to the cedar siding near the door.

Whit read it out loud, "This is a smoking establishment." He laughed.

"Damn I left my pipe at home."

Blossom felt frisky and enjoyed Whit's company whether she wanted to admit it or not. "Do you always do what the law says?" She wanted to know he could push the envelope if need be.

"Always."

She nudged him in the ribs. "You don't go outside the line not even the tiniest bit?" She measured an eighth of an inch with her thumb and forefinger.

"Not even."

She saw him cover up a grin. "I bet."

With Whit at her side, they entered the bar. The nicotine-stained walls of the bar virtually vibrated from the boisterous crowd.

She led the way to two unoccupied stools at the bar.

"Name your poison, little lady," the bartender, a lanky, hollow-cheeked ex-biker type said.

"A beer. Whatever you've got that's cold and hold the glass."

Ex-biker turned to Whit and jutted his chin, wordlessly asking for his order.

"I'll have the same," Whit said.

In the mirror facing the bar, Blossom watched the couples on the dance floor gyrate to the strains of the Rolling Stones streaming from the jukebox in the corner.

She turned to Whit. "Something you want to tell me?" That question asked by a woman mostly always caught the man off guard. This time was no exception.

Whether Whit had something to hide or not still remained to be learned. She watched the blood drain from his face. A sure giveaway of guilt.

"No. Why?"

"Come here often?" she asked, running her hand down the length of her ponytail.

He shook his head.

"You do know this is a gay bar, don't you?" She tried not to giggle but did.

"Uh-huh."

"You're just full of surprises, counselor."

He swallowed, stuttered and stammered something unintelligible, then made gestures unfamiliar to her until finally raking stiff fingers through his hair.

"Could you repeat that a little louder, please?" When she noticed the flush creeping up his neck, she bumped his hip. "Sorry. I couldn't resist. What's the real reason you wanted to have a drink here?"

The bartender brought their beers.

Whit slapped a bill on the counter and told ex-biker to keep the change.

She patiently waited while Whit satisfied his thirst.

"The fellow who we think abducted Mary Ellen —"

"Baleman."

Whit nodded. "He may be gay if we're to rely on our informant."

"Your informant Trevor Kiki Malloy? The guy who Baleman beat to within an inch of his life?"

"And here I thought you weren't paying attention."

So much had happened in the three days since then, that day seemed in the distant past. Recalling how unnerving it was for her coming face to face with the man she thought had stalked her, goose bumps broke out on her forearms.

"Ah," she said, her mind drawing a blank for a flippant comeback. She felt her face warm with embarrassment. He smiled. The man was a good sport, she gave him that.

"Getting back to Baleman, you hoped to find him here." She watched him peel back the label on the bottle and roll it between his fingers.

"Yes. Lyron and Ian are checking out the other gay bars in town."

She nodded, again and again, adding and subtracting points like she had lined him up as a potential husband. "So you took me here on pretense. You really didn't want to have a drink with me. You needed me on your arm so no one would think you're gay. You're killing me." She meant the last part playfully. Instead, the words came out sounding genuine. "Why didn't you just tell me your plan?"

"And risk having you say no? Not a chance." He turned and looked directly at her. "I really do want to have a drink with you, just not here. In fact, I don't want this evening to end."

She stared at him, studying, searching and analyzing. He appeared sincere.

"Two birds with one stone, so to speak."

"This was a mistake." He took a long swallow of beer, then set the bottle on the counter with a thud. "Let's go."

She hurt his feelings, she realized, wondering how a man secure with himself could have his ego bruised so easily. She put a hand on his arm and stopped him. "We're here. Why don't we stay?" Just then, someone at her back tapped her shoulder. She turned and looked into the black-lined, heavily mascara-ed eyes of a woman wearing a black leather bustier and matching pants.

"Yes?" Blossom asked, staring at the serpent tattoo on the woman's neck, then at the piercings through her nose, upper lip and eyebrow.

"How about a dance, sugar?" Body Piercings struck a wooden match against the side of her leg and lit the cigarette dangling from her bottom lip.

Blossom shifted from foot to foot, wondering if a negative answer would instigate a fistfight. Whit came to her rescue. "She's with me."

"Your loss, man." Body Piercings flipped him the bird, dragged hard on her cigarette and walked away in a puff of charcoal smoke.

Blossom heaved a sigh of relief. "Poor sport." She drank greedily from her beer and, to her embarrassment, belched. "Excuse me." Her eyes watered from the acidic bile rising to her throat. She placed her fingertips against her lips and burped again, this time more delicately.

Unable to look him in the eyes, she turned toward the crowd and stared. A man dressed in a long, black overcoat and wearing a trilby walked across her line of sight along the back wall. He looked vaguely familiar, then she remembered.

"That man." She pointed. "That's the man who hit me over the head the night before last."

Chapter Twenty-Six

"A man hit you?" Whit said so loud patrons of The Blue Flamingo stopped what they were doing and stared at them.

"Yes, and he's right back there."

He followed the direction of her outstretched finger. He couldn't wait to get his hands on the man who dared to lay on a hand on her. Look as he might, only women stood in his line of vision. "I don't see him."

She stood on her toes and scanned the back of the room, then turned and looked around the bar. "I don't see him now, either. I've been thinking a lot about him lately. My mind is probably playing tricks on me. I'd really like to smack the guy upside the head like he did me."

"Are you sure he's not here?"

"Yes. You seem skeptical. Don't worry. I wouldn't just let him get away."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

A thought struck him. "You said this happened the night before last? It's the night you went missing." Everything that happened that night clicked in his mind. "You and Ian kept this from me. Why?"

The noise in the bar seemed to increase twofold in volume and the patrons, gyrating to the rhythm of country songs, proved a distraction for both of them. He took her by the arm. "Let's talk out in the car."

As they walked across the frozen snow-packed ground of the parking lot, their exhaled air coming in white puffs from their lips, she looked up at him and smiled. His stomach rose to his throat.

He loved looking at her. Truthfully, he loved everything about her. She gave him one of her lopsided smiles, which he knew was not entirely reserved for him, but it would be, and given time, she'd have eyes only for him, as well. He hadn't been sure she wanted to go out with him tonight or whether she was coerced into the date by Ian, but whatever the reason, he'd decided it didn't matter. He would establish a friendship and progress from there.

The forever relationships stemmed from friendships.

What was he thinking? Something was happening to him. He should be angry with her for her dishonesty and yet all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right.

Had he thought of her so much, consciously and unconsciously, since the time he set eyes on her on campus all those years ago that he needed to apply all his strength into not jumping her, right here, right now?

He never — ever — lost control, or came near to losing control, and never lost sight of reality. He pressed the point of the Beemer's ignition key into his sweaty palm. Get a grip, Hawkes. Now before you do something you'll regret. She doesn't feel for you what you feel for her. Not yet. It's too soon. Give her time. Be patient.

That sounded very adult of him. And very astute. Probably the best advice he ever gave himself.

Still, though, he wanted to act on his feelings and be damned the consequences. Even knowing the rights and wrongs of actions, he had to fight mind against body.

His hand, swinging at his side, connected with hers. At the contact, she stopped. She peered into his eyes. "Did you say something?" she asked.

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "For?"

"For this." He took her in his arms. She didn't resist. He inclined his head and looked into her eyes.

She leaned into him.

Her breath, warm and beery-scented, mingled with his.

He had no expectations or preconceived notions, but the kiss, if he had allowed himself the liberty of fantasizing, would have surpassed anything his mind could have imagined, he was sure. Too soon, the kiss ended, but before she could move away from him, he brushed his lips against hers.

His body, searing with desire, put up a convincing argument to deepen the kiss. No, the gentleman in him screamed. Stay in control. Remember your advice to take it slow.

"Hmm." He rubbed his lips together, savoring the kiss. "That was nice."

"Spectacular."

Her voice, he noticed, had taken on a mechanical tone. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She enjoyed the kiss as much as he did. The proof was clearly etched in her facial expression, in the softness of her skin and the dreamy look in her eyes. But not only that, she liked him as well. Why was she trying to keep her feelings from him?

With a squint and a grin, she said, "B minus for foreplay, an A for technique, and an A plus for delivery."

He threw back his head and laughed. He was so in love with her.

From the first time he'd set his gaze on her on the SJU campus, he'd envisioned his life, his future, with his red-haired beauty at his side. True love, he believed, had no limits, and no appropriate time to strike. It just did, sometimes when least expected, and at the most inopportune of times. He shouldn't be as happy as he was now, not with Mary Ellen's abduction hanging over his head like a lead balloon ready to drop, but he couldn't help himself. He felt rejuvenated, his faith in luck, destiny, the stars and the planets, restored.

He noticed Blossom's face clouding over and knew she readied herself to tell him something he would not like. For fortification, he gave her one last hug, smelled the peaches in her hair one last time and opened the car door for her.

After he settled behind the steering wheel, he turned to her and asked, "What's the matter? What are you trying so hard not to tell me?"

She swallowed, hard. He recognized what she had to say would come with great difficulty. He also sensed she needed to bring whatever it was out in the open. "Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

Her fingers pressed a pleat in the denim of her jeans.

To set her obviously worried mind at ease, he said, "There isn't anything you could say that would shock or surprise me."

"Seen it all, huh?" She half-laughed. "Don't be so sure."

By all that was holy and judicious, her giggle should have caused the little hairs on the nape of his neck to spring to attention and shout: Warning. Dangerous curve ahead.

"I'll take my chances," he said.

"Okay. You asked for it, but don't say you weren't warned." She blew out a breath and said, "Ian and I have not been completely honest with you." She paused and watched him, apparently awaiting his reaction — his negative, angry reaction.

"Uh-huh. I now."

She cocked a brow and jutted her chin.

"What?" He smiled. "Did you think I wouldn't find something suspicious in the two of you just happening to show up on my doorstep with an improbable story in the middle of the night after one of the worst snowstorms of the winter?"

"You're angry."

He sensed, not that she would admit as much, that his feelings mattered.

"I'm not angry." How could he be when the woman of his dreams literally landed in his lap after years of pining for her? Love was about understanding, trust and forgiveness. It was all he could do not to lay his hand on her cheek and feel the heat of her life beneath his fingertips.

She searched his face and looked into his eyes.

He answered her unasked question. "I knew if I turned you away, I wouldn't see you again. Don't ask me how I knew."

She relaxed into the seat, looking straight ahead.

"Now, why don't you tell me how you and Ian were not completely honest."

She cleared her throat. "Long ago, a long, long time ago, my morally corrupt great-granny Aggie Drummond slept with a man by the name of Milton Higginbotham. It turned out his wife, Hesper Higginbotham, was not only a vindictive woman but one who dabbled in black magic."

Whit listened intently, occasionally being sidetracked with the way her lips moved and how her expressive long-lashed green eyes could hold him captive. He let her tell her story. Questions would come later. In lieu of a legal pad, he mentally wrote key words on the yellow-lined pages he imagined: the Curse, Ian-slash-Pendexter, tenants, great-granny, Rose, Lawrence, Olive, granddaughter Jennifer Lamb, God, prayer-vigils.

"And now I have only a few days to live if we don't find a way to banish the Curse. So there."

Her story was too outrageous not to be believed. He faltered some over the idea of a curse, thinking there had to be a logical explanation for everything that happened to Blossom over the years. That was his pragmatic self speaking.

On the other hand, on occasion there could not be proved a rationale behind an occurrence of bad luck. Even in this technological advanced world, people guarded their luck by not tempting fate. He who knocked on wood and avoided walking under a ladder could vouch for it. If ever a story needed a happy ending, Blossom's did. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything would work out and have her believe it. She would probably laugh or leave and he would never see her again.

Knowing she suffered with this curse hanging over her head, knotted his stomach. He saw in her eyes and heard in her voice that loss, betrayal and failure had eaten away at her self-esteem and little by little weakened her will. He came to a quick decision. For however long she had on earth, he would give her what the past years and beliefs had robbed from her: fun, enjoyment and laughter.

Looking straight ahead and massaging her temple, she said, "Laugh if you want."

Throughout his career, he had heard many fabricated stories, a few as outrageous as Blossom's tale. With experience and a keen ear he'd learned to differentiate truth from fiction. A human lie detector, he prided himself on thinking.

Her life would be his life.

With what little he knew of her struggle, she had persevered. Day after day she fought.

Her end would be his end.

He remembered feeling this same sense of loss the night of Baleman's visit when she'd been knocked unconscious. He couldn't lose her. Despite the chilling temperature inside the car, he broke out in a sweat.

Blossom looked at him and asked, "Are you all right?" She placed her hand against his forehead. "You're burning up."

He took her hand in his, kissed her fingertips and mustered a smile. "I'm fine."

"It's a lot to absorb."

"Ah." How profound of him. With his education and been-there-done-it knowledge, 'ah' was the best he could come up with?

She resembled a little girl lost. He wanted to put a smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes. Wry humor always worked for him, but nothing came to mind. He couldn't make out the position of her eyes in the faint light of the moon, but he saw her blink repeatedly in the same second her mouth fell open.

"Is that all you have to say?"

He shrugged, thinking that platitudes such as: a run of bad luck; wrong place wrong time would incense her. They would him.

"Okay," she said. "What do you have to say about this then?"

He cleared his mind and listened with the attentive ear of a lawyer as she related the happening of the stranger she saw in the back yard of his home, being hit unconscious and waking up on the sofa in a cabin owned by two homosexuals.

In legal jargon, he wanted to rip apart the beast who had hurt her. For the moment he would satisfy his desire for comeuppance with the thought of seeing the look of surprise on the stranger's face when the police fitted his wrists with metal bracelets. He swept away the scratch in his throat with a cough. "Your head. It's okay? No dizziness, headaches, nausea?"

She shook her head. "I'm still as crazy as ever."

He laced their fingers together. "That's good to know."

"You're weird," she said, her right eyebrow lifting high on her forehead.

He must be, otherwise, he wouldn't still be sitting here after hearing the stories Blossom made him privy to. The trouble was — how would Lyron receive this news? Well, there was only one way to find that out. He pulled his cell from his jacket pocket.

"Who are you calling?"

"Lyron. He needs to hear everything you just told me."

She exhaled, loudly. "That should be fun."

He cocked a brow. "You got that right. After I'm finished with this call, we'll take a thorough look around the tavern. Maybe the rubbers guy resurfaced in the minutes we spent talking."

On the drive home, Whit promised himself he would keep Blossom safe, even if that meant sticking to her like static. He was afraid for her life. These people played for keeps and would kill anyone who got in their way. The thought of losing Blossom, of having to live the rest of his life without her, chilled him to the bone.

"I wish we would have found the rubbers guy," she said.

"Obviously, he's not keeping a low profile so he'll show up again."

"I hope I'm around when he does. I have something to say to him."

"Me, too."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Blossom looked up at the darkened house as Whit pulled into the driveway. The chill of the evening inched through her body.

"Looks like we're the first to arrive," she said, checking the clock on the dashboard.

"Where were they when you called?"

"Bogie's."

"That's mid-town. They should be here by now." She chewed the inside of her lip.

"Don't worry. They'll be along shortly."

She looked at him. "I'm not worried." Truthfully, their tardiness gave her the _crawlies_.

"You always bite your bottom lip when you're worried."

She never realized she did. That Whit noticed spoke volumes for his attentiveness to her.

"You can trust me," he said.

She peered into his eyes and reckoned she could.

She wondered whether he would still believe they were soul mates if she weren't under the influence of a curse.

Tension eased from her neck. Her stomach muscles unclenched. From one moment to the next her perception of him changed as well as how she saw him. In a blink, she envisioned him as the world saw him — a handsome, well-bred, well-educated man — then in the next, she saw a man without a face. A strange occurrence, to be sure.

She remembered his kiss — fleeting, light, lips barely touching hers. He had her puzzled. The kiss hadn't rendered her senseless or made her want to jump into bed with him. The whole affair seemed out of character for him, a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted...unless...unless he'd manipulated her.

Like a couple in love, they walked hand in hand the short distance to the front door. Whit unlocked the dead bolt. "I could use a coffee. How about you?"

"I could use one." With a shot of whiskey. She felt a familiar tingle in her toes. Oh God. Please, God. No. What was happening to her? Whit never affected her in _that_ way before.

Upon entering the kitchen, she returned the parrot's, "Hidey-ho," then set about making coffee, all the while salivating at the shepherd's pie in the deep blue glass baking dish on the butcher's block. Suggesting they reheat the pie for a pre-midnight snack might make her look like a gourmand. Four hours had passed since supper, though. The beer had whetted her appetite for food.

She stood perfectly still in the middle of the kitchen as memories of her mother surfaced in her mind. Her freckled face smudged with flour, her fingers gently kneading flaky pastry.

"Mrs. Butterworth went to a lot of trouble making supper," Whit said, rubbing his chin.

She nodded, never taking her eyes off the pie. "Which no one touched."

Whit pruned his face. "She may take exception to it."

"We wouldn't want to hurt her feelings."

"For sure not."

She looked at him. "Heat it up?"

"Heat it up."

Someone looking in might consider them married for many years. The scene appeared light and airy as they chatted, completing each other's sentences, smiling when their fingers accidentally touched and anticipating with the clarity of hindsight what the other needed or wanted.

She looked at the rectangular maple table with place settings for four and Mrs. Butterworth's home baked pastries set out in the middle of the table. Perfect, but for one thing. "Whit, where do you keep —"

"The napkins are in the cabinet to your right."

Ian and Lyron strolled into the kitchen as Whit drew the blinds on the windows.

Blossom pulled Ian to one side and briefed him on her disclosure to Whit. "I told him everything."

He raised his eyebrows high on his forehead. "How'd he take it?"

She shrugged. "Good, I guess."

"No questions?"

"Well, yah, 'dere were dos." She giggled.

He smiled. "I bet."

After they ate and over second cups of coffee and at Whit's suggestion, Ian took charge of the meeting. He told her story in an orderly fashion, unlike her who had hopped back and forth from year to year and subject to subject. He answered all of Lyron's questions and provided the occasional clarification to Whit.

She sat back, sipped coffee and watched Lyron's facial expressions change from skepticism to exclamations of disbelief and surprise, raising brows, frowning, gaping mouth, wide-eyed. The normally unflappable private investigator was flappable, after all. Her story sounded so out there. If she were on the receiving end of the tale, she might not be as receptive or willing to believe.

She felt the heat of a blush on her cheeks. Airing great-granny's knickers to virtual strangers embarrassed her. She crossed herself and asked for forgiveness.

At Whit's urging, Lyron took a moment, several, in fact, to absorb what he'd been told.

Now that Whit and Lyron knew her story she wondered where they would go from here. Nothing had changed. Mary Ellen was still missing. The Curse was still in effect. What she knew for sure was that she wouldn't worry about a future she might not have.

"When you went back into the bar to look for the rubbers guy, there was no sign of him?" Lyron directed his question to both Whit and Blossom.

Blossom shook her head in time with Whit.

"And, Blossom, you're sure the man in the bar was the same man you saw in the back yard, the one who knocked you out?"

"I only caught a glimpse of him at the bar in my peripheral vision, but judging from his bearing, how he carried himself and height, I'd say it's a definite possibility."

"That means rubbers guy is not Baleman." Lyron looked at Whit. "Agreed?"

"Agreed."

Blossom piped in. "Whit showed me the composite sketch of Baleman and the two men don't even remotely look alike."

"We have a new player on the field." Lyron threw his napkin on his plate and pushed himself away from the table. "It's quite possible the rubbers guy is who Baleman gets his orders from."

"What was he doing in the back yard?" Blossom asked.

Lyron shrugged. "Casing the place. Maybe he's the one who took shots at Whit. The one who plugged me, too." He rotated his shoulder. "I owe him one. What about your new friends, Blossom? What can you tell me about them?"

Blossom described Jason but didn't go into a detailed description of his illness. AIDS needed no explanation.

Lyron wrote furiously in a little coiled pad. "Did Jason ever mention his friend by name? Take your time and think about your answer."

She did, replaying in her mind the couple of times she was with him. "No. He referred to him as "my friend"."

Lyron focused at a spot in the middle of the table. "And you never met this friend?"

"No. He's the one who found me wandering around on the frozen lake and brought me back to the cabin. He was supposed to take me back here after work but he never showed."

"Did Jason get any phone calls while you were there?"

She broke off a piece of croissant, put it in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "No."

"How did Jason explain his friend's absence?"

She shrugged. "He didn't. I made a comment on the hour and that I really should be on my way, but didn't know how to get to Whit's. I didn't know where I was. Jason was kind enough to draw me a map and loan me a snowmobile to get to the lake. From there, I walked."

Lyron tugged on his ear lobe.

Something occurred to Blossom. "You think this is all connected to Mary Ellen's abduction, don't you?" She noticed Lyron's eyes flicker. With awareness, she thought. "You think Jason's friend is Baleman."

"Were there any pictures of the two of them in the cabin or any personal items laying around?"

She visualized the cabin and shook her head. "Now that I think about it, the place seemed very clinical. They either just moved in or hadn't planned on staying that long." Anyone could have been living in that house there were no clues to their identity she realized.

Lyron nodded and turned to Whit. "First thing in the morning we're going out to that cabin." He rapped his thumb against the table and looked at Ian. "You look damn good for a dead man."

Blossom looked from Lyron to Ian. "What's he talking about?"

"St. John's finest ran my name for outstanding warrants, etcetera, and learned I died in nineteen seventy-four."

"You must have some whopping tales to tell, huh," Lyron said.

Ian crossed his arms against his chest and grinned like a proud papa. "There was this one time —"

Blossom watched Ian's face turn ruby red, looking like the breath had been sucked from his lungs. "What's the matter?" It wasn't until he winked at her that she realized he was playing Lyron.

He cleared his throat and shook his head. "I don't know." He rubbed his rump. "Strangest pain just shot through me. Like...like I was stabbed."

Blossom went along with Ian's joke. She looked upward and downward. "Maybe someone's warning you not to tell tales out of school."

Ian scowled and rubbed his backside. "He could have been more subtle."

Lyron looked from Ian to Blossom. "You fellas are pulling my leg, right?"

"No," Ian said seriously.

"No," Blossom said just as seriously.

Lyron took in a deep breath, looked around the kitchen — the corners, the ceiling, the doorways — as though he expected to see Jesus himself. When he obviously hadn't, he blew out the breath he held and said, "You are pulling my leg." He wagged a finger at both of them.

Blossom smiled. "Because you cannot see, does not mean you cannot believe."

"I prefer —"

Whit interrupted. "I hate to bring this interesting theological discussion to an end, but can we get back to the matter at hand?"

Lyron slapped his thigh. "You're right, of course. So, we'll pay a visit on Blossom's new friend first thing in the morning and hope that Baleman will come calling on you soon, Whit."

Blossom looked at Mary Ellen's parrot when he flapped his wings. "Petey seems upset."

Whit peered over his shoulder at the bird. "No one's paying any attention to him. He likes to be the center of attention."

Petey jumped from one claw to another on the wooden bar spanning across his cage. "Squawk! Squawk! Ga-ga-go la-lawyyyyer Wh-whit."

"He stutters?" Blossom laughed along with Ian, Whit and Lyron.

"Mrs. Butterworth stutters after too many taste tests of the cooking sherry."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Blossom came awake with the same piercing ache in her head she fell asleep with despite the two extra-strength acetaminophen tablets that endorsed pain relief.

She stared out the window, remembering the litany of questions Lyron had asked after she'd thought he had asked every question of an inquisitive mind.

"Are you sure you don't have any idea who the rubbers guy is? Are you sure you never saw him around the city?"

"How's your head?"

"Do you think he hit you with something or do you think it might have been a martial arts blow?"

"What time did this happen?"

"What time did you wake up in the cabin?"

"When did you leave the cabin?"

"When did you get back here?"

Blossom slammed her lids closed. The night had been enjoyable until that inquisition, and she had thought everything had gone smoothly. Lyron's apparent acceptance of her story had been a ruse. The man was suspicious of her. What kind of investigator would he be if he were not? Through it all, Ian sat in his chair like a knot on a tree, letting her fend for herself. Maybe he knew she'd hold her own.

She believed her answers had satisfied Lyron, at least for the time being. The man was still open to the possibility of ill doings on her part. That much was visible in his eyes. She didn't like not being trusted but understood why he would mistrust her.

By the time she had headed upstairs to bed, the mother of all headaches had snuck up on her. How she fell asleep with a jackhammer pounding in her head was one of those little mysteries in life.

The sun, rising over the city after a night of slumber, sent bright light into her eyes. Pain shot through her head like an electric current. She groaned and pulled the blankets over her head.

"Is that going to solve anything?"

Refusing to rise to the challenge, she ignored Ian's question and overlooked that he'd entered her bedroom again without knocking or a word or sound to indicate his presence.

"I would never have pegged you as a crawl-under-the-covers-and-wait-to-die type of girl."

_That_ , she took exception with. She threw off the thermal blankets. "If you knew all I suffered through, you wouldn't suggest I'm that kind of girl. I've been to hell and..." She stopped abruptly when he grinned slyly. Her blood cooled, and she relaxed. He'd played her. "That wasn't very nice."

"Whatever it takes." He plopped onto the bed and turned toward her.

She yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "I don't like the idea of barging in on Jason. We're not that good of friends. He's so sick. I wish I could call him and ask his permission to come calling. That's what well-mannered, well-bred people do." She looked at him. "Is there any way you can get his cell number?"

"No."

Sometimes Ian's responses made Blossom wonder about his investigative abilities. It seemed she did all the thinking and all the work and he did very little except provide her company. "What do you think we'll learn from Jason today?"

"I don't know."

There it was again — negativity. Ian had told her he'd help her, but she couldn't see in what way he had. Time was running out for her, and she was no closer to banishing the Curse than before he came into the picture. Ian had become an important part of her life, but some problem solver he was.

She checked the time. 7:45 "Lyron said we'd leave first thing in the morning. He probably meant daybreak. I should make myself presentable." There was something she had to discuss with Ian and now seemed as good a time as any. "He's a strange little guy, isn't he?"

"How so?"

"I don't know, but don't make the mistake of thinking he's our friend. He's not." She looked for a sign that suggested he'd take her word, but didn't see any. "Put it down to women's intuition." She watched his mouth flatten to a thin line. Disapproval or acquiescence, she couldn't be sure.

He slapped her leg. "Get a move on, little lady. Breakfast is getting cold. Sausage, ham, pancakes, bacon, eggs."

"I feel my arteries clogging already."

"Should that matter to you?"

She whacked him hard on the head with a pillow.

***

Whit paced the width of the study, carrying the telephone in one hand while the other hand held the receiver against his ear. The cord, taut as a tightrope, stretched behind him.

If he weren't in such a good mood, he would tell Mizz Buff to get a life of her own rather than live vicariously through the lives of others. Of course, his mood had nothing to do with whether he would give the reporter a diplomatic tongue-lashing for calling him at seven forty-five in the morning at his home and intruding upon his privacy. The media, like lawyers, were a necessary part of life. And a necessary evil, some might add.

The society columnist must have a nose like a bloodhound to sniff a romance between Blossom and him. He'd only been out in public with Blossom one night and already the rumor mills were hard at work. The woman must have spies posted on every street corner.

He looked out the window at the unblemished blue sky and the rising sun and reckoned today would be a day of revelation. In mid-sentence he tuned in to the reporter.

"...most eligible bachelor in town."

Thank goodness no one recognized him in The Blue Flamingo last night. He could see Ms. Buff's column in his mind: It seems our most eligible bachelor is not so eligible, after all, at least to our female population. According to my sources, high-profile and unattached attorney, Whitfield Hawkes, is off the market, ladies. He was seen last night entering a gay bar located on the outskirts of the city...

He rolled his eyes, heaved a breath, and picked up yesterday's newspaper from the desk. Mary Ellen's photo took up a three by five inch space on the left side of the paper below the fold. The words: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? were imprinted in bold capital letters below the photo.

His sister had been missing less than a week and already the press had moved on to other stories. He would make sure no one forgot about her or Earley.

"A few minutes of your time, that's all I'm asking, Mr. Hawkes."

"Ms. Buff —"

"Perhaps I could have this conversation with Miss McDougall. My sources tell me she's taken up residence with you."

Whit visualized the conversation and smiled. As much as he would like Blossom to tell the aggressive reporter where to go, he had to stay on civil terms with the press.

He put on his best smile and forced calmness into his voice. "As I explained, Ms. McDougall's a relative and here on family business." He hoped the lie wouldn't come back to haunt him. He bid the reporter a good day and ended the one-sided conversation.

Whit had only a few minutes to rid himself of the aftertaste of the telephone call when Lyron stomped into the study. Judging by the look on his investigator's face, this would be another unpleasant conversation. Better to have it over and done with. "What's up?"

"Do you really believe that cockamamie story of Ian and Blossom's?"

"I heard of stranger things." Whit jutted his chin. "So have you."

"But a spirit...come on."

"I believe in God, so believing in spirits is not a stretch for me."

"That's from a distance. Doesn't thinking you're sitting next to one make you the least bit skeptical?"

Whit appeared to ruminate on that awhile. He didn't care how or why Blossom came back into his life after this many years. That she had, was what mattered to him. He wished Lyron would see it and be happy for him. "Why can't you accept them at face value? You're being argumentative."

Lyron crossed his arms against his chest and stood his ground in front of Whit's desk. "All I'm suggesting is that you keep an open mind where they're concerned."

Whit settled down. Perhaps his problem wasn't with Lyron at all. Being so near Blossom and knowing he couldn't be with her yet was pure torture and if this excursion this morning proved fruitless, she would insist on moving to other accommodations or worse still, go back to Dickeyville. She had already mentioned it. That didn't sit well with him, either.

"I thought you were okay with them," Whit said as he sat behind his desk. "You believed their story last night."

"That was last night."

"Coleridge said it best when he gave credence to 'the willing suspension of disbelief'."

Lyron drew his brows together. "Wasn't he a poet, and wasn't that reference to reader's response to his work?"

"What about King? His stories are a perfect example of a reader willingly suspending their disbelief. Another excellent for instance is Grisham. I know firsthand lawyering isn't as romantic or exciting as he portrays it in his novels. I haven't read all of his works, but the ones I have, I enjoyed. Why? Because I was able to put aside dubiety. I suggest you do the same where Ian and Blossom are concerned."

Whit watched as Lyron hauled in his bottom lip — a sure sign of his discontent. He decided to give him something. "At least until we're given a reason to mistrust." There was something else, too, that had occurred to him. Not that he believed it, but it would serve as a good argument. "Supposing for a minute that Ian is the real thing, a bona fide spirit, and supposing he cast a spell on you last night to accept their story, wouldn't that account for your readiness to believe them last night?" Whit watched Lyron's eyes grow larger and larger to the point where he thought they might explode. He could virtually see the wheels turning in Lyron's brain as he relived every second of the night before. "Just something else to consider." He shrugged, but smiled inside seeing the effect his words had on Lyron.

Two minutes passed before Lyron cleared his throat and asked, "Who were you on the phone with just before I came in? Something about Mary Ellen?"

Whit shook his head. "A nosy reporter." Which reminded him — he needed to call Candace and give her a heads-up before Ms. Buff got to her. The telephone rang just as he lifted the receiver from its cradle. He could hear Candace shrieking his name. He rolled his eyes and thought, Wellhell.

***

Whit hadn't liked the idea of Blossom handling a snowmobile over terrain she was not thoroughly familiar with. But, as Lyron pointed out, she'd already gotten herself from and to Jason's without injury and without losing her way. His neck muscles clenched. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe, but something or maybe someone, always kept him from doing it. No, he wouldn't think like that. Too much talk about spirits and curses had him believing their lives were being manipulated by malevolent forces. Negative thoughts would get him negative results.

The sun sat high in the sky when Whit, Lyron, Ian and Blossom, bundled in ski-wear, set off across the frozen lake.

Blossom, with Ian riding backseat, led the way with Jason's snowmobile.

Whit and Lyron, with each their own machines, followed a safe distance behind.

The wind rose and fell around them. At their sides, whirlwinds of fat, wet snowflakes caught on shafts of air, hovered, then dropped in a puff of shimmering crystals onto the snow-covered ice.

After five minutes of fast, steady careening over the snow, they reached the other side of the lake. Whit, followed by Lyron, formed a processional line behind Blossom and Ian up the bank and over snow-laden mounds of earth and onto a path through towering pines and leafless white birch. Above the roar of the machine's engines nothing could be heard — not the howl of a coyote, the chirp of a bird or the whistle of the wind through the trees.

He checked his watch as a chalet-style log cabin came into view. Thirty minutes, Blossom had said the drive would take. She'd been spot on. He'd come to realize he could expect nothing short of perfection from her.

Disembarking the machine, he looked up at the structure and noticed that no smoke puffed from the chimney. He noted, also, the absence of power and telephone lines. Not that it was unusual. Many camp and cottage owners generated their own electricity in these areas. Or maybe the lines came into the house at the back where he couldn't see or were underground.

"Looks like no one's home," he said.

Blossom took off her gloves, tucked them in her armpits and lifted the helmet from her head. His breath caught in his throat when her hair, freed from captivity, danced in red spirals around her face.

She glanced at him and smiled. "Jason's in no condition to go anywhere. He's here," she said matter-of-factly.

He stepped aside and let her take the lead up the snow-packed stairs while Lyron and Ian flanked either side of him as he followed behind.

She turned the knob and opened the door wide enough to stick her head inside and said, "Knock, knock. Anyone home?" After waiting several seconds and Jason didn't answer, she turned. "That's strange."

"Maybe he didn't hear you," Whit said. "Or maybe he's asleep."

When she bit the inside of her lip, Whit moved past her and entered the living room. "Hello," he said in a loud voice, looking upward at the loft. The place had an eerily empty feel that gave him the creeps. As though in confirmation, the hair on his neck bristled. He looked around at the furniture draped in sheets.

He had great expectations for the day. He would find Mary Ellen, which would subsequently lead him to the other missing kids, and he would find a way to banish the Curse on Blossom, none of which seemed remotely possible now.

"What is it?" Lyron elbowed his way past Ian and walked to Whit. He took one good hard look around. "Looks like whoever was here pulled up stakes."

"What?" Blossom pushed past them all and jogged up the stairs two at a time. "Jason? Are you here? Jason?"

Whit climbed the stairs after her. On the top step, he stopped and watched Blossom twirl in a tight circle, her arms splayed at her sides.

"His bed was there against that wall." She pointed to her right where a recliner now took up residence. "And next to his bed was a nightstand filled with prescription meds, a water pitcher and a glass. There was a box of straws," she looked over her shoulder at Whit, "those pink and white striped flexible ones. A box of tissues sat in the middle within his reach...."

When a tear trickled down her cheek, he gathered her in his arms.

"He's dead, isn't he?" She sobbed against his chest.

He stroked her hair. "Maybe not. There could be another, totally different explanation."

She shook her head. "No, there isn't. It's always this way for me. Just when I think something is going right, _kaboom_ , my life blows up in my face." She sniffled and rubbed away moisture from her face with her fingers. "That sounds so selfish. I'm not a self-seeking person. I'm not."

He patted her back. "I know. Everything will be fine. You'll see," he said softly, hoping to soothe her. He turned when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

With raised eyebrows, Lyron asked from the landing, "What's going on?"

Whit gave him a stern look. "Not now, Lyron."

Ian, gloves in hand, climbed to the top of the stairs, looked around, shook his head, turned, and headed back downstairs.

"What's up with him?" Lyron asked, obviously perplexed.

Blossom lifted her head from Whit's chest. "What happened? What's the matter with Ian? Did something happen to him? I can't lose him too." She shook free of Whit's embrace and sprinted toward the stairs. "I...we have to find him." She looked back at them. "Don't just stand there. Get a move on!"

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Whit nudged Lyron in the ribs when he made no attempt to move. "You heard the lady. Get a move on."

Lyron twirled his finger in a tight circle at his temple. "These two are as loopy as loons."

"Oh ye of little faith," Whit said, rushing down the stairs and thinking how Lyron's analysis was typical of someone who feared what he could not understand.

When Whit, accompanied by Lyron, stepped onto the veranda, Blossom had her hands cupped around her mouth calling out to Ian. Her voice sounded steady and controlled at first but, little by little, worked its way toward frantic and screaming.

"I know how much you wanted to help me, but it's just a little setback, Ian," she said. "We'll work around it. Come back and we'll discuss it."

With eyes only for Blossom, Whit watched as the sunlight caught in her hair, making it seem like the curly mass had ignited into flames. Desire spread through him like molten lava. He remembered their kiss, how he had wanted to go further, and how it had taken all of his strength to fight the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and prove to himself how fantastic their coming together would be.

A gust of wind threw feathery snow across his face, the cool spray bringing him back to reality. He looked up at the sky, at the crow perched on the treetop of a lofty spruce, then at Blossom whose cheeks had turned rosy red from the cold.

As though she sensed him looking at her, she turned and faced him. He smiled. She didn't smile back. Instead, she darted to the railing at the right side of the cabin and begged Ian to return.

Involuntarily, Whit's mouth tightened. He couldn't stop the feeling that reminded him she didn't see him as he saw her and that she didn't feel for him what he felt for her. His throat caught and his stomach somersaulted. Maybe biding his time and taking things slow had not been the wisest move.

Blossom continued her visual search for Ian as she dashed from one side of the porch to the other, pausing in her plaintive pleas for Ian to ask Whit if he saw him.

He was shaking his head when a drumming sound, faint and methodical, pulsated from a grove of aspens.

Her head cocked toward the sound. "Do you hear that?" She sprinted across the plank floor and leaned over the railing. "Ian, is that you?"

Blossom's breath came shallow and fast. Whit worried for her health. He joined her at the railing and, feigning interest in Ian's location, looked where she looked — straight ahead toward the sound of beating drums.

Curious now about the noise, he opened his mouth to ask if she saw anything or anyone when a fuzzy mistiness rose from the tips of the evergreens. At first, he thought the opaque cloud was fog until he saw a substance rise from the heart of the mass. Then suddenly and as though a light switch had been thrown, a brilliant aquamarine light erupted from the apex and shot upward.

"Do you see that?" Blossom asked, her voice barely audible.

"Uh-huh," Whit said, without taking his eyes from the strange occurrence.

He called out to Lyron. "Are you seeing this?" Just then, the light faded and the drumming ceased. When Lyron arrived at his side, he asked again, "Did you see that?"

Lyron drew his brows together. "See what?"

Whit looked at Lyron and sighed.

"Do you mean that?" Lyron asked.

Whit turned in the direction of Lyron's outstretched finger and watched Ian strut from the trees, smiling and zipping his fly. "No, not Ian. The mist rising from the trees," Whit said, feeling a peculiar warmth in his chest, like his soul had been touched.

"When you gotta go, you gotta go!" Ian said.

Lyron laughed. "That's easy. A warm current meeting a cold surface." He pointed to Ian's crotch.

Blossom ran down the steps and threw herself against Ian's chest. "I thought you gave up on me."

"You should worry, Whit." Lyron elbowed him. "Looks like you're coming in second best."

"Nonsense." Whit scowled.

"If you say so."

Despite the frigid temperature, Whit perspired. Lyron taunted him, goaded him into seeing the situation through his eyes, misdirecting his thoughts. No, he reassured himself. There was no validity to what Lyron insinuated.

"Supposing." Lyron held an index finger against his lips. "Just supposing Ian is a spirit..."

"Continue." Whit crossed his arms against his chest.

"Maybe he's here to escort Blossom to Heaven." He jutted his head toward her. "Looks like she'd follow Ian into Hell, and with that beautiful smile pasted on those beautiful lips, too."

Whit watched Blossom cushion her head against Ian's chest, her arms capturing his neck in a stranglehold. No, he wouldn't believe that. Fate wouldn't be so cruel. God wouldn't be so devilish. He worked saliva into his suddenly parched mouth and listened to Ian comfort Blossom with silkily spoken words and whispery-soft sounds. Without intention, his hands formed into fists at his sides.

"Green doesn't become you, bro."

Lyron was right, as he often was. Jealousy was unlike him. Truthfully, he couldn't remember ever feeling this way over any woman. Whit's gut knotted in apprehension as he wondered how he would win Blossom's heart. He watched as Ian cupped her face in his hands, lowered himself to her height and looked into her eyes. "I would never leave you high'n'dry, darlin'. Don't you know that by now?"

"They're cousins, Lyron," Whit said...defensively he noted.

Lyron scratched his head. "If memory serves, distant cousins, many times removed, in fact. Isn't that the way Ian put it?"

"Enough," Whit said. "You made your point." He jogged down the stairs, determined to ignore the hostility he felt for Ian. "Glad to see you made it back without getting lost, Ian. Forests tend to have all the same look after awhile. A person can get turned around quite easily." Some of the angst in the pit of his stomach eased when Ian and Blossom broke apart.

"Thanks for the warning," Ian said. "I'll keep that in mind the next time nature calls and there's not an available porta-potty around. Where do we go from here?"

Whit gave him a hard, steady look, thinking: Out behind the woodshed, where I'll beat the crap out of you for putting the moves on my woman.

"With the investigation, I mean," Ian said, his mouth curving upward in a half-smile.

Whit frowned and wondered if Ian was clairvoyant.

Lyron cleared his throat. "I suggest we go back inside and have a look around for anything that might lead us to where these guys took off to."

"Good idea," Whit said over his shoulder. He turned sideways and indicated the cabin with his hand. "Shall we?"

With Blossom leading the way, he followed behind Ian, wanting to kick his butt two ways to tomorrow. No, he wouldn't resort to violence. He was a civilized, law-abiding man. He wished he weren't.

Whit hadn't set out today to kick ass but to learn the whereabouts of his sister. Instead, he learned something about himself, something unflattering. All of his life, he had abhorred those who fought their battles and made their points with guns and fistfights. For the first time, he understood how someone could be driven to doing something not normally within their usual behavior.

Inside the cabin, Whit suggested to Blossom and Ian that they step aside and let Lyron do his job.

After they took positions on the oversized mat at the door, Whit shook his head sadly and said, "I didn't think today would turn out this way." He directed his focus on Ian and asked, "How about you, Ian? Did you have the same expectations for today as I?"

Ian cocked a brow. "I don't know. How did you see the day unfolding?"

"Well, for one, I thought this Jason fella would indirectly lead me to my sister." He had envisioned being reunited with his sister, the Curse on Blossom being banished, Lyron bringing Mary Ellen's abductors to justice, and he and Blossom living happily ever after, as cliché as that sounded. Now, just like that, the day blew up in his face. His and Blossom's lives were not that much different. The best laid plans....

"And for another?" Ian asked, his hands jiggling change in his pocket.

"I thought Jason would lead Blossom toward finding a way to banish the Curse." Whit shrugged. "Things don't always go the way we plan."

"Nor are things as we see them," Ian said.

"Ain't that the truth." Whit studied him, remembering how he had embraced Blossom, his tender promises for her welfare and his heartfelt reassurances for her future.

After twenty awkward and uncomfortable minutes where Whit shifted from foot to foot and nary a word was said by any of them, Lyron concluded the cabin had been swept clean. "It's as though no one was here," he said, running his hand along the grate inside the fireplace.

"There was," Blossom said and walked to the middle of the room. "It wasn't my imagination, and I didn't make any of this up. Jason was here." She turned and pointed to the pine-paneled wall at her left. "There was a cuckoo clock on that wall. And...and...." She burst into tears. "I didn't get to say goodbye to him."

A pain stabbed Whit's heart for what she must be feeling. He understood loss and understood what it was like to lose someone without having a chance to say goodbye.

_Yo, peckerhead_.

At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Whit broke free of his thoughts, looked around the room and searched for the origin of the speaker.

_Yes, you. Are you just going to stand there like a piece of driftwood, or are you going to comfort the woman you love? Don't make me regret recommending you as a suitable paramour for her_ , the voice said.

Whit immediately looked at Ian who stood with his hands in his trousers looking as innocent as a newborn.

"Something the matter?" Ian asked.

Whit shook his head, then rushed to Blossom and took her in his arms.

"Everyone here believes you. We know you didn't make any of this up."

Lyron walked over to the fireplace. "Whoever was here doesn't want us to find them."

"Aren't you going to get that?" Ian asked.

Whit looked at him and frowned. "Get what?"

"Your cell phone. It's ringing."

"No, it's not," Whit said, feeling argumentative. Just then, his cell rang.

"You just weren't hearing it," Ian said, smiling in that I-know-I'm-right way of his that until that moment had never bothered Whit.

Whit reached inside his jacket pocket and freed his phone. He flipped it open and answered the call. "Whitfield Hawkes."

"Right pew, wrong church," a male voice said.

"Baleman," Whit said loud enough for everyone in the room to hear and motioned to Lyron to join him. When he did, he placed the phone at shoulder height between them.

"You're wasting your time. You won't find what you're looking for there."

"And what's that?"

"Something that would lead you to your sister's whereabouts."

With a circular motion of his hands Lyron indicated to Whit to keep the conversation going. "Maybe," Whit said, nodding to Lyron that he understood the message.

"Don't play games with me, counselor. I'm not in the mood and tell your PI not to bother to get his friends in blue to trace this call."

Whit steered the conversation toward a comfort level for Baleman, hoping to form a camaraderie. "Losing someone we love is difficult, I know."

"Stop the psychobabble. I might change my mind and walk away and you'll never find your sister or the other three kids. Is that what you want?"

"No, of course not," Whit said. Beside him Lyron took notes.

"Why don't you turn yourself in to the police and I'll put in a good word for you with the prosecutor? We'll work something out. In return for your cooperation —"

Baleman laughed, a throaty laugh that sent chills through Whit.

"Okay, then. It's obvious you want something. Tell me what it is and I'll make it happen."

"Good. I like a man who recognizes his priorities. In exchange for the whereabouts of your sister, I want your assurance and that of your private investigator that you will keep my participation in your sister's abduction out of the hands of the police."

Lyron nodded.

"Done," Whit said.

"To ease your mind, your sister wasn't hurt."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Don't waste your time tracing the ownership of the cabin. It's a rental and the owner's never met me, at least the real me. I used a fictitious name, and paid the rent in cash in advance for two years. I covered my tracks."

"Okay."

"One more thing. I was being blackmailed into doing what I did."

"And what was that?"

"All in due time, counselor. All in due time. Now return home and wait for me to contact you."

"Wait —" Whit listened to dead air.

# Chapter Thirty

"Christ," Whit said. He flipped his cell closed and swore again. "Does he think this is a contest for his amusement?"

Lyron cleared his throat. "The man's smart, and he's ensuring his freedom."

Blossom bounced in place. "Did he say anything about Jason?"

Whit shook his head, debating whether he should keep his thoughts to himself or tell her. He decided on the latter. "He didn't say, but I got the feeling that Jason didn't make it." She turned away from him, but not before he saw her eyes fill with tears. Jason's death probably meant the end for her, as well. He didn't believe in all that superstitious mumbo-jumbo nonsense. Well, maybe he did, but definitely not to the degree Blossom obviously did. "I'm sorry."

She nodded. "S'okay."

When Blossom recovered, he filled in Ian and her on his telephone conversation with Baleman. He checked his watch. "We should get back to the house."

His heavy footsteps across the living room floor reverberated through the cabin. A cursory glance over his shoulder motivated the group into motion and a second later their boots pounded the hardwood floor.

Outside, his heart thudding and temples aching, Whit inhaled a lungful of pure, frosty air in an attempt to cleanse his mind of negative thoughts and what ifs.

A moment later, the silence deafened him.

He looked toward the horizon where the sun reddened the skyline. A wind had picked up, an icy northeastern gale that would freeze exposed skin and eyeballs in minutes.

"Cover up. Get those balaclavas on under your helmets. Make use of your goggles, too. We've got an Arctic blow."

He walked to his snowmobile, donned his paraphernalia and climbed on.

"Let's go." He looked at Blossom, and their gazes met and held and for a breathless second. He read in her eyes that she saw him as he had wanted her to see him, her friend, her lover, her husband, the father of her children.

Now that they knew the way around the mountain, he couldn't see any reason for Blossom to lead. "Why don't you ride with me?"

She looked at Ian as though seeking his approval.

Whit's temper sparked. She shouldn't feel the need to ask his permission...for anything.

Ian nodded and Whit released the breath he held.

After Blossom climbed on behind him, he started the snowmobile and, knowing instinctively the others would follow, steered off the steep incline.

***

Blossom sat rod-straight behind Whit, her hands clutching the metal handles on the edges of the seat. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back and embraced the crisp air and wide-open space of the lake.

She brought her head forward and stared at Whit's back. The man thought he was in love with her. Damn fool. They'd only just met. He was pathetic. She felt sorry for... A fluttering in her stomach paused her thoughts. A second later her heart swelled with a wholehearted appreciation for Whit...oh no...she thought. She was in love with him, too.

_I can't be_.

Why not?

#### Because...because...

Exactly!

No. She wouldn't believe it. She couldn't let herself. The disappointment of another failed marriage would be too much to bear. The Curse. Remember the Curse.

Whit was looking really good to her. She could almost feel how his arms would feel around her. How his chest...

Whoa. She forced her thoughts to a halt.

Don't confuse lust with love.

Profound advice.

I was never in love before. _Maybe this is love._

Bollocks.

Why was her life so complicated? She shouldn't have to ask. The Curse. Everything came back to the repercussions from great-granny's hots for a married man.

She straightened her shoulders, jutted her chin, and decided to work on forgetting Whit, formulating a plan of escape, and putting the distance between St. John's and Dickeyville between them.

She took her hands from the grab bars and placed them around Whit.

Hugging him close, she denied feeling anything for him. With the wind at her back, she laid her head against him and thought no way she loved him. No way.

She would see this out, then leave. Ian might require convincing, but she was reasonably sure she could make him see things her way.

Her thoughts settled for a moment before she wondered what she had to lose. One part of her, the logical part, argued for her to stay and let the days play out, while the other part, the impulsive part, argued she should stick with the original plan, which was to return to Dickeyville and wait. Wait for what? Death?

She lifted her head from Whit's back.

No.

She wouldn't curl up and die.

She would see this through.

Maybe she would even tempt fate. Something she'd never done. The time had come for change. She rested her cheek against Whit's back as he raced the snowmobile over the frozen water of Lake Tatamagouche.

Uneasy that thought would make her reconsider her decision to stay, she blocked her mind. Fearful thoughts and determinations of danger and unhappiness circled the wall, searching for a vulnerable entry point.

She refused them admittance.

***

Whit brought the snowmobile to a stop at the steps leading to the back door of his house. He helped Blossom to her feet and followed her up the stairs with Lyron and Ian trailing behind.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, he shucked his gloves, threw them on the serving cart, and said, "I wonder why he wanted us here."

Lyron shrugged, pulled out a chair from the table and sat. "Maybe he'll tell you when he calls."

"I'll make coffee," Blossom said.

Whit watched her with appreciation as she found her way around the kitchen and unwittingly turning coffee making into an erotic and adult rated show. Feeling like a voyeur, he focused his attention on sitting comfortably. After a moment, he drummed his nails on the tabletop and thought about Baleman.

Something about the call bothered him. What, he couldn't say. "Having us come back here might have been a ruse to get us out of the cabin."

Lyron ran his fingers over a brow. "Might have," he said, like the thought had already crossed his mind.

"Any idea why?"

"Nope."

"At least nothing you want to share." Whit looked at Ian who made sitting look like an art form.

"Petey wants a cracker. Wh-Whit's a la-lawyyyyer. Wassup, boy-o. Squawk. Squawk."

Whit issued the parrot a stern look, not that he expected Petey to abide the indirect request. The bird had a mind of its own, and did what he damned well pleased.

Blossom walked to the cage and stuck her finger between the bars. "He doesn't always stutter."

"I'm sure you can guess then who taught him what phrase." Whit grinned. "The evidence is in the talk."

"Not necessarily," she looked over her shoulder at him. "Someone could have imitated Mrs. Butterworth."

"True, but..." Whit decided to show her instead. He called to his housekeeper. "Would you come to the kitchen, please?"

Thirty seconds later, Mrs. Butterworth entered the kitchen.

Petey flapped his iridescent green wings, shuffled from claw foot to claw foot, and squawked crazily. "Wh-Whit's a la-lawyyyyer. Aye ca-carumba. Wh-Whit's a la-lawyyyyer."

"Were there any calls while we were out?" Whit asked, managing a straight face.

"None, sir."

"Thanks. Would you take Petey with you?"

"Of course." She took hold of the stand and wheeled him from the room.

On his way out of the kitchen, Petey said, "Oh, oh. Petey done do me wrong."

When the echo of her footsteps ebbed to silence, Whit said, "See?"

She rapped a finger against her chin. "The aye ca-carumba stuff is compliments of Mrs. Butterworth, and Petey done do me wrong is compliments of Mary-Ellen?"

"You got it."

Laughter filled the room.

A sound Whit needed to hear.

The telephone rang, louder and brasher than its normal ring, he thought. "I'll get it, Mrs. Butterworth," he said and lifted the phone from the secretary's desk and placed it on the table.

His heart thumped. His fingers trembled, he noticed, when he lifted the receiver. "Hawkes here," he said into the mouthpiece, forcing calmness through his body.

"Whitfield."

_B'y t'underin'_. "Candace." He looked at the group around the table who had moved to a semi-standing position, then promptly plopped themselves back onto their chairs with dramatic eye rolls and sighs. He fully understood how they felt.

"I'm sorry, Candace, but this isn't a good time for me. I'm waiting for contact from Mary Ellen's abductor."

"Really?" she said. "You heard from him? Did he say what he wanted? If it's money, Daddy can help. He's not in Chambers now, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind recessing for an important matter as this."

"I don't know what he wants yet, Candace. But I don't want to miss his call."

He lowered his head toward the cradle. "I have to let you go." His head lowered another inch. "I'll call you when I have more information."

"Whit, wait! There's something I need to— "

"I'm sorry, Candace, but I have to go." With a cuss, he slammed the receiver on its cradle. "The woman is unbelievable!" He looked at Blossom and could virtually read from her expression the jumble of questions that traversed her mind. The most prominent one being: Who is Candace? As soon as possible, he would tell Blossom about Candace and that she meant nothing to him.

The telephone rang again. Lyron mouthed, "speakerphone." Whit nodded and checked call display. Private caller. He looked at Blossom who held crossed fingers in the air for him to see as he answered the call. "Hawkes here."

"Mr. Hawkes," Kinlock said.

Whit hit the speakerphone button and placed the receiver in its holder. The group leaned in closer to the telephone on the table. "Baleman," Whit said.

"I'll only tell this story once, so listen good. Don't waste time trying to trace this call. You can't."

"Understood."

"I'd like to start by saying Jason took no part in the kidnappings or what happened thereafter."

"He knew about them, though," Whit said as any prosecutor would and thinking accessory after the fact. He hoped to dupe Baleman into divulging information.

"Don't go there, counselor. Besides, it's a moot point now."

Whit understood what he meant. "Jason passed away." He could hear Baleman's deep breath.

Across from him, Blossom held shaky fingers to her lips, tears brimming her eyes. He wanted to console her, but Whit's primary concern at the moment had to be Mary Ellen. "Go on."

"I won't tell you who is behind the scheme, but I've made sure he'll get what's coming to him. Three days from now, a friend of mine will be delivering to the Mayor a package that outlines my part in the operation, as well as the records I kept and the recordings of every telephone call I received from him."

"What about Trevor Malloy," Whit said, remembering the beating he took.

"I didn't hurt Malloy."

Whit recalled Trevor's recanted statement and said the obvious. "You administered to his injuries."

"I went to his apartment that night to warn him, but it was already too late. When you and Mr. Otten arrived, I escaped through the living room window onto the fire stairs. I didn't shoot your friend, either."

"You're a doctor, then, or at least have medical training."

"Something like that." Kinlock sighed. "I know what you're doing, Mr. Hawkes. I won't mistake you as a friend and tell you something I shouldn't."

Whit nodded. "Fair enough. You want something. What is it?"

"A day more of running time and your word that you won't come after me. I know how relentless you can be, and revenge is a powerful motivator."

"What about the kids? The police will ask them for your description. Haven't they seen you?"

"Not the real me."

"You said before you were being blackmailed because of something Jason did, something you had a hand in covering up, so the only person who knows you were a part of these kidnappings is your blackmailer. Jason's demise doesn't put an end to the blackmailer's hold on you. He can still keep you hostage for your complicity in the abductions."

"That's why I'm running. I can't continue what I'm doing, and now I have no reason to, not now that Jason is dead. Trust no one, Mr. Hawkes, with what I've told you."

"There are ways to learn your identity," Whit said.

"Hopefully, I'll be somewhere where there's no extradition when that time comes. I'm only asking for a little more time. I didn't have to make this telephone call to you. I could have left those kids to die."

"What about the police? How will I explain the kids' sudden reappearances?"

"You're a lawyer, Mr. Hawkes. I'm sure you can come up with a plausible story. Do we have a deal?"

Without hesitation, Whit agreed. "Deal. You have my word. I, or any of my investigative team, will not come after you and I'll hold off telling the police as long as I can. Now tell me what your boss wanted with these kids."

Kinlock inhaled sharply and let the breath out slowly. "He had a baby making operation going. Jenny Lamb, the first of his kidnap victims, gave birth to three babies, which he sold. Apparently, the demand for made-to-order children is high, and people will pay a handsome amount to have a child tailored to their specific desires."

A chill sped up his spine. "Mary Ellen...was she impregnated?"

"Your sister is in the same condition as when I picked her up."

Whit cast his gaze heavenward and bid a silent thank-you that Mary Ellen had been spared that traumatic event. "Where will I find my sister?"

Lyron wrote furiously on a note pad as Kinlock gave him directions.

Chapter Thirty-One

Whit clenched the steering wheel of the Land Rover as he turned off the highway and headed for Bevy-Debly Parish. He gritted his teeth thinking his assurances to Baleman would mean zip if he'd hurt Mary Ellen in any way.

He cast a sideways glance at Blossom sitting next to him. "Nervous?"

She smiled. "For you, yes. I hope this ends well."

He clutched her hand and gave it a squeeze. "I'm glad you came along."

"Where are Ian and Lyron?" She looked over her shoulder out the back window. "They left just after us."

"Lyron's hanging back, watching for a tail just in case this isn't what we think it is." Fearful he had frightened her, he said, "He's being overly cautious."

"Uh-huh."

"I won't let anything happen to you."

"I know."

Her faith and trust in him broadened his shoulders. He sped through Earl of Westshire Township, past old farmhouses with white cedar siding and black shutters on every window. Red barns, some listing heavily to one side, separated acres of farmland from the adjacent house.

"Olive was right after all," Blossom said, breaking the silence. "She never gave up faith. She knew in her heart her granddaughter was alive. Everyone in town thought she was bonkers. The laugh's on all of us." She shook her head.

"Who would have thought? A baby-making operation. The man must be a monster." She shuddered. "How much does a baby go for on the black market these days?"

"It depends, I suppose, on the buyers and how badly they want a child. A half-million, perhaps?"

"Jenny produced three babies for him, so that's a million and a half. Baleman mentioned something about babies made to order. What do you suppose he meant? That he was making babies according to a client's specifications?"

"Maybe that's where the young fellas come in. Blonds and brunettes, blue eyes and brown...it makes sense and it would probably mean more money, too."

"Jennifer may want to find her babies. I'd want to. They'd be difficult to find, I'd imagine."

"Maybe the prosecutor will cut a deal with the blackmailer. Clemency in exchange for names and whereabouts."

"I understand those deals are made all the time. Penitentiaries are a drain on taxpayer's money and trials are expensive, but felons should be punished. Would you help Jennifer find her children if she asked?"

"I gave my word I wouldn't come after Baleman."

"Uh-huh. Didn't you say something like, I or my investigator will not come after you?"

He returned her grin. "Picked up on that, huh?" She continued to surprise him. He liked it. "I have no control over what someone else does."

"Are you sure you don't want to bring the cops in on this? We could be walking into a trap. Though Baleman sounded genuine, didn't he?"

"He did. I'm not worrying and neither should you."

She nodded, feeling safe. "The days are getting longer. It's four-thirty, and it's still light. Who's Candace?"

"A mistake." He had anticipated the question.

"One you'll rectify forthwith?"

He returned her smile. "Of course." He couldn't understand how or when it happened, but somewhere along the way he had become important to Blossom.

"There's the marker for the turn-off." She pointed to a hubcap hooked to a hydro pole on her right.

"He said it was an old abandoned Catholic Church." He pulled the vehicle to a stop as close to the snow bank on the shoulder of the road as he could.

"When did the Catholic Church start closing churches?"

"A few years back. Participation is down in most parishes and priests are hard to come by these days. They're bringing two, sometimes three dioceses together in the rural areas. From what I hear, laypeople sometimes say mass when a priest is unavailable."

"I don't think I'd like that."

"Neither would I. See anything?" he asked, looking down the unplowed tree-lined drive.

"She peered through the window. "Trees are blocking the view."

"It must be somewhere along that path. We'll have to trek it from here."

"No one would ever suspect there's a building in those woods."

Whit looked in the rearview mirror when headlights shone brightly from the rear. "This must be Lyron and Ian."

Blossom checked the side view mirror. "Are you ready?"

His stomach was in knots and his heart felt like it would leap from his chest with every beat. Unable to trust that the truth wouldn't blurt from his lips, he smiled and nodded, applying himself to look convincing. "Wait in the car."

"Yeah, right."

To argue would be useless, he realized. He grabbed the flashlight from the rear seat. The sun was setting fast now, and it would only be a matter of minutes before darkness enveloped them.

Whit and Blossom joined Lyron and Ian at the back of the Land Rover.

"I'll take point," Lyron said. "Follow close behind and keep your eyes open and your ears pealed." He pointed at Ian. "You take up the rear." He took his gun from his shoulder holster and checked the clip. "Whatever I tell you to do, you do it. No hesitation. No questions. Got it?"

Blossom and Ian nodded.

Whit said, "Got it." This was it. The moment that would destroy his trust in God and shade his outlook on life forever if Mary Ellen was not in the same condition as when she had been abducted.

Nervous sweat dampened his palm as he pressed through knee-deep snow behind Lyron on the narrow path. With Blossom and Ian at his back and following Lyron's example, he stopped, crouched, and listened in synchrony with him.

One half mile along the twisting roadway, a church with proper cedar siding painted white and large dormer windows projecting from the steepled black-shingled roof came into view.

"Just as Baleman advised," Whit said, coming to a stop behind Lyron and looking over his head. "The place looks deserted. No tracks or footprints. No one's been here at least since the fall." His heart dipped low. Baleman had lied about this part. Maybe the entire story was a fabrication. It made sense to him now. The time they spent at his cabin, the time on the phone, the time it took for them to return to his house and more time on the phone had allowed Baleman to get a head start out of the country. Damn. Whit grimaced. How could he have been so foolish, so taken in by a man he barely knew?

Lyron nodded, eyeballed the area, and, with a flick of his fingers, moved them forward along the drive at the side of the structure. When he raised a hand in the air, Whit brought the others to a stop.

Whit saw a shoveled path leading from a tool shed to a door in the basement of the church. His faith in Baleman might not have been misplaced after all.

Lyron pointed it out.

"I see it," Whit said. He dared to hope Mary Ellen was behind that door, untouched and unharmed.

Lyron led them behind a bushy spruce tree and huddled them together in a tight circle.

"What's the plan?" Whit asked, his voice catching in his throat. It took all of his will not to dash into the building.

"I'm going in alone," Lyron said. "The three of you will take cover behind the shed."

Whit shook his head. "I'm going with you."

"So am I," Ian said.

Lyron looked at Whit. "I know you too well to argue." He looked at Ian.

"I can't get hurt. I'm a spirit, remember?"

"Yeah, right. Well, time to put that to the test, then." Lyron looked at Blossom.

"I'm not staying out here by myself," she said in a huff.

Whit winked at her. He would rather have her behind him where he could protect her than off somewhere on her own, where God knew who or what could hurt her.

Lyron nodded. "Follow my lead." Crouched, Lyron scurried across the shoveled path to the back of the church.

Whit gave Blossom's hand a squeeze before following in Lyron's footsteps and taking his place on the opposite side of the door. A moment later, he felt Blossom's hand rest lightly on his back. He watched as Ian arrived and bent low behind Lyron.

When Lyron nodded, Whit turned the knob and swung open the door as silently as possible. The interior of the basement sat in stark blackness and was as quiet as a monastery.

Lyron shone the Maglite from side to side.

Whit saw the four-foot wide corridor directly ahead. To his left, there were four rooms. The two doors nearest him hung open. He peeked around the corner and noticed that the opposite wall mirrored the one he had been looking at.

With his gun and flashlight extended in front of him, Lyron moved into the basement, looking into the open rooms as he passed. He came to the closed doors and tried the doorknobs on each of them. "Locked," he whispered.

Whit shone his light on the wall beside the door and pointed to a key hanging on a hook. Just then the hallway became brightly illuminated. Startled, Whit pivoted in random with Lyron.

"Thought you might want more light," Ian said as he removed his hand from the switch.

Lyron scowled, then turned to Whit. "See if that key works. I'll cover you. Remember, no going all Rambo on me."

Whit unlocked the deadbolt and turned the knob, giving the door a little push to open wide. He peered into the room. His heart skipped a beat. She was there, sprawled on her stomach width-ways across the bed, reading. If he had envisioned Mary Ellen any way, this would have been how he would have seen her.

"Mary Ellen," he said, his voice barely audible to his ears.

She turned and looked at him. "Whit?" she asked as though she couldn't believe her eyes.

His throat caught at the sound of her voice. When her eyes filled with tears, he realized she had given up hope that he would rescue her. He rushed to her.

With a whoop of delight, she hopped off the bed and threw herself into his arms. "Is it really you?"

He hugged her tightly and said in her ear, "It's me, angel. It's really me."

"I-I thought..." She sobbed into his jacket.

"Shh. It's all over now. You're safe."

She drew away from him and slapped him on the chest. "What took you so long!"

Suddenly, the room filled with laughter and excited voices as Mary Ellen became reunited with Graham and formally introduced herself to Jennifer Lamb and Theodore Hanscomb. Hugs were exchanged all around.

When the excitement died down and Mary Ellen and Graham were ensconced in a corner huddling and chatting, Whit took Blossom by the hand and led her to a vacant room. Baleman's lab, it looked like.

Without preamble, he asked, "Do I have a chance with you?" He wanted to know how much of a fight he had ahead of him. His direct tact took her by surprise, he noticed, judging by her wide, open-eyed look.

"Yes," she said as though something inside her pushed out the word.

At first, the positive answer did not register with him, probably because he had expected resistance. When it sank in, he took her in his arms. But before he could express how her answer affected him, she asked, "What's that?"

He held her at his arm's length. "What?"

"That."

Only after looking where she pointed, he understood what she meant. "I don't know."

She moved with him to the counter where a rectangular shaped box packaged in brown wrapping paper sat.

"It's for you." He pointed out the address label. "Baleman must have left it."

When she continued to stare at the box, he asked, "Aren't you going to open it?"

That was all the motivation she needed. He watched as she cut through the packing tape with a letter opener she found on the counter.

She separated the cardboard tops and looked inside, not saying a word.

He couldn't wait her out. "What is it?"

"It's the cuckoo clock from the cabin."

"There's a note." He motioned to the vanilla-colored parchment sheet tucked against the side of the box.

She opened the note and smoothed the center grease. "It's from Jason."

Blossom sat on a stool.

"I'll give you some privacy," Whit said.

"Thanks." She smiled and read the letter.

Dear Blossom,

I'm sorry we didn't have more time together. Our ancestors would have made for interesting and entertaining stories, I'm sure.

This clock belonged to my great-grandmother, Hesper. I thought it fitting that it should be passed on to you.

Please don't judge Anthony too harshly. What he did, he did to protect me.

There never was a curse, Blossom. Hesper played on your great-grandmother's guilt by pretending she'd cursed her. The entire story is set out in her journal. I wish I had it to give you, but it went missing years ago.

Take care, Blossom. May you have all of your heart's desires.

Jason~~

All these years and all those lives lost because of a curse that never was. The whole damn thing was a hoax. Her life was nearly destroyed because of it. She wanted to scream.

Forcing calm, she looked on the brighter side. After all these years, the past would be laid to rest. No more living her life beneath a cloud of guilt for great-granny's sin. No more superstition. No more thoughts of suicide. Ian would be so pleased this nasty business would finally be put to rest. Her eyes watered at the thought. She couldn't wait to tell Ian. First, though, she'd like to take a closer look the clock.

"Knock, knock," Whit said.

Brushing away a tear, she turned and smiled.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"More than okay." She shoved the letter in the back pocket of her jeans and motioned to the box. "Would you help me?"

Together, they lifted the cuckoo clock from the container.

"This belonged to Jason's great-grandmother," she said. "The woman whose husband my great-grandmother bedded."

She examined the clock. "Why isn't it working?"

"Maybe the chains need to hang."

She ran her hand over the wood. The sleeve of her sweater caught on something. She tugged on the thread, but it wouldn't break.

"Don't pull," Whit said. "I'll free it."

With each passing second, excitement built within her. "Hurry. I have something to tell Ian, something he needs to know."

Whit fiddled with the piece of metal that held the knit fabric of her sweater firmly in place.

Impatient, she tugged her arm and freed the sleeve. "Thanks." About to walk away, she turned back when something hit the floor. "What was that?"

He picked the wooden panel from the floor and turned it over in his hand.

"Part of the back of the clock."

"Did it break?" She hoped not. The clock would sit on a wall in her living room and keep company with the other heirlooms of her descendants.

Drummonds and Higginbothams cohabiting. Imagine that.

He peeked inside the clock. "There's something tucked in here." He pulled a leather bound book from the crevice and handed it to her.

She blew one layer of dust from the cover and removed the remainder with a brush of her hand. Hurriedly, she undid the ribbon holding it closed.

"What is it?" he asked, looking over her shoulder.

She scanned the first page. "It's Hesper's journal," she said, wanting to scream the words she was so happy. "Where's Ian? He's got to see this."

"He was wandering the hall the last time I saw him."

She took off at a sprinter's clip, stopped in the threshold, then turned and ran back to him. Standing on tiptoes, she gave him a quick kiss on the lips. "More later." She exaggerated a wink and rushed from the room. She loved him. She knew that now.

From the open basement doorway, she looked down the corridor and called out to Ian. When he didn't respond, she stepped outside onto the walkway and called out to him again.

"Maybe he's taking a potty break," Whit said as he draped her jacket on her shoulders.

"Thanks." She put her arms through the sleeves and looked around for Ian.

"Do you see him?"

Whit walked several steps down the path and searched the area.

"Anything?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"He must be inside."

_Blossom_.

Ian's voice sounded soft and melodic and seemed to come from every direction around her. "Where are you?" she asked, squinting into the semi-darkness. "I have good news."

_I know_.

The branches of the evergreens swayed, catching her attention. Hesitantly, she walked toward them.

"Maybe he went to the car," Whit said.

She turned and stared at Whit, surprised he hadn't heard Ian. "Don't you hear him?" She stepped in front of Whit to get an unobstructed view of the back property.

Frowning, he shook his head.

He can't hear me, Blossom.

"Whit," a female voice called. "Whit, where are you?"

"That's Mary Ellen," Whit said.

"Go to her," Blossom said.

"I won't be long."

"Take your time," she said, turning and looking at him. "Your sister needs you."

"Promise you won't go anywhere."

"I promise." She smiled and crossed her heart. When he was inside the building, she turned back to face the woods. "Why can't Whit hear you?"

I'm speaking only to you. I am no longer on your plane.

"What do you mean?" Her heart sank to her stomach, knowing now what she probably knew all along but refused to believe or see. He was truly a spirit. "Ian." She choked on his name. "I didn't get to say goodbye." The words came out on a sob.

_It isn't goodbye, darlin'. We'll meet again_.

The beat of her heart thumped in her ears and her appreciation for life keened. "Not soon, I hope."

He laughed.

Love him with all that you are, Blossom.

"I will."

I have to go now.

She could hear the smile in his voice.

You have wonderful stories to share with your grandchildren. Ta, Blossom.

"Ta." She rubbed the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes wiping away her tears.

"Everything all right?" Whit asked.

"Ian is gone."

"He got called away?"

"Yes," she said, looking up at the waning moon.

From the back, Whit put his arms around her and hugged her close against him.

"We have wonderful stories to tell our grandchildren," he said.

She laughed. "Ian said the same thing." She believed them both.

"Let's go inside," Whit said, breaking into her reverie of red-haired little girls. "You're shivering."

Arm in arm, they walked into the church basement.

Whit led her into Baleman's lab. "Can I get you anything? Water?"

"I'm good." She walked to the counter and picked up Hesper's journal laying across the daily newspaper. The front-page photo caught her eye. She gasped.

Whit moved to her side. "What is it?"

She picked up the newspaper and pointed. "This is rubbers guy, the man in your back yard that night. The man who knocked me out."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Do you know who he is?" she asked, unable to look away from the man's face.

Whit took the paper in his hand. "Our Chief of Police."

The End

........................................

Photo of

"Great-granny Aggie"

of

A Waning Moon

