Mandy Hears You
by
Lynn Turner

Copyright © by Lynn Turner, July 2000
ISBN 1-58608-141-1
Rocket Edition 1-58608-240-x
cover art by Lynn Turner
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

CHAPTER ONE

The boat drifted toward a circle of water that hovered with a strange calm, like a pool of smooth oil. Mandy stared at it intently, her eyes stinging from the glare and salt spray. Behind her, the loudspeaker crackled. "He's coming up right beside us!"

Suddenly a whale appeared. The curve of his sleek blue-black body glided above the ocean. It kept pace with the boat for seven breathtaking seconds, then bowed to return to its world of cold, slowly-pulsating water.

Mandy sagged back against the bulkhead, her hand flattened on her pounding chest. She laughed aloud and swung to a nearby woman. "Wasn't that amazing!"

"It was so huge! How big do you think he was? Fifty feet?"

Despite her scarf, the wind billowed hair about Mandy’s face. She grinned as she swiped it away. "It was longer than this boat."

On the raised bench a few feet away, the biologist cupped his hand around the microphone. "We'll stay around here a bit in case he decides to come up. Unfortunately he looked like he went deep and they can stay under for a very long time. No telling where he'll surface again."

The passengers stood shoulder to shoulder at the gunnels staring hopefully across the water. The engines rumbled and the boat tooled slowly, hovering.

One of the half-dozen seabirds bobbing nearby cocked his head to eye below him, then he lifted his tail and dove straight down. Mandy tried to guess where he'd surface. As she waited, she half-listened to the quiet conversation around the deck. It was all innocuous enough; one women complained about missing the whale, another wondered if she should go inside and unpack their picnic.

A male voice burst forth a coarse string of oaths which echoed clearly in her mind even though they were not spoken aloud. Damn! Damn! No more tape! The bloody useless thing!

Mandy glanced up and caught the man’s eye. He frowned, so she quickly looked away. No one else gave any indication that they'd noticed him. She hoped that the man couldn't tell by her expression that she had heard him thinking. That wouldn't do. People hated it when Mandy heard them thinking. Hated it. So did Mandy.

Mandy was born with an ability--she'd call it a curse--to hear people's emphatic thoughts. To her ears, intense thinking sounded as though the words were softly uttered. If she wasn't looking at their lips, she couldn't tell if they spoke aloud. Every day of her life she had been the unwilling eavesdropper while people around her carried on fierce arguments and debates with themselves. Often, in frustrating situations, someone nearby would scream silently. At such times Mandy had to struggle to still her flinch. All the two-faced lies, the bile, the bitter arguments that human beings want to keep to themselves, she heard.

It wasn't all bad. Sometimes she blushed when a man bubbled silently about her good looks, or argued with himself about asking her out. People thought fervently about joyous things too. Love. Success. Passion. The thrill of the game. But even these thoughts were personal, private. Mandy didn't want to hear them. When she was found out--she'd never mastered the knack of hiding her feelings--people resented her as though she had purposefully violated them.

They called her creepy.

So this day Mandy closed her eyes, turned her face to the sun and inhaled the full, salty ocean air. So what if that man was angry about his video camera? That was his problem, not hers. Especially since he looked like a reporter. She studiously avoided reporters.

A little while later, the crew decided to search out other humpback whales. The engines changed pitch, the wind picked up, and the passengers tore their eyes away from the ocean.

Mandy dropped to sit on a bench. It was a comfortable spot, in the full sun but sheltered from the brunt of wind and engine noise by the cabin at her back. Two other people shared the small bench so she perched on one end. As people passed by her, she had to angle her knees away to give them room.

Most of the passengers left the bow deck and filed into the cabin. Mandy glanced at those still about. There were five men plus Mandy and the woman who sat beside her. The fellow who fiddled with his video camera looked out of place. His greasy brown hair had been brushed forward over a bald spot, but the ocean wind lifted it like a scraggy fan. The head biologist, his microphone now hooked on a belt clip, coiled up a length of yellow nylon rope that trailed over the side of the boat. The other men looked spiffy in their expensive space-age-fabric jackets and leather sneakers.

Suddenly she tensed and glanced involuntarily to her left, down the deck which ran along the exterior of the cabin. A middle-aged man moved cautiously forward, his chin tucked in, his eyes glaring at a man ahead of him. His acne-scarred face looked bland, unemotional, but a war raged in his thoughts.

There you are, you lousy bastard. Go ahead, lean right over the side. Jesus Christ! If I was sure it would do the job, I'd push you over myself.

Mandy jerked out of his line of vision. The man seethed such putrid hate his thoughts were as clear as if he'd called them aloud. It was horrible. She wanted to clamp her hands over her ears to block out the sound. But that, she knew from past experience, would only attract attention.

He rounded the corner to the forward deck, almost brushing his leg on her knees. Mandy followed his gaze. The object of his loathing was the head biologist.

This is it! This is it! As soon as I get this gun free, I'm going to blow your friggin' brains out!

Mandy watched aghast as the irate man pulled the strap of a khaki bag off his shoulder and slowly unsnapped its top. Despite his violent thoughts, his face was blank and his hands didn't shake. He was serious! He had a gun! She looked wildly about, but no one else paid any heed.

This is it! Holy shit! I'm finally going to kill him. The whales will love me for it! His hand inched toward the inside of the bag.

Mandy leapt up screaming, "No! He's got a gun!"

Faces turned. The acne-scarred man glared at her as his mind blared a dozen incoherent questions.

Her hand flew to her mouth. Oh no. She'd made a fool of herself again. He was probably just some innocent guy composing a story or practicing lines. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut!

"Excuse me . . .," she stuttered, trying to push by him. "I . . . dreaming."

Where could she escape? She was on a boat, for Heaven's sake. Suddenly the stunned people sprang into action.

Someone clamped a hand on her elbow. She tried to yank free, but couldn't. The woman who had been sitting beside her scrambled to get out of the way. And the man with the khaki bag--two men pinned him down on the deck.

The biologist opened the bag gingerly. "There's a gun in here," he gasped as he tipped it to show its contents. "Geeze lady, I don't know how you knew about that gun, but you saved my life."

"Saved your life?" she croaked.

"Yeah! I've been getting death threats." Then he turned to those who held the squirming acne-scarred man to the deck. "Don't let him go. He might have another gun somewhere. Geeze! I can't believe this!"

Mandy sank back down onto the bench. She'd just saved the biologist's life. That was a good thing. Of course it was. She didn’t want to be selfish, but damn, the repercussions were going to be painful. They were sure to question her. What could she say? They'd certainly never believe the truth, never. She'd have to lie, say she caught a glimpse inside the case.

A woman asked the biologist, "What's he got against you? Who is this guy?" The last few words sounded yelled as the engine's thumping slowed.

The biologist ran his finger through his hair. "Haven't a clue. I've never seen him before."

"Me either. He must have been hiding somewhere--down in the engine room maybe--and just now came out."

"If he was on deck, I'd have seen him."

"But how did she know he had a gun?" She turned to Mandy with suspicion lowering her brows. "He was hiding! I saw everything you saw. How did you know he had a gun?"

"Instinct, I guess," she mumbled.

All eyes turned toward Mandy. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and berated herself. Instinct. Right. Like they're going to believe that!

The man who had been fretting about forgetting to load his camera pushed his wiry body through to stand before her. He pointed a stiff finger. "You're weird lady. You can read minds."

"Don’t be ridiculous!" She felt heartened by the snickers around her.

"Yes you can. You stared at me when I--"

"No I didn't!"

He gaped at her incredulously, his mind chortling about what a great story he’d stumbled upon. She pressed her lips together and stared at her hands squeezed into fists on her lap. She wasn’t going to be anyone’s great story.

The reporter dropped to his haunches right before her and said matter-of-factly, "You read this guy's mind!"

The woman next to Mandy said, "I saw a show on tv about people like you."

Mandy blanched. This was the very thing she dreaded most; a reporter learning her secret. Horrible things would come of it. She wrapped her arms about her chest and struggled to pull herself together. Loud thoughts swirled around her. More of the passengers were beginning to believe that she could hear thoughts. They were all at her now, talking or thinking, she couldn't tell the difference. She had to close up! She had to stop listening!

Then the would-be assassin, still pinned on the deck near her feet, threatened to bite a chunk out of her ankle. At that, Mandy jerked away, pulling her feet up onto the bench out of his reach. Too late, she realized her mistake.

He gawked at her, stunned. "I thought that! I didn't say that! I thought that!"

Mandy pushed off the bench and, lurching from side to side, scrambled down the companionway to the rear of the boat. There was no one in the head. She stepped into the tiny cubicle, slammed the door shut, and locked it. There, shivering, she was dimly aware when the boat's engine speed changed. The whalewatching cruise abruptly ended. She spent the entire steam back to Westport trying to fight off blind, icy panic.

By the time the boat settled at its berth, she had a plan. She would simply stonewall everyone. It had worked before. She would look surprised, almost amused, if someone suggested she could read minds. Soon the witnesses would start doubting themselves.

Mandy pulled off her bandanna and ran trembling fingers through her red curls. When she shifted to look in the mirror she realized she hadn't even turned on the light. She left the head and collected her bag from under a bench. Just as she joined the cue to disembark, a man spoke to her.

"Excuse me, Miss? Would you please remain on board for a bit?"

Mandy's shoulders sagged as she turned to the man. "I'm anxious to get back to my room. I . . . I have to get there before the restaurant closes."

"You're staying on Brier Island?"

"Yes," she said, looking longingly toward the shore where the sturdy houses rose up the steep, rocky incline. "I'm in the lodge for another night."

"Okay. I guess we're not in a rush. The Captain tells me it'll take an hour or so for the RCMP to come over from the mainland. But I know the cops will want to talk to you before you leave. What's your name?"

"Mandy Stone."

"Stick around so the police can find you."

She bristled at his tone. "I don't plan to leave the Island until tomorrow morning."

A silent crowd lingered at the top of the gangplank. For an instant, Mandy hoped it was the passengers waiting for the afternoon cruise; but then she recognized a number of them from the morning. Apparently they were just hanging around out of morbid curiosity. It was the scene of a crime and they didn't want to miss a thing.

She gritted her teeth and climbed the steep planks. Her knees felt wobbly; she clutched the handrail and concentrated on her footing. When she reached the top she took a deep breath and looked up. The reporter watched her through the lens of his video camera. She quickly averted her face and strode past him down the wharf toward her parked car. The planks below her feet shook as he ran to catch up.

"Excuse me, Miss? Excuse me?"

Mandy ignored him and picked up her pace. She was almost running by the time he scrambled in front of her.

"My name's Derrick Wiener. I'm a freelance broadcaster."

"No comment," she blurted and tried to get by him.

He blocked her way. "Your name's Mandy Stone?"

She nodded and jumped to go around him. He grabbed her. "Let go of my arm," she hissed.

"Is it true? Can you read minds?"

"That's absurd! Someone tried to murder the biologist and you're asking me about that rubbish!"

Still grasping her forearm, he stopped. Watch out behind you!

Naturally, Mandy cringed.

"It's true!" he crowed. "You do read minds!"

"I don't know what you're talking about. You stared behind me like you were frightened. Let me go!"

She struggled and broke free from him. As she ran toward her car she fumbled in her bag for her keys. It took three tries to unlock the door. The instant the car started, she gunned the engine. Her back wheels spit gravel behind her. Through the rear-view mirror she saw the reporter glaring at her as he rubbed vigorously at his shin.

Derrick Wiener's story made the six o'clock news. TODAY, DURING A WHALEWATCHING CRUISE OFF BRIER ISLAND, NOVA SCOTIA, A PSYCHIC WOMAN FOILED AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT OF A BIOLOGIST.

Vance Tollefsrud, sitting alone in his living room, thumbed up the volume switch on his television's remote control, activated the instant record on his VCR, and perched on the edge of his seat.

The broadcaster explained that marine biologists studying whales in the Bay of Fundy had been receiving death threats for some time.

Three people, including the reporter, gave eyewitness accounts of how the assassination attempt was foiled. "He must have been mad! On a boat of all places! How did he think he could get away with it?" All of them expressed amazement at the way Mandy Stone appeared able to read minds. "I don't know if she's a mind reader," one woman exclaimed, "but she sure can hear some of the things you're thinking. Maybe they have to be loud thoughts--something like that. She tried to hide it but she's psychic all right!"

"Oh, Mandy Stone," Vance sighed, gazing at the haunted look on her face as the camera had captured her hurrying off the wharf. "I feel for you. I really do."

Vance sat through the entire one hour news in case the broadcast added something to the item. When he was certain it was over, he rewound the tape in his machine and watched through the Brier Island story again and again. Finally he paused the image so that Mandy's face stared from the screen.

With a sigh, he left the living room and wandered to the fridge in his kitchen. Inside were a couple of pre-packaged salads, cold cuts, eggs, bread. Nothing looked enticing. He fingered a bottle of sparkling rosé that lay on its side on the bottom shelf. It had sat there for months now, waiting until he had company.

Vance slammed the fridge door and returned to stare at Mandy's image. She looked delicate, with pale skin and long, red curls. Suddenly, he was awash with the desire to meet her--she could hear loud thoughts! God, he'd waited all his life for someone like her! There had to be a hitch. She looked too perfect.

He wiped his suddenly-moist palms down the side of his jeans. Damn Mandy Stone--she'd brought back all the memories of other times he had tried to reach out to someone like himself. It never worked.

He paced across his Persian carpet anxiously, finally stopping at the book shelf. There had to be something there to distract him. But the writing on the bindings blurred. He blinked hard, trying to suppress the acute loneliness welling up inside him. His eyes flicked back to the silent television screen.

The phone shrilled. Thankful for the distraction, Vance snatched it before the second ring. It was Nelson, a man he had known all his life.

"Did you see the news tonight?"

Vance snorted. "Yeah."

"Did you hear that woman say that this Mandy could hear loud thoughts? Sound familiar?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going down there?"

He knew what Nelson was getting at, but he only said, "Down where?"

"Don't play dumb. I called the Brier Island Lodge. She's staying there tonight. If you hurry, you can get there before she checks out in the morning."

"I can't. I'm closing two property deals tomorrow and I've got a conference-call discovery in the afternoon."

"Delegate them. That's what junior lawyers are for. Vance, I'm talking to you as a friend, man. You can't ignore this opportunity."

Van ran agitated fingers through his hair. "It's probably a media ploy."

"Can you take that chance?"

"I don't know . . .."

"Think about her . . . how she must feel."

Vance stared hard at his television. Suddenly the VCR's pause let go and the blares and movements of regular broadcasting obliterated Mandy's face. He shut his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with his finger tips. Nelson wanted him to think about her. Ha! That was a laugh. Vance Tollefsrud doubted that he'd ever be able to stop thinking about Mandy Stone.

CHAPTER TWO

Mandy sat in the white wicker chair she had turned to face the window, and watched the small parade of cars leaving the lodge's parking lot. She wanted to time her appearance in the restaurant so that most of the guests would be gone, but breakfast would still be available.

Her eyes felt gritty after the endless, sleepless night. The evening before she had been questioned for four long hours. Then, beneath the crisp white sheets, she replayed their questions and her own lame answers: analyzing, regretting, and agonizing over every word. Did they believe her?

Derrick Wiener loomed her biggest worry. It had seemed that whenever she stepped out of her room his smelly microphone was thrust into her face. The entire time the Mounties questioned her, she could hear the steady whine of his camera. He was like a dog snapping at her heels, biting away chunks of the shell she had built around herself to keep her secret safe.

Now outside her window there were broad sections of empty gravel. Presumably most of the lodge's guests had left. Mandy picked her room key off the television, stepped into the hallway, and locked her door.

The restaurant was almost empty. A young man leaned over a table loading dirty dishes into a large, gray basin. Two elderly women shared one table; a lone man sat at another. Derrick Wiener had his back to her as he slumped over a counter leering at a waitress. His camera was on the floor beside him.

With the forlorn hope that Derrick wouldn't notice her, Mandy scurried to a table and perched there with her back to him. She faced a window overlooking the harbor. The sky was a translucent white with the kind of mist the sun would soon burn off. Far below, a sailboat moved elegantly toward the Bay of Fundy, trailing a vee-shaped ripple over the calm water.

On the surface, Brier Island was a foggy, cold, desolate rock hours away from a decent-sized town. The winters on this isolated tip had to be horrific--pounded by the North Atlantic, icy winds scouring the plants and animals that clung to its barren granite. And yet . . . the very things that made the island hard, made it beautiful. If you could hack living here in the winter and working your fingers raw at the fish plant, you could hack anything. The scenery was jaw-drop stunning, and, to top it off, the whales returned every spring.

Could Brier Island be the home Mandy searched for? Perhaps she could open a school so the children wouldn't have to take a cold ferry ride to the mainland every morning. The hardy locals, used to the miracles of the whales, might accept her mind-reading ability with aplomb. On the other hand, they might not.

A waitress appeared at Mandy's elbow. "Good morning, Miss Stone. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee while you help yourself to the buffet?"

Mandy doubted that the staff knew the names of all their guests. She felt notorious. "Tea, please. But the buffet . . .?"

She hesitated and glanced surreptitiously toward the counter. Derrick Wiener looked her way, smirking.

The waitress said, "You're afraid that reporter's going to bother you?"

Mandy nodded. "May I take a tray back to my room?"

"Sure. I'll go get one."

Mandy inhaled deeply, pushed back her chair, and started toward the buffet. She felt Derrick Wiener approach. Her own arms squeezed close to her sides as though she could make herself smaller, less of a target.

"Morning, Mandy."

"Mr. Wiener."

"Do you think Benjamin Waller will reward you for saving his life?"

She didn't even check to see if he had his microphone out. "He thanked me last night."

"With a gift?"

"No, of course not." Mandy concentrated on filling a little bowl with fruit.

"What did the cops say about your special ability to read minds?"

She swung on him. "I don't have any-- Listen . . . I'm trying to have a quiet breakfast here. Please, just leave me in peace."

"If I do, will you grant me an interview in your room later?" I can think of a number of things I'd like to do in your room.

Mandy hid her reaction at hearing his lewd thoughts, but her mind seethed with disgust. The waitress returned holding a tray with a small metal teapot, a china cup, and a pitcher of cream. Mandy smiled gratefully at her, loaded her cereal and fruit onto it, and took the tray.

The reporter stepped in front of her. "Excuse me," Mandy said, trying to maneuver around him.

"Will you grant me an interview in your room later?"

"No, I won't! Now let me by."

"Were you born a psychic?"

"Leave me alone!"

He thrust his microphone into her face. "What kind of advantages--"

Mandy jerked away, upending her tray. The dishes slid toward the floor. She scrambled to check them, caught the scalding teapot in her bare hand, yelped, and dropped everything. The crash reverberated.

"Oh Hell!" she cried, clutching at her throbbing hand.

The reporter crowded closer, stepped over the mess, and said, "You must be able to get away with all sorts of crooked--"

"Get away from me!" Mandy cried.

"We can do this easy," he sneered, "or we can do this hard." He squeezed her shoulder and licked his lips.

Mandy jerked her knee up hard between his legs. He gasped and bent double, his hands cupping his crushed groin.

Take that, you creep! She backed warily away from him, afraid that at any moment he would lash out at her.

"Good for you!"

Mandy glanced around at the words. A man stood, fists on his hips, glaring at Derrick Wiener like the reporter was a piece of floating sewer. Then he turned his intense eyes to her. They were the same color as the faded denim shirt he wore.

"Yes, well," she stammered, "he deserved it."

The man smiled ruefully, but kept his gaze on her face. "He sure did."

When he took her elbow and guided her away from Derrick, who made rude noises as he tried to straighten, Mandy found herself going willingly.

"I hope you'll accept my apology," he said, his eyes flicking toward Derrick. "I wasn't paying attention. At first, I thought you two were together. I should have come forward."

"No, not at all," Mandy said, wishing she could sit down. Her knees felt weak.

She found herself at the blond stranger's table. When he pulled a chair out, she sank into it gratefully.

"Please," he said, "let me make it up to you by buying you breakfast."

She flinched at a sound from the buffet table, but it was just the busboy clearing away the spilled tray. Derrick Wiener limped to the counter, scooped up his camera, and headed out the door. Mandy let out her breath with a long sigh. Boy, she was glad to see the back of him.

Abruptly, she realized that the stranger still stared at her. She quickly marshaled her thoughts. "You have nothing to apologize for. Thank you, but I'm capable of looking after myself."

He chuckled. "Oh my . . . that was sexist of me. Just because you're a beautiful, young woman, it doesn't mean you need some oaf like me running to the rescue. Sorry."

His long, blond eyelashes lowered and his cheeks flushed. He looked so adorably embarrassed, Mandy felt herself warming to him. As a matter of fact, she couldn't tear her eyes from his face. There was something about him . . . something. It wasn't only his good looks. The sensuous way his cheeks moved when he talked left her enthralled. His features were craggy and imperfect but he was so very attractive.

Oh boy, I better snap out of it.

"He's a reporter," she said, tilting her head in the direction Derrick had taken.

The man's eyes widened. "Are you famous? I'm sorry, I don't recognize you."

"Famous?" She waved that frightening thought away. "No, I was . . . on the cruise yesterday."

"The attempted murder!" Suddenly he straightened in his seat and stuck out his hand. "Excuse my manners. My name's Van Tollefsrud."

"I'm Mandy Stone."

"You were on the boat? Do you mind talking about it?"

"No, not really." Moments ago, she would have said she was definitely sick of the topic, but Van seemed so sincere she told him the story, keeping clear of everyone's suspicions about her mind-reading ability.

"That guy must be really flipped."

"Yes! Apparently he tried to kill a different biologist before. He believes the whales told him they don't like being spied upon."

"It's frightening, the things that will send some people off the deep end. It's lucky you were on board."

"Anyone would have done the same thing," she said, shrugging. Anyone who can read minds, that is.

Van Tollefsrud abruptly turned his face to stare toward the harbor. His brows hooded his eyes. Mandy felt uncomfortable, like she had touched a nerve in him, perhaps a painful memory. She better beat a hasty retreat before she made a complete fool of herself.

"You've already eaten. I'll just . . . ah . . .. It was nice to meet you."

"No please," he said, covering her hand with his own. "By all means, visit the buffet, but sit with me. I have all day, and I'm enjoying your company."

He was even more handsome when he smiled, his straight teeth brilliantly white against his tanned skin. "You're not booked to whalewatch this morning?" If so, he'd be in a hurry to leave.

He shook his head. "Perhaps tomorrow."

"Well then," she said, tucking her hair behind an ear, "I'll just go pick up something." As she rose, she remembered the spilt tray and went immediately to the staff to apologize for the mess.

As soon as Mandy turned away, Van padded his forehead and upper lip with his napkin. He had thought her pretty when he saw her on the evening news, but in the flesh, she was exquisite. Her smooth skin glowed satiny pale, almost translucent, so that when she blushed the color raced from her high cheekbones to the tip of her pert little nose. And her hair! On television it had looked red, but in reality each strand seemed a different color--dark russet, burnished gold, cheerful pumpkin.

And her eyes! Green! Only once before had he seen that green. It was the color of coral shimmering through the clear, icy waters of a small bay where he once gone scuba diving.

She so overwhelmed him, his usually sharp brain felt dull and unmanageable. But that wouldn't do! He needed to keep alert! He had to watch everything he said and thought. Van suspected that he had been waiting all his life to meet Mandy Stone, so he had no intention of letting her escape.

The waitress appeared with a tray and two pots of tea.

"Miss Stone's sitting here now?" she asked.

He nodded.

Lucky broad, she thought. "I'm sorry for the . . . scene earlier."

He waved the apology away. "That wasn't the restaurant's fault."

"I've brought you another pot of tea." She unloaded the tray with slow, careful movements.

"That was very thoughtful. Thank you."

"I know you checked in really late last night, so I'm wondering if you know about the attempted assassination?"

"Yes, she was just telling me about it."

The waitress hovered, clearly anxious to talk about Mandy's psychic ability. Vance concentrated on pouring milk into his cup hoping that she'd feel dismissed. The waitress hesitated a moment, then left.

Mandy returned to the table with a smile on her face.

"What's the joke?" Van asked, liking the two dimples on her cheeks.

She slipped into her seat. "I was thinking about the way I kneed that reporter. I've never done that before."

Van crossed his legs protectively. "It seemed effective."

"Only, I've probably made an enemy for life." She frowned. Hope he's not outside ready to pounce on me.

"Listen," Van said, "I don't know if you've got plans for the day, but I'd be happy to escort you." She looked startled so he rushed to add, "I thought I'd go check out the bird sanctuary on the other side of the island."

"There's a lighthouse too. Red and white stripes, like a candy cane."

"Good photo opportunities." Please come with me. I won't let anyone hurt you.

Mandy heard his emphatic thoughts and smiled into her tea cup. What an incredibly sweet guy! Even if she wasn't afraid of being alone in case Derrick turned up again, she'd want to spend time with Van.

The main door opened bringing in an aroma sweet with wildflowers and tangy with fresh ocean breezes. Two men entered. Mandy heard one of them stop at the desk to ask for two rooms. The other lingered there briefly, scooped up an assortment of brochures, then strode into the dining room. He passed close by, then stopped to gaze out the picture windows. His broad shoulders rose and fell under his burgundy leather blazer. Mandy had the feeling that he was gulping in the view. He dropped his head back so that his straight black hair, shiny as satin, reached his shoulders.

He was still facing away from her when she heard the words, Beautiful, isn't it?

Did he think that or did he speak the words? Van didn't respond, so she assumed that the newcomer hadn't spoken aloud. But then he turned and raised his expressive eyebrows obviously expecting an answer.

"Beautiful," she stammered.

He had a dramatic way of moving as though he wore a majestic black cape, and he appeared both confident and happy, a combination that Mandy found attractive.

"I live in cities," he explained in a thick, slightly Mediterranean accent. "The only sky I see is discolored with pollution." He thrust his hand forward. "Harold Mederios."

"I'm Mandy Stone," she said, a bit unnerved by his forwardness. "And this is Van . . .." She couldn't remember his last name.

"Van Tollefsrud."

Harold indicated an empty chair. "May I?" he asked.

Mandy nodded. Who is this guy? He looked like an actor--a wealthy, handsome, slightly eccentric actor--but she didn't recognize his face or name.

"Have you two been staying at the Brier Island Lodge for long?"

He looked at Mandy as he spoke so she said, "I just spent my second night. But Van?"

Van looked put-out. "I checked in last night. What brings you to Westport, Mr. Mederios?"

"Harold, please. I came for the whalewatching, of course. And you?"

A frown flicked across his face. "Vacation. I'm planning to take in the whales, too. Perhaps charter the schooner."

"You're not . . .," Harold looked from Van to Mandy, ". . . traveling together?"

"No," she said, "We've only just met."

"Ah. Must be a companionable atmosphere here. I like that. Perhaps we can see some of the sights as a group?" He shuffled through the brochures. "Is this the schooner you spoke of chartering?"

Van glanced at his hand. "Yes, it is."

As the two men discussed the sailing boat, Mandy pondered why she felt so odd, so cut adrift. It wasn't because she sat with two strangers. She had, by necessity, done a lot of traveling in her life and had always found it easy to make friends. Perhaps it was just that these men were both strikingly handsome. She nibbled on her fruit.

"I see that my room is ready," Harold said, looking toward the desk toward his companion who waited there. "I would be honored if both of you would agree to be my guests for dinner this evening?"

"Thank you," Mandy said quickly, "But I'm not planning to stay over another night."

"Lunch then? Say 1 o'clock?"

For some unfathomable reason, she looked at Van before she answered, "Thank you, but I really can't . . .."

"Sorry," Van said, with a puzzled tone. "We've made plans."

As Harold walked away, Vance stared at his back. He looked spooked. Mandy wondered if something was wrong. She poured the last of her tea from the pot and raised the cup to her lips. It tasted lukewarm and bitter. She set it back onto the saucer with a rattle.

"I'm going to go and check out now," she said.

"We're still on for this morning?" he asked anxiously.

"Uh huh. It'll just take me a minute, I've already packed."

They agreed to meet in the parking lot. Back in her room, Mandy glanced at the clock on the bedside table. A lot had happened in the previous twenty-four hours. She saw a splendid whale, stopped an assassin, was grilled by the police, kneed an obnoxious reporter, and met two fascinating men. No wonder she felt off kilter.

A few minutes later, she found Van waiting beside the open passenger door of a Jeep station wagon. He seemed deep in thought so she felt free to study him as she approached. Van Tollefsrud was a handsome man carrying a lot of worries. He didn't wear a wedding band and, like her, appeared to be traveling alone. Perhaps he was recently divorced? Maybe he was gay? That would account for his odd reaction to Harold Mederios, but not for his robust sex appeal. Funny, she hadn't gleaned much from his surface-thoughts.

Suddenly, she felt struck with a realization that made the hairs on her forearms lift. Van had an emphatic thought only once during the entire time they sat together. That was exceptionally rare, especially for a first-time encounter. In her experience, people getting to know one other are nervous and, consequently, rehearse what they plan to say. She heard those words--those surface-thoughts. Van didn't rehearse at all. And Mandy, who was used to being able to read other people's intentions, found that frightening.

Uh oh! I said I'd spend the morning with him. How am I going to get out of this?

CHAPTER THREE

Van didn't have to hear Mandy's thoughts to know she regretted agreeing to spend the day with him. She had the most expressive face he'd ever seen.

Anxious to set her at ease, he asked, "Would you like to take my car or yours? Or should we take both?"

Mandy immediately stopped wringing her hands. "Oh, gosh," she said, "Maybe we should take them both."

"Sure. I just have to run back inside for a second. I asked them to put together a small picnic for us."

She tilted her head and smiled slightly. "What a good idea."

There were two plastic grocery bags waiting for him on the restaurant counter. Van paid for them, hoisted them under his arms, and jogged back to the parking lot. Mandy sat on his passenger seat.

"Hope you don't mind," she said, displaying her endearing dimples, "I decided it was silly to take two cars. Is that okay with you?"

"Sure is!"

Van caught himself just in time--he had been about to surface-think something about clearing another hurdle. It took a lot of effort to control his thoughts. He'd probably have a blistering headache by the end of the day.

The picnic clattered when he set it on the floor in the back seat.

"Doesn't that sound intriguing?" he said as he climbed behind the wheel.

"You didn't select it?"

"I asked them to surprise me. It's probably leftovers from last night's menu. Pickled fish and cold mashed potatoes."

Her tinkling laugh filled his car, and suddenly he found himself joining in. He couldn't remember when he'd last guffawed like that. It was a little frightening, actually, to lose control spontaneously. And he wasn't proud of the noise his rusty pipes made either; halfway between a laugh and a snort.

He drove carefully down the steep drive, braking to a full stop at the bottom, his turning signal ticking obediently. Brier was a small island. The cluster of houses and fishing shacks had a paved road along the water's edge but the other roads were dirt, hardly more than tracks. "You've been to Brier Island before?" Mandy asked.

Vance turned confidently up a hill. "Once, a few years ago."

"Do you live in Nova Scotia?"

He nodded. "Halifax. And you?"

"I've just rented a flat there."

He glanced to the passenger seat. "Where were you before?"

"Last year, Toronto. The year before that, Vancouver. I move around." Her hands squeezed the fabric of the woven bag on her lap.

"Are you in the army?"

She smiled. "No. I teach business at the community college--vocational school--level. But I move a lot because I only accept one-year-term positions."

"Why's that?"

She shrugged and turned her face to the window at her right. "Oh, I like to move around."

"So, you've been in Toronto and Vancouver. Anywhere else?"

"I started teaching in Windsor, Ontario. Went to Moose Jaw after that."

"How do you hear about these one-year jobs?"

"I have a very good friend who's high up in the Ontario School Board. She gets the other boards to send her copies of the openings they post." Geeze, that sounds almost crooked. She quickly asked, "What do you do?"

"I'm a lawyer. I graduated from Law School in Halifax and stayed there." Afraid that the tone of his voice sounded like he disapproved of her choice of lifestyle, he added, "I admire your ability to move around. I'm too much of a stick in the mud."

I don't have much choice.

Van concentrated on turning a sharp corner just as he heard Mandy's words so he didn't have a chance to look at her lips. As usual, he pretended he hadn't heard anything. He had always felt it safer to appear rude or inattentive than to risk revealing his ability to hear thoughts.

A few minutes outside the village the road got narrower, bumpier, and bordered by rough scrub, brambles and alders.

"Not many big trees, are there?"

"Too exposed, I guess," Van said. "Being exposed stunts your growth."

He released his foot from the accelerator so he could look at Mandy, but apparently she didn't read anything strange in his comment.

No wonder she looked so haunted. She left her thoughts open to exposure all the time. He, on the other hand, learned long ago that there are always ways to hide.

"Oh, look at that!"

Mandy's voice brought his chin up. They had reached the far side of the island where a cement lighthouse, painted in thick stripes of red and white, stood in a commanding position overlooking the ocean. He pulled the vehicle into the highest area of the parking lot.

The tide was out. To the right of the lighthouse a crescent beach, gray sand and shale, was being picked over by dozens of seagulls. On the left, massive rock formations, some hundreds of feet high, dominated the coast. Van climbed out of the car and fetched his binoculars and camera from the back seat. Then he hurried to catch up to Mandy. She jogged to a high mound of granite beside the lighthouse and stopped. The view for miles on either side was breathtaking.

A white haze lingered over the horizon and the steel-blue water poked fingers of inlets into the gray coastline. Van breathed in air so crisp and clean it tingled the skin in his nostrils. It felt refreshing enough to open up brain cells clogged by years of city pollution.

After five silent minutes, they ran pell-mell down the sharp incline, and up and over the mammoth rocks. Like a young boy, Van leapt from ledge to ledge and across gaping cracks. Sun glinted off the water. Wind ruffled his hair. Occasionally he sighted Mandy, off on her own exploration, looking happy and carefree. He searched for treasures washed in, and for caves scrubbed smooth by the abrasive action of the tide. The time passed quickly.

Somewhere to his left he heard Mandy's happy squeal. He bound toward her, zigzagging, watching his feet, making bone-jarring leaps.

"Crabs! Lots of them!" Mandy exclaimed, her arm elbow-deep in a tidal pool.

Van knelt beside her, rolled up his sleeves, and plunged his hands into the icy water. A tiny crab made valiant pinching motions with his claws.

"Poor trapped things. Hope the tide'll cover this pool," he blurted.

"Sure it will! Bay of Fundy has the highest tides in the world."

"Further up the Bay, yes."

She sat back, shaking the water off her hands. "See the high water mark on the rocks? Eight or ten hours from now this spot will be submerged."

He chuckled at the notion that he had been worried about crabs. What a softy! His clients and co-workers would never have believed it.

The two sat in the cup-like crevice, out of the wind, and baked in the late-summer sun. Van stretched full length, careful to stay clear of the water, and propped his head on his arm. Mandy leaned back on a rock, eyes closed. As comfortable as she was, she did no surface-level thinking.

Van realized that this was the perfect opportunity to test her; to make certain that she could hear intense thoughts. Once he was assured of her ability, he could decide whether or not to tell her about himself. First, he had to be absolutely certain that she would keep his secret forever. So much could go awry if he chose to expose himself to the wrong sort of person.

Mandy's eyes popped open. "Did you hear that?"

Van felt his own eyes widen. Had he been surface- thinking? "Hear what?"

"Voices. Someone's coming."

She scrambled to her feet and he followed reluctantly.

As soon as Mandy's head rose over the brow of the rocks, a male voice called out.

"Well, hello there! Isn't this a coincidence."

"Hi!" she said, then turned to explain to Van, "It's Harold from the lodge."

Trying to keep the annoyed shadow from his face, he climbed up beside her. Harold, the show-off, didn't even look at his feet as he sprang from boulder to boulder. His friend trudged along behind him. Mandy smiled. She didn't appear to be the least bit peeved about the intrusion.

Van, noticing that Harold had changed his footwear, had a spontaneous thought, He must keep extra shoes in his trunk. He immediately glanced at Mandy and saw her look at Harold's burgundy leather sneakers.

"I'm glad we ran into each other," Harold said as they made their way back toward the lighthouse. "I've had a good piece of luck and I'd like to share it with you--Oh! You haven't met Mitch, my assistant."

Apparently, Mitch didn't have a last name. "I'm Van Tollefsrud," he said, holding out his hand. "And this is Mandy Stone."

Mitch, a burly and somber man, nodded to Mandy and shook Van's hand abruptly. They'd arrived at a steep area and Harold took Mandy's elbow to help her up. Van gritted his teeth.

Harold continued, "I checked on that schooner you mentioned and, as luck would have it, the people who had booked it for this evening just canceled out. I took the booking. Naturally, I want you two to come as my guests. We'll eat dinner on board and have an evening cruise."

"Oh," Mandy exclaimed, "That sounds exquisite, but I didn't plan to stay--"

"Please stay," Harold begged. "I took the liberty of reserving your room for you for another day--no cost to you. It's supposed to be a clear night, full moon. The whales are bound to be cavorting. How can you refuse me?" He spread his arms wide.

"Well . . . I really didn't have anything to get back to."

"It's final then. We'll meet you in the lodge at seven."

She looked flushed, and her eyelashes fluttered prettily on her high cheekbones. Van felt a welling panic. He couldn't lose her to this rich buffoon. Not after all these years of being alone. What were the chances of finding another woman with the ability? Zero!

He swallowed his pride and marshaled a friendly voice. "This is very generous of you, Harold. Thank you."

"Not at all!" Harold slapped him on the back. "I was stealing your idea, after all. I only hope you're not angry with me."

He shrugged it off.

A half hour later, Van and Mandy were alone again. Harold and Mitch had arrived like a whirlwind, blew around the rock formations and lighthouse, ogled the scenery, and abruptly left.

Van, hands jammed in his jean's pockets, eyed the rear of the luxury car as it disappeared down the dirt track. He felt extremely ambivalent about Harold Mederios. On the one hand, Harold was polite about running into them and tactful about not overstaying his welcome. On the other hand, it was rather much of a coincidence that he turned up here at all. Why wasn't he whale-watching or deep-sea fishing?

"He's a friendly man, isn't he?"

Won't take no for an answer, Mandy thought. But she said, "Outgoing, anyway."

"I suppose if you have that much money, it doesn't seem such a big thing to you to invite perfect strangers on a cruise."

Maybe it's a cultural thing. "He doesn't sound Canadian."

"What do you suppose that accent is?"

Mandy shrugged.

As they turned away from the lighthouse, Van wanted to hold her hand, but he didn't feel he could simply reach out and take it so he composed a surface-thought; Wish I could hold her hand.

Mandy veered toward the car. "Let's get that picnic out."

She waited until he drew along side her, then brushed the back of her fingers against his. He seized the opportunity and clutched her hand snugly. A rush of emotions billowed--fear, joy, anticipation, and a little guilt. It was all so confusing.

Although Harold's visit broke the magical feeling Van had been experiencing, the rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly. Sitting on a dizzy precipice, they ate a meal of cold cuts, cheese, and rolls, and drank red wine from glass goblets. Van shot a dozen photographs of Mandy. She blushed to her roots.

By the time they returned to the lodge, Van was thoroughly convinced that Mandy could hear emphatic thoughts. He cautioned himself to go slowly, to keep the knowledge to himself. He had a lot to lose. If the truth about his ability ever became public, his life would no longer be his own. He'd be dissected and analyzed like a monkey bred for science. No one would relax in his company.

No, he couldn't take an unwarranted risk. He lived carefully, like a man crawling on all fours over paper-thin glass. Any moment, he could crash through.

Also, Vance needed to sort out his own reactions to Mandy. The physical attraction, the overwhelming need to touch her, was almost painful in its intensity. It worried him. His groin tightened at even the thought that her shoulder might brush his. Did this sensuality of hers affect everyone, or just him?

He had never believed in auras, at least, not in the way occultists described them. But what else could account for the awareness he had of her even without looking in her direction? It was akin to smell. When Mandy neared he wanted to close his eyes and inhale her presence.

And that, he warned himself, was reason enough to beware.

The parking lot had filled again so he pulled into an opening further up the drive and they walked down the rough gravel to the main doors. An oily smell of a deep-fat fryer wafted from the restaurant vent.

"I'm going to take a nap," Mandy said, hoisting the strap of her bag higher up her shoulder. "All that fresh air . . .."

Van agreed. He was feeling the beginning of a sunburn pinching his face. "I really enjoyed today." He held the door open.

"Me too. Oh!"

Derrick Wiener blocked their way. Quickly, Van pushed in front of Mandy so she had a path to the registration desk and her room key. She ran.

"Excuse me," Derrick said, apparently letting Mandy escape. "My name's--"

"I know your name."

"I wonder if I could ask you a few--"

"Not at present," Van snapped. He stepped through the hall door, but the reporter stayed on his heel.

"Could I have an appointment for later?"

"Oh hell," Van mumbled. The guy was obnoxious, but being antagonistic wouldn't serve any purpose. "I know you're just trying to do your job, but you were extremely rude to Ms Stone this morning."

"Yeah, I handled that poorly," Derrick said, shuffling his feet boyishly. "I'd like to start over with her."

"That's not going to happen. I suggest you chalk this up to experience and move on."

Derrick straightened his back. "That's not the way great stories are written. She can read minds, did you know that?"

Van smirked. "Oh, come on."

"How long have you known her?"

"We met this morning."

"Do you admit that there's something strange about her?"

"Not at all. She's charming."

"Can I quote you on that, Mr. . . . ?"

Van's natural caution made him hesitate. "I don't think . . .."

Derrick flipped his notepad back a few pages. "I have your name, I just want to check that I've got it right." He spelled Van's last name. "You own a law firm downtown and you live on the Northwest Arm in Halifax."

He nodded sharply. "That's correct. Now, if you'll excuse me."

The muscles clenched in the back of Van's neck. If Derrick Wiener went snooping around his life, things could get very messy. As he unlocked and entered his room, he could hear the click of the reporter's camera.

The accommodations were small but comfortable: pine walls and furniture, a double bed, and a television on the long dresser. Van sat on the edge of the bed next to the window and opened the drawer in a small table. He pulled out a cellular phone from under the Gideon Bible, stabbed in a number, and reached the car phone of his life-long friend, Nelson.

"Vance!" Nelson said enthusiastically, "What's the story? Did you meet her?"

"Yeah."

"Well?"

"She's . . . ," he rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. "She's something. I like her."

"It's true then?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"What are your chances with her?"

"Good I think. She lives in Halifax."

"Hot damn! That's great!"

"Not so fast, Nelson. There are a lot of hurdles to clear yet. I need your help."

"Anything. What can I do?"

"There's a reporter badgering her. Derrick Wiener. Works out of Halifax. Think you could find out about him?" Nelson, a policeman, had a magic touch with the force's computers.

"Sure. Anything else?"

"I'm going to see her again shortly. We've been invited on a cruise by a Harold Mederios. Name ring any bells?"

"Harold Mederios," Nelson repeated slowly, "No. Should it?"

Van shrugged. "I don't even know where he's from. He seems to be putting a lot of effort into getting to know Mandy Stone--"

"She's a beautiful woman."

"Yeah, it could be that. Or he could be from one of those government agencies looking for a psychic specimen to dissect. Check him out will you?"

"Sure. Derrick Wiener and Harold Mederios. Anything else?"

"I'm worried about the reporter. He's been asking around about me."

Nelson's voice sobered. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

"Have you told her yet?"

"God no! I barely know her."

"Listen buddy--"

Vance interrupted impatiently, "I know. I know."

"Call me on this number tonight, okay?"

"Pulling a double shift?"

"Yeah."

"I'll keep you posted. Thanks Nelson."

A movement caught his eye. He stood and stepped closer to the upper corner of the picture window. It was a bluebottle fly struggling pitifully in a torn cobweb. There was no sign of the spider--yet. He rapped on the glass with a knuckle, but couldn't shake it free.

Van contemplated going outside to scramble around the lodge to save it, but the reporter might see him and, even if he ran, it would probably be too late for the quivering blue fly.

CHAPTER FOUR

She was called the Green Hornet. Mandy couldn't figure out why. After all, the schooner's hull looked dark blue in this quickly-fading sunlight, not green.

The four of them had driven over from the lodge in Harold's car. Mandy glanced back and saw Mitch pulling a heavy basket from the trunk. She wondered if she should offer to help, but Harold and Van flanked her, so she was carried along in their wake.

"Ahoy," Harold called. "We're coming aboard."

A man's head, capped by dirty sun bleached hair, appeared out of a short door. "Hello."

"I'm Harold Mederios. We're booked for this evening."

"Of course."

Despite her state of disrepair, the Green Hornet was alive with charm. Her masts shot straight up from the deck, and taut wires splayed from their tips. What looked like rope ladders also cascaded down. Mandy stepped along the quivering gangplank.

"Welcome aboard," the man said, "I'm Mark Phinney. My brother Stan's down readying the engines."

His forearm was as hard as a piece of wood as he helped her step over the raised lip of the ship. The momentum from her jump carried her a few yards. She marveled how the deck didn't feel the same underfoot as a wharf or a sidewalk. It almost breathed. Perhaps it was because of the narrow, slightly curved planks.

The white paint on the gunnels flaked under Mandy's palm, and the deck was pale and salt bleached. She unhooked her woven bag from her shoulder and shoved it behind a large box adjacent to the mast.

"Feel free to go below," Mark said. "There's a head in the forward section beyond the galley."

"You have a beautiful ship," Mandy said, looking high past the mast where tentacles of evening fog trailed.

"Yeah," Mark agreed with a smile. "She's a good ole girl. We hope to take her down south in a couple of months and give her a splash of paint." He turned to help Mitch with the basket.

Mandy did a circle of the deck. A large wheel dominated the aft section, along with coils of hemp, and a long line of orange lifejackets. A small rowboat sat on the far side.

"Let's hope we won't need that," Vance said, joining her.

"Can you imagine crossing the ocean in one of these?"

"As a settler's ship? It must have really been an adventure." He smiled wistfully at the thought.

The other brother, Stan Phinney, climbed up from below and introduced himself to everyone. Then he leapt ashore to untie the lines while Mark punched on the engines. They putted backward for a bit, then made a smooth circle away from the dock. Another motor pulled the sails up the masts. Soon the white surfaces billowed with wind. The engines cut. The schooner leaned slightly and surged forward.

Oh God, this is wonderful! Mandy threw her head back with an exhilarated laugh. The wind whistled through her hair. A fine salt spray filled her lungs.

When Harold appeared at her elbow with a heavy lead goblet of red wine, she thanked him and took a sip. The wine was rich and strong. Delicious.

Vance returned carrying a glass himself. "You're chilled," he said, draping a sweater over her shoulders.

Following Harold's gaze, she noted the sharp peaks of her breasts through her shirt. She shrugged on the sweater and wrapped it across the front. The thick, hand-knit cotton smelled slightly of aftershave and retained the warmth of Vance's skin. Later, she would fetch her own jacket from her bag. For now, she felt too cozy.

"It seems like a big boat for two men to handle," she said.

Vance nodded. "They'll be occupied all right."

"Just as well," Harold added. "This is a private party. As a matter of fact, I'll ask Mitch to bring around the hors d'oeuvres now."

Van, Mandy, and Harold sat Indian-style--cross-legged--on the raised deck and ate shrimp with dip, assorted tiny canapés, and washed it all down with rich red wine. The fresh air seemed to enrich the food's taste.

By now they had cleared land and sailed deep into the ocean. Occasionally, the wind buffeted high above, but mostly the sound was a steady whoosh of the sails, and a rich hiss of water against hull.

Mandy realized, as she stood and started toward the companionway leading to the head, that she was tipsy. She balanced herself with her right hand on the gunnels thinking, No more wine for you Miss Stone.

Suddenly, Vance took her left hand. She realized, by its steady warmth, that she was chilled. He wore only a short-sleeved shirt. "This is fun, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Sure is."

"I mustn't forget to take pictures."

She slipped her own hand free and veered off toward her bag. Her arms tingled with the cold when she pulled Vance's sweater off and returned it to him. She tugged her own fleece top over her head. Then, before she had a chance to do it herself, Vance slid his hand around her neck to release her hair. The intimate gesture surprised and pleased her. She didn't know how to react.

Harold stood a few feet away. Watching.

Mandy felt suddenly struck with an unsettling notion. Vance and Harold, although different on the surface, shared something . . . something eerie. Were they pretending that they didn't know each other? Maybe they lured hapless and trusting women away every year on their vacation.

Here I am, on a ship far from shore with five men I don't know. Her chest constricted. Her breathing grew shallower.

Vance was speaking to her, "You did double check that the lodge has your reservation for tonight, didn't you?"

She gaped at him. "Huh?"

"I confirmed that my room was still there when we were in the reception area waiting for Harold. Remember? When we told the staff what we were doing tonight."

"Oh, yes." That's true. Lots of people know where I am. I'm just being silly.

"Stay there," she commanded. She pushed at Vance's arm. "You go beside him." Mandy swung up her camera and caught the two men in her viewfinder.

Phew, what a couple of hunks.

Harold and Vance led the way down the hatch to the galley. When she lurched in the doorway and flung her hand to balance herself, it landed on the cold metal of a fire ax on the wall by her ear. It must have hung loosely and rattled in its clips, because someone had jammed a butter knife between it and the wall. The end of the knife was dark, burned, but the fire ax itself looked unused.

Mitch had set the table for dinner: silverware, more crystal, china plates, and a large bowl of salad. The lobster was an obvious choice, but Mandy had to wonder where he found fresh pasta on Brier Island.

The three of them settled in around the mahogany table with Mandy in the middle. Her legs each brushed a different man sending sparks of awareness spiraling through her.

Both Vance and Harold took pains to see that she was comfortable. After a while, she admitted to herself that they seemed to be vying for her attention. One would refill her glass while the other pushed a plate of food closer. It was so flattering that she waged a constant battle to keep from grinning ear to ear.

Satiated, she leaned back and closed her eyes. The wood creaked and groaned in the bulkheads. She heard her own breathing. Heard the silk in Harold's shirt as he shifted position. But she heard no surface-thoughts.

Mandy wasn't alarmed. They had had a few drinks. Their bellies were full. There was no reason for anyone to be anything but comfortable. Surface-thoughts required intense emotions. Usually.

Still . . . she opened her eyes.

Flash--Harold shot her picture.

Without taking his eyes from Mandy's face, he handed the camera to Vance and reached for her hand. "Let's go see if the whales want to come out to play."

CHAPTER FIVE

Mandy winced at the bitter taste of her coffee and set the Styrofoam cup down. She had just collected the photos of her Brier Island vacation from the mall's one-hour photo finishing service, and she itched to look at them. A quick glance at her watch showed she had a few minutes.

She'd only been back in the city one day, but already Brier Island seemed like a dream. Could those two men be as fascinating and handsome as she remembered? She slid her fingertips under the red envelope's flap, opened it, and pulled the photos free.

The first half-dozen shots were taken on board the whalewatching cruise. An unpleasant feeling washed over her as she flicked through them. She stopped. Now that she knew who they were--they interviewed her at the Brier Island Lodge--it was easy to pick out the two undercover police officers from among the crowd shots.

Oh yuck, Derrick Wiener with his dreaded video camera. She held the photo by the corner as though it crawled with lice.

Then she came across one of Van Tollefsrud, that blond Adonis, posed beside the red and white lighthouse. Yes, he was a handsome devil. Mandy and Van had made plans to get together on Saturday night--only thirty-six hours away. Just thinking about him made her want to grin. She put his picture aside. The next three shots fell short of depicting the beauty and immenseness of the rock formations, but looking at them, Mandy could almost smell the brine and seaweed.

The remaining pictures she had taken during her last evening on Brier Island: Vance and Harold Mederios standing on the deck of the schooner with the remains of the sunset behind them; Harold, his smoldering black eyes peering mysteriously as he popped the champagne; Mandy holding a fire ax over the side, pretending she was fighting off a malicious whale; the three of them in the wardroom, arms draped across shoulders looking as though they'd been friends for years, not hours.

Mandy glanced at her watch. Time to go. She squared up the pile of pictures and slid them back into the envelope. Then dropped her coffee cup in the garbage and left.

She reached the West End Community College in plenty of time and stopped at the front desk. "My name's Mandy Stone. I had a message on my machine asking me to meet with Mr. Strickland at 2."

The receptionist looked uncomfortable. "They're waiting in the meeting room. Do you know the way?"

Mandy nodded. She shifted her briefcase to her other hand and wiped her palm on her skirt front. Interviews always made her nervous but, she reminded herself, she'd already had the interview and been accepted for the position. They probably wanted to see her about taking over as coach for the cheerleading team, or something of that sort.

The three men stopped talking when she entered, but they avoided looking her in the eye. Something's wrong. Mandy's smile froze on her face. She straightened her spine and held her hand out to shake the principal's.

There was a lot of huffing and hawing as she settled in at the large, round table.

"Well," Mandy tried in a cheery voice, "Is everything ready for school to start on Tuesday?"

The principal, Mr. Strickland, cleared his throat. "Miss Stone, I'm afraid we can't offer you the term position."

Mandy felt the blood drain from her head. She gripped the handles of her chair. "You can't offer me the position? But you already have offered it to me."

"That's not true. There were no papers signed."

"Mr. Strickland, you offered it to me by telephone over a month ago. You've given me a tour of my classroom. You most certainly have offered me the job."

"I'm sorry you had that impression."

"You introduced me to these two men as the replacement computer instructor." Mandy stared at the other two silent men, both vice-principals. "Isn't that so, gentlemen?"

She heard the man on her right think, Oh God, I hate this.

Mandy looked pointedly at him and repeated, "Isn't that so?"

"Well . . . I think there's been . . . ah . . . some sort of mix up."

Mandy took three calming breaths. She'd worked in enough schools to know the ropes. Something had happened. These men were trying to cover their asses.

"If there's been a mix up, I would appreciate it if you would set it straight. On your good word, I moved to Halifax and rented a flat. I expect you to honor your commitment."

A thin form of moisture had formed on Mr. Strickland's upper lip. "I don't appreciate your tone, Miss Stone."

Ms. Stone, Ms. Mandy hated the term, Miss--what business was it of his if she was married or not--but she didn't correct him.

"Mr. Strickland," she said firmly, "if you're going to rescind your offer--."

"I never made an offer."

"--the least you can do is tell me why."

"I never made the offer to you."

"Mr. Strickland!" Mandy barked, then she lowered her voice. Her parched mouth barely worked. "I have witnesses. I was on the speaker-phone in the office of my friend, Marjorie Wentworth, when you told me I had the job!"

He blanched. "Marjorie Wentworth?"

"The head of the Ontario Board."

The vice-principal on her right stared fixedly at the principal. Tell her. For God's sake man, tell her.

Mandy turned to him. "Why is he doing this?"

His adam's apple bobbed before he said, "That thing you did on the whalewatching trip."

Mandy barked a laugh. "I foiled an assassination attempt."

"People said you could read minds."

She lunged to her feet. "Oh for heaven's sake! You can't believe that. A couple of people on a news broadcast . . .. What can you be thinking! I saved a man's life and you're firing me!"

"We've had phone calls from parents."

Parents of Community College students? I doubt that. "Who? Tell me names. I'll call and assure them."

His face darkened, "I don't think that would be appropriate."

"You can't fire me because--."

"I'm not firing you," he shouted, "I never made the damn offer!"

Mandy slammed her palm on the table. "That's a lie and you know it. Give me one good reason why I can't teach here. One logical reason, and I won't sue you for breach of contract."

"We had no contract."

"We had a verbal contract."

The three men exchanged looks. She's right. There's no way I'm going to tell her. Damn, we're sunk.

She stood there, shaking, waiting. Finally the principal packed up his papers, walked a wide circle around Mandy, and left. His two yes-men quickly followed.

Gritting her teeth, breathing heavily through her nose, she stomped from the room. She stood in the hall disoriented, looking left then right, feeling like throttling someone. Suddenly she heard--That's right, fume girl, fume.

Slowly, everything still but her head, Mandy turned. Derrick Wiener crouched low, his camera at his eye. She squinted, shooting forks of stabbing hate through that lens, through the eye pressed to it, through the brain. The camera lowered. Derrick's mouth opened, fear widened his eyes. Still squatting, he stumbled backward, caught himself, stood and ran down the hall.

Mandy felt like charging after him, but instead she marched from the school, yanked open her car door, and threw her briefcase in the back seat. How dare he! How dare they! What kind of superstitious, egotistical, sniveling little pricks . . ..

By the time she'd reached her flat on Victoria Road in the South End of Halifax, the full impact of what had just happened hit her. She had barely enough money in the bank to carry her for six weeks. There was a one year lease on her apartment, first and last months paid in advance. The Visa bill from her Brier Island trip, the car loan, phone, heat, lights--all loomed.

By rote, she filled the kettle, plugged it in, and ran hot water to heat the tea pot. A massive headache throbbed at the base of her skull. Just as she reached into the fridge for milk, she remembered she had planned to stop for some on the way home. No milk.

Mandy sank onto a kitchen chair, dropped her head onto her arms on the table, and sobbed. The unfairness of it all! She never asked for this ability. Neither did she thrust it upon other people--as soon as they became aware of it, she moved away. Now even running didn't work.

She had started running early in life. Grade ten. That was when her family moved from a small village to a larger Ontario town where she entered senior high. It was a fresh start. There were hundreds of teenagers there who didn't know her and, therefore, didn't think her an outcast.

Robby Peterson caught her eye the first day of classes. He sat one row over and two seats up. They started going together at the September student council dance. She wore his ring, a big agate stone, on a chain around her neck. Sometimes during class, he'd drop his chin to his chest and tilt his face so she could look into his eyes without the teacher knowing. He had beautiful long lashes and chocolate brown eyes.

Mandy had always been a good student. As long as she paid attention during class, she didn't have to study too much at home. But given a choice between concentrating on a teacher's droning voice or gazing into Robby's smoldering eyes, Robby's eyes won every time. He loved her as much as she loved him. For three months, she floated on a pillow of joy.

By the time Christmas exams arrived, she could think of nothing but Robby. Her text book pages blurred the instant she opened them. On the morning of the history exam, she flipped over the stapled papers on her desk top and barely recognized the names printed there. She knew nothing. Nothing. Sick with anxiety, she panicked.

She stared at Robby's profile. He, like all her classmates, was surface-thinking furiously. Robby, she could see by the pencil poised over the page, was on number four. She reread that question. Blocking out all others, she listened to his thoughts, and she wrote what he wrote.

The next day, her happy world burst. She and Robby were ordered to the principal's office where they were both accused of cheating. Mandy swore that it was her fault, not Robby's, but it was decided that she couldn't have seen his answers from where she sat. He must have passed them to her. They were both given a zero for the exam and suspended from all extracurricular school activities for the rest of the year.

And Robby hated her. He said he suspected she was weird before, and now he knew. He never wanted to see her again. Snarling, he yanked the chain from around her neck. His beautiful agate ring landed with a crack on the floor.

Mandy had run all the way home. Her mother found her sobbing on her bed. But instead of giving her comfort, she had slapped Mandy's face screaming, "You're nothing but trouble! Because of you, I have no friends. You're a worthless piece of garbage. Get out of my sight."

Mandy did. She ran away to her aunt's house in Toronto. The high school there was huge, like a city within a city. Mandy kept to herself. She tried hide her special talent. And it worked, for a year or so . . ..

Other than university, she never again stayed in a school longer than one year. Now, she had to leave before the year even started. It was so unfair.

By the time the phone rang a half hour later, she had settled into a dazed slump, staring unseeingly at the pattern in the oak table. She plodded to the phone, picked up the receiver and mumbled, "Hello?"

"Mandy, this is Harold Mederios."

"Hello Harold."

"Is there something wrong? You sound like you've got a cold."

"I'm . . . having some trouble with the school where I came to teach." She didn't feel she knew him well enough to deposit her problems at his feet. Besides, explaining everything might bring on a fresh bout of tears.

"You want to talk about it?"

She rested her forehead on the wall next to the phone and closed her eyes. "Thanks, but not really."

"Listen, I know this is last minute, but I thought we could get together tonight?"

"Maybe another time. I'm not very good company at present."

"What you need to do is get out, forget your troubles or, if you can't do that, I can be a good listener."

"That's very kind of you, but--."

"No buts. I'm new in town. I'm lonely. Let's get together and commiserate."

"You won't like me like this."

"I can't imagine you doing anything that could keep me from liking you. Pick you up at 7?"

Mandy's arguments grew more and more feeble until she finally agreed. She hung up the phone feeling much better. Perhaps Harold would be able to give her some advice. Then she shook her head ruefully. Just because the man was rich, didn't mean he would know all the ins and outs of her legal problem. What was it? Wrongful dismissal? Breach of contract? She couldn't let them get away with this. On the other hand, did she really want to go through a court appearance where the defense claimed she could read minds? No, but it wouldn't go that far.

She checked that her doors were locked then ran herself a long, hot bath. As she lounged there, chin deep in bubbles, she reflected on the telephone conversation. Harold Mederios was really very sweet in his abrupt, take-charge way. Van, on the other hand, was sweet in a cautious, reticent way. What did it matter? She didn't have a job, so she couldn't afford to stay in Halifax. Goodbye Van. Goodbye Harold. She cupped a handful of bubbles and blew them asunder.

That evening she dressed with great care in silk trousers with a soft, matching blouse, and heels high enough to make anything look dressy. Consequently, she felt inconspicuous as she walked through the restaurant beside the elegant Harold Mederios. He wore a gray suit made from a fabric with a slight sheen. His hair was held back in an elastic so, from the front, it looked short. He reeked of money and taste. Eyes followed him from the moment they entered until Harold guided her through the door of the private dining room.

"You look lovely this evening," he said as he held the chair for her.

"Thank you," she responded. "How did you hear about this place?"

She peered around at the ballooned valences over the windows, the dark wallpaper and tiffany lampshades. It was a small room, perhaps fifteen feet by fifteen feet, but vast considering that theirs was the only table. She had visions of rich men escorting their expensive paramours to a clandestine dinner at this same table.

"I asked around."

The waiter slipped cloth-bound menus in front of them and lingered nearby while Harold chose appetizers and wine. First dates were so uncomfortable. When the silence dragged, Mandy slipped the envelope of photographs from her small clutch bag. He glanced at them with a frown which cleared quickly, then he raised in eyebrows in question.

"I had them done this morning," Mandy said, suddenly embarrassed for bringing them out in this elegant surrounding. It wasn't as if they were beautiful photography . . ..

But Harold, looking enthusiastic, slid his chair around the small table so he sat with his shoulder near to hers. He scooped up the photos, tilting each toward a lamp as he studied it.

"I thought Van silly when he suggested you hold that fire ax like that, but now that I see the picture, I see the zany appeal of it. I'd very much like a copy of this, may I?"

"Take it," Mandy said, pushing it over to him.

"Oh no, I couldn't take your only copy."

"I have the negatives. Take it."

He slipped the photo into a satin-lined pocket inside his jacket, then he pointed at a scene of a half-dozen men. "Are there any shots of the would-be assassin?"

She shook her head. "No, he only came out of hiding at the last moment."

"The news said you heard the assassin thinking about the kill."

Mandy glanced away, her face heating. "I didn't realize you'd seen that broadcast."

"That's why I went to Brier Island."

She gaped at him. "What!"

"Please forgive me, Mandy, for deceiving you, but I recognized, by what the witnesses said, that you have the same ability as I have."

She pulled back, her face hardening in shock.

He continued, "I was desperate to meet you, to tell you that you're not alone."

I don't believe this! she thought stunned.

"Believe it."

Her hands flew to her mouth. He read my mind!

"Not your mind, exactly, the thoughts you form at the front of your brain. Is it that way for you too?"

"Oh my God! Yes! Yes! I'm not a mind reader, I'm a thought reader."

"Me too."

She felt overwhelmed. Tears sprung to her eyes. She tried to swipe them away. "I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd ever meet someone else who . . . who . . .." She choked on the words.

"I call them up-front thoughts. They have to be forceful thoughts, clear, vigorous words."

Mandy reached blindly for his hands and squeezed them. "That's it! You do it too? I can't believe it. I've been alone, running . . .."

He trailed his hands up her arms to her shoulders. "I know," he said emotionally, "I've been searching for you forever. I almost gave up hope."

"For me?"

"For someone who could understand me."

Suddenly they were clutching each other. Mandy ran her hands over his back assuring herself that he was real. He was warm and hard and he understood. But, when he kissed her forehead, she stilled, not wanting this to turn sexual. Then she realized that he'd know about her discomfort because he could hear her thoughts. She could hear his--wait! I can't remember ever reading his thoughts.

"I've been cloaking them," he explained, obviously having heard her. I've listened to enough of other people's thoughts to know I didn't want to go around polluting the earth with my own pitiful ones.

"You did that on purpose," she said, amazed. "How do you turn it on and off like that."

"It just takes practice."

"Will you teach me?"

"Of course," he hesitated, "although I love the way your up-front thoughts are so spontaneous. I'd hate to see you grow calculating."

"If you've been cloaking your own thoughts, how did you know I could read them?"

"That first time I saw you, in the restaurant, do you remember I stood with my back to you and admired the water?" She nodded. "I thought those words about the view being beautiful. You repeated the word, beautiful."

She chuckled. "I did, didn't I. Van must have thought I was out of my mind."

"Perhaps."

"Why did you wait until now to tell me?"

"I needed to get you alone. Vance Tollefsrud was always hanging around. And I knew . . . guessed it would be an emotional confession."

Mandy laughed ruefully and shook her head. "I can't believe this. What a day!"

The waiter appeared with the wine, and a white towel draped over his left arm. Harold spoke to him in a language foreign to Mandy.

"Italian?" she asked.

Harold shook his head. "Spanish."

The waiter went through the ritual of removing the cork for Harold to sniff. Then he poured a thimble-full into the goblet. Harold studied the legs draining down the sides of the glass then raised it to his lips.

We can talk without anyone else knowing.

Holy Christ! Mandy felt the blood rush to her face. She almost never swore aloud--but that wasn't aloud. But Harold could hear it. He could hear . . . everything! Feeling a welling panic, she blurted, "You have to teach me about that up-front thinking, about cloaking it."

Harold pulled her hand to his lips, which were still moist with red wine, and kissed the back of her fingers. "I'll do that and more."

She ignored the prickles of warning that crept up her spine. "There's so much I want to ask you."

"We have lots of time." He swung his arm in a wide arc. "We have forever."

CHAPTER SIX

Saturday morning Mandy's eyes popped open the instant she remembered that Harold Mederios could read emphatic thoughts. She pulled her spare pillow into her arms and clutched it like a teddy bear.

Another consideration dampened her euphoria. She didn't have a job.

She glanced at her clock and realized she'd slept in--no small wonder considering how worked-up she'd been the night before. After Harold dropped her off she paced the floor wringing her hands. With excitement, not anxiety.

Even now she felt a desperate need to talk to someone. Mandy shifted to a sitting position, pulled her bedside phone onto her lap, and dialed. Her friend answered on the first ring.

"I knew you'd be up," Mandy said. Relief at hearing the familiar voice washed over her. A dear friend, Marjorie Wentworth was like a Mother Confessor to Mandy. She knew all her secrets and foibles.

"Of course I'm up. I'm not lazy like someone I could mention. How are you?"

"I feel like a top that keeps spinning and spinning." She swung a pointed finger in the air.

"Ready for the first day of school?"

"No, that's one of the reasons I'm calling. The school took back their offer."

"What!" Marjorie snapped. "They can't do that!"

"Not legally or morally, but they did."

"Why?" she squealed.

"They said they'd had calls from angry parents who heard I could read minds. That's a pile of you-know-what, but it's what they told me."

"Oh my God! Mandy, I'm so sorry. What happened?"

Mandy told her the whole story, starting with the whalewatching cruise and ending at her evening with fellow thought-reader, Harold Mederios. "So you see," she finished, "something good came out of it."

"He admitted it to you? Holy mackerel! This is marvelous. What's he like?"

Mandy listed Harold's characteristics, "He's kind and handsome and rich. He has these eyes that just won't let you go. They're mesmerizing."

"And he can read thoughts," Marjorie finished. "He sounds like the catch of the century. You must be thrilled."

"I am," Mandy said slowly, "or at least, I would be if I could stay here in Halifax."

Marjorie sighed. "But you don't have a job."

"Right. Those creeps . . .."

"Let me get on the blow horn. We can't let them get away with that. You were hired out and out. I heard it myself."

Mandy slid further down in her bed. "After last night . . .. Now that I know someone else has my ability, the job thing seems like a puny consideration."

"Hey," Marjorie said reasonably, "Jesus himself would have to work for a living if he arrived here today."

Mandy laughed. "I don't know what I can do."

"For starters, you can sue the two-faced pricks."

"Think I should go see a lawyer? Oh! I just had a thought. I met a lawyer this week. In fact, I have a date with him tonight. I'll ask him what I should do. The only thing is, I can't afford to hire someone."

"Hold off on hiring him. I'll call a few people. Too bad this is the long weekend, I might not be able to get any results until Tuesday."

"Marjorie, I don't know what to think. I'm not sure I want to work at that school now, even if we could force them to hire me. I had words with the principal and vice-principals, if you know what I mean."

"You can't afford not to work. Unless, of course, you marry this rich Harold guy and he supports you in a life of luxury."

"No one said anything about marriage!" Mandy joked. Then she nibbled on her thumb nail. "Please do call your contacts. You're right, I can't afford not to work."

"I bet you don't want to leave the East Coast either."

"You mean because Harold lives here? He doesn't, really. He's here on business. Normally he lives in Toronto."

"Oh, goodie. If you two end up together you'll be near me."

Mandy laughed. "You crack me up! I only met the man a few days ago. True, he probably wants to like me as much as I want to like him. It would be wonderful to live with someone who has the same ability. But that's as far as it's gone."

"Did you say you've got a date with a lawyer tonight?"

"Uh huh," Mandy said, "Van Tollefsrud. I met him at Brier Island. He's gorgeous!"

"Oh no! Don't go falling in love with him just when you meet someone as perfect as this Harold guy."

"Stop acting like my mother. It is funny though, isn't it? I met two interesting men on the same weekend. Never rains but it pours."

"Mandy, this long distance call will cost you a fortune. Let me call you back. I want to hear all about the lawyer too."

"You don't have to do that. I'm not broke yet."

"No, but you will be if we don't clear up this business. As a matter of fact, I won't get back to you until this afternoon. Maybe by then I'll have something to report."

"You're a good friend, Marjorie. Thank you."

"You can repay me by telling me all about these men. That's how I get my kicks, you know. Living vicariously through you."

Laughing, she said, "If that's true, you have my pity."

Although she was an attractive woman in her early forties, Marjorie didn't have much of a love life. Widowed a decade earlier, she seemed content to keep to her circle of close friends. As she replaced the telephone receiver, Mandy felt grateful to be included in that circle.

The day dragged slowly. Mandy had intended to get her course materials together and to press her work clothes, but that now seemed a waste of time.

Shortly after six, the front door chimed. Mandy, who had been in her bedroom getting ready for her date, jerked to a stand and glanced at her clock. Van wasn't due this early. The bell sounded again. She pulled on her white terry robe and, tying the sash, hurried to the door.

Although Mandy lived in a nice neighborhood, the ratty downtown area was a short fifteen minute walk away. So, just to be on the safe side, she slid the chain into its slot before pulling the door ajar.

"Harold!" she cried at the sight of him standing on her top step. "Just a minute."

She shut the door and fumbled with the lock. Then, after running her fingers to fluff her hair, she opened it wide.

He looked apologetic. "I should have telephoned first."

And given me time to get dressed. Mandy felt her face color. "Come in, please."

Harold passed by her. As he openly studied her apartment, she straightened the front of her robe then swooped over to clear newspapers off a wing chair.

"These apartments have such wonderful high ceilings," he said, eyeing the molding between her living room and kitchen. He stooped to peer through the window--grimy on the outside--to look at the street one floor below.

"I'll just be a second," Mandy said, waving toward her bedroom. "Make yourself at home."

He acted as though he'd just noticed that she wasn't dressed. "I've barged in, I'm sorry," he said with an apologetic tilt of his head.

Was he really sorry? Mandy couldn't tell because he cloaked his thoughts. She mumbled, "That's okay," and ducked into her bedroom.

Earlier she had draped the outfit she planned to wear that night across her bed. It was the same slacks and top she had worn with Harold the previous evening. So, with a frown, she turned to the closet for something else. She pulled her jeans and t-shirt on over her hose and camisole. The denim chafed against the silk, setting her teeth on edge.

Back in the living room Harold was on his haunches reading the titles of her record albums. "You favor the blues," he said over his shoulder.

"It's just a random selection. When I hear something I like on the radio or somewhere, I buy it."

"No CD?" He indicated her beat-off record player and speakers.

"No, I'm purely old tech."

"The compact disk sound is exceptional."

"So they say. Can I get you a cup of tea?" She cringed at the stilted inflection in her own voice.

"Are you sure you have time? You looked like you were getting ready to go out."

"I am going out to dinner." She shrugged. "But I've got time for tea. He's picking me up at seven."

Harold stood slowly, his face hard. "Who is?"

Mandy looked away. "Vance Tollefsrud. I'll just put the kettle on."

Harold followed her and leaned on the doorjamb. His broad shoulders blocked the light from the living room windows. "You're a popular girl."

He sounded so strange, Mandy turned from the sink thinking, I'm frightened.

Harold immediately straightened. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry. I do that to people." He slipped onto a wooden chair and put his hands, palms up, on the table.

Of course, he'd heard her thoughts. She felt immediately contrite. "It's my fault. I'm such a coward."

He shook his head. "I guess I felt like we were old friends because we share the gift."

She nodded in understanding. "And old friends can drop in anytime."

"I'd like us to feel that way about each other."

"So would I," Mandy said with a heartfelt sigh. Boy, could she ever use a friend.

She plugged the kettle in and sat across the table from him. The kitchen had been one of the things she liked about this flat. Wainscoting circled the bottom half of the walls and white-painted cupboards went all the way up to the high ceiling. But Harold dwarfed the place, making it look cramped and cheap.

He leaned forward. "I rushed over here today because I've had a wonderful thought. You know I've only got a temporary setup here in Halifax. Mitch and I are scouting out investment properties. It's a long-term plan . . .," he said, waving his hand as though it were insignificant. "But a tremendous opportunity has presented itself. To take advantage of it, I need an office and staff. I need you."

"Me?" She flattened her palm on her chest.

"Yes. You have a degree in business, don't you?"

"Yes, an MBA, but I'm a teacher now."

"Those who can, do," he quoted. "Those who can't, teach."

That stung. "I'm a good teacher."

"I'm sure you are. But I think I know why you teach. You've had some bad times because of your thought-reading ability and, consequently, you've moved from place to place."

Mandy had told him about how the school had reneged on their offer. "It suited me, until now."

"But if you work for me, your gift will be an advantage, not a disadvantage."

What if we have a relationship? She felt uncomfortable about working for, rather than with, Harold.

Once again, he read her thoughts. "I'm hoping we will have a relationship. I'm hoping that this investment will profit us, not just me." He went on to describe an extremely generous salary and benefits package.

Suddenly Mandy wondered why she hesitated. She was desperately in need of a job and Harold offered one which, a few days earlier, she would have thought a dream-come-true. "I'd love to take the job, Harold. Thank you."

"Wonderful!" He stood and pulled up her hand until she was on her feet, enfolded in a hug.

Her arms circled his waist and her cheek snuggled against his hard chest. It had been a long time since someone held her. Too long. She felt soft and pliable.

"Let's go out and celebrate!"

She pulled back reluctantly. "I can't tonight."

"Oh yes, Vance." A muscle twitched in his cheek.

"We can get together in the morning for brunch?"

"I have a better idea. You phone Vance and cancel."

The kettle shrilled so she turned away to unplug it. "I can't do that. Besides, he's probably already left his place."

"Then give me your key. I'll go out and pick up some champagne and be waiting here when you come home."

She didn't know what to say to that. Why did it feel wrong? With her hands busy getting the tea service organized, she thought furiously. It's my first date with Van. He won't expect it to be a late one. I'll make it up to him another time.

When she swung around to answer, she shuddered. Harold's eyes smoldered storm clouds. She'd forgotten he could read her thoughts. What was she just thinking? Something angered him. Caught between analyzing her own thoughts, and realizing that he could hear her, she flustered. Her hands grew damp. Her heart pounded. The heat crept up her throat to her face.

Finally she licked her lips and stammered, "Okay, I . . . I'll-- After supper, I'll ask Vance to take me right home."

At exactly seven, Van pulled his Jeep to the curb and put it in park. He dipped his head low to double-check the numbers on the house. It was hers all right. He smiled, pleased with what he saw. The two-story Victorian home had a lot a charm from the scalloped-shaped shingles to the fieldstone flower boxes. A postage-sized front lawn, immaculately pruned, was surrounded by bright yellow flowers.

Mandy had told him she had the upper flat and to knock on the entrance to the left. But she must have been waiting for him because, as he opened the driver's door, she stepped onto the front porch. He slipped from the car and hurried around to the sidewalk.

Oh, so pretty, he thought. She wore a soft blouse that draped tantalizingly over her small breasts. When his eyes trailed to her high heels, he glanced down at his own beige cotton trousers and deck shoes. Are these clothes too casual?

"Gosh, it's nice to see you," he said, placing a hand on her forearm and bending to kiss her cheek.

"You're very prompt," she said with a smile that reached her eyes. "It's exactly seven."

"My friends say I'm compulsive." And anal retentive.

The moment she chuckled, he remembered that she could read his thoughts. As he moved around to his side of the vehicle he wondered if he should just come out and tell her the truth. He liked her very much. She seemed to like him. However his rational, logical mind told him to take it slow. What's the rush?

"Do you like jazz?" he asked, slipping behind the wheel.

As long as it has a melody. "Some jazz."

"Dixieland?"

"Love it."

"There's an outdoor concert down in Historic Properties. I thought we'd have a meal then go and catch the end of it."

"That sounds fun, but I . . . ah . . . I have to make an early night of it."

He pulled to a stop at the red light and studied her profile. Something bothered her. "If you'd rather do something else?"

"No, that sounds fun, it really does." She seemed to make a conscious effort to relax. Her hands opened on her lap. "I've heard of this Historic Properties. What is it, exactly?"

"Fifteen or twenty years ago the waterfront in Halifax was dark and rundown--like a slum. The City bought up a big section and rebuilt or restored the buildings so they're now like they were in the seventeen hundreds. Shops, restaurants, bars. It's grown steadily."

"I haven't had much time to explore the city."

"Are you all settled in now?"

"The apartment's fine, but I had a setback yesterday." She told him about her interview at the Community College.

"Do you mean to tell me," he said, the anger making his words more enunciated, "that they hired you, induced you to move to Nova Scotia, then changed their minds?"

She nodded. "Incredible, isn't it? Of all the positions I've had, this has never happened to me before. I thought their word was their bond."

"What they're doing is out-and-out wrong," he growled. "With your permission, I'm going to call those boys, give them a little lesson in labor law."

"It's okay," she said hurriedly. "It's actually worked out for the best. I've got a new job."

His eyebrows shot up. "That was quick!"

"I told Harold Mederios and he asked me to work for him."

Harold Mederios. The hair stood up on the back of Van's neck. He mumbled a noncommittal sound and concentrated on sliding his truck into a parking spot in the open lot by the harbor. With meticulous care, he kept his own thoughts from wandering to the surface of his mind where she could hear them.

Mandy, oblivious to his withdrawal, continued happily, "I haven't got all the details yet, but he's paying twice what I would have earned at the school."

"That sounds too good to be true," he blurted. To cover his blunder, he jumped out of the vehicle and hurried to her door. "Did you bring a sweater? The breeze off the water can be pretty nippy. Maybe I should drive you around to the door and then park?"

"I'm fine."

The breeze might not be cool, but she certainly was. Vance could hear her silent argument: Just because you have a stable, well-paying job doesn't give you the right . . .. He kept silent, letting her fume until she ran out of steam. Inside the restaurant, they sat at a small round table next to floor-to-ceiling windows. Once he'd stopped focusing on Mandy's reflection on the glass, he could see the water beyond. The breeze picked up the top of the waves giving them a white, foam curl. And further out in the harbor a brightly-lit ferry slowly moved forward.

"Nice view," Mandy said.

"I never grow tired of looking at water."

"Is that why you stayed in Halifax after you graduated?" she asked.

"That's partially why." The decision to stay in Halifax was really based on the fact that he could more easily hide his special ability in a large city.

He felt a bit peeved when her heard her surface-think something about being in a hurry. She opened the menu and her eyes flicked up and down the pages. Finally she looked up.

"You don't suppose all this great seafood had something to do with your decision to stay here?"

He shook his head. "One can grow tired of lobster every night."

She feigned astonishment. "Now I know you're not a real Maritimer!"

Throughout the meal, they chatted easily about the city and about his work. Finally, after the waiter carted away their dirty dishes and refilled their wine glasses, Van broached the topic of Mandy's new job.

"What will you be doing for Harold?" His own turn of phrase made him cringe.

"I haven't been given the job description yet, but it's administrative. He's an investment broker."

Van nodded. "I asked around a bit about him."

"Oh? What did you learn?"

How do I put this? "He's very wealthy," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "That's a given. He lives in Toronto, but he owns homes in a few other places. He, um, doesn't have a reputation for honesty."

"Bah! I expect that's what people say about all successful businessmen. Take you, for instance. You're a lawyer. People think lawyers are crooks. But you're not a crook." Are you?

She jumped to Harold's defense so quickly that Van's spirits sagged. "Do you think you'll enjoy working with him?"

"Oh, yes!" It's going to be a tremendous relief.

She was so adamant. Something had happened. "Why are you so sure?"

Because he reads thoughts too! "We understand each other."

Van choked on the wine he had been sipping. He coughed into his napkin. When the implication of what he'd heard hit him, his heart pounded wildly. He covered it up easily enough by acting as though he still choked, but he felt devastated. Harold could read surface-thoughts! He must have, like Van, seen last week's news story and traveled down to meet her.

He had let himself hope that Mandy was the one woman in the world who would accept him and love him regardless of his thought-reading skill. He believed that their shared gift would cement their relationship.

God, what a fool I was to hope.

"Are you all right," Mandy asked, her face full of concern.

"Yes, I'm sorry, please excuse me." He cleared his throat. "Mandy, there are a couple of things I really think I should tell you."

She sat back with suspicion filling her eyes. "About Harold?"

"Harold and a couple of other things." She obviously didn't want to hear anything bad about him.

"Go on," she said, shifting in her chair to look out the window.

"I don't want to ruin our evening, but I'd never forgive myself if I didn't warn you. Harold Mederios's name is linked with organized crime."

She turned her disappointed eyes onto him. Is that the best you can do? "Has he ever been to prison? Charged with any crime?"

He shook his head. "No, not that I know of."

"So it's hearsay, rumors." He conceded that it was. "I'll judge him for myself, thank you."

The waiter, oblivious to the tension at the table, wandered over and asked, "Did you enjoy your meal? Can I interest you in the dessert menu?" Mandy shook her head, no. "Perhaps an Irish coffee?"

"No thank you."

Mandy lifted the linen napkin from her lap, folded it, and placed it beside her wine glass. When the waiter left, she raised her green eyes.

"There was something else you wanted to tell me?" she asked in a subdued voice.

This wasn't the right time or place. "There's a boardwalk along the water," he said, indicating where it was with a tilt of his head. "Could we take a stroll along there where we can talk in private?"

She took a moment to answer. He watched her reflection in the window, her pert nose, the way she licked her lips, considering. She thought something about not wanting Harold to get angry, but he couldn't understand what she meant.

Finally she said, "I have to get home early tonight."

Van caught her eyes with his own gaze. "You don't want to hear anything bad about Harold Mederios because it'll take the wind out of your sails."

"Is that so unusual?" she asked emphatically. "I've accepted the job. I have to take the job. I need the money. And besides, there are things about him . . . about me . . you can't possibly understand."

He reached across the table and clasped her wrist. "Try me."

She dropped her gaze. "Maybe someday. Not now."

"You'll see me again?" he asked, hating the plaintive note to his voice. She nodded. At least she wasn't cutting him out all together.

"Van, I haven't been very good company this evening. I have a lot on my mind. Would you please take me home now? I'll make it up to you another evening, I promise."

What choice do I have? "I'm going to hold you to that promise."

Van settled the bill. They stepped out into the cool night air and headed, over the cobblestone sidewalks, toward the parking lot. Van draped his arm across her back and she relaxed beside him, matching her steps with his own.

When they reached the passenger door of his Jeep he let her go reluctantly. The glow from the widely-spaced street lights played on the gold and red highlights of her hair. He smoothed it with the back of two fingers, wanting to cup her head, to tilt her face, to kiss her. Just for an instant, she sagged against him. All too quickly the moment passed.

He ached with tenderness toward her. She seemed anxious to get home and concerned about something or someone waiting there, but her surface thoughts were too rattled to be coherent. He felt like a voyeur listening to them.

"Mandy," he said huskily, "I want to tell you something, but first I need to know that you'll keep this confidential."

She frowned. "All right."

"I mean forever. You can't tell anyone." Not even Harold.

She issued a soft scoff. "Perhaps you shouldn't burden me with this secret."

He turned away, intending to leave it at that, but something made him blurt, "I can hear surface-thoughts too."

"Oh my God," she moaned. "Is that true?" Can I believe this?

"Yes. Last week, on the six o'clock news, I listened to these people. Two men and a woman. The reporter, Derrick Wiener, described what you--."

"I know. I've heard all about it." She wrapped her arms across her chest and took agitated footsteps toward the shoreline. "It said I can hear loud thoughts."

"That description. Hear loud thoughts. It sounds just like me," Van said, desperate to set things right. "My friend Nelson called and . . .. You see, I've never had a serious relationship with a woman. Nelson thought that if I could meet someone else with this . . . this thing, that I would be, I don't know, happier. Not that I'm not happy now, it's just that he's married and he thinks everyone should be." God, I'm rambling like an idiot.

"That's why Harold went to Brier Island too," she said in a dazed voice. "He also saw that broadcast."

She faced the water, her head tilted down as though to study the slight waves washing against the boulders. He moved around to see her expression. She looked ghostly pale.

"This is too much," she whispered. "Too much."

It's like a bloody convention. He nodded his head. "Can Harold's sidekick hear thoughts too?"

"Mitch? No." She shivered. "How many of us are there?"

"You're the first person with exactly the same ability that I've ever heard of, and I've been looking all my life."

"And now there are three of us. What are we?"

"I don't know."

She sniffed and lifted her chin. "When I was little, I believed I was the spawn of an alien."

He snickered. "I've considered that too."

Carefully holding out a hand to keep a balance among the shadowy rocks, Mandy made her way down the incline and sat on the edge of a boulder. Van perched where he could still see the glistening in her eyes.

"You heard me thinking about Harold having the ability," she said. "You listened to my thoughts."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

He nodded. "So we know there are at least three of us. Has he mentioned anyone else?"

"No. You've never run into another person like us?"

He shook his head. "A couple of people with telepathy, but no one exactly like us."

"Once, in Toronto, a woman followed me around for weeks. She said she could hear thoughts. But she frightened me. I never let her in."

"In your head you mean?"

She snorted. "I couldn't keep her out of my head. She was creepy. I didn't like her." So I moved away.

"I'm not sure I would have had the strength to keep her away. It seems so important to me to know that other people are . . .."

She finished his words, "Like you."

"So, what did Harold say? Does he know anyone else?"

"I don't think so, but I didn't really have a chance to ask him."

"I've heard he collects--," he stopped, suddenly aware of the implication of that word, "That he seeks out psychics."

"You don't want me to tell him about you. Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No. No it isn't. He's been alone too. He understands the need to hide our ability."

"I don't trust him."

She looked pensive, her face turned toward the water so he saw in silhouette the way her brow furrowed. "I will tell him."

"Mandy!" he cried, deeply hurt.

She sat up straight and put her hands flat on her knees. "Not on purpose! How do you expect me to hide my thoughts! Why did you tell me if you didn't want Harold to know?" She scooped up a handful of pebbles and threw them hard into the water.

"This is one thought you can't let surface."

"Where do you two get off! This cloaking business--how did you learn it? Why did you learn it? Did you guys assume someone would be out there listening to you?"

Apparently Harold also hid his thoughts. "Not really. You must have had a best friend? Didn't you tell her when you could or couldn't hear her?"

"I suppose I did," she conceded.

"It's only fair, isn't it?" he pressed. "Otherwise you could hear some things that she didn't want you to hear. My friend Nelson can switch between the two at will."

"The two what?"

"Types of thoughts. Surface and deep. I get a headache if I do it for too long."

She thought about that. "I do admit that there is a difference between general thinking, and those emphatic, forceful thoughts I have--like silent arguments, or rehearsing words before I say them. But I never expected someone else could hear mine."

"I did."

"That seems bloody paranoid! And besides, these surface-thoughts--as you call them--are beneficial. It's a way a person can work out frustration, think through problems, any number of things."

"Hey, I don't like hiding them," he said, holding his hands up. "But I always figured if I could hear them, maybe someone else could. It was mostly an intellectual exercise--a way I could understand what Nelson had to do. Then I met you and I wanted to be sure of you before I exposed myself. So naturally I took some care."

"Harold calls it cloaking them."

"You're convinced he has the same ability? He can read surface-thoughts? Is there anything else he can do?"

"I don't think so. He's," she said slowly for emphasis, "extremely anxious to know someone else with the gift."

"Just like me."

"And me." Then why am I mad at Van?

"Even so, I wish you would try to keep my secret from him. Practice hiding your surface-thoughts."

"Oh Van, I'll try. But I don't think you need to worry about him. Harold's discreet." She tilted the face of her watch toward the light. "Oh, I better go. We'll talk about it again, okay?"

They didn't speak much during the short ride to Victoria Road. Van fretted that he'd made a mistake by telling her. But, he asked himself, what choice did he have? He couldn't go through his life wondering if he'd lost his only chance at finding a soul mate.

"Don't bother walking me to the door," she said, shifting to give him a peck on the cheek. "You'll call me?"

"Of course."

"I feel overwhelmed, as though I haven't slept in weeks."

"You'll try to keep this from Harold? Give me a few days to check him out?"

"I'll do my best."

He watched her until she had her door unlocked and was safely inside, then he leaned over so he could see when the lights went on upstairs. A soft lamplight already glowed in the center window.

CHAPTER SEVEN

As Mandy let herself into her house, she saw the drapes twitch in one of the first floor windows. Her landlady, Mrs. MacDonald, had obviously heard the car door. Mandy didn't object to the woman's interest--it was her house after all--but she did wonder if she would say anything about tonight's comings and goings. She might object to Harold having her key.

It wasn't as though she had much choice. Harold Mederios had a way of demanding compliance to his every wish. He asked for her key. She gave it to him.

Marjorie, Mandy's best friend, often warned her against her tendency to deny things she didn't want to believe. Was she now denying the possibility that Harold could be a criminal? Van did say he had mob connections.

She knew she relied on her thought-reading ability to warn her of threats. Now two men--how many more were there?--proved that safeguard wouldn't always work. They hid their surface-thoughts. Cloaked them.

She paused at the top of the stairs. It felt embarrassingly intimate to come home to her apartment knowing a man already waited there. What did one say? Honey, I'm home?

With a turn of the wrist, the knob turned and the door swung slowly open.

Harold stood in the middle of her living room, grinning. "Hi honey, you're home."

The heat flooded to her face. Then she noticed that his eyes twinkled. He was having fun with her, not at her. The black collarless silk shirt he wore accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He had untied his hair so it hung bluntly to his shoulders, and the shadow of a beard gave him a rugged handsomeness that seemed at odds with the erect, at-attention way he stood.

She accepted his proffered glass of champagne and studied the room.

Harold had draped a white linen tablecloth--wherever did he find that?--over her round, pedestal coffee table. Two tapers of candles glowed warmly. Something else was different. She saw the stack of black components and gasped.

Harold had been watching her. "I've bought a gift in honor of our new relationship," he said.

"A CD player? For me?"

He nodded and lowered to his haunches before the components. "And a selection of blues music. Damn Right I've Got The Blues," he read the case, then added a pronounced shudder. "Not my first choice so I threw in a couple of my favorite classical pieces."

I really like Buddy Guy, Mandy thought. "This is terribly generous of you, Harold," she said, not at all sure she should accept the gift.

"I'm rich. Indulge me. Besides, you'll come to appreciate the superior sound, especially when you learn to love my choice in music."

"Oh, this is really nice of you, honestly, but--."

"You're going to say your mother told you never to accept gifts from strange men. Don't look on this as a gift, look on it as a job perk."

He brushed off his hands as though he had handled something dirty. Mandy took that as a sign that she shouldn't press the matter.

"Thank you. Thank you very much." She sipped from her tulip-shaped glass. The bubbles tickled her nose in a delightful way. "Mmmm, delicious."

After starting a soft, classical CD, Harold sauntered to the sofa and sat with his arm draped over the back. When she didn't immediately cozy in beside him, he raised one eyebrow.

"How was your date with Vance?"

Mandy started. She did not want to talk about Van because she was sure she would give away his secret. "Fine. We ate in a restaurant in Historic Properties. Have you had dinner?"

He shrugged. "I brought some cheese. It needs to be warmed."

Presented with the choice of heating the cheese or sitting beside him, she said, "I think I have some grapes to go with it." And she hurried off to the kitchen.

Her feet hurt. Mandy kicked off her heels and they skidded under the table. She'd have to get on her hands and knees to retrieve them. Not right now. No way. Not with him watching. If only she could settle down. Everything was so confused.

Alone, standing over the sink, she gave herself a stern talking to. Okay, your heart's pounding. Your hands are sweating. This is foolishness. You've got a handsome man waiting for you who obviously is attracted to you. What's the problem?

"I've been asking myself the same question," Harold answered from the doorway.

Mandy was so startled she thought her knees would give way. "Oh! Of course, you heard that. I hope you're not offended."

"On the contrary," he closed the gap between them. "I'm flattered that I make your heart pound."

She tittered, then clamped her mouth shut. Harold stood so closely that her breast brushed against him. He tilted her chin up and gave her a deep, probing kiss. She closed her eyes, trying to enjoy the kiss, but she just felt edgy. Finally, he released her.

"I'm rushing things," he offered.

"I'm sorry."

"Let's drink the champagne," he said. "And please feed me. I'm famished."

Mandy opened a large paper bag she found on the counter. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I love toasted almonds on brie. And caviar too. What fun!"

"I'm finding it very difficult not to lift your hair and kiss the back of your neck."

She was glad the dim light over the sink hid the way the hair stood up on her arms. Harold hovered over her as she prepared his snack. Knowing her best china was clean--she always washed her dishes as she unpacked them--she set them out in the living room. As she carried in the last load she heard Harold.

This place needs a fireplace.

"I expect it once had one, but someone's dry walled over it."

He stretched back on the sofa. "I love when you do that."

"What?"

"Respond to my thoughts."

"You didn't speak? Sometimes I can't tell the difference between thoughts and words. It gets me in no end of trouble."

"The safest thing to do, in that case, is to ignore what you hear unless you're sure it's spoken."

"Do you do that?"

He nodded. "Anything I hear as a whisper, I check the person's lips. Sometimes I look at them as though I want them to repeat what they've said, like I wasn't sure if I heard them say something." He lifted the last word like a question. "They usually wonder if they'd spoken out loud."

"The first couple of times I do that to them, people doubt themselves. After that, they grow suspicious of me." She knelt on the floor across the table from him and shook open a napkin. "Has it been that way for you?"

"I loathed it when I was a very young child."

She knew all about that. "Did you ever tell people?"

"About the gift? I learned by the time I went to school that it was mine and mine alone."

"And your parents?"

"Thought I was a little genius--as I was." He smiled a crooked smile, but shifted his eyes away.

"Are you close to your parents?"

"Not really," he said impassively. "My father and I have collaborated on a few business ventures."

"Do either of them have any special abilities?"

He blinked twice, cleared his throat, and said, "None like ours."

Mandy felt sure that he wanted to say more. A wave of sadness wafted from him. When he picked an invisible piece of lint from his trousers she asked, "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No," he said with a snort, "I was enough. What about you?"

"I'm an only child too." Were you lonely?

He answered her surface-thought. "I don't indulge in counterproductive self-analysis."

Mandy, feeling properly chastised, changed the topic. "Do you know any psychic people?"

He hesitated a moment. "You're the first person I've ever met who has, as far as I can tell, exactly the same gift as me."

"But what about other--?"

He interrupted. "Tell me about you. About your upbringing."

"My dad died of a heart attack when I was fourteen. Mom lives in a subdivision outside Toronto."

"Are you close?"

"No. She and I don't get along." She sighed regretfully.

"She's afraid of you, isn't she," he stated, rather than asked.

"Afraid?" She frowned. "No. She's just not comfortable with me."

"I take it neither parent had the gift?"

"Why do you keep calling it a gift? I think it's a curse."

"So you say. Properly used, it's a tremendous advantage," he said. "Well? Do they?"

"No, no special abilities."

"You sound very adamant."

She sighed, not liking the memory. "They hated when I acted weird." They punished me.

"Punished you!" He shook his head with disdain. "No wonder you've never learned to cope. I'll teach you to use the skill to your advantage." He dipped a cracker in the cheese.

Noticing only a tablespoon of liquid sat in the bottom of his glass, she picked the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket, catching the drips with a napkin, and refilled it. Harold munched slowly, watching her with a lazy smile. It almost hurt to look into his dark eyes, and yet they dragged her back to them over and over again.

"Harold, what exactly will I be doing in my new job?"

"I haven't decided. It will depend on where your strengths rest."

"Tuesday morning, what will I be doing?"

He raised one brow questioningly. "You're not coming in on Monday?"

"It's Labor Day," she said, squirming.

He shook his head. "We don't have rules like that. I've arranged to meet with the owners of a property I'm interested in purchasing. The negotiations will be a good introduction to the way I work."

That piqued her interest. "Is that the business opportunity you mentioned this afternoon?"

"Yes," he said, looking thoughtful. "I may get you to conduct the negotiations."

"Oh! I couldn't . . . that is, I'm not experienced at that sort of thing."

"I'll be thinking you through it."

"Thinking! In the same room?"

"Sure." He shrugged. "If you wish."

"That sounds fun. Tell me about the property."

"There will be plenty of time for that on Monday. I prefer to concentrate on our personal relationship at present." He patted the cushion beside him.

As she settled in, he slipped his arms around her and trailed kisses down her cheek and neck.

I've started my period.

He instantly released her. "Ah, that explains your reluctance. I was beginning to wonder if I'd chosen someone without passion."

Did you ever stop to consider . . .. Mandy had been about to surface-think something about not being attracted to him. She clamped down on it just in time. Nevertheless, Harold shot her a sharp look.

"So, you've picked up the knack of cloaking your thoughts."

"I'm starting to get the hang of it," she said, rubbing the spot on her brow where a headache throbbed.

"What was it you felt you had to hide? What did you want me to stop and consider?"

She thought fast. "Lots of people kiss without expecting to go to bed together."

"I'm not like lots of people." He looked pleased with himself.

Early Monday morning, Mandy reported for work at Harold's sumptuous hotel suite. Mitch answered the door.

"Come on in," he said. "The boss hasn't gotten back yet. He's going to take a cab from the airport."

"Where was he?"

Mitch looked startled at her question. "Toronto."

Her eyes widened. "Is Harold married?"

"Not so you'd notice."

What was that supposed to mean? Before she had a chance to question him further, Mitch led her to a desk piled high with thin booklets and file folders. A portable file box sat open on the mahogany coffee table.

"The boss wants you to go through this stuff. Get acquainted with his business."

She picked up a buff-colored folder. It was a business prospectus. "What do you do for Mederios Industries, Mitch?"

I'm a bullet-stopper, he thought. Then he spoke aloud, "I'm Mr. Mederios's personal assistant." Although he wore a suit and tie, Mitch looked like a bodyguard rather than a business associate.

"What time are the people coming about the property he wants to buy?"

"Three. I'm supposed to tell you to be sure to read the stuff in that leather folder."

Mandy glanced at it, squinted, then reached for the folder. The legal-sized case, in soft cream-colored leather, had her name inscribed on it in tiny, gold letters. "This is beautiful," she sighed, stroking her hand over the cover. When did he have time . . .?

"Nothing but the best," Mitch said, straightening his tie. "I've got a few things to take care of. Order up coffee, or whatever."

She clutched her new folder to her breast. "Thank you, Mitch. I'll just get started here."

A half hour later she was deep in her study of Mederios Industries when she hear a keycard unlocking the suite's door. Harold, a raincoat over one arm and a heavy-looking briefcase dragging his other arm down, strode in. His straight, black hair was pulled back severely from his face and tied with a cord at his neck. He brightened when he saw her.

"Mandy, how are you getting along?"

She jumped to her feet and, because he looked so tired, took his coat from him, and headed for the closet. "Fine, thanks. Have a good trip?"

He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and opened his arms. Mandy automatically wrapped herself around him, but she couldn't bring herself to actually touch his back with her palms.

He sighed. "Of all the places where people think loudly, airports are the worst. Even in first class the noise is deafening."

"I know," Mandy said, pulling out of his embrace, "People always think emphatically when they're agitated or nervous." Like I am right now.

"There's no need to be nervous of me."

Mandy grimaced. "No offense?"

"None taken. I want to know your every thought."

She dragged her eyes from his face and looked around for something to say. "Thank you for the engraved case."

He shrugged it off. "Appearances are very important. By the way, I've brought my secretary and accountant back with me. They're checking in. I'll want you and Miss Blois to scout out a small office--a thousand feet or so. Somewhere in the downtown core."

"You're setting up a permanent office in Halifax?"

He shook his head. "Take a two-year lease. Miss Blois knows the details. When we've closed this deal, you'll be coming back to Toronto with me."

"I will?" she gasped. "But my apartment?"

"My dear," he said, cupping her cheek tenderly, "your lifestyle is about to improve a hundred fold."

But what about Van?

Harold's face immediately hardened. He squeezed her shoulder hard. "What about him?"

"Nothing," she squeaked, trying to squirm out of his clutch, "I was just thinking--."

"I'm well aware of that."

"It's just that every time I move and make new friends, I have to leave them. I just thought . . .," her voice trailed off inanely.

"That you'd finally found a place to set your roots." He relaxed and patted her shoulder. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I must be overtired."

She wanted to believe that. "Jet lag," she mumbled.

Someone tapped on the door. Mandy, taking care not to rub her shoulder where Harold had squeezed, hurried over and opened it. A tall, slender woman, wearing a tight silk dress, spike heels, and carrying a case, stood there.

"Hello," Mandy said, opening the door wider and indicating that she should pass. "You must be Ms Blois. I'm Mandy Stone."

The woman smiled, but her eyes searched the room until they settled on Harold where he leaned over a table, his back to them. "How do you do, Miss Stone."

"Please, call me Mandy."

"No," Harold interrupted without turning around, "I would prefer we kept on business-like footing here."

Mandy frowned. "All right . . . it's nice to meet you Ms Blois."

This felt more and more strange. Mandy began to wonder if she had acted too rashly in accepting Harold's job offer. On the other hand, she did need the money.

She turned to him. "What should I call you? Harold or Mr. Mederios?"

He continued to shuffle papers. "Mr. Mederios when there are other business people around, but, at times like this, Harold. After all, we're more than business associates, aren't we?"

Ms Blois sniffed and surface-thought uncharitably about Mandy's qualifications.

Harold's back stiffened. "You will afford Ms Stone every courtesy. She is, in every way, your superior."

Ms Blois's face blanched in fear. "Yes, sir. Of course."

Mandy cringed. Harold must have known that Ms Blois surface-thought those words. He used his ability to terrorize her. And she took it! What would make a person who appeared as intelligent as Ms Blois--she was a powerful man's personal secretary, after all--accept such treatment?

When Harold swung around to face them, she expected to see anger etched there. Instead, he directed a warm smile at her. "You've been reading about this afternoon's negotiations?"

"Yes," she glanced at the piles of papers she had been studying. "I'm impressed with the amount of research you've done on the present owners. Do you always do so much?"

"Always. Come on over here to the sofa and sit with me. I want to go over the numbers," he said. He draped his arm across her back, cupped the small of her waist, and pulled her so her hip pressed against him.

After a moment of studying Mandy's face, he turned to his secretary. "Miss Blois, please order up some cappuccino and ask Mr. Reichman to join us." He explained to Mandy, "John Reichman's my accountant. He'll want your tax information and the like."

You look even more beautiful in a business suit.

Mandy tried not to look coy as she responded, And you look very handsome. She glanced toward Miss Blois self-consciously.

She can't hear us.

It seems rude.

Harold laughed, delighted with her. "You are adorable."

They both stiffened as Ms Blois, unaware that they could hear her, swore silently.

The next afternoon, as she entered the rented conference room for the negotiations, Mandy felt awash with doubts. On the one hand, Harold treated her with unrelenting reverence. He obviously cared for her--too obviously. He promised to shower her with gifts, to instruct her in the intricacies of his business, and to be her close friend. On the other hand, he assumed that she would want the things he planned, and he never consulted her. In fact, it appeared as though he intended to control her whole life.

It's just his foreign ways, she told herself. In some countries women are deferential to men. Once she felt more comfortable with Harold she'd let him know how she felt. She would.

If only she could talk to Van, to hear his admittedly-biased opinion of Harold Mederios. Luckily, Harold hadn't heard that seditious thought.

While Harold, Mandy, and John Reichman set up their reference material on the long oak table, Mitch whispered into a telephone on a credenza at one end of the room. Finally he turned.

"They're waiting downstairs."

Harold nodded. "Give us five minutes, then escort them up here."

Mitch and the accountant both left the room, closing the door behind them and leaving Mandy and Harold alone.

"I haven't told you about the bonus program."

"Bonus program?"

"You earn fifty percent of every dollar we save below that maximum purchase price I've given you." He tapped the typed page. The dollar figures written there hovered so far above Mandy's normal reference that they didn't seem real.

Her palms grew moist. "And if they won't go below our maximum?"

"We don't buy the property."

"Are they likely to?"

Harold smoothed his palm over her hair. "You know everything I know, my dear."

"Oh Harold," she cried, "I'm afraid I'm going to flub this."

He shook his head. "You'll do just fine."

"I know I studied this type of thing during my masters program, but I don't have the experience. It's a whole block of buildings! Don't you think--?"

"I think you'll be brilliant."

"But you'll jump in if I don't--."

"I have complete trust in you."

Mandy gulped. I better memorize these figures.

When the sellers arrived, Mandy and Harold rose to greet them. Eric Newton and Owan Terriau both wore dark, three-piece suits and paisley ties. They seemed, to Mandy, to be very young to be selling off a multi-million dollar property.

Harold introduced her as his associate. The look of respect they shot at her made Mandy stand taller. Also, as she shook hands with the two men, she realized that their palms were moist. They were nervous too.

Another man, introduced as Harold's lawyer, slipped into the room and sat in an unobtrusive chair against the wall. Mandy didn't want to lose her budding confidence so she barely nodded at him.

Newton unrolled a large scale drawing of the properties and noisily spread it on the table. Meanwhile, Terriau passed around photocopies of specs for the parcels of land. His fingers vibrated. As Mandy picked up the sheets and glanced at them, she felt pleased that her own hands didn't shake.

She glanced at Harold. Are they considering selling off some units and not others?

They are, but we're not buying anything but the entire block.

"Mr. Newton," she said, opening the negotiations, "I'm wondering why the city's assessment figures are so at odds to your asking price?"

"Oh, it's been years since we had an assessment."

"And this building," she tapped a nail on the blueprint drawing, "we haven't been able to locate any assessment figures?"

He scrambled in his briefcase. Hope they did a good job of doctoring this. "Here it is. Sorry, it must have gotten mixed up."

Mandy ignored his surface-thought and glanced at the figures. "Now, isn't that interesting. This property's assessment appears to be over inflated."

The man blanched. "The tax department. Go figure."

Mandy went through everything again, double checked the square footage of land, verified the right of title and current liens with Harold's lawyer, checked that there were no heritage sites included, and a number of other items. Just as she poised to make an opening offer, she heard Terriau surface-think something about betterment charges.

"Have you made any improvement to the property in recent years?" she asked. His silent groan set her nerves on edge.

"Not really. We've kept the utilities up to code, that's all," he said, shrugging.

Harold's lawyer suddenly burst forth with a silent oath. Oh my God! I didn't search the City's records for betterment charges. He lunged forward, his briefcase still on his lap, and shuffled awkwardly to Mandy's side. "Could we take a short break?"

"That's a good idea," she said sweetly. "Why don't we stretch our legs and have a coffee?" She could use a cup. Her own mouth felt thick and parched.

When the lawyer returned, he took Mandy aside and explained that Newton and Terriau had a large outstanding bill at the City of Halifax for a new sewer system installed a few years earlier. She added that to her list of liabilities--taxes owing, Bank of Canada Securities, and so on--and finalized her opening offer.

As she expected, Newton and Terriau looked disappointed and made a counter offer. The negotiations dragged on for two hours. She could tell by the way their eyes flicked to each other and by their flustered and barely fathomable surface-thoughts, when she finally approached their own cut off.

She made her final offer, put the cap back on her pen, and began to slide papers into her case.

Mederios Industries acquired the properties a hundred thousand dollars below the maximum purchase price Harold had authorized.

As Newton and Terriau left, they offered Mandy limp handshakes. "We'll have our lawyer call your lawyer."

"Closing date the first of November?"

"Fine."

"Thank you," she said, "It was good doing business with you." The door closed firmly behind them.

Suddenly, Harold let loose a jubilant whoop!

"That's my girl! Oh Mandy, I'm so proud of you!"

Five smiling faces radiated in her direction. "That went okay, didn't it?"

"Okay? You were wonderful!" Harold swung to the others. "Wasn't she spectacular?"

The accountant shook her hand. "Boy, you had them on the run."

She demurred. "It was give and take."

"The way you got them to admit to having betterment charges against them," the lawyer said, wagging his head. "Are you sure you're not some kind of investigative reporter?"

Mandy shuddered, thinking of Derrick Wiener. "Perish the thought."

The six of them crowded into the elevator and, although the voices dropped to a whisper, the tiny box buzzed with surface-thoughts. During the ride up to Harold's floor, Mandy was sure she heard Vance's name. That set her wondering about him. Wasn't he going to be surprised about her coup. And she'd have to call Marjorie right away too. It would set her friend's mind at ease to know that everything was going so well.

Champagne and hors d'oeuvres waited inside the suite.

Basking in Harold's praise, Mandy felt radiant. The adrenaline pulsed through her veins. She felt sexy and strong and beautiful. Everyone else looked beautiful too. Harold was a hunk. Another full glass of champagne appeared in her hand.

Hours passed before she realized that she had made, in one afternoon, a bonus of fifty thousand dollars. That can't be right. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she recalculated the figures and recounted the zeros. Her mouth fell open. Fifty thousand dollars!

Feeling Harold's eyes on her, she glanced up. He dipped his head slowly, his dark eyes smoldering and seductive. That's right, my love. And it's all yours.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Days after its spectacular beginning, Mandy still buzzed about her new job. It occupied all of her waking hours. She stumbled into her apartment around midnight each night, fell into bed, got up, and headed back to work.

Van Tollefsrud had left a number of messages on her machine, but it wasn't until she had a desk and a telephone of her own--really just a coffee table in one of the bedrooms in Harold's suite--that she felt she had enough privacy to call him. First Mandy dialed her own number and activated the playback on her answering machine.

The first message made her smile; "Mandy, this is Van calling on Thursday morning. I'm having a couple of friends over Friday night for a barbecue. Would you like to come? Please call me."

The second message set her teeth on edge; "Ah . . . Hello, this is Derrick Wiener. I know you don't like me much, and I don't really blame you. Sorry about all that. Listen, I've got to talk to you. I've found out some stuff about that college. You know . . . why they fired you. I think you better give me a call."

Mandy scribbled down his number and stared at it a moment. Derrick Wiener, the reporter who told the world that she could hear thoughts. She didn't trust him. Not one bit. But he couldn't hurt her over the phone, could he? And she did want to know what he meant when he said he knew the reason why the college fired her.

Okay Derrick, I'll give you another chance. After all, because of you I'm not alone. Now I'm one of three people with the ability. Who would have believed it?

Mandy punched in the number that Derrick had left and tapped her foot while it rang once, twice, three times. Suddenly, she knew that Harold watched her. She swiveled around and forced a smile. He strolled over.

"What's up?" His tone didn't ask her to explain, it demanded.

Mandy replaced the receiver. "I just got the oddest message from Derrick Wiener. Here," she said, dialing her own number again, "I'll put it on the speakerphone. It's very weird."

Remembering Van's invitation, she instantly regretted her impulse to play the recording. But it was too late to change her mind. Harold strode to the window and peered out over the Halifax Harbor. As Van's voice broadcast, his shoulders stiffened but he said nothing. When Derrick's voice sounded, Harold turned. He seemed to block everything else from his concentration as he glared at the speakerphone.

"What do you think?" Mandy asked when the line went dead.

"Have you returned his call?"

"I was doing that when you came in. No answer."

"Do you care why the school let you go?"

"Only because what they did was wrong. If I let them get away with it, who will they do it to next?"

He considered that, then dismissed it. "There's no profit in following it up. It's probably just the reporter's spurious attempt to interview you."

"Do you think?" she asked, relieved. "I really don't want to talk to him."

"Then it's all settled." Harold crossed his arms over his chest. "What about Tollefsrud's invitation?"

She had trouble looking him in the eye. "I thought I'd go," she said meekly. "We've really done all the planning we can do here. Everything else has to be done during regular business hours. There's no sense working late again tonight." I don't know why I have to ask permission.

"Mandy!" Harold declared, obviously having heard her surface-think. "I don't condone this attitude of resentment." He towered over her.

"I'm sorry," she cried. "I thought you'd object."

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel hurt. I would have appreciated an invitation too."

"Gosh, maybe if I called him--."

"I'm not about to crash a barbecue." He marched from the room.

Mandy stared after him. Was Harold angry or hurt? He was such a contradiction, she never felt on a firm footing with him. Her own reactions around Harold reminded her uncomfortably of how students acted when she tried to have personal conversations with them. It was as though they communicated on different levels, never able to meet, never able to touch, never able to overcome the artificial differences between them.

She shook aside her contemplation of Harold, picked up the phone, and called Van. He sounded so pleased that she had accepted his invitation that she grinned for five minutes after hanging up.

That evening, Mandy parked her car outside Van's with a feeling of pleasant expectation. He lived in a charming white house with dark green shutters and window boxes. It nestled close to the water of the Northwest Arm, a short drive from downtown Halifax.

Mandy strolled down the curving brick walkway. She spotted a fluffy, white kitten clinging four feet off the ground on the bark of a tall elm tree. She beckoned to it. Obviously it hadn't quite mastered the use of its scalpel-sharp claws. The kitten pried one paw off the tree at a time in a laborious descent.

Mandy carefully set the wine she'd brought on the grass, hurried across to the kitten, and scooped it up. Its purr vibrating through its entire body, it clawed its way up her blue cotton knit sweater and draped itself over her shoulder like a warm shawl.

The screen on the front door swung open. "I see you've met Hector," Van said, laughing.

"He's adorable." She pulled the kitten up to stare at the black eyes and red smudge nose. "Hello Hector."

Van stood very close to Mandy and scratched behind the kitten's ear. "He likes you."

"I have a feeling this little fellow likes everyone."

"Do you have a cat?"

"No," Mandy sighed, regret filling her voice. "I move around so much."

"Let's hope those days are over."

The kitten stayed attached to Mandy's shoulder as Van led her through his house. She had an impression of lots of multi-pane windows and pine furniture. They stopped on a deck overlooking a wide expanse of mowed lawn, a long wooden wharf, and the water. Further out a boat, its mast empty of sails, was tied to a buoy.

Two people rose when Mandy stepped into the light. "Mandy," Van said, "I'd like you to meet Nelson and Dee Smith."

"How do you do?" Mandy said, studying the couple. Nelson, stood tall and thin, and his hair looked rust-colored even in the dim light. His wife, Dee, had curly brown hair cropped short. They each wore welcoming smiles.

"Can I get you a beer? Or, I've got a bottle of rosé open?" Van asked, indicating the three bottles, not glasses, already on the table. "Or would you prefer some of this wine you've brought?"

"A glass of rosé sounds great."

He seemed inordinately pleased with her answer.

Four cushioned deck chairs circled a large round table. Apparently this was to be a small party, just the four of them. Mandy felt on display. She sat down and the kitten immediately curled up in her lap, still purring loudly.

Dee pushed a bowl of pretzels closer to Mandy. "It's hard getting over the uncomfortable part when you meet new people, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"It's especially true," Nelson agreed, "When you really want the people to like you. We really want you to like us."

That so disarmed her, Mandy blurted, "Why?"

"We've been waiting a long time to find a compatible woman for Van. He's very worthy--."

"That's enough out of you guys!" Van interrupted from the doorway. "I feel like I ought to be in a marked-down bin."

Mandy laughed as she accepted the wine in a frosty glass. "It seems to me, by the way your friends talk, that you must have a lot of qualities that make it hard for a woman to be compatible."

Nelson snorted his agreement.

"They're talking about the thought reading," he said, ignoring Nelson.

"The thought--!" Mandy gaped at them. Her face froze so she had to swallow before asking, "You know about that? Both of you?"

Nelson leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "He's been harassing me with it all my life. It's nice to think that you'll be able to give him some of the treatment he's always given us."

He knows about me. She felt betrayed. Her stomach muscles clenched as she swung to Van. "How could you?" she whispered. You who said I couldn't tell Harold.

That's different. Didn't you tell your best girlfriend?

That stumped her. I did tell one person. "When you were growing up, didn't you keep it a secret?"

"Of course I tried. But Nelson and I have known each other since we were in diapers, although we haven't seen much of each other lately--"

"That's right," Nelson interrupted. "And when I knew Dee here was the woman for me, I told her."

"Well, I must say, this is a new experience for me," Mandy said breathlessly, "I've never been anywhere where it was out in the open like this."

"You'll get used to it," Dee said. "Van doesn't have many close friends, but those who he lets in are friends for life."

"I'm not sure I like this," Van protested. "You're discussing me like I'm not even here."

"Did you hear something?" Mandy asked, laughingly ignoring Van. "Seriously, it must be hard knowing that someone can hear your thoughts."

"No kidding," Nelson said, his eyes glinting as though he had a painful memory. "There are times when I'm not ready for him to know some things. I take care to keep them from the surface."

"Van mentioned something about that. How did you pick up the ability to hide what you're thinking?"

"It happened more by osmosis, really. Over the years, I just learned the knack."

"I have a friend, Marjorie, who knows about me. Sometimes she gets sooo mad!"

Van nodded knowingly. "Nelson and I have had our problems too."

"I'm a cop," Nelson explained. "Once in a while Van will do criminal defense work--."

"Only when I can't get someone else to do it," Van interrupted.

"--and he knows what I'm going to say on the stand, what the Judge's thinking, what the prosecutor's thinking . . .."

Dee's face clouded and she patted Van's arm. "It's not your fault." We have to forget the unpleasantness.

"Let's talk about someone else for a change," Van said amiably. He scraped back his chair, stood, and pulled the black cover from his barbecue. "How's your new job going Mandy?"

She still stared at Dee, wondering what she had meant about unpleasantness so, when she realized Van spoke to her, Mandy blurted, "Wonderfully! It's totally different from anything I've ever done." She explained, "I've been a teacher almost since I graduated. Did Van tell you about my teaching job falling through?" They nodded. "I didn't know how I was going to make ends meet so, when this job offer came my way, well, you can imagine." Do they know about Harold?

Van heard that surface-thought. "Mandy's wondering if you know that Harold Mederios has the ability too."

Mandy felt shocked. "You told them about Harold!"

"These two will never whisper a word of any of this."

"Oh . . . well," she stuttered. Van betrayed a confidence. "Anyway, I'm working for him now. It's an investment business."

The kitten on her lap abruptly stopped purring but its eyes were open, staring into space. Mandy stroked it and the rumbling resumed.

The others waited for her to continue. "Most of the week I've been working with another woman. We looked at dozens of empty office spaces--Harold wants to set up a semi-permanent office. It's fun. But the big news," she said, glancing down at the kitten which had stopped purring again and was stretching first one hind leg, then the other, "is that I conducted the negotiations to purchase a huge block of properties. This is all very new and exciting for me."

Van nodded solemnly. "We heard about Mederios buying that. It's down the end of Barrington Street, at Seymor and Commercial."

"Yes! That's the one. I haven't been inside, but I drove by. It's very run down, needs a lot of work."

"Needs a lot of work?" Van asked, his voice tolling with skepticism. "Mederios told you he's restoring the buildings?"

"Why? What did you hear?" The kitten dug its needle claws into her leg as it jumped down.

"That everything is going to be torn down. Did Mederios say he was restoring them?"

"No, but I assumed . . .," her voice trailed off. "We're setting up an office to deal with the property management."

Van scoffed. "The future property management, maybe."

"Why do you sound so angry?"

The lid of the barbecue dropped with a clang as he turned to her. "You must have noticed that there are three apartment buildings in that block?"

She nodded. "Shabby places, four or six stories high."

"People live there."

Mandy crossed her legs tightly. "You can't object to us making their homes nicer."

"And beyond their financial reach. Some of the tenants have approached me to represent them in a suit." He stopped himself. "Maybe we shouldn't discuss this."

"But they're needlessly alarmed. Harold isn't going to throw them out on the street."

Nelson spoke up. "It is the way he does business."

Mandy turned to him. "How do you know that?"

"I ran a check on him the day you guys met on Brier Island. There have been a number of civil suits against him." To say the least.

"I'm not saying he's not a tough businessman, but I can't believe he'd be . . . cruel."

Van turned back to the grill. "He strikes me as a cold-hearted bastard."

Mandy's nostrils flared. "You don't even know him!"

Without turning his body, Van cocked his head to peer at her. "And you do?"

She shrugged. "There's something quite sad about the man."

"Sad?"

"Well," she started, wondering about her own confused thoughts. "You know what it was like as a kid with this . . . thing we have. He's coping the best way he knows how."

"I still say he's cold hearted. Just because you feel sorry for him--."

Mandy interrupted, "I didn't say that!"

Nelson asked loudly, "Was he brought up in a wealthy family or did he get rich on his own?"

Mandy thought back. "I get the impression he had a pampered childhood."

"Did you know," Nelson asked, "that Van is rich?"

"Nelson," Van interrupted, sounding embarrassed.

Nelson turned to him. "She has a right to know what she's getting into."

What I'm getting into? Mandy thought. Did his friends assume that she and Van were already an item? The idea brought a pleasant flush to her face.

Nelson rambled on, "Van isn't your regular money-grubbing lawyer. God knows why he works. He was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth."

He shook his head as though he would never understand. Mandy had the feeling that he suffered more than a smattering of jealousy.

"Your friend, Mederios, is in for a rude awakening. Van is good at nailing slum landlords."

Uh-oh, this is getting embarrassing, Dee thought. She jumped to her feet. "Okay, that's enough browbeating Mandy for one night. Come on," she said to Mandy, "let's go into the kitchen and see what Van plans to feed us tonight."

Mandy stood slowly. "I . . . I feel as though someone knocked the wind from my sails. I thought I was doing something good. I guess . . . it all happened so quickly. I was so good at negotiating, I thought I finally found my niche."

Silence blanketed the deck as Mandy followed Dee into the house. She had been so looking forward to telling Van about the bonus money she'd earned, she now felt cheated. Cheated and humiliated.

Mandy dug around the tidy kitchen until she uncovered the cork screw, then she set about opening the wine she'd brought. Obviously, Van and his friends didn't approve of Harold. Well, that was their problem. She decided that, for now, she wouldn't talk about work around them.

What could they talk about? Her eyes fell on her shoulder bag, and she remembered that she had brought the photos of her vacation. She picked them up, stepped onto the deck, and dropped the envelope on the table. Then she slipped back into the kitchen and fetched a tray of food.

Van uncovered a stack of spareribs and lined them up to sizzle on the hot grill. When he finished, he eyed the red envelope and asked, "What have you got there?"

"Photos from Brier Island," Mandy said, spreading them out on the table. Funny, the negatives are gone. She reopened the red envelope and peered inside.

Dee and Nelson dutifully studied each picture while Van and Mandy gave the running commentary.

"It's a shame the media gave you a hard time even though you saved a man's life on that boat," Dee said after she passed along the shot of the biologist.

"It makes a person wonder where the profit lies in being a good Samaritan," Mandy said. She frowned, realizing that she used Harold's phrase about profit. "I had my thought-reading ability splashed over the papers and television and, to top it off, I got fired from my job!"

"All because you saved a man's life?" Dee shook her head disbelievingly.

"Well, at least I got to meet Van and Harold. Before them, I thought I was a freak--well, I still think I'm a freak but now I have company," she teased.

Van leaned away, feigning insult.

Nelson asked in a flat voice, "Haven't you ever taught someone else how to do it?"

"Read surface-thoughts?" Mandy heard Van heave a disgruntled sigh. "It's not something that--."

"Come on!" Nelson scoffed. "Teach me something."

She looked to Van for help, but he simply leaned back on the deck's rail and crossed his arms. His eyes fixed on his friend while Mandy spoke.

"Nelson, this is something I always did. No one taught it . . .. I don't think I would teach someone else even if I could. It's a curse."

"How do you do it? Really. Hold you breath until you're dizzy? Picture a color? What?"

"I don't do anything. It just happens."

"If you tried, you could teach me."

"No I couldn't. Besides," she bit off each word, "you don't want to know. It's a curse."

His eyebrows lowered. "A curse I'd love to have."

She spoke from the depths of her being. "No you wouldn't. You'd loathe it. It's impossible to relax. People hate to be around you. Your own family think you're a freak." She flinched when Van touched her shoulder.

"It's okay," he said softly.

Mandy took a deep breath. "I envy people like you and Dee," she said to Nelson. "You don't have to hide."

Dee leaned forward. "Were you scared when the reporter zeroed in on you?"

"Oh, you don't know how scared. It terrified me. Still does. As a matter of fact, I just got a phone call from that guy." She recited the gist of what Derrick Wiener had said on her answering machine tape. Something in the way that the men listened prompted her to blurt, "What do you know about this?"

Nelson jerked. "Nothing!"

Van leapt up and concentrated on pushing his fork around the sizzling meat. "Mmm, this smells good. Dee made the marinade, so I can't take all the credit."

Dee snorted. "Takes a lot of skill to soak meat in beer."

Something besides the meat simmered below the surface on the deck that evening. Mandy fought the temptation to probe it because, like a festering sore, it was best left alone. She did want these people to like her.

"Is that your boat out there?" she asked, indicating the sailboat moored in the harbor.

"It's his all right," Nelson interjected with a laugh. "The man dotes on that thing."

Van shrugged. "Why not? She's a beautiful . . .," he looked at Mandy, " . . . she's beautiful in so many ways."

Mandy flushed at his obvious insinuation. "I take it you enjoy sailing."

Nelson answered. "He's a fanatic."

Dee nodded. "Van has sailed all his life. He's considered quite an expert."

"Maybe we can fit in a day before I put her away for the winter?" Van asked with his eyebrows raised.

Dee leaned forward to better hear Mandy's response. "I'd like that," Mandy said. She could hear Dee's exuberant approval in her surface-thoughts.

"How about tomorrow?"

"Sure," Mandy said, feeling herself grin. "What time?"

Out the corner of her eye, Mandy saw Dee give her husband a playful jab in the ribs. Matchmakers. She wondered what Harold would do when he learned about their date. Perhaps if she put a lot of sunscreen on her nose, he'd never find out. It irked her that he assumed he had a right to know about her life and yet he never told her about his. On the other hand, she really didn't care what he did on the weekends.

Gradually, with the good food, pleasant music, and interesting conversation, Mandy forgot her worries about Harold. Around midnight, Dee and Nelson exchanged a lot of knowing looks, raised eyebrows, and surface-thoughts that didn't need to be audible to be understood.

This is going well.

Time to leave them alone.

They're suited to each other.

Mandy was packing dishes in the washer when Van returned from seeing his friends to their car. "Those two," he said grinning and running his hands through his hair, "I don't know why I put up with them."

"They love you," Mandy said simply. "My friend Marjorie's just like them, always trying to fix me up with men."

"I'd like to meet her."

"You might get that chance. She usually visits me at least once during the school year." School year--as though that means anything now.

"You didn't say . . . does Harold know about my being able to hear surface-thinking?"

"I don't think so. It turned out to be easier than I thought to keep from thinking about you."

"Hey! I'm hurt."

Mandy flipped the damp dishtowel at him. "You can't have it both ways."

"Now that you know him better, do you think you should tell Harold? I'm wondering if we should talk. It's so strange knowing someone else can surface-think, and yet not being able to talk to him about it."

She sobered. "I . . . I don't know."

One eyebrow raised. "You don't trust him?"

"It's not that." She sighed before continuing. "After meeting Nelson and Dee--don't get me wrong, I like them both immensely. But I have to wonder. It's like a chain letter--I tell two people, they each tell two people who each tell two people."

"Nelson has told one person about me. Only one. Dee." "But what if they divorce. Won't Dee tell the next man she marries? Won't Nelson tell--."

"Divorce? You're very cynical."

She shook her head ruefully. "That's not something I'm usually accused of. Marjorie says I'm an apprehensive idealist."

"Then perhaps that's not the real reason you don't think you should let Harold know."

She shrugged. "I didn't say you shouldn't. I said I wasn't sure. He might," she looked away before saying, "overreact. He's used to getting what he wants."

"And he wants you." She nodded bleakly. "Do you want him?" he asked, sounding fearful, almost sad.

"Oh Van, he doesn't . . .. He's very good to me."

Have you slept with him? He thought that, as though he couldn't bring himself to form the words.

"No."

He looked very in need of comfort, so Mandy wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest. He held her tenderly. A surge of sensations washed over her as the heat from his body penetrated her clothing. She breathed in a combination of soap, aftershave, and masculine musk. But Mandy feared sleeping with Van because Harold would find out. He would lash out and hurt her, or Van, or some innocent person if she defied him.

"You must know by now," he said huskily, "that I'm crazy about you."

"I feel the same way about you, but it frightens me."

"I'd like to have more evenings like this. No pressure, just getting to know each other." He pulled her more snugly and pressed a kiss on her hair.

I'll just have to survive on cold showers.

CHAPTER NINE

Derrick Wiener didn't like it one stinking bit. Who did this guy think he was anyway? Where did he get off demanding a meeting at this time of night and--worse yet--in this part of town?

He figured he was in the right spot: down the end of a dirt road under the grain elevators and beside the tracks. There wasn't any sign of the other guy, so he thumbed off the headlight knob and switched off the car's motor. For a few minutes the car creaked and groaned, then everything fell as silent as a tomb.

Damn that guy. Where is he?

He figured he'd scout around some, get a feel for the surroundings. He cracked the door's handle and stepped out onto the gravel. It was easy to come up with a catchy sound bite or two about the atmosphere: Halifax waterfront, the decrepit whorehouses, stink of diesel fuel, penetrating blackness, looming grain elevators. But he'd agreed not to bring a camera.

He fastened the top button of his denim jacket and turned up the collar. He always felt colder near the water, the dampness eating through his skin like some kind of caustic mist. His jeans were so tight only his fingers jammed in the pockets.

Shoulders hunched, chin pulled into his chest, he crunched across the gravel toward the grain elevators. In daylight they looked ancient and massive. At night, they towered black and threatening. High above, slanted courses of covered runs, supported by flimsy-looking boards, hung suspended. They must have some use during the day, he thought. Derrick pictured giant sacks of flour, that looked like bloated body-bags, rutting along a conveyor belt.

"Spooky joint," he hissed, as he jogged to get out from under the walkways.

Ever since he'd made eye contact with that clairvoyant broad, Mandy Stone, nothing felt right. Sure, he'd filed a good story, but the price he'd paid . . .. He'd always felt the occult reeked of phonies. Now . . . now he'd never feel safe again.

He hawked and spit noisily into the darkness.

Finally headlights swept across the vacant rail yard. Some kind of truck--he couldn't tell in the dark--slowed behind his car.

Derrick unbuttoned his jacket and reached a hand into the holster that carried his tape recorder. He switched it to record, checked that the red light glimmered, then buttoned up again. The microphone, clipped under a button on his jacket, was invisible.

He heard a car door open, but not close. The other vehicle's headlights must have been on high beams. They blinded Derrick as he neared. Then he noticed the man. He had moved to the front of his truck where he stood, a forbidding silhouette with broad shoulders and long legs.

"Took you long enough," Derrick hollered belligerently.

He paused, hoping the man would approach him, or at least meet him half way. Thirty anxious seconds dragged by. Finally, Derrick swore and strode forward. Five yards from the man, he skidded to a halt.

The man had swung his arm down. He held a hideously long ax.

"What the hell's that?" Derrick squealed as he stumbled backward.

Suddenly the man sprang toward him. Derrick shrieked and lunged into the blackness. He ran, stumbled, picked himself up, and ran. His foot caught the edge of railway iron and he tumbled. The man loomed overhead.

"We had a deal! Please--."

The ax embedded two inches into his brain. The murderer released the handle and dropped to crouch beside the body. A couple of quick pats and he felt the reporter's tape recorder. He pulled a penlight from his pocket, held it in his teeth, and unbuttoned the jacket. The recorder was held in a thick leather case, like an undercover cop's holster. He wasted precious seconds trying to unfasten it.

Finally, with one foot braced on the reporter's head, he pulled the ax free. Then he assumed the position of a railway worker hammering in spikes, and slammed the ax into the chest. It made a satisfying splintering sound.

It only took a second for the blood to stop gushing. As he felt around in the ooze for the end of the strap, the warm blood soaked through his leather gloves. He yanked the strap free from the body and tossed it nearby.

The murderer took a moment to smear the worst of the blood onto Derrick Wiener's pant leg. Holding the leather strap on a dry section in one hand, and the ax in another, he strolled back to his vehicle.

CHAPTER TEN

Mandy spent the first part of Monday morning in the new office space inspecting the work the contractor had done over the weekend. She found Harold waiting for her when she returned to the hotel suite. He seemed tired and a little down, and the end of his nose looked tender and sunburned.

He must have a swimming pool. "Good morning," she said cheerily. "Have a good trip?"

He shrugged. "Same as always. I'm looking forward to the day when we both move to . . . Toronto."

As she set her leather case on the coffee table and slid off her suit jacket, Mandy wondered what he did during his weekends, other than get too much sun. She suspected that he spent the time extricating himself from another relationship. But that topic was best left untouched.

"I've just come from the office," she said, "It looks better than I'd hoped."

"You have a good eye for decorating."

"It's easy when money's no object."

"We'll go out to lunch and you can show it to me on the way back."

"Okay. Where are Mitch and Ms Blois?"

"Running some errands. How was your weekend?"

"I slept most of it," she said, careful not to surface-think about her idyllic afternoon sailing with Van. "Last week was so exciting, it drained me." She answered his unasked question, In my own bed. Alone.

"And the barbecue?"

"Pleasant. He has a house down by the water. We ate ribs out on the deck."

He snorted. "And drank beer straight from the bottle, no doubt."

That amused her. "How did you know?"

"Who was there?"

This began to smack of interrogation. "His best friends, Nelson and Dee Smith."

"That's all?"

She nodded. Whenever he heard something that annoyed him, his lip pulled to the side. It slid lopsided now.

"How late did you--?"

A firm rapping on the door cut his sentence short. Mandy answered it and found two men in rumpled suits waiting there; an older black man, and a younger white one. The young one flipped over a police identification.

"Miss Stone?" he asked, "I'm Detective Albert Kelsey and this is Detective Kevin Sparks. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

A heavy fear weighed on her chest. Is there something the matter with Van? She swung to stare at Harold before collecting her composure and pulling the door wide.

"Yes, of course," she said. "Please come in. What's this all about?"

They plowed across the room and sat on the sofa before responding. "Do you know Derrick Wiener?"

She exhaled in a whoosh, relieved that they weren't there about Van, then she sank in a wing chair facing them. "Yes, I do. He's a reporter. He did a story I was involved with a couple of weeks ago."

"The attempted assassination of a biologist. Yes, we know. How long has it been since you've seen him?"

Before Mandy had a chance to answer, Harold stood behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "What's this all about?"

Mandy quickly introduced him, "This is my employer, Harold Mederios."

"Mr. Mederios," Sparks half-stood and shook Harold's hand. "We have a few more questions, if you don't mind waiting in another room?"

"I will not," Harold announced. "You haven't told us what this is about."

Mandy patted his hand. "That's okay, I don't mind."

Harold surface-thought, We should have a lawyer here.

Why? She tilted her head to look at his eyes.

It's only prudent when being questioned by these types.

Mandy had always had a healthy respect for the police, so she asked the detectives, "What did you want to know?"

"How long since you've seen Derrick Wiener?"

She ignored Harold's urgent surface-thoughts. "Not since I left Brier Island, a week ago, but I did get a telephone message from him." She told them about being fired from the school, and then she rhymed off Derrick's message. "I haven't spoken to him yet."

"You're not going to be able to do that," Detective Sparks glanced at his notebook. "Miss Stone. Mr. Mederios. Yesterday morning, Derrick Wiener's body was found near the grain elevators."

Mandy's mouth suddenly felt parched. "It wasn't an accident."

"Why do you say that?"

"You wouldn't be here if he died accidentally."

Sparks nodded. "No Ma'am. When the two school boys found him, Wiener's skull was caved in. Looks like somebody got him with an ax."

Oh, the poor boys. Mandy's hand clamped over her mouth.

Harold spoke up, "Why are you asking Miss Stone about this?"

Sparks ignored him. "Miss Stone, can you explain why Derrick Wiener was afraid of you?"

"Afraid of me!" She almost laughed. "I was afraid of him. He hounded me in Brier Island."

"After the assassination attempt."

"Yes!"

"So you hated him."

She didn't like the sound of that. "No . . . that is, at the time I could have wrung his neck, but I'm over that now. I mean . . . everything worked out for the best."

"Wiener's coworkers claim that he was deathly afraid of you, afraid of your psychic abilities."

Harold scoffed, "You don't believe that, do you?"

"Well sir," Sparks responded, "It doesn't matter whether or not I believe it. The point is, Wiener did. He told his friends that you gave him the evil-eye."

Mandy remembered the way she stared hate at him in the hallway of the Community College. The policemen waited for her to respond, but she simply shook her head. What could she say? He was afraid of me.

Kelsey flipped back a few pages to read something in his notebook then he poised his pencil over a fresh sheet. "Miss Stone, where were you between the hours of midnight and six a.m. on Saturday morning?"

Don't answer that.

Mandy frowned at Harold as she answered, "I was in my apartment, in bed."

"Alone?" A good-looking woman like you?

"Yes, alone. I went to a friend's for the evening and took a taxi home about 12:30."

"The name of the friend?"

"Vance Tollefsrud."

Kelsey and Sparks exchanged looks. "Do you remember the name of the cab company?"

"Casino Taxi. Van said he always called them because he can remember their phone number."

The detectives scribbled in their books. "And you didn't leave your apartment after that?"

"I went directly to sleep."

"Mr. Mederios," Kelsey looked beyond Mandy's shoulder to where Harold stood. "What is your relationship with Miss Stone?"

"She's my business associate and friend."

"And where were you between--."

Harold interrupted, "I was in Toronto from Friday evening until this morning." He patted his pockets until he found what he searched for. "Ah, here's my boarding pass."

Sparks half stood to take the slip of heavy paper. He looked at it and made a note in his book. The boarding pass slid a couple of inches across the table when he tossed it down.

"Did you know the deceased?"

"No," Harold answered abruptly. "If you're finished your questions, we would like to get back to business."

"One last question, Miss Stone. What kind of car do you drive?"

"A brand new Toyota. I bought it last week."

"Did you pay cash?"

"That's none of your business," Harold snapped, stomping toward the door.

Kelsey looked from Mandy to Harold surface-thinking, We should get their fingerprints.

Mandy carefully kept her face neutral although she would happily have agreed to being fingerprinted. However, the two detectives followed Harold without asking.

As soon as they were alone, Mandy asked, "Why did you try to stop me from cooperating?"

"It's only prudent," he implored. "Mandy, you don't know what a cop will do to get a collar. How he will twist your answers until they fit his preconceived notions."

"But I have nothing to hide. And besides, I'm happy to help. I don't want a murderer wandering around the streets of Halifax anymore than the police do."

He stared at her, his own expression softening. "You're beautiful when you're self-righteous."

"It feels weird, knowing someone who got murdered. But if I had to choose one person who was likely to get axed, I'd have to choose Derrick. He was such a weasel."

"Did you hear the detective thinking about fingerprinting?" She nodded. "Ever have that done?"

"No, never. You?"

"Yes," he said. "It's something best avoided. Don't ever let them do it to you."

"But if they want to, they will."

"There are laws. We'll get my lawyers involved if it comes to that." He tilted his head toward her office. "Let's get back to it."

"Why were you fingerprinted?"

"I got sued by a sore loser," he said. "Nothing worth talking about. Why didn't you drive your new car on Friday?"

"I never drive when I drink." A headache throbbed from the effort it took to keep her thoughts subdued.

"Next time you go out without me, get Mitch to be your chauffeur."

She looked at him sidelong and saw that he was serious. She'd never be able to enjoy herself knowing that someone--especially someone reporting to Harold--waited for her.

"Thanks anyway."

"I want you to be safe."

"I'm a big girl."

"Even so, call Mitch." He waved a hand as though that settled it.

Some day she'd explain that she didn't appreciate the way he tried to control her. It's not a big deal, she told herself. He only had her best interests at heart. Now to work.

As Mandy sunk back in her swivel chair before her laptop computer she asked, "Harold, what's to become of the people who live in our apartment buildings?"

"Nothing, yet. Why do you ask?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't want to evict them."

"Evict them?" He snickered. "What are you picturing? Furniture piled in a snow-drift?"

That did seem kind of silly. "Are we going to tear down the buildings?"

He nodded. "Eventually."

"So, we're not putting much money in restoration?"

"We're not putting any money into restoration," he said, as though that were self-evident.

"So," she mumbled, "How long have the tenants got?"

"They've already been given notices."

"What! When?" Oh God, Van was right.

"Mandy," he explained firmly, "This is business."

"But when did you give them their eviction notices?"

"I didn't," he replied, obviously not liking the way she grilled him. His mouth pulled to the side. "The former owners did a couple of months ago. Why are you asking this? What was Van right about?"

"He . . . he mentioned that the tenants were forming a group."

"And hiring him to represent them." He lunged to his feet. "We'll see how far that gets them."

"But you're not doing anything illegal?"

"Of course not," he said defensively. "But that doesn't matter to groups like them. They can cause us months--years--of valuable time. The thing to do is to nip it right in the bud. Thank God you told me this."

Mandy groaned inwardly. She felt as though she had been indiscreet, but what could she do? She had a loyalty to her employer too.

Harold pulled the base of her computer around to face him. "I already have a file on Tollefsrud." He tapped keys.

"Since when?"

"Your friend has a few . . .." He stopped and looked pointedly at Mandy. " . . . secrets of his own. If he takes us on, he'll lose."

"Don't ask me to work on this," she pleaded.

"Why?" he sneered, one side of his lip turning up. "Are you afraid it might hurt your relationship with Vance?"

What did he know about her relationship with Van? "Maybe I've made a mistake. Maybe I'm not cut out for the business world."

"Are you forgetting the fifty-thousand dollar check you cashed last week? That kind of money has to be earned."

"What are you saying? If I quit now, I have to pay that back?" She felt her ire rising.

"Mandy, my dear," he whispered, "there is no quitting."

"That's crazy."

"Why!" With a crash, he slammed the computer closed and shoved it along the table. "Why would you even dream you could choose him over me? He's such a small player, he's not even in the game."

Mandy trembled. "This isn't a game. It's real life."

"Business is a game." He rammed his face close to hers. "Love is a game. I never lose."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mandy snapped up the switch beside her kitchen sink. The light spilled over the cutting board she worked on, brightening the green of the romaine lettuce.

"It's only seven, and already dark," she said to Van.

He leaned over a large, boiling pot, feeding a few sticks of fresh pasta in at a time. The steam billowed around his face as he concentrated.

"One of my clients told me he had Canada Geese in his field yesterday," he said. "Going to be an early winter."

After another minute of companionable silence, Mandy said, "Thanks for bringing dinner. I've been far too busy to shop."

"Spaghetti's my specialty."

She rinsed her fingers, dabbed them dry on the cloth hanging from the fridge handle, and dug into a drawer for her grater. Van had even brought fresh parmesan cheese.

She couldn't help noting the way he harmonized with her small kitchen, whereas Harold strained its bounds. Both were large men, around six feet. Van was broader across the chest, perhaps even across the shoulders although it was hard to tell because Harold never seemed to remove his suit jacket. A good tailor could give the appearance of broad shoulders.

Van interrupted her musing. "Harold didn't want you to get fingerprinted?"

Earlier, on the telephone, they briefly discussed her interview with the police. "That's right."

"Wonder why?"

She lifted the grater to check how big a pile she'd done and inhaled the warm-milk smell of the cheese. "I get the feeling he's had a bad experience with police before. He doesn't trust them."

Van opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it. "What?" Mandy asked.

"It can wait until after we eat."

"Have the police been to see you?"

He looked up. "No, why would they?"

"I told them that I spent the evening with you the night Derrick was murdered. You're my alibi." She snickered.

"Did you tell them you took a cab home?" She nodded. "They probably checked with them."

"I had the impression they recognized your name."

"I'm on the opposite side on the odd case, although I try to sloth criminal work off on my associates."

"Ouch!" She dropped the grater and thrust her finger into her mouth. Damn! Damn!

Van reached past her to turn the tap and gently pulled her hand under the running water. The stinging subsided.

Mandy stared at the blond hair on the back of his darkened hand. It pressed wet against his skin in a way that made her bite back a sensuous moan. "You're very tanned."

"Sailing."

"I enjoyed last weekend." She and Van had sailed for hours, springing from seat to seat, the braided lines like living things in their hands.

But Van, judging by the deep growl that rose from deep within his chest, wasn't thinking of the sport. He was thinking about their romp in the boathouse. Like teenagers, they had necked and petted until her bones felt liquid. God, what a great guy.

She cleared her throat. "Marjorie, my friend in Toronto, has a boat."

He pulled her finger from under the flow. "Shall I kiss it better?"

Mandy flicked her tongue over her suddenly-dry lips, noticed he stared at her mouth, then flushed. "I . . . I'll just go put a bandage on it."

They ate the meal at the kitchen table: soft light, cotton gingham napkins and tablecloth, crusty bread, red wine in a reed basket.

Throughout the meal, Mandy continuously fought down misgivings. Van did little surface-thinking. It appeared, by the way he rubbed his fingertips over his temple, that the effort to keep those thoughts submerged cost him.

She asked, "When Nelson masks his surface-thoughts, does he get a headache?"

Van smiled ruefully. He knew he'd been caught out. "No, Nelson's had a lot of practice while we were growing up. I'm relatively new at it. How about you?"

She nodded. "It takes a lot of concentration, which gives me a tension headache. But I'm getting the hang of it." She slid out of her chair to collect the coffee carafe.

Van leaned back in his chair. "Have you learned to block out other people's surface-thoughts?"

She stopped to stare at him. "You mean there's a way to keep from hearing other people? Is that possible?"

"In a way," he said, tilting his head to one side as he considered. "I try to do it when I'm in conference."

"You try to . . .. I don't understand."

"It's not fair, is it? My opponents in court, for instance, can't hear what I'm thinking. Why should I get to hear them?"

"You purposefully don't listen even when it can help you?" She wasn't sure she believed what he said.

"Despite what Nelson said to you before, no, not if I can avoid it. As a matter of fact, I do everything I can to get around meeting with the other side in person. I do a lot of faxing and teleconferencing."

"I would have thought that you'd use every skill you had to help your side win. Isn't that the whole basis of our legal system? You defend your guy to the best of your ability, and the other side prosecutes to the best of their ability?"

It's cheating. "That concept didn't take into consideration the possibility that some people can hear surface-thoughts."

"I don't know--."

"It's morally wrong to use your ability for gain," he blurted. Then he looked down at his plate.

Mandy filled their mugs and carefully set the coffee carafe down before responding. "It may not be fair, but we've got this skill, like it or not. When I'm teaching a student who surface-thinks something that gives me an insight into how he learns, or what's confusing him, I can help that student."

"Granted," he said, holding his palms out defensively, "sometimes you can use surface-reading to do good. And, in the classroom, that might be ethically correct. But in business, in my bailiwick, it would be wrong to profit from it."

Mandy ground her teeth. I know what you're getting at. "You think I used my skill when I negotiated to buy the property."

"Did you?"

"Yes . . . yes, but that was a weapon in my arsenal. I had to use it. I've never been able to . . .. How could I ignore what I heard? They were cheating too."

"I know. I know. It's difficult. That's why I try to negotiate at a distance."

"For such a nice guy, you sure can make me feel like shit."

His cheeks darkened. "I'm sorry. Nelson says I'm sanctimonious."

Mandy picked up their empty plates and carried them to the sink. Once her back was to Van she said, "I earned a fifty-thousand dollar bonus on that one negotiation."

"Geeze," Van sighed. Dirty money.

She turned on him. "I earned it."

"Come on, Mandy. Use your head. Do you really believe that? All the legwork was done before you even went to work there. What experience did you have? Have you negotiated multi-million dollar deals before?"

"But, they all treated me like I'd excelled at negotiation."

"I'm not trying to belittle your accomplishment. But really, was it worth that much money?"

"It was a bonus."

"It was a bribe."

It hurt to hear Van speak those words, but she already knew them to be true. "What was I supposed to do? Turn down the money?"

"Perhaps you could donate it to a charity."

"Van! You're serious!"

"He's buying you. That's how Harold Mederios does business. He's manipulating you. He'll pull you in deeper and deeper until you'll believe you can't live without the money, without the lifestyle."

"I already spent a bunch of it on a new car."

"At his insistence," Van stated.

She shrugged a yes.

"See. Everything around that guy reeks."

"He's very good to me," Mandy responded defensively. Then she reconsidered, "He is a control freak." A surface-thought bubbled through unintentionally, Use his driver.

Van gave his head a tense shake. "What about his driver?"

"Oh," she sighed before continuing, "Harold wants me to call Mitch to drive me when I go out."

"He'd trust you with Mitch?"

"That man's fiercely loyal to Harold."

"Mandy, Nelson ran a check on him. Mitch served time for beating a guy almost to death."

She considered the suppressed anger she'd seen on Mitch's face and realized he would be capable of violence. "He and I get along okay. But don't worry, I don't plan to ask him to wait for me while I'm at a party, or whatever."

"Harold wants you to have a chaperon when you're not with him."

Mandy heard the jealousy in Van's voice. "He doesn't control my private life."

"I'd bet he wants to."

"Oh yeah, at the moment he does. It makes me wonder about his upbringing. Were women subservient in his house? I don't know where he was brought up . . . perhaps Spain? He speaks Spanish."

"You've never asked him?"

"He doesn't invite that kind of conversation. Frankly, I'm glad. Anyway, I just have to give it some time. He'll come around. I'm still a novelty to him."

You're more than that to me. Van pulled her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips over the bandage. "Be careful, Mandy. Please be careful. I don't think Harold Mederios is a man to toy with."

"I have to admit, he frightens me sometimes."

"It's not too late to quit."

She pulled her hand free. "I can't quit."

"If it's the money--."

"It's not!" She closed her eyes remembering the way Harold had looked when he told her she couldn't quit. "No, it's that and more. I sometimes wonder if I should pack it all in and run away."

"I'd miss you like hell, but . . . I think it would be the best thing, at least until Mederios clears out."

She laughed uneasily. "Aren't we the serious ones. Everything's fine. I've got a good job. A comfortable place to live. Two men who seem to want to spend time with me. I'm no longer alone with my ability. Why would I want to leave?"

"I want to help you . . . financially," he saw her look and rushed to add, "but I know that's out of the question. Hell, I know what it's like to want to be independent."

Mandy remembered that Nelson had said Van came from a wealthy family. "You've already accused Harold of trying to buy me."

"I didn't mean to imply that you were for sale!"

Van rubbed at his temple again. That irked her. Mandy pushed back her chair and busied her hands with setting up a tray.

"I'd like to talk about something else. Okay?" she asked with forced gaiety. "Anything else. Let's take our coffee into the living room."

Mandy curled her feet under her on one end of the sofa. Van sprawled on the other end. They chatted about inconsequential things: the weather, his recipe for spaghetti sauce, and Hector, his kitten.

Then, as though the crotch of his jeans constricted him, he shifted his legs. The cotton of his shirt settled tight to his chest.

What great pectoral muscles.

He grinned at her. She blushed from a heat that didn't rise from embarrassment. His lips looked so very kissable.

Van inched his arm along the back of the sofa until he sat crushed against her. She heard herself moan as his lips met hers. Every nerve ending in her body tingled. He smelled warm and musky as he took control of her mouth, gently yet firmly. She shifted to stretch out and, finally, he molded against her. When his knee squeezed between her legs she rocked unconsciously against it. She could feel his need throbbing against her leg.

She felt infinitely sensual in his arms.

They moved slowly, savoring every sensation. Van unbuttoned her blouse and smoothed it open. She shuddered. When he unsnapped the front of her bra and closed his lips over a nipple, she arched back and moaned.

Suddenly he stopped and pulled away. As he studied her face he breathed heavily, his nostrils opening and closing.

I'm sure, she surface-thought. I want you.

Van slid off the sofa and scooped her into his arms. Mandy buried her face in his neck as he carried her into the bedroom. The faint aroma of his aftershave made her dizzy with want.

They didn't pull back the covers. Mandy, who had always felt shy about such things, abandoned herself. Naked, he was more perfect than she could have imagined. The sight inflamed her. They gloried in each other's bodies. The instant he entered her, she rocketed in an orgasm that went on, and on, and on.

Later, limp, satiated, nestled in his arms, Mandy tried not to speculate about how Harold would react when he learned of their lovemaking. And he would learn of it. Like the devil himself, he violated her thoughts. She longed to float in this cloud of pleasure for just a bit longer, so she thrust that worry aside.

Van whispered into her hair, "I'd like you to move in with me."

She smiled softly. "That's rushing things a bit, isn't it?"

"I want to protect you."

She pulled back to gaze into his eyes. "I'm a big girl. I can look after myself."

"You're afraid of Harold," he stated simply.

"I want to give it more time. We've only worked together a couple of weeks. I'm hoping that I can convince him to let me stay in Halifax when he goes back--."

"Let you?" Van interrupted. "Let you stay in Halifax?"

She squirmed on the bed, adjusting her head on the pillow so that they faced each other. "He seems to assume that I'll move to his head office in Toronto."

"Mandy," Van moaned. "Would you do that?"

"I don't want to, but it's a good job."

He looked hurt. "He wants you personally as well as professionally."

"Yes. But I only want to work for him. The problem is," she admitted, "I don't seem to be making that clear to him." Yet.

A chill ran up her spine so Mandy swung her legs off the bed and glanced at the clock. Already it was after one in the morning. They paused now and again to nuzzle and kiss one another as they dressed; Mandy in her baggy sweat suit and Van in his jeans and shirt.

"Does Harold know about me yet?" Van asked.

Mandy knew he referred to his surface-reading ability. "I'm not positive, but I think so. It's so hard to keep my mind from straying."

"It's absurd, really. If he had been anyone else, I would have been eager to meet him. To talk with him. A fellow surface-reader!"

"I know. I keep changing my mind about it. Do you think you will talk to him?"

Van exhaled forcefully before replying, "Not likely. I know too much about him already."

"I've probably given you a cockeyed view of him."

"Nelson and I have done a bit of a study on the man. He is cockeyed, in more ways than one." Cockeyed is another word for crooked.

"I wish you'd tell me what you've found out. I don't like the way you hide things from me."

"I'm sorry. It's that careful--."

"Anal retentive," she laughingly blurted.

"--side of me. I don't like to make accusations without first verifying the facts. All we have is hearsay. Also, I can't be sure I'm not just jealous."

"And I have to do some objective thinking about my relationship with Harold. My friend, Marjorie, says I slip into a state of denial when I really want something to work out and it doesn't."

"I'll be your objective voice. Harold Mederios is dangerous."

"He wouldn't hurt me. He's fond of me."

"I don't doubt that." He took her by the hand and led her from the bedroom. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"It would help if I knew what he's supposed to have done so I can guard against it."

"No," he said, before kissing her on the forehead. "He'll read your thoughts and know what we're up to."

"Oh," she moaned, "I wish the three of us could just be friends. All those years of thinking I was the only person with the ability. Always wishing I could find someone else. Now that I have, it isn't working out at all like I'd dreamed. Not at all."

Van tilted her chin up so their faces were inches apart. "In some ways, it's better than I ever dreamed. You're much better."

So are you.

Mandy and Van moved silently down her staircase to the front door. It opened with a sharp click and she stiffened, afraid that it would wake her landlady.

The sky was clear. There was a brace of winter in the air. Mandy didn't want to release Van so she hugged his arm to her chest and pressed her cheek to his shoulder as they wandered down the darkened sidewalk to his truck.

"You'll catch your death," he whispered.

"So warm me," she teased, turning her face up to kiss him.

After a long embrace, he pulled away with a reluctant groan. "I'll call you tomorrow. Go on back inside."

She nodded agreement, but continued to gaze at him. He climbed into his Jeep, pulled away from the curb, and disappeared down the road. Once the sound of his engine had mingled with other distant city sounds, she turned toward the house.

An empty garbage can had blown onto its side and rolled across the lawn. Mandy wandered over and hooked her fingers through the handle. It felt damp and cold so she held it away from her body as she carried it to the gate barring the alley which ran along the side of the house. She opened the latch and set the can inside the black void.

Suddenly a shiver ran up her spine. Hugging herself, she swung around to search up and down the dark, residential street. Two doors down, on the same side of the street, was the silhouette of a large parked car. A hard, cold knot formed in Mandy's chest because she could see, by light of a cigarette ember, that someone lurked behind the wheel.

She told herself that he had nothing to do with her, but she could feel him watching. Suddenly the dome light blinked on and his door opened. He looked huge--three hundred pounds at least--but his features were hidden in the shadows.

Mandy longed to run, but she forced herself to move sedately across the grass to the front door. Finally, with her hand on the doorknob, she chanced a glance behind. Like a phantom, he materialized only feet from her. She squealed, lunged through the door, and shoved home the dead bolt.

Terrified, she flattened herself against the wall. What if he smashed through the window? She inched back. Long seconds passed. What if he had just wanted to ask for directions or to use the phone? Oh God! Had she overreacted? No. Mandy knew without a doubt that he meant to terrorize her.

She scrambled up the stairs and into her apartment. Once she felt safe behind a battery of locks, her fear turned to anger. She marched to the window and pulled across the drape. There, down on the street, the man climbed back inside his car. He didn't turn on the engine. Mandy yanked the drapes closed.

Damn Harold Mederios. Just because we've got the same ability doesn't mean he owns me. Spying on me. How dare he! He's the one with all the secrets. Have I ever even asked him what he does with his weekends? No. Boy, next time I see him, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind.

She flipped back the drapes and glared at the car and its shadowy occupant.

CHAPTER TWELVE

On Monday morning, Mandy rode the elevator up to the new office braced to face a firing squad. Had a fellow thought-reader been nearby, he would have heard her practicing and phrasing the confrontation she expected to have with Harold. She fed her anger until it ricocheted off the plastic walls.

Either he had to accept that she would never have an intimate relationship with him, or she would quit. She was through with hedging; through with putting up with him spying on her and making assumptions about their future. Van filled that part of her life, and that was that.

When the doors smoothed open to reveal the newly-finished reception area, Mandy lost some of her momentum.

After Mandy spent a long month of planning, ordering, and cajoling, the job was done and the workmen finally cleared out. Now the air smelled thick with carpet glue and paint fumes, but not a cardboard box or carpenter's tool marred the sight.

Ms. Blois reigned over the unsullied receptionist desk. Mitch stood with one elbow leaning on the top of a wooden cabinet. Both smiled in Mandy's direction.

"Oh, Ms. Stone," Ms. Blois cooed, "the decorating is superb."

"Thank you." She looked closely at Ms. Blois but couldn't read any sarcasm.

Mitch waved a hand around the room. "You sure have a flair for this stuff."

"Thanks. It was fun to do."

She set her briefcase on the floor inside the walk-in coat closet and hung up her blazer. The disrupted hangers clanged slowly back and forth until she reached out a hand to still them. So new. So unused. A recessed light gleamed on the fluffy carpet and the stack of small drawers. Mandy slid open one drawer and checked the elasticized wire mesh that would, in the winter, dry the employees' wet hats and gloves.

You've done a wonderful job, Mandy.

Mandy spoke as she turned around. "Thank you, Harold. But I didn't do it alone."

Damn, he had surface-thought those words. Mitch and Ms. Blois, looking stricken, quickly turned away. Just as Mandy experienced the feeling of helplessness that always washed over her when she made this kind of blunder, Harold laughed.

"One of the advantages of working with me," he said, leading her from the reception area, "is you don't have to worry about what will happen when you act as though you read someone's mind."

"That's true," she stammered, trying to regain her composure.

"No one will ever shun you. Not if they want to keep their job."

My worst nemesis.

"I know." He repeated with feeling, "Don't I know."

She stopped at the threshold to Harold's corner office and ran a discerning eye over the smooth carpet, in a muted paisley design, and the cream-colored leather furniture. A brass desk lamp cast a warm pool of light over the leather desk blotter. Two large acrylic paintings, modern horizontal stripes, hung on the walls.

"You obviously like it," she said, watching his expression. Her anger simmered below the surface now. She crossed her arms and tapped her toe.

"It's perfect." He beamed at her. "You've captured exactly the tone I wanted."

"Is my office finished?" She wanted to see it very badly and yet she felt a pang of remorse because, after she confronted Harold, she might never get to work there.

"The plants haven't arrived." I'll love her under a palm tree.

Mandy heard his surface-thought but didn't correct him. Not only because she couldn't be sure he was thinking about her, but because she had ordered fig trees, not palm trees.

They strode down the hall to stop at the space she had designed as her own. An oval braided carpet, hand made, nestled on a polished wooden floor. The desk, credenzas, end tables, and file cabinets were a warm oak. Mandy had chosen tweed fabric in burgundies and beiges for the sofa, the curtains, and her desk chair. Stained glass lamp shades and the palest pink walls added color.

A giant bouquet of roses, sitting in an antique-looking, oriental vase, dominated her desk. She reached through the thorns to pluck the card.

Dearest Mandy, it read, You have a gift for making your surroundings look beautiful and the people around you feel beautiful. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. It was signed by Harold.

Suddenly she felt like the worst heel. She'd spent the morning preparing to lambaste Harold for spying on her. Whereas he, on the other hand, had been out buying her flowers. At that moment, he looked very sweet with his hands in his trouser pockets and his silk tie loosened at his throat.

"They're lovely Harold. Thank you," she whispered. A dull throbbing began in her temple.

"You're lovely," he responded, gazing at her with concern. "But you look tired. Is anything wrong?"

"I thought . . .. There was a car outside my apartment this weekend. Well, more than one. Anyway, I thought you were spying on me."

Instead of glowering in anger, he appeared worried. His mouth pulled to the side as he chewed on the news. "Someone was spying on you? It wasn't me, I was out of the province all weekend."

"I know, but someone was out there."

"Did you call the police?"

"No," she said, surprised. "I thought it was Mitch, or someone . . .."

He finished her sentence, ". . . someone I hired."

She shrugged.

"I think you should plan to spend the weekends in Toronto, with me. You shouldn't be alone."

"Oh no." She added quickly, before her courage waned, "I won't be alone. I've started dating Van Tollefsrud." There, I've said it.

He looked more saddened than surprised. "You're making a grave error."

"He's a nice man. I like him. He likes me."

Harold closed the floor-to-ceiling door so that the only sounds in the room were the hum of the air circulator and the buzz of muted traffic many flights below. Mandy tried to take a calming breath but it exhaled shakily.

"He may like you," Harold said, turning his dark eyes upon her. They seemed even more hypnotizing now that he had acquired a suntan. "But he's not a nice man."

"That's a matter of opinion."

"He's a liar and a cheat."

Mandy had an urge to bolt for the door, but Harold blocked the way. She perched on the edge of her sofa and ran her fingertips over its nubbly fabric. Harold sat beside her and took her reluctant hand.

I don't want to hear this.

"But hear it you will," he said firmly yet gently, "You didn't know on Brier Island that Vance Tollefsrud could hear surface-thoughts, did you?"

"You do know about him." How? When?

"Of course," he said, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. "When did he tell you? That first day at Brier Island?"

"No, but I didn't know then that you had the ability either."

He nodded sagely. "We both, Tollefsrud and I, went there on the strength of that news report about a woman who could hear thoughts--not read minds--hear loud thoughts. I told you about myself the first opportunity I had. The first moment we were alone. When did he tell you?"

"Later," she conceded.

"Think back. Did he ever use surface-thoughts to his advantage?"

She shut her eyes to block Harold's dark, probing look, and remembered the way Van had seemed to her then. They had breakfast together after her argument with the reporter. Then they went to the beach. Van--her eyes flew open--did use her. He surface-thought about wanting to hold her hand. She had responded by giving him ample reason to think she wanted to hold his hand. Now, in her plush city office, that seemed embarrassingly childish.

Harold read her distressed face and the surface-thoughts which cut through her attempts to cloak them. "So, he used his ability to trick you."

"Yes he did, but he's not as confident as you. He wanted to check me out first."

He shook his head. "I've been honest with you from the first. I've been patient. Every night I watch you leave and I long to go after you, but I haven't. I've tried to give you space."

"Van says you're using me. Buying me."

His eyebrows lowered a fraction. "I want the best for you. If I'm buying you gifts," he waved a hand at the roses on her desk, "it's because I want you to be happy."

"He thinks we're wrong to use our ability in negotiations."

Harold lunged to his feet. "He calls me crooked! Ha! Look who's talking. A lawyer."

"Van doesn't use his ability for personal gain."

"Mandy," Harold gasped, dropping to hold her hand again. "You can't believe that. He's a lawyer. Of course he uses his ability."

"It would be hard not too," Mandy mumbled, unsure of what she believed.

"He's trying to malign me so you'll go to him. He just wants a wife who can thought-read."

"I don't know," she started. She longed to blurt out that she cared for Van in a way that she could never care for him.

"Mandy," Harold pleaded. "Listen to me. Van is dangerous--."

"Oh for Heaven's sake!" she pulled her hand free and tried to stand but he held her arm.

"Hear me out," he commanded. "He is dangerous. Remember that photo you gave to me? The one with you holding the fire ax on the schooner?"

Mandy barely nodded. Her mouth suddenly parched. The ax. The murder.

"An ax killed that reporter."

"A coincidence," she hissed.

He shook his head. "Vance Tollefsrud told you to hold that ax. He told you to and then he took a photo. That's why I didn't want you to let the police fingerprint you."

Her breath whooshed out of her. "You . . . You were afraid my fingerprints would be on the murder weapon? No. It's too absurd."

"I wish to God it wasn't. I had someone phone the schooner. They never saw that ax after our trip. Van stole it. The police described the size of ax that was used. It's the same one."

Coincidence. Impossible. She shook her head three seconds before the words worked their way to her mouth. "No, that's an awful thing to accuse him of. There are lots of axes like that. Thousands. For all you know, Derrick could have stolen it."

"He wasn't on the cruise. He would have no way of knowing about the prank. Why would he steal an ax?"

"Why would Van? Why would he kill Derrick?"

"I'm not sure, Mandy," Harold said slowly, "But I suspect that he would rather have you in jail than in my arms."

"You're suggesting that he set up a murder and made sure he could blackmail me. That's crazy!"

"I agree," he said slowly. "It's not rational."

"What would he have against Derrick?"

Harold shook his head slowly. "I bet it has something to do with that message you got on your machine. The reporter learned something about Van and he wa--." Expose him as a thought-reader?

Mandy held up a palm. "Stop it!"

"Perhaps he was waiting around all this time for someone to murder. Someone related to that cruise and the ax."

"Stop!" Mandy cried. "It's ludicrous."

"Face the truth, Mandy. Van is dangerous."

I need to think. "If you didn't have someone watching my apartment, who was it?"

Harold shrugged. "The police? Someone Van hired?"

She stared at him. "All these things you've said about Van could just as easily be said about you."

"I don't know why you won't trust me," he wailed. "I love you. For God's sake, Mandy. I'm desperately in love with you."

The relentless Harold Mederios looked so wretched, that her eyes welled with tears. "I'm sorry, but I don't feel the same way about you."

"You'll grow to love me. You will. We have the ability in common. We need each other. Haven't you always longed for someone who can understand you with the same depth as you understand them?"

"Yes, you know I have."

"Promise me that you won't give up on me."

"But what if I fall--." In love with Van.

"You can't!" he blurted. Then he seemed to collect himself. "I'm not suggesting a marriage of convenience, not really. But those marriages do work."

Mandy had never seen Harold so vulnerable. It was a side to him which she found much more approachable, more appealing, than she ever suspected existed.

"Give it time," he pleaded.

Now he used the same words she had used with Van. Funny, we mirror each others phrases.

He heard her. "Time will give us more than that in common."

"I can't make any promises, but I will wait a bit before I make any decisions about our future or if we ever have one."

"That's all I can ask," he said with a catch in his voice.

Feeling totally baffled and dejected, Mandy slumped back onto the sofa and dropped her chin onto her chest. Could it be true? Had she misjudged Harold? Had Van tricked her? Her confused surface-thoughts tumbled around the room but she ignored the fact that Harold could hear them.

"Mandy," he said softly. He took her hand again and patted it comfortingly. "I may as well get all the bad news out of the way."

She instinctively clutched his hand and sat up straighter. Harold looked and sounded sincere. He even ruffed up his hair with an agitated hand, something he would never do knowingly.

"I spoke to my contacts in the police," he said, "and asked them to get me a copy of the file on the murder. There were tire tracks near to the body. The footprints and marks--dragging marks--go right to the tracks." He stopped as though he couldn't bring himself to hurt her.

"They're from Van's Jeep, aren't they?"

"They are tracks from a Jeep, yes."

"But . . . that doesn't mean he . . . Van's not a murderer."

He captured her in his hypnotic eyes. "I think it would be best if you stayed with me, Mandy. You shouldn't be alone with him. I truly believe Vance Tollefsrud is a murderer."

She studied him. Harold did believe it. No one could be that good an actor. She clutched her stomach as it churned in fear.

When he finally left her alone in her new office, she stared at the telephone, desperate to call Van, to have him wash away her doubts.

Yet, every cell in her body screamed for her to run. Get out of Halifax. Get away from both Van and Harold. Escape. That's what she had always done in the past. From one job to the next, one town to the next, she established a fragile network of friends and tried to hide her gift. But eventually someone always noticed that she was different. She'd let down her guard here, slip up there. Soon her secret was exposed. The very best she could hope for was that she could stay hidden long enough to finish out the year with her class. Then she ran to the next teaching job. Only Marjorie understood. Thank God for Marjorie.

This time it was different. This time she had Harold and Van. Oh God! Why did Harold say those things? They weren't easy to dismiss because there had been a murder. Derrick Wiener was dead. But until now she hadn't believed his death had anything to do with her.

Harold implied that Van meant her harm--but that she would never believe. She would have to talk to him. Imagining the scene, she cringed. Van would be hurt to think that she would even consider the things Harold had said about him. Then again, he might be angry. He might feel the need to get even with Harold; to start some kind of sick vendetta.

She pulled the phone across the desk so she could reach it. None of the lines were lit. She frowned at the thought of someone listening in.

Mandy marched to the reception area and pulled her blazer from its hanger. Ms. Blois, looking very bored, watched her. Mandy realized that her desk was immaculate. The phone didn't ring. The only sound was the florescent lights humming. Was this whole office a front? A ruse? A ploy to get Mandy in play? Oh God, I'm losing my mind.

"Going out Ms. Stone?" Lousy timing. Warn him.

"For a little while." She wondered what was lousy about the timing? And what was that about warning someone? "Why? Do you need me?"

Ms. Blois half-hid a sneer as she shook her head.

All the way down the elevator, Mandy wondered if she was having a nervous breakdown. She couldn't seem to think straight anymore. Outside, she hunched her shoulders and turned up her blazer against the cold, gusting wind tunneling between the office towers.

Van's office was a few blocks south and toward the water in a renovated Victorian house; high ceilings, thick drapes, and cushy carpets. A man and woman, both in severe business suits and hugging files, marched past her as she entered.

The young receptionist smiled and raised her eyebrows in question.

"My name's Mandy Stone. I don't have an appointment, but it's very important that I see Vance Tollefsrud right away."

"Please have a seat. I'll let him know you're here." She turned away and mumbled something into her headset.

Mandy could have sworn that the girl recognized her name. Now, how could that be? I'm just paranoid.

She could hear his footsteps thundering down the carpeted stairs before Van burst into the room. His white dress shirt was rolled above his elbows, and his eyes glistened.

"Mandy!" he cried happily. Then he saw her pale face. He scooted over and wrapped his arms around her. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

"I need to talk to you," she said, glancing toward the receptionist.

Van guided her out into the hall up the stairs. She surface-thought something about being a bother.

"You're not a bother," he responded. "I want to see you. Always. No matter what. You're trembling."

She smiled wanly. "It's cold outside."

As they sat side by side on the sofa in his office, he rubbed her hands briskly between his own. Mandy seemed to be having trouble starting. At first, her mind was a jumble of thoughts, but slowly, she calmed. He waited patiently.

"I . . . I just had a talk with Harold," she started. "I thought that he was spying on me because there was someone outside my house last night."

Van stopped rubbing and held her hand firmly. "Someone scared you? That's why you're upset?"

She exhaled. "I accused Harold of spying on me and he said it was probably you."

"That doesn't make sense. I was with you." His groin tightened at the memory.

"I know. It's hard to explain Harold's effect on me. He always sounds so . . . so right. It's like he's got some kind of subliminal tape that gets me all mixed up."

Van didn't like the thought that Harold could affect her--in any way. I can't stand that guy.

Mandy licked her lips, then blurted, "Harold thinks you murdered Derrick."

He thinks I murdered--. "That's nuts!" He found himself on his feet, pacing. What bothered him wasn't what Harold said, but that Mandy seemed to be taking it seriously. "He's playing with your head."

"I think so too."

That bastard was spreading slanderous garbage about him. Van clenched his fists. "Did he have any facts to back up this accusation?"

Mandy looked startled. She nodded as though she felt tongue tied. Van felt like someone punched him in the gut.

"You don't believe him?" he hissed.

"No," she said. Her voice got stronger, "Of course not. It's just that he has a way of making sense. I'm worried about what he might do to you."

Van almost laughed with relief. "There's no truth to what he's saying--."

"Of course not."

"--but I'd better hear it so I can protect myself."

She nodded and patted the seat so he sat beside her. "He said that the police found tire tracks from a jeep near to the body. And that--."

"Tire tracks like mine?" He hadn't heard that.

"And, he said that the murder weapon was a fire ax like the one we used on the schooner cruise on Brier Island."

"So?"

"That one's missing."

Van thought back. For some reason, they did play around with the ax that night. "He thinks I stole the ax so I could kill the guy who was bugging you? That's pretty far fetched." He laughed. "You would have noticed if I had been toting an ax back to the lodge." We flirted, remember?

She smiled and slumped back against the sofa. "I don't know why I let him upset me."

The color slowly returned to her cheeks. "He does upset you, doesn't he. I'd love to throttle the guy!"

"What worries me is that he feels the same about you."

"Mandy, I know your career is important to you," Van said. It was obvious he had been rehearsing these words, they sounded stilted. "I wish you'd shake clear of this guy."

Her head moved in a barely discernible nod. "I know. But it's not as easy as it sounds. I owe him--."

"If it's the money?" he interjected.

She patted his hand. "It is a drag working for someone manipulative, like him. And there's this whole personal, professional mess."

Suddenly, Van knew the answer. He pulled Mandy's fingers to his lips. "Mandy, will you marry me?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Marry you?"

"It'll solve everything. Harold Mederios will know without a doubt that he can't have you. You'll be living with me so I can protect you. And . . . I love you. I want to be with you forever."

"I love you too."

She loves me. A weight lifted from his shoulders.

She cleared her throat. "But, I'm not convinced . . .."

"That I love you?"

"No. That it . . . we would work."

"You said you loved me."

"Please try to understand, I've never stayed in one place more than a year my whole adult life. Now, finally, I find someone who can surface-read and he loves me and wants to marry me? It's too pat."

He barked a laugh. "Too pat!"

"We hardly know each other."

"I'm rushing you. You're right. We can wait. You haven't even met my family yet--boy, you're in for a treat!" He knew he was rambling. It's just so friggin' important.

"I'd love to meet your family," she said sweetly.

"Okay! This weekend."

"It's a date."

Suddenly, her face fell. "What?" he asked.

"Harold." Harold will go nuts.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Early one afternoon, when Ms. Blois buzzed her on the intercom to tell her she had a call on line three, Mandy assumed it was someone from City Engineering getting back to her. She shuffled through the files on the corner of her desk to pull the one she needed to the top.

"Mandy Stone," she said, still distracted by the papers.

"Mandy, don't talk to anyone. Just get up and leave. Go to--."

"Marjorie?" Mandy asked, so stunned by her friend's voice that she found herself standing. "What's the matter? Where are you?"

"I'm at the Halifax Airport. Are you alone?"

"You're here?"

Marjorie hissed, "Are you alone?"

Mandy glanced toward her office door. "Yes."

"Try to leave and go home without anyone seeing you."

"What are you doing in Halifax?" Mandy demanded. Her brain sorted through horrible possibilities. "Has something happened to my mother? Are you sick?"

"No! Just do as I say!" Marjorie cried. "I'll tell you everything when we meet at your flat."

Mandy listened to the dial tone. Go home? Don't let anyone see me?

She set the receiver back onto the telephone, then snatched a tissue from the box on her desk and dried her palms. Suddenly she snapped open her briefcase and grabbed her keys and wallet.

Her coat hung in the reception area. If she went to get it, Ms. Blois would see her. She frowned toward the cold autumn drizzle outside her window, then marched down the corridor to a door which led to the stairs. Her high heels scuffed on the rough cement as she hurried down two flights. The wait outside the elevator door on that floor seemed interminable and, when it finally opened, she flinched fearing that someone from the office would be inside. It was empty.

By the time Mandy reached her flat, the car heater had warmed up, but she still trembled. She wavered between stark terror and cold anger. What happened? Why did Marjorie leave her in suspense?

Naturally, she reached her home long before Marjorie was able to get in from the airport. She unlocked the front door, kicked off her shoes, and took the steps two at a time. There were no messages on her answering machine. She went to her bedroom and, with brisk, agitated movements, changed from her office dress to jeans and a cotton sweater. For the next ten minutes, Mandy scurried from the kitchen, where she fixed a pot of Marjorie's favorite tea, to the front window. Finally a taxi cab pulled up and Marjorie, wearing a dark pant suit and carrying a canvas overnight bag, stepped out.

Mandy thundered down the stairs. She didn't want Mrs. MacDonald to open the door first.

"Oh my God, you really are here," she gasped, pulling her dear friend into a hug. "Are you all right?"

"Thank God you're okay."

"Me?" Mandy pulled Marjorie into the porch. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Marjorie was a tall, elegant woman in her forties with short, curly brow hair and a high-cheekbone face. Never, in all their years of friendship, had Mandy seen her look this upset. She even smelled terrified.

Marjorie said breathlessly, "Get packed. I'm taking you to my Aunt June's cottage."

"Aunt Jane . . . in Ontario? What are you talking about?" she asked, scurrying up the stairs.

"Hush!" Marjorie dropped her bag on the floor. "We can't talk here. Which is your bedroom?"

As Mandy followed her friend, her hands formed fists. "Why can't we talk here?"

Marjorie hissed, "Because it's probably bugged."

"Bugged?"

Marjorie had always been the solid, practical one in their friendship. She was intelligent and sincere, and Mandy trusted her totally. So now she hugged her arms close to her body and turned to peer around. She had lived in that flat for over four months. It had begun to feel like home.

With a start, she realized that Marjorie had her suitcase open on her bed. "What are you doing?"

"Help me," Marjorie hissed. "We've got to pack your stuff. No office clothes. Warm stuff."

Mandy clutched Marjorie by both shoulders and turned her around. "Wait. Slow down. A couple of minutes can't matter."

Marjorie's face was blanched and pale, and a thin line of red circled her eyes. "I . . . I don't know if a couple of minutes will make a difference. Maybe I should have called from home--but your phone . . .. Please, just humor me."

Mandy stared into her eyes and saw a mixture of fear and determination. "All right."

She turned to her bed, clutched handfuls of clothes and shoved them into the suitcase. Then she jogged to the bathroom for her toiletries. Within five minutes, she and Marjorie lugged the bags down to her car's back seat.

Mandy jumped in behind the wheel and turned to Marjorie. "Now tell me, what's going on?"

"This car could be bugged--."

"Marjorie! You're making me crazy!"

"Okay, I'll talk while you drive to the airport."

Mandy gritted her teeth, started the motor, put it in drive, and rolled away from the curb. Suddenly, she jammed her foot on the brake and reversed back to her parking place.

"I forgot to turn the heat off under the tea," she blurted.

"Leave it."

She could almost smell the acrid burned pot. "I can't just--."

"It's a tea pot, for Christ's sake! It won't burst into flame!"

Mandy gulped at the unaccustomed fury in her friend's voice as she stepped on the gas.

Marjorie moaned then said, "Listen to me. I think you're in danger. Hell, we both are. I found out why the Community College let you go. They were bribed by Harold Mederios." She waved Mandy's questions aside with an agitated hand. "They know that I know. I didn't tell anyone my real name, but they found out. First they asked my secretary if I'd just called them--said they were checking how to spell my name--then when she tried to put them through to me, they hung up."

She swallowed, obviously collecting herself. "But Mandy, they didn't stop there. I . . . my car was tampered with. I was lucky I wasn't killed. See this," she said, holding her bangs free from her forehead to show a painful-looking bruise. "But then, my house . . . they blew up my house." She choked on the last few words. Drive!

"Someone's trying to kill you!" Mandy cried, awash with an overwhelming protectiveness. "My God! We've got to go to the police."

Marjorie pounded the dashboard. "Don't you think I've done that!" Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!

"When did this happen?"

"Drive," Marjorie commanded. When the car picked up speed, she continued, "I had the accident on Saturday. My house--." Her voice cracked and she stopped to collect herself. "The bomb went off this morning. I went straight to the airport from the police station."

"Were you home? You weren't hurt?"

"The cat saved me. I think the bomb was under my bed. Thank God I got up. Mimi was meowing to go out. I was in the kitchen. It was this giant whoosh and crash." She flattened her palms against her ears.

"Oh Marjorie, I'm so sorry."

Mandy realized she drove far too slowly. She squeezed the steering wheel so hard, her knuckles whitened. They moved along a residential street with mammoth houses and a boulevard in the south end of Halifax. She blinked her eyes trying to clear the cobwebs of shock from her brain.

Knowing she couldn't drive safely in this state, she increased speed and headed to nearby Point Pleasant Park. Meanwhile, she listened in horror as Marjorie recounted her story; her hours at the hospital then later with the police, and her decision to get Mandy to safety.

She pulled the car to a stop in a spot in the center of the deserted lot, and shut off the engine. The rain thundered down on the rooftop and ran in sheets over the windows so that the car's interior felt isolated and invisible.

Marjorie squirmed around in her seat as though checking to see if they were followed. Then she wiped a clear circle in the quickly-fogging windows and looked toward the park's restaurant. Other than the lights glaring though the plate glass windows, the place looked empty.

"Where are we?" she asked, then immediately held up a palm, "No, don't answer that. If the car's bugged, they don't know where we are. Unless, of course," she said, her eyes widening, "they've got some kind of tracking thing."

"Shish," Mandy said, grabbing Marjorie's cold hand and warming it between her own. "No one's got the car bugged. Now tell me everything."

"Harold Mederios blew up my house."

"Are you sure that it wasn't a leaky gas line or something?"

"Mandy," she sounded offended. "Am I the kind of person who over dramatizes things?"

"No, of course not." Quite the opposite.

"I heard the bomb go off. I saw what was left of the top floor of my house. The police immediately said it was a bomb. It was a bomb!"

"Okay, you don't need to yell. It just seems so impossible. You think it's because of Harold?"

"He got you fired so he could hire you himself."

"That's so--. Because of me? There must be more to it than that. He wouldn't try to kill someone just because of . .. I don't believe that's why this has happened to you."

"A week ago I had my job and my cat and my friends and my house. I discovered a crime. Now, I'm running for my life."

"I'm not saying that Harold didn't bribe those jerks. I wouldn't put that past him. But murder! It's more likely the principal--no, cancel that. Those wimps couldn't do something like this."

"You're forgetting that reporter was murdered too."

"Oh Lord, yes. Derrick Wiener." She turned her head to look toward the harbor and could just make out, through the pelting rain, the brooding silhouettes of the grain elevators. "His body was found right over there."

"Not far from your house."

She hadn't really considered that before. "Harold thinks Van murdered Derrick."

"Your lawyer friend? Why?"

"There were tire tracks like his truck near the body. Harold thinks Van's psychotic."

"Do you?"

"No!" Mandy blurted. She was aware that Marjorie watched her. "No. Van is not psychotic."

You're in love. "You have feelings for him," Marjorie stated.

Mandy nodded. "We should go to him. Right now, we should drive to his office." She reached for the ignition key but Marjorie touched her fingers, stopping her.

"Let's just say you're right to trust this guy. Do you want his house blown up too?"

"Lord no!" Mandy jammed her hands between her knees. "But Van has a friend, a policeman. If we go to him, he'll arrest Harold for bribing the school officials."

"The Ontario police said I didn't have enough evidence."

Mandy scoffed. "I would have thought a blown-up house was pretty good evidence."

"And they will get him," Marjorie said slowly. "I've been thinking. That crazy guy who tried to kill the marine biologist . . .."

"He's locked up, still waiting for a trial."

"Do you suppose Harold Mederios sent him on that cruise?"

Mandy cried, "That's a terrible thing to say! And anyway, it was on a boat. Why would a man agree to try to shoot another person without a way to escape?"

He’s crazy. "Maybe Harold was testing you, testing your abilities?"

"A test that could mean a person's death! If I hadn't heard that man's thoughts, he would have shot the biologist. I don't believe Harold, or anyone, could be so . . . cold hearted."

"The bullets could have been blanks."

Mandy had an unnerving thought. "How would he even know I’d be there? Or that I could read thoughts?"

Marjorie looked sympathetic. "Mandy, dear, there are thousands of Internet web sites about people with paranormal ability. Someone told someone who told someone . . .. And Harold’s probably been monitoring them."

Mandy forced herself to consider the possibility. Harold had turned up at Brier Island the day after the attempted assassin. Then again, so had Van.

"It makes a certain amount of sense," Mandy admitted. "But if he wanted to check me out, he could have done so without so much fuss."

"True. But for the sake of argument, say someone does think I know too much . . .." Marjorie let her voice trail off.

"If that person--I'm not convinced it's Harold--thinks you know about his association with the arrested man, he would try to silence you. I'm going to ask Vance's policeman friend to look into that."

"You're doing no such thing," Marjorie snapped. "We're going to hide out until Harold's arrested."

"For how long? A week? A year? Harold's rich. Even if they do arrest him, he'll be out on bail. He'll drag it out for years."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. The thing to do now is to get to safety."

"He won't hurt me. He has this thing about me because I can thought-hear too."

"That's something else," Marjorie gasped. "I couldn't believe the things you wrote in your last letter. Saying you can't quit that job! Don't you think this fixation he has with you is sick?"

"Well, yes! That's why I wrote about it to you. I can't look on it objectively. Sometimes I think I'm dreaming. I mean, why would anyone feel that way about me?"

"There are crazy people in this world. You, of all people, should know that. He's lonely and he thinks you, a fellow thought-reader, will solve his every problem. And besides, you're a very desirable woman."

They grew silent. Mandy tried to ignore Marjorie's fluster of surface-thoughts about catching a plane and about her charge card being traceable. She had enough things to sort out for herself.

Marjorie broke the silence. "It's getting cold in here."

"Want me to turn on the heater?"

"No. Let's go to the airport. Our flight doesn't leave for hours but I think we'll be safe in one of the bars."

"I don't want to go to your aunt's cottage," Mandy said quietly. "I don't know if I should run away again. I've been doing that my whole life. I'm sick of it."

"This isn't the same thing," Marjorie said harshly. "You were just trying to go places where no one knew you could hear thoughts. This is different. Now you have to hide out to save your life."

"I want you to go, Marjorie. I don't want you to get hurt. I'm so sorry I've gotten you into this."

"You?" she interrupted. "I'm the one who poked my nose in places it didn't belong. I'm the one who's sorry."

"No, no. I'm to blame. You've looked after me for so many years," Mandy said softly. "It's time I stopped depending on you."

"If you want to do something for me, come to Aunt Jane's. Or at least go to your mother's."

Mandy almost laughed. Her mother was the last person with whom she could find refuge. "I might go with you," Mandy conceded. "I just want to think things through first. Let's go into this restaurant and get something hot to drink."

"I feel safer sitting in a get-away car."

Mandy felt relieved to hear the strength returning to her friend's voice. It was much more like her to be full of bluster and confidence.

"I'll go get a couple of take-out coffees," she said, reaching into the back seat for her purse. "Then we can head toward the airport. I'll make my decision along the way."

"Okay, I can live with that."

Mandy slammed the car door and hurried, hunched against the cold, toward the steamed-up windows of the restaurant. Inside, she blinked in the bright lights.

A bored-looking waitress dropped her magazine and smiled. "What can I get you?"

"Two coffees to go. Just milk."

"Miserable weather, eh?" the waitress said as she shuffled toward the coffee machine.

"Sure is."

Mandy pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and thought, Maybe I can get a job as a waitress while we're hiding out. It would be a way to make money.

The waitress squeezed the plastic lids over the Styrofoam cups and set them on the counter. "That'll be--."

Blam! Blam! Blam! Gunshots!

"Noooo!" Mandy screamed. "Marjorie!"

She flew to the door, yanked it open, and ran screaming across the pavement. A car accelerated and roared away. She slipped, fell hard on one knee, then scrambled toward the car.

"Nooooo!"

Marjorie's body was thrown across the front seat. Her head dropped sideways. Tiny squares of shattered glass glistened in her hair and on her shoulder. Her eyes were closed.

"Call an ambulance! Someone call an ambulance!"

Mandy charged around to the driver's side, opened the door carefully, and caught Marjorie's shoulder. Very gingerly, she shifted her weight high enough to slide in under.

"Oh God, Marjorie. Hold on. Hold on," she cried. "I'm taking you to the hospital. Hold on. Hold on."

Marjorie's weight pressed on her right shoulder, so she reached her fingertips to turn on the ignition. Even after snapping on the windshield wipers, her vision blurred. She realized she cried, and angrily swiped at her own eyes.

"Hold on. Hold on. Hold on."

She concentrated on driving as fast as she could, squinting her eyes in the rain, slowing for lights and stop signs only long enough to blare her horn and bully her way through.

"Hold on. Hold on. Hold on."

At the hospital, Mandy put the heel of her right hand on the horn and bounced the car up and over the curb. White coated people took over.

She stumbled out of their way, wringing her hands, choking on her own tears, until the stretcher carrying her best friend disappeared down a long hallway. When she tried to go after it, a young man in a baggy green uniform held her back.

"She's not dead, is she?" she asked, dazed. "They wouldn't hurry like that if she was dead."

"No, she's not dead."

The young man stared at her right shoulder. Mandy realized then that it was thick with sticky blood. Marjorie's blood.

"Oh God," Mandy wailed. "They shot my best friend."

The orderly led her to a vinyl-covered sofa. "Is there anyone I can call for you? Your parents?"

"No. Yes." She sniffed. "I want Vance Tollefsrud."

"Do you know his number?"

"He's at his law firm."

He hunkered down beside her and spoke very slowly. "You wait right here. First I'm going to move your car. Then I'll call your friend, then I'll take you to get washed up. Don't go anywhere. Understand? The police are going to want to talk to you. You wait for me. Okay?"

Mandy saw him through the wavy grayness of tears. I want Van.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mandy paced back and forth across the floor wringing her hands and jerking with a start every time someone opened the door through which they had taken Marjorie. Why won't they tell me anything?

Finally, the orderly returned. "Excuse me Miss?" he said, stopping in front of her. He dropped two suitcases and a purse at his feet. "I moved your car to the visitor lot. Here," he handed her a slip of paper and her keys, "I wrote down the number of the parking space."

Mandy stared at the paper a moment before realizing that he wanted her to take it. "Thanks," she whispered. "Did you call Vance?"

He nodded. "He's not in his office, but I explained everything to his secretary."

Mandy felt the tears plucking at her eyes again, but then she heard the orderly surface-think something about crying women. That braced her sufficiently to take a deep breath without whimpering.

"And I found these in the back seat," he said, pointing at the suitcases. "Thought you might want to get a clean shirt."

"That one's Marjorie's," Mandy said, pointing to the new-looking overnight bag. She picked up her own purse and squeezed it like a teddy.

"Okay," he said. "We'll put that in her room after she comes out of surgery."

He picked up the bags and led her to a small, tiled washroom. As soon as he left, she swung the door closed and quickly scrubbed the blood from her hands. Then she stripped off the sodden sweater and dragged wet paper towel over her shoulder. She felt slightly less disoriented after she yanked on a clean sweatshirt. Then she looped the long strap of her purse over her head so it crossed her chest like a bandoleer.

I'm in shock, she thought, shivering.

A policeman waited outside the door. He was short but solid-looking. His square face looked half-apologetic, half-suspicious as he asked, "You're the woman who brought in the shooting victim?"

"Yes," she answered. Marjorie's suitcase was gone. She picked up her own.

"We'll have to ask you a few questions."

"Of course."

He flipped back the cover of a small booklet. "The name of the victim."

"She's not dead."

She looked wildly about her, afraid that someone would contradict what she'd just said. A nurse, in white thick-soled shoes and uniform dress, glided by. Through a glass window she saw a woman talking on the phone.

"No, ma'am. We need to know her name."

"Marjorie Wentworth."

"Next of kin?"

"She's not dead."

Christ, she's getting hysterical. "Please just answer my questions."

The suitcase's weight dragged. She hoisted it higher before she realized she needn't hold it. I need help. Where is Van? Why am I talking to a uniformed policeman? This isn't a parking ticket.

"You know," she finally said, "You should get those two detectives here. Oh, what are their names? One was white and the other was black."

"Kelsey and Sparks," he nodded, one eyebrow raised. "They're on their way."

Two nurses pushed through the double doors at the end of the long, stark hallway. Mandy dropped her suitcase with a thud and rushed toward them.

"Excuse me," she blurted, "Any news about my friend, Marjorie Wentworth?"

"No, I'm sorry. She's still in surgery."

Shoulders sagged, Mandy returned to her suitcase. She hoisted it by the handle and wandered to the sitting room to wait. The policeman followed her. Mandy realized that he had probably been assigned to watch her until the detectives arrived. She didn't mind. She wanted someone to distract her until Marjorie was out of danger.

Twenty minutes later the detectives, Sparks and Kelsey, appeared. They took the policeman aside and, backs turned to Mandy, conferred. The policeman headed off.

"Miss Stone," Sparks said with a nod. "I understand you've had a trying day."

"Harold Mederios shot my best friend."

He pulled a small, black flip pad from inside his jacket pocket and glanced at a page. "That would be Marjorie Wentworth?"

"Yes! Listen, I'll tell you everything, but don't you think you should be putting an APB--or whatever you call it--out on him?"

"Just tell us what happened."

They scribbled quickly as she spoke with what she thought was increasing clarity, about what had happened to Marjorie in Toronto, and about the scene in the park. Suddenly they slapped their notepads closed.

Mandy wanted to shake them by the lapels. "Is that it?"

After all she'd said, they should have been raging, sirens blaring, off to arrest Harold Mederios. Instead, they surface-thought in lists--Check with patrol cars about speeding tickets in area. Send someone to question waitress. Pay a visit on Mederios. Call Toronto about bomb. Does Marjorie Wentworth have any priors?

"Here's my card," Kelsey drawled, handing it to her. "We want to be able to reach you easily so please call us before you go anywhere."

"That's it?" she cried again.

"We'll be towing your car to the compound. It's evidence."

She fumbled in her jean pockets for the slip of paper the orderly had given her. "It's parked here."

"Thanks."

"You're going to arrest Harold, aren't you?"

"We're going to investigate him." Sparks stood. "If you think of anything else, give us a call."

"But my friend's been shot!"

"I hope she's okay. Why don't you go and check on her?"

"Aren't you going to do something?"

"Yes ma'am." If he'd worn a hat, he would have tipped it.

Mandy stared at their receding backs as she crushed the business card in her fist. She marched over to the glass partition and the women who sat behind it.

"Excuse, me," she said. "I need a phone."

"There's a payphone right over there."

Mandy nodded her thanks and dug in her purse for a coin. The woman behind the glass partition, anticipating her needs, slid a quarter along the counter. Her kindness almost made Mandy cry again. She wanted to feel anger, not pain.

The telephone book listed Van's office number right before his home number. She called the office.

"I need to speak to Vance Tollefsrud," Mandy said, "It's an emergency."

"I'm sorry," Van's secretary responded, "Mr. Tollefsrud

stepped out of the office. Is this Ms. Stone?"

"Yes. Does he know what happened? Is he on his way to the hospital?"

"No. I'm very sorry. He didn't tell me where he was going. But I'll send him there as soon as I hear from him."

"Please. Thank you." She slammed the receiver back onto its holder. Where is he?

Mandy set off to locate Marjorie. After some aborted attempts, she found the right floor. She used the phone at the nurse's station to call Van's office, and left another message where he should meet her.

An hour later, her friend was still in surgery. Mandy had been assured time and time again that she would be told the moment they had any news about her condition. The hands on the large white clock hardly moved between the times she looked at it. She tried to read a magazine, but she might as well have been looking at the nubbly surface of the painted cement block walls.

Finally, a door swung open and Van appeared. He wore a pinstriped navy suit and white shirt with a patterned tie. His brow furrowed in concern.

"Where have you been?" Mandy cried, running into his arms.

On a wild goose chase. "I just got your message. How is she?"

"I don't know yet."

"It's your friend from Toronto, isn't it? The one with the sailboat?"

"Yes. I'm so glad you're here." She buried her face in his broad chest.

"Tell me what happened," Van said, shuffling her to the side and clear of the door.

Mandy flashed on the memory of what she saw when she had reached the car: the angle of Marjorie's head, the glass. She blanched, fighting the bile that rose in her throat. Suddenly, she couldn't talk. I will not faint. I will not faint.

Van got her settled on a seat. The ringing in her ears slowly abated.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't be."

Mandy licked her lips. "Someone tried to kill her. In Toronto. It's about the school, at least, that's what Marjorie thinks." She didn't dare mention Marjorie's theory about how Harold sent an assassin to Brier Island to test her surface-thought-reading ability.

"Slow down. What's about the school." He clutched her hand and peered at her earnestly.

"Marjorie discovered that the Community College that rescinded on my contract had been bribed by Harold."

I know.

"You know! Why didn't you tell me?"

He shook his head. "It's complicated. Go on."

"Then he tried to kill her twice."

His eyebrows lowered menacingly. "Harold did?"

"Yes! She thinks so. She had a car accident because her brakes were mucked up. Then, someone planted a bomb in her house. It was just luck that kept her from being killed."

"And now someone shot her."

Tears threatened again. Mandy clamped down on them. "We were in my car down at the park, by the grain elevators--Oh my God!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "That's how they found us. They had the car bugged. I have to get the police to check my car."

Van pulled her gently back onto the coach. "Why was Marjorie in your car?"

"She wanted to take me away. She thinks Harold will do something to me."

"She's right. We better get you somewhere safe."

"No! He wouldn't hurt me."

Van scoffed. "He's a caged animal. He'll hurt anyone in his way." Including me.

"What do you mean, including you?"

"This morning a man called my office and said that he had information about Harold Mederios. He told me I had to meet with him--alone--in Bedford. I drove there and waited, but no one showed."

"You went alone?" she asked, aghast.

"I couldn't reach Nelson, and the man said I had to go right away."

"He was making damn sure you didn't have an alibi."

Suddenly, a man nearby laughed coldly. Harold Mederios stood two yards away.

"Don't listen to him Mandy," he commanded. "He's the one who shot your friend."

Mandy instinctively cowered from Harold. "You bastard."

His eyes widened. "Me!" He gaped, "I didn't hurt your friend."

"Maybe not personally," Van said, standing to position himself between her and Harold. "But one of your hired thugs did."

"Mandy," Harold pleaded. "Don't listen to him. I would never do something to hurt you."

She faced him. "You got me fired from the school."

His shoulders drooped. "Only because I wanted something better for you. You deserved more than that dead-end job."

She narrowed her eyes. "Where were you this morning?"

He looked terribly hurt. "In my office fretting about where you could have gone. I didn't know anything about this--" he said, waving his hand around the white walls, "until a half-hour ago when the police came to question me."

Don't believe him, Mandy, Van thought, staring hate at Harold.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mandy saw a white-coated man push through the swinging door. He conferred with a nurse then looked toward Mandy. She left Harold and Van in a fierce, silent argument, and ran to the doctor.

"She's in critical condition," he quickly said. "But there is a good chance she'll pull through."

"Oh, thank God."

"Your name's Mandy?"

"Yes."

"She's very groggy, but she keeps mumbling your name. Something about an Aunt? She's very agitated."

Mandy's voice cracked, "Can I see her?"

"Only long enough to set her mind at rest."

Mandy realized that she was flanked by Van and Harold. She held up her palm to keep them from following her.

The intensive care department was crowded with white covered beds and drapes, gray floors and ominous-looking equipment. The doctor pulled aside a grimy curtain and motioned Mandy to come forward.

White bandages wound around Marjorie's head, and tubes ran from her left arm which lay like a helpless appendage outside the blankets. Her skin looked blue and lifeless. Dead. If it weren't for the ticking and hissing of the hulking machinery, Mandy wouldn't have been sure. She bit hard onto her knuckle so as not to cry out loud.

The policeman who had spoken with her earlier sat in a stiff chair on the far side of Marjorie's bed. He looked at the doctor with a question in his eyes. The doctor shrugged.

"You're guarding her?" Mandy whispered to him. He nodded. "Thank you."

At that instant, Mandy realized that she couldn't afford to panic and have fainting spells. Marjorie's life hung by a thread and it was her fault.

She picked up her friend's cold hand and held it between her own.

"It's me," she whispered, "It's Mandy."

Marjorie's eyes remained shut, but her dry lips opened. Being careful not to touch anything that could cause her friend pain, Mandy leaned across the bed to put her mouth next to her ear.

"Don't try to talk," she said softly, "Surface-think."

Run Mandy. Run to Aunt June's.

"I'll look after myself."

Marjorie's head moved slightly. Hide. Promise.

"I'll sneak away right now. I won't tell anyone where I am. But I'll come and see you every day."

No! Marjorie's eyes fluttered open. "Promise . . . hide from both . . . men," she croaked.

What was she saying? "Even Van?"

Don't trust him. Go far. Promise.

How could she deny her this selfless request. "Yes, Marjorie, I promise."

Marjorie's face relaxed and her eyes closed.

Oh God! What did she mean about Van? Did she see the face of the person who shot her? She couldn't believe it. Van wouldn't shoot someone. He wouldn't! But he was away from his office when the shooting happened . . ..

Mandy watched her friend's steady breathing. A nearby machine ticked.

"She's sleeping," the doctor whispered, his hand on her shoulder. "That's what she needs now." Wonder what that was all about?

Mandy's legs felt shaky as she rose. She'd made a promise and she vowed she'd keep it. But how? Van and Harold would pounce the moment she appeared.

She looked pointedly at the police guard. "You look after her," she hissed.

He nodded, his square face set with the weight of his job.

"Is there another way to get outside? I don't want to see those two men." Mandy tilted her head toward the door which they had just used.

"This way."

Mandy walked stiffly as she followed the doctor through the maze of beds to the exit.

"The bullet," she asked before leaving, "It went into her brain?"

He nodded. "One did. The other one went through her side," he pointed to himself, "here."

"Will she recover fully?"

"It's too early to say. But I think it's amazing that she was this conscious this quickly. That's a good sign."

"Well . . . thank you."

Mandy followed the hall, past patient rooms, to an elevator. When she reached the ground floor, she wandered the corridors until she found an exit. Outside, kitchen workers shivered under the door's overhang, smoking cigarettes. They barely glanced at her as she lingered, unsure of her next move.

Countless details coursed through her surface-thoughts. Who'll take my suitcase? I left the heat under the teapot. Will Van think I don't trust him? Do I? Where do I go? What do I do? How do I start?

The rain and wind had carried the last few dead leaves from the trees. They clung in slimy clumps on the cement stairs and along the cracked asphalt drive. Face averted from the driving rain and cold, Mandy jogged through them toward a busy intersection.

She pictured Van and Harold, waiting in the dry heat and glaring lights of the hospital, scowling at each other. They'd soon start to search for her; united for once in a common goal. A fresh stab of fear tightened her neck muscles.

Then, through the sheets of rain, Mandy saw the yellow dome of a taxi. Desperate to catch it, she bolted.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Where to lady?" the cab driver asked.

Mandy's chest heaved as she gasped for air. "Just drive."

He shrugged. "The meter's on."

She ran the flat of her hands across her cheeks, prying the soaked strands of hair from her skin. "Can you turn on the heat please?"

"Sure thing." He eyed her through the rearview. "You in some kind of trouble?"

Mandy swore silently. Was it that obvious? "I'm soaked, that's all." The rumble of car's engine, and the grinding of city traffic made it impossible for her to hear his surface-thoughts. Just as well.

"Decided where ya wanna go?"

"Yes," she answered, "Take me to the nearest bank machine. From there we'll go to a car rental place."

He made a sharp right turn and stopped, double parked, next to a bank.

Mandy had plenty of money in her account--Harold paid well--but the machine only let her withdraw a couple of hundred dollars a go. She punched the buttons over and over again, gritting her teeth at how slow it all seemed. Finally, she stuffed a handful of bills in her purse and hurried back to the cab.

On route to the car rental, they passed a Jeep dealership still open. Shadowy people moved beyond the steamed-up windows.

"Wait," Mandy blurted, leaning a hand over the front seat. "I want to make another stop. That car dealership."

The taxi rolled to the curb. "You're the boss."

Mandy had just begun to feel warm again, but she braced herself and ran through the icy drizzle to the door. Inside, people wandered around the two displayed vehicles and talked quietly at a brochure stand. Despite Mandy's disheveled condition, a salesman strode over with an expectant look on his face.

"Hi, can I help you?"

"I have an odd question," she said, trying to smile. "What kind of tires come on a Jeep truck like that one?"

He followed her gaze. "I'm not sure what come with that one, exactly."

"Any Jeep truck."

"Sometimes Michelin. Sometimes Goodyear. And one other . . .," he snapped his fingers when he remembered, "Bridgestone."

But Harold had said that the police found Jeep tracks near to where Derrick's body had been found. "What about the wheel base? Is a Jeep base different from any other truck?"

He shook his head. "You some kind of writer or something?"

"Yes," she lied. "I need to know if the police could pinpoint, from tire tracks found at a crime scene, what type of vehicle was there."

"They could tell what kind of tire, and how old it was." He looked pleased with his skills of deduction. "If the tires were worn in a certain way, or they had a nail embedded in them or something, they might be able to match tracks. But I doubt that they could say what kind of vehicle it was."

"Jeeps don't have a unique wheel base?"

He shrugged. "I don't think so."

"You've been very helpful. Thanks."

Deep in thought, she returned to the taxi. Harold had said that the tracks near Derrick Wiener's body were from a Jeep, like Van's. Yet Van said he hadn't even been questioned by the police. She shook her head ruefully. What a gullible fool she'd been to believe anything Harold said. On the other hand, perhaps Van lied about the police.

She settled onto the sagging back seat with a heavy heart. The taxi surged forward, only to slow a half-block later and turn in to stop at a rental agency.

As soon as Mandy learned that there was a car available, she paid off the taxi. Back inside, she paced across the unsteady plywood floor, rubbing her hands up and down her frozen arms. The counter clerk slid a form around for her to fill out.

"We'll need a major credit card and your driver's license."

Mandy considered, as she handed over her Visa, that Harold would probably be able to trace her movements through the card. He did say he had contacts in the police department. Then she remembered that Van's best friend was a policeman. She'd have to use cash for the rest of her purchases--wherever she went.

The car they selected for her started easily, but she sat in the lot while the heater warmed up and the defrost cleared the windows of mist.

"God," she prayed, "Please let Marjorie be safe."

She put the car in gear and took the nearest route out of the city.

The question of where to go still plagued her as Mandy sped past the cement buffers along the 101 Highway skirting Lower Sackville. Suddenly she realized that the roaring in her ears didn't come from the hiss of tires on wet pavement or from the relentless flapping of the windshield wipers. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, twelve hours earlier.

The thought of eating sickened her, but she had to stop to get herself under control. This driving aimlessly through the night didn't make sense. She drifted over to the off ramp and drove down to the crammed stretch of strip malls and fast food joints.

A half hour later, Mandy scraped her spoon along the bottom of the heavy restaurant bowl. The fish chowder had been luke-warm, thick, and bland--just what her queasy stomach needed. She refilled her teacup, cradled it in her bone-cold hands, and stared with unseeing eyes at the arborite tabletop.

It had all started in Brier Island.

Mandy sat straighter and peered around the small restaurant until she sighted the payphone. She stumbled to it, slipped in a quarter, spoke with Information, then dialed the number of the Brier Island Lodge.

A woman answered with a simple, "Hello."

"Is this the Brier Island Lodge?" Mandy asked.

"Yes it is, but we're closed for the season."

"Oh," Mandy said sadly. She'd been hoping to stay in the familiar place. Hoped that there she could pick up the end of the thread that had unraveled the fabric of her life.

The woman broke the silence. "Are you looking for a room for tonight?"

"Yes, I am."

"They'll probably put you up at the Bed and Breakfast. Except . . . it's pretty late now. Where are you?"

"In Lower Sackville."

"Oh my dear," the woman scolded. "You'll have to hurry. Do you want their number?"

"Yes, please."

Mandy scribbled the phone number on a corner of a paper napkin and thanked the woman for her help. Then she booked a room at the Bed and Breakfast for the night.

She had one more call to make. With the phone book balanced on her knee, she looked up the number for the hospital. A tired-sounding nurse on Marjorie's floor assured her that her friend was still sleeping comfortably.

Making her way back to her table, Mandy staggered. A sinus headache, the inevitable aftermath of crying, throbbed. However, having made the decision about where to go gave her a slight feeling of control.

Neither Harold nor Van would suspect that she would drive five hours in the pelting rain to a tourist island where everything was closed for the season. And, she'd promised Marjorie that she would go far away. A five or six hour drive would have to suffice.

She climbed back into the rental car and started it up. The temperature had lowered. Now thick drops of sleet plopped on the windshield, dribbling until the wipers pounded them into a corner. Each accumulation was slapped and compacted into an opaque layer of ice. Soon there remained only two crescents of window to look through.

Mandy flipped the defrost switch on the dash and blinked into the sudden gust of cool dry air. She thought, as she snapped the seatbelt into place, that it was going to be a long, icy drive.

Deep in thought, she left Lower Sackville and started up the hill. Other than the horror of Marjorie being hurt--and that was a huge horror--Mandy was doing something she'd done many times in the past. Running. True she ran from something far more dangerous and evil than ever before, but the end result was much the same. Because of her thought-reading ability, she had to leave town and start fresh where no one knew her.

But what about the innocent victims she left behind? Marjorie? Derrick Wiener? The tenants living in the building Harold bought? And what about Van? If he didn't do those despicable things--murder Derrick or shoot Marjorie--he was also a victim.

Harold was the monster, not Van. He did bribe the school. He even admitted to it. But he said he did it to help her, not to hurt her.

She forced herself to consider whether she let her feelings for Van cloud her judgment. Did he have a motive to murder Derrick? Possibly. If Derrick learned about the thought-reading ability and threatened to expose him. Did he have a motive to shoot Marjorie? No . . . none she could think of. Then why did Marjorie tell her not to trust either man?

"Oh Marjorie," she moaned aloud. "Who shot you?"

It felt wrong to be driving away from her friend like this. She should stay by her side, let her know that she wasn't alone.

She flipped down the switch to the fan on her defrost, and leaned back into the seat. Relax. Drive.

Mandy reached the far end of Long Island just before midnight. The last hour had been a long, torturous drive along the black, twisting road of Digby Neck. Freezing rain coated the surface like Vaseline. Her tires slithered, sometimes clutching the surface only at the brink of disaster.

Earlier the man at the gas station in the Town of Digby had told her that the ferry boats ran twenty-four hours but that they cut the number of daily trips drastically this time of year. Consequently, she felt a surge of relief when she pulled around the massive cropping of granite and spied the brightly-lit ferry at its berth.

At full capacity, she estimated that the ferry could hold only eight or ten cars on its tiny deck. Above, in the cramped windowed bridge, the silhouette of a man shifted position.

She pulled to the very lip of the ramp and waited, engine idling, until the uniformed man emerged from the small shelter. He moved toward her slowly, as though he dragged heavy shoes, and then he waved her aboard. Apparently she was to be their only passenger for he motioned for her to stop in the middle of the open area. Soon the ramp lifted from the shore and the sound of grinding motors and thrashing waters drowned out her own engine's sounds. The man lumbered back into his shelter.

Mandy didn't shut off the key. It was a short trip through the strong tidal surge between the islands, but icy winds buffeted the car, rocking it slightly. She needed the car on to keep the heat billowing.

The contrast between this trip and the ride she'd enjoyed in September made her shake her head ruefully. Then, she had stood outside under the warm sun and admired the fabulous view of forest, white clapboard houses, towering cliffs, and blue water. Now, even the dim streetlight over the wharf had blinked out in the blackness that enshrouded the boat as it slowly churned its way toward Westport.

Mandy crossed her arms at her chest and squeezed her knees together. She felt cold and hungry and sick at heart. The combination of her sinus headache and the hours of squinting through the rain at the slick road, left the back of her neck as tense as the wires holding the bridge to the deck. She tried to relax, to lower her hunched up shoulders, but a shooting pain stabbed the base of her skull.

"This is nothing. Nothing," she hissed to herself, thinking of the pain Marjorie must be feeling.

Everything looked either dead or asleep when the ferry docked in the frozen village of Westport. Mandy barely touched the gas pedal, but let the car's momentum carry her along the harbor road. Finally she spied, through the drizzle and fog, a house one block up, with a light still burning. It had a wide skirting verandah and picture windows, all which matched the description she had been given by the owner of the Bed and Breakfast.

She parked behind the house and turned off her car. It took an effort to leave its warmth, but she finally flung open the door and jogged, barely lifting her leaden feet, to the porch.

She paused outside the door and looked through the window. A man sat in a rocking chair with his chin resting on his chest as if he had nodded off to sleep. He wore a long plaid housecoat over cotton pajamas, and had thick hand-knit socks on his feet. Mandy rapped on the window. The man struggled to his feet and opened the door.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I've kept you up."

"That’s all right." He frowned at her. "You didn't bring in your bag?"

"I . . . I . . .," she struggled to pull her tired brain into action. "There was an accident . . . my car. I've rented another car."

He looked about to press her, but suddenly his face softened. "I'll see if the missus has a clean pair of pjs for you to borrow."

"Oh, that won't be necessary."

He shrugged. "I've got sweatshirts for sale in here by the desk."

Mandy eyed the row, picked out the one that looked the largest, and pulled it off the hanger. "I'd like to take this one."

She pulled her purse around to get the money but the man shook his head.

"It's too late for that now. You can settle up with the wife in the morning. I'll show you your room."

She followed him, her eyes fixed on the drooping hem of his housecoat, down a crowded hall, through a kitchen with a heavy oil stove humming with warmth, and up a creaking, steep staircase. The bedroom nestled under a number of angled eaves so that there didn't seem to be any symmetry to the room. The furniture, big and numerous, crowded, but a thick quilt had been turned back on a large, soft-looking bed, and paperbacks and magazines were piled in colorful abandon on the dresser and floors. The immense comfort of it brought a sting of tears to her eyes.

"The washroom is through there," he pointed out. "Breakfast is whenever you come down. We don't have set hours this time of year."

"Thank you," she said, staring longingly toward the bath.

"Sleep well." He left.

The stairs creaked with each of his steps. Mandy found that comforting. No one could sneak up on her. She latched the door and stepped into the bathroom with her new sweatshirt clutched to her chest.

Mandy eyed an ancient claw-footed bathtub, chipped and stained with age. She found the plug, stuffed it into the drain, and yanked on the taps. Her fingers seemed stiff and weak as she fumbled with the fly of her jeans and the laces in her sneakers. Finally naked, she stepped gingerly into the scalding water. Breathing in shallow gasps, her skin glowing red as it submerged, she forced herself back. Once her hair was wet, Mandy scrubbed it viciously with a cake of soap. Then she slid back to rinse. Suddenly she stopped and gaped at the bubbles sticking to the back of her hand. They weren't white. She separated her fingers but the foam stretched into a frog-like web. Slowly, she dipped her hand into the water. A light-brown scum floated away the visible stain of Marjorie's blood.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mandy woke early the next morning, before a hint of outdoor light dribbled through the slit between the curtains under the eaves of her small room. But, even after the drone of voices and the shrill whistle of a kettle floated up her stairwell, she stayed in the soft bed and stared at the fading wallpaper.

Stranded and alone, she felt as if the world had dropped from beneath her feet. What did the future hold?

Van's image floated to the forefront: the blond chest hairs that curled into sight when he wore an open-collared shirt; the male dimples that deepened on his cheeks when he smiled; the affection in his eyes as he looked at her. Try as she might, she could not believe he would hurt anyone, much less her best friend.

Harold, on the other hand, believed he lived in the center of the universe; that every event was considered according to how it would affect Harold Mederios. Her psychology class had called it egocentrism. He should have grown out of that stage as a young child.

Mandy remembered the time she had asked him about his family. He looked hurt. Nonetheless, she had to admit he was the most selfish man she had ever met. Only once had she caught him feeling empathy--and that had been for her benefit.

Did he love her, as he professed? Or did he love the idea of being with someone else with the thought-reading ability?

In retrospect, she wondered why she hadn't realized how childish he was. Dangerously childish. She pulled the quilt closer around her shoulders.

Finally she slid out of bed and padded across the cool painted-plank floor to the bathroom. Her underwear, which she had rinsed and draped over the old-fashioned radiator, felt dry and stiff. She washed, dressed, and ran a brush through her hair.

A whoosh of warm air, from the oil stove in the kitchen, met her the moment she opened her bedroom door. She started downstairs. There was a middle-aged woman working at the counter. She wore blue jeans, fluffy pink slippers, and a snug t-shirt with shiny sequins. She looked very modern compared to the old fashioned way the kitchen was decorated.

"Good morning," the woman chirped, then pointed a thumb at the massive stove. "The tea's fresh. Or would you rather I brewed you a fresh pot of coffee?"

"Tea's fine."

"Right then. You have a seat in the dining room and I'll bring you in a bit of breakfast. Will you have bacon?"

"No thanks. Toast or a muffin will be fine."

There were two plastic mats over the lace tablecloth, one of them with an undisturbed place setting. Mandy sat before it and waited. The owner served her, then she took a chair before her own breakfast.

She raised her cup and eyed Mandy over the rim. "How was the drive down?"

"The miserable weather made it slow and tense."

"My husband said you had an accident? Lost your luggage?"

Mandy nodded, her eyes averted. "I picked out this sweatshirt from your display. Haven't paid for it yet."

"We'll get to that after your breakfast. There's a shop on Water Street where you can buy some necessities."

Mandy remembered it as combination of a hardware, grocery, clothing, and tourist store. She mentally calculated how long her money would last and decided she could afford a change of clothes. It would be too dangerous to tap into her bank account from Brier Island. If someone watched it, he'd know immediately where she was hiding.

"You planning to stay long?" When Mandy only shrugged she continued, "Been here before, have you?"

"Yes I was. Last summer, just before school started. I went whalewatching and on a cruse on a schooner." Her brow furrowed. "I suppose that schooner's no longer around? It was docked by the whalewatching boats."

"The Green Hornet. She's here, but they don't take her out in the winter."

"Are the guys who chartered it still on the island?"

"The Phinney brothers," she said, nodding. "Yes. They stayed put this year--ran out of money I expect. They live here in a big brown house across from the government wharf. Do you want to talk to them?"

"Perhaps," Mandy said. The woman's familiar tone started to wear thinly on her nerves.

"How come?"

She made an elaborate show of finishing her bite of muffin. "I . . . I think I lost something on board. Nothing important. I'll just run upstairs and get my purse so I can pay for this shirt."

Ten minutes later Mandy, wearing a borrowed rain slicker, stepped outside. The chilly fog seeped up her cuffs and down her neck, making her hunch over shivering. It wasn't worth taking the car on her tour of the small town, so she stomped down the hill to Water Street. Every minute or so, a mournful fog horn sounded with a deep tone that vibrated in her chest.

Soon the moisture condensed on her face and a drip formed at the end of her nose. She'd have to buy some tissues right away.

Oh hell, she thought, slowing her step. Why am I bothering? I might as well go back to bed.

She could burrow into the quilt, only venturing downstairs to eat. It did seem the easiest thing to do. Quickly, she berated herself. And I thought Harold self-centered!

With a sudden notion, she increased her pace and hurried to the pay phone in the island's small gas station. The one attendant, a middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap, sat behind the counter reading. With a questioning look, Mandy pointed at the phone on the wall. He nodded. She felt him watch her while she dug for change, so she turned her back.

It took a couple of quarters to track down Marjorie's secretary, Pam.

"Mandy, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Have you heard about Marjorie?"

"I just did," Pam said, sounding near to tears. "She's going to be okay."

Mandy sagged in relief. "I was afraid to call the hospital . . .."

"I think that was smart. Considering . . .. Well, I know why Marjorie went to Halifax. I mean, the bombing and all."

"Can you let her know I called?"

"Of course. She's got a phone by her bed. Mandy . . . Why . . .? What's going on?"

"It's so mixed up," Mandy confessed as she leaned a shoulder on the stained and scarred wall. "It has something to do with Harold Mederios. She found out he bribed some school officials--"

"That's no reason to shoot her!"

"--to stop them from hiring me. You're right, it's stupid. I can't figure it out."

"You know, I helped Marjorie when she was checking around about that guy. Took the receiver when she was on hold for someone. Oh, I don't know if it means anything . . .."

"What?"

"The man who came back on the line--the man at Harold Mederios's house--he thought he was talking to someone else. Probably got the lines mixed up. Anyway, he said something about a villa? Something like, 'So what if it's a fortress. He hired you to build it, not live in it'. He sounded really angry. I said 'excuse me?' and he hung up."

"Harold's suntan kept getting better this fall, not worse. Maybe he's building a house?" She also remembered catching him surface-thinking about palm trees. "He speaks Spanish. Pam, do you think you could discuss this with Marjorie when she's feeling up to it?" It probably didn't mean anything.

"Sure will."

"I hate the thought of her being alone."

"She's not. Her brother flew to Halifax this morning."

Mandy remembered Marjorie's pudgy, balding brother. "I'm so glad. He'll be good company."

"You keep in touch with me, okay? I know Marjorie worries about you."

Mandy agreed and then rang off. Marjorie did worry about her. That's precisely why she was in the hospital. Damn! It had started when she was young and continued for so many years that Mandy no longer thought about how she depended on Marjorie Wentworth. Well, it was going to stop right here and now! As soon as she got clear of this mess, Mandy promised, she would start repaying her friend for the years of selfless support and assistance.

Now unconcerned about the cold, she marched briskly down the street muttering to herself, "No more running."

She'd get a permanent job and settle down somewhere near Marjorie. All her worries about people learning that she could hear surface-thoughts now seemed trite. Why not tell the whole world? What could they do to her? Jail her? It wasn't against the law. Ostracize her? Big deal! She'd been ostracizing herself from others for years.

Still, a part of her dream tried to reassert itself: the part that loved Van Tollefsrud; the part that wanted a normal life.

Five minutes later she neared the first government wharf and slowed here pace. The Green Hornet looked alien in the drizzle and sleet. A beautiful ship like that deserved to be tied in a southern port, not to an icy piling. Mandy tried to picture the enjoyable evening she, Harold, and Van had spent on her, but only fragments remained.

At the time, she had been ignorant of the fact that both Van and Harold had the ability to read surface-thoughts. She hadn't known that Derrick's television story had drawn them to this isolated island like pins to a magnet. On the other hand, perhaps it wasn't the news story that brought them both. Perhaps one of them--Harold or Van--sent the lunatic assassin to try to kill the biologist on the cruise to see if she would hear his crazy surface-thoughts.

Mandy turned and strode up the walk to the brown house across the street.

The Phinney brothers seemed inordinately pleased by her visit. She barely stated who she was, and they ushered her inside. It was hard to imagine the young men--not yet thirty years old--spending the entire winter on Brier Island. They already seemed stricken with cabin fever.

"Let me take your jacket. Jesus girl, you must be frozen," the elder, Mark, said as he picked it from her shoulders.

"Last summer, I spent an even--"

"Yeah, we know," Stan interrupted. "We heard you came over again."

She felt taken aback. "But I arrived late last night."

"Yeah. Word travels fast hereabouts."

They settled her in a soft, canvas seat near to the flickering fire and forced a mug of coffee into her hands. Their gregarious natures made her leery at first, but she quickly realized that the gossip on a small island would also work to keep everyone on their best behavior--twenty people probably watched her knock on the Phinney's door.

When they had settled opposite to her and looked expectant, she said, "I came to ask you about your fire ax."

"Our fire ax?" That surprised them. "What about it?"

"This is going to sound very far-fetched," she confessed, "but I think it may have been used in a murder in Halifax a couple of months ago."

Mark looked incredulous. "Our old one or our new one?"

"The one that was on the boat when I was aboard in early September."

"We sold that one." He looked at his brother. "Did we get a receipt?"

"Why would you sell . . .?" Mandy reworded, "Who did you sell it to?"

"No idea." He shrugged.

Stan had jumped up and was shuffling through an untidy bundle of papers jammed into an overflowing bookshelf. "I doubt we got a receipt. I mean, why would we?" Nevertheless, he kept searching.

Mandy asked, "You can't remember when this happened?"

"I think it was around the beginning of September." Stan clicked his fingers. "Yeah, it was. My nephew was hanging around and--. Yeah, we were talking about the loony guy who tried to shoot--"

Mark interrupted, "It's comin' back to me. A man bought it. He had real short hair, like maybe he was a cop or something. There were a lot over because of that murderer you stopped."

Mandy barked a startled sound. "With all the people that come here, how did you remember that was me?"

"Mandy's not a real common name. You're a hero around here."

"A hero," she scoffed. "That's a laugh." She ran away from Halifax leaving her best friend in the hospital.

"Who got murdered?"

"Derrick Wiener, a reporter. He was on the whalewatching trip that day."

"Is he the reporter who they had on the news that night?"

Mandy nodded. She hoped they didn't remember his claim that she was psychic.

"That guy they arrested is still behind bars," Stan said, sitting down again. "So why do you think it was our ax that killed the reporter?"

She exhaled forcibly enough to lift her bangs off her forehead. "I think my fingerprints are on it because I held it when I was on your sailboat."

"I take it the murder weapon is still missing?"

She nodded. "But I thought . . . it's just possible that someone might try to frame me with it."

"Bummer. Do the police think you did it?"

Mandy shook her head slowly. "I don't think so."

"Got an alibi?"

The brothers leaned forward eagerly, their eyes glued to Mandy. She didn't intended to tell them the entire story--they wouldn't believe it anyway. But they looked ready to lap it up like a cat with cream so she gave them a vastly edited version; how she lost her teaching job, how the reporter claimed to have some information about it, how the police questioned her.

Stan whistled, impressed. "So this guy you work for, Mederios, he's the one who bought out the people who were booked that night?"

"He said you had a cancellation."

"No way. That bodyguard of his kept dishing out hundred dollar bills to the man who had her booked."

That fit. "Can you remember anything at all about the guy who bought the ax?"

Both looked pensive, then Stan said, "He was around thirty. Short hair like a brush cut. Blond, I think. Like I said, he looked like a cop."

"We have a lot of tourists in the summer," Mark added with an apologetic lilt to his voice.

"That's okay." Mandy rose. "You've been very helpful. It seems pretty likely now that it was your ax."

"You're not leaving already?"

She started toward the door. "I should probably tell the detectives about this."

"Want to use our phone?"

"Could I? I'll reverse the charges."

"No problem. It's over there on the desk."

She called the Halifax Police Department, "Collect call from Mandy Stone for either Detective Kelsey or Detective Sparks."

As she waited, Mandy smiled toward Mark and Stan who watched her unabashedly. It didn't seem proper to turn her back on them. This was, after all, their house.

"Miss Stone? This is Kevin Sparks. Where are you?"

At the stern sound of his voice she sobered. "I'm on Brier Island. Why? Have you been looking for me?"

"What are you doing way down there? We asked you to be available for questioning."

She bristled. "I felt my life was in danger, so I came here to hide."

"Why would you think that?"

"For crying out loud! My best friend was shot while sitting in my car!"

"If you had reas--"

"I'm not calling about that," she interrupted, not willing to listen to a lecture. "I have some news about a fire ax that might have been used to kill Derrick Wiener."

The detective listened silently while she told him the whole story. She could picture him scribbling in his little note book.

"Thank you for telling me about this, Miss Stone. Every little bit helps."

"What about Harold Mederios? Have you arrested him?"

"Charges have been laid with regard to the school bribing."

"Is he in jail?" she asked hopefully.

"No, Ma'am."

"Are you going to get a search warrant to see if he has the murder weapon?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you. From what you've said, Mr. Tollefsrud would have had just as much access to that ax."

"I suppose so. Mr. Sparks," she said, "you know that man who was arrested down here last September, the one who thought the whales told him to shoot the biologist?"

"What about him?"

"Were the bullets in his gun real?"

"I don't know. Not my case. Why do you ask?"

"Just find out, will you?" Mandy asked. "See if there is any connection between him and Harold Mederios. I'll keep in touch."

"Give me a number where you can be reached."

"No," Mandy said, shaking her head briskly. "I'm not staying here."

"You're moving around?"

Mandy, waiting for her new found determination to crystallize, took a moment to answer. "No. No I'm not." She straightened her shoulders. "I'm going back to Halifax."

"Why? Don't you think you're in danger anymore? What's changed?"

"Nothing," she said. "It's just that I'm tired of running."

"We'll be able to reach you at your home number?"

"I haven't decided. I'll let you know," she said. "About my friend, Marjorie Wentworth. Are you sure one guard is enough?"

He sighed loudly into the phone. "If we tried to guard every gunshot victim--"

"What are you saying?" she cried, "Isn't anyone guarding her? Please! Please get someone to the hospital!"

"Miss Stone, I think we're in a better position to judge--"

"Someone's tried to kill her--three times!"

"Even if I wanted it, I don't have the authority--"

Mandy slammed the receiver in his ear.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As she sped along the highway through the Annapolis Valley, Mandy marveled at how much sky she could see. It blanketed from the tip of the squat South Mountain on her right, to the summit of the North Mountain on her left. The leaden weight of it seemed to frown down upon her.

For the umpteenth time she berated herself, Why? Why did I choose Brier Island? I could have hidden in Dartmouth, but no. I had to drive to the end of the earth.

On the other hand, she had been--justifiably--extremely upset. She remembered the feeling of Marjorie's weight on her shoulder and grimaced. Hopefully her friend wouldn't feel too distressed that Mandy had returned to Halifax.

In the calm, cool of day, it seemed unlikely that she was in danger. Even if Harold was a murderer--that still struck her as farfetched--there was no reason to believe he wanted to hurt her. He did, after all, profess to love her.

Nevertheless, it seemed prudent to move slowly. When Mandy reached the City, she parked in the crowded lot of the Halifax Shopping Center and went in search of a pay phone.

She dialed her landlady's number.

"Mrs. MacDonald," she said as soon as the woman answered. "This is Mandy."

"Well hello dear," she answered. "Are you at home? There's a strange smell coming down the steps."

Mandy remembered the tea pot still sitting on the heat in her kitchen.

"No, I'm calling from a pay phone. There's a man who has been bothering me lately, and I think he might be outside the house waiting. So I was wondering, would you please let me sneak in your back door? I really don't want to see him."

"Is he stalking you?" Mrs. MacDonald asked with a protective edge to her voice. "Have you talked to the police?"

"It's not that bad, yet."

"How will you get to my back door? There's a fence around the whole yard."

"I'll climb it."

Fifteen minutes later, Mandy slunk down the driveway of the house backing onto her own. She hauled herself over the picket fence and limped--the fence was higher than her leg was long--across the ankle deep grass to the back door. Mrs. MacDonald led her through her flat, which felt tiny with all the heavy mahogany furniture. Plastic runners covered the carpet and doilies protected her straight-backed sofa and chairs. They both passed through to the shared hall and stood just inside the front door.

"Um," Mandy mumbled, unsure how to start. "I was away last night and, um, I was wondering if anyone was in my apartment?"

"What do you mean," she asked anxiously.

"I gave my friend a key," she lied.

That blond boyfriend. "Oh, well, I didn't hear anyone. But I don't pry, you understand."

"No, of course not. Thanks for letting me in."

"Just come on through when you're ready to leave," Mrs. MacDonald said while peeked through the small window in the front door. "Can't see anyone out there. I was stalked once. It's not a nice feeling."

"No, it's not," Mandy said, trying to peer beyond Mrs. MacDonald's head.

"There's not much you can do. The police won't listen. Don't know what they get paid to do . . .."

"Well," Mandy mumbled, wishing she'd leave.

"Do you have a can of mace? That works."

"I'll buy one. Thank you again."

"You do that. I heard tell a woman in Scotia Square . . .." She was on a roll now, wouldn't stop.

When Mrs. MacDonald finally moved back inside her own flat, Mandy sorted through her keys. Her trembling fingers unlocked her door. She pulled it open and listened intently. Nothing looked disturbed but she could smell the acrid stench of scalded tea bags.

Perhaps someone lurked up there, waiting to pounce upon her. She slipped off her sneakers and left her purse beside them. Then, leaving the door ajar in case she needed a fast getaway, she started up. The third time she set her toes on a rung the wood creaked. She froze, but only silence echoed.

Poised to flee, she poked her head into her living room. Nothing looked changed. After a quick scurry through the apartment, Mandy relaxed her hands from the tight fists they'd formed.

Everything looked undisturbed. But would she be able to see a microphone if someone hid one there? Once again, she felt awash with skepticism. Why would someone plant a bug in her place. They cost a lot of money and someone would have to actually break into her house to hide one.

She strode into her kitchen shaking her head at how unlikely it all seemed. And yet . . . Marjorie had been shot. Still deep in thought, Mandy reached to switch off the burner under the tea.

It wasn't turned on.

She yanked her hand back. All four of the burner knobs pointed straight to the off position. But she had left the heat under the pot. She had! The burnt smell proved it. She reached two trembling fingers and touched the pot. It was cold. Someone had been there.

"Oh my God," she whispered, turning slowly on the balls of her feet. Goosebumps rose on her forearms. Where could she go? Who could she trust?

Van. It didn't matter what anyone else said or what the evidence indicated, she trusted Van. But she couldn't call him from here. It wasn't safe. Springing into action, she tore down the stairs, snatched up her sneakers and purse, and rushed into Mrs. MacDonald's flat.

"May I use your phone?" she called. She didn't wait for an answer, but snatched the receiver from the cradle. Thankfully, her rattled brain came up with Van's office number.

"Van, it's me," she cried when he came on the line.

"Mandy! Are you all right?"

The concern in his voice brought tears to her eyes. "Yes. Van, I want to stay with you. Can I?"

"My God! Of course you can! Where are you now?"

"At my house--."

"Get out of there! They're probably watching it!"

She shook her head roughly. "I'm downstairs in the landlady's. I came in the back way."

"Okay," he sounded more in control. "Okay. I'll come and get you."

"No. They might be watching you too. Your office and your house. I've got a rental. I'll drive to the Arm and walk up the shoreline to your back yard."

"It'll be dark soon."

"That's okay." She pictured his small boat house where he stored the tender that he used to go back and forth to his sailboat, and the warm night when they had, on its rough plank floor, necked like teenagers. "I remember the way."

"That should work. If anyone's watching my place . . .. You can't see the water's edge from my road. I'll leave now and meet you there. You remember where the key is?"

"Uh huh."

"God, Mandy, why did you take off like that? I've been sick with worry."

"I promised Marjorie."

"I figured. I'm just glad you're okay."

"Yeah," Mandy said weakly. "Van, the police took their guard off Marjorie."

"I know. I've hired a private security firm to keep a round-the-clock watch over her."

"Thank God." The relief flooded her. "I love you."

"I love you too."

She hung up and ran agitated fingers through her hair as she wondered if she should risk going back upstairs for a change of clothes. Suddenly she heard Mrs. MacDonald's surface-thoughts.

What kind of person have I taken in? She had the tips of her fingers pressed against her own mouth and her eyes looked huge and anxious.

Mandy dropped to sit in an ungainly pile on the floor and began to pull on her sneakers. "I'm sorry to disturb you like this."

Mrs. MacDonald looked at a loss for words. Just leave. Leave. What's going on? Finally she asked, "Is everything okay upstairs? That smell . . .."

"Sorry about that." Mandy grimaced. "I left the heat under the teapot."

"I knew the smell, just couldn't place it."

"You didn't go up and check?"

"Oh no," the woman said with an offended air, "I'm not one to pry." I meant to.

Mandy climbed to her feet. "I'm going away for a couple of days. Perhaps I'll call and let you know when I'm coming back?"

"Well, whatever . . .." her voice trailed off as she looked anxiously toward the front door.

Before letting herself out of Mrs. MacDonald's back door, Mandy peered through the corner of three different windows. Low clouds cast the scene in a gloomy monochrome hue. Only a few dead leaves clung to the old apple tree. The tall marigolds, which had looked perky all summer, now drooped their dead and rotten heads onto the sodden ground.

The back fence looked intolerably high. Mandy braced herself for another bruising crack to the inside of her thigh, then hoisted herself over. She slunk down the neighbor’s driveway and onto the street parallel to her own.

She had parked a couple of doors down so she could survey the scene before leaving the car's safety. It looked untouched. There were two other cars parked on the street and one in a driveway. Mandy strode forward. She stiffened at a nearby movement. A man, his head down as he sorted through envelopes, wandered down his front walk.

Mandy picked up her pace so she would reach her car before he came to the end of his walk. Today she didn't feel like smiling and talking about the weather with a stranger.

She clutched her key in her right hand and zeroed it in on the car's lock. It didn't want to fit. She stared at it wondering, does the jagged edge point upward or downward on these kind of keys?

Oomph! The man body checked her against the car.

"Hey!" she yelled, jabbing her elbow back.

Her first though was that he had tripped and fallen against her. Then he shoved his forearm against the base of her skull, crushing her face against the car's cold metal. Suddenly more men surrounded her.

"Help! Help!" she screamed. A rag jammed in her mouth. Her screams cut off her own air supply.

She struggled, but the top half of her body pressed hard against the car. Hands reached around and undid the fly of her jeans. The horror! The helplessness! She kicked frantically but other arms held her ankles together. She couldn't breath! She choked on her own sobs.

Oh God! Don't let them do this! Please don't do this!

Now hands yanked her jeans downward. Bile rose in her throat. She couldn't even wiggle.

Then she felt a sharp jab in her hip.

Oh! she thought as the searing heat radiated from the pin prick. It's not rape. I'm being kidnapped.

Mandy had time to feel a confused relief before the consuming warmth of the drug penetrated her brain.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The moment he hung up the phone, Vance Tollefsrud bound down from his office into the reception area. The amused look on his secretary's face slowed him.

"You're actually smiling," she said with a tolerant shake of the head. It was obvious from her surface-thoughts that she knew Mandy was the cause.

"I've been a bit grumpy lately haven't I?"

She snickered. "A regular bear. You going out?"

"For the rest of the day," he said over his shoulder.

Mandy's back! Everything was bound to work out now. They just needed to be together. Besides, she now knew the whole truth about Harold Mederios--the lying cheat. He bribed the school officials to cancel her contract. What agony he put her through just for his own satisfaction.

Van ran down the stairwell to the basement, then sprinted through the underground parking lot to his Jeep. Today's drive home seemed twice as long as usual. He drummed his fingers on the wheel at every red light.

The previous couple of days had been among the worst of his life. First he had been yanked away on a wild goose chase. The instant he returned to his office, he had heard about Marjorie. Then, in the hospital, that oaf Mederios . . .. He gritted his teeth. But worst of all, Mandy's disappearance. He could take Mederios and his outlandish condemnation. But he couldn't take Mandy's defection. It gnawed at his guts.

As he neared the Northwest Arm, Vance slowed and peered along the shoreline. He felt relief that there was no sign of Mandy among the mounds of rough, gray boulders--if he could see her, so could Mederios's spies. Perhaps she had reached his place already? His foot lowered on the gas.

It took a lot of concentration to emerge from his truck as though he didn't feel a mad rush to get in the house. As he scooped up his cat, Hector, from the base of the elm tree, he furtively peered around. Not another soul in sight.

Please let her be inside.

He set Hector on the hall floor, closed the door firmly behind him, then sprang into action. "Mandy?"

Silence. No sense getting freaked out, he warned himself. She was probably moving cautiously. He couldn't fault her for that.

Hector wove in and out between his feet leaving a trail of white fur on the cuffs of his dark trousers.

Van unlocked the back door and strode out onto the deck. A mist moved along the surface of the water, mixing with the heavy sky to form a thick wall. He could tell, by the deepening gloom, that the sun was making its decent into night. He skipped down the wooden steps and along the cobbled walk to the boat house.

"Mandy?" he hissed. Nothing.

Vance still had his keys in his hand so he unlocked the boat house and switched on the interior light. It would lead Mandy to his yard like a beacon. He debated on wandering up the shore to meet her, but decided against it. She might come from the opposite direction.

Ten minutes later the icy mist had soaked through Vance's clothes and the light only penetrated a few yards through the gloom. Something's happened. Maybe her car won't start.

Fearing Mandy might call, he went back to his house where he changed, started a fire in the living room, made tea and drank it--and waited. Still no Mandy. After he fed Hector, he paced back and forth along the deck--back and forth, back and forth. Still no Mandy.

"Okay," he mumbled to himself. "Don't panic."

Vance rifled though his desk for the phone book and called Marjorie's room in the hospital. "This is Vance Tollefsrud," he said to her. "Mandy's friend."

"Hello Vance," Marjorie said in a remarkably strong voice. "Thank you for the flowers and fruit basket."

"You're welcome," he responded, too anxious for pleasantries.

"I understand I have you to thank for Simon here."

His mind buzzed. "Simon?"

"My brave bodyguard."

He could hear a male laugh in the background. "Oh, you're welcome. Marjorie, have you heard from Mandy this afternoon?"

"Noo," she dragged the word out. "Have you?"

Picturing her hospital room, he asked, "Can you talk without anyone hearing you?"

"Simon and I are alone." She now sounded breathless.

"She called me this afternoon. We made plans to meet, but she didn't show."

"Oh dear."

Finally the dread he'd been holding at bay gushed through. "I've got to find her! I'm going to her apartment."

"Please let me know--."

"Right! I will. Bye."

He dashed for his truck and sped to Mandy's house. After he pounded on the front door, an elderly woman tweaked aside the curtains on the door window and peered through.

"Hello," Vance tried to compose his face. "I'm looking for Mandy Stone."

"She's not here."

"Wait!" he cried before she left the window. "She called me this afternoon from your house. She was supposed to go to my place, but she didn't. I'm getting worried."

She peered through the window suspiciously. "What's your name?"

"Vance Tollefsrud."

The woman jerked out of sight. The locks clicked and the door swung open. "She said she was going away for a few days."

Vance nodded anxiously. "I know. Do you have any idea what happened?"

"She climbed over the back fence because someone's stalking her."

He felt as though an icy hand clamped onto his neck. "Did she make any other phone calls after she talked to me?"

"Nope. She went right away. She was so scared, she left her apartment door open. Poor thing. I know what it's like having someone stalking you. It's not nice, I'll tell you."

"I'm sure it's not. Okay if I look around her flat?"

She hesitated. "Suppose it's okay if I go with you."

Vance checked Mandy's apartment, but nothing appeared out of place. Then he went outside and walked circles around her block and looked through the windows of every car that could conceivably be her rental. Nothing. Not a clue.

Finally, his nerves taut and raw, he went back to his own house and tried to reach Nelson. His friend couldn't be found at the police station and there was no answer at his home. Vance replaced the receiver with elaborate care, then slammed the flat of his hand against the wall.

Suddenly he noticed that his cat, Hector, sat nearby. His erect posture and penetrating stare braced him.

"Okay, okay," he said, rubbing his hands briskly over his cheeks. "I've got to calm down. To think clearly."

He pulled a legal-length pad of paper and a pencil from his desk. On it he scribbled; one: call hospitals; two: check on car rental; three: talk to Nelson; four: interview Mederios's staff; five: confront Harold Mederios; six: pound the daylights out of Harold Mederios!

The lead in the pencil snapped.

Vance squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Just the thought that something could have happened to Mandy made his sick with dread. Finally his breathing slowed. He opened the phone book to hospitals and started calling.

Ten minutes later he checked off the first item on his list. No one matching Mandy's description had been admitted to the hospital.

He didn't need to call every car rental agency because he had done that when Mandy disappeared. After flipping to the number, he dialed the company circled in red ink in his book.

"Can you tell me if Mandy Stone has returned her car yet?" he asked.

"Give me a second here," the man answered. "I heard keys dropping in the outside slot a couple of minutes ago."

Vance drummed his fingers on the desktop as he waited. What would it mean if Mandy returned the car? That she decided to do that before going to his house and then she had trouble getting a taxi? That someone had the agency staked out and they nabbed her as she left?

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the man said. "The car Ms. Stone rented is sitting outside. Listen, if you talk to her, you tell her for me that she didn't refill the tank. I'm charging it to her Visa card."

"Sure," Vance mumbled.

He pressed the receiver into its holder, scraped back his chair, and strode to the back deck. Suddenly his heart skipped a beat. What if Mandy had fallen on the slippery rocks and broken her leg? She'd be afraid to cry out. She might be cowering there on the cold, dark shoreline right this minute!

He pulled a high-powered light from under his kitchen sink and jogged across his back yard. The boat house light still glowed meekly through the fog. Vance decided to go left, back toward the city, first. Every few yards he called out her name.

It was slow going through the black water's edge, along the tops of icy, rounded boulders. The waves sloshed against the shore, spraying against rocks, and soaking his slacks. He swung the beam in a wide, careful arc as he scrambled forward. When he reached the spot where she might have left a car, he turned and started back. Fifteen minutes had passed by the time he reached his house.

He jogged back inside calling her name. Only Hector waited. Vance returned to the water's edge and searched the shore to the south of his house. Nothing.

By the time he returned home, he felt frozen and tired. Blood oozed from a graze on the back of his hand, and his shins ached from cracking them against rocks. Chilblains stabbed at his fingers.

Ignoring the mud, he dialed Nelson's house. No answer. A minute later the precinct told him that Nelson Smith wasn't on duty that night. Vance left an urgent message for his friend to call him.

Fists on his hips, eyebrows lowered menacingly, Vance paced his floor. It was time to confront Harold Mederios. Was it foolish to go alone? Should he hire another guard from the security firm who he had protecting Marjorie? That would take too much time.

He checked that the truck keys were still in his pocket before hurrying back outside. Grimly, he kept his mind from imagining what could be happening to Mandy. He felt it important to contain his anxiety and his rage, to focus them against Harold Mederios.

If the employees of the elegant hotel where Mederios lived noticed Vance's disheveled state, they didn't mention it. He strode past them to the elevator, and rode to the penthouse floor.

He rapped on the door. The instant it opened, he launched forward with his shoulder to force his way inside.

A woman, wearing a tight business suit, cried out as she stumbled back into the room, "Hey you, you can't come in here."

Vance rushed from room to room, hoping to find Mandy. It appeared the woman was alone.

"Where's Mederios?" he barked to her.

"He's gone."

"Have you seen Mandy Stone today?"

Her eyes widened. Oh God, what's he done? "No!"

"Have you heard from her?"

"No! No, he's been looking for her."

Vance stopped. "Mederios has?"

She lifted her hand to a cheek and her eyes darted toward a pile of boxes in the corner.

"Going somewhere?" he asked in a threatening voice.

Her lip curled. "Mr. Mederios instructed me to vacate the suite." Left me to pack while they work on their tans. Vance responded to the woman's surface-thought. "Has he gone south?"

She looked startled. "You know about that?"

He nodded his head briskly. "He take Mandy Stone with him?"

She shrugged and turned away. Who else?

"I need to get in touch with him."

She started. He doesn't know. Her eyes widened in fear. "I'm sorry, he can't be reached. Please leave."

Vance grabbed her arm. "I have to reach him."

"I'm going to call security."

"Please! If he's got Mandy--"

She jerked free snarling, "If he's got her, you're out of luck fellow." Then she smirked. "Just like me."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"The sun's in her face," a male voice hissed.

Mandy tried to reconcile that line with her dream about babies. Twin babies. Warm, firm, bundles the size of submarine sandwiches, that were precious and fragile. There was something wrong with her babies. That's why they were in a hospital surrounded by billowing white sheets. She felt afraid that they might suddenly become mobile and worm their way off the high bed. If one rolled one way, and the other rolled the other way, she couldn't possibly save both. Help them! Someone help!

"She's having a bad dream."

"Pull the drapes."

Mandy knew suddenly that she no longer dreamed. Harold Mederios and at least one other man stood beside her. Desperate to keep them from knowing that she listened, she clutched at the tendrils of her dream. Her babies were wound tightly in white material so only their pinched pink faces showed. They were very heavy for their size.

She heard the rattle of curtain hooks.

"Pin them together," Harold said, "Wouldn't you know, the gap falls right on her."

Then she felt what she hadn't noticed before. The right side of her face glowed with heat. Still groggy from the drug they had used, she had no impulse to come fully awake. Instead she listened with detachment to Harold's surface-thoughts.

God, please let her be all right. "Will she have a headache when she comes to?" he whispered.

Of course she will, you bloody fool. "Maybe."

Mandy marveled at Harold's lack of response at the other man's surface-thoughts. In fact, Harold simply fretted silently about her safety.

She must have drifted off to sleep again because suddenly she realized that Harold whispered. "Have some painkiller ready for when she comes to."

"Will do."

"How much longer?"

The other man picked up her right wrist and pressed his fingertips into the skin. It felt detached, as though it belonged to someone else. She had no impulse to intervene.

"She's still out," he said softly. "It'll be hours yet. Why don't you go back with your friends? I'll keep an eye on her."

"No," Harold replied softly, "I want to stay with her. She's going to be frightened when she first wakes up. You go and eat the meal."

"Yeah, okay. Call me if there's any change."

Oh Mandy. I hope you understand. I had to take you. You don't believe it now, but Vance Tollefsrud means you harm. I saved your life. Oh God! He almost had her!

Mandy heard him shift, then a fluttering sound, a blanket tucked gently around her shoulders. She nestled back into her dreams.

Sometime later she became aware that she couldn't shift her hips. A strap held her to the table. Now she noticed a vibrating, droning sound.

I'm on an airplane!

She immediately put a clamp on her surface-thoughts and listened intently. Muted voices carried through the ambient sound of the engines and air-condition, but no one nearby surface-thought. A pain throbbed in her temple.

She pried her eyelids open. A curving, plastic ceiling confirmed her guess about the airplane. Very carefully, she shifted her head and saw that a white-coated man slouched nearby, his face tilted toward a pocket book.

"I've been kidnapped," she whispered hoarsely. The man's head jerked up but she wasn't sure he heard her. She licked her lips and said, "You've got to help me. I've been kidnapped by Harold Mederios."

He frowned for a second, then leaned forward and jerked aside drapes. "Mr. Mederios, she's awake."

Damn. Mandy tried to sit but her limbs felt leaden. "I don't know what's he's told you," she croaked, "but I'm not here of my own free will."

The man stood aside so Harold could pass.

"You bastard! You kidnapped me."

Harold reached for her hand. She yanked it from his reach.

"I know you're upset now, but you don't know all the facts," he said.

Mandy looked beyond him to the other man. "You're an accessory to kidnapping, unless you call the police right now."

Harold shook his head sadly. "Doctor Smith works for me, Mandy."

"Oh hell. I can't-- I wanted you to be my friend." Tears threatened.

"Please don't . . .."

She turned her head toward the aircraft's bulkhead. Maybe this is a nightmare?

"It has been a nightmare," Harold said, "but it's about to become a dream come true." He handed her a tissue before continuing. "Everything I'm doing, I'm doing for your own good."

"For my own good! Are you crazy? You can't just snatch people who don't want to be with you."

That stung. The side of his mouth twisted. "This is for your own good. Vance Tollefsrud planned to get rid of you."

"That's nonsense."

"It's not!" he snapped. "He murdered that reporter because he knew about him, and he would have done the same to you."

She didn't have the energy to argue with him. "Where are you taking me?"

"To safety."

"Where?"

"I want to surprise you."

She swore. "You can't get away with this."

"I'm not getting away with anything. You'll agree when you learn the whole story."

"Did you have to go to these lengths?" she said, struggling to find the strap that held her to the bed. "Get me out of this thing." Her head throbbed. She covered her eyes with one hand and groaned.

Harold hissed, "Give her a shot for the pain."

"No!" Mandy cried. "I don't want another shot. Do you have any idea what your goons did? I thought they were gang raping me!"

His shoulders dropped. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

"Harold, please take me home. I want to go home."

He swung around saying, "I'll get someone to help you hold her."

As the doctor advanced with his needle, Mitch, Harold's bodyguard, appeared. Mandy pummeled her fists at them, struggling to free herself. Her screams for help were not answered. As the drug took hold, she suffered a sensation like falling backward over a cliff.

The next time Mandy woke up, she was alone in a strange room. Assuming that she was just groggy from sleep, she waited for her mind to clear. Then she remembered. Instantly, she tensed.

It was an opulent room; twelve-foot ceilings, miles of gauzy drapes, brocade furniture. She lay in a king-sized bed under a thin silk sheet. Someone had dressed her in a long gown with spaghetti straps. Who?

She swung her feet off the bed and sat up. The room spun. As soon as she found her equilibrium, she started across the marble floor to the towering windows. French doors, standing slightly ajar, led to a stone balcony. Waves of heat wafted through. Mandy gingerly shoved it open. No alarms rang, no one called out. She put a bare foot on the sun-drenched stones and instantly yanked it back from the scalding surface.

Beyond the balustrades and rows of flower-filled crockery, an azure ocean stretched. Goosebumps rose on her arms.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto," she quoted.

She scurried back to the bed and slid her feet into the satin slippers, and her arms into the robe she found there. Her fingers trembled as the belt cinched at her waist.

She couldn't take the time to find clothes, a hidden alarm probably already alerted them that she was awake. She had to find a way out now!

Her heels slapped in the slippers as she hurried outside. Squinting in the bright sunlight, she peered left, then right. The balcony didn't have stairs leading away, only other doorways. She ran to the edge and leaned to peer over the chest-high balustrade.

It was a sheer drop to a jagged shoreline hundreds of feet below. Fissures of water lapped and sprayed the exposed rocks and swirled around the gnarled beds of spiny shoals. No sandy beach here. An image formed of a broken and bloody body tossed in the foam.

Mandy's head spun and her breath caught in her throat. Squeezing the stonework for support, she leaned back and closed her eyes. A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of her nose.

Finally she careened back to the bedroom and through an open doorway into a bathroom. The pink marble floor and walls met almost seamlessly with the square, step-in bath. Everything looked new. Mandy could still smell the acrid tang of freshly-cut stone. She wiped a finger over the counter leaving a bright trail in the film of dust. The brass taps worked. She splashed her face and, cupping her hands, tossed water down the back of her neck.

Back in the bedroom she opened a cedar-lined closet. The clothes hanging there were her size. In the top drawer of a long dresser she found carefully-folded lingerie, silk, champagne-colored, her size.

Dizzy again, Mandy pressed her palms tight to her cheeks. This can't be happening. She ran across the floor to a tall door. It opened easily when she turned the knob. She poked her head through and peered up and down a carpeted hall.

The place looked deserted. Should she bolt out of there? Not dressed like that. The gown she wore clung revealingly to her damp legs and belly. She closed the door and backed into the room.

It had to be a trick. Tensed again, she searched in vain for a hidden camera.

A phone sat on a bedside table. Mandy considered picking it up and trying to call for help. She pictured a blinking light on some security guard's console. No, she'd try to escape this fortress while everyone thought she still slept. If that didn't work, she'd try the phone.

Most of the clothes in the closet were sun dresses, but she found and slipped on a jumpsuit and canvas shoes. Someone had left a headscarf and sunglasses on the dresser. Perhaps they'd conceal her identity. She put them on. Then she yanked drawers open searching for a weapon.

A medicine cabinet was in the bathroom. As she reached to open it, Mandy caught sight of herself. Her eyes, the pupils black and large, looked huge in her pale face.

She found creams, oils, pain killers, and a tapered pair of scissors. The sight of the shiny blade brought forth a surge of strength. Mandy clutched them with a stabbing hold, and slowly turned to the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Vance slapped a palm on the nurse's station counter. "Excuse me, what room is Marjorie Wentworth in?"

The nurse mumbled a room number, then took a second look at Vance. "You a policeman?"

"Nope," he said, starting down the hall.

Most of Vance's experience in hospitals was with elderly clients who needed to transfer a deed or change their will--in a hurry. Dying people had a distinct smell about them, one that he would have called sweet had the association to death not existed. He provided a service as gently and respectfully a possible. His clients always appeared grateful.

Visiting with Marjorie Wentworth was a totally different experience. Her guests surrounded her bed like a queen granting audience with her subjects. Vance, standing in the door, felt reluctant to intrude.

Marjorie was older and heavier than he'd pictured, but her animated face looked intelligent and kind. Even in her hospital bed, with her head swathed in white dressings, she looked groomed.

He cleared his throat. Three faces turned.

"I'm Vance Tollefsrud," he explained.

Marjorie smiled. "We meet at last. Come on in." She waved to the young woman on her left. "This is my secretary, Pam Dwyer. She came all the way from Ottawa to visit. And, I expect you've already met Simon."

"No, I haven't."

The bodyguard, whom Vance had arranged through a security service, advanced on him. He was short and powerful-looking, with steel-gray hair cut in a brush cut, and a stern expression. "May I see some identification, sir?"

"Yes, of course." He noticed Simon's hand inching its way under his blazer, presumably to a weapon. His own hand responded with exaggerated slowness. "My wallet's in my back pocket."

Once Simon had assured himself of Vance's identity, and had patted him down and checked out the couple of bulges--one being a cell phone--he smiled. "I was provided with your photo, but it pays to be sure."

"Hey, that's what you're hired to do."

"You got off easy," Marjorie said with a laugh. "He tries to strip-search the nurses."

Simon's face reddened.

Marjorie sobered. "Any word from Mandy?"

"No," he said as he placed the magazines he bought for her on the foot of the bed. "I guess we have to assume Mederios abducted her."

"Try not to worry," Marjorie said softly. "I really don't think he'd hurt her." He loves her.

Vance's stomach knotted. "Something else. My friend, Nelson Smith, has disappeared. His wife's gone too."

"Oh no . . .. Are you sure?"

"He didn't turn up at work today."

"And you think it has something to do with Mandy's disappearance?"

"He . . . ah . . . he was helping me investigate Mederios."

Marjorie reached for his hand. "You mustn't feel responsible. And don't think the worst. Perhaps someone threatened his wife and he's taken her into hiding?"

"I've got to believe that. Otherwise . . .."

"Mr. Tollefsrud," Pam said. "I spoke with Mandy a couple of days ago. She sounded fine."

He tried to smile at the kindness in Pam's voice. "She was okay when I talked to her too."

"What do the police think?" Marjorie asked.

Vance tried not to sound skeptical. "They have a 48-hour rule about missing people."

"Oh my Lord!" Not when a murder's been committed.

"Two detectives have been making inquiries."

Marjorie said, "Kelsey and Sparks. They seem capable men."

"I've got a feeling that Mandy isn't in this country any longer."

"Why do you say that?"

He couldn't very well tell them about hearing Mederios's secretary's surface-thoughts about suntans. "Something Mederios's secretary said . . .."

Marjorie raised her eyebrows knowingly. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm leaving for Toronto in a couple of hours. I'm not sure what I'm going to do once I'm there."

Pam spoke up. "I think he's building a villa somewhere down south because of something a man at his house said. You see, they didn't know I was on the line."

"The telephone line?" Vance felt his breath catch. "What exactly did he say?"

"Well, he said, 'So what if it's a fortress.' I put that together with what Mandy said about Harold always having a sunburned nose and being able to speak Spanish. It might be in Spain, or South America, something like that."

"Vance," Marjorie said slowly, her eyes averted. "You don't suppose that Mandy is making herself scarce on purpose?"

"Running away from me? Yeah, I thought of that. Perhaps she heard something that made her not trust me. God knows, Mederios can be a pretty convincing guy."

"I'm afraid I was the reason she went away before. I asked her to."

"She told me."

"You see," she continued. "I just wanted her safe. I didn't know you from a hole in the ground. Since then I've had a lot of people confirm your good character."

"I understand."

Marjorie looked at him with a thoughtful expression. "She'd call me if she decided not to trust you."

"Maybe she thinks your phone's bugged."

"That could be. Do you suppose she went back to Brier Island?"

He shook his head. "No one there's seen her since she left three days ago. And she returned her rented car."

"I know a couple of places where she might go. Leave that with me."

"Will you let me know if you learn anything? I'll carry my cell phone at all times." He patted his pocket.

"Sure. And Vance, please try to get some sleep. You look like death warmed over."

He snorted in agreement. It had been almost a week since he had a good night's sleep.

The flight to Toronto passed in a blur of note-taking. Vance hoisted his overnight bag out of the overhead compartment, left the plane, and strode to an exit. The taxi queue moved quickly. Soon he marched into the building housing the offices of the professional investigation firm he'd contacted before he left Halifax.

Mr. Jeff Guberman didn't look like a gumshoe detective. A heavy man with balding hair, he wore an expensive-looking three-piece suite and white shirt. Vance wondered if the logo on his tie represented Osgood Hall, the prestigious law school.

"My staff spent the morning researching surface particulars on Mr. Harold Mederios, most of which you already know." The investigator slid a typed sheet across the desk.

Vance skimmed the point-form list. Mederios owned an impressive list of companies. His net worth had more zeros than he cared to count.

"I see he was married," he said, looking up from the paper.

"The wife filed for divorce--uncontested--five years ago. You can see he pays a hefty alimony. No children."

Vance wondered if this ex knew about Mederios's ability to hear surface-thoughts. "Can you find out if they ever see each other? I'd like to talk to her." Guberman scribbled a note. Vance continued, "Apparently he owns property outside Canada. I'd like you to find out what you can about that too."

"Can you narrow it down any?"

"I think he's building a villa in a warm climate. He speaks Spanish."

That narrows it down? The investigator smiled ruefully. "Anything else."

"What travel agency does he use? Has he been in Toronto on weekends this fall? Anything that might lead me to him."

There was a sharp rap on the door and a man entered carrying a blue folder. He set it on Guberman's desk and left, closing the door behind him.

Guberman flipped it open. "These are photocopies of newspaper and magazine articles mentioning Mederios. Mostly from financial pages. They go back two years. You can take them, I've had a duplicate set made for me."

"Thanks."

"We feel fairly certain that Mederios isn't in Toronto right now."

"I expect you're right."

"As for Miss Stone, I've spoken with a . . . ah . . . friend of mine in the Toronto Metropolitan Police. He'll alert me if her name comes up."

Vance set his briefcase on his lap and slid in the material. "You've made a good start. I'm going to check into the hotel and then visit Mederios's house."

Bad move. "I'm wondering, Mr. Tollefsrud, if it would make better sense for one of my employees to question the household staff?"

"I'll be circumspect. That way, if I don't find out what we need, you can have another go at it."

Vance understood the investigator's shrug. After all, the man thought he was an amateur. He didn't know that Vance intended to listen to surface-thoughts as well as words.

The taxi drove slowly. Vance peered out at the bulky, brick houses that got larger and larger as they approached Harold Mederios's neighborhood. The cab stopped across from a surprisingly attractive house--Mederios's ex-wife’s influence, no doubt. Ivy clung to the two-and-a-half story brick, cupping the dark-green shutters and tall door. The taxi pulled up the curved drive and stopped.

"I'll pay you now," Vance said, leaning forward to speak to the driver, "but I'd like you to wait in case they're not in."

He jogged up the steps and reached a thumb to the bell. It chimed deep within the house. A moment later the door opened and a middle-aged uniformed woman appeared.

Vance had his business card ready. "I'm here to see Mr. Mederios."

The woman read his card as she said, "He's not in."

Vance steadied his voice. "Is Ms. Mandy Stone in?"

Her eyebrows dropped in a frown. "No, Sir. No one by that name lives here."

"When do you expect Mr. Mederios?"

"He's away on business." She started to close the door. "I'll tell him you called."

Vance stuck his foot through the door. "I'd like to leave a note for him."

Caught off guard, the woman released the door. Vance slipped inside. The dark oak floor and heavily papered walls made it appear small, but it took five long strides to cross the vestibule to the room on the right.

The scene in the living room made his breath whoosh. White sheets draped the furniture, and wooden crates, their tops still unsealed, lined one wall. Mederios was leaving town.

"Is Mr. Mederios moving," he asked.

"No sir, he's redecorating." He's not going to buy that.

"Where is he right now?"

"Away on bus--"

"I know that," he snapped. "Where is he away on business?"

"I . . . I don't know." She backed away. I'll call Donald.

Vance assumed Donald was someone in the house who would come to the maid's rescue if she hollered. "Has he gone south?"

He knows. She raised her chin. "I have no idea."

"Which way to his study?" Vance asked as he started down a corridor.

"Please sir! You can't go--."

"I'm just looking for something to write with."

She scurried around in front of him. "I'll bring you something." He's going to get me in trouble.

"Give me a number where he can be reached."

"I don't have one."

"Come, come. He must have left a number. What if the house burned down?" He rounded a corner and spied a vast desk through a doorway.

"Please sir! I'll tell him you called."

Only a phone sat on the desk. Vance rounded it and pulled open a drawer. "This is an emergency. Call him right now and tell him I need to speak with him."

Flustered, wringing her hands, she cried, "I'll have to ask you to leave sir!"

"Tell me the number. I'll call him myself."

"I don't know the number. Only the butler does."

"Well then, please get the butler."

Oh frig. Am I in for it now. "He's not to be disturbed."

Vance stared at her until she calmed and looked at him. "Tell me something," he said quietly, "When was Mr. Mederios last here?"

Her eyes darted around as she thought, No harm in telling him that. "During the summer."

"Do you know where he's been?"

She studied his card again. "Are you with the police?"

"No," he said, "Harold and I are business associates. I've seen him often in Halifax, I just wondered where he spends his weekends."

Not here, thank God. "Sir, I wish you'd leave. I'm going to get in trouble."

Vance felt a pang of remorse. If he did succeed in getting information from her, the poor woman could very well be the brunt of Harold's ire.

"You could be in worse trouble if you don't tell me how to get in touch with your employer. Is he at the site of his new villa?"

"How did you . . .?" Maybe he is a friend of the boss.

"I was supposed to meet him there," he lied. "Harold had Ms. Blois pick up my ticket, but I've lost it."

Some of the suspicion left her face when she heard him use the name, Ms. Blois. "I can give you her number."

"No, she's already packed up. I really didn't pay attention, so I don't know where I was supposed to be flying this week," he said, holding his palms up in a self-depreciating way. "I'm embarrassed about the whole thing. If you could remind me where his villa is, I could call the airport and get a new ticket issued."

Should I tell him Costa Rica? No, the boss'll kill me. "If you would just leave a number where you can be reached?"

Vance pretended to think deeply, then cried, "Wait! I remember. If I could just remember where in Costa Rica."

Her eyes were round in fear. He's just like the boss. She backed away, then scurried out of the room. "George! George!"

Vance pulled open the desk drawers and fingered through papers, hoping to find something else about Mederios's villa--personal letters, a restaurant menu, telephone bill--he crumpled that into his pocket--a symphony timetable.

"Hey you!" I can take this guy.

A giant man filled the doorway. Vance slowly closed the drawer. "You must be George?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for something to write on."

"You'd better leave. I've already called the police," he growled.

Vance stood slowly and straightened his suit jacket. "There's no need to get upset. I'm a colleague of your employer's."

"Yeah? Well my employer ain't here and you're trespassing."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Heart thumping, knees shaking, Mandy stood before the closed bedroom door. Have I thought this through? It was so difficult to clear the sluggish curtain over her mind.

She swung back the huge bed and rearranged the pillows to look as though someone still slept there, and threw the nightgown underneath. Back at the door, the slender scissors once again in her hand, she took a deep breath and turned the handle. The door opened silently. She peeked into the hall. Empty.

Mandy slipped through and scurried along the carpet until she reached a door opening to the left. A quick peek inside and she saw a huge, vacant room--no furniture or drapes. She tiptoed past it to check in the next door, and the next. So far, the only furnished room she saw was the one she awoke in.

Finally she reached the top of a massive curved staircase. The foyer far below had a richly colored, oval carpet. Two brocade chairs bracketed wide doors. Arched openings led to the left and the right.

She felt possessed by deja vu, but soon recognized the source. This house felt like a palace she had visited once--the hushed atmosphere, the opulence, the urge to catch up to the tour guide.

Voices echoed from somewhere in the distance. Hugging the wall, she tiptoed down the steps, then dashed across the foyer, snatched the brass door levers, and yanked them downward. A wall of heat wafted in. Stifling a relieved cry, she scrambled outside, and closed the doors with a click behind her. She bound down a course of white steps bordered by ornate pillars.

Gasping for breath, knees flexed for flight, she gazed about. Where were the cars? Where was the driveway? She couldn't even find power lines to follow to a road.

A gravel walk placed, with engineer precision at exactly the center of the stairway, sliced a level lawn. The sod, not yet grown together, added its parallel lines to the geometric scene. The landscape screamed of unfinished. Apparently acres had been blasted and scoured for the house's construction; it sat in an artificial flat-bottomed bowl. A hundred yards away, where the grass ended, unnatural mounds of sand-colored rock and dirt began. Lush green treetops billowed in the distance.

Mandy dashed straight toward the nearest footpath in the rock. Her feet sunk into the new sod. Every second, she expected to hear the sound of alarm. Arms and legs pumping, chin high, teeth clenched, she ran with all her strength.

A pain stabbed her side just as she cleared the lawn and scrambled over the rocks, but she didn't stop until she rounded into the shelter of a giant boulder. Crouched, she flattened her back on its far side.

Brush and dead trees had been bulldozed into piles, but already a jungle-like forest fingered its way back toward the house. It was impossible, from this vantage, to determine the direction to civilization?

Where is everybody? She switched position to peek around the rock. The villa had three stories, the top two ringed in balconies and marble pillars. It fused Greek architecture with California modern.

Her right hand hurt from where she squeezed the scissors so she made a noose from one belt loop to hold them. Still facing the rock, she shifted position.

The air felt thick with heat and moisture. It weighed down her shoulders. Moisture trickled between her breasts, and her palms painted wet prints on the rough stone.

Why didn't Harold leave a guard? Because he knew she couldn't find her way to civilization? She pulled a side of her bottom lip between her teeth.

Where am I? Tons of marble were used to build that massive house. That made her think of Europe: Italy, or the like. But the lush vegetation looked more African or South American.

The far side the villa teetered above a cliff over the ocean. On this side, a horseshoe of forest surrounded the cleared site. Even in the bright sunlight its undergrowth looked dark and gloomy, but not impenetrable.

Taking care to keep out of view from the villa, she crept to the left. The going was rough. Usually rocks or sand crumbled underfoot because the topsoil had been scraped off, but occasional islands of dark peat jutted out. There, ferns and moss clung, but their exposed roots had baked dry and brittle.

She told herself that men working on the new house had to get there somehow. By road? Or perhaps a dock? She'd find that place and hitch-hike to safety.

Ten minutes later, she heard men's voices somewhere to the right, then the whine of a heavy pump. She started toward them, hesitated, then scrambled over the rough ground back to the forest's edge. First she would try to escape without involving anyone in Harold's employ. Even if they weren’t loyal enough to him to commit a crime, she felt sure Harold had cooked some sort of story up to explain her presence.

She finally came to a well-trodden path following the cliff top. Vehicle grooves, too narrow for a car, cut it deeply. Mandy straddled them as she jogged. Seconds later, a long dock appeared far below. A sleek speedboat tied along side. Holding the scissors away from her body, Mandy ran toward the stairs that zigzagged downward.

Her feet thundered on the wooden rungs, but no one appeared to investigate. It seemed incredible--and suspicious--that she still roamed free.

She considered stealing the boat, but a quick glance at the bare horizon and she sobered. She had no idea what country she was in. What if she headed away from, instead of toward, the nearest town? Besides, she didn't know how to start a boat like this, especially one with an empty keyhole.

Her calves ached as she pulled herself, two steps at a time, back up the stairs. When she reached the top she gasped. A giant circle had been cut out of the forest and, on its center paved, a helicopter squatted. A Helicopter! A moment earlier she must have been too intent on the dock to have even glanced left. She had to be more careful!

Mandy ran to the helicopter and climbed up to peer through the scalding, tinted dome. She'd never been this close to one before--its blades were much higher than she'd pictured. Perhaps she could find the pilot and force him to fly her to the authorities? Then again, who were the authorities? Would they believe her or Harold? He had power and money. She had nothing.

Suddenly she moaned, What am I doing here! Vance must be out of his mind! Damn. One minute she walked through the chilled air in Nova Scotia, and the next minute--it seemed like a minute--she sweated in this Equatorial-like jungle.

Could I be dreaming? Or insane? No, damn it! I've been kidnapped.

The chopper's doors were locked. If she could figure out a way to pick them, she might be able to use the radio. On the other hand, it probably didn't work without a key. Was there an emergency box she could activate? Something to send out an S-O-S signal?

Ten minutes later, she kicked frustrated at the machine. The doors would not open.

She raised her forearm to clear the sweat from her eyes, leaving streaks of mud on her face, then strode back to the path and away from the villa. If she stayed on the edge of the cliff or along the shoreline, she wouldn't get lost. Eventually she'd come to someone's place. Even if it took days.

For a full hour she saw nothing but ocean, birds, lizards, foliage, and rock. Finally she admitted an awful truth to herself. The path occasionally veered right to cup an inlet, but mostly it tacked to the left. She moved in a circle. Other than once, when she sighted what could have been distant hills or clouds on the horizon, she saw no other land offshore.

She was trapped on an island.

By the time the building site and the monumental house drew into sight again, she had resigned herself. There was no way off this cliff-rimmed island without help.

She tried to pick up, rather than drag, her feet, but she felt so weary. The sun baked her head and dried the sweat in an ugly ring of salt under her pits and across her breasts. Her face and arms were badly burned, but that problem seemed insignificant. It took all her strength to place one foot in front of the other.

Even from a distance, Harold Mederios was easy to pick out in his white suit and Panama hat. Cool and comfortable, he lounged under an bright umbrella on a terrace beside a swimming pool.

A swimming pool! The smell of chlorine drew her like a magnet. She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue felt thick and sticky. God, she was thirsty. She trudged onward.

A man hurried from the villa pointing in her direction. Harold rose slowly, then he strolled toward her. His pace quickened as he got closer. Mandy felt defeated, but she was damned if she'd waste one civil word on her kidnapper.

A few yard away, he said, "I almost sent out the national guard to find you." His words were flip, but he spoke them in a worried tone.

Damn him, he looked so cool. I hate you.

He reached to take her arm. Hissing, she yanked herself away and stumbled around him. The pool beckoned. The instant her feet hit the smoothly-paved terrace she almost cried in relief. Jagged stones had long since gnawed through the bottom of the rope soles. Did she leave a trail of blood?

As she neared the tiled edge, a bitter disappointment almost felled her. The pool held only a foot of green-colored water.

Harold spoke from behind. "We'll fill it tomorrow. I sent the local workmen home so you and I can have privacy to come to an understanding."

Local workmen? Mandy frowned, vaguely wondering where they lived.

Of course, Harold read her surface-thoughts. "They come over from the mainland each day."

Mandy veered toward the shade of the house. She gritted her teeth, wanting to spit venom at Harold. Instead, her ears rang. She fought consciousness.

A maid, wearing a starched uniform and crown cap, appeared so suddenly that she almost stumbled into her.

"Ma'am?" she said, holding out a tray.

Mandy snatched the tall glass and gulped. It seemed the gin and tonic evaporated before it hit her mouth. She held the glass for more as she crunched a mouthful of ice.

"You should have saved some for the salt tablets," Harold said, fingering the two white pills into his palm. "Here, drink mine."

She reached for it but he made her put the salt into her mouth first. It stuck to her parched tongue.

"Bring a pitcher of water up to the lady's boudoir," Harold said. Then he turned to Mandy. "You'll feel better when you've bathed and eaten."

Mandy didn't look at him. She felt too weak. The maid smiled shyly and beckoned for her to follow. Shoulders sagged, she trailed along through tall French doors, into the foyer, and up the curved stairs. The cool interior revived her slightly.

"So much for my daring escape," she mumbled.

"Pardon Ma'am?"

Mandy paused and looked at the girl. Dark-skinned, probably still in her teens, she had a petite figure and a pretty, somewhat flattened face with a broad nose. Her accent sounded Spanish.

"Where are we?"

"Why . . . in Mr. Mederios's villa."

"Where? What country?"

"Costa Rica, Ma'am," she answered, perplexed.

"Oh my God! Listen, Mr. Mederios kidnapped me," she gasped, "I am a prisoner. Please tell the police. Point me to a phone."

The maid looked down at her own white shoes. "Yes, Ma'am."

"No," Mandy cried, grasping her arm, "You don't understand. You have to get me help. Get me off this island. Hurry!"

"Yes, Ma'am. The master explained."

"Explained what!"

She surface-thought in another language. "Your problem," she mumbled scurrying away.

"My problem!" she almost bellowed. "Don't believe what he says. It's not true. None of it. He kidnapped me!"

"Yes, Ma'am."

It occurred to her that the girl didn't speak English well. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Her eyes still averted, she nodded. "Yes, Ma'am." She swung into the bedroom and crossed the floor. "Your bath is ready, Senôra Mederios."

Mandy clutched the maid on the forearm, fighting the urge to squeeze it hard. "I am not his wife. I am not Mrs. Mederios. I'm Mandy Stone. I'm a Canadian. I've been kidnapped!"

The girl mumbled another, "Yes, Ma'am," but her eyes fixed on the intertwining engagement and wedding rings on Mandy's finger.

Mandy reeled back. "I've never seen these before," she cried. "How . . .? It's the drugs! They're making me addle brained."

"Your bath is ready, Mrs. Mederios."

"Where is the phone?"

"No phone here."

"Oh come on!" Mandy sneered. "Harold without a phone. Nonsense."

The maid looked down, embarrassed.

Mandy gave up. What was the point of arguing with this girl? She obviously believed everything Harold had told her. Later, when she felt stronger, she'd try again.

Someone had tidied up the bedroom she had slept in. The pillows she had so carefully placed to resemble a sleeping body were back in place. Mandy snickered at how juvenile that now seemed.

"I'll go get your drinking water," the girl said as she directed Mandy, with a wave of her palm, toward the bathroom.

Mandy absentmindedly rubbed her hand up her arm. Ouch! Her burned skin shredded like the filmy tissue just under the hard brown skin of an onion. A bath would feel wonderful. She began unbuttoning her jumpsuit as she wandered into the bathroom.

The square, marble tub had been filled to the brim with water, perfume, and bubbles. Mandy dropped her soiled clothes onto the floor and stepped into the two-foot deep, tepid water. Her sunburned skin on her arms and face stung as she completely submerged herself.

I wonder if I could drown myself by simply staying here? She opened her eyes and stared through the water at her hair curling back and forth in the ripples. It would serve Harold right.

But what about Vance?

Water sloshed over the side as she jerked to sit. She wasn't the only one hurt by Harold's actions. Marjorie had been shot, for Christ's sake!

There had to be a way off this island, she thought as she gently massaged her burned scalp. Harold said that there were workmen about. Someone would believe her. If she could just get a letter off the island. There must be a phone. Or perhaps there was a computer with a modem?

And then there was the helicopter. She could write a letter and tape it near the gas tank for someone to find when it got refilled. Aircraft have radios. There must be a million ways to get free--she just had to keep her eyes open.

Someone tapped on the door. Mandy covered her breasts and sunk under the bubbles. The door opened slowly.

"Your lemonade, Mrs. Mederios." The maid sided into the room without looking at the bath.

"Thank you," Mandy said, eyeing the ice sloshing around the pitcher. "I'm dying of thirst."

"Mr. Mederios says you join him in the dining room when you're ready." She set the tall glass onto the bath's edge.

"What's your name?" Mandy asked.

"Tilda," she replied.

"As in Matilda?"

"Sí."

"Thank you Tilda."

Mandy guzzled the drink. In a second, only a lemon wedge and ice remained in the glass.

She hurried through the rest of her bath. Fluffy white bath sheets and an immense robe had been left out. Mandy slipped the robe on gingerly over her burned arms, and leaned over to dry her feet. Her head swam. She groaned and sank to the floor until the dizziness passed.

"I feel drunk," she slurred.

She wondered if she suffered sunstroke or if the drugs hadn't worn off. Perhaps this lemonade was spiked? Holding her hand over the top to keep the ice, she drained the liquid from the pitcher. Then she filled it with water from the tap.

It looked clear as she held it up to the light, but she'd probably get some unpleasant tropical disease from it. She plucked out an ice cube and dropped it into her mouth.

Mandy raked a comb through her hair and wandered into the bedroom. She slipped on the first sundress her hand came across. Still barefoot, she meandered out into the hall.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she hesitated. She couldn't seem to focus clearly. Afraid she'd fall, she reached a hand toward the carved railing and clutched it. The climb down took a very long time.

"Mandy," Harold cried when he saw her, "You look lovely."

"Liar," she mumbled. She vaguely remembered she was supposed to be mad at him. "I'm dizzy. I think I need something in my stomach."

"Of course you do. You haven't had a proper meal in more than twenty-four hours."

She sank into a dining room chair and stared down the long table. A number of chaffing dishes, steam seeping out their lids, lined one side. Harold picked up a plate and began to fill it.

"You've never eaten food like this," he said. "Very typical local fare: casado--rice and beans, shredded cabbage, and tomatoes."

Mandy felt disembodied as she watched him move from one dish to the next.

"Here you go, my dear." He set the plate in front of her, then shook open a linen napkin and arranged it on her lap.

Mandy couldn't seem to respond. She felt empty, emotionless. Then, suddenly, helpless and afraid. She whimpered.

"Shush," Harold whispered. He dropped to his knees by her side. Very gently, he placed his fingers under her chin and tilted her face toward him. "Shush. You'll feel better once you've eaten. You're safe here. No one will hurt you. I would protect you with my life. Mandy, you are my heart."

"I'm your heart?" She knew she should be angry with him, but she couldn't quite remember why. He looked so kind, so sincere. "I . . . I don't know what's going on."

"You've had too much sun. The food will help."

She pressed her palm flat to her stomach. "I'm not sure . . .."

"Here," he said, reaching for a basket. "Maria made this bread fresh this afternoon."

Mandy sat demurely, her hands clasped on her lap, as Harold Mederios carefully buttered her bread.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jeff Guberman happened to be crossing the reception area of his office when Vance burst through the door.

"Back already?" he asked, clearly startled.

"Got a minute?" Vance said, already marching toward the investigator's office.

"Sure."

Guberman closed the door before taking a seat. "Something's happened?"

"He took her to Costa Rica."

One eyebrow raised. "How'd you find that out?"

"Don't ask." Vance could hardly believe he'd been so brash at Mederios's house.

"You know where in Costa Rica?"

Vance shook his head. "But I'm positive that's where he is. Can you come with me?"

Guberman paused and surface-thought, Can you afford me?

"I'll pay all your expenses and your daily rate." Vance pulled out his credit card and threw it on the desk.

Guberman stared at the card. "One of my associates would be less expensive and could do just--"

"I want you. Are you free?"

"Today?"

"Right now."

By way of an answer, Guberman stabbed a button on his telephone and said, "Dan, could you come in here a minute? Mr. Tollefsrud wants to add to his retainer." Then he released the button and asked, "Have you checked the flights?"

"Not yet."

When Guberman's assistant, Dan, walked into the office, he handed him Vance's credit card and asked him to book two seats on the next flight to Costa Rica.

"Got your passport with you?" he asked.

Nodding, Vance patted his breast pocket. "I don't know about shots, or whatever."

"If we had time, I'd insist on shots, but we're pressed here."

"But they'll let us in the country?"

"Costa Rica doesn't require a medical certificate. It's the Canadian side that we need to convince. As I said, I'll handle that."

Guberman moved to his computer terminal. "I've got a contact there who should be a big help."

Vance watched the heavy-set man roving his thick fingers over the computer's keyboard. A question seeped through his consciousness. What's Mandy doing now? He lunged to his feet and paced toward the window. He had to keep active; couldn't let his thoughts run freely.

Every time he relaxed, he worried. The hairs stood up on his arms. His neck muscles knotted. He tried to take comfort in the thought that Mederios hadn't, up until now, pressured Mandy for sex. He wanted her--intended to have her--but he seemed to know she couldn't be forced to . . .. Don't think about that. Concentrate on finding her.

"Ever been to Costa Rica?"

At the sound of Guberman's voice, Vance relaxed the fists from his hands. "Nope. You?"

"Couple of times. Rescued a teenager from a cult group down there once. That's how I know this guy--Alberto Carazo. Al."

"Al have access to local records?"

"Oh yeah! That's how I found that teenager. It's a small country. And San José's small. About the size of your town, Halifax."

"He can be working on that while we're flying down."

Guberman tapped a fingernail on his computer monitor. "That's the idea. I'll give him a call now. He can start checking on work permits, vehicle registration, customs--."

"Mederios probably installed a telephone," Vance interrupted.

"Could take a simple call to information," Guberman agreed with a shrug. "Hell, Mederios probably advertised in the local newspaper for a builder." Piece of cake.

That sounded hopeful. Vance had spent enough time in the Registry of Deeds to know the scope of information available to someone who wants to take the time to look.

While Guberman spoke to Al in Costa Rica, Vance scribbled a to-do list. He needed to call Marjorie, and to check in with his office and to try Nelson again. Also, he remembered that there was a bank near to his hotel he could visit to transfer funds into his credit card accounts.

Guberman replaced the receiver. "Okay. That's looked after." He stood and braced his fists on his hips. "Let's stop by my place on the way to the airport."

A day-and-a-half later, Vance and Jeff Guberman plodded through customs in Juan Santamaría Airport in Costa Rica just as the sun rose. They'd tried to sleep on the flight, but a combination of snores, grunts, drunk giggles, and bumpy air pockets jolted them awake every five minutes.

Already a film of grit and sweat soaked through Vance's white shirt. He glanced at his companion. With the tie stuffed into his short-sleeved shirt pocket, his belt loosened around his ample belly, and twelve hours of gray whiskers amassing, Guberman looked more like a bandit than a private investigator.

There was no need to find the luggage carousel. They each toted a carry-on in one hand, and a garment bag over the other shoulder.

The Costa Rican air felt room temperature. "I thought it would be roasting," Vance said.

"It's always cooler here," Guberman replied. "We're in the mountains now. Wait 'til you feel the rain forest."

What did Mandy have for clothes? "Maybe we'll find her today."

"We'll do our best, but I'll warn you. You've got to be patient."

"Yeah."

"The car rental's over here."

Vance felt a surge of gratitude for the gruff investigator. In one short day, he'd gotten them to Central America. Now he haggled with a bored-looking clerk--in Spanish, no less. Vance plopped his carry-on to the dirt.

"Put your foot on it."

Vance obediently hooked the toe of his dusty shoe through the bag's handle. Airports all over the world had theft. No reason to assume this sleepy one would be any different.

A short time later, Guberman dangled the key in front of Vance and asked, "Want to check into a hotel and get some shut-eye?"

Vance shook his head. "Let's go wake your friend Al."

Guberman had rented a white, four-wheel-drive station wagon. They tossed their bags into the back and climbed in with Guberman behind the wheel. The entire half-hour drive to the city, Vance squeezed the dashboard until his knuckles were white.

"You know where Al lives?" he asked as they careened onto another one-way street.

"Oh, sure."

Vance had the impression of ugly office buildings and huge billboards interspersed occasionally with elegant, Spanish-style houses. The tallest building he saw was a Holiday Inn.

Guberman stopped at a stucco bungalow. "Hope Al still lives here."

Mandy leaned a shoulder on the doorjamb and gazed out over the Caribbean Sea. A warm breeze floated in, drifting the silk of her long nightgown along her leg like a ripple on calm water. It had been a spectacular sunrise; lines of clouds, parallel to the horizon, were frosted in purple, then pink, and now peach. But her mind was occupied with more serious concerns.

What happened yesterday? She remembered her futile bid for freedom and how Harold welcomed her back like some kind of guest. And the heat. And the bath. Even now her arms burned so she avoided bending them at the elbow.

Obviously she'd been drugged. Was it in the salt tablets? No, probably in the gin and tonic. It had tasted so wonderful at the time.

Suddenly she groaned and pressed her forehead against the wood. Snatches of images bleeped in and out of her memory. She'd eaten. Harold was there. She remembered being afraid.

Helpless! The man had her helpless! Damn him!

She looked sidelong back toward the bed. Only one pillow had a head's indention--thank God. Apparently he hadn't violated her. Yet.

"I am not helpless," she hissed.

A thermos sat on the dresser. She twisted off the lid and sniffed. Water. Her mouth felt parched and her lips were cracked and dry. She poured a glassful and held it up to the light. It was a solute--minute flakes drifted--but was it drugged? She set it back onto the dresser with a clunk.

Was someone watching her right now? She lifted the corner of the large mirror and peered behind. The walls were freshly painted. The headboard new. Would she be able to find a hidden camera if it was there? Mandy spent fifteen minutes searching.

Finally she gave up. She carried the water into the bathroom and poured it down the sink. The sloshing and gurgling echoed loudly in the early morning silence. Still clutching the thermos, she pulled on a thin robe and quietly left her room.

This time the doors off the hallway were closed. Barefoot, she scurried past them and down the graceful staircase. Instead of heading left, to the dining room, she passed along the corridor under the stairs to the back of the house.

She found the kitchen through a swinging door with a shiny brass plate. It looked like a restaurant; dark ceramic floors, shiny white tiled walls, and lots of stainless steel. Apparently no one had risen yet.

Mandy hurried across to the end of the room and pulled a long-handled lever to open the walk-in refrigerator. The door was heavy. She had to prop it open with a garbage can.

As she'd hoped, she found rows of bottled water. Her feet were quickly chilled so she grabbed a half-dozen of the nearest--Evian--and brought them out. One bottle's contents she swallowed immediately. Then she poured three into her thermos. She dumped the empty bottles in the trash.

Next Mandy filled a large, paper bag with oranges and bananas, a sealed package of crackers, and a box of raisins. She returned to the refrigerator for another armload of bottled water, then she lugged the whole thing back up the stairs.

Halfway along the hall, she paused to balance the bag on her knee to give her arms a break. A noise behind one of the doors made her start and rattle the bottles. She quickly hoisted them back up and ran to her room.

Safe behind the door, she searched for hiding places. The bottled water went between the box-spring and mattress, the fruit in a lingerie drawer. The crackers she opened and ate along with a tumbler of her fresh, safe, water.

After she tidied up the evidence of her snack, Mandy climbed back under the covers. She had to avoid Harold's drugs without his knowledge. Should she act drugged? If so, when? How? What if he had discontinued the tranquilizer?

Harold Mederios could not hold her hostage forever. She had brains, and was reasonably healthy and brave. And, she could read surface-thoughts--not that that would help her if the thoughts were in Spanish!

She considered learning the language but immediately scoffed. She had no intention of being here that long.

He must know that eventually she would find a way off the island, or someone to help her. Did he think she would want to stay?

Harold had a mammoth sense of his own worth. He decided that he loved her--and maybe he did. That thought made her melancholy. Could it really be that he did all this for her? For Mandy Stone?

There are crazy people in this world, she reminded herself.

So, if he was sincere, where did that leave her? Could she talk herself free? Or would he find it inconceivable that she didn't love him back? Would he then hate her? Would he say, If I can't have you, no one will?

She snuggled the sheets over her shoulders. They were fine silk. In fact, everything in the room was fine. Even the woodwork around the windows was carved with delicate birds and flowers.

A breeze drifted in the open door--warm, sweet smelling, bug free. Damn, she thought, Why am I fighting it?

Sure, she could get used to this Paradise. But she couldn't ever love Harold. Her heart was already spoken for.

She would escape.

What were the risks? Getting off the island would only land her in a foreign country without money, passport, friends . . .. She'd have to find a way to the police. What if a desperado-type picked her up? She could land in worse trouble than she was now in.

Harold could catch her trying to escape. He'd be furious. She remembered his temper and shivered. But he wouldn't hurt her, would he?

Infected with a terrible foreboding, she caught her breath and squeezed her eyes tight. This wasn't a game or some kind of Club Med package. This was real. Harold could hurt her. He could do whatever he wanted to her. He shot Marjorie. He cleaved Derrick Wiener's head with an ax. He murdered people.

She recalled his words, "Love is a game. I never lose."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mandy jerked when the rap sounded at her door. Her eyes searched out her robe but before she had a chance to move, the door cracked opened. She froze, saw the maid, and relaxed.

"Good morning, Mrs. Mederios." Tilda braced a silver tray on one hip as she managed the door.

She ground out the words, "My name is Mandy Stone."

Tilda's face fell. "Yes Ma'am."

"I am quite sane. And I am not joking. Harold Mederios grabbed me from a street in Halifax, Canada. He drugged me. I woke up here in this bed."

"Please Ma'am, I put down the tray."

"Yes. Yes. Put it down."

It was so tempting to growl at everyone, but it wasn't Tilda's fault that she was a hostage. In fact, the friendlier she got with Harold's employees, the better. Somehow she would get someone to help her escape.

"Okay," Mandy said, holding both palms up in submission. "You have to believe Harold. He's your boss. How about you call me Mandy?"

"I . . . I couldn't do that," Tilda stuttered.

Mandy sighed. "Forget it."

She scooted into a sitting position so the fixed legs of the tray could fit over her lap. Tilda lifted a silver pot and poured tea into a paper-thin china cup. Then she removed a lid from a plate of warm pastries.

"Will there be anything else, Ma'am?"

Mandy licked her lips. She didn't dare touch any of this delicious-looking food--it could be drugged. "Are there any drugs in this food?"

Tilda looked startled. "Drugs?"

"Pills that make me sleepy?"

"No, no pills."

The maid seemed so innocent, Mandy doubted that she had anything to do with Harold's perfidy.

"Would you please bring me a bowl of fruit still in the peel? And some juice in an unopened bottle? I haven't gotten used to the water here yet." She patted her stomach apologetically.

"Con much gusto." Tilda looked pitifully pleased to answer, "Yes, Ma'am. Right away."

When the door closed, Mandy groaned. Then, to make it appear as though she had eaten, she tore off chunks of a pastry and flushed them down the toilet. The tea followed.

A short time later, Tilda brought a message along with the food Mandy had requested. "Mr. Mederios would like you to join him in a walk when you've finished breakfast."

"Okay," Mandy answered. She might as well find out what the man intended to do.

"He's out by the pool."

"Thank you Tilda."

"De nada."

After the maid left, she studied the banana peel for signs of tampering. Where, in her breakfast, had the drug been hidden? In the tea? A pastry? It didn't seem likely because there would be no way for Harold to gauge the amount she absorbed. Would she fall in a dead sleep if she ate everything? Perhaps Harold didn't feel the need to drug her again.

"Oh hell, it could be in the air I breath." She pushed the tray aside and strode into the bathroom.

After a quick shower, Mandy pulled out one of the sundresses in the closet. The label caught her eye and she whistled. Children starving in the world, and he blows a fortune on designer clothes. She yanked the dress over her head.

A moment later, Mandy traipsed downstairs and out into the humid air. She spied Harold, fists braced on his hips, supervising the filling of the pool. His hair was pulled back severely in a thick elastic. A seedy-looking man with graying hair leaned over a pump at the far end. Harold stared at the gushing water.

He hadn't seen her, and he wouldn't be able to hear her over the throbbing pump, so she started forward. Suddenly the pump died with a thud. The gushing slowed then all movement stopped. Harold's shoulders lifted and his head slowly swiveled toward the pool man.

"Jesus Christ!" he snarled and marched forward screaming, "Can't you do one bloody thing right!"

The little man scrambled around the rusty machine, desperately punching and jabbing at it. As Harold neared, he cowered and whined, "Demasiado . . . muy poco . . .."

It sounded to Mandy as thought he complained that the pump was too far from the water. That made sense to her, on an island fresh water would be too precious with which to fill a pool. The pump had to suck the stuff from the foot of a towering cliff.

Suddenly Harold swung the back of his hand and hit him. The smack rang out. Instead of defending himself, the man tried to hide behind his pump. Harold raised his hand again.

Mandy felt sickened. She darted back inside the house praying that he hadn't seen her. How easy it was to forget that Harold Mederios was a tyrant; he was always so gallant around her. Mandy hugged herself with one arm across her waist, and bit down on her other thumb knuckle. She dropped her head back against the wall and winced at another eruption of Harold's voice.

Just then she noticed Tilda standing in the shadows. Her eyes were huge and frightened.

"Go there later Señora. He's busy now," she pleaded.

"Yeah, later," she agreed. This wasn't a good time to confront Harold. Hell, she didn't even know if she was supposed to act drugged. She had to think this through, but her brain felt heavy and slow.

She and Tilda exchanged a conspiratory look and started down the hall.

"Harold's a creep . . .," Mandy fumed. "Hitting that man like that . . .."

"He's my father," Tilda mumbled.

"The pool man is your father?" Now she saw the similarity; they shared the same dark skin and wide, flattened nose.

Tilda nodded. The fact that the man was this girl's father made Mandy even angrier.

"Let's go into the kitchen and make a fresh pot of tea."

"We have the very good coffee," Tilda suggested.

Mandy didn't want to drink anything she hadn't seen prepared, so she opted for tea.

In the bright kitchen, a middle-aged woman worked over a marble slab kneading bread. She straightened with a start when she saw Mandy, and said something in a jumble to Tilda.

"Hello," Mandy said, striding up to look into the bowl of dough. The white mound smelled sweet with almond. "My name's Mandy Stone."

The woman's surface-thoughts babbled in Spanish but she said politely, "Mucho gusto."

Tilda said, "This is Maria, the baker. She don't speak English."

"Don't let me interrupt you," Mandy said. "I'm just going to make a pot of tea."

She eyed the shelves of new-looking pots but before she had a chance to find the kettle, Tilda had one on and a tray started. Mandy watched carefully as she selected the tea bags and poured milk from a glass bottle into a tiny cream pitcher. No chance for drugs there.

Rather than risking a run-in with Harold in another room, she perched on a high wooden stool. Maria looked askance at her familiar manner, but Mandy ignored it.

"Tilda," she asked. "Harold said that workmen come over from the mainland. How far away is that?"

"I don't know for miles," Tilda apologized. "It takes less than an hour in Poppa's boat. The Señor's launch is faster."

Tilda's father brought a boat! Mandy pretended indifference and said, "It would be quicker to fly them back and forth with the helicopter."

She shrugged and thumbed toward the mainland. "There's no airport."

"I suppose it would cost a lot in fuel too. Does Harold fly the helicopter?"

Tilda shook her head.

"Who does?"

Maria said something sharp to Tilda. The girl shrugged and answered, "I don't know. A man, but I don't know his name."

"Does he speak English?"

"Sí. He's Señor Mederios's friend."

"Is he here on the island now?"

Tilda nodded. The kettle boiled with a shrill whistle. She poured the water into the pot with a practiced hand. When she was done, Mandy patted the stool next to her. Tilda hesitated only a moment.

"I'm going to want to have a word with the pilot," she mumbled, wondering how much to say to the young girl. "Who else is here on the island?"

Tilda licked her lips and glanced at the cook. "Many people," she managed to say.

"Not counting people who work for Harold, how many?"

She shrugged and asked something in Spanish. The cook answered, her eyes widening for emphasis.

Tilda turned back to Mandy, "There are many Ticos--Costa Ricans, but five English people like you."

The cook mumbled angrily, wiped her hands on her apron, and stomped from the room.

"What's the matter?" Mandy asked, still looking at the retreating back.

"She don't like me being friendly like this. She's old fashioned."

A male voice sounded clearly from beyond the kitchen door. Staring at it, Mandy asked, "Does Mr. Mederios ever come in here?"

Tilda looked like she should inch away from Mandy. "I don't think so."

"Maybe you should look busy. I don't want to get you in trouble."

"Sí." She slipped off the stool and rubbed her palms up and down the sides of her skirt. Lighting on an idea, she said, "I'll cut fruit. You like some fruit?"

"I would. Thanks."

When she cracked opened the shiny refrigerator door, a cool draft wafted across Mandy's ankles. It reminded her of the icy rain of Brier Island. That seemed months ago.

"Tilda," she called to the girl who had disappeared inside the fridge, "How long have you worked--"

"Mandy!"

Harold's voice stopped the breath in her mouth. She knew without turning that he had entered the room, but she desperately needed time to react. A surface-thought bubbled, Will he hit me?

He flew across the space between them. "Hit you?" he cried, full of concern, "Why would you ever think I'd--."

"You hit the pool man." Oh God, she was making a big mistake arguing with him already. And, he was right there in front of her, right within striking distance. She fought to keep from squeezing her eyes shut.

He shook his head slowly. "I don't love the pool man."

"And this is the way you treat people you love? You kidnap them?"

The edge of his straw hat crushed in his hand as he struggled with his own temper. He suddenly realized that Tildy cowered beside the refrigerator. "Let's go for a walk."

It seemed safer here in the kitchen. "I haven't finished my tea."

I will not have a scene in front of the servants, he said in precise surface-thinking. When Mandy only sipped her tea, he snapped, "Come with me, now!"

The cup rattled as she set it, with trembling fingers, onto its saucer. She slipped from the stool, straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, then strolled from the kitchen.

In the hall, Harold moved in front of her and swung his arm like an usher. "There's a cloak room here. Come and select a hat and glasses. I don't want you to get too much sun."

Mandy glanced inside and gaped. It was like a millinery store. Rows of hats--white cloth, natural straw, baseball caps, floppy fedoras--lined the clay-colored walls. She felt acutely aware of Harold, knew that he watched her face like a father presenting his daughter with her first pony.

"I didn't know what you'd like so I bought them all," he said softly.

"Oh geeze," Mandy said. He looked so damn sincere, her eyes filled. It wasn't compassion she felt, but bewilderment.

Harold rushed to comfort her. She quickly stopped him with a gesture. The right side of his face pulled upward--a sign of anger--before he turned away.

He, like her, looked near the breaking point. She snatched the closest hat--a wide-brimmed straw one--and rammed it on her head. "We have to talk."

"I'm aware of that."

Outside, the pump labored noisily. Instantly the heat penetrated her pores with a sensuous rush. Every muscle slowed. He led her around the paved pool area and across acres of thick lawn. As they neared the cliff edge, the hiss of sprinklers grew louder than the pump's drone. The briny scent of beached seaweed drifted.

Mandy stared at the sprinklers.

"I--we--have a desalinization plant for fresh water."

Mandy thought about the pool man and the water pump.

He pointed. "That was where the crane was. To haul up building material. I'm going to put a pavilion there," he said, now pointing to the left. "And benches along the edge here."

The panorama of sparkling ocean made her feel dwarfed and insignificant. The breeze shimmied along her exposed skin and lifted her hair from her shoulders. Mandy's steps got smaller and smaller as she neared the edge. A narrow yard of unsod soil and rock separated the lawn from the void. The drop off was so steep and abrupt--not a gradual incline--that she didn't dare lean to look over.

It's dangerous.

"People will simply have to watch themselves," he said defensively. "I don't intend to mar the view with a fence."

"Maybe a low stone wall."

He looked surprised and pleased. "If that's what you want."

"What do you mean, 'if that's what I want'? Harold, this is crazy. What am I doing here?"

"Mandy . . .," he started, then looked around. "I wish the benches had arrived. I planned everything to be perfect before you came but . . . well things altered."

She squeezed her arms although they pained. "Tell me about it."

"I have some news which will upset you." She barked a hard laugh, but he continued, "I have a source in the police--a trusted source--who tipped me off. Vance Tollefsrud is about to be--has been--arrested for murder." He held up his hand at her smirk. "I know you don't want to believe this, after all, you do have . . . feelings for the man."

She could tell that he had trouble spitting out that last bit. "Let's forget about Van for the moment. Okay?"

"I'm trying to explain--."

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Because he meant you harm. I care for you, and I wasn't about to let that happen."

"Oh Harold," she cried, "You kidnapped me!"

He raised one black eyebrow. "Would you have come with me willingly?"

"You're not answering my--."

"Give me a chance!" He visibly composed himself. "You would have run the other way the moment you saw me. I did what I did to save your life."

She took a deep breath and kept her voice level. "Why do you think my life was at risk?"

"I told you, Tollefsrud is wanted for murder. He would have killed me too, if that means anything to you. He kills anyone who knows about his ability."

She reminded herself that Harold was a dangerous man and she must not rile him. "Why do you think that?"

"Because he's killed before."

"You think the police want to arrest him. Has he been arrested?"

He nodded. "By now, yes."

Poor Vance. Mandy covered her mouth with her hand. She had to watch her thoughts. "He wouldn't kill someone. He's not . . .."

"Not what? A murderer? Can you tell a murderer? Can anyone just pick out a murderer in a crowd?" He snapped his fingers.

"Why are you so sure?"

"I told you. I have an inside source. Mandy, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to face it. He is a sick man."

The compassion in his eyes unnerved her. "You may believe that, but I don't."

She swung on her heel and walked along a worn path only a yard from the cliff edge. Harold touched her forearm and pulled her back toward the house, to the safety of the lawn.

"You have to know the truth," he said. "The police have been following Tollefsrud. They know he took a gun from his safety deposit box."

She wondered how they knew that. "So what? He wanted to defend himself. Things haven't been exactly normal and safe around Halifax. Marjorie was shot, as you well know." She had an impulse to punch him.

"He got the gun the morning of the day she was shot."

That stopped her. Her mind raced. "Marjorie almost died. Her house was bombed in Toronto because she learned something about you! Not him!"

"Learned what?"

"That you bribed the school to--"

"I was doing you a favor! Would anyone--. Would I kill someone for that? Bomb their house? Think!"

"Why would Vance?"

"Because he's unbalanced. He knew that you told your friend about him. He kills everyone who knows about him."

"No . . .," she sighed, shaking her head. She didn't believe it. "Vance sought me out, not the other way around. How did you know I'd be on that cruise in Brier Island?"

"I told you, I saw the news story."

"You knew before that, didn't you?"

"What do you mean?" he asked softly.

"Did you send that man there? The man who tried to kill the biologist?"

He turned away. "I had to know for sure."

"Oh, God." She cupped her cheeks in the palms of her hands. "You did send him."

"I had heard about you before. Someone who taught with you in Toronto was talking at a party. You sounded like a dream come true, so I had you followed. When you made plans to go on that whale-watching cruise, it seemed that the Gods were in my favor. You see, I . . . ah . . . employ a psychiatrist who had a patient . . .." He shrugged.

She dropped her hands and glared at him. "Why did you set that up? Why did he agree? What if he'd been successful and killed that man?"

He smile crookedly. "One question at a time. First: I've been obsessed with you since I first heard your name. I love you." He ignored her angry scoff. "Two: he didn't know he had been hypnotized so he thought it was all his idea. Three: he wouldn't have been successful because we planted a hypnotic suggestion that prohibited it. Besides, you'll remember that the police were tipped off that he would be on board." He tapped his own chest.

The knowledge that Harold started this whole nightmare further hardened Mandy against him. "You're the one who breaks the law left and right, not Van."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said. He placed his hand on her shoulder but she shook it off. "The police have suspected him before--there was a murder a couple of years ago--but they never had enough proof for a conviction."

Mandy studied Harold's eyes. They were shaded by his straw hat, but they watched her unblinking and solemn. Did he believe what he said? Or was it a ruse to keep her docile? She thought back to the day Marjorie was shot. Ten minutes after she reached the hospital she had telephoned Vance. He wasn't in his office, and his secretary didn't know where he had gone.

Could I be so wrong about him? The suspicion pierced her soul.

"We all make mistakes."

"Stop listening to me!" she cried, backing away. It was a treacherous thought she would never have spoken aloud. Never! He reached a hand for her.

"You're making all this up," she snarled, scrambling to keep him from touching her.

"Maaaandy!"

Suddenly the world tilted. She teetered on the cliff and gaped open-mouthed at the organic blue-gray water swirling below. Sensuous s-shapes hissed and beckoned to her, a relentless force dragging her downward.

Helpless, she toppled. Harold's hand clamped to her wrist. A massive tug, and he jerked her back. They hit the ground together, Mandy on top.

With a wail, he rolled her over, his body pinning her. Her breasts crushed under his weight.

"Don't you ever do that again!" he snarled. "Don't you ever--ever!--scare me like that again."

It took a moment for her stunned brain to stop spinning. She nearly died. Harold saved her. His face was inches from her own, his breath hot on her cheek. Black hair had escaped its elastic and hung like a satin sheet blocking out the sky. His nostrils opened and closed.

Hit with the realization that he was going to kiss her, she squirmed but he squeezed his legs more tightly. Turning her face away only made him hold her cheeks with his hands. He kissed her hard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Vance sat coiled on the edge of a hard wooden seat in a living room-cum-kitchenette while his two companions chatted in Spanish. It was immediately obvious, as he drifted his eyes about the room, that Guberman's friend, Alberto Carazo, wasn't a wealthy man. Save-the-Rainforest and Turtle-Research posters, their corners curling in the dampness, decorated the dingy walls. The flimsy curtains billowing above the single, porcelain sink were faded and frayed. One chipped mug sat upside-down in a draining rack, and men's underwear draped a wicker basket.

When Al opened his cupboard to get the instant coffee, Vance spied rows of small single-serving tins. Three pairs of man's shoes almost saluted, they sat with such precision next to the door.

Alberto himself looked young enough to be in school. He had long black hair curling over his shoulders, and a bushy mustache. The look in his eyes, when he first shook Vance's hand, had been one of deep empathy. Apparently he knew the entire story.

Guberman leaned from the waist with his massive forearms resting on his knees.

"You were right," he said, turning to include Vance in the conversation.

Hot and tired, Vance had tuned them out so that now he struggled to get his brain in gear. "About what."

"Looks like Harold Mederios's here. He owns a helicopter that he keeps in a hanger at the airport."

Now alert, Vance stared at Al. "Do you have an address?"

Guberman translated. Al shook his head and spoke in Spanish.

"He says that the helicopter isn't in the hanger now. He was talking to one of the mechanics who works there. Seems they've been using the chopper all year. Mostly on weekends."

Well? Well? Vance stifled his frustration. "To go where?"

"Don't have an address, just the name of a small town on the East Coast. But there aren't any airports in the area. Must be a private landing pad."

Vance nodded. "Mederios's villa. I hear it's like a fortress." He repeated what Marjorie's secretary had told him.

Geeze do I ever need a shower, Guberman surface-thought as he lumbered to his feet. "How do you feel? Want to check into a hotel--"

"I'd rather we followed up the lead, to go to the East Coast."

"This town is hours away, and it might turn out to be a false lead."

"I'm sorry to rush you like this, but I'm worried about Mandy."

The damage has probably already been done, Guberman thought, but he nodded understandingly. "Sure you are. We'll head out right away."

Vance stifled the impulse to confront Guberman about what he meant by his surface-thought about the damage already done. He turned toward Al. "Will you come with us?"

Al smiled broadly and pulled a scuffed canvas overnight bag from a nearby cupboard. They worked out a daily rate that seemed, to Vance, to be embarrassingly low, and headed out.

Vance, who gave up the front seat to Al, canted his knees sideways to squeeze into the vehicle's back. He didn't mind. At least they were moving. Al knew which roads to take to the Atlantic Coast, but Vance unfolded the map that came with the rental and followed along.

He admitted to himself that this might be a wild-goose-chase. It was a reckless, impetuous trip that didn't make sense. He had always worked with logic, making lists, considering all the alternatives. Since he met Mandy, he felt as though he moved by instinct. The unknown crowded about him like a black void. Only the direction to Mandy seemed important.

Damn, he was scared. Scared for Mandy, and scared for Nelson--with good reason. Everyone involved with Mederios suffered. The reporter was murdered. Mandy's friend Marjorie was shot. He squeezed the tightness in the bridge of his nose.

If Mederios has hurt Mandy or Nelson, I swear I'll send him to Hell.

The Guápiles Highway quickly degraded from smooth, divided pavement, to rough two-lanes. They sped past signs posting an 80 km speed limit, but most cars went faster than the law. Even on the steep, twisty sections, other drivers careened past them, horns blaring.

A half-hour after leaving the capital city, they entered a cloud forest. Lush vegetation crowded on either side of the road. Occasionally they broke through a ridge and looked down upon mist-covered greenery stretching as far as the eye could see.

"Let's stop for a break," Guberman said, craning his neck to look at Vance.

Vance agreed. "I'd like to find a phone."

Al braked at the sight of a small village. He and Guberman exchanged a few words in Spanish.

"He says there's a phone in the pulperia--guess that's a grocery."

Vance scanned the rickety, wooden houses. They were stopped beside a small building with faded posters, depicting fruit and pop, plastered on the window. The car nosed into a tangle of vines with leaves as large as umbrellas that were shiny with moisture.

"There's one," he said, pointing to a yellow sign marked, telefono publico.

He climbed out of the car and, bracing his hands on his hips, stretched his neck and back. The air smelled moist and sweet. It was thick with the steady drone of insects.

Al led the way to the telephone and explained in halting English, along with hand signals and coins, how it worked.

Vance first dialed the Halifax precinct and was put through to one of Nelson's coworkers.

"This is Vance Tollefsrud," he said. "May I speak with Nelson Smith?"

"Hi Vance. This is Joe. Nelson's not here. You've just missed him."

"Just missed him?" Vance said in a rush. "So he's been around?" He closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks.

"Yeah," Joe said. "Dee's been in a car accident."

"How bad?"

"She's okay. Broke a couple of bones though. Nelson took her to some place in the country."

"What can you tell me about the accident? Did it look suspicious?"

"Geeze Van, I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, you know, he's been working hard on the Harold Mederios thing. And Mandy Stone's missing." He suddenly thought, Loose lips sink ships. Mederios probably had someone working inside the police station. "Listen Joe, forget I said that, will ya? If there's a connection, Kelsey and Sparks will be working on it."

He could hear the shrug in Joe's voice, "Yeah, sure."

"When will Nelson be back?"

"Not for a while. He took a leave of absence, you know, so he can look after Dee."

"Did he leave a number?"

"Nope."

"Shit." Vance suffered a twinge of guilt for his selfish outburst. Nelson had problems of his own. But hell, he could sure use his friend's help right about now. "Listen Joe, if he checks in, will you let him know I called? I'm out of town. Tell him I'll call back with a number when I get one."

"Sure thing. Have a good vacation."

Some vacation. Vance thanked Joe, rang off, and dialed Nelson's home number. After Dee's voice asked him to wait for the tone and leave a message, he said, "Sorry to hear about your accident, Dee. Hope you're feeling better. I'm in Costa Rica, trying to find Mandy. Mederios's got a villa down here. I'll call back later and leave a number where I can be reached."

Vance left the grocery and wandered back to the car. Guberman handed him a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee.

"Thanks," Vance said. "I've just heard that a friend of mine was in a car accident. She's okay, but I think it might be connected to this whole thing. Her husband's a good friend of mine. He's a policeman, and he's been checking up on Mederios."

"Was your cop friend in the car too?"

"I don't know."

Guberman glanced at Al before he asked, "But you think Mederios is the type to rig an accident?"

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"So . . .," Guberman let the word hang in the air a moment. His surface-thoughts blared. He didn't want Vance to drag him into a life-threatening and illegal escapade. "What exactly do you plan to do with this murdering son of a bitch when you find him?"

"I know what I'd like to do," Vance growled.

He pried the plastic top off his coffee and sipped the scalding liquid carefully. A heady whiff of roasted beans rose from the cup. It was obvious that Al and Guberman didn't want to leave immediately, so he wandered to the edge of the forest and cocked his head back to gaze at prehistoric-looking tree-ferns.

Somewhere in the distance sharp staccato howls erupted. Monkeys?

"Yeow!" Vance cried, ducking. An immense bird with an impossibly-red underbelly and iridescent green back, swooped along the tree edge only yards away. "What was that!"

"Quetzal," Al said with a laugh.

"Geeze, I thought it was a fighter plane. It must have been four feet long!" He scurried closer to where the bird had disappeared between the leaves, and craned his neck hoping for another glimpse. His heart pounded.

That abrupt sighting changed the way Vance saw his surroundings. He had been too preoccupied to admire them but now that his eyes were opened, he noticed hummingbirds zinging around succulent orchids. Nearby, an almost transparent frog clung to a bed of verdant moss.

Perhaps Mandy saw the same exotic wildlife, wherever she was?

A mosquito feasted on the back of his hand. Vance batted at it, intending only to shoo it away, but his hand came away with a crimson smear of blood. His blood.

He pressed the cap back onto his coffee cup and returned to the car.

Soon the highway descended in a twisty path, the cloud forest giving way to fields and banana plantations. They passed by signs with British names like Briston, Stratford, and Liverpool.

As the cool, damp mountain air gave way to heat, Guberman cranked up the vehicle's air-conditioning. "I should have changed into shorts when I had the chance," he complained.

Vance pictured the wool trousers, long-sleeve shirts, and heavy jeans in his overnight bag. November in Costa Rica differed from Canada. "We'll have to stop at a store."

"We're not far from the coast now. We'll stop there."

Limón, a small city overlooking the Caribbean, looked old, worn, and full of life. Al directed them along dirt streets, past brightly-painted wooden houses, to a diner with a corrugated iron roof.

Just as they pulled to a stop, giant rain droplets splashed the windshield. Van did a hasty job of refolding his map before leaving the car and jogging up the sagging steps to a long verandah. A yellow dog dozing there, his long tail curled around his hind leg, reminded Vance of his cat, Hector. He had hired a neighborhood teenager to look after him, but the little kitten was probably lonely.

Inside the cantina, the rain thundered on the iron roof like a relentless Chinese gong. They sat at a table near a glassless window and, after Al indicated which dishes could be prepared quickly, ordered by pointing to their selections on the menu.

Vance peered around at the rough, unpainted walls, sandy floors, and bare light bulbs. A beat seemed to emerge through the booming sound of the rain on the roof. Something from the walls and floor. Finally he tracked the source to two columns of stereo speakers.

Guberman smiled at his confusion. "Al comes here quite often," he explained loudly. "He sometimes works with the turtle research station near by."

At the mention of turtles, Al's face lit up. Vance ignored his companions who, speaking in Spanish, competed with the noisy roof. He cleared off a corner of the wooden table and unfolded the map.

According to its legend, the road from Limón to Tortuguero was a barely passable dirt track. They'd already wasted hours of the day coming from San José. Even if they left right now, it would be dark before they reached the village near to where they thought Mederios had his villa. He looked around for a phone, thinking they should call ahead for reservations for the night.

And if he couldn't get reservations? He'd sleep under a tree. God knows where Mandy's sleeping. If Marshal lays a hand on her . . .. "Where's the damn phone?"

Every eye turned his way. He hadn't noticed the rain letting up. His voice barked over the quiet dripping of the leaves on the tin roof.

Vance rubbed his fingertips into his tired eyes. "We have to get up the coast."

Guberman nodded sympathetically. "There's a boat that leaves here first thing in the morning."

"A boat?" he croaked. His dry tongue felt sticky and thick.

The investigator squeezed his wrist. "I can understand what you're going through, but around here you have to be patient."

Vance took a deep breath and exhaled it noisily. "There must be something we can do."

"Sure there is. If Mederios built a villa on this coast, he used local labor, bought supplies in these stores. We'll ask around."

"But Tortuguero is sixty miles or more up the coast."

He shook his head. "They'd still get supplies here, at the largest town."

The waiter returned. Vance snatched up a tall tumbler and gulped. The dark rum and cola tasted rich and sugary, like molasses, but it slaked his nervous thirst so he ordered another. Then he pushed his spoon around the rich stew of fish, sweet potatoes, and peppers. Guberman leaned over his own bowl, smacking his lips with every mounded spoonful.

An hour later, Vance glided outside onto the verandah. When clutched a rough post to keep his balance, he realized he was drunk. He'd only had a few drinks, but the heat and exhaustion did the rest. His shirt was wet with sweat and he could smell his own pungent body odor.

"I need a shower," he mumbled to Guberman. "But first I should buy something to change into."

"Give Al some money. He can buy you shorts and a tee. Meanwhile, we can get our gear into the cabanas."

Vance fumbled some of the unfamiliar colones into Al's hand, then he followed Guberman down the stairs and along a sandy path around the side of the diner. His first thought, when he lifted his head and saw the row of cottages, palm trees, sandy beach, and rolling sea was that he wished he was with Mandy.

He made a vee-line for the ocean. A few feet from where the surf reached its loops of soft water into the sand, he dropped to the earth and pulled off his shoes and socks and rolled up the cuffs of his heavy trousers. His white toes were crinkled from the heat and pressure of his socks. A second later, he waded into the cool ocean. Ahhh, it felt wonderful.

Later, Vance and Guberman left Al to make reservations on the flat-bottomed Gran Delta which sailed in the morning, and headed toward the town's center. They looked for stores selling hardware, bulk foods, furnishings, and toiletries--the kind of things Mederios would need at his villa.

Vance wore the outfit Al had purchased for him; a new pair of shorts, heavily starched and pleated, a cap sporting a turtle logo, and a bright flowered shirt. It was hard to figure out from these clothes what type of person Al took him for.

His legs had lost their summer tan so that they almost glowed white right down to the rubber flip-flops on his feet. He might be dressed like a geek, he thought opening another button on the shirt that was too tight across his chest, but he felt much cooler.

"When you see me talking to someone," Guberman said through the corner of his mouth, "just wander off a bit."

"I don't blame you for not wanting to look like you're with me." Vance fingered his bright shirt.

Guberman nodded as he ran a critical eye over Vance's outfit. "Well, there's that. But really, people don't relax when they're outnumbered. I work best alone."

"Oh, sure."

Over the next hour, Van had reason to admire the private investigator's skill. People seemed to open right up to him. After a while though, Vance chaffed to take part. He didn't speak Spanish so he couldn't even listen to Guberman work.

He jammed his hands into his pockets and wandered around the tourist shops. In one store he followed a laughing young couple as they selected souvenirs--a wooden salad bowl, a leather bag, and a bright, primitive-looking set of mugs. They touched often: he squeezed her shoulder, she leaned back onto his chest.

Vance felt a longing for Mandy that ached deep within him. He dragged his eyes from the couple and marched outdoors.

A rumbling sound drew his eyes toward a busy wharf where a powerful-looking launch slid into a berth. A rich man's plaything. He strode across the street. As he neared the boat, a small, scruffy-looking man stepped ashore. He was dark-skinned and, judging by the leathery crinkles around his eyes, looked around fifty years old. His surface-thoughts raged in Spanish, but one name tolled clearly.

Harold Mederios.

Vance pulled up short, his heart thudding in his chest, and gaped at the man who thought furiously about Harold Mederios. He couldn't let him get away. If only Guberman were there to translate.

Vance dredged up the few phrases that he'd learned in the car that morning. "Con permiso. Habla usted inglés?"

The man stopped. His face relaxed as he thrust aside his own worries to answer politely. "Only a little, Señor."

"Who owns this boat?" Vance pointed to the blistering white launch.

The man's mouth hardened. "Señor Mederios."

"Oh Geeze," Vance swore. He searched desperately for Guberman. The man started back down the wharf. "Please . . . ah . . . por favor, wait a moment."

"I'm sorry, Señor, but the store it will close." He jabbed a finger toward his watch.

Another man, this one looking spiffy in a tight golf shirt, lounged at the rear of the launch. Vance considered speaking to him, but it suddenly occurred to him that he might give himself away if he asked too many questions. He needed a plan. He needed Guberman.

Meanwhile, the older man from the launch hustled across the street and disappeared into the maw of shade down a narrow alley.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Where is everyone?

It was like a haunted luxury resort. The air buzzed with tension and pent-up emotion--but no warm bodies.

Tilda had said that there were five English-speaking people on the island. So far, the only one Mandy had seen, other than Harold, was Mitch, his bodyguard. Fat lot of good Mitch would be to her. Still, if worse came to worse, she'd work on him too.

Mandy had already explored every room on the first floor. She found a library with empty shelves of dark wood, but the desk drawers were locked. She considered smashing them open, but a search of the floor under it didn't reveal any telephone cords. A cell phone could be inside, but she thought it best to explore other alternatives before she made it obvious to Harold that she tried to escape. There wasn't a phone in the living room either, although a locked cupboard near the door looked suspicious.

She strode around the exterior of the house in the drizzling rain, looking for some evidence of communications equipment; an antenna, a satellite dish, something. But the house looked as pristine as a pre-civil war mansion.

Tilda had told her that Harold was now working in his office, so she put off searching that room until later. What the maid couldn't, or wouldn't, tell her was where the phones were kept. There had to be a phone. Or a radio. What if there was a medical emergency?

Now she pushed on the third door in an upstairs hall. It swung open revealing a large, empty room. The next two doors had the same hollow, unfinished look. The fourth was locked.

Mandy rapped out a loud knock. "Hello? Anyone in there?" Silence.

She clasped the porcelain knob in both hands and yanked. It wouldn't open. She squatted down and peered into the keyhole and saw a bed with a pair men's trousers thrown over the corner. The shiny brass around the keyhole had tiny scrapes where someone had missed their aim.

She resolved to return to that lock later--perhaps she'd find a good picking tool in the kitchen--and continued her search. The third floor housed the staff. Although the walls were still unpainted, curtains draped the windows and knickknacks lined ledges.

"There's got to be a phone somewhere," she mumbled, yanking open yet another door.

Maria, the cook, squealed in surprise and jumped to her feet. Her sewing fell in a jumble to the floor.

"Oh," Mandy cried. "I'm sorry. I . . . I opened the wrong room."

Maria froze, her face arrested in fear tinged with indignation. Mandy pulled the door closed. She felt a moment of chagrin. Who was she to search people's rooms? A prisoner, that's who.

It was already her third day in this gilded cage. Or was it the fourth? She didn't know how long she had wasted in a drugged state.

Time dribbled away. Harold was quickly losing patience. Remembering the way he had kissed her, she pulled the back of her hand across her lips. He grew more demanding each time she saw him. Apparently he thought that she faked her revulsion for him. What an arrogant man! But the thought of what he'd do when he realized how she really felt sent Mandy's feet trotting to down the hall.

A tool belt looped over a bed's end post in the next room. She pulled a long screwdriver free. Her fingers quickly smeared with grease as she sorted through, searching for something small enough to pick a lock.

Suddenly she knew she wasn't alone. Still squatting, she swung around. Maria glared from the door. Mandy barely opened her mouth, when the cook pushed herself off from the door frame and disappeared.

"Wait!" Mandy called.

As she leapt to her feet the screwdriver slipped and landed with a thump. It took a second of scrambling, her hand feeling the floor under the bed, to snatch it again.

Then she ran after Maria, glimpsing the top of her head as she thundered down the second level steps.

Mandy swore sharply. Maria probably ran straight for Harold. He'd be furious. Should she brazen it out? Should she make herself scarce to give him time to cool down?

Still clutching the long screwdriver, she ran silently down the steps and out the front door. Away from the air-conditioning, the heat was palpable. She strode diagonally across the damp lawn toward the path leading to the helicopter pad and the dock.

The island was shrouded in a heavy mist that obscured the line where the water stopped and the horizon began. The dampness quickly saturated her dress and hair, but the soft breeze off the water wafted across her skin, cooling her pleasantly. Soon the only sound she heard was the hiss of the surf on the rocks far below.

Mandy swung her arms briskly, her hands forming tight fists. It was too easy to imagine Harold's reaction to Maria's tattletale; one side of his face would pull up, his eyebrows would lower. She wanted to be long gone before he came snarling down the steps and after her. Finally, she passed into the path along the cliff top where trees blocked the view from the house.

The helicopter was off its pad. When had that happened? She must have slept through the noise. The notion made her pull her lip between her teeth because a sleep that heavy had to be drug induced. She had thought herself so vigilant--ha! Somehow Harold had slipped her a mickey. Or was it Tilda who did his dirty work?

Mandy really didn't want to believe that. It felt desperately important that she have one person who was on her side.

To her right, a thick forest circled the launch pad, which was the size of a school gym. On her left, the cliff dropped to the ocean.

Hugging her arms to herself, she tried to ignore the prickling on the back of her neck. Did Harold have hidden cameras? If so, they were well concealed both out here and in the house. Even after her search, she couldn't picture where Harold could hide a security monitor. In a basement perhaps? Just the thought that he might be watching her right now made her knees weak.

She rushed to the top of the stairs leading to the dock. The shiny white launch was missing too. However an ancient boat, perhaps twenty feet long, was tied to the wharf. With a hasty prayer, she scurried down the stairs. Here, at the foot of the cliff, she couldn't even see the green tops of the trees high above, just the gray-brown of the cliff and blue sky.

Up close the boat looked even older, but someone obviously cared for it. Thick layers of paint rounded all the corners and brightened up the wood framing the pitted plastic windows in the high bow.

Mandy darted a furtive look around, to be sure she was alone, then she swung her leg over the gunnels and climbed aboard. If there had ever been a horizontal floor, it had been removed. She flexed her knees to balance as she made her way up the curved ribs of the hull, crouched under the overhang, and studied the controls by a wheel.

Something here would help her escape. It had to. She ran her hands over the knobs of a gray, foot-square box bolted to the right of the wheel. It had the dotted circle of a speaker. Although the faint writing along the top was in Spanish, she was sure it was a radio. But the microphone was gone. She fingered an opening that looked like it would fit a jack like the end of a cord from a guitar into an amplifier. Harold had probably ordered this: a simple but effective way to keep her from calling for help.

She sat back on her heels. Harold Mederios was a private man, but this island, all these security devices, were horribly paranoid, even for him.

Two long boxes, like benches, ran along either side of the boat. Perhaps this was where Tilda sat when her dad motored them back and forth from the mainland. She flipped back the lid of one bench and frowned at coils of dirty rope and grimy tins. With the lid's weight held in her hand, she closed it soundlessly. She expected to find a similarly crowded box under the bench on the other side, but opened the lid anyway.

It was filled with old-fashioned life jackets. The orange canvas was faded and the straps holding the bubble-like flotation devices had rotted. Judging from the grit and sand coating them, they didn't look like they had been used in years. One and two at a time, she unloaded the jackets. Then, with them bundled them into her arms, she jumped from the boat.

She shoved them all under the edge of the dock, pushing them in tight with the flat of her foot. They might float free at high tide, but for now they'd stay hidden from sight.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she climbed back aboard and into the bench, folded and refolded her legs so she fit, and pulled the lid closed above her. The inside smelled fetid and musty. She pictured slugs and centipedes crawling into her hair. Soon the sharp edge of her leather sandals dug into the underside of her thigh.

Mandy shifted a bit more until her back was closer to the deck and her knees curled above her. Then, cramped and uncomfortable, she stared at the crack of light and waited. Tilda and her father had to return to the mainland sometime. She was going with them.

An hour later, Mandy, her face pressed against the rotted wood, dozed. She felt the noise before she hear it. Like the base beat of rock music in another part of a building, it throbbed. Soon it sounded like a rhythmic sucking; Whit--whit--whit.

The helicopter!

She pushed upward on the box's lid and craned her neck to peer out. If she left the boat to investigate and was seen, she could always pretend she had been out for a walk. No harm done. Her hiding space would still be there for another time.

Her right leg was asleep. Grunting with exertion, she climbed from the box and fell onto the deck. The water sloshing on the floor soaked through her dress. She massaged her leg roughly to return the blood and the feeling, and winced when pins-and-needles replaced the numbness.

The helicopter was right overhead now, but she knew no one could see her through the boat's overhanging roof. Propellers kicked up a wind making the boat rock slightly and the waves slosh against the hull and pylons.

Mandy limped from the boat and looked around to make sure she was still alone. She pulled herself up the steep wooden stairs and, nearing the top, dropped to her hands and knees to peer over the edge.

The helicopter had settled on its pad and, judging by the change in pitch of the noise, was stopping. She had a good view through the waving long grass, across a stretch of mowed lawn to the domed machine. Mandy stared intently. Finally one door swung open. A man's leg appeared.

Her peripheral vision picked up another movement to her left. Harold had driven up in what looked like a golf cart. He leapt from it. Mandy couldn't hear the words over the helicopter whir, but he strode toward the newcomers hollering and shaking his fist furiously.

The man leaving the helicopter had his back to Mandy as he jumped down. Now she could only see his top half. His shoulders hunched away from the slowly-turning blades. He reached to help a woman down. She saw his face.

"What the hell?" Mandy cried, her brain a jumble of confusion and hope. Before she had a chance to think, she lunged to her feet and briskly limped toward the helicopter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Hernan drank thirstily from the beer Vance had plunked on the wooden table before him. Finally, he looked up and answered, "I do the small works for Señor Mederios."

"Small works?" Vance asked.

Hernan had excellent English, considering that he lived in a tiny Costa Rican fishing village. Nevertheless, some of his words were difficult to understand.

After the little man rattled off something in Spanish, Guberman translated, "Chores. He came here today to get a part for the pump they're using to fill the pool."

"And my daughter," Hernan continued, "she is a maid."

"Do you and your family live on Mederios's island?"

Hernan looked revolted at the notion. "No Señor. I go to my house."

Vance glanced at the map of the Limón Province that they had spread out on the bar's rough plywood table. He tapped a finger of the dot which Hernan had said was Mederios's island. "But this is quite a distance off the coast. How do you get back and forth?"

"I have a boat." He glanced at his watch with a worried frown.

Before they tracked down the little man, Vance and Guberman had agreed not to mention Mandy's name. It was too risky. If Mederios got wind of their presence, he would, at the very least, move Mandy. Vance felt as though he would scream with frustration, but instead he licked his lips and, using his best poker-face, asked, "Do many people live in that villa?"

"No," Hernan said.

"Seems wasteful, considering the big villa you described."

Hernan looked blank until Guberman translated. "They will fill it with children."

The blood drained from his head so quickly that Vance felt dizzy. "They? Mr. Mederios?"

"Sí. The Señora, she is not . . .," he paused, searching for the word. Finally, he tapped a gnarled finger on his own head. "She is sick now. But perhaps . . .."

Vance felt Guberman's warning swat on his knee. He forced himself to appear distracted while the investigator chatted in Spanish. They talked for five torturous minutes. At one point, Guberman surface-thought, That's our girl! Anxious to hide his extreme agitation, Vance vibrated his knee up and down under the table.

Once again, Hernan glanced at his watch. "Lo siento Señor. I must go now."

Apparently Guberman had anticipated this. He pressed a roll of bills onto Hernan's palm. "Por favor. For your time."

Hernan tried to return the bills but Guberman waved him away adding, "We will see you tomorrow."

"Sí, mañana. Domingo." He stood and gulped down the last inch of his beer.

Vance burned to question the man, but it would have to wait until the next evening. "Goodbye, and thank you."

Hernan lifted a palm in a gesture of farewell, picked up his hat and heavy sack of hardware, and hurried away. He stopped a step outside the door and batted his hat against the side of his leg. Dust billowed.

"What did he say?" Vance hissed.

"It has to be our girl."

"Is she okay?"

"He didn't want to gossip about her, but she's all right. He likes her."

"Then why is he letting her rot on that bloody--"

"He obviously thinks she's Mederios's wife." At the wild look that sprang to Vance's face, he rushed on, "His mentally unbalanced wife. She sleeps in a different room."

"She must have told people who she is."

"Does she speak Spanish?"

Vance shrugged. "I doubt it."

"A rich guy can be pretty persuasive to poor people like Hernan."

Vance glanced back toward the door. "Do you think he'll keep quiet about us?"

"Yeah, I think so. No love lost between him and Mederios."

Vance stared at the map again. "Let's go find Al. I need charts for the waters around this place."

"Why?" Guberman looked suspicious.

"Don't worry," Vance said, folding up the map. "I don't plan to take you along."

"Along to where?"

Vance threw coins onto the table and stood. "It won't hurt to be prepared in the unlikely event that we--I--have to rescue her."

"That's nuts and you know it. Mederios's not going to let you waltz in there and take his woman." Oh shit. Wrong term.

Vance considered Guberman's surface-thought to be a good enough apology. "I won't be asking his permission."

"They might shoot you before you land."

"I'll sneak in after dark."

"Without lights? You'll ram into rocks."

"Al knows these waters. Let's ask his opinion."

Unfortunately Al, when they found him napping on a hammock strung outside the cabina, agreed with Guberman. His eyes widened when he heard that Vance wanted an ocean chart.

"What did I tell you," Guberman crowed. "The waters are full of barely submerged rocks and dangerous shoals."

"Just ask Al to get the charts."

He thinks he's James Bond. "We discussed this in Toronto. We locate Mandy. We confirm that she's being held against her will. We contact the embassy. We leave the rest to the authorities."

"I'm not saying I'm going to sail to--"

"Sail!" Guberman interrupted.

"--the island. But it won't hurt to be prepared. You said so yourself, 'money talks'. Mederios might bribe the authorities. He might throw Mandy in his helicopter and hide her somewhere else."

This Mandy must be one hell of a broad.

"She is." In a grim way, Vance enjoyed watching Guberman's eyebrows shoot up.

He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of the ridiculous shorts he wore. "Here Al, here's some money for the maps."

Vance slept poorly that night and rose before the sun. The three of them climbed aboard the boat that churns its regular route back and forth along the coast. Guberman and Al immediately propped themselves up on benches, pulled their caps over their eyes, and slept. The hours dragged slowly for Vance. He stood under a ledge and stared through the teeming rain toward the misty green coastline.

Despite the tedious voyage, it was only noon when they pulled into the dock in Tortuguero. Al's friend met them with a friendly, "Wh'appen man?"

He led them to a mud-caked jeep, tossed the luggage into the back, then drove them away from the town. Hernan's village was twenty minutes from Tortuguero along a bumpy dirt road. The sun cracked through the clouds. Steam rose from every leaf, every puddle, every surface.

They rounded a curve and into a laid-back village with bright wooden houses and plenty of Afro-Caribbean character. A baseball game raged nearby. Two barefoot children darted up to Al and grinned.

"Al and his friend want to stay and watch the game. These kids will take us to Hernan," Guberman explained.

Vance nodded. It was safe enough to leave Al. He wouldn't give away their reason for being in Costa Rica.

The combination of heat, exhaustion, and culture-shock made him shake his head. "I feel like I'm inside Maxwell Smart's dome of silence." Guberman laughed. "It's a good thing you're here to handle things. Thanks."

"Hey," Guberman brushed off his words. "It's my job. And not a bad one at that." He grinned toward the lush rain forest, then swung to the shimmering Caribbean Sea.

As they plodded along behind the two children, Vance considered Guberman's good humor. It irked him. He didn't expect the private investigator to feel the anguish that he felt. Mandy wasn't his problem. But for Vance, her kidnapping was monumental. It rated at least a plague of locust or forty days of rain.

The front steps of Hernan's bungalow descended right on to the main dirt road. The little man sat on his bottom step.

"¡Buenos tardes!" Hernan called.

Guberman ambled up to him. "¡Buenos Tardes. ¿Cómo está usted?"

"Muy bien, gracias. ¿Y usted?"

The small talk dragged on. Vance wondered why they were left standing on the road until he heard women's high voices from inside the house.

Finally Vance blurted, "How was everything on Mederios's island last night?"

Guberman scowled but Hernan answered friendly enough. "Señor Mederios didn't see me come late. He was busy with his guests."

"Guests?"

"Sí. There was much yelling."

"Yelling?" Vance asked in alarm. "Mederios was angry?"

"Sí. But the Señora, she yelled more."

Oh God, don't let him hurt her. "Why? What did she yell about?"

Hernan scowled. "I no hear it. My Tilda. She heard it."

"Tilda, your daughter. Is she here?"

He shook his head. "She work today because of the new people." He stood and brushed off the rear of his baggy pants. "The Señora. She is not the wife of Mederios, is she?"

Eyes, bright with concern, peered out from the leathery face. Vance shook his head. He felt Guberman deflate at his side surface-thinking, So much for our cover.

"She told my Tilda she not. But Tilda . . .," he shrugged before continuing. "Then they have the big fight with the new English Señora. Tilda, she hear what they say. They say Señora Mederios, er . . . Señorita Mandy is . . .." He searched for the word then asked Guberman to translate.

"Kidnapped."

"Are these English people going to help Mandy?" Vance asked hopefully.

Hernan scowled and shook his head. He scuffed down the road. Vance and Guberman followed.

"Who are these new people? Do you remember their names?"

"No. Tilda, she know but I don't know."

They stopped at a tiny grocery where trays of fruit and vegetables baked in the sun. Hernan opened the lid of a scuffed chest-shaped freezer and pulled out three bottles of beer. Guberman paid the teenager behind the counter.

They sat on a bench in the shade of a dusty palm tree beside a smelly garbage can.

Hernan took a sip. Cleared his throat, then said, "You must take Mandy away."

Vance exchanged a wary glance with Guberman. "I must?"

"Sí. He has no . . . um . . .."

He spoke rapidly in Spanish. Vance stared at his mouth, willing himself to understand. He thought he heard his own name. Guberman responded with clipped, angry words. The exchange went on and on.

Vance lunged to his feet and paced back and forth. "What? What did he say?"

"His daughter heard Mederios and another man discussing how to get rid of Mandy."

"To get rid of her!" he croaked. "As in kill her!"

Hernan nodded solemnly. "Sí. They say to kill her."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Does Mandy know we're here? In Costa Rica?"

"No. But when Tilda repeated the argument to her dad, she mentioned your name. He put two and two together."

"What do we do now?"

"Call the police."

"I agree. They'll have a launch. Let's get going."

"It's not that easy."

"Right now he could be--."

"The nearest police hours away."

"No!" he howled. His arm jerked up, beer flew in an arc. "They must have a helicopter."

"They do in San José."

"Oh Christ! Hernan, will you take me out there in your boat?"

The man's face blanched. "They have rifles."

We need guns. Guberman stood and said in a take-charge voice. "Let's go back to Hernan's place and make our calls. We can formulate backup plans along the way."

"Wait!" Vance ordered. "Hernan, do you know anyone who will sell me a small sailboat? Or rent me one I can paint?" He nodded. Vance dug out his wallet. "Go see to it, will you?"

Hernan set his beer on the bench and jogged down the street. Guberman opened his mouth to object but Vance cut him off.

"If we call the cops, Mederios will hear about it. He'll cover himself."

He'll kill the girl. "So we make sure he doesn't hear about it."

"You can't guarantee that."

"You heard Hernan. No one goes on or off that island without Mederios's say so."

"That's why I have to sneak there in the dark."

"We'll call the cops first. Maybe they can act quickly."

"No. It'll take forever to convince them that Mandy's a prisoner. He's probably covered himself with official-looking papers. Plus, he'll hear about it. He'll figure someone squealed. Someone like Tilda."

Guberman swore. "You think he'd kill an innocent girl just like that?"

"He's killed before."

Guberman surface-thought, I can't sail.

Vance glanced in the direction Hernan had taken. "Hope he knows to get a boat small enough for me to handle alone. I'll need some rope to scale that cliff. And a big knife."

"And a flashlight."

"Let's get our gear from the jeep. I need those charts. When Hernan comes back, I'll get him to draw the floor plan of the villa."

Vance walked a few paces before he realized Guberman hadn't followed. "You coming?"

"This is nuts. You can't sail up to that fortress, break in, and save the damsel in distress." What if she doesn't want to escape?

How could he explain his relationship with Mandy? How could he explain how he loved her, or how he could talk to her without making a sound?

"Come on," he said. "I want to be set to sail as soon as the sun goes down."

An hour later, Vance paddled the thirteen-foot fiberglass boat through the surf until he was well clear of the sandy shoreline. They had chosen a deserted cove for the test sail, one further up the shore and closer to Mederios's island. Hernan and Guberman watched from the shade of a palm.

There were a million things Vance would have liked to correct, but there wasn't time. He shifted to the tiller and braced his knee against it until he had the line freed. When the sail filled, the forward surge coursed an awareness through him. He practiced for fifteen minutes.

Finally, he turned toward the shoreline and let the sail luff in the wind. At about three feet depth, he snapped the keel out and drifted in. The men who waited helped pull the boat high on the sand.

Somewhere beyond the mist shrouded horizon, Mederios's island lurked. He had a compass and the right section of the sea charts in his breast pocket. He wasn't worried about getting there. He worried about how he was going to scale the cliffs.

They toweled the boat dry and emptied a dozen cans of spray paint on its once-white surface, and misted the sails until they looked gray. The acrid fumes wafted and everyone's arms and clothes soon looked like a five o'clock shadow. When every surface was mottled and ugly, they stopped.

The sun set in a lavender sky.

"We're heading back now to call the authorities," Guberman said as he passed Vance a life jacket.

"No. Give me time to get her clear."

"This is time."

"And if they call Mederios right away?" Vance couldn't hear the investigator's surface-thoughts through the noise of the rushing waves, but he felt the frustration and there was still enough light to see the gloom on his face.

"Do you remember I told you about getting a teenager from a cult group?" Guberman asked.

"Yeah," Vance said, "That's how you met Al."

"There was some shooting. She got hit in the leg."

"I get your point--."

"No! No you don't. A bullet doesn't leave a clean wound. It leaves a ragged, gaping hole. It tears apart muscles and blood and bone . . .. If I'd called the cops instead of trying to handle it myself . . .."

Vance forced himself to stop and give the matter some serious consideration. "This is different. I know Mederios had someone inside the Halifax Police Department. It's just as likely he's bribed someone here. You heard Hernan. They're talking about 'getting rid of her'. I'm going to give her a way off the island. Even if it doesn't work, it won't make matters worse."

"Won't make matters worse! Are you nuts! Mederios might kill you!"

"I mean it won't make matters worse for Mandy."

Vance shrugged on the life jacket than yanked a dark sweatshirt on over it. He hoisted the heavy coil of hemp and slung it over his head like a bandoleer. Next he arranged the compass so he could check its illuminated dial easily.

Al handed him the flashlight. "Good luck," he said in English.

Vance nodded to the men, climbed aboard, and sat by the tiller. Pushing on the hull, Al and Guberman splashed into water to their waists.

Vance uncleated the sheet, clutched it, and leaned back on the tiller. The sail bumped and huffed for a moment, then filled. Earlier in the afternoon its fabric had looked gray and dull. Now, even with its dusting of spray paint, it shimmered against the navy sky like a beacon.

Vance scowled, braced his feet, and adjusted the angle so the little boat careened toward Mederios's fortress island.

An hour later he cursed himself for not buying gloves. These old lines must have been washed up on a beach somewhere. He lightened his grip on the rope, slowed the momentum, and passed his free hand through the water rushing inches from the edge of the tilted boat. The salt stung on his raw blisters.

The island first looked like a smudge on the horizon with a pinprick of light. Soon the cliffs loomed into daunting shadows. Vance shortened the sail and approached with the wind blowing from the side.

The villa itself glowed like a resort. To his right another brilliant light shone over a the dock and wooden stairs. He tacked back and forth to stay out of that light's reach.

According to Hernan, the easiest spot to scale the cliff was in front of the villa, a bit to the left, where the lawn met the forest. Apparently, as they cleared the site, workmen had shoved massive trees and boulders over the edge.

Thankful that it was high tide, he dropped the sails and manhandled them into a damp pile against the boom. The boat rocked wildly back and forth until he had an oar over the side and dug in. Each wave tossed him recklessly toward the rocks.

He didn't dare light his flashlight even though, here under the shadow of the cliff, no one could see him from the house. When he thudded into a partially submerged boulder and lost his balance, the oar dropped into the water and floated out of reach and disappeared in the inky blackness. To his own ears, each movement cracked like a gunshot.

He felt forward for the bowline, the end of which he wrapped about his wrist. Then he slipped over the side into the water. A boulder scraped his shin and he fell sideways, bobbing in deeper water, waves crashing his shoulder. Finally he made the shore where he pulled the boat behind a massive boulder and secured it to a jumble of branches in the hillside.

Vance sat to catch his breath and to listen. The water splashed and gulped around the hull. He stood and tugged at the ropes, making sure they were secure. Then he cocked his head and looked up at the towering spot where land met sky. The ten minutes it took to scale the steep incline, scrambling on rocks, clutching stinging brambles and brittle branches, felt like hours. Every time his foot dislodged a rock, he flattened against the face waiting for the crashing sound to still, waiting for someone to scream out the alarm.

Finally he clambered over the top and lay panting on a dirt path, breathing in gulps of earthy odor. He raised his head. The house was lit, but nothing moved except the wind whistling through the leaves.

Earlier, he had tied his rope in fat knots every yard so they could climb down the steepest part of the cliff in seconds. Now he searched along the edge until he found a sturdy tree trunk, then he tied one end of the rope around it. Moving forward on his hands and knees, he dropped the other over the edge. He risked a flash of his light to reassure himself that it reached the bottom. Its end coiled over jagged rocks.

Keeping close to the earth, Vance scrambled back from the edge. Would Mandy have the courage to climb down there? Would he?

The villa itself was so well lit that he felt confidently invisible as he skirted the lawn and approached. He didn't dare use the paths or step onto the stones surrounding the swimming pool for fear that a motion sensing light would thump on.

He moved silently along the forest perimeter until he could see along the back of the house. There was a vast stretch of grass with a light colored stripe, perhaps a sidewalk, leading from the foot of broad steps. Massive white columns held up overhanging balconies.

Knees flexed, he took a deep breath and darted across the cleared ground toward the corner of the house. His legs pumped. His breath sounded loud enough to wake the dead. Anyone glancing out a window would see him. God, it was further than it looked. Finally, he plastered his back against the stone and listened. Nothing.

Light streamed from the windows on the first floor. If he could get closer, he might be able to peek in. He was careful that each step landed softly as he made his way around the corner and, after a look around, loped up the stairs.

Someone stood on the far side of a pillar. A young maid. Vance bound to her and, pulling her back against his body, clamped his hand around her mouth. She trembled.

He hissed into her ear, "If you make one sound, I'll hurt you. Understand?"

She nodded her head. He slowly moved his hand and the girl turned. She looked more amazed than frightened. He clenched and unclenched his fist. He'd hit her if she made a move. He would. Mandy's life might depend on it. It would be better if he could enlist her--.

Her whispered words shocked him. "You help Mandy?"

"Yes." He grabbed her shoulders. "Where is she."

She took his hand and pulled him to one end of the long porch. There, she leaned over the railing and pointed.

At the side of the house, where there was no landscaping, a tall door-shaped window stood ajar.

"She's in there?" he asked. She nodded her head. "You won't give me away?"

"No. You help Mandy."

He stared at her. The girl seemed sincere, but could he trust her? Perhaps he should tie her up? But . . ..

"What's your father's name?"

She smiled at that. "Hernan."

Now he was sure of himself and of her. She was Hernan's daughter, Tilda. He pointed to the door. "Go back inside."

She nodded, her eyes huge, and walked back into the house.

After the door closed, Vance hurried down the stars and around to the corner. He angled toward the open window.

The wild brush and rocks clawed through his trousers. Now the blisters on his hands stung from sweat so he patted them dry on his chest front.

Suddenly voices seeped through the window. If he could hear them, they could hear him. Vance held his breath and set each foot gingerly on the ground.

Finally he hunkered down beneath the window.

"You don't see it do you?" Mandy was saying.

Vance stifled a whimper. She was all right. She was alive. He stilled his thundering heart to hear better.

"--what you believe. It's wrong. Morally wrong."

Another woman's voice cried, "But Mandy! What did you expect him to do? Hunt down his oldest friend?"

What in the hell! What's Dee doing here?

The shock jerked his body forward so he scrambled to keep his balance. His best friend's wife was in the villa. Talking to Mandy. Was Nelson there too?

The window above his head creaked open wider. Vance plastered himself to the wall.

Vance? Are you out there?

The shock of hearing Mandy's surface-thoughts was so great that he nearly cried out loud. In the nick of time, he crushed a knuckle into his mouth.

Yes! Are you all right?

I'm okay. I can't believe--. How did you find me? Later. What's going on?

But Mandy turned to answer something Dee had said. "You've condemned Vance without even hearing his side of the story."

"No Mandy, we haven't. I told you. Nelson confronted him. He admitted it. He murdered that reporter. My God, you're so selfish. Don't you realize that Nelson threw away his career to save Vance!"

"It's not true. Vance wouldn't murder anyone. Harold did it."

Mederios's unbalanced. He's tricked Dee and Nelson.

I know, Mandy thought back to him. He kidnapped me. She leaned her head out the window and looked down. Vance couldn't see her face so he shifted.

I've got a boat.

When she smiled, he thought his heart would break for joy. She licked her lips and moved out of view.

"Dee, if you wouldn't mind, I want to be alone."

Dee's voice sounded softer. "I know how hard this must be for you."

"Give me a few minutes, will you."

"Sure . . ., sure."

Vance couldn't hear anything. Then Mandy appeared again. She lifted a bare leg over the window edge. He sprang to catch her weight. Her toes dipped gently to the ground, but he didn't release her. A shudder passed through Mandy as she buried her face in his chest. Awash with relief, he clutched her.

When she pulled away and studied him, her glistening eyes were huge and frightened. My God how he loved her. With a tender touch, he dried the tears from her face.

I've got a boat.

Lead me.

Hand in hand, they scurried through the brush to the edge of the lawn and ran. Vance glanced back to Mandy and felt a glimmer of rejoice. They were almost free.

In a sleeveless summer frock that looked ghostly in the moonlight, she looked like the heroine of a 1940s movie. Even now, surrounded by danger, he felt more whole just because she was near.

Mandy knew better than he where the cliff edge was. She tugged at his hand to slow down.

I've got a rope.

Mandy nodded. He released her hand to move cautiously along the edge to the tree where it was tied.

Suddenly shrill laughter shattered the blackness. A blast of light hit his face. Blinded, Vance twisted back to protect Mandy. She threw herself into his arms, squeezed him once, then stepped back surface-thinking, Go now! Save yourself.

Vance shaded his eyes. A spotlight high in a tree had him trapped. Three men--Mederios, Mitch, and Nelson--each aimed a flashlight in his face.

Harold Mederios lowered his light. "You've got a lot of guts coming here."

"I'm taking her with me."

Mederios glanced at Mandy. "Get back to the house."

"Why you--." Vance lunged. Strong hands clamped his arm, yanking him back.

Mandy sounded breathless. "Let him go. Please Harold, let him--."

"Don't grovel Mandy. It doesn't become you."

Vance shook Mitch off, stepped forward, and jerked to a stop. A gun barrel jabbed his chest.

"Nelson?" Vance whispered, hurt.

"Give Mitch the gun," Harold ordered. "Go back to the house and call the police."

"No police," Nelson snapped.

"What do you mean? This man's wanted for murder!"

"No police," Nelson repeated, raising the gun to Vance's face. "I'll finish this off right here and now."

Mandy sobbed, "Stop him! Harold, please!"

Vance could see Nelson's face now. He could read the venom in his thoughts. Clearly, he meant to shoot. Poor Mandy, he thought in horror. She'll see it.

"Why?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion. "Nelson, why?"

When Harold stepped closer, Nelson stopped him with a look. Then he turned back to Vance.

"You sanctimonious prick. So friggin' wrapped up in yourself," he sneered. The gun barrel shook. "Always feeling sorry for yourself. Sorry you had the one ability I would have done anything to get. But would you teach me? No."

"Teach you what? To surface-read?"

Nelson's face contorted in rage. "It's not like I haven't fucking well asked you!"

"It's not possible," Vance cried, stunned.

"Like hell. Harold's going to--."

Vance gasped, "You murdered a man."

Harold's hand landed on top of Nelson's, pushing the barrel off aim. "What's going on here? I ordered you to give the gun to--."

"You can't order me!"

Harold shoved his face inches from Nelson. "This man's a murderer. The police wil--"

Vance snarled, "I'm not the murderer here. Am I Nelson?" His voice softened. "I. . . I loved you like a brother, man. I thought you felt the same. Why? Why did you kill the reporter?"

"Had to. He found out about Harold. I had to. Then her . . .," he jabbed the gun toward Mandy, "Her friend got in the way."

Harold said hollowly, "Mandy's friend . . .. I told you she knew about us so you . . .. Good lord."

Nelson raised the barrel to Vance's forehead. "And now it's goodbye."

Harold's skin gleamed in the unreal light. He cast a soulful look toward Mandy--I love you--then he launched himself at Nelson. The gun flew out of his hand. Mandy scrambled for it, kicking it away from Mitch.

But Mitch didn't move. He stared at the struggling men at his feet. With death holds on the other's throat, they coiled and thrashed, stopping only inches from the edge of the abyss. Emitting an eerie cry, Harold rolled on top of Nelson. Mitch shuffled forward, trying to catch Harold's foot. But it was too late.

With a mighty grunt, Nelson got a knee under Harold and pushed him off and over the edge of the cliff. A flailing hand clutched his shirt.

"Noooo!" Nelson cried, pulling back. But Harold's grasp held. Nelson toppled screaming into the blackness.

Silence.

Vance pulled Mandy to his breast and squeezed his eyes shut. Finally, he forced them open. He needed to know. He set Mandy aside and joined Mitch at the cliff edge. The flashlights picked out the two broken bodies far below.

"Come away now. Come away," Mandy said, tugging at his shirt.

Vance staggered back. Mandy was only a blur through his tears. Nelson's dead.

"It's not your fault," she whispered, holding his cheeks. "It's not your fault."

"I know," he said. And he did know. If he hadn't come, Nelson would have murdered Mandy too.

He could see the silhouette of her face looking sadly toward Mitch who still knelt peering over the edge.

"Poor Harold," she whispered. "He didn't know."

"No, I guess he didn't."

There were things to be done. Vance knew he’d have to move. Even now the lawyer part of his brain was sorting through how he was going to protect Mandy from the fallout from this terrible day. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He gathered Mandy in his arms and let her presence calm his pounding heart.

the end