His Secret Side
by
Pamela Burford


"Everything from dangerous passions to deadly chills."--Maggie Shayne


SILHOUETTE BOOKS

Something kept her from trusting him... Kit watched Noah's hands as he
steered.  They were Well-muscled, long-fingered, tanned, with a dusting
of blond hair on the backs.  These hands had tossed heavy birch 10gs as
if it was kindling.  As powerful.  as these hands were, they were
capable of great tenderness, too, she knew.

But then, Noah Stewart himself was a man of contradictions.  All charm
one moment, downright forbidding the next.  Warm and cold.  Candid and
secretive.

Kit shuddered and chafed the gooseflesh from her arms.  She wanted to
deny the undercurrent she'd sensed within this man.

But it all added up to one inescapable fact

Noah Stewart was not what he seemed.

Dear Reader,

For the best in romantic mystery, look no further than Silhouette
Intrigue ... This month there's The Redemption of Deke Summers, May's
HIDDEN IDENTITY story by Gayle Wilson.  Deke Summers is definitely not
all that he seems--especially when his enemies endanger the lives of
his beautiful neighbour, BeCki Travers, and her young son.

Another man who's also more complex than he first appears is the
enigmatic Noah Stewart, who you'll meet in His Secret Side from Pamela
Burford.  Remember her?  She wrote the Intrigue half of the DOUBLE DARE
books.

In Krystal's Bodyguard, author Molly Rice has created a man who's true
hero material: private eye Nico Scalia.  He's hired by precocious
eight-year-old Krystal Harper to be a bodyguard for her mother, Dana.
Nico isn't 'sure about taking the job until he meets Dana--and then
he's more than happy to oblige!

And to complete May's fabulous books, there's This Little Baby by Joyce
Sullivan.  Gil Boyer hires Paulina Stewart to find his orphaned nephew
who has been kidnapped.  But how was she supposed to stop herself from
becoming emotionally involved?

Enjoy!

The Editors

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was
reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer.  Neither the author nor
the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outstde the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in
part in any form.  This edition is published by arrangement with
Harlequin Enterprises H B. V. The text of this publication or any part
thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the
written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

Silhouette and Colophon are registered trademarks of Harlequin Books
St."  used under licence.

First published in Great Britain 1998

Silhouette Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

Pamela Burford Loeser 1996

ISBN 0 373 22360 9

46-9805

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham PLC, Chatham

Montplier

VERMONT

Rutland

Bratfleboro

All underlined places are fictilious.

For my husband, Jeff Loeser

Special thanks to my dear friend

Michelle Miranda, R.N."  for graciously helping me with the medical
details in this story; and to my sister Patricia Ryan, for her love and
support.

Chapter One

Even with her back to him, Noah Stewart knew he'd never laid eyes on
the woman he caught plundering his file cabinet.  He paused on the
threshold of his office and listened to ten fingers furtively clawing
through his patient records.

No question this lady wasn't local.  Everythingabout her screamed city.
For one thing, Pratte, Vermont, had never seen hair like that.  Long
chestnut corkscrews boinging willy-hilly from under a scrunched linen
hat.  He wondered if she meant it to look like that--the hat and the
hair.  His eyes didn't linger long on her head, though.  From this
angle as she bent over the files there were more interesting things to
look at... like that round little bottom giving a delicious shape to
her long, gauzy summer dress.

He leaned a shoulder on the doorframe and crossed his arms over the
ever-present stethoscope hanging from his neck.  He knew if he turned
that instrument to his own chest, he'd hear the steady heart rate of a
calm man.

Calm, hell; he was downright serene.  No stampeding blood pressure, no
adrenaline rush.

No Ray.

It had been ten years since he'd salvaged his sanity by learning the
tricks that let him pull in the reins whenever the thing inside him
wanted out.  At this point those breathing

and 'mind-set techniques were hardwired in, an automatic response to
stressful situations--like watch inga stranger title his file cabinet.
He didn't even have to think about them.  When he had to think about
them, he wad in trouble.  She was scouting the M's.  For the third
time.  Frustration squeezed a low oath from her throat.  "Try Z," he
advised, and had the satisfaction of seeing her jump.  The startled
glance she threw his way turned into a classic double take.  Whatever
she was expecting Dr.  Noah Stewart to look like, he clearly didn't fit
the bill.  She gave him a cursory once-over, as if sizing up an
adversary.  He detected something else just then, and wondered if he
imagined the flicker of interest in her soft brown eyes, immediately
squelched.  For his part, he knew his own carefully controlled features
wouldn't betray him--his command over his emotions was too well honed.
He was capable of recognizing his instinctive response to this
stranger's enticing bottom and wide, sexy mouth without letting it
interfere with rational thought.  "Zimmerman," he clarified.  "Etta
Zimmerman."  Her frown revealed equal parts suspicion and befuddlement.
She started to shake her head.  "Trust me."  She stared at him a long
moment, then closed the file drawer and pulled open the one under it,
squatting to locate Zimmerman, Etta.  The long skirt of her
oatmeal-colored dress puddled on the threadbare Oriental carpet.  He
watched her back stiffen, heard her breath catch.  Still squatting, she
pivoted toward him, a folder clutched in her fingers.  Merino,
Joanne.

She didn't ask how he knew.  Just wagged the folder.  "Zimmerman?"

Noah pushed off the doorframe and closed the door, then crossed the
room to slump into the cracked green leather chair behind his desk.
"Alice--" He cocked his head toward the door.  "That's the pit bull you
had to slip past to get in here.  Alice always files Etta's boarders
under her name 'cause she figures they're transients."

His visitor was on her it once more.  "Transient?  Joanne lived in
Pratte'for nearly a year, Dr.  Stewart."  She opened the folder and
started flipping pages.

"I never said it made sense.  One of Etta's 'guests," as she calls
them, has been with her for thirty-four years."  He shrugged and
steepled his fingers.  "That's Alice."

"I suppose that's the sort of thing irascible old ladies are expected
to do in quaint little tourist traps like this," she muttered, scanning
the pages.  "ExcUse me, I mean sleepy little hamlets, complete with
kindly country doctors.  You've even got the gestures down."  She
flicked a glance at his steepled fingers, which he was rhythmically
flexing.  "Very Marcus Welby."

The fingers froze mid flex

"You'll have to shake the Southern accent, though," she ad'ised dryly,
"and cultivate something a little more New England."

Noah regarded his own wavy reflection in the glass doors of the
bookcase across the room, and found it all too easy to see a thirtyish
poseur with short blond hair, a faded blue denim Shirt and a bendable
Bullwinkle the Moose figure clinging to his stethoscope.  He yanked off
the stethoscope and tossed it onto his desk blotter.

"Just for the record, Kit, there's more to Pratte than the handful of
tourists we manage to attract.  This is a vital small

town with a sense of history, an unspoiled corner of Americana."

It took a few moments for his use of her name to sink in.  When it did,
her eyes widened, then narrowed to lock with his.  "Someone in this
unspoiled corner of Americana murdered my best friend, Noah."

She redirected her attention to the file.  "Looking for anything in
particular?"  he asked.  "Cause of death."

"Didn't Jo's dad tell you?  I called him when I got the toxicology
report from the ME.  I thought it might be better coming from me than
Chief Jotdon."  He held out his hand.  "Give me the folder, Kit."

She flipped a page and stopped dead, staring.  She'd found it.  "God.
Curare," she whispered.

He rose and pulled the folder out of her hands, then sat and nodded
toward the green leather club chair in front of his desk.  "Sit.  Maybe
I can clarify some of this."  He checked his watch.  "I have a few
minutes before the apres-lunch crowd descends."

She sank into the chair, slowly.  "Sal told me what you said, but I
just couldn't..."  She swallowed, suddenly pale.  Seeing it in black
and white seemed to have a sobering feet.  "Curare.  Isn't that the
stuff primitive tribes use to off each other?"

He nodded.  "South American Indians have used it for centuries.  The
Macusi tribe, for one, and the Zaparos, from around the Curaray
River--hence the name.  The deadly plant extract is mixed with
appetizing stuff like ants and snake fangs.  Then they dip a blow
dart--or an arrow or spear, whatever--into the poison and shoot it at
the enemy.  Or dinner on the hoof.  The 'flying death," they call
it."

"Wouldn't it be easier to slip it into someone's food?"


"Curare's harmless when ingested--it's soluble.  Has to be injected 'to
kill."  "How does it work?"  He hesitated.  The horror of Joanne
Merino's last minutes was seared into the dark corners of his mind.  At
the most unexpected moments it emerged to taunt him.  Indict him.  He
had no desire to coax the memory out of its hidey-hole... or to share
it with Kit.  Nevertheless, he sensed her need to put a face to this
thing that had taken her friend, if not to the killer himself--to get a
handle on thee why and how, if not the who.  He cleared his throat.
"Curare is a neuromuscular blocking agent The victim suffocates.  The
muscles of the chest and diaphragm--that is, the muscles necessary for
respiration-are paralyzed."  She drew in 'a long, slow breath.  He
could imagine the scenario playing itself out behind her wide, haunted
eyes.  "Did she suffer?"  He wanted to say, Don't do this to yourself.
His reluctance to answer had to be painfully eloquent, yet she met his
eyes unwaveringly.  And waited.  "Yes," he said.  "But for a very short
time."  Still she waited.  He made himself continue.  "Curare poisoning
causes chest pain, extreme shortness of breath and cyanosis--a bluish
gray cast to the skin.  The pulse rate drops.  The drug doesn't affect
the brain and central nervous system, so the victim..."  No.  Not the
victim.  It was Jo.  Beautiful, tormented Jo.  More vital--more god
damn alive!--than anyone he'd ever known.  In his mind's eye he saw her
lying where she'd fallen on a bed of pachysandra behind a stand of
paper birches.  The ground cover was torn up, having taken the brunt of
her

thrashing in the few moments before the paralysis had claimed her
extremities.  And still she'd struggled for life.  He could have told
her it was futile.

Ray had come out then, and watched her, too.  Noah had never felt his
presence so strongly.

"Jo was aware the entire time," he said, and added, "but it couldn't
have been more than a few minutes."

She was silent for a full minute, staring through.  him "The flying
death," she whispered at last.  Her face crumpled just before she
lowered it.  She made no sound, but her shoulders shook with silent
sobs.

Almost immediately she straightened her spine and wiped her eyes with
her fingertips.  The face she raised was flushed with grief, but
rigidly composed.

Noah slowly lowered himself into his chair, with no recollection of
having risen.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.  "I thought... I was done with all that."

"No need to apologize."  The words sounded ridiculously formal to his
own ears.

"So.  You know who I am," she said.  "Joanne must've mentioned me.."

"You were very special to her."

Kit leaned back in the chair.  She looked weary as hell.  "We were like
sisters.  God knows Jo needed a sister.  She was the only female in a
house full of men."

"A widowed father on disability and two shiftless younger brothers,
Frankie and Sal junior," he said.

Her eyebrows rose.  The hint of a smile around the eyes.  "That's
right.,"

"Whereas you, Kathleen Roarke--Kit to your friends--are the only child
of a single mother.  Not exactly a June Cleaver clone.  You ran away
and moved in with Jo and her family when you were thirteen."

The.  smile was history.  "You and she got to be bosom pals, I see."

He shrugged and met her hard, assessing gaze.  Clearly she was
wondering what else he knew about her.  "It's the end of June," he
said.  "School just let out in Chicago, where you teach pampered kids
in a snotty private school.  Sixih grade, isit?"

"Fifth."

"Tell you the truth, I was half expecting to bump into.  you about
now."  ."

"Ransacking your office files?"

He shrugged again.  "You're a pal of Joanne Merino's.  Anything's
possible."

That earned a wry smile, quickly squelched.  "Let me assure you,
breaking and entering wasn't on the agenda when I got into town this
morning.  I just flew out to go through Jo's things and have them sent
to her dad and--" she flicked a glance toward a huge leather shoulder
bag she'd dumped near the file cabinet "--you know, take care of
everything..  I couldn't get away till school was out.  And Jo's
father--"

"I know.  He's wheelchair-bound.  And one of her brothers is doing
three years at Joliet, isn't he?"

"Sal junior.  He's even worse at breaking and entering than I am.  And
Frankie ... well, no one knows where Frankie is.  Which, if you knew
Frankie, is a blessing."

He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back.  "So.  What
happened in the two or three hours since your plane landed to turn you
to a life of crime?"

"Tom Jotdon."

Pratte's illustrious chief of police.  He should have guessed.

 II went to see him first thing," she said.  "It's been ten days since
Jo died.  A week and a half!  Do you know what that nitwit told me?"
"Somethingalong the lines of "You just leave this nasty business to us,
ma'am, don't worry your pretty little head about it'?"  Her expression
told him he wasn't far off.  "The same moronic, condescending runaround
I got when I called him last week.  He's got no suspects.  Nothing.
Zip.  What the hell has he been doing for ten days?"  "Interviewing
everyone who was at the party, for one thing.  You know it happened at
the town treasurer's annual garden party?"  Kit nodded.  "And following
up on whatever leads he may have gotten, I suppose."  "Well, he won't
tell me a damn thing.  If there's anything to tell."  He leaned forward
and started to steeple his fingers, then thought better of it.  "And
you figured the rest of Pratte is probably just as moronic and
condescending, and if you wanted to find out anything--" he tapped the
folder "--you'd have to dig it up yourself."  "Can you blame me?"  She
leaned forward, too, and something in the set of her shoulders gave him
pause.  "So tell me, Dr.  Stewart.  How do you come to know so much
about curare?"  He held her unflinching gaze for a long moment, While
mentally flaying himself for his renegade tongue.  He wasn't usually so
careless.  "What happened to "Noah'?"  He flashed his most engaging
grin, more Casey-Kildare than Welby.  He hoped.

The lady was immune to his high-wattage charm.  "Whatever.  How do you
know about the Zapata Indians and all that?"

"Zaparos."  He dropped his eyes to fiddle with a pen on his desk.  "I
researched it when Jo's toxicology came back.

It's not the sort of thing one sees every day."  "Unless you're a
dOCtor."  He looked at her.

"Curare's used in medicine, isn't it?"

"Well, derivatives, yes, like Norcuron.  Generally in anesthesiology.
Td literally stop a patient's breathing so a surgeon can work near the
lungs.  Or to relax the muscles and reduce the amount of other
anesthetics needed.  That sort of thing.  A respirator takes over,
naturally."

"Then it's available in hospitals."

"Depends on 'what you mean by 'available."  It's kept in the hospital
pharmacy.  It's not like your basic psychopath can just waltz in and
borrow some."

He could almost see the gears turning in her mind.  A damn quick mind,
if he was any judge.

"You were there," she said.  "At the party, I mean.  You signed the
death certificate."

"I was with Joanne when she died, yes.  I didn't know what I was
dealing with at the time.  It looked like cardiac arrest.  Or pulmonary
embolism, perhaps.  But it didn't make sense."

"A young woman with no history of heart disease."

"Exactly.  It wasn't until the autopsy that they found the needle
mark."

"Where was it?"

"Her right hip.  It was a tiny puncture, and Frank Royce--that's the
ME--probably wouldn't have even noticed it except there was a little
bruising around the area."

"Were you there?  At the autopsy?"

"Yes."  That had been rough.

"Did they find the syringe?"

"No, but the police didn't even search the grounds or begin questioning
the guests till after the autopsy.  Remember,

at first it was assumed to be natural caUSes."

"Did you get to the party before Jo?"

He forced himself to look her in the eye.  "No, after."  "Oh."  Kit
tucked an errant reddish brown curl under her hat.  He could almost
hear the whirring and clicking of synapses as she located a mental
compa'huent for this tidbit, fitting it in with everything else she
knew about the circum stances of Jo's death.  Which he hoIxxi wasn't
all that much.  "Why?"  he asked, knowing the answer.

She shrugged.  "I just, you know, wanted to find out who she arrived
with."

Liar.  "Sorry."

"I don't suppose you noticed if she was hanging out with anyone in
particular at the party?"

"Nope.  Just kind of circulating, like everyone else."

She pulled Jo's file closer and scanned the long list of office
visits.

"Most of her problems were psychosomatic--brought on by stress and
emotional factors," he said.  "The standard therapies weren't too
successful, but then again, Jowasn't very diligent about following
them.  And she wouldn't even consider psychotherapy, so eventually I
broached the subject of nonmedical alternatives."

"Like?"

"Yoga, TM, biofeedback."

Her head snapped up.  "Transcendental meditation?  Joanne?"

He smiled.  "I know.  I couldn't quite picture it, either, but I
figured I'd give it a shot."

"What was her response?"

"Well, if there's anything to laugh therapy, her response was very
healthy."  "I could've told you not to waste your breath."  Her finger
trailed down the chart.  "May second, May fifteenth, May nineteenth.
Ulcer, spastic colon, migraine.  She's had the migraines for years, but
the rest is news to me.  Good God.  Three visits in the first two weeks
of June... for the same things that plagued her in May.  Ah, plus a
touch of menstrual irregularity to kp things lively."  "There are
things we talked about that didn't make it into the chart," he said.
"Such as... ?"  "Unexplained bouts of weeping.  Recurrent nightmares."
"What did she have nightmares about?"  The same thing'I do.  "She
didn't say."  "Any idea what had her so worked up?"  she asked.  "I
thought you might know."  An ingenuous half smile.  "You did?"  Well,
he'd lobbed that one out there, but She clearly had no intention of
catching the thing and running with it.  She let her gaze drift to her
surroundings.  If Pratte was an unspoiled corner of Americana, his
office was one of its dust bunnies, freeze-dried in the sixties.  Dark
paneling, ponderous furniture, the requisite Norman Rockwell print.
While she perused the room, he perused her.  Absently she adjusted the
V neckline of her dress, his eyes following the movements of her
graceful fingers.  The dress was modest enough, but the supple fabric
draped her high, softly rounded breasts in a way that made it hard to
tear his gaze away.  He didn't think she was aware of the effect.  Her
eyes found him once more, alight with frank assessment.  He liked the
fact that Kit took no pains to hide her curiosity.  He liked Kit, in
fact, and, was grateful for the mental discipline that enabled him to
acknowledge his attraction with strict detachment, his hard-won
emotional shields firmly in place.

"Your sign outside said family prac ce.  You the only show in town?"
she asked.

"I'm it.  I do everything around here from setting bones to delivering
babies."

"How long have you been in Pratte?"

"Two and a half years.  The last M.D. left four years before that.  In
the interim the nearest doctor was a half hour away on dry roads.  And
he's a famous drunk--reeks of cheap wine, so Alice informs me.  If you
were sick, it was either Dr.  Thunderbird or the emergency room at
Wescott Community Hospital, even farther away."

"Not much of a choice when Junior's running a temperature of a hundred
and four.  The town must've been tickled pink when you came along."

"It works out well for all of us."

She squinted at a point on the wall above his head.  "You got your
medical degree at Emory, I see.  Is that where you're from? Georgia?"

He nodded.  "Roswell."

"Well, I'm not going to ask how you found yourself with a family
practice in the Black Hole of Vermont," she said, rising.  "I'm sure
it's a hellishly long and tedious story, and unless my ears deceive me,
your waiting room is full."

Noah restrained a smile.  Suddenly it was easy to imagine this woman
growing up with Joanne Merino--and holding her own.  How had Jo put it?
They'd raised each other.  Absently she brushed another curly tendril
of hair off her forehead, and it flopped back.  Noah's fingers itched
to lift the strand and tuck it back under her silly hat.  He could
almost feel the silk of it sliding between his fingers.

She lifted her cmnbersom bag, slinging the strap over her head,
bandolier style.  He rose to see her out.

Her steps slowed as she approached the doorway.  She eyed him
hesitantly.  "Just one more thing.  Joanne was involved with someone
here in Pratte.  That's all I know.  I

don't know his name.  I was hoping you might."

"You think I keep track of who my patients are dating?"

She stiffened and faced him fully.  "Why wouldn't she tell you?"  she
snapped.  "Shetold you about her kid brother stamping license plates in
Joliet.  She told you about my worthless mother, for God's sake!"  She
squeezed her eyes shut and dragged in a ragged breath.  "Look.  I'd
just like to find out everything I can about her life here."

"Kit.  Listen to me."  Noah put his hands on her shoulders--a mistake.
She twisted abruptly, shaking him off, her eyes flashing dangerously.
He knew he was coming off as a condescending jerk.  On a frustrated
sigh he stuffed the of fending hands in his back jeans pockets and
said, "You came to Pratte to collect Jo's things.  Do that.  Do it and
go home."  '

"No."  Her voice was flat, brittle.  She looked away for long moments.
"I can't, Noah," she whispered at last.  "I can't.  I need to... I don't know.  Tie up the loose ends.  For

Jo.  For my own peace of mind."  She faced him again, her expression so
candid, so raw and wounded, Noah had to turn away to steady his shields
against her.

He scrubbed at his jaw.  Cleared his throat.  "I know what you think of
Tom Jordon, and I'm not about to defend his methods--or his
personality.  But he has been in the business a long time--"

"Maybe too long."

"Leave all this to him, Kit.  I know you're hurting

BOW--"

'

"Don't!  Don't give me that "I know what you're going through' crap.
You sound like Jordon."  Pure bulldog t nacity underlined the grief in
her features, lending starch to her delicate jawline.  He didn't want
to admire her, but dammit, how could he not?

She pulled in a deep breath, composing herself.  "You don't know me,
Noah.  You may have known Jo, 8he may have told you all about her old
pal Kit, but you don't know me.  Not if you think Ican walk away, from
this."  The last word was punctuated with a sharp yank on her shoulder
bag.

With jerky motions she unlatched the bag and extracted a sealed brown
cardboard carton, about the size of a shoe box but stumpier.  She
placed it in his hands--it was heavier than it looked.

"That's all that's left."  Her voice cracked.  "I stopped by the
funeral home after I saw Chief Jordon."

Noah understood then.  He knew that if he opened this box, he'd find a
metal canister containing Jo's ashes.  Just the way they packaged it at
the crematory.  Neat and tidy.

A sharp knock on the door startled them both.  "Noah?  The natives are
getting restless," came a gravelly voice from the other side.

"I'll be right there, Alice," he called.  When he turned back to Kit,
he read the plea in her eyes.

"Help me, Noah.  I need an ally here in Pratte.  Someone who knows
these people."  Her voice became a whisper, her eyes searching his.
"You... cared about Jo.  I can tell."

"I don't know what I can do for you, Kit.  What anyone can do at this
point except the police."

"The police!"  The starch was back.  "If Jordon had anything on the
ball, don't you think he would've contacted me at the beginning of the
investigation, instead of my having to call him?  Wouldn't he have
asked if I knew

anything, if Jo might've told me anything that could give them a
lead?"

"Did she?"

She hesitated only an instant.  "Yes."

He waited for details he already knew.  She stared back impassively. So
much for putting her trust in the kindly country doctor.  He knew if
this bright, resourceful woman chose to stay in Pratte and pursue the
circumstances of her friend's death, she'd leave Tom Jordon's lumbering
investigation in the dust.

And then, God help him, he might have to stop her.

"This information, whatever it is, did you share it with Chief Jordon?"
he asked.

"What do you think?  !  cast my pearls before that swine, and look
where it got me."

"Well."  He air bed for a tone of finality.  "That's all you can do for
now, Kit.  Go home.  I'll personally keep track of Tom's progress and
let you know when there's anything to know.  That's a promise."

"Thanks, but that's just not good enough."  She took the box from
him.

"Does this mean you'll be staying?"

"I guess it does."  Gently, almost lovingly, she tucked the box into
her shoulder bag.  "There's no one back home who needs me as much as Jo
does."

Noah had no choice.  If he couldn't dissuade Kit from staying and
nosing around Pratte, he had to closely monitor her activities.  And
the danger she represented.

"All right," he said, forcing a smile.  "Don't make a move without me.
I'll do everything I can to help."

Kit's shoulders sagged in relief.  Her face lit in a broad smile that
transformed her features and made his breath snag in his throat.  God,
she was beautiful.  It was the first time he'd seen her smile.  Really
smile.

He wanted to tell her he didn't deserve that smile, didn't deserve the
naked gratitude in those beautiful brown eyes.  A cold, hard weight
settled in his chest as he asked himself, What have I become?  What has
Ray made me?  Impulsively she grabbed his hand 'in both of hers and
squeezed it, her eyes misty as she beamed up at him.  "Thank you,
Noah," she whispered.  "Thank you."

Chapter Two

The tiger stared at Kit with its one remaining eye, its body limp from
decades of literally having had the stuffing squeezed out of it.

Tenderly she stroked the dingy, matted fur, recall inga time when Tiggy
had been plump, two eyed and master of all he surveyed from the head of
his mistress's bed.  Joanne was ten when she won him at her
neighborhood block party, having clobbered the competition in a sack
race.  The prospect of losing had never crossed her mind.

Kit was eight, and covetous.  She'd gone home with a tiny baby doll
that night, the cheap kind molded of brittle plastic that splits along
the seams.  Its hair was painted on.  Jo's Tiggy was covered in fluffy
acrylic plush.  The tag said it was made from "all new material."  Kit
wasn't sure what the alternative was, but she was impressed
nonetheless.

She knew it was just as well she hadn't won Tiggy.  It had been hard
enough finding a hiding place for the little doll.  Irene Roarke saw no
reason to allow her daughter that which Kit had stolen from her by her
very existence--a childhood.

A cardboard carton was lying open on Jo's bed, where Kit sat with Tiggy
on her lap, She laid him in it, on top of a well-worn dictionary and
the other accoutrements of Jo's trade.  She'd already bagged her
friend's clothes.  Jo's landlady,

Etta, had told her a school for troubled children in the next town was
planning a rummage sale to raise funds, and could use the donated
clothes.  Kit thought that plan would have met with Jo's approval.  If
anyone knew what it was like to be troubled children, it was Kathleen
Roarke and Joanne Merino.

She crossed to the window and put her back into the 'task of forcing
the paint-choked frame another inch higher.  An early-summer breeze
carried the aroma of green living things.  Nice view--the generous back
lawn of the rambling white clapboard boardinghouse and the woods
beyond.

She smiled.  Jo wouldn't have appreciated the view.  Not that it would
have bothered her; it would simply have gone unnoticed, along with
everything else that didn't directly pertain to the book she was
working on--her current raison d'etre, requiringa tour of duty in
Pratte, Vermont.  In any event, green stuff never rated high on Joanne
Merino's list of priorities.  Not even the folding kind.

The room itself was another matter.  Try as she might, she couldn't
picture the Jo she knew willingly spending one hour, much less eleven
months, between these walls.  No, she couldn't imagine her sitting at
the wobbly white dressing table--sans the skirt that must have once
adorned it--to write her book and her articles for the weekly Pratte
Citizen on her laptop computer.  Or sleeping under the prosaic floral
bedspread that matched the faded curtains swagged over white sheers.
Not exactly Jo's speed.

Her eye was drawn to the shelves filled with an appalling array of
knickknacks--chatchkas, Etta called them.  Figurines of Boston
terriers, ballerinas and children with large, sad eyes; souvenirs of
Etta's trips to Greece and Cincinnati; mementos of her daughter's Girl
Scout days.

Jo must've had some burning need to write that book.

She looked at the dressing table, now bare but recently occupied by
Jo's laptop, a stack of printouts and a caddy of

three-and-a-half-inch computer disks, according to Etta.  She wondered
who had all that now, or whether it still existed.

Thinkingabout that brought her back to the day Jo died--the longest day
of Kit's life.  She'd spent most of that Saturday in staff meetings.
Jo's father had called her at the school with the news just' after
three, when she was about to leave for the day.  By the time Sal
senior's sister had finally arrived from Florida and Kit had felt free
to leave him, it had been after midnight.  She'd climbed into her
six-year-old Celica and had tried to remember driving from the
Harrington Academy in Lincoln Park to Sal's little frame house south of
the Loop near the old stockyards, but had drawn a blank.

She'd let herself in to her one-bedroom apartment, hauled the Stoli out
of the freezer, dropped her keys and briefcase to the kitchen floor and
slid into a corner, where she woke six hours later with a throbbing
head and a stiff neck.

After most of a pot of coffee, she was able to orchestrate a hot
shower.  Only then did she reenter the kitche!  and push Play on her
answering machine.

Kit, someone broke into.  my room.  They ransacked it.t They took my
laptop.  My disks.  My hard copy and all my notes.  My God, Kit,
they're after my book!  Listen... call me right away, okay ?

Kit's heart was thundering so violently she missed the beginning of the
next message and had to rewind the tape.  Jo's tone was less frantic
now, more guarded.  Kit remembered there was no phone in her
room--she'd had to make her calls from the kitchen of her
boardinghouse.

Me again.  I've thought about it.  I think ... I think it's this guy
I'm seeing.  That took my book.  I know, I know, I never told you about
him.  A gust of nervous laughter.  So call me a dirty name, butlknewyou
wouldn't.  approve.  He's not... suitable.  Well, maybe you wouldn't
say it that way, but you'd think it.  I know you would.

Anyway, I neer thought I'd say this, but I think I'm in way over my
head on thi one.  This guy, he found out about the book.  And... well,
that's not good.  And he knew I'd be at the gym this morning, and
that's when it happened.

God, where are you, Kit?  You told me you check your machine.  Call
me!

She fast-forwarded' past the next message, from her cousin Marc, and
heard Jo's voice for the last time.

Listen, I'm leaing the house now.  The town treasurer has this garden
party thing she does eery year.  The entire staff of the Citizen is
invited.  Counting the free-lancers, that's, like, a whopping eight of
us.

Jo sounded breezy... relaxed.  Hell, she was going to a party, right?
How better to forget your troubles?  Kit lowered herself into a chair
and cradled her head in her hands.

The sound of an indistinct male voice in the background of the tape
yanked her head back up.

What?  Oh.  Jo laughed lightly.  Kit could almost see her tucking the
receiver under her chin to address her companion.  You think you need a
drink!  If Grace doesn't bring out the hard stuff, we'll pick up a
bottle of Glenfiddich after.  More male noise, and the sound of Jo
rummaging in her purse.  Be that way.  I'll just sneak some of yours
when you're not looking.  Damn.  I left my shades in the living room.
Wouldyou?Ithink theY're on the TV.  Thanks, hon.

Softer now, right into the mouthpiece.  Sorry, Kit.  Listen, I gotta
run.  It's just... I know how paranoid I sounded before, and I didn't
want you to worry.  Everything's fine.  And list eh A whisper.  I was
so wired before, I forgot to tell you the book's safe, 'cause I saved
it on a disk.  Not with the others Loud That was fast.  Okay, I'm
ready.  Let's rock and roll!

HE RE CORKED THE BOTTLE of Glenfiddich and picked up the half-full
jelly glass before pushing Record.  "Paul, it's two-thirty a.m. on the
twenty-sixth... uh, the twenty-seventh, I guess.  I know I told you I'd
had it with these tapes--the midnight ramblings of Noah Stewart--but
the hell with it, I'm not gonna get back to sleep tonight, and I can't
face Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman on the late late show, so you win.
This time.  "This dream was a keeper--not as hazy as the others, a
little crisper around the edges, if you know what I mean.  "He got
closer, Paul.  Closer than ever before.  I was--he was--Christ, we were
in bed.  With Ruby.  Asleep.  The phone woke me up.  I answered.  I
mean Ray, dammit, Ray answered.  And it was her.  "Well, this pat we've
seen before, right?  So it's the same as before, it's her and she can't
breathe, she sounds real bad.  I can hardly make out what she's saying,
it's just this panicked wheezing.  And I say, "Anita, calm down, try to
calm down, I'll he right there..."  I almost say 'honey," but I stop
myself in time.  "Ruby's real groggy, and I tell her Anita's having an
attack, I've gotta run over and give her a shot.  And meanwhile I'm
pulling on some clothes real fast--flannel shirt and chinos, no
underwear.  I sleep naked, by the way.  Don't think I ever told you
that.  Ruby's always after me--after Ray--to wear boxer shorts or
something in case Debbie has a nightmare and decides to crawl into bed
with us.  So I sleep naked just to rile her.  "Where was I?  So I'm
dressed now and--and, Paul, that's as far as I've ever seen before,
right?  But now I run downstairs, just flying down those stairs, and I
run into the office and grab my black bag, and I know it's already
packed, I have everything I need in there.

"My God.  Think about that, Paul.  I kept it in the damn bag, all
ready to go.  Just waiting.  I'm a cold god damn bastard.  "Okay, uh,
so I jump into the Fairlane and--hah!--I'm thinking about the fight on
TV that night.  I watched a boxing match on TV.  Won twenty bucks from
Henry betting on some fighter, and that's what I'm thinking about as I
tear down those dark back roads to get to his house--collecting that
twenty from Henry when he gets back from Montpelier tomorrow.  Not
about his wife and how she can't breathe, not about the... thing I'm
about to do to her.  I'm thinking about the damn fight.  "And that's as
far as I got.  Thank God.  The sheets are soaked with sweat.  I think I
scared the doggy doo out of Max, must've yelled or something, 'cause he
jumped on the bed.  Or maybe he woke me up.  Good old Max.  "So there
you have it.  The latest installment in the continuing saga of "Dr. Ray
Whittaker--The Final Days."  Tune in next week for another zany
episode."  He pushed Stop for a minute to collect his thoughts, and
tossed back the last of the Scotch before reaching for the Record
button again.  "Listen, I ... need to talk to you, Paul In person, not
like this.  Helluva time for you to go on sabbatical, buddy.  Hold on
to your hat--when you get back, I may finally let you put me under. You
know... take me back.  No, not thirty-two years, so don't even ask. The
dreams are graphic enough, thank you.  If I ever got the Cinemax
version, crisp, clear and unabridged, I'd go over the edge for sure.
No, I need you to help me tap into... more recent events.  "You know,
Paul, you always told me nothing would happen, you always said I'd
learned to control it.  Him.  And after a while, I guess I began to
believe you.  "All I can say is, I hope to God we were right."

"THIS IS aLL from'qNE HAD on the Frigidaire."

"The Frigidaire?"  Kit accepted the little pile of papers Etta
Zimmerman handed her.

"My guests tack their papers and whatnot on the fridge with magnets.
You know."  Etta indicated the refrigerator with a toss of her bewigged
head.  The appliance was festooned with all manner of
"whatnot"--receipts, invitations, business cards, picture postcards,
fliers, newspaper clippings.

The first item in Kit's hand was a pink ticket from Spar-lde French
Cleafiers.  Jo had left a jacket and slacks.  "Oh, great," she
muttered.  "More clothes."  And she thought she'd bagged them all.

Etta Zimmerman was about four-ten and, at seventy-nine years of age,
trim, and well dressed.  Unfortunately, the refined elegance of her
wardrobe failed to divert one's attention from the thing perched on her
head Big and blond and brassy.  The hairline was implausibly low,.  and
the netting clearly visible beneath the perky cuds.

Jo's next piece of whatnot was a schedule of exercise classes at
Valkyrie, a health club in a neighboring town.

"Expensive place, that Valkyrie," Etta volunteered.  "Very chichi, you
know what I mean?  Not like the Y. Henry's wife got her to join
there."

Strange Jo join inga fancy place like that, Kit thought.  The Y was
more her style.  "Henry?"

"Joanne's boss, Henry David.  Owns the Pratte Citizen.  "

"Oh, yeah.  I wanted to get over there to talk to him today, but I got
wrapped up in going through Jo's things, and then ... well, I guess the
day just got away from me.  It'll have to wait till tomorrow."  She'd
call Noah after dinner and ask him to accompany her.  Would he be free
in the morning?  She admitted that she hoped so, but chose not to peer
too



closely at her/easons for wanting to see him again.  This was about Jo,
after all.  Only Jo.

The last item was an appointment reminder, the kind that doubled as a
business card.  Jo was supposed to see Dr.  Noah Stewart at 10:30 a.m.
on June 21.  A few days after she died.

"Poor girl.  Always at the doctor," Etta clucked.  One thing after
another, it was with her."

Kit flicked the card with her thumbnail.  "Did she seem any different
in the days or weeks before she died?  More... anxious, maybe?"

Etta shrugged.  "Anxious, who knows?  She was like a little
hummingbird, that one, always buzzing around So much energy, you young
people have.  Coffee?"

Kit grinned.  "You said the magic word."

She planted her bottom on the beige vinyl seat of a well-worn dinette
chair and dropped the papers on the table, which was draped with a
plastic tablecloth sporting fat fruit.  She watched the tiny landlady
fill the old-fashioned steel percolator and plug it in, then open the
oven--avocado green like the other appliances--and poke around.  The
aromas of meat loaf and roasting potatoes filled the enormous
kitchen.

"I don't suppose you have a safe in the house?"  Kit asked.

That earned a puzzled frown.  "What would I put in a safe?"

"Would there be any place other than her room where Jo might're stashed
something?"

She pondered that for a moment.  "Not that I can think of.  Why?
Something missing?"

"A computer disk.  A little one, three and a half inches square."

Etta pulled off her oven mitts.  "Those were all stolen, no?"

"All but one.  I'd like to chase it down if I can."  Kit didn't
elaborate.  She was certain Jo's landlady knew nothing about the book
her boarder had been writing.

"Well, feel free to go through the garage, the basement, closets,
wherever.  Such a hodgepodge, they are.  I can't even find things I
know I have."

"Thanks," Kit said, though she doubted such a search would bear fruit.
Jo wouldn't have kept her valuable backup disk in the house.  In
Chicago, where she'd been a free-lance writer, Jo always farmed out
duplicate disks of important material to Kit and her father for
safekeeping.  Neither she nor Sal had received anything like that. Jo's
personal paPers included no record of a safe-deposit box, though Kit
intended to check with the local banks just to make sure.

She watched Etta tear open a bag of Cheez Doodles.  "I can't say how
long I'll be here, Etta."

"So?  You have Joanne's room as long as you like."

"I assume she paid through the end of the month.  If I stay longer--"

Etta waved a hand dismissively.  "If you stay longer, you stay longer.
I won't take Your money."

"Etta--"

"Eat."  She shoved the bag closer to Kit.

Kit shook her head, grinning, but she obeyed.  "Well, we'll talk about
it later.  You're a good Person."

"Huh.  You sound like Noah.  Good karma, he says I have.  Says I
must've been a saint in a former life.  Sure.  Etta Zimmerman.  Now,
there's a good saint's name."  She munched in silence for a minute,
then said around a mouthful of Cheez Doodles, "It hit that boy hard
when Joanne died.  I was there.  I saw."

"You were there?  At the treasurer's partY?"

"Gracie Drummond, I've known since she was a twinkle in her daddy's
eye.  Sure, I was there.  Me and about a hundred other folks."



Kit spoke softly.  "Tell me what happened, Etta."

The landlady sighed and closed her eyes for a few moments, as if
summoning the strength to respond.  Kit hated to ask it of her, but she
needed to pict up it in her mind's eye, to begin fitting the pieces
together.

Etta spoke at last.  "Less than an hour into the party, it was.  I'm
talking to my friend Carol La Rosa from my book club when that Carlisle
boy, Bryan, comes tearing across the lawn, yelling something about
Joanne.  Nobody paid much attention at first, such a hubbub, it was,
everyone drinking and laughing and loosening up.  You know.

"And he's hysterical, all red in the face.  He grabs Al Drummond and
knocks him down practically, shaking him.  "Somebody help her!"  he's
screaming.  "She can't breathe!"" Etta paused.  "Back behind some birch
trees, she was, at the edge of Gracie's lawn.  Not five minutes before,
I was talking with her.  Not five minutes!"

Etta's face looked ashen.  Kit remembered Noah's reluctant description
of Jo's death.

"She was still alive.  Al ran to call 911, but the rest of us, we're
looking for Noah, he's nowhere in sight.  It seemed like forever before
someone found him in the solarium.  But I guess it was less than a
minute, really."

"In the solarium?  Was anyone else with him?"

"No.  All alone, he was, sitting on one of Gracie's new wicker
armchairs, sippinga schnapps."

Etta must have seen something in Kit's expression, because she added,
"Which doesn't surprise me.  He was exhausted, poor boy.  Dead on his
feet.  Hadn't slept in two days.  Little Andy Kramer got hit by a car
riding his bike.  No helmet.  Noah wouldn't leave the hospital, Wescott
Community, till he was out of the woods.  I knew 'cause Alice called me
to cancel my blood pressure checkup.  Tell you the truth, I never
expected him to show, but there he was, at

Gracie's party.  Not that he was able to do anything for Joanne."

She took a deep breath.  "She... passed on in Noah's arms."  She looked
at Kit, her eyes moist.  "There was nothing he could do, Kit.  He
tried."

"I know."  She laid her hand over the old woman's.  It felt as
insubstantial as a baby bird, the bones prominent under Papery skin.

Etta squinted into the recollection, as if trying to make sense of the
senseless.  "So... agitated he was.  I don't know how to describe
it."

"Agitated?  You mean like distraught?"

She shook her head.  "He wasn't himself, Kit.  There was this look in
his eyes.  Cold.  He was holding her, wouldn't let anyone else near
her.  Even when she was ... gone.  He... well, he scared me, I won't
deny it.  It's like something snapped inside him."

The aroma of coffee now competed with the cooking smells.  Kit rose and
located two mugs and the milk.  She thought about Noah's lively hazel
eyes, framed by dark lashes and eyebrows in striking contrast to his
pale hair.  Cold?  It was hard to imagine.  But then, grief could do
strange things to people, so they said.  "They must've been very
close," she murmured, pouring the coffee.  "Noah and Joanne."  She
carried the mugs to the table and sat.

"Sure.  They were good friends right from the first."  Kit schooled her
features.  It wasn't hard to make the mental leap from "good friends"
to something more.  Knowing J.o, anything was possible.  He was her
doctor, yes, but he was also tall, handsome and powerfully built.  With
a yarn my Southern accent, to boot.  No, Jo wouldn't have hesitated;
Kit knew.  But as for Noah ... well, who could say?  Were doctors even
allowed to mess around with their patients?  She knew that kind of
thing was a major no-no for shrinks, but what about regular M.D."s?  In
any event, it was

a cinch he wouldn't want to advertise such a liaison.  Not in this
teeny "slice of Americana."

"Did Jo have visitors?"  Kit asked.  "Like a boyfriend?"  "She never
brought anyone here that I saw.  That kind of visiting is done in the
living room--the 'bedrooms are strictly off-limits, you know what I
mean?  That kind of trouble, I don't need."

Kit looked at the wall phone--avocado, of course.  "The day ... the day
Jo died, the day her computer was stolen, she called me from here.
Called my answering machine, that is."  How many times since then had
Kit wished to God she'd checked her messages that day?  She'd thought
about it at lunchtime and decided not to bother.  If she had... She
sighed harshly.  Hell of a lot of good ifs doJo now.  "Anyway, someone
was with her then--I heard a man's voice.  Do you know who that
might've been?"

Etta shook her head.  "Saturday mornings I run errands.  I went
straight to Gracie's from the video store."

"Perhaps one of your board, guests might know."  Kit lifted the mug to
her lips.  '

She shrugged.  "You can ask.  Malcolm might've heard something."  She
let loose with a high-volume screech.  "Malcolm!"

As the hot brew flushed Kit's sinuses, she grab bede a paper napkin and
turned to see a man amble into the kitchen from an adjacent corridor.

"Coming, Mrs.  Z."  He was tall and heavyset, with thinning gray hair,
dark-rimmed eyeglasses and a light accent that sounded vaguely British.
He carried a small glass ash-tray and alit cigarette, which immediately
overwhelmed the cooking odors.

"I can't remember, dear," Etta said.  "Were you home the day of Grace
Drummond's party?  The Saturday before last."

Kit anticipated the usual response when one is asked to search one's
mmory: a thoughtful pause, a brief study of the ceiling, perhaps an urn
or uh for good measure.

But Malcolm answered immediately, his eyes never straying from Etta's.
"I was at the Thackeray from ten forty-nine till three twenty-three.  I
made forty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents in tips."  Heflicked the
ash off his cigarette and brought it to his lips.

His accent wasn't Brith, Kit now realized, but Australian.

Etta plain'ed.  "Malcolm parks cars at the Thackeray Inn on weekends
when they have an affair.  Weddings and christenings and whatnot.
Elizabeth Murray gave herself a birthday party that day, "didn she,
Malcolm?"

"Yes.  A brunch buffet with a string quartet.  Floral centerpieces with
lots of balloons.  Light green and lavender, and some Mylar ones that
said Happy Sixty-Fifth Birthday.  I haven't met this lady, Mrs.

Z."

"Oh!  Where's my head?"  She waved her hand in introduction.  "Kit
Roarke, Malcolm Ryder.  Kit's.a friend of Joanne's, Malcolm.  From
Chicago."

The bespectacled stare Malcolm turned her Way was unnerving.  "Joanne
doesn't get many visitors.  What's Kit short for?"

A giant fist squeezed her chest, stealing her voice.  Thankfully Etta
had no such problem.

"Malcolm."  The landlady beckoned him closer and laid a hand on his
beefy arm.  She spoke gently.  "We talked about what happened to
Joanne.  You remember."

He just looked at her a few moments, then his face de-fiated.  "I'm
sorry, Mrs.  Z. I forgot."

"No need to apologize, dear."  She patted his arm.

"I forgot."

"It's all right, Malcolm," Kit assured him with a smile.

"Did I hurt your feelings?"  He never blinked or shifted his gaze from
Kit's eyes.  It was the kind of stare that screamed unhinged.  Other
than that and his interest in the social life of a corpse, he appeared
normal enough.

"Not at all.  And since you ask, Kit is short for Kathleen."

Etta said, "Well, I better go get my permanent-press things out of the
dryer."  She opened the door to the basement, flicked a light switch
and slowly descended the stairs.

Malcolm took another drag of his cigarette--unfiltered, Kit noticed. Is
all of Pratte caught in a time warp?  she wondered.

"Are you going to live in Joanhe'S room now, Kathleen?"

"Uh ... well, I am, yes.  Just for a little while.  A few days, maybe.
And please, call me Kit."  No one called her Kathleen Not since her
mother.  "I don't want to."  "Oh."

"And please don't call me Mal.  It means bad.  Also abnormal and
inadequate.  I looked it up in Joanne's dictionary.  Merriam-Webster's
Collegiate Dictionary, tenth edition.

She wrote in it."

"Uh-huh."

"You're not supposed to write in books."

"Well, no, that's true.  But I guess Jo needed to make notes or
something."

"Joe is a man's name."

Kit took a deep breath.  "So.  Your room's right over there?"  She
nodded toward the corridor, grateful for a respite from The Stare.

"I guess you hear a lot that goes on in the kitchen."  "Yes.  May I
have some Cheez Doodles?"

"Oh.  Of course.  I'm sorry.  Help yourself."  She held out the bag,
and he took a handful.  "I don't suppose you heard anything that
morning before you left for the Thackeray," she asked.  "Jo's--Joanne's
room was broken into early--nine, nine.  thirty--when she was at the
gym."  She indicated the exercise schedule lying on the table.  "The
Valkyrie."  "I was here until ten thirty-two, but I didn't hear
anything.  It takes me exactly seventeen minutes to get to the
Thackeray.  They only need me on the weekends, when there's a party.
Monday to Friday I work at the Fine Food, on Linden Road.  I maintain
the physical plant."  He sweeps the floors, Kit surmised.  "Sometimes I
assist the security officer.  Sometimes I bag groceries."  Her gaze
went to the back door, off the kitchen, with its curtained multi paned
window, right above the lock.  After she'd played her answering-machine
tape for Chief Jordon, he'd told her the "perpetrator" had simply
broken a pane of glass and let himself in.  Malcolm's room was at the
back of the house.  If he was here, he should have heard something.
"Have you lived here a long time, Malcolm?"  "Thirty-four years and
seven months."  That rang a bell.  "Noah--Dr.  Stewart--mentioned you
when I spoke to him earlier."  "I don't like Dr.  Stewart."  "No?"  "He
told me to quit smoking."  Malcolm took one final puff, clamping the
butt between thumb and forefinger.  He ground it out in the ashtray and
delicately plucked a fleck of tobacco from his tongue.  She smiled.
"Yeah, well, that's--" "And he told me to lose weight."

"Uh..."  His girth attested to an appreciation of Mrs.  Z."s home
cooking.

"He said hypnotherapy might help me, and he knows a good hypnotist, but
he's on sabbatical right now.  I don't want to be hypnotized.  I like
smoking."

What was it with Noah Stewart and voodoo medicine?  Kit wondered.  TM,
hypnosis.  Was that what they were teaching in med schools nowadays?

"Am I fat?"  Malcolm asked.

"No," Kit lied.

"I like Dr.  Whittaker," he said.  "He doesn't tell me to quit smoking
or lose weight."

For the second time in as many minutes Kit was tongue-tied.  True,
she'd expected the townspeople to talk about Ray Whittaker--counted on
it, in fact.  But to hear Pratte's most notorious former resident
discussed in such benign terms--and in the present tense, no
less!--rattled her.  Then again, she had to consider the source.

Once more, the landlady rescued her.  "Nobody was telling folks to quit
smoking in the sixties," Etta grumbled, reentering the kitchen with a
full laundry basket.  "Leastways, not too many were.  And why would
anyone in their right mind tell you to lose weight back then, Malcolm?
Like a stick, you were."

He took the basket from her and set it in a co ruer his expression
clouded in perplexity.  "The sixties?"  He extracted a pile of neatly
folded sport shirts from the basket, juggling them carefully to avoid
contact with his dirty ashtray.  "Was it really that long ago?"

"Thirty-two years, it's been," she confirmed.  "Thirty-two years 'since
Ray died."  She looked at Kit.  "Do you know about our Dr.
Whittaker?"

Our Dr.  Whittaker.  The grudging possessiveness of the statement
struck Kit.  She began to comprehend what Joanne had somehow
intuitively known.

Ray belonged to Prate.  He Was the boil on the town's butt, the crazy
aunt locked in the basement.  The inescapable thing that was as much a
part of this "unspoiled corner of Americana" as church suppers and
strawberry festivals and overpriced ice-cream cones for the tourists.

"Yes," Kit said.  "I believe Jo mentioned him."

Chapter Three

Henry David propelled himself through the water with enviable brawn and
stamina.  The lush head of silver hair seemed out of place atop such a
youthful physique.

Kit stepped out from the shade of the patio awning into the dazzling
sunlight, her patience at an end.  She'd already watched Henry swim
about thirty laps, and Lord knew how long he'd been at it before she'd
arrived.

"He could be in there all morning," Noah drawled from a patio chaise,
where he was thumbing through the latest issue of--what else?--the
Pratte Citizen.  "Unless you have all day to wait, I suggest you make
your presence known."

Noah had gone extra early to Wescott Community to check on his patients
that morning.  He was bending his schedule to accommodate her.  The
least Kit could do was speed things up a bit.  She crossed about fifty
feet of broadloom lawn and sauntered onto the tiled pool deck.

Henry executed another perfect turn, tucking his body and springing off
the pool wall.  His fluid crawl stroke faltered slightly when he
noticed Kit, and he grinned at her through a sheet of water before
taking his next breath.  When he reached the end this time, he pulled
off his goggles and tossed them onto the deck, then hoisted himself up
and lithely hopped out.

For a man in his sixties, he was something.  Tall and trim--he even
wore one of those stretchy little Speedos, and he looked good in them.
The welcoming smile never left his handsome, tanned face as he raked
tinge through his hair and grabbed a towel from a chaise.

"How long have you been out here waiting for the old fat to finish his
laps?"  he asked.  His speech held the hint of an accent Kit was at a
loss to identify.  Something vaguely Continental, but coarser.

His gin was infectious.  "Too damn long," she said, "but I'm not
complaining.  You're pretty impressive for an old fart."

A sandy chuckle escaped, and the laugh lines framing his pale blue eyes
deepened in appreciation--of both the compliment and her spunk, she
suspected.  He vigorously toweled his face and head, followed by his
arms, legs and the mat of gray hair on his chest.  Now that she was
closer, his age became more evident.  His bronzed skin failed to hug
those lovely muscles with the same youthful snap it must have once
had.

"A couple more comments like that and you won't need a rsum6 or tear
sheets," he said, flipping the towel over his shoulder.  "Shameless
flattery is the key to self-promotion."  He extended his hand.

Uh-oh.  "Mr.  David, I'm Kit Roarke."  She shook his hand.  "From
Chicago."

Comprehension gradually dawned.  She watched the vial light in his eyes
fade and felt his firm grip slacken.  He gently squeezed her hand
before releasing it.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I didn't realize... I put
an ad in the paper .... "

"I understand," she said, and almost wished she didn't.  He was looking
for a replacement for Jo.  "I'm Joanne's friend... an old friend of
hers "Why was this suddenly so hard?  "Come on."  He laid his large
palm on her back and started toward the house.  "Kit, is it?"

"Yes.  Uh, did Jo mention me?"

"Not that I recall."  His attention went to her companion then, rising
to greet him.  "Noah."  '

"Henry."  The men shook hands.

Kit thought an explanation was in order.  "I asked Noah to ... to..."

"To introduce her to Jo's friends in Pratte," Noah supplied smoothly.

Henry grinned.  "Looks like she doesn't need you.  The lady's doing
just fine on her own.  Let's go inside for something cool."  He dropped
his towel on a patio chair and slid open the glass door through which
the housekeeper had ushered Kit and Noah a few minutes earlier.

They reentered Henry David's impressive home and were once again
ambushed by the nippy bite of central air.  It wasn't even that warm
outside--high seventies, maybe--though Kit.  supposed that constituted
a scorcher for central Vermont.  She chided herself for her
depression-era mentality, a product of her upbringing.  It was none of
her business how this man chose to burn his money.

"We swung by your office first," she said.  "Your son said you wouldn't
be in today, so we decided to ambush you here."

"Just as well.  Can't hear yourself think in the news-room--the place
is a zoo,"

Henry's home answered the question she'd asked herself the day before.
No, all of Pratte was most assuredly not trapped in a time warp.  This
was an enormous, ultra-modern structure with all the amenities,
occupying five hilly, wooded acres on the outskirts of town.  The
newspaper business must be more lucrative than she imagined.

Even as the thought formed, she rejected it.  The Pratte Citizen was a
local weekly, for heaven's sake.  Jo had told her it was supported
entirely by advertising and mailed free to the townsfolk.  How much of
a profit could such a business provide?

Her host led her through the breakfast room and living room, with its
high, canted ceiling studded with huge skylights.  The walls were
white, the floors bleached oak adorned with imported rugs in pastel
shades, each one of which probably cost more than Kit's car.  Central
stone fireplace.  Leather, lacquer and glass.  Art by people she'd
actually heard of.  The room was straight out of a magazine spread, one
of hose that tells the reader how to copy a mil-lion-dollar layout on a
budget of only four hundred grand.

Henry didn't stop until they were in a den, as richly furnished as the
living room, but cozier.  Lower ceding, more books.  A touch of wood. A
picture window offered a spectacular view: lush formal flower gardens
in the foreground, wooded hills in the background.  He circled behind
the wet bar and opened a small refrigerator.  Kit propped herself on a
bar stool and watched him slap a can of diet soda on the bar.

"I make a deadly frozen margarita," Henry offered, pulling an ice bin
out of the freezer.  He flashed those ivories again, with an impish
shrug and a wink to match.  "It's almost noon."  '

Dear Lord, this man must have been painfully sexy when he was younger,
Kit thought.  The kind of guy you can't look at for long without your
brain seing up.

She made a show of checking her watch.  "It's nine-forty."

"Close enough."  A bottle of Cuervo 1800 materialized on the bar top.

"Thanks, I think I'll pass.  But if you have another one of these..."
She tapped the soda can.  "Regular, not diet."  "I think that can be
arranged.  Noah?"  "Nothing for me, thanks."

Henry filled two tumblers with ice and poured the drinks, his
expression softening, those laugh lines deepeningagain.  "Jo would've
taken the margarita."

"No, she wouldn't."  Noah chuckled.  "Two or three straight shots,
maybe."

Kit clinked glasses with Henry.  "Beats Froot Loops any day."

From her perch across the bar from her host, it was easy to imagine she
was tossing back a cool one at a nudist colony.  His casual state of
dishabille was a delicious contrast to the elegantly appointed room,
and his relaxed, irreverent manner was disarming.

Noah strolled to the huge window and stood staring out, his hands in
his jeans pockets, his stance casual.  Still, she sensed an underlying
disquiet.  It was nothing she could put her finger on.  The sunlight
pouring in emphasized the strong angles of his face, the thrust of his
solid jaw, and turned his hair to polished gold.  His eyes captured the
fire, as luminous now as a clear, bottomless lagoon.  In his office
he'd been handsome, but here, gilded by sunlight, he was positively
breathtaking.  She had to force herself to look away.

Henry leaned a palm on the bar and downed most of his soda in one long
pull.  "When did you arrive in town, Kit?"

"Day before yesterday.  I'll be stay inga few days to, make sure
everything is, you know, packed up and settled."

He nodded.  "Let me know if I can help in any way."  "Thanks.  I
appreciate it."

"I mean it.  If you get any trouble from anyone, come up against any
roadblocks--insurance, banks, government agencies, what have you--give
a holler.  After more than forty years in the newspaper business, I've
got contacts everywhere.  There's almost no one I can't reach--" he
paused, grinning"--and apply the thumbscrews to if need he.  Ask Noah.
He's seen me in action."

"A force to be reckoned with," Noah agreed dryly.  He began a slow trek
around the room, idly perusing the books and furnishings.  His manner
said, This/s your show, Kit.  I'm just along for the ride.  The
repressed energy she sensed, crackling like electricity just under the
surface, said something else.

Kit smiled her thanks to Henry.  "I hope the offer's sin cere.  I have
a feeling I may take you up on it at some point."  "Have you talked to
anyone else since you arrived?"  "Chief J or don

He winced.  "And that wasn't enough to drive you to drink?  You're a
strong woman, Kit Roarke."

"Doesn't it bother anyone else that the man's at a dead end?"

Henry sucked, an ice cube into his mouth and crushed it with his
molars, staring into his glass.  "It bothers everyone that the police
haven't been able to come up With a suspect.  And the more time that
passes..."  His shrug was accompanied by a disgusted sigh.  "Joanne was
a wonderful girl.  You know that.  I know that.  So does Noah.  She,
was bright.  Funny.  And a solid reporter.  The best I ever had.  God
knows what she was doing in Pratte."

Kit was tempted to tell him.  Listen, Henry, your pal Joanne, that
"wonderful girl" and your best reporter, was using you from day one.

""Course, that doesn't mean she charmed the socks off everyone in
town," he added with a raised eyebrow.

Noah emitted a snort of agreement as he inspected a framed lithograph
over the sofa on the far wall.

Kit allowed herself a rueful smile.  "What a shocker."  No one knew
better than her how abrasive Jo could seem to those who didn't share
her audacious outlook and her bent sense of humor.  Which was most
people.  Henry, however, appeared to be a rare exception.  Clearly he
and Jo had been



simpatico.  Just how simpatico?  she couldn't help wondering.

"But my point is," Henry continued, "it doesn't matter what people
thought about her, who liked her and who didn't.  Her murder stunned
everyone.  Everyone.  There isn't a person in Pratte who doesn't want
to see it solved."

Noah read her mind.  "Well, maybe one," he murmured.  "Jordon's a
horse's ass, it's true," Henry went on, "but I don't know if I'd go so
far as to call him incompetent."  He said to Noah, "You've only been
here a couple of years, Noah, so you might not be aware, but Tom's
always done a decent job for Pratte."

"How many murders has he had to solve?"  Kit asked.  The instant the
words were out of her mouth, she wished she could suck them back up.
This was the wrong person to say that to.  Something in his expression
hardened ever so slightly, and suddenly he looked all of his
sixty-something years.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "I didn't think."

He pulverized another ice cube in his mouth, his gaze penetrating.  He
flicked a cool look to Noah.  "You know more about Pratte than I
imagined, Kit."

She chose her words carefully.  "Just the basics.  Just what Jo told
me.  I know that Ray Whittaker murdered your wife thirty-two years ago.
Your first wife."

"Yes."  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Noah become very still.
Inexplicably her palms hegan to sweat.  "And I know that Ray died her
ore it went to trial.  That's it, really.  I ddn't know the, urn,
circumstances or anything."

"Not even that Ray and Anita were having an affair?"  Henry asked.

"No," she answered truthfully, followed by a shameless whopper.  "I'm
not here to pry."

Henry leaned over, resting his forearms on the bar top.  "Kit, it's
been three decades.  Don't worry.  You're not about to scratch open any
raw wounds."  He met her eyes.  "Ray Whittaker was my best friend.  The
man was like a brother to me."  "Sounds like he took brotherhood a
little too far," she murmured.  That eYebrow rose again and he shook
his head, smiling sadly.  "You might say that.  I didn't have an
inkling what was going on behind my back."  He finished his drink.  "He
ldlled her one night when I was out of town.  I was a reporter for the
Burlington Free Press hack then.  I was in Montpelier when she died,
covering some stupid political sex scandal that never panned out.
"Anita was ,s?erely asthmatic.  She used to get these violent attacks
where she couldn't breathe.  It was god damn scary, I'll t11 you.
Usually I'd drive her over to Ray's or he'd come to us, and he'd give
her a shot of epinephrine.  A few times she had to be hospitalized.
Anyway, that night it seems she had one of these attacks and called Ray
to come give her a shot."  He lapsed into silence, and she realized he
assumed she knew what happened next.  Jo hadn't given her a
blow-by-blow, and she'd never asked.  Noah finally spoke up, from so
close behind her that she flinched.  "I don't think Kit knows the rest,
Henry."  Kit felt the hairs on her nape tingle as she saw Henry's eyes
widen, his shoulders stiffen.  "Jo never told me," she said.  Henry's
voice was barely audible.  "God.  I guess not."  He studied her face
for a long moment, his brow furrowed, all traces of bonhomie gone.  "He
killed her with curate."  The impact of his words slammed into her like
a fist, stealing her air.  She heard the whimper of surprise--of de
pls :,

nial--and belatedly recognized it as her own.  "I don't--I don't
believe it."

She was on her feet now, gripping the edge of the bar.  Raw anger
swelled within her as she recalled her conversation with the police
chief.  "Jordon didn't ention this.  That bastard never said word one
about it."  Not even when she told him why Jo was in Pratte!

Kit had handed over her answering-machine tape to the police chief, and
watched his face as he listened to it.  That patronizing smile said it
all, even before he spelled it out.  Everyone in town knew that Joanne
Merino, girl reporter, was high-strung and excitablel Surely Kit knew
it, too.  And what was all this about a book?

She'd told him, and watched his expression ice up.  Gone was the
indulgent hand patting.  Jordon had actually cussed, and bestowed a
wealth of vulgar epithets on her dead friend.  At the time it seemed a
refreshing change.

Well, Jotdon was, as Henry had pointed out, a horse's ass.  More
difficult to swallow was Noah Stewart's complicity in this seeming
conspiracy of silence.  He had to realize she'd assumed Jo was Pratte's
first and only curare murder, and he'd chosen not to enlighten her.
Irrationally, she felt a sting of betrayal.  She studied his impassive
expression and sent a silent message: We have some talking to do.

"You're assuming the two murders are related," Henry said.

She let her expression of incredulity answer for her.

He raised his hands in appeasement.  "Hey, I'm not saying it's
(oincidence.  I think this is some sick copycat thing.  I know Noah
agrees with me.  I'm sure Jordon does, too.  What else ould it be?
Think about it.  Ray Whittaker's been dead and buried for thirty-two
years."

What else could it be?  Kit sat on the bar stool again, thinking about
the book Jo had moved to Pratte to research in secret.  The book
destined to be the next In Cold

Blood.  The book no other author had ever gotten off the ground because
of a dogged lack of cooperation by the locals.

Jo had been determined to outmaneuver the close-mouthed town and
reconstruct--in the nittiest, grittiest de-tail--the murder of Anita
David, the decades-old crime that had become an obsession with her. She
would take up residence, become one of them.  Shake their cookie jars
and turn their pockets inside out.

And they wouldn't find' out what she was up to till it was too late.
Except someone did.  This guy, he found out about the book.  And,
well... that's not good God, where are you Ki't ?  What cookie jars had
Jo shaken?  Kit wondered.  Who found out about'Jo's project?  Who was
she so afraid of at the end?  Noah asked, "What kind of weap n did you
think Ray used?"  "I figured he, urn--" she swallowed around a sudden
knot in her throat "--shot her or something."  "Not a chance," Henry
said.  "This was no crime of passion.  It's not like he suddenly went
crazy.  He planned it out, bided his time.  He knew he wouldn't have
long to wait--just till her next attack.  The fact that I was out of
town at the time was an added bonus he hadn't counted on."  "So he gave
her curare instead of epinephrine."  "That's right.  She died and Ray
called for an ambulance and said she'd suffered heart failure related
to the asthma attack, and that he was too late to save her."  "The
perfect crime," she said.  "It would've been, if the son of a bitch
could've held his booze.  He got roaring drunk a few days later and
mouthed off about it."  "To you?"

His eyes glittered with hatred.  "Yep.  He told me he'd had an affair
with my wife, and he told me what he'd done to her."

"And you told the police," she said.

"Damn right I did.  We had to have Anita exhumed so they could do an
autopsy and test for curare.  It was there, all right."

"Why did he kill her?"

"The way I figure it; Anita fell in love with him," Henry said.  "To
Ray, she was just another conquest, I'm sure of that.  One of many. She
must've been ready to blow the whistle, make it public.  It would've
destroyed his marriage, for starters--and he sure as hell didn't want
that.  Not to mention what I'd have done to him if I'd known.  Plus, if
it ever came out how many of his patients he'd seduced, his medical
license would've been in danger."

Kit squirmed, suddenly wishing she hadn't asked Noah to accompany her.
"He really did it with his patients?"

Henry snorted.  "Ray was one horny bastard.  And a master at exploiting
their trust, abusing the doctor-patient relationship.  He used to 'brag
about it--how he worked them, wore them down, used their personal
divulge noes to manipulate them.  Listen, the guy was my buddy, like I
said.  That doesn't mean I approved of his behavior."

Kit wasn't sanctimonious enough to condemn Henry for his friendship
with Ray.  Her relationship with Joanne had borne similar strains.

"How long was Ray married?"  she asked.

"Ten years.  To Ruby.  They had a little girl, Deborah.  Poor kid was
six years old when all this happened.  She's a contract ;,ttorney in
Boston now, done quite well for her self.  She's married with four kids
of her own."

"What's her married name?"

Henry hesitated, obviously wondering why she wanted to know.
"Carlisle."

Kit straightened.  Why was that name familiar?  Bingo.  "Is she related
to a Bryan Carlisle?"

Henry shot her a surprised glance, looking as if he'd just caught a
whiff of raw sewage.  "Did you meet that little creep'?."

Noah muttered, "For God's sake, Henry, don't get started."

"No," she answered, wondering what she'd just stepped into.  "Etta
Zimmerman mentioned him.  She said he's the one who found, Jo."  That
Carlisle boy, Bryan, comes tearing across the lawn, yelling something
about Joanne.

A hint of pain crossed Henry's face.  "That's right.  He did."  He
sighed.  "Yeah, Bryan is Deborah's oldest 'son.  Must be eighteen or
nineteen now.  Been bumming around Pratte for the past year, since he
graduated high school."

"I wouldn't say 'bumming,"" Noah offered, with more feeling than he'd
shown all morning.  "He earns his way.  That kid's a hard worker."
Henry's response to this was a derisive grunt.

So.  Ray Whittaker's grandson discovered Jo in her death throes.  There
was a chilling irony in that.

"why do you hate him?"  she asked Henry.

"Bad blood.  The kid's no better than his grandfather.  Leave it at
that."

She cocked her head as if to say, Fine with me.  She looked over her
shoulder at Noah, who stood close enough to touch.  Close enough to
detect his masculine scent.  She wondered if Jo had liked the way he
smelled, too.  A high-pitched beeping sounded, and he glanced at the
contraption hooked on his belt as he turned it off.

Henry said, "There's a phone down the hall in Betfina's study."

Noah nodded.  "Excuse me."

Henry watched him leave, then cocked his head toward the doorway.
"Looks like you've been busy since you got to Pratte."

She shrugged.  "I wanted to get all the facts straight, and I figured
the town M.D. was a good plato start.  It helps that he was her friend,
too."  Kit wasn't about to apologize for being nosy.  God knew Jo
wouldn't have left a stone unturned if it had been Kit's mortal remains
in that little cardboard box at Etta's.

She straightened and met his gaze.  "I'm not going back to Chicago till
I've answered all the lingering questions to my satisfaction.  And who
knows.9 If I dig up anything enlightening, maybe it'll help jump-start
Jordon's investigation" '

"Jo was fortunate to have a friend like you, Kit."

She looked away for a moment and swallowed hard, determined not to let
Henry hear her voice crack.  She'd failed Jo; no syrupy platitudes
could change that.  "Yeah, well..."  With a glance to the open doorway,
she said, "About the party.  Etta said it took a while to find Noah
when... when Jo..."

"He was in the solarium.  I'm the one who located him, as a matter of
fact.  He was sitting there all by his lonesome, if you don't count the
fifth of Scotch nestled in the crook of his arm."  He grinned.

"Etta said he was exhausted from a medical emergency."  "I don't know
about that.  I just figured he was the only guy with the nerve to do
what the rest of us wanted to--at least me.  Get away from that
white-glove crowd and toss back a few in peace and quiet."

"Were you there--I mean right there--when Jo died?"

The flesh around his eyes tightened fractionally.  "Yeah, I was
there."

"How did Noah handle it?"

One eyebrow rose.  "You heard about that, huh?"  He paused, as if
weighing his words carefully.  "I think something snapped in him.  Just
for a little while.  Maybe he was exhausted, like you say.  Maybe the
booze had something to do with it, though he seemed sober enough.  "He
was pretty much in control at first.  Took one look at her and tossed
his car keys to someone--Bryan, I think--and sent him running for his
medical bag.  He started working on her right away, or trying to.  But
it was so god damn hopeless."  His features had hardened.  "Sorry.
Anyway, that's when he seemed to change.  When it was clear he couldn't
do anything for her and she was..."  He hesitated.  "I know she
suffered," Kit said quietly.  Henry leaned on his elbows and scrubbed
at his face with his palms, as if by doing so he could eradicate the
memory.  He lifted his head and stared out the picture window.  "Yeah.
She suffered."  He cleared his throat.  At that point Noah just wasn't
himself."  The same phrase Etta had used, Kit remembered.  "His face,
his eyes... It was like I'd never met this guy.  Even his body language
was different."  He gay6 a mirthless half laugh.  Strange as that may
sound."  "His body language?"  "Every expression, every movement.
Suddenly Noah was a stranger to me.  To all of us.  He was down there
in the ivy with her, and she was..."  He took a deep breath.  "Well,
she was still alive, but going fast, you know.  And I tried to help.  I
mean, I don't know that much about CPR, but I sort of caught on
watching him, and I got down there with him and reached for her."  He
met her eyes.  "Kit, he backhanded me, and I mean, I went flying."  His
hand arced in illustration.  "That was one hell of a wallop.  I guess
it was all that adrenaline or some-thing--all that frustration."  He
shook his head.  "All I know is, I hurt like hell for a full week."

Another peek at the doorway.  "What do you think of Noah?  In general?"
Henry shrugged.  "He's a solid guy.  I always thought so.  I'm not
gonna hold one strange episode against him.  It was a... bizarre
situation, to say the least.  Hedidn't remember belting me, but when he
found out about it, he apologized."  He shrugged again.  "It was no big
deal.  Hell, I suf.  feted a lot worse growing up in Montreal.  I was
always in one scrape or another."  "Aha!"  she crowed.  So that was the
accent she'd been trying to identify--French Canadian.  "Henri David,"
she said, giving his name the full Gallic treatment.  Dah-veed.  He
chuckled--she liked the raspy way he did that.  "Aha!  Kit Roarke."
He'd turned the tables by slathering on a thick brogue.  "I'll be
thankin' ye not to remind me of' me humble origins, begorra."  As long
as you don't remind me'of mine, she thought.  She looked around the
sumptuously furnished den.  "Nothing humble about where you've ended
up."  "I guess I've done all right for a poor, skinny, scrappy kid from
the East End.  I got my start bundling papers for Le Journal de
Montreal."  "I stole a copy of the Pratte Citizen from Noah's waiting
room.  Pretty impressive."  If you were into puff pieces from local
businesses and politicos, photo spreads of school concerts and the
Memorial Day parade, and editorials about such gripping issues as
whether the twirling team should wear fringed pink leotards or lime
green hot pants.  "It's all right for a small-town weekly.  I'm proud
of it.  So you were in Noah's place, huh?  What did you think of it?"
"That if's trapped in the sixties."  "Well, it hasn't been altered at
all since Ray whittaker lived there."  The shock must have been plain
on her face, because Henry took one look at her and said, "You didn't
know?"

Noah's voice jump-started her heart and brought a prickle of heat to
her face.  "It's the only place in town with an existing medical
office," he said, closing the door.  "Ray grew up in that house--a
fourth-generation M.D. There was one other owner after Ray died, and he
left a few years before I arrived,"

"And neither of the an so much as changed Ray's wallpaper," Henry
added, chuckling.  "But I guess that's to be expected with
bachelors."

"I didn't know Ray's family was from Pratte," Kit said.  "The
Whittakers were founding fathers," Henry explained.  "They've been on
easy street since about 1890 when Great-Grandpa Sam hit it big with a
couple of hot patents."

"What did he invent?"

"Medical insfi'uments, of all things.  He had that house built around
the turn of the century."

"Eighteen ninety-seven," Noah volunteered.

She remembered being intrigued by the outside of Noah's sprawling old
home, which housed his practice.  Brick and stone, with a slate roof,
gables, latticed windows and a profusion of eccentric masonry work.

Henry said, "A fascinating old place, really, inside and out, if you
can forget who once lived there."  He had the unfocused look of someone
peering into the past.  "I spent a lot of time in that house when Ray
was alive.  When Ray and Anita were alive."

Kit was peering into a more recent past.  She was thinking about her
dead friend and the obsessive project she'd undertaken-the long-held
secrets she'd planned to unearth.  Where would K/t go if she wanted to
find out everything she could about someone's life?  She'd start at his
home, of course.  Neither of them so much as changed Ray's wallpaper.

She thought about Joanne Merino's information-gathering techniques.
The end justifies the means, kiddo.

She thought about her first surprising glimpse of Noah Stewart, M.D."
when he'd c. aught her pawing through his files.  Yeah, shoulders like
that always did it for Jo.  The object of her musing had wandered back
to the far side of the room and settled on a cream-colored leather
sofa' that looked butter soft.  His arm was thrown over the back, one
ankle propped on a knee.

"I assume that wasn't an emergency," Kit said, referring to his phone
call.

"Nope.  But we can't stay much longer--I start seeing patients at
ten-thirty."

"No problem."  She turned back to Henry.  "Listen, before I go, let me
ask you one more thing.  Joanne's social life.  Nobody seems to know
who she was dating."

Henry's expression was unreadable as he tipped back his glass.  After a
thoughtful, ice-chomping pause, he said, "She did get phone calls at
the office, of course.  Some of them sounded more than a little chummy
from her end."

"She didn't tell you about him?  Didn't mention his name?"  She heard
the note of incredulity that had crept into her tone, and consciously
stifled it.  "I don't know, it just seems like you two were probably on
the same wavelength "

"That we were, but you know Jo.  When she decided to keep her lips
zipped..."  His expreSSive shrug said the rest.

She remembered Jo's words.  You wouldn't approve.  He's not suitable.
She could think of few paramours less suitable than one's personal
physician.  She avoided looking at Noah.

"Did you get to the town treasurer's party before Jo?"  she asked
Henry.

"Yeah, Bettina and I were there about ten minutes when I saw her saying
hi to Grace."

"Did you happen to notice who she arrived with?"  "No... but people
were just sort of drifting into the backyard in groups, from around the
house, you know.  We all parked in front.  You think she came With
someone?"

"I.know she did.  Her car was still at Etta's--it hadn't been moved
since that morning when she got back from the gym."  And found her room
ransacked.

Then she'd left for the party in the company of the mystery man who'd
fetched her sunglasses while she was talking to Kit's machine.  If
Chief Jordon knew who that man was, his lips were sealed.  He'd refused
to answer her questions about the investigation.  Nothing would make
him happier than to have her pack up her dead friend's ashes and wing
her way back to the Windy City posthaste.

"I don't suppose your other employees would know who she was seeing,
"she said.

He shook his head.  "She wasn't that friendly with anyone else at the
Citizen.  Wasn't in the office that much, anyway, except to file her
stories and write some of the regular columns."

"So she wouldn't have left anything of her own there?"  Kit didn't
think Jo would have risked keeping the backup disk of her book at the
office, but anything was possible.

"Not that I know of, but if I come across anything, I'll drop it off at
Etta's."  He looked at her.  "How did you know she was seeing
someone?"

The door swung open, saving her from having to lie.  She wasn't
prepared at this point to disclose Jo's fears to anyone except Tom
Jordon--and she almost regretted having confided in him.

The woman standing in the doorway was as beautiful as Henry was
handsome, but younger.  She looked to be about forty, slim' and
elegant--even in her sweaty workout clothes--with dark hair worn in a
sleek French braid.  She stood transfixed, staring at the cozy scene at
the bar, obviously unaware of Noah's quiet presence.  Her eyes settled
on her seminude husband, and foolishly Kit felt her face grow warm once
more.

"Betfinal" Henry's now familiar smile flashed, along with something
else Kit failed to identify some kind of unspoken communique to which
she was not privy.  Spousal telepathy.  Probably something along the
lines of This isn't what it looks like.  He reached out to lift and
turn Kit's wrist, the better to read her watch face.  She sensed the
repressed strength in his warm, dry hand, as muscular as the rest of
him.  His touch was casual, almost paternal, putting her at

"I wasn't expecting you back for another half hour," he said.  "Finish
your workout early?"

"Not really.  I decided to skip the sauna, and shower at home."  She
smiled and began to back away.  "Excuse me, I didn't mean to disturb
your interview."  Noah rose to greet her.  "Oh!  Noah.  I didn't see
you there."  They exchanged greetings and a quick cheek peck.

"You're not disturbing anything Henry waved her inside.  "Kit Roarke,
my Wife, Bettina.  Kit's a friend of Joanne's.  Just got into town day
before yesterday."  He pulled a small bottle of grapefruit juice Out of
the fridge, shook it and twisted the cap off.

Bettina's smile froze and she glanced quickly at her husband and Noah
before taking the hand Kit offered.  With her handshake came a clean
athletic scent, a blend of fresh sweat and Chanel Ne 5. "Oh.  I..."

Kit sympathized With the other woman's discomfort.  To her knowledge,
Emily Post had never covered "Meeting the Best Friend of a Murder
Victim."

"I'm... so sorry," Bettina said, releasing her hand.  "It was..."
Another glance at her husband.  "Everyone was so shocked.  I'm so
sorry," she repeated.

"I know.  Thank you."

"You'll have to excuse my appearance," Bettina said, looking down at
her sneakers, bike shorts and crop top, loosely covered by a baggy
lavender tank-style T-shirt.  She was tanned and toned.  Apparently
fitness was a family affair in the David household.  She accepted the
bottle of juice from Henry, smiling her thanks.  "I just came from the
health club."

Something clicked.  "Valkyrie, right?"

Bettina's eyes widened.

"Joanne joined Valkyrie," Kit said.  "Her landlady said you introduced
her to it."

"Oh.  Yes.  She wanted a place to work out, and that's the nicest club
in the area."  She took a healthy swig of juice.

Noah interpreted.  "It's the nineties version of the smoke-filled back
room, is what she means," he said, a sardonic gleam in his eye'. "Women
only.  Grace Drummond, our treasurer, is a regular.  Plus every
other-female town officer and selectman, most of the female business
owners in Pratte and just about every other woman with a six-figure
income."

Henry sighed with mock wistfulness.  "I pine for the good old days,
wllen the movers and shakers were potbellied, cigar-chomping,
suspender-snapping men."  He pounded his chest.  "Hombres, dammit! Real
guys who like red meat and never heard of the Stair Master

Bettina paused in mid gulp swallowing around a wicked grin.  "You'd be
surprised how much moving and shaking you do on the Stair Master
love."

"It's hard for me to picture Jo joining an expensive place like that,"
Kit said.

"Well, she seemed to think it was worth it," Bettina said.  "I saw her
there at least three times a week."

"Perhaps I should ask you, then.  Henry said he didn't know who Jo was
dating.  Maybe you do... ?"  When Bet tina didn't answer immediately,
she added, "You know, steam-room chitchat.  I thought she might've--"

"No."  A quick, dismissive smile.  "I don't remember her mentioning
anyone."  Bettina turned away and reached across the bar to chafe her
husband's bar arm.  "Aren't you cold, love?  It's like a meat locker in
this house."

"I like it cool.  You know that."  He wasn't smiling.

But Bettina was, a little too brightly.  "Well.  It wouldn't hurt you
to throw something on."  Before he could respond she asked, "How many
laps did you do?"

"Eighty or so."

Her concerned gaze studied his face.  She looked pointedly at Noah and
asked, "Did he eat anything?"

"I'm fine," Henry said.

Bettina began to cross behind the bar.  "A piece of fruit?"

"I'm fine, Bettina," he snapped.  "I'm not hungry.  But perhaps
Kit--"

"No.  Thank you.  I had Etta's waffles for breakfast."  Kit patted her
stomach.  "That should hold me for a few days."  She rose and picked up
her purse.  "We've monopolized you long enough, Henry.  I'm grateful
for the brain-picking session."

He laid a hand on her back.  "Remember my offer, Kit."  A couple of
affable thumps on her spine.  "Anything I can do."

"Well, I do have just one more question.  Ray Whittaker died while out
on bail, right?"

Bettina stiffened at the mention of the murderer.

"That's right," he said.

"Jo didn't say, but I'm assuming he committed suicide... ?":

Three sets of eyebrows shot up.

"He didn't commit suicide?"  Kit asked.

"Hell, no!"  Henry roared good-naturedly.  "I killed the son of a
bitch!"

Chapter Four

Kit and Noah had taken separate cars in case he was called away on an
emergency.  On her way out to Henry's earlier, Kit had passed a dairy
farm.  Her gaze had strayed from the pasture full of cows doing their
cow thing--the very picture of bucolic indolence--to the distant Green
Mountains, doing their mountain thing.  Here was Vermont, She'd
thought, doing its Vermont thing, and she'd been happy to let it.

Now, on her return trip, her eyes never wavered from the road.  It
wasn't asphalt she saw, but the face of a long-dead murderer.  Before
letting them leave, Henry had hauled out a box of old snapshots, black
and white for the most part, dozens of photos of the Whittakers and the
Davids, or combinations thereof.  Henry and Ray fly-fishing.  Anita and
Ruby ice-skating.  Little Debbie with her ax poised to chop down a
Christmas tree.

Why she'd always imagined Ray Whittaker as a man in his middle years,
gray haired and age thickened, she couldn't say.  The photos showed a
young, slim man, shorter than Henry, perhaps five foot ten or eleven.
But the full impact didn't hit her till her host produced a color
snapshot.  There was Ray flipping steaks on a charcoal grill, with
Anita and Ruby at his side, highballs in hand.  All three were laughing
into the camera.  It was easy to imagine that Henry, behind the lens,
had just told a wickedly funny joke, and managed to catch that charmed
instant when the punch line kicked in.

"He looks like a teenager!"  Kit had said.  Red hair.  Freckles.

Freckles, for God's sake!

"He was thirty-six in that picture," Henry had responded, "four years
older than me.  It was taken a few weeks before he died."

A few weeks before -he coldbloodedly murdered one of the women standing
there laughing with him.  Anita David looked to be in her thirties,
too, with a wavy blond pageboy and a full, womanly figure.  Ruby
Whittaker, on Ray's other side, was darker and smaller than her friend.
Kit wondered if she'd known about her husband's extramarital
activities.

Ray's youthful build and features were offset by intelligent brown eyes
and a pockmarked complexion.  The defect, rather than detracting from
his looks, lent an interesting cragginess to his boyish face.

Henry's account of Ray's death was succinct.  Ray's high-priced lawyers
get him released on bail, and now he's mad.  That kind of ice-cold mad
he'd get sometimes.  That scary too-goddamn-calm mad.  He comes out to
the house--to talk, he says--and Henry takes one look at Ray and knows
that new Walther of his, that slim .380 PPK, is tucked into his
waistband somewhere, under his windbreaker.

Was he drunk?  Kit asked.  Not this time, Henry said.  And, sober, Ray
was a dead-on shot.

Seems odd, doesn't it?  she wondered aloud.  Here Ray had painstakingly
planned the "perfect" murder, even patiently waited for the victim's
next asthma attack.  Why would such a man do something so rash, grab
his semi-automatic the instant he's out on bail and go after the guy
who blew the whistle?

That was Ray, Henry said.  It was cold calculation or reckless passion
with him, never an in-between.  Nothing existed for him at that moment
except the driving need to empty that .380 into his old pal.

But the edge Henry had in size and strength--not to mention raw rage
over his wife's murder--made the struggle that ensued an uneven match.
In the end Ray bled to death, gutshot with his own weapon.  Henry was
held blameless in an indisputable case of self-defense.

In downtown Pratte now, Kit found a parking space for Jo's light blue
Corolla in front of Ye Olde Video Shoppe.  At Pratte Hardware Emporium
next door she bought packing tape for the boxes she was mailing back to
Sal.  Rounding out the usual array of utilitarian merchandise were
picture postcards, camera film and maps, not to mention mugs, bumper
stickers, key rings, giro roe caps and T-shirts all sporting the green
Pratte, Vermont, logo for those requiring tangible proof that they'd
been to a Quaint New England Town.

She strolled the main drag, watching the tourists and scoping out the
layout.  At the heart of town, like the hub of a wheel, was the
requisite white, steepled church.  Staringat it, Kit could only marvel
at the stark contrast btween this sweet, simple town and the rough
neighborhood where she grew up.

But then, Jo had survived the rough streets of Chicago.  She had to
come to this sweet, simple town to get murdered.

Kit turned away from the soaring steeple and made a beeline for the
Corolla.  She needed answers, and God help the good dOCtor if he tried
to pull the kind of evasive crap he'd ladled out the day she arrived.

Kit negotiated Pratte's hilly, twisting residential side streets and
turned onto an overgrown uphill driveway marked by a rural mailbox on a
post.  Noah Stewart, M.D. Family Practice.  Gravel rattled around in
the Corolla's undercarriage as she pulled in next to Noah's dusty
black

Cherokee.  Two other cars were parked near the side entrance to his
practice.  Patients, no doubt.

Kit checked her watch as she climbed out of the car--11:20.  She had no
intention of waiting out the next forty minutes or so under the
watchful eye of Noah's trained pit bull, Alice.  Besides, the day was
too sunny and warm to spend even one minute of it sitting in a doctor's
waiting room with sick people hacking in her face.

She looked around, more attentive to detail than she'd been two days
ago.  The house appeared to be in decent repair, but the grounds of the
onetime Whittaker homestead had a look of calculated disorder, as if
the days of meticulous landscaping were long gone.

From behind the house came the whining roar of a gasoline engine.  The
sound rose and ebbed at intervals, disabusing her initial impression
that it was a lawn mower.  She began walking in that direction.

As she passed the open window of an examining room, a toddler's
high-pitched wail drowned out the roar of the motor.  Vaccination time,
no doubt.  She peeked in and saw a young woman cuddling and crooning to
her daughter, whose squalling dropped off to a tear-streaked scowl
punctuated by hiccups.  Noah's back was to Kit as he disposed of the
syringe, then deftly affixed a Band-Aid to the girl's arm and commended
her bravery.

She caught herself smiling as she rounded the house.  She'd always been
a sucker for displays of male tenderness toward children.  Probably
because she'd never had a dad, she figured, though God knew Sal Merino
had tried his hardest to fill that particular void.

The large backyard was as unruly as the front, choked with untrimmed
trees and shrubbery, as if the nearby woods were intent on reclaiming
it.  She looked toward the source of the racket and saw, about thirty
feet away, a squat paper birch studded with dry brown leaves.  Small
branches littered the ground at the foot of a folding ladder.

Someone stood behind a large lower limb, which began to separat from
the treat its base.  Th branch fell away and Kit stumbled to a stop,
gaping at Ray Whittaker.

Ray wore only cutoffs and held a rumbling chain saw in his right hand.
He stped back to study the tree, sparing her barely a glance as he
selected his next target.

"Doc's office is over there."  He gestured with the saw.  "The door
with the big sign on it."

She commanded herself to breathe.  The freckles were there, but not the
pockmarks.  Ray Whittaker probably hadn't worn his coppery hair in a
long ponytail like this young man, and he almost certainly didn't have
a tattoo of a hawk in fiiglt on his right biceps.

"I'm not looking for Noah.  I mean, I'm waiting for him to break for
lunch," she said.

This earned a second look.  His eyes flicked over her and returned to
the tree.  He was much younger than Ray, too, she now saw, with the
lean sleekly muscled build of an athletic youth.  Fine sawdust clung to
the light mat of russet hair on his chest.  She'd enjoyed quite a
rousing display of male flesh today, and it wasn't even noon.

The saw yowled to life and he began sever inga huge branch in front,
his biceps popping, the hawk twitching as he worked.

She ambled closer, shouting to be heard.  "Is the tree dead?"

He jerked at the sound of her voice so close just as the limb came
away.  "Look out!"

Kit yelped and darted to the side as the heavy limb crashed down right
where she'd been walking.  She didn' teed his sardonic smirk to feel
like an idiot, but it helped.

"Is the tree dead?  Is that what you asked?"

She gave a weak half laugh.  "Stupid question."  Kit waited for
sarcastic agreement, but none came.  With a wary glance at the
homicidal tree, she approached him, hand extended.  "I'm Kit Roarke."

He hefted the saw into his left hand and dried his right one on his
cutoffs.  "Bryan Carlisle."  His palm felt hot, callused and a little
sweaty despite the wipe-down, his grip firm.  He didn't return her
smile.

"Bryan.  Oh.  You're Bryan."  At least she wasn't losing her mind.
There was a reason for the resemblance to Ray.

Something clicked in behind his brown eyes then, something hard.
"What're you heard about me?"  The kid's no better than his
grandfather.  Leave it at that.  "Nothing."

"Bull."  He turned back toward the birch.  She'd failed some test, and
he was dismissing her.

"You're right, it's bull," she conceded, "but I don't think people
really want to know everything that's said about them."

His back to her, he ran his hand over the trunk of the dead tree,
flicking off curls of papery bark.  "It doesn't matter.  I know what
you heard."  He threw a grin over his shoulder, and it was Ray
Whittaker she saw at that moment, flipping steaks and sharinga joke
with the ladies.

"I got the bad genes."  Laughing, he turned and spread his arms in a
see-for-yourself gesture.  "I roll into town last year and the yokels
do, like, this giant double take.  It was Creature Feature time, man."
He gave his words a Boris Karloff spin, with wagging eyebrows.  "The
Evil One returns from the grave."

The chain saw roared for a second and Kit jumped with a yip she was
helpless to stifle.  She muttered a low curse.  "Very funny."

Apparently Bryan thought so, too, but his obvious self-consciousness
redeemed him.  He seemed to be laughing more at his juvenile sense of
humor that at her response to it.

Frenzied barking drew their attention to a large golden retriever
loping across the lawn from the direction of the screened-in porch,
with its built-in dog door.  The animal was headed straight for Kit,
whether to lick her face or tear out her jugular, she Couldn't say.
Bryan quickly moved to intercept him and grab his collar.  "Easy,
Max."

This could have been the set of Nightmare at the Kennel, she thought.
It was all there: a dog, a chain saw and a half-dressed, tattooed youth
with bad genes.

The instant Bryan released him, the beast was all over her, drool
spraying, tail swinging, warm dog breath in her face.  It was all she
could do to keep her balance.

"Max!  Get down!"  Bryan commanded, hauling him off her.  "Sit!"  Max
sat.  "Stay!"  With one eye on Bryan's admonishing finger, the dog
scooted toward Kit on his haunches, his tail rhythmically thwacking the
ground.  "Stay.t"

She backed up, and the dog scooted forward again, practically vibrating
in canine rapture.  Bryan seized his collar, and Kit petted him,
earning his slobbering gratitude.

"Where's your pride, man?"  Bryan asked him.  He turned to Kit.  "I
think he's in love.,"

Something live rocketed down a tree at the edge of the woods, cutting
short Max's slavering devotion.  He tore off into the trees.

"Well, at least he lasted longer than my last boyfriend," she
observed.

"Bryan!  I told you I'd give you a hand with that," Noah scolded from
the steps of the porch.  "Why didn't you wait for me?"

At the sound of his master's voice--that Georgia drawl so charmingly
out of place at this latitude--Max bounded out of the woods and charged
across' the lawn.  By this time

Noah had noticed Kit standing with Bryan.  His eyes were mostly on her
even as he knelt and roughhoused with Max for a few moments,
effortlessly wrestling the big animal to the ground as if he were a
puppy.

"I'm doing all right," Bryan answered.

She figured Noah was six foot two or three; that, along with a solid,
muscular build and masculine grace, plained his imposing presence.  He
started across the lawn toward them, Max at his heels.  "I can see
that," he said, "I just--"

"When I finish taking it down, I'll get rid of the brush and start
splitting up the logs."

Noah joined them and nodded politely to Kit before turning his
concerned gaze to the younger man.  She could see him taking in the
flushed face and incipient SUnburn.  "Knock off for a while' Bryan
Doctor's orders.  You've--"

"Save it, man."  The saw whined into high gear as he resumed his
work.

Noah's features tightened in frustration and he turned to Kit.  She
sensed he would have liked to push the issue but didn't want to
embarrass Bryan in front of her.  "I've gotta get back in there, but
I'll break for lunch in about twenty minutes."

"That's okay, Bryan and I have been having a real interesting chat."
Let'him chew on that, she thought, giving in to a wicked impulse to
tweak him a bit for withholding information from her.

A muscle in Noah's cheek twitched and his eyes cooled to a pale
greenish amber as they flicked from her to Bryan.  It struck her like a
slap.  He didn't want to leave them alone together!  Their private
tete-a-tete bugged the hell out of Noah, and she didn't know why.

Unless it was because he was afraid of what Bryan might tell her.  Of
what she might learn.  That possibility crawled up her spine with icy
little fingers and tickled her scalp.  She didn't care to speculate on
what it was Noah might not want her to learn.

"Well," she said, with a casualness she didn't feel.  "Don't let us
keep you.  I'll be here when you break for lunch ."  '

The saw idled in Bryan's hand and he glanced at the dog, now lying in
the shade of a nearby spruce.  "You know, my grandfather had a dog
named Max, too," he said.  At the sound of his name Max'raised his
head, and finding nothing more excing than three pairs of eyes staring
at him, let it drop again.  "And get this," Bryan continued.  "It was a
golden retriever!  Just like this guy.  That's something, huh?"

Kit thought so.  She turned to Noah to find his look of uneasiness had
hardened into something else.  Something... well, scary.  A cold-eyed
intensity that made those icy fingers tighten on her scalp and squeeze,
even as she told herself she was being silly.  He caught her eye then,
and something in her expression must have alerted him.  As she watched,
the muscles in his face relaxed, his heightened color returned to
normal and his eyes darkened fraction-ally.  All that in about five
seconds.

She blinked.  No.  It couldn't have been a conscious thing.  No one
could willfully control the size of his pupils, for heaven's sake!

Noah's smile was wide and genial as he said, "It was sort of a joke."

A joke?  "The dog's name?"  she asked.  "You did it deliberately?"

"Well, sure.  When I realized my new puppy was the same breed as the
dog that lived here thirty years ago, I gave him the same name."  He
shrugged, the smile still in place.  "Had to call him something,
right?"

"Guess so," Kit murmured, though she guessed nothing of the sort.
Admittedly, she didn't.  know him very well, yet

somehow Noah didn't seem like the kind of man to bring home a puppy
and give it another dog's name.

"I better get back in there before Jack Cantor decides to draw his own
blood sample."  Still smiling, Noah turned and ambled back to the
house.  '

"So."  She turned to Bryan.  "You do yard work for Noah."

"And anyone else that doesn't mind having their hedges trimmed by the
Bad Seed."  He looked around the neglected lawn.  "I should be able to
do something with this place before fall."

"How'd you get by during the winter?"

"I taught the tourists to ski at Stowe.  How come you're so nosy?"

She shrugged.  "I got the bad genes."

One side of his mouth curved up.  "It's the red hair."

"I prefer to think of it as chestnut.  It's more brown than red."  She
shared his lopsided grin.

"It's more red than brown.  It's really beautiful, too.  Wild, you
know?"  With his free hand he reached for the untamed thatch of
corkscrew curls that fell to her shoulder blades.  "How do you get it
to do that?"  Idly he pulled one long ringlet and watched it recoil as
he released it.

"How do I get it to do that?  After a couple of decades of battling the
stuff, I finally threw in the towel and let it have its own way, that's
how I get it to do that."

"I bet Noah can't keep his hands out of it."

The image invoked by Bryan's offhand comment swamped her senses in a
dizzying rush.  It took an effort of will to force her thoughts away
from Noah's long, warm fingers sliding through her hair, over her
scalp.  She gave a light chuckle as she felt her face burn, then said,
"It's not like that.  I only met Noah yesterday."

"Tourist?"

"No.  I'm a friend of Joanne Merino's."

Now it was Bryan who seemed to slam up against the unexpected.  His
eyes grew round and he suddenly looked about twelve.  Then his features
tightened and he looked away, his chest rising and falling rapidly.  He
glanced at the chain saw he still held, idling with a low rumble, as if
he'd never seen it before.

"I know you found her," she said gently.

He lifted his eyes to hers.  They looked weary, defeated.  He cleared
his throat.  "Listen, I gotta finish taking down this tree."

"We can talk while you work.  I promise to stay out of the way."  '

There was one more limb to remove, then the bifurcated trunk.  Bryan
swiftly.  dispatched the limb and pulled the ladder up to one of the
skewed boles.

Kit did some quick arithmetic as he climbed the ladder and began to lop
off the top two feet of the trunk.  The ripe green fragrance of the
nearby woods blended with the tang of fresh sawdust spraying from the
whining chain.  She shouted to be heard.  "You graduated high school
last year, so that makes you, what?  Nineteen?  Twenty?"

"Eighteen."  He kept his eyes on the chunk of tree as it thudded to the
ground.  The sun was nearly overhead, and his face and chest were
sheened with sweat.  "I skipped a year."  '

So he was smart.  She supposed it ran in the family.  What's a bright
kid like this doing mowing lawns and giving skiing lessons when he
should be in college?

"Your morn must've gotten married young," she said, remembering that
Henry told her Debbie was six when Ray died, making her thirty-eight
now.  Of course, there's young and then there's ridiculously young.
Kit's mother was only forty.

"Your nosy genes are showing," he said.  "I was an accident."

"Join the club."  He shot her a quick look.  Good.  She'd managed to
chip away a bit of that belligerent pride.  "Most of the world is an
accident, Bryan."

He descended two steps on the ladder and carved another hunk of tree.
She watched the play of muscle in his gleaming back and shoulders and
wondered if she was turning into a dirty old woman at twenty-six.  His
skin had taken as much of a tan as a redhead could expect, and was
beginning to turn pink on the high spots.  He let the log fall.  "Were
you and Jo friends?"  she asked.

He didn't answer right away, but his expression was eloquent. 
Painfully so.  Where Jo was concerned, this boy's emotions were close
to the surface.  Too close.

Good Lord.  Joanne had been ten years older than Bryan.  Kit hoped to
God her friend had exercised self-control, a rare commodity for Jo
under such circumstances.

"I thought we were friends," he said sullenly.

His answer surprised her till she realized what it probably meant: Jo
hadn't responded to his crush.  Perhaps her friend had finally begun to
develop a sense of propriety and good judgment.

You wouldn't approve.  He's not suitable.

Then again, perhaps she hadn't.

Bryan pulled a red bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his face,
then tied it around his forehead.  He continued cutting pieces from the
first trunk till he reached' the crotch of the tree.  The ground was
littered with the debris of the once-live thing he was methodically
dismantling.  He turned off the saw and set it on the ground, then
stretched his back to loosen the kinks.

With no tree parts crashing down around her, Kit felt safe approaching
him once more.  "Bryan, did you and Jo arrive at the treasurer's party
together?"  She held her breath.

He laughed.  "You think I was invited to that thing?"  He leaned
against what was left of the tree and said, "I crashed that sucker.
Grace Drummond has no use for me."

"Did you see Jo before she... ?  I mean, you know, did you speak with
her?"

"Tom Jordon asked me the same thing.  He's our police chief.  Have you
met him?"

"I've had the pleasure," she deadpanned.

Bryan grinned.  "Guy's a prime bozo, huh?"

At least Henry and Bryan agreed about something.  "Yes, indeed, and
he's not playing nice," she said.  "Won't share.  So, did you talk with
her?"

"I wanted to.  I wanted to ... explain some stuff, you know?  Clear the
air."  He started picking at the paper bark again.  "We'd had, like,
this fight.  A disagreement, I guess.

Anyway, she wouldn't talk to me."  "What did you argue about?"
"Betrayal."

His expression said, Don't ask, so she didn't, though it was killing
her.  '

"Did you notice who she was talking with.4"

He shrugged.  "The Drummonds, of course--Grace and AI.  Some of the
local bigwigs and the people Jo worked with..."

"Henry David?"

"King Henry, sure.  And his wife, Lady Nip and Tuck."  His eyes
narrowed.  "Gotta suck up to the boss man, right?"

So the hostility was mutual.  But Lady Nip and Tuck?  "I met Bettina
David this morning.  She looks like a natural beauty to me."

"She ought to.  She's spent enough of her daddy's money on the wonders
of modern medical science."  With both hands he stretched the skin of
his face back into a rictus intended, no doubt, to emulate the results
of cosmetic surgery.

"Her father's rich?"

He snorted.  "Carter Sheridan?  What do you think?  Ownsi like, this
humongous multinational conglomerate."

"Sheridan hair-care products?"  That Sheridan?"

"Bingo.  Plus he owns a few other little companies you might've heard
of.  Emerald Valley drink mixes.  Conti-Meeker Pharmaceutical.  Et
cetera, etcetera."

"Wow.  Talk about deep pockets.  Kind of a hodgepodge, though, huh?  I
mean, what do those companies have in common?"

He laughed.  "Chemicals."

Kit thought of the Davids' lavish life-style and absence of gainful
employment.  The pieces began to fit together.  "Henry could've done
worse than marry into that family," she observed.

"That's how he started that rag of his, the Citizen.  With the old
man's money.  A wedding gift, can you beat that?  Bettina asks, Daddy
gives."

Somethingabout that didn't sit right.  Then it came to her.

"Bryan, the Citizen was started the year after Anita died."  "Yeah,
so?"

"So ... so Henry couldn't have had Sheridan's money back then.  He
couldn't have been married to Bettina back then 'cause she would've
been... Let's see, she's about forty now."

Bryan's bark of laughter stopped her short.  Again he performed that
grotesque finger face-lift and announced,

"Bettina'll be fifty-two next month, Kit."

"No!"

"She was nineteen when she married Henry.  His first wife wasn't even
cold.  They'd been carrying on for, like, a year behind her back."  His
hatred was palpable.

"What do you have against Bettina?"  she asked.

"If it wasn't for that bitch, my grandfather would still be alive." '

Chapter Five

My grandfather would still

"Bryan, what are you saying?"

"I said it.  He'd still be alive."  There was a mulish set to his
features.

What could he mean, except maybe that if Bettina hadn't had an affair
with Henry, then Anita might' not have taken up with Ray, and Ray
wouldn't have killed her and--Good Lord, could it get more complicated?
"Bryan--"

"Forget it."  He picked up the saw.  "I shouldn't have said anything.
I'm not gonna say anything else till I have the proof.  Then I'll show
everyone."

Proof.  So the kid was conducting some sort of investigation of his
own.  Pratte had a sudden infestation of amateur sleuths.  Kit knew she
wouldn't get anywhere badgering Bryan for details, and decided to back
down gracefully.  For the moment.

He started to turn back to his work, and she stopped him with a hand on
his arm.  "Bryan, I need to know some things about how it was when you
found Jo."  She felt him stiffen.  "Can you tell me about it?"

The depth of emotion in his glittering eyes rocked her.  It might have
been anguish she saw, or loathing.  Maybe even

remorse.  Possibly some unholy mixture of all three.  He'd loved Jo,
she was pretty certain.  Had he hated her, too?  "No," he said.  "I
don't wanna talk about it."  "Please."  Her grip tightened.  "I loved
her, too, Bryan," she whispered.  "She was like a sister FOR me.
Closer.  I need ... I just need to hear it all."  She released him.  "I
know you hurt, but I hurt, too, and I need to hear it."  When he met
her eyes now, the world-weariness she saw shocked her.  His resemblance
to his grandfather was startling.  She saw his Adam's apple rise and
fall.  His eyes bore a suspicious sheen.  He cleared his throat and
fiddled with the chain on his saw.  "After Jo wouldn't talk to me, I
stuck around long enough to get half-cr eked.  I kinda... I guess I
kinda just hung around to ride her case, you know, like glare at her
and stuff from a distance when she was trying to talk to people.  Let
her see me getting sloshed.  You know.  Rattle her."  He shrugged, then
smirked at the memory.  "Real mature, huh?  Well, so anyway, I went to
snag one last beer, and that's when I lost sight of her."  "How long
had the party been going on at that point?"  Kit asked.  "Hour, maybe a
little more.  So I couldn't find her and I figure the hell with her,
I'm outta here, only I didn'Vwant to cut right through the party and
run into Grace Drummond, so I sorta skirted around the edge of the
lawn, through the trees.  That's when I found her."  He wouldn't meet
her eyes.  "She was on--" He swallowed convulsively.  "She was on the
ground, behind a bunch of these."  He slapped the birch trunk.  "No one
would've seen her from the party.  Which I guess was the point, huh?
And she wasn't... making a sound."  ^ shudder raced through Kit.  "But
she was conscious, right?"  According to Noah.

He took a deep breath.  "Yeah.  She was fighting hard to breathe,
turning, like, blue.  You could see she knew what was happening to
her."

"But she couldn't tell anyone who did it."

Along pause, then a whispered "No."

"Bryan."  She waited for him to look at her.  "Who do you think did
it?"

A subtle change came into his eyes.  He was staring at her but seeing
something or someone else, she knew.  Finally he said simply, "The same
one that did the first."

"The first?"  He couldn't mean the same person who killed... "Anita
David?"  She swallowed hard.  "Bryan, your grandfather murdered Anita
David."

His smile was one of gentle tolerance, and a shiver scuttled down her
spine.  "People ignore what's, like, right in front of their eyes when
it goes against what they think they know," he said.

Jo used to say the very same thing.  What was he trying to tell her?
That Ray Whittaker didn't murder Anita David?

Bryan powered up the chain saw.  "People are lazy, Kit.  Up here."  He
tapped his head.  "Afraid of new ideas when they think they know what's
what.  Afraid to shake up the status quo, you know?"

It was like running full speed into a wall.  The sick suspicion that
she'd never find the answers she needed, because she was asking all the
wrong questions.

"Bryan Why did you move to Pratte?"

He flashed a Ray Whittaker grin and said, "To shake up the status quo.
Why else?"

Max alerted them to his master's divine presence just then, and they
turned to see Noah crossing the lawn.

"So, what did you want to see me about?"  he asked, all business.



"Do you mind if we get out of the sun?  My Irish complexion has reached
its limit."  And I want to see Ray Whittaker swallpaper.

Noah stared unblinkingly just long enough to let her know he wasn't
fooled for an instant.  "Come on."  He turned and led the way back to
the house.  Max trotted along with them as far as the porch, then took
off toward his siesta spot again.  Noah opened the screen door and held
it so she could precede him.

"Does Bryan always drive himself like that?"  she asked.

"He's a hard worker, but he's really been overdoing it lately."

"Since Jo died?"  She glanced over her shoulder, and caught something
unguarded in his eyes before he shuttered them.  Somethingat once wary
and menacing.  Something that made her nape prickle.

"You two have yourselves a nice little con lab he asked.

She turned to face him squarely.  "Was Bryan in love with Joanne?"

The question didn't seem to surprise him.  "Yes."; "Was she in love
with him?"  "No."  Just like that.

Go for it, girl.  You're on a roll.  "Were they lovers?"

He smiled.  "That's so quaint.  I like that.  "Were they lovers?""

Somethingabout the way Noah said "lovers," wrapping that Southern silk
around each syllable, made her insides clench.  Way down low.  And that
irritated the hell out of her.

He moved around her to cross the slate-floored porch and hold open the
door to the house.  Walking through, she found herself in what looked
like a breakfast room, with a round, glass-topped table and caned
Breuer chairs.  Apparently not every furnishing dated from the
sixties.

He led her past the huge, old-fashioned kitchen into a parlor.
Threadbare Oriental rug, sofa and love seat, age darkened wainscoting,
and--she smiled--faded green floral wallpaper.  The room even smelled
old, underneath the lemon oil.  She waited as he crossed the room and
opened a door adjacent to his medical office.  He called to Alice.

"Would you bring Bryan a pitcher of something cold and some sunblock? I
think there's a tube in the blue bathroom."  He started to close the
door and turned back.  "And harass him fill he uses it, okay?"

Kit heard Alice's nicotine-rusted "No problem, Noah," and knew Bryan
didn't stand' a chance.  He'd probably be given a choice between
wearing that sunblock and eating it.

She followed him into the kitchen.  The glass-fronted cabinets were
knotty pine, the small black-and-white floor tiles worn and chipped,
but clean.  He opened the squat, rounded refrigerator and pulled out a
pizza box.

"Lunch around here isn't exactly haute cuisine," he said, detach inga
slice from the congealed, half-eaten pie, "but you're welcome to join
me."  He took a bite.

She patted her midsection and reminded him, "Etta's waffles."

He grunted.  Enough said.  "Free cholesterol test with every fill-up."
He pulled off a second slice, grabbed a paper napkin and led her out of
the kitchen and back to the roofed'in porch.  "It's too nice to stay
indoors.  Your complexion'll be safe out here."

She sat on a wrought-iron chair whose ornate curlicues were softened by
multiple layers of white enamel, while Noah settled himself on a
matching cushioned chaise that let him stretch out his long legs.  He
knew precisely what he was doing to her, the bastard.  He'd given her a
taste of the interior, but just that.  Kit was itching to explore.  She
just knew Jo wouldn't have been put off this easily.  But then, Jo had
her own methods.  Which led Kit to the next order of business.

"You didn't answer my question," she charged.

He paused mid bite his expression asking her to jog his memory.

She wasn't about to go through the "lover" thingagain.  "Were Jo and
Bryan sleeping together?"

"Sleeping?"

She itched to choke that impish twinkle out of his eyes.  "Were they
having sex, goddammit!"  She shot a quick look out to the lawn, but
apparently her outburst hadn't carried to Bryan's ears.

He shrugged.  "Beats me."

All that for a Beats me?  "So.  Jo didn't return Bryan's affection. 
And we don't know if they were lovers," she said defiantly.  "You wanna
know what I figure, I figure it's a good bet she had a thing going with
you."

There.  She'd said it.

He looked downright amused, damn him.  He swallowed his mouthful of
pizza and said, "Why didn't you ask me when we first met?  I know you
were thinking it."

"I did ask you when we first met."

"You asked if I knew who she was seeing.  That's not the same thing, is
it?"

She leaned forward, a surge of blood pressure lending bite to her
words.  "I'm trying to find out the most basic things about my friend's
life in this town, Noah, and you're sure as hell not making it any
easier for me.  So if you're through playing your little games, I could
use a straight answer."

His amusement evaporated.  "I don't date my patients, Kit."

""Date'?  What a quaint term for what we're talking about ."  '

His gaze snapped to her face, and she was irrationally pleased to see a
glimmer of respect in his eyes.

"And would you admit it if you had 'dated' Jo?"  she persisted.

He took his time answering, and she could tell he was giving the
qUeStiOn serious consideration.  "It would depend who asked, and why.
Since it's you who ask, and under these exceptional circumstances, I
would have to say yeS."

"Oh," was all she could think to say for long seconds.  Then she added,
"But lemme gueSs.  She wanted to."

He stared at her a long moment, then tossed the pizza onto the table,
his appetites apparently gone.  Kit wondered if the Southern gentleman
in him was hesitant to answer truthfully and besmirch a lady's
reputation.  "She wanted to, yes.  But for the wrong reasons."

Her breath caught.  How could he know Jo's reasons for getting close to
him, unless..."

This guy, he found out about the book .... The door to the house swung
open and Alice bulled through, carrying a sweaty-cold liter bottle of
root beer and a tube of SPF 30 sunblock.  She barely acknowledged them
on her way outside.  Kit and Noah watched Bryan's grateful acceptance
of the soda as he drank straight fromlhe bottle, and his grudging use
of the cream after Alice's hectoring.

Kit returned her attention to the porch, with the idle thought that
this patio furniture must have dated from Ray's tenure.  Then it came
to her.

"What's wrong?"  Noah asked, watching her face.  "Nothing, really. 
It's just that I recall seeing this table and a couple of these chairs
in one of those old snapshots Henry showed us this morning."  She
decided to get to the point.  "Why didn't you tell me about Ray when I
spoke to you yeSterday?"  Assuming Noah hadn't discovered Jo's real
reason for moving to Pratte, he couldn't know the significance of his
omission.

He watched Alice make her way back empty-handed, and thanked her as she
trudged through the porch and back into

the house.  Finally he answered, "I asked you to go home, Kit, to
leave this business alone, remember?"

"So you just decided I was better off not knowing about the parallel
murder.  Even after you'd agreed to help me!"  "Parallel?"  .

"An accurate term, I'd say.  Henry said you agree Jo was the victim of
a copycat killer."

"That would seem the only logical explanation."

She spent a few moments pondering this "logical" explanation.  "Am I
the only one who just doesn't get it?"  she asked.  "One of Grace
Drummond's guests, some well-respected member of the community,
suddenly takes a notion to duplicate the most notorious event in
Pratte's history?  After thirty-two years?"

Her gaze was drawn to Bryan, sitting on the tree stump drinking his
root beer.  What was it he'd said?  People ignore what's right in front
of the'tr eyes.  Was she still asking all the wrong questions?

"If that's the only logical explanation, may he we should start looking
for illogical ones," she said.  At Noah's curious look she added,
"Bryan said so was killed by the person who did the first murder."

He stiffened, his hazel eyes boring into hers.  She'd struck a nerve.
He slowly turned that cold gaze on the youth out side.  "Bryan has his
own agenda," he said.

No kidding.  "Which is... ?"

"I wish I knew," he murmured, still studying the boy.  "He's been
nosing around a lot since he came to Prate.  I figured he needed to
come to grips with his heritage."

His heritage.  "Must be a mind blower to learn you're descended from a
cold-blooded murderer.  Maybe he thinks his grandfather was
innocent."

Noah turned back to her.  "In that case he's in for a rude shock.  Ray
Whittaker's guilt is an indisputable fact."  His statement reflected
fierce conviction.

"Maybe 'he just needs to find that out for himself."

The interior door swung open and Alice stuck her head out.  "Noah,
Carol La Rosa's on the line.  She says her mother fell down some steps.
You better talk to her."

"Excuse me," he said to Kit, before hurrying through the door.

She sat for a minute Watching Bryan clearing brush from around the tree
stump, with Max supervising.  She wondered how long Noah would be
occupied with this phone call, and stare at the door through which he'd
disappeared.

Without letting herself reconsider, she rose and went into the house.
As she slipped past the parlor, she heard Noah's voice through the open
doorway to his office, patient but firm as he attenpted to extract
details from the agitated woman on the other end of the line.  "Take a
deep breath, Carol.  Sit down.  Is she bleeding at all?"

Silently Kit peered into a large living room, with the same stuffy,
time-worn dee or as the parlor.  She doubted Noah actually used either
room.  Ditto for the formal dining room with its humongous, gleaming
cherrywood table and ... two, four, six, eight... twenty chairs!

Down a short corridor was a smaller room that appeared to be a library
or study.  Here he'd clearly made his own mark, decades-old wallpaper
notwithstanding.  The southern exposure admitted plenty of sunshine
through large, latticed windows.  Ceiling-high Scandinavian-style blond
wood bookshelves occupied all wall space not claimed by windows or the
door.  In one corner was a cozy reading nook--armchair and cluttered
lamp table.

Here's where Noah lived.

It was as if he'd carved out his own private little enclave within the
hostile borders of another man's domain.  She had no business being
here.  It was Ray's environment she wanted to study, she reminded
herself as she tentatively stepped through the doorway.  Not Noah's.

She walked the perimeter of the room.  The contents of the bookshelves
reflected a Varied and voracious appetite for the written word:
hardcover bestsellers, beat-up paperbacks, books on history and
science.  Plenty of medical tomes, naturally, along with stacks of AMA
journals.  A book on transcendental meditation ought her eye, and she
pulled it out, remembering he'd tried to get Jo interested in TM.  The
pages were dog-eared, with stripes of yellow highlighting and notes
scribbled in the margins.  Malcolm wouldn't approve.

She tucked it back in place and ran her finger over its neighbors:
books on Buddhist and Hindu teachings, including the Bhagavad-Gita; a
study of the Cabala, Jewish mysticism; a book on Wicca, the ancient
Celtic witchcraft religion.  The next one stopped her in her tracks.
The Search for Bridey Murphy.  What was he doing with that!  As a young
girl, she'd been fascinated by this story of a woman's discovery of her
past life through regressive hypnosis.  Kit had outgrown her juvenile
interest in the paranormal about the time she'd tossed out her training
bra.

Her eyes wandered back over the books on philosophy and religion.  On
reflection, Bridey Murphy wasn't so out of place here.  From her
studies at Northwestern and her own readings, she knew that the concept
of reincarnation enjoyed widespread acceptance in Eastern religions and
in the ancient and obscure roots of Western religion.  Just as it
suffered nearly universal rejection by modern men of science.  Men like
Noah.

What was it he'd told Etta?  She must have been a saint in a former
life.  Good karma, he says I have.

She scanned the book titles as she began to retrace her steps toward
the door.  A good deal of space was devoted to medical books, which
didn't surprise her.  A family practitioner must be something of a
jack-of-all-trades.  She saw volumes on a multitude of specialties and
sub specialties She'd seen still more in his office, probably those he
con suited most frequently.

Poisons.

The word drew her eyes.  She didn't consciously reach for the book, but
found it in her hands nonetheless.  She flipped through the pages; it
was a scholarly directory of every known poison, including relative
toxicity, sources and properties.  She slid it back onto the shelf and
pulled out the one next to it, a physician's guide to diagnosis and
treatment of poisoning.  Before returning it to the shelf, she riffled
the pages, stopping where a slip of paper had been tucked into the
pages as a bookmark.

"Neuromuscular Blocking Agents."  That was 'the term Noah had used when
discussing Jo's death.  She scanned the pages.  Pavulon... Tubarine...
Norcuron.  He'd mentioned Norcuron, she recalled, as a curare
derivative used in medicine.

Well, he did say he'd done a little research into cur am after Jo's
death.  Of course, there was no mention here of Za-paros Indians or
blow darts.  She glanced at his makeshift bookmark--a cash register
receipt from the local five-and-dime.  He'd spent $3.12 on January
31.

She slapped the book closed, shoved it back on the shelf and left the
room, retracing her steps down the corridor.  January 31.

She stopped in her tracks.  Five months ago.  Either Noah had grabbed
an old receipt just lying around or... His interest in curare predated
Jo's demise.

She returned to the study, pulled out the book again and flipped open
to the bookmark.  The date was January 31, sure enough, two years ago!
This was a two-and-a-half-year-old receipt, for items purchased shortly
after he'd moved to

Pratte.  She checked the copyright page of the book--it was published
four years ago.

Kit shoved it back on the bookshelf with trembling fingers and pulled
out the other book on poisons.  If Noah had barreled into the room just
then, she'd neer have heard him over the pounding of her heart.  This
one was published seven years ago.  No bookmarks here, but a quick flip
through the pages bore fruit.  Yellow highlighting directed her
attention to two sections: true curare, under poisonous plants, and
curare derivatives like Norcuron, under medical poisons.  Noah had
marked various words and sentences dealing with such issues as
toxicity, symptoms and reaction times.  The rest of the book was
untouched.

She returned it to the shelf and quickly looked around, to make sure
she'd left everything as she'd found it, then quietly made her way back
through the house.  The door to Noah's office was closed, and her pulse
raced anew as she realized he'd finished his phone call.  She took a
deep breath and nonchalantly walked out onto the porch.

He wasn't there, and automatically her eyes scanned the lawn.  Bryan
was nowhere in sight, but Noah was there by the tree stump, hefting the
logs into a rough pile.  He looked up as she approached, and smiled,
but something in his eyes slowed her footsteps.

"The emergency get resolved?"  she asked.

"There was no emergency.  Carol overreacted.  I spoke to her morn--she
said her foot slipped on the last step and she landed on her
well-padded rump.  No harm done.  Where were you?"

"Bathroom."

"I assume you found the yellow one all right."

She hesitated.  Every instinct screamed, Trick question!  "Uh... I used
the blue one."  Where he'd told Alice to find the sunblock.  There
probably was no yellow bathroom!

"I hope the lack of running water in the blue bathroom didn't
inconvenience you.  We've had some plumbing problems there."

He looked at her expectantly, await inga response, the swine.  Plumbing
problems, huh?  Right then his smile took on a very Ray-like quality.
Just' for a split second.  Long enough to make her wonder if she was
imagining the murderer's face everywhere she turned.  When she got back
to the boardinghouse, would Malcolm have freckles and pockmarks?  Would
Etta be sporting a red wig and a hypodermic?

She had no hope of outmaneuvering Noah in the what-color-is-my-bathroom
game.  "Where's Bryan?"  she asked.

"In the barn--" he cocked his head toward an outbuilding at the rear of
the property "--getting an ax to split up this wood."  ,

She imagined Ray Whittaker's look-alike wielding an ax in one hand and
a chain saw in the other.

"Did I say something funny?"  he asked.

She bit back her smile.  "I'm just gettinga little giddy.  Must be the
sun," She started across the lawn, heading for her car--well, it was
her car now--and Noah walked with her.

"where to?"  he asked.

"The Pratte Public Library.  My chat with Henry showed me just how
ignorant I am about what happened here thirty-two years ago."

He didn't say anything until they'd reached the car.  "And here I
thought you were interested in the last eleven months--Jo's time in
Pratte."

She couldn't say, Jo's time in Pratte had more to do with what happened
thirty-two years ago than the past eleven months.  But then, could be
he already knew that.

"If Jo's death was some sick reenactment of Anita David's murder, then
it makes sense to.  look back thirty-two

years," she said, retrieving her car keys from the pocket of her baggy
pink jeans.  "For one thing, maybe I can find out why the killer
targeted Jo.  Did she and Anita have anything in common, for
instance."

Noah had the strangest look on his face.  A little sad, perhaps.  Or
resigned.  "Still looking for logical answers, Kit?"

She shrugged and opened the car door.  "Can't help it."  The
alternative was to buy in to Bryan's enigmatic mental meanderings, and
she wasn't that desperate.  Yet.

She slid behind the steering wheel, and Noah leaned on the open
doorframe.  "How can you be so sure Jo was targeted?  Maybe the
killer's so twisted, he just needed a victim--a surrogate Anita--and
she was... convenient."  "In the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Something like that."

"Ah, the triumph of absurdity over cold reason.  You're beginning to
sound like Bryan."

That seemed to amuse him.  He closed the car door.  "Good luck at the
library, Kit."

Chapter Six

Kit stared into the dresser drawer for a full minute without touching
anything.  Her clothes were all there--blue jeans and a couple of tops,
a nightgown and underwear.  Just as she'd left them.

Or were they?  liter nape prickled.  Slowly she reached toward the
drawer, and stopped herself, racking her brain.  Something was
different.

She lifted the neatly stacked T-shirts, and that's when it hit her. 
The neatness of the stack.  As opposed to.  how she'd left these items,
folded but askew when she'd quickly yanked out the clothes she was
wearing.  Kit wasn't a slob, but she wasn't exactly meticulous,
either.

Whoever had gone through her things was giving her too much credit.

Kit's breathing quickened as the impact hit her.  Someone had searched
this room.  Jo's frantic message replayed itself in her head.

Kit, someone broke into my room.  They ransacked it.t

Well, this wasn't exactly ransacking, and as far as she could tell,
nothing had been taken, but... Could she be mistaken?  She did a
slow-motion turn in place, peering at her surroundings, trying to
ascertain whether anything else had been touched.

The closet door was slightly ajar.  Had she left it like that?  Maybe.
Kit pulled open the door and looked at the skirt and blazer she'd hung
in the closet after clearing out Jo's things.  She raised her eyes to
her battered old green vinyl suitcase lying on the closet shelf, the
top edge just visible.  She hadn't pushed it so far back, she was
certain.  She yanked it out and opened it, glanced at the empty
interior, then dropped it.  No way to tell if it had been tampered
with.

It was' nearly dinnertime, and Kit had just returned to the
boardinghouse for the first time since breakfast.  Plenty of time for
someone to sneak in.  She had a good idea what the person had been
searching for, and it could fit almost anywhere.  Such as... She
stalked to the bed and tossed back the bedspread at the edge of the
mattress.  Was it her imagination or was the bed skirt bunched in
places--as if someone had knelt and shoved an arm between the mattress
and box spring, groping for something?  Like a three-and-a-half-inch
computer disk.

Damn.  Maybe she was losing her mind.

From downstairs came the sound of Etta's voice, welcoming Malcolm home
from work.

Etta.

Of course.  She allowed herself a tentative sigh of relief.  Etta must
have come in and straightened her clothing.  Maybe that's the sort of
thing boardinghouse landladies do, she reasoned.  Tidy the dresser
drawers.  Straighten the closet shelves.

And Etta had a key.  Not that the ineffectual little lock on the
bedroom door would discourage a determined prowler.  Ten secofids with
a hairpin could open any door in the place, Kit knew.

She went down to the kitchen.  Two other rooms had apparently been
occupied over the weekend, but now, at midweek, only she and Malcolm
remained.  Over roast chicken,

rice pilaf and spinach salad she thanked Etta for tidying up her room.
The landlady's look of bewilderment wasn't the response she'd been
hoping for.

"But didn't you--" Kit started.

"My guests' rooms, I don't bother with."  Etta gave a negligent wave of
her fork.  "You're on your own as far as that goes."

Kit didn't share her fears that her room had been searched.  Etta
didn't need any more stress, and what if Kit was mistaken?  She shook a
bottle of ranch dressing and decided to try a different tack.  "Did you
have any visitors today?"  she asked both Etta and Malcolm.

"I was at work today, at Fine Food," Malcolm said, caing the chicken.
"I didn't get home till five twenty-three."

Etta shrugged "People always pop in.  You know.  Everyone knows where
to find me on a day like this.  Out back,

I was.  Working on my roses and mulching the veggies."  "Who came by?
Anyone I might know?"

The landlady thought a moment.  "Did you meet Henry wife when you
talked to him this morning?

"Yeah, Bettina came in for a few minutes."

"Well, she called after lunch and said she wanted to see my peace
roses--she's thinking of putting some in on her property."

Kit remembered the elaborate gardens at the Davids' home.  "Does she
care for her own flowers?"

"I never thought so, but maybe she wants to start.  Or maybe she just
wants to know what to tell the gardener.  to put in.  Huh.  Me, I
couldn't afford a gardener, and even if I could, I wouldn't hire one.
Making things grow keeps me young."

Kit became aware of the aroma of new-mown grass drifting through the
screened windows.  "But you don't do the heavy work, do you?  Like
mowing and trimming bushes?"

"A coronary, I don't need.  That Carlisle boy comes once a week.
Bryan.

He does all that."

"Wednesday afternoons," Malcolm said.

So both Bettina David and the Bad Seed were here this afternoon.  She
took a deep breath, steeling herself, "Noah didn't happen to drop by,
did he?"

"No.  Why?"

Kit shrugged.  "Just curious."  She was relieved until it occurred to
her that anyone who knew that Etta was out back gardening could have
slipped into the house without her even knowing.  She had to wonder if
anyone in Pratte knew Jo had saved a computer disk of her book.  Or,
indeed, if anyone in Pratte even knew she was working on the book.

Not for the first time, she wished Jo had disclosed the location of the
backup disk she'd referred to in her message.  Kit didn't relish the
prospect of scouring Etta's garage and basement for it, but at this
point those were the only places she could think of.  She'd checked
with the local bank that afternoon--as well as those in neighboring
towns--and sure enough, none of them had any record of a Joanne Merino
rent inga safe-deposit box.

Earlier she'd spent a couple of hours at the Pratte Public Library,
researching the history of the Whittakers, and the Anita David murder
in particular.  Henry's account jibed with the public record.  It was
all there, in decades-old newspaper accounts: Anita's death, Ray's
arrest and his death duringa struggle with Henry.  Kit realized Jo must
have had copies of all those old newspaper articles, stolen along with
her computer, the hard copy of her book in progress 'and the rest of
her research notes.

After checking the banks, she'd gone to Wescott Community Hospital and
talked with the pharmacist there, Nina Shore, about curare.  Wescott
used the derivative Norcu-ron, Nina told her.  The usual procedure was
to start a patient with an injection from a vial, followed by a
regulated IV drip.  A respirator is used, naturally, as curare
paralyzes breathing.

When Kit questioned her about security, Nina assured her that access to
all medications was strictly controlled.  It simply wasn't possible for
the general public--including the more homicidal elements--to walk in
off the street and snatch their poison of choice.

She remembered the way Noah had put it.  It's not like your basic
psychopath can just waltz in and borrow some.  Of course, Noah was a
member of the medical staff at Wescott, Kit knew.  She assumed that
restricted access didn't apply to him.

Leaving the pharmacy, Kit passed a nurses' station.  A young male R.N.
was on the phone, discuss inga patient's postoperative care, and
referring to a folder open on the desk before him.  As she passed, Kit
noticed an open doorway behind the station, leading to a storage closet
of some sort.

Even from a distance, she could see shelves lined with small boxes. She
recognized the brand names bf various common analgesics, along with
other, less familiar drugs.  Clearly this was where prescribed
medications waited to be dispensed.

Her steps slowed as she approached the elevator.  Distractedly she
stabbed the Down button.

She knew precious little about hospital organization.  Was there a
medications closet on each patient floor, behind each nurses'
station?

She searched her memory for what Noah and Nina had both told her about
the medical use of curare.  A respirator is needed.  Where did they use
respirators?

The elevatorhrrived and an orderly stepped out, pushing an empty
wheelchair.  "Excuse me," Kit said.  "What floor is the Intensive Care
Unit on?"



His Secret icle

"Fourth."

She found herself taking the elevator up instead of down.  On the
fourth floor the I.C.U was easy to find.  She entered the area through
well-marked double doors, passing two R.N."s on their way out, clearly
leaving for the day.  The changing of the guard.

The unit was quiet.  She saw a few patients in the glass-enclosed
rooms, with a nurse tending to one of them.  Keeping out of sight, she
observed the nurses' station.  A mid-die-aged woman in white was at the
desk, putting away her purse, scanning paperwork, getting settled in.
She'd obviously just come on duty.

Kit watched for a couple of minutes, until the nurse left the desk and
entered a patient's room.

The station was deserted for the moment, as the new shift made their
rounds.  How long it would be empty was anyone's guess.

Silently Kit approached the desk, her eyes on the backs of the two
nurses as they monitored vital signs and saw to the gadgets and tubes
and other accoutrements of the I.C.U. She slipped behind the desk,
making a beeline for the open doorway to the same kind of medications
closet she'd seen on the second-floor hall.

On the shelves were various drugs, same as downstairs.  A rolling cart
sat under the shelves, with a multitude of tiny plastic drawers, each
labeled with a patient's name.  A small refrigerator held more vials,
she discovered.  And she saw a locked box, presumably for narcotics.

A large plastic bin sat on a shelf.  Kit peered inside and saw two IV
bags, with labels that had apparently been generated in the hospital
pharmacy.  One was filled with a nitroglycerin solution.

Wrong deadly substance, Kit thought with a wry smile She was looking
for poison, not explosives.  The other bag

was lying label side down.  Taped to it was a small drug vial, the
kind doctors use to fill a syringe.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, to peek out the doorway and
make sure she was alone.  She turned over the heavy bag and swallowed
the gasp that rose in her throat.

Norcuron.  There on the label, along with the name of the patient it
was intended for.  This bag contained one hundred milligrams in one
hundred cc of saline solution.  And here it was, just waiting to be
picked up.

Just waiting for that basic psychopath to waltz in and borrow some.

She crept out of the closet and around the nurses' desk just in time to
avoid another R.N. coming on duty.  First Noah's office files, she
reflected, then his home study, and now this.  If she e/,er decided to
give up teaching, she might make a passable prowler.  Kit Roarke. Sneak
thief.

Well, so much for security at Wescott community.  And so much for the
question of how the killer could have gotten hold of curare.  She'd
just proven that one of the most potent poisons known to man was
available to anyone with enough ingenuity--and motivation--to sneak
around this hospital.

It was the motivation part that kept Kit awake at night.  Why kill
Joanne Merino, after all?  Noah seemed to think she'd been the random
victim of a copycat killer.  If that was the case, the murderer might
never be found.  But if it wasn't random, then it must have had
something to do with Jo's book.  Jo had said she was afraid of the man
she was seeing--once he'd found out about the book.

Her friend had spent eleven months turning over rocks in this town.
What had she uncovered that was worth dying for?



"You SURE YOU DON'T HAVE something more pressing to do today?"  Kit
asked, opening the trunk of Noah's Cherokee and watching him toss in
two bulging garbage bags.

All of Jo's clothing was in these bags--all except for whatever Jo had
brought to the cleaners.  Kit remembered the pink dry cleaning ticket
she was carrying around in her purse.  One of these days she'd get
around to picking up the cleaning.  She knew why she was putting it
off.  She wasn't ready to see her dead friend's clothes freshly cleaned
and pressed, stuffed with tissue paper and shrouded in clear plastic
bags.  Just waiting for their owner to wear them.

"No problem, Kit.  I told you, this is my day off."  Noah shoved the
last bag into the trunk and slammed the door shut.  He crossed to the
driver's door as Kit settled in the passenger seat.  "And I told you
I'd help you out while you were in town."

"Well, still, you didn't have to come with me today.  But... I'm
grateful.  I wasn't looking forward to this."

As he pulled out of Etta's long driveway, he turned and met her gaze. I
know, his eyes seemed to say.  I want to make it easier for you.

"So," she said.  "This is a school for disturbed children we're going
to?"

"Emotionally disturbed, most of them.  From troubled backgrounds.  The
Powell School does a lot of fund-raising--like this rummage sale.  That
and a modest endowment from the founder are all that keep it afloat."

She watched his hands as he steered.  They were well muscled, long
fingered, tanned, with a dusting of blond hair on the baks.  These
hands had tossed those heavy birch logs as if they were kindling.  But
she also recalled peeking into his exam room and watching him give the
booster shot to his young patient.  As powerful as these hands were,
they were capable of great tenderness, too, she knew.

But then, Noah Stewart himself was a man of contradictions.  All Dixie
charm one moment; downright forbidding the next.  Warm and cold. Candid
and secretive.

Good and evil.

Kit shuddered and chafed the gooseflesh from her arms.  She wanted to
deny the undercurrent she'd sensed within this man.  The fleeting
glimpse she'd caught of something ... unholy.  A secret shadow
something--or some thing--as malevolent as an open wound.  But it was
there.  It all added up to one inescapable fact.

Noah Stewart; M.D."  was not what he seemed.

Which was why she hadn't told him about her room being searched.  If
she told him that, she might as well tell him about Joanne being robbed
the day she died.  But perhaps he already knew that.  Some man had
stood in Etta's kitchen with Jo when she'd made that last call to Kit's
answering machine--presumably the mystery man she'd been involved with.
Kit wanted to believe Noah's denial that he was that man, but...
Something kept her from trusting him.

After a twenty-minute drive, they arrived at he Powell School.  The
director, Hannah Aaronson, gratefully accepted her donation to their
rummage sale and showed them around the school, which was in the quiet
lull between the end of the spring session and the beginning of the
summer session.  When Hannah discovered Kit was a teacher, she became
animated, detailing their teaching philosophy and the progress they'd
made with their emotionally needy students.

Kit was impressed with the Powell School.  She couldn't help comparing
it to the Harrington Academy, the private school where she'd taught for
four years.  Harrington had the costliest state-of-the-art teaching
tools, from the latest politically correct textbooks and workbooks to
Pentium computer systems with CD-ROM.

Powell had well-worn supplies and old secondhand equipment, but it was
clear, as Kit gazed at the children's artwork and reports hanging on
the walls, and listened to the dedicated director, that they received
plenty of warmth and support from the staff.  She couldn't say that was
always true at Harrington, where the emphasis seemed to be split
he-twecn attracting well-heeled families and maintaining the highest
test scores and college admission rates.

Kit responded on a visceral level as Hannah told of Some of the
troubled children the school had worked with and helped.  She thought
of her own childhood, shared with a too-young mother incapable of
fulfilling--or even recognizing-her child's physical and emotional
needs.  She thought of the rage and desperation that drove her to run
away from that hell at age thirteen and move in with Joanne's family--a
move her mother, Irene, never contested.

She felt her chest tighten, and her throat constrict.  remembering Yes,
she could have used a place like the Powell School.

"I'm not going to beat around the bush," Hannah said as she led them
back to the parking lot.  "I want you to teach my fifth graders this
summer, Kit."

Kit skidded to a halt, gaping at the other woman.  Noah laughed at her
reaction.  Apparently Hannah had spent the past forty minutes
interviewing Kit for a job, with the inter-vicwcc none the wiser.  She
raised her palms as if to ward off the offer.  "Hannah, I'm not-"

"I know.  You're not in the market for a summer job, and I don't care.
I need a teacher, and I've been in this business long enough to judge
people pretty quickly.  Though I'll tell you right off the bat, I can't
pay much, not what you're used to."

Hannah smiled and gnawed her bottom lip as if searching for the right
words.  Kit felt as if the' older woman were peering into her past.
"This is fight, Kit," she said softly.  "A good match.  Tell me I'm
wrong."  "You're not wrong."  Kit felt her face grow warm.  She felt
irrationally exposed.  To Hannah--and to Noah.  As if the needy child
she once was were standing there in her stead.  "You're right--it's a
good match--but I'm leaving in a day or two.  Going back to Chicago."
She turned to look at Noah, seeking confirmation of her statement.  He
wanted her to leave, after all.  He'd said as much.  Go home.  Leave
the investigation to the authorities.  She wasn't prepared for what she
read in his expression.  Something suspiciously close to...
anticipation.  His lively hazel eyes searched hers for an answer. Those
thick, dark eyebrows rose fractionally.  Well?  they seemed to say. 
Will you stay?  "I,.."  She swallowed hard, and made herself look away.
She faced Hannah.  "I can't.  I'm sorry."  Chicago was where Kit
belonged.  It was where she'd made her life.  Pratte be,-longed to Jo.
Hannah accepted defeat more or less graciou ly.  "Well, think about it,
Kit.  If you change your mind, classes start on the twelfth.  There'll
be staff meetings the week before."  As they drove back toward town,
Kit surreptitiously studied Noah.  His expression, so open minutes
before, was now shuttered, revealing nothing.  "Why did I get the
feeling," she asked slowly, "that you wanted me to say yes to Hannah?"
He was silent a minute, his eyes on the road.  At last he said, "I kn w
you have to do what you came here for, Kit."  "But you want me to go
home."  He took a long, slow breath, his expression never changing.  "I
did.  Maybe I still do."  "You don't know?"  He gave a half laugh.
"You'd be amazed at what I don't know."

Kit let that enigmatic statement hang there.

"How'd it go at the library?"  he asked, breaking the silence.

She shrugged.  "I went through the old newspapers and the town history.
Maybe there's some way I can locate the police reports from thirty-two
years ago."

"I thought you were looking for similarities between the victims."

"Well... I am."  I'm looking for whatever Jo found that got her
killed.

After a long pause Noah said, "I have copies of all those old police
reports."

"What?  What are you doing with--" She stopped abruptly, not at all
sure she wanted to know the answer.

"And the old autopsy reports--from Anita and Ray.  I've got all of it.
It's sort of a... special interest, you might say.  I live in the man's
house, after all."

4nd you named your dog after his.  How far did the similarities go?

"I also have a ton of Ray's old photo albums, business papers, personal
correspondence ... even his grammar school notebooks, for God's sake.
His widow, Ruby, left it all in the attic when she moved."

"Why tell me?"  she asked.  "You know I'll just hound you till you let
me look at it."

"You don't have to hound me.  It's all yours.  After all, Bryan's
pawing through it.  Why not you?"

She hesitated only a moment before asking, "And Jo?  Did you let her
'paw through it'?"  Kit knew without asking that her friend would have
sniffed out Noah's cache of memorabilia in a heartbeat Nand done
whatever was nee-essary to get to it.

He took his eyes off the road for an instant, long enough to shoot her
a crooked smile.  "Now, what on earth would Jo want with a bunch of
musty old papers?  They have nothing to do with the Pratte Citizen.  Jo
wrote about things like park renovations and the annual town meeting.
You know that."  He was teasing her!  He knew all about that god damn
book!  ThiS guy, he found out about the book.  And... well, that's not
good.  Kit licked her suddenly dry lips.  "When did you find out?"
"When she got desperate."  Noah turned off the highway onto a twoqane
road leading into town.  "She held out as long as she could."  He
chuckled.  "It took her no time at all to figure out what kind of
goodies were entombed in the Whittaker attic.  I knew she wanted the
stuff, I just didn't know why."  "And that's when she came on to you,"
Kit guessed.  His smile disappeared.  "That's right."  "But you didn't
take advantage because of your high moral and ethical standards."  At
the moment she didn't care how bitchy she sounded.  Noah held all the
cards, and she sensed he'd share only the information that suited his
purpose.  Whatever that was.  He stopped for a red light, and turned to
look at her.  She almost regretted her big mouth.  This was the cold
Noah.  "I told you before, Kit, I don't date my patients.  And I don't
really give a damn whether you believe me or not."  He turned away from
her, waiting for the light to change.  Despite his protests, Kit sensed
that he did give a damn what she thought of him.  "I can't say I'm
surprised at her methods... knowing Jo like I did."  "She was..."  He
scowled, remembering the Jo they both knew.  "I don't think she had
such a healthy self-esteem."  "I guess it's safe to say that someone
willing to barter her body for a peek at some old papers suffers from
low self-esteem," Kit said.  She'd never deluded herself about Jo's
faults before, and she wasn't going to start now.  Her friend had been
a survivor, like Kit.  They had just chosen different survival
strategies.

At the green signal, Noah turned in the direction of his home, not
Etta's.  "When seduction didn't work," he said, "Jo tried honesty as a
last resort.  She told me about the book she was writing and swore me
to secrecy.  And I let her have full access to all that crap
upstairs."

After a few moments of silence he added, "I was Jo's friend, Kit.
Probably the only real friend she had here."

Kit couldn't speak around the sudden lump in her throat.  The simple
sincerity of Noah's words struck her like a hammer blow.  She laid her
hand over his on the steering wheel and let her touch say what her
voice couldn't.  Slowly he looked at her, his eyes dark and intense,
exposing more of himself than she'd ever seen.  At last she found her
voice, harsh and unsteady as it was.

"Jo needed a friend, Noah.  I'm glad she had you."

"THIS PLACE IS a gold mine."

Noah watched Kit thumb through an album of black-and-white snapshots,
pictures of the Whittakers and their friends and relatives.  She stood
between him and the lone window in the hot, stuffy attic room where
Ray's things were stored.  She was wearing that long, gauzy
oatmeal-colored dress again, same as earlier this wek, when he'd found
her plundering his office files.  Only this time she was backlit by
shafts of sunlight afro wing through the dingy windowpanes.

Remarkable thing, light, he mused, studying her.  It can make the
invisible visible--all those dust motes pirouetting around her like
snowflakes, for example--and turn an otherwise opaque dress
transparent.  At the very same time.

Remarkable.

He commended Kit's practicality in eschew inga slip on this warm day.
Such a sensible girl.

Reluctantly Noah crossed behind her to raise the window, knowing that
if he stood there much longer trying to read the label on her panties,
he'd only succeed in raising something else,

"Those boxes over there contain personal letters and business
correspondence," he said, grunting with the effort of budging the old
window.  "The ones behind them are mostly souvenirs and sucl, Debbie's
artwork, that sort of thing.  And over there--" he turned and pointed
to the cartons piled on the other side of the room "--are Ray's books.
Most of these boxes are labeled.  You'll find it's all pretty
organized."

She gazed around, clearly awed by the sheer volume of material
available to sift through.  Noah's attic consistl of three huge rooms,
and the largest was crammed with the Whittaker family's personal papers
and memorabilia, just as he'd promised.

"Those police and medical reports are in my study," he added.  "You can
look at them later."

"It would take me ... weeks to go through this stuff," she said,
squatting to open a cardboard carton filled with boxes of photographic
slides.

"Jo spent about seven months at it, actually."  He looked around for
the light box he'd lent her to view the slides.  Kit gaped up at him.
"Seven months?  Up here?"

"Two or three hours a day.  She needed to be meticulous, don't forget.
Her book demanded it.  She set up at this desk."  He indicated the
beat-up old oak desk and chair near the window, flanked by a
sixties-style floor lamp.

"You didn't let her take any of this out of here?"  "Only to use the
copier in my office--she wanted copies of some stuff to take back to
Etta's and study at her leisure."

Kit opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut again.  Go
ahead, 'he was tempted to tell her.  Say it.  All those photocopied
pages, along with her laptop, disks and everything else pertaining to
the book, are gone.  Stolen the day of her murder.  He knew the in teal
battle Kit was waging over whether to trust him with these details. She
didn't know how much he already knew, and it had to be killing her.

Kit was smart.  Too Smart for comfort.  If he let on that he knew about
the theft, it would take her about a nanosecond to figure out how he
knew.  And to link him with Jo's murder, snapping the fragile thread of
trust he sensed developing between them.

He cursed the insane impulse that had made him bring her up here.  He
should he trying to keep her in ignorance, dammit, not foster her
trust.  He propped a hip on the desk and watched her hold slides up to
the window, peering in ten fly at the tiny images.

What would happen to that trust when she found out he was responsible
for Jo's death?

Kit turned to him, smiling broadly.  "I'm going to be a real nuisance,
Noah.  Think you can stand to have me haunting your attic for a few
days?"

"You told Hannah you'd be leaving in a day or two."

"I know; but that was before..."  Her eyes swept her surroundings and
she shrugged.

"I told you, Kit.  My junk is your.  junk Of course, you may have to
share this space with Bryan on occasion--he's still poring over this
stuff.  But at least you won't have to sneak around anymore, or pretend
you were looking for the john."

Her gaze snapped to his.  Then she smiled crookedly.  "So tell me.  Is
there running water in the blue bathroom, or what?"

"Not a drop.  !  wouldn't lie."  He couldn't suppress a grin.  "I hope
you found something interesting for your trouble."

He could see her hesitation.  She tucked the slide she'd been examining
into its storage box, then looked at him directly and said, "I found
you have an impressive assortment of books."

That gave him pause.  Ah.  The books.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?"  she asked.

"Yes.  Do you?"

"No.  I figure it's wishful thinking."  She replaced the box of slides
in the cardboard carton and closed the top.  "An attempt to rationalize
away the finality of death."

"Haven't you ever had an unexplained memory?  Some talent or knowledge,
perhaps, that came out of nowhere?"

"Never.  And I must admit the last person I'd expect to believe in that
stuff is a doctor--a man of science."

"It's nothing that can't be explained scientifically, Kit.  Think about
it.  What'll happen to your energy when your physical body dies?"

She frowned.  "My energy?"

"Your life force.  Personality.  Your soul, if you will.  That's what
it is, in essence--an energy field.  Where will it go?"

"Well, it'll ... go somewhere else.  Becomes another form of energy, I
guess."

"Because..."  he prompted.

"Because energy can't be created or destroyed."  "Right.  It's
indestructible.  It can be transformed, as you said--changed into other
types of power.  But it never dissipates entirely."

She gave him a wry smile.  "The man of science twisting the laws of
physics to serve his own--"

"Wishful thinking?"  He grinned, not expecting her to believe.

She crossed the room to stand in front of him.  He was still half
sitting on the edge of the desk, and they were practically
eye-to-eye.

"So tell me, who was Dr.  Stewart in his last life?"  she asked.

She was so near, the fresh, sweet scent of her hair floated over him
like a veil.  If she took one more step, she'd be bracketed by his
thighs.  He stared at her brown eyes and watched the ring of golden
highlights change shape as her pupils widened.

The urge to touch her was overpowering.  Noah struggled to control his
response to her, to govern his breathing and heart rate in the way that
had become second nature over the years--his techniques for keeping Ray
from emerging.

Kit was studying his face, her expression attesting to the conflicting
emotions warring within her, her warm brown gaze like a caress on his
brow, his jaw and chin.  His eyes.

He'd learned long ago how to maintain his hard-won control when he was
with a woman.  It was a skill he'd mastered, of necessity, along with
all the others.  He knew how to look, touch, want... how to drive his
need into a woman's body and spill it in a blinding torrent of physical
re While never once relinquishing his precious control.

So why couldn't he simply look into this woman's eyes without feeling
the untamed part of him rattling its cage?

"Who were you, Noah?"  she whispered, leaning forward with a teasing
smile, her warm breath tickling his lips and stealing inside him to
turn the key of the cage.

The thing he'd been in his last life wrapped its arms around her and
crushed her to him, seizing her head in his long fingers to tilt it
back.  In the instant before he brought his mouth down on hers, he saw
her passion-darkened eyes widen in fear.

But it was too late.

1u'/

Noah no longer knew where he ended and Ray began.  He didn't know who
was ravaging Kit's mouth with this brutal kiss, and he didn't care.
Because he wanted her as badly as Ray did.

She was stiff in his arms at first, from shock and fright.  A whimper
escaped against his mouth.  She'd seen something in his eyes in that
last instant, he knew.  Something that had nothing to do with Noah
Stewart, M.D.

The feel of her lips crushed under his sent a shudder of raw desire
ripping through' him He invaded her mouth with his tongue, appsing his
primal need to be inside her.

Kit felt Noah's strong, demanding tongue slide deep within, exploring
the sensitive interior of her mouth... touching, stroking, tasting.
Claiming her.  The primitive rhythm he set urged her to surrender, to
abandon her fears.

For a few shot moments she relaxed against him, drunk with the savage
eroticism of his kiss.  For a few short moments she gave in to his
unrestrained hunger and her own repressed desire.  She clung to his
shirt, savored his fierce possession, felt its heat shoot to the
deepest, neediest part of her.

Stunned by her own response, she tried to break away, pushing on his
chest, arching her back.  Still perched on the edge of the desk, he
clamped his legs around her hips, pinning her between his thighs.  She
felt his strong fingers tighten against her scalp as he intensified the
kiss.  Finally, in one violent motion, she managed to twist her head to
the side.

"Noah./" she gasped.  "Please ... you're scaring me."  She despised the
pleading tone in her voice.  She'd never felt so helpless.  "Don't do
this.  Please," she whispered.

He became very still, and she turned to look at his face, inches from
hers.  What she saw rocked her to her toes.  She'd never met this
man.

Good Lord.  Wasn't that what Henry David had said?  HIS face, his
eyes... It was like I'd never met this guy.

He was breathing hard, his expression at once fierce and clouded with
uncertainty, as if some battle were being waged within him.  Beneath
her palms pressed to his chest she felt the violent hammering of his
heart.  Tentatively, as if he were trying to make sense of his own
actions, he looked down at his arms, at his legs, still imprisoning
her.  His hold began to relax.  He stared at her disheveled hair and
slowly untangled his long fingers from it.

He swallowed hard and turned to stare out the window, his features
tight with shame and regret He was trembling.  When he spoke at last,
his voice was hoarse.  "I'd never let him hurt you, Kit."

His arms fell away and she stepped back, still reeling from their kiss,
her body still throbbing with need.

Without looking at her, he pushed off the desk and crossed the room in
three seconds, pounding down the stairs.  She heard his footsteps on
the next flight down and then the sound of the front door slamming.

She stood at the window and watched him jump into the Cherokee, his
movements stiff and agitated.  Max leapt around the Jeep, barking
excitedly.

"Sorry, boy," Kit murmured from two flights up.  "Your master's not in
the mood for company."

Tires spitting gravel, the car disappeared down the tree-lined
driveway.

Chapter Seven

I got closer last night.  Noah mentally corrected himself.  Ray got
closer.  For the sake of his sanity, he had to distance himself.  But
how do you distance yourself from something that's as much a part of
you as your ee color?  He watched the townsfolk milling around eating,
chatting... enjoying the annual Fourth of July barbecue on the grounds
of the town church.  It was after eight o'clock, but there was still
nearly an hour of light left.  He found an isolated spot in the shade
of an ash tree and scanned the swelling crowd, awaiting Kit's arrival.
Last night had been rough.  He'd slammed awake at 3:00 a.m."  gasping
and drenched in sweat.  Ray's memories always came to him in the dead
middle of the night, scrolling through his mind like some demented
horror film he was helpless to turn off.  It was as if Ray were
purposely forcing the memories on him... the brutal details of the
thing he'd done three decades ago.  And each time the dream came, he
saw more of it than he had the time before--the next installment, so to
speak.  The scenario had been advancing at an alarming rate since he'd
met Kit.  He used to have the dream three or four times a year," but in
the eight days since her arrival, he'd had it every god damn night.

And each time Ray got closer to killing Anita.

Noah refused to witness that.  Refused to feel himself doing that
terrible thing to Anita David.  Through sheer force of will he'd
managed to shake himself aake each time, before the final act could
play itself out.  Unfortunately, the thing inside him seemed just as
determined to see it through to the gruesome end.  It amounted to a
bizarre clash of wills between his own subconscious and the restless
soul of a man who'd gone to his grave before Noah was born.

And the restless soul appeared to be winning.

This battle had been joined two and a half years ago when, as a young
family practitioner, he'd given in to wanderlust and followed his gut
instinct--for that's what it seemed at the time--to a tiny hamlet
tucked into the Green Mountains.  Pratte, Vermont.  Ensconced in Ray
Whittaker's town--in his very home--he'd finally put the pieces
together and figured out what had been happening inside him his entire
adult life.  Or, more accurately, who had been happening inside him.

Last night, in his dream, Ray had gotten the now familiar call from a
desperate Anita David.  Ray.t Help met I can't breathe--Ican't-And he'd
bolted out of the house with his medical bag, driven fast through the
dark thinking about the fight on TV and his anticipated winnings from
Henry.  He squealed to a stop in front of the Davids' house and jumped
out of the Fairlane practically before the engine was off.

That part got to Noah.  Imagine being in that much of a hurry to do
what he'd come to do.

He found her in the kitchen, hunched on the floor near the wall phone.
She wore a powder blue nightgown and one satin bedroom slipper.  The
other lay near her, obviously kicked off in her agitation, her struggle
to breathe.  The kitchen was spotless, the way she always kept it,
except for the remains of a sandwich on the table.  Anita always had a
late-night snack before retiring.  That was one of the things he'd
learned about her during their short affair.

Ray was used to these emergencies, when Anita, SeVerely asthmatic as a
result of allergies, would need a shot of epinephrine to help her
breathe.  But he'd never seen her like this.  Her face, neck and chest
were scarlet and her lips were swollen with a violent'histaminic
reaction that he knew affected her bronchia, as well.  The tubes in her
lungs were constricted and filling with mucus.  The only sound in the
room was her strangled wheezing.

She looked up at him.  Any relief she felt at his arrival was eclipsed
by the raw terror he saw in her eyes.  "Ray..."  she croaked.

Anita disgusted Ray.  She had almost from the moment he'd finally
succeeded in wearing down her defenses.  It had been an, exhilarating
game, seducing his best friend's wife, exhilarating and dangerous,
knowing Henry's temper.  Ray had used every trick in the book on the
tediously faithful Anita.  None of his usual smooth lines had worked,
so finally he'd let slip how her husband had been messing around behind
her back.  After that, it had simply beer/a matter of playing the
understanding friend, giving her a shoulder to cry on and a sympathetic
ear.  The rest had been laughably easy.

Now she stared up at him with those panic-stricken eyes, and he could
barely restrain the urge to slap her.  He was bored with her, bored
with her emotional neediness and the physical debility that yanked him
out of his warm bed in the middle of the night.  With a voluptuous body
like hers, she should have been dynamite between the sheets, but the
woman was too preoccupied with sobbing out her undying love to give him
the kind of tumble he'd expected from her.  It was time to end it.

Ray opened his bag as he knelt by her.  I'm here, honey, Don't worry.
It'll all be over soon..  :.



Noah had awoken then, his ears filled with the harsh sound of his
ragged breathing, his eyes filled with the familiar sight of his own
bedroom in the semidark.  Ray's bedroom.

He couldn't do anything about the reclining dream, but at least he'd
mastered his mind and body enough to keep Ray from emerging while he
was awake.  The only exceptions were times of extreme physical
weakness--exhaustion or illness, usually.

Thirty-six-hour shifts as a medical resident had been a challenge, but
nothing compared to the fatigue he'd experienced the day after Andy
Kramer's bike accident, when he'd finally dragged his weary butt out of
Wescott Community and a marathon session at the boy's bedside.  That
was the day of Grace Drummond's garden party.  The day Jo died.

He didn't remember anything about the party until Henry found him in
the solarium.  All alone, drinking the tma sumr's Glenfiddich.  And he
needed to remember.

He had to know.

Noah wished Paul Kerrigan hadn't gone on that damn sabbatical.  Here he
was, at last willing to be hypnotized--to get his answers--and his old
friend was climbing mountains in Alaska or some such thing.  Come home,
Paul.  I need you.

He continually scanned the crowd for that gorgeous, unruly mop of
chestnut corkscrew curls.  He smiled, recalling the disdain with which
he'd first regarded Kifs "city" look.  His smile faded as he thought of
untangling his fingers from those silky strands four days ago, in his
attic.  He'd frightened her then, and he'd frightened himself.

The experience forced him to add one more element to the list of things
that made him lose control of the evil thing inside him.  Exhaustion.
Illness.

Kit.

He'd returned to the house after an aimless two-hour drive to find her
gone, and in her place a note stating that she'd called a taxi to take
her back to Etta's, and would return the next morning.  He was
irrationally relieved, when he knew he should have wished that he'd
scared her off for good.

In the days s'nice, she'd been a constant fixture in his home, sifting
through Ray's belongings several hours each day.  Noah had taken pains
to be hospitable and accommodating.

And to keep her at arm's length.

They shared meals, long walks with Max and longer gab sessions on the
back porch over iced tea and Oreos.  When he could spare a few minutes
from his practice, he'd occasionally join her in the attic to help sort
through all the junk she seemed in ten on studying.

Too quickly he'd come to look forward to her easy companionship-feeling
let down when she departed each day--and that disturbed him.  He had to
remind himself of the reason he'd never permitted himself a serious
lationship with a woman.

And God knew he couldn't let himself get close to this, of all women.
For her safety as well as his own.

As for Kit, she'd acted skittish when she'd returned the next
morning--all right, downright jumpy--but had soon seemed at ease in his
company once more.

And never once had either of them broached the subject of The Kiss.

Suddenly he spied her through the crowd.  He noticed the outrageous
hair first, of course, and when she tossed it back, a welcome surprise:
a pair of elegant, beautifully shaped shoulders, bared by the wide
drawstring neckline of her short-sleeved white peasant top.  Completing
the outfit was a red denim miniskirt and sexy strappy sandals.  This
was the most stirring view he'd encountered since moving to

Vermont, and he took a few long moments just to soak it in before
making his way toward her.

She was talking to Henry and Bettina David, and all three held cans of
soda.  Long tables had been set up at the perimeter of the churchyard,
laden with fobd and drink.  The sharp smell of smoldering charcoal
tinged with lighter fluid wafted on the breeze.

"no choice but to work two jobs while I was in college," Henry was
saying.  "Took me two extra years to get my journalism degree, but at
least I didn't owe one red cent when I was through.  Not like the kids
nowadays.  Sponging off the government."  He nodded to Noah in
greeting.

Noah said, "Hey, don't look at me.  I just sponged off my folks to get
through school.  Though I must admit your Horatio Algeresque youth is
damn inspirational, Henry."  Of course, he doubted any of Alger's
stories ever involved marrying inW beaucoup bucks.  He flashed Kit a
warm smile, which she returned in kind.

Henry turned to Kit.  "I bet you were in the same boat, huh, Kit?
Working your way through school?"

"I waitressed nights and weekends," she confirmed.  "But I couldn't
have scraped by without student aid and a small scholarship.  I never
thought of it as sponghag, though."  Her smile was polite but
pointed.

Bettina sidled playfully up to Noah.  "You and I have to stick together
in this, Noah.  We're being made.  out as hopelessly decadent because
our families could afford to send us to college."

"Bettina likes to come off as the pampered little princess," Henry said
with a proud smile, "but I want you to know she worked part-time while
she was in college.  Until we were married, that is."

She laughed lightly.  "And I would-never have lifted a finger if my
father hadn't forced me to take the job.  To build my character, he
said."

"Where did you work, Bettina?"  Kit asked.  "Conti-Meeker, one of my
father's companies."  "How's that fine retriever of yours, Noah?" 
Henry asked, snaking an arm around his wife's shoulder and tugging her
close.

"Max?"  Noah took a moment to mentally switch gears.  "Oh, he's hale
and hearty, as always.  Except he spends too much time in the woods,
picking up six-legged house-guests."

"I warned ygu about that when you moved here with him," Henry said.
"Told you to build a dog run, if you recall."

Noah noticed Kit's hand slow as she raised her drink to her lips.  Her
pensive eyes locked with his.  He'd known it was too much to, hope she
wouldn't notice Henry's offhand remark--her mind was too quick.

"You had Max before you moved to Pratte?"  she asked bluntly.

"That's right," he admitted.  As opposed to what he'd let her believe
last week--that he'd acquired him after moving here, and named him for
Ray's dog.  Max had been Max long before he ever heard the name Ray
Whittaker.

Noah felt a firm hand on his shoulder.  He turned to see Grace, paper
cup in hand, bureaucratic smile firmly installed.  She was tall, silver
haired and, as always, impeccably attired, in a summery linen dress.

"Noah!  Get yourself a beer.  There's a keg of Mary Rafferty's home
brew over by Socrates."

Kit's brow knit.  "Socrates?"

Henry explained.  "That big old weeping willow near the entrance to the
graveyard."

"Mary made a nice dark ale this time," Grace said.  To Noah she added,
"It's not Glenfiddich, Doc, but I think you should be able to choke
down a pint or two."

Kit seemed to tense, ever so slightly, and shot a strange look at Noah.
His scalp prickled.  He tried to find some significance in what Grace
had said, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure it out.
Oblivious, Grace eyed Henry's soda 'an.  "Diet Coke?  What's wrong with
you two?  Get yourself a beer, Henry!"  Apparently the women were
exempt from the treasurer's pugnacious brand of hospitality.  A muSCle
ticked in Henry's cheek.  If Noah could have thought up a socially
acceptable way to tell Grace to can it, he would have.  Bettina spoke
up, her voice flat.  "Henry's fine, Grace."  Grace half smiled at
Bettina, as if itching to get into a verbal tussle with her.  These two
had had more than a few go-arounds, Noah knew.  Henry blustered, I'll1
try some later, Gracie."  He lifted his cup in a mock salute.  "After
this."  Noah wondered how long Henry would persist in trying to keep up
appearances.  In years past, he'd tossed back more than his share of
anything alcoholic The town M.D. was probably the only person aside
from Bettina who knew why he'd stopped drinking.  Henry was just too
damn macho to make it public.  "I don't think you've met Kit Roarke,
Grace," Noah said.  "Joanne Merino's friend from Chicago."  Grace
extended her hand, and Kit shook it.  "I heard you were here, Kit." She
smiled.  "No one escapes small-town gossip.  I hope everyone's been
cooperative in helping you... settle Joanne's affairs."  "Everyone's
been super."  "It was a terrible tragedy," Grace said.  "I called Mr.
Merino and told him how sorry we all are."  Henry and Bettina assumed
suitably sober expressions.  Noah didn't miss the silent exchange
between them: Time to move on.  Now they'd be looking for an opening to
do just that.

Kit's pleasant expression seemed forced.  "I'm sure Sal appreciated
that."

Grace said, "I probably won't see you again, so--" "Oh, I'll be in
Pratte all summer," Kit interrupted, and seemed gratified at the
universally wide-eyed response her announcement drew.  She met Noah's
gaze, and he knew his reaction was the one she cared about.  He
wondered if her sharp eyes detected the niggling sense of foreboding
behind his smile.  '

Henry and Bettina's unshuttered gazes collided like runaway
locomotives.  For a split second only, before both directed their eyes
to their.  drinks--just long enough for Noah to wonder if he'd imagined
their distress.

Kit explainec[, "I've been offered a teaching position at the Powell
School--just for the summer--and I've decided to accept it."

"Well."  Grace quickly regained her magisterial aplomb.  "I hope you
enjoy your stay here, Kit."

Bettina made a show of waving to someone across the lawn.  "Oh, there's
Larry, Henry's new reporter.  Let's go make him welcome, shall we,
love?"

When they'd gone, Kit asked the treasurer, "Did you know so at all,
Grace?"

"Oh, sure, I saw her all the time at the health club.  V Noah could
tell by Kit's little smile that she was recalling his assessment of
Valkyrie's high-powered clientele.  She looked the treasurer in the
eye.  "Did you like Jo?"

Grace hesitated briefly, her intelligent green eyes studying the
younger woman.  Something she saw made her admit, "yOur friend and I
didn't see eye-to-eye on many issues, Kit."

"Issues related to her articles in the Citizen?"

"That, yes, and... other things.",

"Such as.,. ?"  Kit persisted.

Grace stared at her a moment, then looked at Noah, and back at Kit.  "I
suppose you know the real reason Joanne came to Pratte."

Kit seemed to come to attention at that.

"And you're surprised I do."  Grace smiled.  She looked pointedly at
Noah.

"It's okay," Kit murmured.  "He knows."  He knew she must be wondering
if there was anyone in Pratte who didn't know about Jo's book.

The treasurer was blunt.  "I didn't like her coming here to stir up
trouble and make the whole mess public again, and I told her so."

"When was this?"  Kit asked.

Grace sighed.  "The day before she died.  At Valkyrie.  I felt I had to
try and stop her.  You don't know what a sensationalist book like that
could do to Pratte."

"The tourist industry," Kit said.

The treasurer bristled.  "Yes.  Some of us have worked damn hard to
make this town thrive, and I'm not ashamed of the tourism dollars we
attract.  Could you imagine what would happen if that book got
published and those trashy TV magazines and movie-of-the-week people
latched on to it?"

Noah said, "I suppose that would depend on what kind of spin she gave
the story.  You know, if she came to any interesting conclusions."

Grace closed her eyes briefly, as if seeking divine guidance.  "Good
God, that case was laid to rest thirty-two years ago!  If it weren't
for this true-crime craze nowadays, Joanne wouldn't have bothered with
us at all.  She was trying to squeeze some excitement out of a non
story No one's ever disputed Ray Whittaker's guilt.  He even
confessed!"

"Only to Henry David," Kit said.

That was true enough.  Henry claimed Ray confessed to him, but Ray had
officially protested his innocence, vcn when they exhumed Anita and
found curare in her body.  Noah could see how an outsider, looking back
thr ades later, might call into question Ray's guilt.  Only Noah knew
for certain what the rest of the townsfolk corrtly surmised: Ray
Whittaker was guilty as sin.

"What does that mean, 'only to Henry'?"  Grace demanded incredulously.
"Who did Jo think murdered Anita David?"

"I don't know," Kit admitted.

"No one knows," Noah minded the treasurer.  "You heard what happened,
Grace.  Jo's computer was stolen, and all her notes."  Grace nodded.

"Honestly, I don't think she was trying to rewrite history," Kit prot
ted "She knew Ray killed Anita.  I think she just wanted to tell their
story.  She wanted to get all the facts straight and write a great
true-crime book.  That's all.  She wasn't looking to jazz up the story
by pinning' the murder on someone else."

Somehow, to Noah, Kit's words lacked corfviction.  He didn't think she
believed them.  He could have told her she had good reason not to.

Grace sighed.  "Well, I suppose we'll never know exactly what she had
in mind, will we?"  Her voice softened, and she laid a hand on Kit's
forearm.  "Don't get me wrong, Kit.  I'm horrified at what happened to
Joanne.  But I'd be lying if I said I'm sorry that book will never get
written."

Kit nodded tightly and moved out of the treasurer's light grasp.  "How
did you find out about it, anyway?"

"Oh.  Well, Joanne was very clever at quietly digging up the dirt she
was looking for.  But you've got to understand, I'm like the hub of the
wheel in this town," Grace said proudly.  "I know everything that goes
on.  I caught wind of how she was snooping around, and I confronted
her."

"At the health club," Kit said.

"Right.  After the locker room had emptied out.  Or at least, I thought
it had," Grace said, shooting an icy glare across the lawn to where the
Davids chatted with a young couple.  "As I left, I noticed Bettina
David's reflection in a mirror.  She was behind a row of lockers,
eavesdropping the whole time!  I just prayed she wouldn't blab it
around town about the book, but it would seem she's kept her mouth
shut.  Thank God."

If Bettina knew about the book, then chances were Henry did, too,
though he certainly hadn't let on when Noah and Kit had spoken to him
at his home.  Suddenly Kit looked pale and weary, the way she had the
first day he met her--as if she'd rather be anywhere else than here,
listening to Pratte's town treasurer yarn met about how fortunate it
was that her dead friend's labor of love would never see the light of
day.  He took her arm.

"Sorry, Grace, but I promised this lady a tour of the cemetery.  Before
it gets dark."  He shuddered dramatically, and Kit managed a weak
smile.  In the western sky a froth of clouds hovered over the distant
hills, their undersides stained shrimp pink by the setting sun.

"Well, don't go too far," Grace warned over her shoulder as she
sauntered off.  "You don't want to miss the fireworks."

He escorted Kit across the lawn and past Socrates, the venerable old
weeping willow, where a crowd congregated around the beer keg placed
under its drooping branches.  They continued past the squat stone fence
into the cemetery.  Timeworn stone markers cast long shadows on the
well-tended grounds.

"Thanks," she murmured.

Her quiet melancholy moved him, laying waste to his defenses, and he
did what he'd avoided doing the past three days.  He touched her,
sliding his arm around her back, as if his warmth and strength could
somehow seep into her and help ease her burdens.  "Tact isn't Grace's
strong suit," he said ..

"I noticed.  I think Henry did, too."

"Henry?"

"When she was badgering him about having a beer.  It reminded me of the
other day, when we were at his place and he made such a show of
offering me Cuervo for breakfast."

"While he had a diet soda."

"Right.  What is he, a recovering alcoholic

"Good guess, but you're off.  Actually, I don't think alcoholism would
bother Henry--at least, it wouldn't clash with his macho self-image."

When he didn't elaborate she said, "So?  What's wrong with him?"

"Kit, the man's my patient.  I can't discuss--" "Diabetic?"  she asked,
her sharp eyes gauging his reaction before he could hide it.  "I
thought so."  She nodded.  "I figured it was one or the other."

He smirked and squeezed her shoulder affectionately, her skin like
sun-warmed silk under his fingers.  "So much for doctor-patient
confidences."

They strolled in silence for a while, idly examining the older
headstones, those from the last century and earlier.  Only one other
person had had the same idea.  Malcolm stood smack-dab on a grave,
staring at the headstone, smoking and jangling the change in his
pocket.  He looked up as they approached.

"Hello, Kathleen.  Hello, Dr.  Stewart."  If he was surprised to see
them strolling together so intimately, he gave no indication.

Noah looked down at Kit and mouthed Kathleen?  She answered with a
don't-ask smile.  Malcolm gestured with his cigarette toward the stone
he'd been studying.  Noah

watched Kit's eyes widen as she read the name engraved there.

Malcolm said, "Dr.  Whittaker was thirty-six years, eleven months and
thirty days old when he died."

A long moment later Kit and Noah slid, "Uh-huh" in unison.

"If he'd hung on one more day, he would have been thirty-seven."
Malcolm shook his head and took a drag on his cigarette, staring
intently at the marker, as if, by doing so, he could change the dates
engraved there three decades earlier.

Noah couldn't help observing, "But then Ray would've died on his
birthday."  For whatever that was worth.  "You really should try to
stop smoking, Malcolm."

Malcolm tapped his ash onto the grave at his feet.  "Mr.  David and
Joanne used to meet here."  He pointed to a tall monument near the
perimeter of the cemetery.  "Right them, actually.  After dark."

Noah and Kit exchanged slack-jawed stares.  Malcolm didn't seem to
notice; to him, his announcement obviously qualified as idle
conversation.

Malcolm continued, "I like it here.  I come here a lot.  Even in the
winter.  Sometimes other people are here, and they don't notice me."

Noah asked, "When was the last time you saw Henry and Jo here,
Malcolm?"

He didn't hesitate.  "Twelve-fourteen a.m."  May thirtieth.  The moon
was full, and I saw them clearly."

Noah felt a shiver race through Kit as she glanced at the darkening
sky, and he smiled, holding her tighter.  She slipped her arm around
his waist at last and absently stroked his side through his thin black
T-shirt.  He suppressed a moan of contentment, wondering if she
instinctively knew how sensitive the skin was right there, over his
ribs.

Kit beat him to the leading question.  "Joanne and Henry saw each
other' every day at work, Malcolm.  Why would they meet here at
night?"

"Mr.  David was her boyfriend, but she didn't want anyone to know,
because he's married to someone else."  He dropped his cigarette butt
and ground it out on Ray's grave.

Noah had suspected Jo might've been involved with Henry, but he'd never
known for sure.  He still didn't.  This was Malcolm's version of
reality, after all.  "Were they, urn,

hugging or kissing?"

"No."  ,

He exchanged a knowing look with Kit.  "Well, then," he said gently,
"you really shouldn't jump to conclusions, you know.  It isn't fair."

Malcolm stared fixedly at him.  "I'm sorry."

"That's all right, Malcolm," Noah said with a reassuring smile' What
were they doing?"

"They were having sexual intercourse."

Claws gouged Noah's side where Kit's fingers had been.  He flinched,
sucking in a breath.  "Oh," he managed to say, while gently disengaging
her death grip.  "Uh-huh.  I see."

Malcolm.  said goodbye and strolled toward the stone fence.

"I will never get used to that guy," Noah said.

"Good thing they weren't kissing or hugging, huh?"  Kit smirked.

"Well, that answers your question about who Jo was seeing."

She sighed and walked a little away from him, staring off toward Jo and
Henry's try sting place.  "It answers part of the question, anyway.  If
you knew Joanne."

Part of the question?  "You think she was getting' it from more than
one guy?"

She turned then, her eyes sparkling.  ""Gettin' it'?  Why, what a
vulgar term for a nice Southern gentleman like you."

"I'd say sexual intercourse in a boneyard at the witching hour
qualifies as 'getting' it.""

She conceded the point with a tip of her head and looked toward the
east, where the deep blue sky had given way to charcoal.  Noah warbled
an eerie Ow-oo-bo-oo-oo to make her smile.  She did, but it was a sad
smile, and then she came back to him and lifted her hand to his cheek.
Her fingers felt cool and soft, and her thumb absently stroked his
beard stubble.  Her eyes were dark as ink in the twilight.  Wide and
solemn.  They penetrated his, as if she could see his every secret.  As
if she could see Ray.

"You were the one with her that day," she said, so softly it was nearly
a whisper.  "When she called my answering machine that last time from
Etta's kitchen."

Noah's breath snagged, and he let it out slowly, never breaking eye
contact.  She'd figured that part out.  But how?

Her thumb brushed his lips, willing him to silence, and he closed his
eyes.  To keep her out.  For her own sake or his, at this point he
couldn't say.  Still he leaned into the caress, ever so slightly.  Her
hand smelled like her.  He parted his lips and gently closed them over
the pad of her thumb.

And Ray shook the bars of his cage and threatened to bring down the
ceiling.

He forced himself to look at her.  "Kit, listen to--"

"I believed you when you told me it wasn't you, Noah.  I believed you."
Her voice was a tear-choked whisper.  An accusation.  "She was so
scared."  She stared at him as if she'd never seen him before.  "What
did you do to her?"  Dear God, I wish I knew.

He st odd mute, and she reached up to his shoulders and tried to shake
him.  '54nswer me, dam mitt What did you do to her?"

Noah seized her wrists, and she tried to wrench out of his grasp.  She
fought him wildly, her hair whipping her face and his.  He forced hr
arms behind her back and tripped hr legs out from under her, holding hr
tight as he hauled hr down to the cool grass.  There he sat, shackling
her slim wrists behind her with one hand and pressing her he against
his chest with the other.  He trapped her legs under his bent

She bucked and twisted, sobbing uncontrollably.  Her soft breasts were
crushed against his chest, and he could clearly feel her shuddering
breaths and the fierce tattoo of her heartbeat.

"Don't fight me Kit.  Don't fight me," he rasped.  But she did, with a
savagery born, he knew, of her grief and confusion.  He kissed her hair
and stroked it.  Whispered her name over and over.

Ray reached a long arm through the bars of his cage and slid his
fingers into the mahogany strands.  And Noah pulled him back.  Through
sheer force of will he held back the thing inside him, trembling with
the effort.  Her struggles lured Ray out, as if the beast could smell
her fear and helpless nesso

It seemed like forever until Kit finally ran out f fight and sagged
against him, exhausted.  He released her wrists and drew her arms in
front of her.  Tenderly he stroked her dishweled hair off her damp face
and tipped lr chin up in the fading half-light.  Her eyes were closed,
and as he pressed a kiss to each soft eyelid, she trembled.  He licked
her salty tears from his lips.

He cradled her like a child, rocking her gently.  "Kit... I hurt for
you.  God, I hurt for you, darling'."

Her whisper was so quiet he had to put his ear close to her mouth to
make out the words.  She clutched his shirt.  "She was so scared, Noah.
And I couldn't do anything for her.  I was too late to do anything for
her."

And he understood that her pain came from a sense of her own failure.
As did his own.  He opened his mouth to utter

 some banal platitude, then closed it again.  How could he reassure
her when his own guilt gnawed away at him from the inside?  Instead he
said, "I know she was scar el Kit."  Too vividly he recalled the way Jo
had pretended to laugh off the ransacking of her room, with the bravado
she'd spent her short lifetime honing on the rough streets of Chicago.
"Jo knew someone was trying to stop her from publishing that book." 
She shifted in his embrace, fitting herself more closely against him,
and said, "I wish I knew what she'd dug up--what she came to believe
about Anita's murder."  He rested his chin on her hair and stroked her
back. "The thing is," she added, "destroying her work would only slow
her down, at best.  She'd just start over and redo it all."  He didn't
respond.  He didn't have to.  They both knew that the only way to stop
Jo's book was to stop Jo.  As obsessive as she'd been about the
project, nothing but death would keep her from completing it.  Kit slid
her hands over his chest and clung to him; it was the gesture of a
lover seeking support.  But her next words belied the tender gesture.
"You were the one she was afraid of, Noah.  She was seeing some guy,
she said.  Someone 'unsuitable."  Someone who found out about her
boole.  Who knew her schedule and when she'd be out of the house." Noah
knew that in Kit's eyes he fit the description all too well.  She clung
tighter to him.  ""We'll pick up a bottle of Glenfiddich after," she
said.  She called you 'hon."  That was you she was talking to, wasn't
it?"  "Yes," he said quietly.  "You didn't want to share the booze with
her.  I played the damn tape so many times, I know it by heart.  "Be
that way," she said.  Remember?  I'll1 just sneak some of yours.""

Noah let out his breath .in a long sigh.  He looked to the west, where
a thin ribbon of violet still glowed over the hills.  "It was her
ulcer.  Scotch doesn't mix with an ulcer.  And she called everyone
'hon."  You must know that."  He looked down and tipped her face up
again, studying her expression in the semidark.  "Would I have been
worried about her ulcer if I'd been planing to kill her?"  he asked.
She was silent for too long.  "Did you kill her, Noah?"  He couldn't
tell her he didn't know.  He couldn't tell her Ray Whittaker might have
killed her, using Noah as a weapon.  He looked at Ray's granite
headstone a few feet away.  Everyone thought the bastard was history,
that he couldn't hurt anyone anymore.  When he didn't answer, she said,
her voice shaky, "She was afraid of you, but you finessed her somehow.
Sometime before she made that last call to my machine.  You
sweet-talked her, got her to believe she had nothing to fear from you.
Convinced her to go to Grace's garden party with you."  "You got it
wrong, Kit.  She was afraid, but not of me.  Never of me."  But she
should have been.  "It was someone else, I don't know who."  He looked
toward the monument Malcolm had pointed out.  Maybee Henry.  He knew
about the book, too, assuming Bettina told him."  He looked back down
at Kit.  "I had no intention of going to that damn party myself--I'd
been at the hospital nearly two days straight, and I was wiped out.  I
tried to talk Jo out of going.  I knew she might be in danger there, in
a crowd like that.  But she was insistent.  She wouldn't hide from the
bastard, whoever he was."  "That sounds like Jo."  "So I went with her.
As her protector.  I promised..."  It still hurt more than he could
bear.  But he forced himself to say, "I promised I wouldn't let
anything happen to her."

He felt Kit pull in a long breath and let it slowly out.  She still
clung to him like a lover.

He added, "They tell me I was hanging out alone in the solarium, but I
don't recall that.  I don't recall much of anything about the party
till they brought me to her."

He wondered what she thought his motive was for mur-tie ring Jo. 
Insane jealousy over her involvement with Henry?  He decided against
asking her.  If Ray had indeed used Noah to destroy Jo, he wasn't sure
anything so mundane as a motive would have entered into it.

After what seemed an eternity, Kit said, "Jo told me something else,
you know.  While you were out of the room getting her sunglasses."  She
met his eyes, studying him intently.  "You think the book is gone, that
it no longer exists."

"What are you saying?"

"Jo told me she saved the book on a disk."  Before he could ask, she
added, "She hid it somewhere, and I can't find it."

He watched the breeze ruffle her hair over her bare shoulders, and held
her closer.  "You wouldn't tell me that if you thought !  was the one
who broke into her room."

She relaxed against him and slid her arms around his waist.  He felt
her warm breath through his T-shirt.  "I don't know what to think
anymore.  I just wanted you to know that.  About the book."  Again he
felt her heartbeat next to his, drumming too hard, and knew there was
more.

"My room was searched," she said.

"My God," Noah whispered, instinctively tightening his hold on her.

-"And my car,"?  she added.

"When?"

"My room, last week.  The day I went to the library."

He remembered.  The day she talked with Bryan while he took apart
Noah's dead birch tree.

"And my car just last night.  In the middle of the night, apparently.
The trunk was forced open and one of the windows was broken."
"Someone's looking for the disk," he said.  "It would seem so."  "Kit,
why didn't you tell me sooner?  About your room?"  "I didn't trust
you," she said bluntly.  "and you still don't, so why tell me now?" 
She shivered, and he heard her answer as clearly as if she'd spoken.
Because i'm alone, and i'm scared.  He wanted to swear a promise to
her.  I'll keep you safe, Kit.  I won't let you down.  But he knew it
was a lie, and the words died in his throat.  He'd failed before.  He
could promise her nothing but pain.  Insteagl he said, "You shouldn't
stay here, Kit.  In Pratte.  You could be in danger."  She stiffened in
his arms.  "You think I'm going to run away from this with my tail
between my legs?"  A humorless laugh escaped him and he shook his head.
"God save me from feisty Chicago street brats."  Noah knew he wasn't
the one who'd torn apart Jo's room and searched through Kit's things.
If these acts were connected to Jo's murder, then that pointed to
Noah's innocence.  Someone else might have killed her.  The spark of
hope that thought gave him was swiftly doused by fear for Kit's safety.
He had to convince her to go back to Chicago.  He wasn't lying when he
told her she was in danger.  If not from Jo's killer, then certainly
from the evil thing inside him.  The thing only she could cause him to
lose control of.  He ran his hand over the chilled skin of her forearm.
It was almost fully dark now, a moonless night, and the temperature had
dropped.  "We should get back," she whispered.  He followed her gaze
toward the churchyard," and could just make out the

 glimmer of lights through the trees, and the muted sounds of
partying.  She was frightened of him, he knew.  And with good reason,
though if she ever guessed the full etent of the danger he posed, she'd
run screaming from him.  While Ray Whittaker's mortal remains lay
moldering beneath the grass they sat upon, the corrupt energy that was
the essence of the man himself lived on, reborn in Noah Stewart.  Do
you believe in reincarnation?  she'd asked him.  She'd called it
wishful thinking.  He wouldn't wish this brand of hell on anyone.  He
brushed her hair back from her ear and lowered his mouth to whisper,
"Be afraid of me, Kit.  Don't let me close."  But even as he said it,
he drew his hand slowly up her side, over the soft fabric of her loose
peasant blouse.  His thumb sought the under swell of her breast.  There
was no bra, nothing between his hand and her warmth but a thin layer of
cotton.  Her breath caught and her hands slid to his shoulders,
shooting a dart of longing low in his body.  His long fingers followed
his thumb, lifting her soft flesh, stroking her.  Her voice wavered,
and he knew she was engaged in an internal battle.  As was he. 
"Noah--" He silenced her protest, if that's what it was, with his own
lips. With all his strength he fought the part of him that wasn't
really a part of him, but of another man.  A conscienceless man who'd
coerced and used women.  A man who'd killed.  Noah had never permitted
Ray to influence his lovemaking, and he'd be damned if he'd let him
have Kit. She didn't push him away, but she didn't cling to him,
either.  He knew he had to break it off soon.  He could fight Ray only
so far when he was with this woman.  She was like a drug that went to
the heart of his resolve, undermining his hard-won control.  He knew he
was playing a dangerous game, tempting himself--tempting him.  But, God
help him,

he'd never felt anything like this.  The rightness of it.  Of Kit in
his arms in his heart.  He'd be selfish for a few more moments, then
he'd stop.

He brushed his mouth across hers, urging her to open to him.  When she
didn't, he nibbled her lower lip, gently at first, then not so gently.
She gasped, and he took advantage, touching the tip 'of her tongue with
his.  She shuddered and went perfectly still for an instant, her eyes
wide open, as if she stood poised on the brink of an abyss.  In one
motion he rose to his knees and grasped her bottom, fitting her against
his hips and his throbbing need... pushing her over the edge.

Her arms wound around his neck and she arched into him.  He kissed her
with a mindless intensity that only made his raw need flare hotter.  At
last he tore his mouth from hers, panting.  Her white blouse glowed
like a beacon in the dark, rising and falling with her agitated
breathing.  He bent her back over his arm and lowered his mouth,
unerringly latching on to the hardened tip of her breast through the
supple cloth.

Her sharp cry pierced the night and she clung to him, digging her.
nails into his forearms.  Her cries turned soft, rhythmic, as he
suckled her with mounting urgency, his answering groan of hunger closer
to a growl.  He captured the tight bud between his teeth and kneaded it
with his tongue, coax inga strangled whimper from her.

At last he lowered her to the cool, prickly grass.  In the dark he
could just make out her expression, softly yielding.  She reached for
him.  It was too much to fight.  With impatient, trembling fingers he
yanked open the drawstring at her neckline and pulled the fabric down
below her breasts.  The meager light turned her body into an enticing
landscape of luminous swells delineated by deep shadow.

With reverence his fingertips grazed the warm satin of her breast.  He
heard the breath hiss through her teeth, saw her



eyes close and her head tip back.  Her short skirt had ridden up, high
on her thighs.  Helpless to stop himself, Noah slid his other hand up
her inner thigh and watched it disappear under her skirt.  He brushed
the backs oft his knuckles over the soft feminine mound shielded only
by her thin panties.

A moan caught in her throat and she shivered, clutching handfuls of
grass.  Her hips rose and her legs gently parted.

And Ray slammed into his consciousness with a force he'd never felt
before.  Noah jerked back.  Shuddering violently, he fought to drag the
thing back inside of him, deep inside, where it could do no harm.  But
he'd let down his guard, and the thing had gained strength.  It was
laughing at him.

Noah knew what Ray would do to her.  Use her.  Hurt her.  Maybe
worse.

I won't let you have her, you son of a bitch.

His heart hammering painfully under his ribs, he tried to back off from
Kit, but Ray held him fast.  The thing reached under her skirt and
closed its hand over her, groping roughly.

Kit gasped and her eyes flew open.  They widened in alarm when she saw
his face, and she started to scoot backward, out of his reach.  But Ray
was faster.  He pounced, digging his fingers into her thigh and her
shoulder, forcing her back down.

He took in his surroundings with a quick glanCe, and chuckled.  His
eyes lingered on the nearby headstone.  It was too dark to read, but he
knew where he was.  Ray grinned down into Kit's terrified face. 

"Home, sweet home."

Chapter Eight

"Noah..."  Kit tried to raise her voice above a tremulous whisper.
"You're hurting me."

He loomed over her, his fingers biting into her leg and shoulder.  He
had hat look on his face she remembered from that time in his attic
when he'd first kissed her.  When he'd said, I'd never let him hurt
you, Kit.  This isn't Noah, her mind whispered, though the absurd
thought brought little comfort.

Automatically she tried to push him off her, but it was a fruitless
exercise, his sinewy arms as immovable as steel posts.

He looked her over, slowly, his eyes lingering on her bare breasts.
"Nice."  His leering assessment made her feel dirty, where moments
before she'd felt only fierce desire, and the sweet anticipation of
becoming one with this enigmatic man.  Her need for him had overwhelmed
her fear and confusion.

But now the fear was back, amplified a thousand fold Still gripping her
shoulder, he laid his other hand tween her breasts.  Her heart
fluttered against his warm palm like a wounded bird.  This tangible
evidence of her terror seemed to amuse him and he grinned, his teeth
gleaming in the dark like a feral animal's.  He spoke with exaggerated
patience, as if to a naughty child.  "You should've listened to him,
Kit.  He told you to be afraid."

The Southern drawl was gone, his intonation as Vermont as they come.
She swallowed hard, staring at the planes and shadows of Noah's face in
the starlight.

She'd read about multiple personality disorder, seen those movies about
people with split personalities.  It was the only explanation she could
think of.  Her throat felt dry as dust.  "What'S your name?  "she
asked.

His eyes narrowed.  He brought his face close to hers, scrutinizing her
with chilling detachment, their breath mingling.  He wrapped his long
fingers around her jaw and tipped her face this way and that, the
better to study her eyes.

"No... you don't get it.  Not really," he said at last.

She willed the quaver from her voice.  "I want to get up now.  The
ground is cold."  She groped for the drawstrings of her blouse.

With lightning speed he captured her arms and pinned them above her
head with one hand.  He shoved the other hand under her skirt and
started yanking at her panties.  She tried to scream, but couldn't
force a sound out past a throat constricted with terror.

Her rational mind kicked in long enough to register the fact that he
had no weapon except his body... and she had no one to rely on but
herself.  Letting reflex take over, she tucked her leg and shot her
foot into his chest with every bit of strength she possessed.  Her heel
connected like a baseball bat, complete with a satisfying crack.  He
released her with a grunt and fell back, astonishment plain on his
face--a face that, in that instant, looked a little more like the Noah
she knew.

But by the time she'd rolled to her feet and backed away a few yards,
the stranger had returned, his expression a mixture of fury and
admiration as he slowly stood, a hah rill to his chest.  Kit
contemplated fleeing, but knew she didn't have a prayer of outrunning
him.  Already she felt as if she'd sprinted around Lake Michigan.  His
low chuckle seemed to echo off the shadowed monuments surrounding them.
Never taking his eyes off her, he slipped a hand under his T-shirt and
palpated his injury.  I'll be damned.  Not one but two cracked-ribs,"
he said, wincing.  "What a nice surprise for Noah!"  His New England
accent made her flesh crawl, so incongruous was it with the Noah she
knew.  He eyed her warily, as if trying to decide how much pain and
suffering she was worth.  Finally, with a hint of resignation, he said,
"You're gonna give Noah a message for me, Kit.  He's a stubborn,
strong-willed bastard.  I try to show him, but he won't let me."  He
closed his eyes briefly and pressed on his ribs, every breath clearly
painful.  "I can't talk to him.  You can.  Tell him--" His head shot
around as a shrill noise pierced the night.  With a thunderous boom, a
shower of fireworks burst in the sky, followed by a gleeful roar from
the rowd gathered in the churchyard.  As if he'd been kicked again, he
suddenly doubled over, nearly losing his balance as the air whooshed
from his lungs.  In the next instant his head snapped up, his gaze
piercing her.  The stranger was gone.  It was Noah staringaf her in the
flickering light of the fireworks blossoming overhead amid a barrage of
whistles and explosions.  He frowned and glanced down at his chest,
then gingerly felt his ribs.  He looked up at her, clearly disoriented.
"Did you do this?"  A Georgia drawl.  Kit could only nod.  After a
moment he nodded, too, as if bestowing approval on her desperate act of
self-defense.  She saw his face tighten with more than pain as his
anguished gaze raked her from head to foot.  He started toward her.
"Kit, did he hurt--"

"Don't[" She took a step back, only then recalling her state of
undress.  Quickly she pulled her drawstrings closed and tied them with
hands that trembled uncontrollably.  "Don't touch me," she hissed.

Noah stopped.  Briefly he closed his eyes, his chest heaving with
emotion.  He shook his head, his hair glinting silver in the erratic
light of the fireworks.  "I don't remember what happened," he said.  "I
never do.  Whenever he's... loose."

1 don't recall much of anything about the party till they brought me to
her.  She had the sudden vivid image of Noah jabbinga curare-filled
hypodermic into her best friend.  Whether he was indeed the victim of
multiple personality disorder or just your garden-variety psychopath,
Kit had to face the fact that Noah Stewart, M.D."  was a very dangerous
man.

As she watched him struggle with his pain and emotional.  torment, she
squelched the ridiculous urge to comfort him.  She concentrated instead
on the soreness in her thigh, her shoulder, her wrists.  She'd have
bruises everywhere that animal had touched her.  This animal, she
reminded herself.  Noah.

"Stay away from me," she said tightly.  "Just stay the hell away from
me from now on.  You got that?"

"Kit."  His eyes beseeched her.  "Let me explain it to

"No!  I'm not interested in your explanations."  Save them for the
police, she wanted to say.  At least now she knew where to direct her
investigative energy.  Starting tomorrow, she'd find out who Noah
Stewart really was.  "You go first," she said, nodding toward the
churchyard.  She wasn't about to turn her bacon him if she could help
it.

He stared at her a long moment, his expression unreadable, then turned
and slowly made his way toward the stone fence.  Kit waited till the
darkness had claimed him.  Even then she didn't follow him, but stood
chafing the gooseflesh from her arms and staring at the spot where
she'd last seen him.  Only when the fireworks display culminated in an
earsplitting finale that turned night to day did she will her feet to
move.

THE PAPERS SPREAD out on the floral bedspread, fax transmittals of
newspaper articles and police and hospital records.  Kit sat
cross-legged in the middle of it all, having just reread it for the
third time.

Sal Merino had come through for her.  At her request, he'd asked his
buddy Jimmy Stark--a PI.  who'd been a detective with the Chicago
police department until his retirement last year--to look into Noah's
background.  She knew he'd grown up in Roswell, Georgia, attended
Columbia University in Manhattan as an undergraduate and returned to
his home state formed school at Emory.

She also knew that after his residency, he'd somehow ended up inPratte,
Vermont.  During one of their long, lazy chats on his back porch, she'd
asked him about that, and he'd given some throwaway answer about having
traveled around fill he found the spot that just kinda felt right.

Kit had spent the better part of the day in faculty meetings at the
Powell School, whose fax number she'd given to Jimmy along with a
request to warn her before faxing anything so she'd he the only one to
see it.  According to Jimmy, Noah's youth in Roswell had been
uneventful--no hint of incipient criminal behavior.  During high school
he played football and practiced with his rock band, the Puny
Earth-lings.  Her stomach had done a little flip when she'd learned
he'd almost died as a result of some kind of diving accident when he
was sixteen.  He'd never mentioned it.



The real excitement came a few years later.  She reread the first
headline, from the New York Daily News.  Brooklyn Man Stabbed To Death.
Columbia senior Noah Stewart had been arrested in the homicide of Rick
Anders, an unemployed electrician and the father of a
fourteen-month-old girl.  The stabbing occurred at the apartment of
Anders's ex-wife, Tiffany.  A note from Jimmy explained that
immediately after the killing, Tiffany Anders disappeared with her.
little girl.  Less than a month later a grand jury determined that Noah
had acted in self-defense; thus the case had never gone to trial.

He'd killed a man.  It was there in black and white.  Kit didn't know h
w much faith to put in the grand jury's finding.  Maybe Noah's
upper-middle-class family had hired some whiz-bang lawyer to influence
the district attorney to withhold evidence from the grand jury.  Maybe
Tiffany Anders the only witness, had been "persuaded" to flee so she
couldn't testify against him.  So many maybes.

Maybe Noah had acted in self-defense.

A part of her wanted to believe it--the part that had spent those few
delicious days getting close to Noah.  The gentle, funny, sexy Noah.
But when she thought about her last encounter with him four days
earlier--the soul-numbing horror of having him turn on her like
that--she had no lrouble believing he'd gotten away with murder eleven
years ago.  She thought of the victim's baby daughter, fatherless now
because of Noah, and felt sick.

She'd called Tom Jordon as soon as she'd digested what Jimmy had sent
her.  Pratte's police chief, it turned out, already knew about Noah's
"troubles" in New York; Doc had told him about the incident himself
during the interrogations following Jo's murder.  A tussle over some
woman Tom had called it.  These things happen, especially in

Thank g the mess without a trial.  And what the hell was Kit doing
prying into the citizens' private lives?

She'd opted not to tell Jordon about the strange case of Dr.  Stewart
and Mr.  Hyde in the town cemetery on the Fourth.  She could just hear
what he'd have to say to that.  You went in there with him willingly?
Stayed after dark?  Started fooling around and things got a little
rough for your taste?  Hey, can't arrest a guy for trying, right?

A sound had hovered at the edges of her awareness for the past twenty
minutes, only now registering.  A power tool of some sort.  She rose
and went to the window, to see a familiar head of dark copper hair tied
back in a ponytail.  The Bad Seed had on a shirt today.  If an
undershirt with the sleeves ripped off qualified as a shirt.  From the
second floor she could just mate out the hawk quivering on his right
biceps as he applied the electric hedge trimmers to Etta's boxwoods.

She shoved the faxes into a drawer and went downstairs.  Bryan was just
finishing up as she came out 'the back door.  "I thought you only came
here Wednesdays," she said.  "For the lawns, yeah, but Etta needed her
hedges done.  Where've you been?"  he asked.

"Right upstairs."  But she knew what he meant.  He gave her a look that
said he knew she knew.  She'd seen Bryan at Noah's off and on for
several days while poring over Ray's things in the attic, but naturally
she hadn't been back there since before the Fourth, four days
earlier.

Four days in which she'd kept busy preparing for her students... and
making subtle inquiries around town regarding Dr.  Stewart.  These had
proved less than fruitful.  Pratte had been doctofless for four long
years before he came along, and the townspeople offered nothing but
praise for their savior, Saint Noah.



"You guys have a fight?"  Bryan asked, joining her at the redwood
picnic set, where she sat on a bench.  He set down the hedge trimmer
and perched on the edge of the table.

"I guess you could say that."

"Yeah, I figured.  He's wound up pretty fight Even old Max is keeping
his distance."  He unknotted the green bandanna at his throat and wiped
his sweaty face.

She knew Bryan spent a good deal of time at Noah's, sifting through his
grandfather's possessions when he wasn't getting the neglected grounds
in shape.  She worried about the boy's safety.  If Noah was as agitated
as he'd said, it might not take much to unleash his violent Side.

"Does he have a temper?"  she asked.

"No way.  I've never seen him, like, whacked out, if that's what you
mean.  Always calm, the doc, no matter what."

"Till now."

He grinned.  "Yeah.  I've known the guy for over a year,.  and I've
never seen anyone get under his skin like this."  He reached over and
twisted a strand of her hair around his finger.  Kit didn't know
whether to be amused or insulted by this pup's cocksure posturing.  Ah,
the arrogance of youth.  "I knew it right away," he said.  "It's the
hair.  You're a wild lady, Kit.  Noah doesn't know what to do with
you."

Part of him knows what to do with me, she thought, recalling that'
heart-stopping moment when she was sure the good doctor was going to
rape her right there on Grandpa Whittaker's grave.

"Was Joanne a Wild lady?"  she asked.

His eyes glowed with a sudden intensity.  "You gonna ask me next if I
knew what to do with her?"

She sighed.  "Help me out, Bryan.  I'm not very good at dancing around
stuff like this."

"I wanted Jo to move in with me."

"In your rented room?"

"No, not that pit.  I thought her and me would, like, get an apartment,
you know?  Our own place."

"She didn't want to?"

"She laughed at me."  His jaw worked and he looked away, but not before
Kit saw the sudden frost in his gaze.  "Because of the age
difference?"

He turned that icy l k on her.  "Age difference?  Ask the old man she
was getting it on with about age difference.  You think that old geezer
could keep up with her?"

"Did you keep up with her, Bryan?"

"Yeah."  That youthful arrogance was back, with a vengeance.  "You
wanna know the truth, I was the best she ever had.  That's what she
told me.  The best."

So she was right.  Jo was "getting' it" from two guys.

It came to her unbidden then, more a physical sensation than a memory:
the heat of Noah's mouth, of his ravening tongue, searing her through
her blouse,... Maybe three guys.

"Jo used to meet Henry in the cemetery," she said, intentionally
goading him to gauge his reaction.  "Did you know that?"

His face twisted in mingled pain and hatred.  "No," he said quietly. "I
didn't know that."

"But you knew she was seeing him."

"I guessed it, and she didn't even try to deny it.  Like it was
nothing.  Like it was her business who she chose to--" He broke off,
obviously trying to compose himself.  HIS arms were ropy with tensed
muscle, as if he were poised to spring off the edge of the table at any
moment.  "I told her Henry was just using her."  A mirthless bark of
laughter then.  "But what the hell.  She was using him, right?  Me,
too, it turns out."

"What do you mean?"

"It was all about that damn book of hers.  Right from the beginning. Jo
didn't give a damn about me--or Henry.  It was research.  She turned
herself into a whore just to get the information she needed."

"About your grandfather."

"Yeah.  I found out by accident.  A few weeks ago.  Slipped into her
room one day when I was here mowing.  I'd swiped one of Etta's fancy
roses and I figured I'd leave it on her bed and she'd come in later and
it'd be, like, a nice surprise, you know?"

"You picked the lock on Jo's door?"  Kit knew she wouldn't have left it
open.

He shrugged.  "What can I tell you?  I'm a man of many' talents."

"And you saw what she was working on," Kit guessed.  "I saw, like, her
notes, and some copies of articles and stuff.  I figured it out pretty
quick."  His voice broke.  "I loved her.  And all along she was just
using me."

"That was what you meant by betrayal," she said.  "That's what you two
argued about right before Jo died."  Not jealousy, as she'd first
assumed.

"That's right.  Jo betrayed me."  His tone was suddenly calm.

Jo had been afraid of a man she was seeing--a man who'd found out about
her book in progress.  And then stole it.  Two men now fit that
description.  No, three, she reminded herself.

Suddenly Kit felt more than grief and guilt over Jo.  She felt anger at
the friend she'd loved since infancy.  The friend who'd taken a
no-holds-barred attitude toward her work--her "research."  The friend
who'd played fast and loose with the lives bf others... and her own
safety.  It didn't have to happen.  She didn't have to die like that.

Bryan continued, "Jo didn't tell me about the book herself 'cause she
knew I wouldn't want her writing that crap about my grandfather.
Bringing up the past, all those old lies.  She was no better than the
rest of them.  Just out to make a buck, and to hell with the truth."

She already knew he had his own personal version of the Whittaker-David
affair.  I'm not gonna say anything else till I have the proof.  Then
I'll show everyone.  "I want to know the truth, Bryan."  When he just
stared sullenly, she said, "I want you to tell me what really
happened."  What you think happened, she silently added.

After a moment he said,-"Think about it.  Why would my grandfather
kill, Anita David?"

"They said it was because he was having an affair with her, and she
threatened to blow the wh--"

"He was having an affair with half the women in Pratte!  Why kill
Anita?"

"Henry said she'd threatened to report Ray to the medical board.  He'd
get in trouble for abusing his practice that way... seducing all those
patients."

"Aha.  Henry said."  His tone was that of a professor guiding his pupil
through deductive reasoning.

"You think Henry David killed his wife."  Kit forced her expression to
remain neutral.  "Bryan, she died when your grandfather gave her a shot
of--"

"Don't you get it?  His good pal planted the curare in Grandpa's vial
of epinephrine.  Before he went out of town.  Henry planned it all out.
He knew Anita got these asthma attacks all the time.  He was gonna make
her next one her last one.  And at the same time pay back Ray for
getting it on with her, by framing him."

Kit was about to ask why when she remembered something else Bryan had
said during their first meeting.  "And you hold Bettina responsible."

"No, I hold Henry responsible for what he did, but she's the reason he
did it."  Bryan absently twisted the bandanna and yanked it taut a few
times, as if tsting its strength.

"He wanted to be free to marry her... for her money?"  she said.

Bryan cocked his finger like a gun and touched it to the tip of Kit's
nose.  "Give the girl a gold star."[

"And Ray's confession to Henry..  ?"  she prompted.  "Totally bogus.
Grandpa always said he was innocent."  He looped the twisted bandanna
around his sweaty neck and loosely tied it.  "I figure he must're known
it was Henry that did it.  So Henry makes up, like, this stoy that
Grandpa confessed, and gets him arrested."

"And then Grandpa comes after Henry when he's out on bail."

Bryan's expression was too cool, too reasonable.  "Wouldn't you?"

She bit back her automatic denial, hesitating.  "Yeah," he said,
watching her.  "You would."  ""Cause I'm a wild woman?"

A slow smile tilted up the corners of his mouth.  "You and Grandpa
would've gotten along."

"The way you talk, I could almost believe you knew him."

"I feel like I've known him all my life--like he's a part of me.  In
here."  He tapped the sweat-dampened spot in the center of his chest.

She took in his copper hair, his Ray-like feature.  Just how closely
did the grandson take after the grandfather?  She 71 didn't believe his
theory about Henry.  It was too pat, and all the evidence thirty-two
years ago pointed straight to Ray.

She said, "You told me Jo was killed by the same perSOn who killed
Anita."  "Henry knew about me and Jo.  It made him crazy."

Bryan grinned wickedly.  :;i "Crazy enough to commit murder?"

"Nah.  It was the book.  I figure he thought Jo was spill the beans
about him in her book."

"Tell the world he killed his first wife," she clarified.  He nodded.
"But you said you thought she was just gonna publish the same old lies
about your grandfather."  "That's what I think, but I don't really
know, 'cause the stuff I saw, her notes and stuff, it didn't say.  And
she wouldn't tell me."  Kit thought about Bryan's passionate
convictions, about his love-hate relationship with Joanne and his
bitterness over her involvement with Henry.  Was he capable of
violence?  And losing-it-in-a-moment-of-blind-rage not the kind, either
but the cold-blooded, meticulously thought-out kind.  Joanne's murder
was, after all, premeditated.  Presumably someone went to a bit of
trouble to snare curare and a hypodermic.  And the timing!  You
couldn't do much better than a garden party crammed with a hundred or
more potential suspects.  "We may never know what conclusion she came
to," she said.  "Not unless her backup disk turns up."  Kit looked at
him sharply.  "What?"  he asked.  "You didn't know she backed it up?"
"Well, I knew, but..."  Again that loose-jointed shrug.  Kit wondered
if Ray had shrugged like that.  "Jo was too careful not to.  I mean,
she was, like, out of control in some ways--" his eyes glowed
appreciatively "--but with her work, you know, she'd never take a
chance like that.  She had to have a disk stashed somewhere."  Bryan
knew Jo better than Kit had imagined.  Did he also know--firsthandmthat
the disk wasn't in Jo's room or her car?  "Well, I tore apart Etta's
basement and her attic and.  crawl spaces during the last few days,"
she said.  "I was going to search the garage today."  "I'll help you.
I've finished with Noah's attic, and it's not there."  '

Kit's mouth dropped open.  "That's why you spent all that time up
there?  Looking for Jo's disk?"

"That and anything I could find about Anita's murder."  "And you came
up empty on both counts."

"So far.  Come on.  Let's do the garage while we still have light."

Together they began exploring Etta's garage, a barn tually, complete
with a hayloft--sans hay.  To Kit's chagrin, there was even a basement
of sorts under the floor where, Bryan informed her, booze had been
hidden by rumrunners during Prohibition.  It now held the remains of
Etta's late husband's wood shop.  Decades worth of furniture and
equipment was stored on all three levels--it could take days to pick
through everything.

"Let's start upstairs," Bryan said, and Kit was relieved he hadn't
suggested they split up and work on different rooms.  She wanted to
keep an eye on him.  A flat three-and-a-half-inch computer disk could
easily fit in his back jeans pocket.

She could only assume his plans for the disk depended on its contents.
If Bryan was right and Jo's book toed the party line by aging that Ray
was guilty, chances were he'd want to destroy the disk; if, however, it
pointed the finger at Henry, Bryan could use these findings to bolster
his own pet theory.  Now she wished she hadn't mentioned a search of
the garage..  She couldn't very well keep him from joining her, and
what would she do if he found the disk and refused to hand it over?

"Oh, wow," he said in awestruck tones.  "Check it out."  She turned to
see him wielding an enormous rusty scythe that would have done the Grim
Reaper proud.  This boy was a magnet for hair-raising implements of
annihilation.  It was a gift of sorts, she supposed..

"Too cool," he decreed, replacing the thing on the wall.

They threw themselves into the task and worked steadily for two hours.
When Malcolm called up to the loft's open window urging Kit to come in
to dinner, she declined, saying she'd grab a bite later.  Now that she
was up to her eye.-brows in dust and cobwebs, she was loath to abandon
the project, and even more disinclined to leave Bryan out here on his
own.

She was glad she'd changed into jeans and a loose, cropped T-shirt
after work.  This was one grimy job.  "My hair's making me crazy," she
said, lifting the heavy mass off her damp neck.  She sat on the floor
in a crowded corner near the window, methodically empty inga plastic
milk crate filled with old tools.

"Here."  Bryan crossed the room, wiping his hands on his shirt.  He
squatted in back of her and began gathering the long, curly strands.
His callused fingers brushed her neck and ears in the process, and
suddenly Kit pictured this eighteen-year-old'in an intimate embrace
with Joanne, a full decade older.  She wondered where they'd made
love--in his "pit" of a rented room, probably.

He finger-combed her hair into a high ponytail, then fished a white
bandanna out of his pocket and tied it in place.  She reached back to
check his handiwork.  "Thanks."  Giving her shoulder a couple of
avuncular pats, he rose and went back to the chest of drawers he'd been
pulling apart

She tossed the tools back into the milk crate and rose, shoving the
crate into a corner with her foot.  At the same moment her other foot
flew out from under her as she slipped on a screwdriver she'd left
lying out.  She landed hard on the crate, howling in pain as something
gouged deep into the outside of her thigh.  A stream of curses flowed
as readily as the blood that soaked through her torn jeans.

Bryan was at her side in a flash.  "Take it easy."  He eased her onto
the floor.  "Lemme see."

Reflexively she gripped her thigh directly above the wound as he
gingerly peeled back the torn, blood-soaked material to examine the
gash.  The air whistled through his teeth and he grimaced.  "This is
one big bad boo-boo."  He glanced at the crate.  "There's your
culprit."  The claw of a hammer--rusty, of course--poked through the
side of the crate near its top edge.

He pulled the bandanna out of her hair and quickly folded it into a
square and applied it to the wound.  "Hold this," he instructed.  "Come
on.  Let's get you to Noah's."  He helped her rise.

She'd taken two halting steps, pressing the makeshift dressing to her
thigh, before his words sank in.  "No/"

He rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, right."

She dug in her heels.  "I'm serious, Bryan.  Look at me."  She waited
till he turned to her, exasperation adding decades to his youthful
features.  "I am not going to Noah's.  That's final.  Take me to
Wescott."

"No way.  The hospital's, like, forty minutes away.  You need that
thing taken care of pronto."

She started hobbling toward the stairs.  "I'll drive myself."

"You're gonna drive with your right leg like that?"  Now it was his
turn to swear.  "Okay, okay.  Get in the pickup.  I'll take you to
Wescott."

Sitting next to Bryan in his pickup truck, she kept the bandanna
pressed to her wound, which was throbbing like hell.  It still bled
freely, saturating the bandanna and the torn cloth of her jeans.  She
squeezed her eyes shut and started counting the minutes, praying
Wescott Community had miraculously moved a few miles closer to Pratte
overnight.  Less than ten minutes into the ride she felt the truck head
up a rise and heard gravel pelt its undercarriage.  This didn't feel
like the highway.

She opened her eyes.  "You bastard"

Bryan regarded her quizzically.  "What, no one ever lied to you
before?"

Chapter Nine

Bryan parked in front of Noah'S sprawling home and hopped out of the
truck.  She watched the front door open and Noah saunter out, with a
smile for his young friend.  He hadn't noticed he yet.

"She's hurt," Bryan said, circling around to the passenger door.

Noah froze, his gaze zeroing in on her.  Then Bryan's words seemed to
register and she saw his eyes widen.  He sprinted to the truck just as
Bryan got the door oben.

Kit forced her eyes away from Noah's concerned gaze and said tightly,
"I told him to take me to Wescott."

"I'm sure you did."

She felt him pry her hand from her leg, then he gently lifted the
blood-soaked bandanna.  She sucked in a breath as it pulled away from
the torn flesh.  He ripped her jeans a little more to get a better
look.  "What happened?"

Bryan gave a succinct account of the accident while they helped her out
of the truck.  Noah let her lean on Bryan as she hobbled into the
house, a concession to his cracked fibs, no doubt.  He led her into an
examination room and helped her onto the paper-draped table, then
dismissed Bryan with a good-natured "Beat it."

"I want him to stay," Kit said.

HLv Secret Side Both men stared at her.  Noah's expression was frigid,
Bryan's bemused; "Fine with me," Noah said.  "Let's get those pants
off."  He reached for her fly, with its row of buttons.  "Uh..."  She
stayed his hand, her face growing warm.  "Can't you just cut the fabric
around the--" "No."  He started working on the buttons.  Bryan leaned
against the wall, arms folded, a hateful grin plastered on his face.
"Buttons are, like, so much sexier than zippers, don't you think?  Need
some help with that?"  Noah urged her to lie flat and began easing the
garment over her hips, his demeanor strictly professional.  She'd
assumed Bryan would do the gentlemanly thing and turn his back, but she
should have known better.  He stared avidly as her panties came into
view--a skimpy string bikini.  Not much ," om than a strategically
placed triangle of ice blue lace tl ugh which the dusky wedge of hair
was clearly visible.  And the cropped T-shirt didn't even reach her
navel!  Still, she thought she could handle the boy's presence, till he
said, "Lace.  Yum."  Her face scalding, she jerked the waistband away
from Noah and yanked it back up.  "Out.t" she barked at Bryan.  "Get
out of here!"  "I thought you wanted me to--" , "Go.t"

He shrugged.  "I'll go play with the Legos in the waiting room."  He
ambled out, and Noah closed the door after him.  Bryan would probably
come up with a I.ego flame-thrower, she mused.  "Was he supposed to
protect you?"  Noah asked, resuming his task.  Anything she said would
only make the situation worse so she said nothing.  She lifted her hips
to help him slide the jeans down, and even though he took care, when
the denim ii scraped her wound, her entire body snapped taut.

"Sorry," he murmured, tossing the jeans onto a chair.  His gaze landed
on her left thigh, the intact one.  Without looking, she knew what had
snagged his attention.

"What happened here?"  he asked, sliding his fingertips over the purple
bruises.  The instant the words were out of his mouth, he knew what he
was looking at.  She could tell.  The question was, did he member doing
that to her?  His hand slid down to cover the fading finger marks.

He looked straight into her eyes, and for the first time that day she
saw more than a briskly efficient family practitioner.  There vOas an
echo of the anguish and regret she'd seen four days ago by the light of
the fireworks.  "He did hurt you," he said quietly.  "You hurt me."

He didn't argue the point.  "Where else?"  He quickly looked her over',
and found the marks on her wrists.  He lifted them both and turned them
over: rubbed his thumbs over the discolored flesh in a healing gesture.
His eyes were sad but sharp when they spotted the edge of another
bruise at the rolled-up sleeve of her T-shirt where his own fingers had
bitten into her shoulder four days earlier.  He pulled up the sleeve
and examined it, too.

She yanked the sleeve back down.  "They're only bruises," she said
harshly.  "That's not what I'm here for."

Resuming his doctorly air seemed to take an effort, "as if he had to
force himself to turn from her and ready the supplies he'd need.  He
opened cabinets and pulled out items she couldn't see.  All she could
see was his back, clad in a faded indigo polo shirt.  "Was the hammer
dirty?"  he asked.

She heard the muted click of instruments being laid out on a clean
towel, the sound of paper tearing, assorted ominous rustlings .... She
swallowed hard and affected a light tone.  "Yeah, and rusty."  She
leaned up enough to squint down at her leg.  The sight of her state of
dishabille was more disconcerting than the bloody gash 'on the outside
of her

 right thigh.  She let her head flop back and drilled her gaze into
the ceiling.  He crossed to the sink and scrubbed his hands, then
donned latex gloves.  At last he returned of her side with a small
plastic basin, some gauze pads, a bottle of Betadine and what appeared
to be a turkey baster.  "Heh, heh, where's the cranberry sauce?"  she
asked in a reedy voice.  He raised her knee 'and set the basin under
her thigh.  "Don't be nervous, Kit."  "I'm not nervous."  Hell, no, I
always squeak like this.  Not knowing what to do with her hands, she
folded them primly over her waist.  It took all her willpower not to
clap them over her crotch.  Especially with Noah standing right over
her, scrutinizing her, breathing on her, blotting her wound with gauze
pads.  Getting ready to do God knows what with his stupid turkey
baster.  A memory assailed her then, of Noah at the cemetery-the real
Noah--sliding his fingers up her thigh and higher... dragging the back
of his hand slowly between her legs, marking her with a burst of
tingling heat everywhere he touched.  Now, as then, her body's response
was swift and merciless.  Kit pulled in a long, slow breath, restrain
inga moan as scalding heat crawled up her neck and face.  She felt
suddenly aching and engorged, unbearably exposed under the unforgiving
fluorescent light and her inadequate shield of blue lace, her body
swelling and blossoming and growing slick with need.  Could he see it,
sense it?  Oh, God.  Did he know?  If so, his authoritative voice gave
no indication.  "This is an irrigation syringe.  It's filled with
saline solution he said.  "I'm gonna flush out the dirt first."  He
squirted the salt water right onto the gash.  It burned, and she
screwed up her face, clenched her fingers together.  But t move a
muscle.

He flicked a glance at her face, as if to ensure that she'd handled it
okay, while he wet a gauze pad with the brown Betadine antiseptic.  He
began cleaning the wound and the skin around it, his touch gentle, his
manner once more businesslike.  He seemed oblivious to her near
nakedness, as if he hadn't even noticed the screamingly naughty little
why-bother scrap of lace and satin that Jo had dared her to buy,

so she'd had to get two of every color just to show her.  Guess I
showed her, huh?

He removed the basin and lowered her knee, then turned to the counter
once more.  "Now for the fun part."  Kit strained to see what he was
doing.  She didn't trust a'd ctor's version of "fun."  When he turned
back, he was holding a hypodermic needle

The primitive part of her brain, the part charged with
self-preservation, knew right away that something was wrong with this
picture, but it took her conscious mind a couple of heartbeats to
figure it out.

Look who's about to give you a shot, dummy.

She swallowed a big dry wad of apprehension and said, "What's that?"

"Novocaine."  He studied the wound as if deciding where to stick the
needle.  "You need stitches, in case you hadn't figured that one
out."

"Well, uh ... wait a minute."  She leaned up on her elbows, her wary
eyes on the needle.  "Don't they use those butterfly things nowadays?
Those little bandages?"

"Not for something like this.  It's gonna take twelve, fifteen stitches
easy.  Come on."  With a hand on her shoulder he urged her to lie flat
again, but she didn't budge.  "You won't feel a--"

"I don't want novocaine."

"What!"

Now that she'd said it, she thought about it.  How bad could it be,
really?  She'd read more than one historical novel



in which some macho character got sewn up without benefit of novocaine.
People used to do it all the time; they had no choice.

An image loomed in her imagination with sickening clarity: Anita David
gasping for air, anxiously waiting for the man she trusted--her
lover--to administer the shot of epinephrine that would end her
suffering.  And while Kit knew that Noah couldn't possibly have been
responsible for that first poisoning three decades ago, the horrifying
fact was, he was the closest thing she had to a suspect in Jo's murder.
And it was a matter of public record that, self-defense or not, he'd
killed at least once.

"You heard me."  She tried to put starch in her words.  "I don't want
novocaine."

Noah's hard gaze skewered her.  His jaw tightened and his throat
worked.  After a stare-down that seemed to last forever, he said, "I'll
show you tl vial."  His voice was low and raw.

Her throat constricted so tightly she couldn't respond right away.  If
he was innOCent--and with all her heart she prayed he was--she'd just
irrevocably severed the fragile bond they'd begun to forge last week.
Noah was lost to her, and until this moment, she couldn't have guessed
how much that would hurt.

But she couldn't let that sway her now.

"No shot," she said, and flopped back onto the table, inexpressibly
weary.  "Just do it."

"You don't know what you're--"

"Do it:"

He stood there for a long time while she studied the fluorescent
ceiling fixture and swallowed convulsively against her trepidation. She
heard the slow exhalation that wafted over her seminude body like a
warm breeze.  At last she felt movement near her leg and she twitched
reflexively.

He laid his gloved hand--big and warm and heavy--on her intertwined
fingers at her waist, and she felt suddenly calmer, more centered.  She
became aware for the first time of the tremors that had sneaked up on
her, and she took a deep breath, forcing her shoulders to relax, her
knees to stop quaking.  Still she stared at the ceiling.

"Do you want a sedative?"  he asked.  "No."  Her voice was a thin
whisper.  "I can give you a Valium."

"No."  She licked her lips.  "Thanks."

He left her side and returned almost immediately.  She heard something
being torn.  A quick peek revealed a sterile packet from which he
extracted a curved needle and black suture thread.  Oh God.

That's some light fixture, she decided, swinging her gaze back up to
the ciling.  I sure as hell hope it gets more interesting in the next
little while.  She lowered her hands to the edge of the padded exam
table and gripped it hard.

It took him a few seconds to ready the needle, then he said, "All
right, I'm starting."

And he did.  She screamed.  To her shame she howled bloody murder.  The
impulse to wrench her leg out of his reach was overpowering, yet she
gritted her teeth, locked her knees and forced herself to lie still
while he tied off the first knot.  She could feel moisture collecting
at the corners of her eyes, and hoped he didn't notice.  Her nose was
beginning to run.

"Okay, now you've got a taste of it," he said gruffly.  She felt his
fingers on her jaw, forcing her to look right at him.  His eyes were
intense.  "I'm getting the novocaine."

"No!"  He'd said twelve or fifteen stitches.  How was she going to go
through this twelve or fifteen times?  Still she said, "I won't move.
I'll try not to be... loud."

His eyes closed briefly.  He whispered, "Don't make me do this to you,
Kit.  It's so pointless?"

 She closed her eyes, too, to shut him out, to collect herself.  She
cleared her throat.  "C-can I have a tissue?"  He gave her a handful,
and she blew her nose.  Her leg throbbed unmercifully.  "Let's just get
this over with."  He sighed, shaking his head.  "Muleheaded woman," he
muttered, his voice more Georgia than she'd ever heard it.  "Take slow,
controlled breaths.  Maybe it'll help.  You ready?"  She nodded, and he
slid the needle into her flesh once more, using an instrument that
looked like needle-nosed pliers.  The slow breathing didn't provide
relief, but it gave her something to focus on.  After the first couple
of stitches, the pain seemed to take on a life of its own, like a
burning, pulsating energy field hovering in her and over her.  The
tears rolled out of her eyes and into her ears, but true to her word,
she lay quiet and unmoving, squeezing the table edge, with only an
occasional sharp gasp punctuating the silence.  At some point she
started watching Noah instead of the ceding, needing someone to cling
to, if only with her eyes.  He worked with single-minded intensity, his
long fingers surprisingly graceful, his movements economical.  She'd
counted thirteen stitches when he said, "Last one."  He glanced at her,
and she nodded mutely.  She felt the needle pierce her for the last
time, felt him push it through the layers of skin, followed by the
thread.  A tugging sensation as he secured the knot.  Noah sighed
heavily and closed his eyes, bracing his arms on the exam table as if
he could no longer support his weight.  He looked exhausted, shaken,
like a marathon runner at the end of the course.  He met her gaze. "You
okay?"  No.  "Yes."  "God, you're pale."  "So are you."  For some
reason that made him smile.  He picked up a pair of scissors and
trimmed the threads, then bandaged and taped the wound.  After peeling
off the latex gloves, he slid his arm under her shoulders and helped
her sit up.  I'll1 bring you some Tylenol with codeine."  She groaned,
her stomach clenching.  "I'll never keep it down.  I don't feel so
good."  He looked more closely at her face.  "You don't look so good.
I'm not surprised.  Just rest here awhile."  He turned back to the
counter.  She began -to relax.  It was over.  A lethargic sense of
peace suffused her.  She yawned.  "When was your last tetanus booster?"
he asked over his shoulder.  "Umm... high school... ?"  Whoa.  The
sudden banging of her heart nearly knocked her off-balance.  "Oh.
Right.  Tetanus .,.."  The casual tone she affected sounded hollow even
to her own ears.  Her palms grew damp.  "Yeah.  Now I remember.  I had
a shot last year."  He turned to face her then, and her eyes flew to
the loaded syringe in his hand.  The bastard was smiling.  "Nice try."
Before she could open her mouth to object, he pushed up her sleeve,
swabbed her with alcohol and drove the needle home, holding her arm in
a ruthless grip.  "I'm fast," he said.  "You gotta give me that."  When
she could speak past her blind outrage, she sputtered, "I didn't want
the damn shot!"  "I suppose you want lockjaw!  Well, I'm not giving you
that option."  He dropped the syringe into the red disposal container.
Scowling, Kit examined the tiny puncture mark on her deltoid.  She took
note of the fact that she was still breathing.  Had she really gone
through all that agony for nothing?  "I'd carry you into the house to
rest in comfort, but..."  He touched a hand to his chest.

"You seem to be doing all right for a man with two cracked fibs."

His eyebrows rose fractionally.  "How did you--"

"He told me."  She watched comprehension dawn on his face.  "He told me
something else--tried to, anyway."  How easily she'd slipped into
calling Noah's alter ego "he," as if the alternate personality really
were a separate person.  "Tried to?"

"He says he can't talk to you, but I can, so he wanted to give you a
message through me."

"And... ?"

"And he never got the chance.  You came back," she said simply.

He looked haunll, as if he were peering inside himself.  "I didn't
think I'd be able to.  It was only when he got distracted..."

"The fireworks."

"Right.  That's when I was able to pull him back."  He stroked her
face, brushed a lingering teardrop from the inside corner of her eye.
"I didn't think he Could do that, Kit.  Get away from me like that.
Please forgive me.  If I'd known, I'd never have..."

"What?"

She saw him straggle to put it into words.  "I can control him, except
when I'm with you.  It must have something to do with... my feelings
for you.  How much you mean to me."

She was astounded.  Humbled.  After the ugly accusation implied by her
refusal to let him give her a shot, here he was, telling her he still
cared for her.  She remembered how he'd tried to talk to her at the
cemetery, tried to explain who "he" was..  and she hadn't wanted to
listen.  Well, maybe the time had come to listen.  Before she could
voice the thought, sharp raps sounded at the door.

"Hey, you guys still alive?  You won't believe what I made out here,
man!"

"We'll be out in a minute, Bryan."  Noah reached for her jeans and
sized' them up.  Taking his scissors, he cut right through both legs,
above the blood-soaked tear.  He stuffed the excess fabric into the
garbage can.  "Voil&.  Cutoffs.  Short ones !"

He helped her slide off the table and then squatted to let her step
into them.  The sheer lace triangle of her string bikini was right in
front of his face, and he openly stared at it as he slowly pulled the
shorts up her legs and past the large white bandage.  He rose, smiling
suggestively, and slid them over her hips.  '

"Don't say it," she warned, her face flaming.  She felt his fingers
graze her belly as he started buttoning her fly.  His warm breath
stirred her disheveled hair.  If he stood any closer, her breasts would
brush his chest.

His eyebrows rose, all innocence.  "Don't say what?"

"Whatever it is you were going to say about my panties, dammit!"

"I'm a Southern gentleman, remember?  We Southern gentlemen do not make
rude comments about teeny-weeny little drawers you can see right
through."  The 'fingers that had recently displayed such remarkable
dexterity with the healing arts now took an inordinately long time
buttoning her fly.  "I figure I'll let Bryan speak for both of us on
the matter of the panties."

Lace.  Yum.  Kit dragged in a deep breath then, and, sure enough, their
chests collided.  Noah's eyes were dark... intense.  He leaned forward
fractionally, tormenting her tingling nipples, his fingers still poised
on the top button of her fly.  Slowly he lowered his head, angled his
mouth to hers .... The door shook under renewed blows.  "Are you guys,
like, doing it in there, or what?"

His lips a hairbreadth from hers, Noah swore quietly and stepped back.
"Come on in, Bryan."

Chapter Ten

Kit's palms were slick on the steering wheel as she peered into the
rearview mirror for the hundredth time.  Even in the dark she knew it
was the same car, same driver.

Someone was following her.  Again.

She'd first noticed the nondescript gray Pontiac almost a week ago,
after leaving Noah's, He'd done a quick wound check two days after
sewing her up; she was in and out of his busy office in about two
minutes.  When she'd driven down the gravel driveway and turned onto
the road, she'd heard a ear engine start.  In hindsight she realized
she must have caught him by surprise; he probably expected her doctor's
visit to take a lot longer.

In her rearview she'd seen the car pull out from behind some overgrown
foliage on the shoulder.  Curious, she'd taken note of the driver, a
burly youngish man with dark hair and an impressive tan.  The Pontiac
had stayed a healthy distance behind her on the hilly, twisting roads,
allowing other vehicles to come between them.  But it had always been
there, if she looked hard enough.  Only when she got close to Etta's
had he vanished.

Then came her first exhilarating, exhausting week teaching at the
Powell School, and she'd managed to convince herself the Pontiac was
the product of her overactive imagination.  Until last Wednesday, that
is, when she'd stayed late to give one of her students extra help.  Her
shadow must have wondered what was keeping her the extra forty-five
minutes.  Maybe he was afraid he'd somehow missed her.  When she was
about to leave the building she looked out Hannah's office window and
saw the gray Pontiac--with Tan Man behind the wheel--enter the parking
lot behind the school.  Kit's Corolla and Hannah's Camry were the only
cars still in the lot.  "Hannah, do you know this guy?"  Kit asked.
Hannah joined her at the window.  "Never seen him.  Why?"  Tan Man was
already beat inga hasty retreat.  Had he been checking to see if her
car was still there?  The hairs on her nape stood at attention.  "Well,
I've seen him before, in Pratte," "Is he bothering you?  Do you want me
to call the police?"  "No... I'm probably just being paranoid.  I'll
see you in the morning."  Kit kept her eyes open as she drove toward
Pmtte.  No sign of him.  Still, something told her she wasn't alone.
When a concealing curve in the road loomed just ahead, she followed it
around, then abruptly turned onto a private driveway obscured by dense
shrubbery, pulled a U-turn and waited.  It wasn't long before Tan Man
passed in a blur of gray steel, clearly oblivious to Kit in her
impromptu observation post.  But she was under no illusion that she'd
lost him for good.  In the days since, he'd faded into the background
once more, but she knew he was there.  She didn't even consider going
to Chief Jordon with this.  He hadn't taken her seriously so far; he
wasn't about to start now.  No, her only option at this point was to
gather what evidence she could, on her own, then drop it in the
arrogant cretin's lap as if it were all his idea.



There was no way to know how long Tan Man had been following her.  For
all she knew, it could have started with her arrival in Pratte three
weeks ago.  She could almost deal with having her belongings searched.
is was a far more intimate invasion, to her way of thinking, an
encroachment on her personal space, her privacy.  On her sense of
security, dam reit

And as bad as it had been to notice this guy in broad daylight, it was
infinitely worse to be driving home at one in the morning, on deserted,
unlit roads, and suddenly realize she wasn't as alone as she'd thought.
Not that he'd been that obvious.  But she'd been wary and watchful for
so many days, it had become second nature to look for him.

Tonight she'd attended a bachelorette party in a neighboring town for
one of the other teachers, after having gone to Noah's to have her
stitches removed earlier in the day.  That visit, like the wound check,
had been a perfunctory, no-nonsense affair; she'd been only one of many
patients in the waiting room.  Other than those two office visits, they
hadn't seen each other during the past hectic week.

Absently she reached for her thigh, and had to force herself not to
scratch the healing wound.  Instead she wiped her clammy palm on the
skirt of her gauzy dress, one eyre on the rearview mirror.  As she
entered the outer limits of Pratte at last, she commanded herself to
relax.  Her escort would probably disappear as soon as she got near
Etta's.  Just like that last time.  Then she'd be home and safe an dAll
alone in that rambling old boardinghouse.  She groaned, remembering
that the house was empty.  Etta was visiting her daughter in Boston for
the weekend.  She'd taken

Malcolm, her surrogate son, with her.  In the landlady's ab-senee,
there were no other boarders aside from Kit.  She barked out a string
of curses, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the dark interior of
her car, further rattling her.

She lowered her speed as she neared Etta's, her eyes more on the mirror
than the road.  True, she couldn't see his headlights at the moment, so
she supposed she should be breathing a sigh of relief, but ... she
couldn't ignore a prickling sense of unease.

As she crested the last hill before Etta's place, she decided to test
her instincts with a variation on that little trick she'd pulled last
Wednesday.  Instead of driving another hundred yards and turning right
at the boardinghouse, she swung left at the bottom of the hill, onto a
private road leading to a neighbor's farm.  An immediate right onto a
narrow dirt driveway put her behind a small storage building set close
to the road.

She cut the motor and the lights, then stepped out of the car and
walked, to the end of the shed, where she could observe the road. 
There were no street lamps, but a fat gibbous moon provided adequate
light2 Night sounds surrounded her--crickets trilling, leaves murmuring
in the breeze, an unseen creature darting out of her path--but she
barely heard them over the roar of her pulse.  From her concealed
location she could see Etta's driveway farther down the road, and just
make out the house behind the trees.  She'd left the outside lights
on.

After a couple of minutes that seemed like a mosquito-slapping,
ankle-scratching eternity, she started to turn back to her car when
slowly approaching headlights froze her to the spot.  She squinted at
the vehicle.  Yep, it was the gray Pontiac, all right.  The car passed
her hiding place, then slowed to a crawl when it came abreast of
Etta's.  Red brake lights glowed, 'telling her Tan Man was peering into
the parking area The empty parking area The car stopped.  Now he knew
she wasn't home.

She'd given him the slip--again--and he wouldn't know what to make of
that.  She had to be careful; she didn't want



him 'to realize he'd been "made."  Somehow she figured she was safer
that way.

The Pontiac drove away, and she couldn't tell whether he kept on
driving or turned off the road somewhere to keep an eye on the house.
How was she suppose to go home now, to Etta's, knowing this guy was
probably lying in wait somewhere, watching for her arrival?

He knew she was alone in the house.

She slid back into her car.  Locked the doors.  Rolled up the windows
against the night sounds and the cool, damp night air and the suntanned
man in the gray Pontiac.  Her decision made in a heartbeat, she turned
the key in the ignition.

ANITA STARED UP AT HIM from where she sat hunched on the kitchen floor,
her face unnaturally flushed, her eyes glazed with pain and terror.
Hideous wheezing filled his ears.  "Noah..."

He knelt next to her and opened his medical bag.  "I'm here, honey.
Don't worry, It'll all be over soon .... "From his bag he quickly
extracted what he'd need: syringe, needle, a vial of clear liquid
labeled Adrenalin, the trade name for epinephrine.

"Noah, hurry... please .... "

An alien sensation tugged at the edges of his awareness as he prepared
the needle and began to fill the syringe.  Something wasn't right.  He
looked at Anita.

"I need you, Noah," she said, her voice strangely distant.  "Wake up.
Come to the window."

His eyes shot open as his chest expanded on a deep, reviving lungful of
air.  Then he was breathing like a sprinter, hard and fast, blinking at
the familiar murky shadows of his bedroom.  He started to drag all ten
fingers through his hair and stopped short.  Anita had called him'
Noah

He jerked upright in bed, his heartbeat drumming in his ears.  That's
Kit.t He threw off the sheet and lunged to the window.  There she was,
on the back lawn, hugging herself, peering up at him.  Her face and
dress seemed to glow in the moonlight.  Like an angel.  Only this
angel's voice shook, and her.  wide eyes dart ex at every noise.

"Thank God," she said.  "I need you, Noah."

"I'll be right down."

Since he slept in the nude, he hastily pulled on the pair of running
shorts he'd tossed on a chair last night, and raced downstairs.  Wiihin
seconds he was through the back door and the porch and then she was in
his arms, trembling violently.  He wrapped himself around her in a
bone-crushing hug.  Her body felt immeasurably delicate pressed against
his own, enclosed in the haven of his embrace.  It didn't matter at
that moment 4what had frightened Kit.  It only mattered that she'd come
to him.  That she needed him.  Him.  Never in his life had he felt this
way, ferociously protective.  The impact of it awed him, shook him to
the core.

He buried his face in the fragrant cloud of her hair and whispered a
soothing litany of reassurance.  She began to apologize.  "Shh..."  he
said, stroking her hair, her back.  She seemed to sag against him, as
if giving herself over to his care, and his chest swelled painfully
with the need to keep her safe.

And with the knowledge that as long as she was with him, she could
never be safe.

"Come on," he murmured, steering her toward the porch steps.  Max
greeted them as they entered the house, tail wagging excitedly, and
Noah shooed him away.  Kit clung to his hand with both of hers as they
made their way through the dark interior of the house to the cozy back
parlor with its enormous bay window.  Not wanting to turn on a lamp, he
led her to the long, wide window seat, now awash in cool moonlight.  He
propped a couple of tasseled pillows in one



corner and leaned back, pulling her down, urging her to curl up next to
him.  She did, kicking off her shoes and tucking her bare feet under
her, her arm sliding around his waist, her head settling on his bare
chest.

It felt so natural, so right, holding her like this, feeling the warmth
of her body tucked against his, the teasing caress of her breath on his
skin.  He could almost believe that they could stay like this forever.
That she could belong to him forever.  It was a bittersweet fantasy.

"What happened?"  he said at last.

She shivered and pressed closer to him.  "Someone's following me."

His breath snagged in his throat.  "Are you sure?"

She nodded against his chest, and he didn't grill her further.  If this
smart, levelheaded woman said she was being followed, she was being
followed.

"How long?"  he asked.

"I first noticed him a week ago.  I don't know when it started."

Probably about the same time her room was searched, he surmised.
"Someone's waiting for you to locate Jo's computer disk," he said.
"They hired a goon to keep tabs on you ."  '

"That's what I figure."

His arms tightened around her.  "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"what would you have done?"  She lifted her head to look up at him.

Make you go back to Chicago, where you're safe.  He said nothing.
"That's what I thought," she said, reading his mind.  She dropped her
head back to his chest.

A low growl of exasperation escaped him.  Arguing was pointless.  He'd
have to gag and hog-tie her to get her back to Chicago before this
thing was cleared up.

She said, "If all they want is the disk, I don't think I'm in any
danger, really."

Until you find it, he thought.  "What happened tonight?"

"I was at a party for Sandy, the first-grade teacher.  She's getting
married next week.  I left there a little after twelve-thirty."

"And you realized the guy was following you."  "Right."

He heard her swallow hard.  He thought about her all alone on those
dark, lonely roads with some creep after her, and he had to restrain
the urge to put his fist through something.

"Who is this guy?"  be asked.  "What kind of car does he drive?"

"A gray Pontiac.  Grand Am.  He's kinda young.  Dark hair.  Deep
suntan.  That's all I know.  I drove straight to Etta's and he was
still with me and... and it's empty.  The house, I mean.  It's just me
there this weekend."

"You did the right thing coming here.  Did he follow you?"

"I don't think so."

He almost wished he had.  Noah itched to drag the bastard out of his
car and sic Ray on him.  On purpose.  Like that time in New York.

He couldn't see her face, but he felt her take a deep breath.  "Can I
stay here tonight?"  she asked.

"You think I'd let you leave?"  He was about to tell her she was safe
here, in his home, but the words wouldn't come.  And she, of all
people, would know it for the lie it was.  Reluctantly he acknowledged
that Kit's seeking sanctuary here, with him, was an act of desperation.
An act she probably already regretted.

"I'll give you my room," he said.  when she began to object, he cut her
off.  "It's the only bedroom that's made up.



And there's no way in hell I'd let a woman crash on some dusty old
mattress or sofa while I sleep in comfort."

He felt her smile against his bare chest.  "The Southern gentleman in
you is showing."  She raised her head and turned that smile on him.
Dear God, she took his breath away.  Had she always been this
beautiful?  Or was it a trick of the moon... of this magic night when
she'd come to him and said, I need you, Noah?  Tenderly he brushed a
strand of hair from her face, letting the silk of it whisper through
his fingers.

"I can sleep anywhere," she assured him.  "When I was growing up, I had
to make do with a rump-sprung sofa and a moth-eaten afghan."

"Till you moved in with Jo."

Her bottomless dark eyes softened.  "Yeah," she whispered.  "Till
Jo."

His gaze was drawn to her wide, soft mouth and that fragile smile,
fading too quickly under the lash of her memories.  So he did the only
thing he could.  He bent his head and took that smile.  Captured it
with his mouth and drew it into himself and held it close.  And paid
homage to her gift with the cherishing caress of his lips on hers. Only
when he felt her tentative response did awareness slam into him.

He pulled back instantly.  "Damn."  How could he have let that happen?
He'd made a solemn vow to himself.  Two weeks ago, when he'd left her
standing alone in the cemetery.  Alone and abused and terrified.

I'll never let Ray hurt her again.

If that meant he could never allow himself to touch her, to kiss her,
then that's the way it had to be.

He stood and stepped away, putting distance between them.  "Forgive me,
Kit.  I promised myself I wouldn't..."  He looked at her then, leaning
on her arm now that he'd withdrawn the support of his body.  "You
know..."  he finished.

She was silent a long moment.  "Because of him."

"Because you can't ... control him when you're with me.

That's what you said."

He nodded.

She sat up and pushed her hair behind her shoulder.  "Was it happening?
Just now?  Was he... trying to come out?"

He stared at her, realization dawning as her words sank in.  "No."  He
frowned, trying to remember what had happened inside him when he'd
kissed Kit.  It was beautiful.  Sweet and giving and untainted.  It was
just him kissing her.  Just Noah.

But why?  Why this reprieve, when every time before... ?  She said, "I
cidn't think so.  I could tell."  When he didn't respond, she added,
"Maybe you can control him better than you think."

He sat next to her, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his
knees, rubbing the back of his neck.  Thinking.  When he'd first come
downstairs and he was holding her, crushing her to him ... it was just
the two of them then, too.  No Ray.

Why?  What was the secret ingredient that made tonight different from
that time at the cemetery?  From that first kiss in his attic, for that
matter?

He thought about those encounters, how his desire for her had come on
sharp and swift, sweeping him up in a tidal wave of raw lust, creating
an all-consuming physical need that blocked out everything else.  Their
surroundings.  Her trepidation.  His feelings for her.

His feelings for her.

He looked at her, staring back so solemnly in the moonlight.  When
she'd sought him out tonight in her fear, reached out to him for
shelter and strength, it had triggered



something in him.  Something straight from the heart.  From the gut.
He'd responded with a soul-searing intensity he hadn't known he was
capable of.

Could that be it?  Could the power of h feelings for Kit--those tender
and protective impulses--be greater than the power of the malevolent
thing inside him?  Is that what had held it at bay tonight?  The
strength of his love?

Now that he'd put a label to what he felt for her, he could deny it no
longer.  Could lie to himself no longer.  He wished he could, because
the simple fact was, he could never have her.

I love you, Kit.  God help me, but I do.

The very fact that she was here, despite everything that had happened,
was proof that she cared for him in return, at least a little.  He
reached out to stroke her cheek, and she closed her eyes and leaned
into the caress.  Ever so slightly, as if she didn't want to, but was
powerless to stop herself.

Could he risk it?  If he allowed himself to touch her, kiss her, at
some point his body's raging need would take over, and then what?

He dropped his hand.  pulled his gaze from hers.  "Noah?"  He felt the
tentative touch of her fingers on his arm.  "I want to understand," she
whispered.  "I should've let you explain before... when you wanted to
"

"No," he growled.  "You owed me nothing.  Not after what I did to
you.".

"But it wasn't you.  Not really.  I understand that now."  No.  You
don't.

"Noah..."  Her fingers tightened on his arm as she tried to make him
face her.  "Please look at me."

"I'm afraid to," he admitted, with a raw, self-deprecating chuckle,
"because I want to do so much more than look."

She rested her forehead on his shoulder.  Her gentle sigh stirred the
hairs on his arm and sent ripples of sensation skittering along his
nerve endings.  It was a lonely sound,

and far too eloquent for his peace of mind.  That sigh said, What are
we going to do, you and I?  It said she shared his pain, his sense of
loss.

Instinctively he turned toward her, pressed his lips to the top of her
head.  She lifted her sad eyes to his, and in that moment he knew that
no power on earth could keep him from kissing her again.  Her lips felt
like warm satin under his.  He slid his hand behind her neck and
brushed his mouth over hers in whisper-soft strokes.  Trying to say
with his actions what he couldn't allow himself to say in words.

Her mouth trembled under his, even as it parted slightly.  Gently he
tugged on her lower lip; her eyes drifted shut and she leaned into him.
He flicked his tongue, urging her to admit him.  Her mouth closed over
the tip and drew it in, sucking it and teasing it with her own.

His body responded immediately, and so did Ray.  Just a whiff of him,
in his dark corner biding his time, like a carnivore silently stalking
his prey.  Noah froze for an instant.  This was the way it had started
the last time.  Before he knew it, he'd dropped his shields and the
thing had taken over.

But it didn't ave to be that way.  He'd seen that tonight.  This
beautiful, responsive woman in his arms wasn't just any woman.  She was
too good for Ray.  I love you, Kit,

thought.  I always will.  His heartfelt pledge was a cleansing flame,
obliterating all traces of the other man.  Purifying his soul.  At
least for the moment.

Awestruck, heady with his new power, he tore his mouth from Kit's and
stared down into her eyes, fluttering open now, her expression drugged.
Before that delicious look could evaporate, he tipped his head to hers
once more, enfolding her in his arms, crushing her to his chest.  This
kiss was possessive, demanding, tenderness giving way to hunger.  He
was instantly hard, his body pulsating with the need to fill her, to
claim her completely.  And still it was just



him--no trace of another man's consciousness burrowing into his own.

I love you, Kit.

When had her hands come up to elute his shoulders'.  When had he slid
off the window seat' to kneel

Still kissing her, he dragged her to the edge of the seat her legs on
either side of him, her dress bunching.  her bottom, he arched into
her, driving his tion against the softness between her legs.  She
softly into his mouth, and he felt a shudder rip through Breathless,
she pulled back a little, sliding her palls to his chest.  As he
watched, that sleepy look orated, to be replaced by something closer to
anxiety.  knew what she was thinking.

"It's okay, darling'," he murmured, smoothing her press inga tender
kiss to her cheek.  "You control him."  Even as he reassured her, he
felt stirrings from that dark corner deep inside... and lessly snuffed
them out.  Simply by focusing on Kit, what she meant to him.  BY
allowing himself to edge his feelings for her.

As if freed of a burden,

wriggling to fit herself more closely to him.  She stroked ] sides, his
shoulders.  Slid her restless fingertips back and under the waistband
of his running inga guttural moan from him.  "Kit, I need you.  need
you so much?"  Instinctively he ground against emulation of the act
they both craved, and answering t. hmst of her hips.

Sighing raggedly, she let her head drop back the window seat; he slid a
hand under her bowed support her.  The moon painted her with silver
from the rippling halo of her hair, to the structure of her face, to
her supple body, arched fe ring It was an offering he greedily accepted
as his fingers and mouth closed over a soft breast.

A hoarse cry broke from her as he sucked hard on her tight nipple
through her dress and bra, his insistent fingers kneading her soft
flesh, shaping her for his hungry mouth.  She writhed against him as he
continued the erotic assault on the other breast, her panting gasps
coming faster and faster.  Her legs circled his hips, and he knew she
was close to the edge.

He'd boosted himself off his knees without real zing it, to stay fitted
to her, his erection throbbing mercilessly against her softness, the
way barred by layers of fabric.  Her dark, passion-glazed eyes locked
with his and she whimpered, "Noah!"  and he knew they'd never make it
to the bedroom.  "Please..."  It was a breathless whisper, nipping at
the last lingering thread of his self-control.

He shifted position just long enough to drag off his shorts and her
panties.  He shoved her dress up, tilted her hips.  He rocked against
her, nudging her open with his aching shaft, feeling her slippery
velvet heat close around the tip.  He tensed, practically snarling as
he willed himself to slow down, even as his body screamed for a savage
thrust and sweet completion.  Never before had he felt this blind,
raging need.  But then, never before had he felt any of the wondrous
new things K/t made him feel.

Her eyes were glassy, half-closed.  Watching him.  Trusting him.  He
whispered, "Yes, da ding Trust me."  He lifted her head and pressed his
lips to hers, flexing his hips as he began to fill.  her, inhaling her
sharp gasp.  She was exceedingly tight, and he stopped short of
plunging in to the hilt, afraid of hurting her, groaning with the
effort of holding back.

She broke the kiss, breathless and gasping.  She thrashed beneath him,
strained against him, as if trying to force him deeper.  Just knowing
she felt his penetration as keenly as he



did made his heart swell, and sent him over the edge.  ing her hips, he
drove fully into her, shouting under the pact of it, as if the stark
pleasure were a physical blow.  answering sob of fulfillment tore from
!er throat body quivered around his, tightened and released, ing to the
length and breadth of him.

With a harsh growl he withdrew and rammed in settinga fast, hammering
pace that she matched with fervor, each recoil of their hips 'followed
by a thrust savage than the last.

He murmured things to her then, things both sacred profane, things he
forgot the instant he uttered them.  she whimpered, "Yes... yes..."  as
her fingers bit buttocks and her head whipped back and forth.  She her
sharp teeth into his upper arm, and he smiled.  she rasped.  Her climax
was seconds away, and his would fast on its heels.

The evil thing inside Noah raised its head ... looked through his
eyes... wrapped its malignant tentacles his mind, squeezing out his
will.

No!  He went still, shaking and sweating, his deafening.

She stared up at him, and he saw comprehension her eyes, felt her body
stiffen under his.  ing filled his ears as she pushed futilely on his
arms to twist away.  He averted his face, as if, by could assuage her
panic, and his own.

He fought the thing, but it was no good.  Ray ning, and the son of a
bitch knew it.  Noah could feel smirking..

No!

And then he remembered.  That's not the way.  doesn't work.  He closed
his eyes and dropped his the silky nimbus of Kit's hair.  Drew the
scent of her of her, into himself.  Let the essence of what she him
fill his mind and his heart.  He forced himself to r-member her earlier
fear, and the overwhelming rush of love it had triggered in him.  The
need to keep her safe.  To make her happy.

He thought about the rightness of this act, the joining of their bodies
and their hearts in love.  Ray had no place here.

The thing vanished.  Blinked out of his consciousness with a suddenness
that left him reeling.  Noah raised his head and shook it, orienting
himself.  Sweat sprayed off his hair, but Kit didn't seem to notice.
She still stared, with that mixture of dread and betrayal that twisted
his gut.  Trust me, he'd told her.  How could he have been so
arrogant?

He stroked damp strands of hair off her face, and she jerked her head
away.  "Shh... Kit..."  he whispered, making her look at him, so she
could see.  "It's me, dar

Noah.  She studied his face.  "I promise ... it's lin'...just me.  " '
'

just me."

He punctuated the claim with a kiss of exquisite tenderness, his lips
lingering on hers, reverently, till he felt her start to relax.  He
began to move within her once more, but he sensed her distraction.  She
watched him, her wary eyes on his.

Mentally he cursed Ray.  I won't let you do this, you bastard.  You
won't take Kit away from me.

He was determined to reclaim the magic they'd shared moments before.
Which meant he couldn't allow her to stare at his eyes, waiting for the
thing to return.  Withdrawing from her, he gently turned her over,
pulling her down till she was kneeling in front of him, bent over the
window seat... facing the window and the inky back lawn beyond.  Not
him.

"Noah... ?"  She tried to peer over her shoulder at him, but he pressed
his mouth close to her ear and whispered to her as he raised her skin
and parted her thighs with his own.  Words of encouragement, words of
longing, the content less



impOrtant, he sensed, than the sound of his voice.  Noah's voice.

Soothingly he stroked her hip, his hand gliding over the jutting bone
to her belly, then lower, into the triangle of crisp hair and the moist
folds it shielded.  Sle drew in a sharp breath as her hips twitched
backward in reflex, before rolling forward into the caress of his
fingers.  He took his time, stoking the banked embers, denying himself
the sweetness of her body until he was sure she was with him again.

His slick fingers moved higher to circle and stroke the tiny bud, and
she shuddered, then rocked her hips to the cadence he set, her breath
coming short and fast.  He plucked at that most sensitive part of her
and she gasped his name, digging her fingers into the upholstery of the
window seat.

And still he crooned endearments, not giving her a chance to focus on
anything but the pleasure of her body, and her need to join it with
his.  Only when she squirmed back against his straining flesh,
mindlessly seeking him, did he give in.  The shock of raw pleasure as
he embedded himself in her was as intense as the first time.  They
drove themselves into each other, moving as one, while his fingers
continued their erotic torment, propelling her toward the climax Ray
had cheated her out of minutes before.

He lifted her heavy hair and lowered his mouth to the side of her
throat in a hungry, ruthless kiss meant to be felt over the pounding of
his body into hers.  She gave a little start and a whimper of pleasure
as his teeth scraped her skin and drew together to nip her.  He
alternately nibbled, licked and sucked the sensitive flesh until her
whimpers turned rhythmic and breathless, testing the limits of his
self-control.  "Now, Kit," he demanded.  "Now, darling'.  Now.t"

Her gasping cries reached a crescendo as her body shuddered violently,
her release pulsating around him.  Still caressing her, prolonging her
pleasure, he sought his own then, each fierce lunge bringing him closer
to joining her.  Then the throbbing incandescence crashed over him,
swept him up in its fury, and he roared with the force of it, bucking
violently as he poured himself into her.

His last coherent thought as he collapsed against her was I loe you,
Kit.

Chapter Eleven

Why was Etta knocking on her door?

With effort Kit dragged herself out of the haze of slumber.  She lay
sprawled on her stomach under a light Sheet and blanket, her face
pressed into the pillow.  She inhaled deeply of the scent that clung to
the bed linens--his scent--and smiled groggily, before her befogged
mind put the pieces together and her eyes snapped open.  She squinted
against the late-morning sunlight flooding the room.  Noah's room.

The tapping came again from the solid oak door.  Lazily she flipped
over and pulled the sheet up to cover her naked body.  She grinned.
Foolish modesty, after last night.

Noah's voice was a low, seductive drawl from the other side of the
door.  "You awake, darling'?"

She giggled like an adolescent and stretched languidly.  Darlin'.
Dipped in Dixie honey, no less.  She'd never get over it.

"Yeah," she croaked, and cleared her throat.  "I'm awake.  Come on
in."

A slight pause.  "You're gonna have to unlock the door."  She frowned.
Unlock it?  She knew she hadn't locked the door.  Noah had tucked her
into his bed last night... well, this morning.  After undressing her in
the dark and fighting back his obvious urge to make love to her again.
Then he'd kissed her and left the room .... "Kit?"

And locked himself out?

"I'm coming," she said, and slipped out of bed, wrapping the sheet
around her.  She'd wanted him to stay with her last night, to sleep
with her.  She'd wanted to wake up next to his warm body, her legs
tangled with his .... But he'd left her, with no explanation, and she'd
been too proud to ask him to stay.  His bed had felt cold and lonely as
she'd stared at the moon and felt the welcome soreness where he'd made
her whole.

She turned the lock and opened the door and swallowed back the little
gasp of awe that threatened to escape.

Noah leaned with his palm high on the doorframe, as big and broad and
virile as she'd ever seen him.  He wore only snug, faded jeans,
half-zipped, as if he'd stepped into them about a second' ago A wedge
of tawny hair adorned his chest, arrowing into the gaping, low-slung
waistband.  If he was wearing underwear, she saw no evidence of it.  He
ran long fingers through his disheveled hair, further rumpling it till
the short, fair strands stuck up at odd angeles.

His smiling eyes homed in on her, one part boyish charm and two parts
potent male animal as his unapologetic gaze loitered on the thin sheet
she clutched to her breasts.  She didn't know whether to smooth down
his hair or throw off the sheet and hurl herself at him.

Nothing in her experience--or her imagination, for that matter--had
prepared her for last night.  When he'd joined his body with hers,
she'd felt him everywhere inside her at once, stretching and filling
her to the extreme, testing the limits of her body and her heart.
Completing her.  And when he'd forced her over the edge into that
soul-shattering climax, nothing had existed for her but Noah.  He'd
been the totality of her universe.

His masterful, no-holds-barred loving had left her emotionally drained
and shaking like anew born kitten.  She'd



wept afterward, and he'd turned her in his arms and cradled her there
on the floor.  Did I hurt you?  Did I, Kit?  And when she shook her
head no, he held her tighter, held' her with a fierce possessiveness
that made her job all the harder, for what they could never have.  And
she knew he shared her grief.

She'd thought then that their coming together had been as intense--as
moving--for him as it had been for her.  Gloomily she now realized that
if it had been, he'd have wanted to spend the-night with her.  His
rejection still stung.

She tried not to think about the other Noah, the alter ego who'd
emerged briefly, terrifyingly, before he'd somehow managed to bring it
under control.  Just for now, for this one morning, she'd allow herself
to pretend that things were normal between them, that her suspicions
and fears were as insubstantial as smoke.

That they were two ordinary people falling in love.  "You sleep okay?"
he asked.

I would have slept better in your arms.  "Fine."

"I have a surprise for you," he said as he absently hitched up the
waistband of his jeans, zipped up, adjusted the crotch and fastened the
brass button.  She couldn't have torn her eyes from the sight if a
Sherman tank had bane led through the room.

Noah's fingers stilled, and she groaned inwardly with the knowledge
that she'd been caught staring.  She forcefully hauled her gaze back up
to his face, to find that his potent look had turned downright
rapacious.  His eyes flicked to the bed.

Hastily she said, "What kind of surprise?"

The boyish Noah returned as he grinned suddenly, then reached up to
grasp the top of the doorframe with both hands and execute a couple of
quick pull-ups, his lower lip caught between his teeth.  She wondered
if the exertion was an unconscious way of burning off sexual energy.
Still grasping the doorframe, he stood twisting his torso side to side,
stretching out sleep-kinked muscles.  He was magnificent, all sinew and
masculine grace, and the best part was, she knew he had absolutely no
idea how damn sexy he was.

She noticed a small scar on the right side of his abdomen.  Round and
pink.  She was about to ask him about it when he said, "I'm gonna take
you to a special place I know.  For branch.  You'll love it."

"Maybe I should go home and change first."

He shook his head.  "No need to get all dolled up where we're going.
Bsides, I like you in-that."  He nodded toward her gauzy
oatmeal-colored dress, draped over a chair where he'd placed it last
night.

"You do?"

"Especially in strong sunlight."

It took her at out a millisecond to figure that one out.

"You're a perv, Dr.  Stewart."

He shrugged.  Yeah, so?

"You're'a doctor!"  she said.  "People pay you cash money to take off
their clothes for you.  Wh3( would you want to sneak a peek through
someone's dress?"

"I thrive on the challenge.  And anyway, it's not someone's dress I
want to sneak a peek through, darling'."  He smiled crookedly.  "Just
yours."

"I'm touched.  Go away."  She slammed the door in his face and called
through it, "At least let me get a shower."

"IT'S BREATHTAKING."  Kit stood on a rocky outcropping border inga
clear, deep stream the color of Noah's eyes.

"I knew you'd like it.  I think of this place as my own private
retreat," he said.  "Sometimes I brin ga rod and do some fly-fishing. I
rarely see anyone else here."

She could believe that.  This secluded niche tucked into the
surrounding verdant hills wasn't easy to get to, even if you knew where
to look.  They'd had to leave the Jeep some distance away to hike
through a thickly forested area and clamber over and around natural
barriers of boulders and dense overgrowth.  It had been a hair-raising
trek at times in her slippery flats--but worth it when NQah gallantly
held her hand and gave her the occasional hoist or boost.

Now he turned and began climbing back up the rocky bank--easy for him
with his sneakers and long legs.  He stretched a hand back to her, and
she gratefully took it.  Together they picked their way up the
tree-studded slope to where it leveled off, and flopped down on the
quilt he'd laid in a grassy clearing under a humongous maple tree.

He opened the backpack lying there and started pulling out paper sacks
and aluminum take, out containers.  The aromas emanating from them made
Kit's stomach whine.  He'd called in an order to the Thackeray Inn and
picked up their meal on the way out of town.  Complete with flatware,
linen napkins, goblets and a frosty carafe of mimosas, a blend of
freshly squeezed orange juice and champagne.  Plus china cups and a
thermos of coffee, naturally.

"Here you go, Kit.  Solid proof that I'm a man of my word.  Did I not
promise you brunch?"

"At a charming little place with a water view and plenty of atmosphere,
as !  recall."

"Was I lying?"

"Shut up and feed me."

And feed her, he did.  What a strange and decadent idyll this is, she
thought, watching him pry the lids off their meals and pour the
mimosas.  Here she was lounging on a blanket in the middle of
godforsaken nowhere lett inga very dangerous man feed her smoked trout
with horseradish sauce, poached eggs Florentine--amazingly intact after
their sojourn into the wild--cold asparagus tips, and warm sour-dough
rolls.

They spoke little during the meal.  As she watched him pack up the
empty containers, she asked, "So is this the special guy thing you do?"
At his quizzical look, she added, "Oh, you know.  Most men, once
they've been dating awhile dvelop one particular routine to knock the
socks off a woman on the first or second date.  Something reliably
impressive."

"Candy is dandy but smoked trout is quicker?"  "Something like that."

"You wound me, darling'."  But he didn't look wounded.  He looked
amused as he uncapped the thermos of coffee.

"You telling me you've never brought anyone else here?"

She held her breath.

"Well..."

She couldn't help noticing that he avoided her eyes, and inwardly
chided herself.  Why did you ask if you didn't want to know?

"As a matter of fact," he finished with a devilish grin, "Henry and I
have slain more than a few trout in that stream.  We tried smoking
them, but they wouldn't stay lit--"

She flung a sourdough roll, catching him on' the ear as he tried to
dodge it, chuckling.

"Owl Ungrateful female.  Since you ask, I'll tell you.  You're the
first woman I've brought here."  He picked crumbs out of his ear.  "And
the last.  Damn."

He poured the coffee, and she accepted a cup.  Noah looked deliciously
relaxed, leaning on a palm and sipping from his china cup, as mottled
light filtering through the tree danced over him.  She decided this
excessively civilized outing' was the perfect time to ask about a
decidedly uncivilized matter.  "Noah... I do want to understand."

She didn't have to elaborate.  He studied her face briefly before
setting down his cup.  For a full minute the only sound was the
gurgling of the stream and the chatter of a pair of birds darting from
limb to limb.



He said, "And I want you to understand, Kit.  I never wanted that
before, never wanted anyone else to... know about me.  But with you..."
He sighed, a heavy sound laden with regret, and looked away.  "All I
ask that you keep an open mind."

How much more open could she keep it?  She'd given herself to this man,
a man whom she feared as much as she loved, a man of stunning
contradictions.  A man who'd killed at least once and might very well
have murdered her best friend.  She squeezed her eyes shut against the
hellish thought.  Keep an open mind?  She'd opened herself to him in
every way.  At this point her mind was the least of it.

He said, "It started when I was sixteen.  A swimming party at my
friend's house.  It was one of these free-form pools that's made to
look like a natural pond.  Twisty-turny, surrounded by plants and
rocks.  We were fooling around and I didn't pay attention and I ended
up diving headfirst into shallow water."

"My God."  This was the accident Jimmy Stark had referred to in his
fax.  "What happened?"

"Severe head trauma.  My heart stopped.  They tell me I died."

"Oh, Noah," she breathed.

""Near-death experience' is the correct term, I guess.  They brought me
back, but things were never the same after that."  He sat up
straighter.  Rested his elbow on a raised knee.  "I started noticing
changes.  In me.  In the way I're acted to things.  In the way I felt
about things."

"Brain damage?"  She hated to Think of it.

"That's one explanation, and that's what my family thought.  What they
still think, I guess.  And I bought it at first, but not for long. What
was happening was just too... alien.  I knew there was something else
in there."  He looked at her and tapped his head.  "In here."

She shivered.  "And this feeling didn't go away?"

He smiled grimly.  "It got worse.  I was most vulnerable during times
of physical and emotional stress, it turned out.  Like when I had the
flu, or pulled an allnighter studying."

"Or spent two days at the hospital with a medical emergency," she
added, thinking about the day of Grace Drummond's garden party.

"Exactly.  When I ran into Bryan on my way out of the hospital that
day, I was so exhausted he tried to give me a lift--afraid I'd drive
the Jeep into a ditch, I guess."

"Bryan was at Wescott Community?"  The day Jo died?

"Yeah Said he'd been visit inga buddy of his who'd gone in for
exploratory surgery."

She wondered whether Bryan had been at the hospital before or after his
big argument with Jo.  With a repressed shudder she recalled the ease
with which she'd gained access to curare' at Wescott.  Bryan was an
enterprising youth, as skilled at picking locks as he was at
chain-sawing trees.  Her vivid imagination pictured him tearing off the
vial of Norcuron she'd seen taped to the IV bag and stuffing it in a
pocket.

Noah broke into her thoughts.  "The drean started right after the
accident, too."  She gave him a questioning look, and he said, "I have
this recurring dream.  A very disturbing dream."

"About... ?"

"Anita David's murder."

He paused, as if waiting for her to mentally trip over that one, and it
didn't take her long to oblige him.  "Wait a minute.  This accident
happened when you were a teenager, living in Georgia."

"That's right."

"How could you have known about Anita David?"

"I didn't.  Not back then.  All I knew was that I couldn't let myself
get to the end of this nightmare.  It was too real, and it was leading
up to something horrible, though I didn't



know what at the time.  I just knew I had to force myself to wake up
each time so I wouldn't see it."

"Did it ever end?"

"Not yet."

"My God," she whispered.

"Dream or no, in the middle of the night, when I wake up disoriented...
well, that's another bad time for me.  A time when my control tends to
slip."

The pieces fell into place.  "You locked yourself out of my room last
night.  That's why, isn't it?"  To keep her safe from him.

He nodded.  "Anyway, I started getting into fights in high school.
Instigated them myself.  That had never happened before--I'd always
been a good kid, decent student but not great.  My big thing was art. I
was a terrific cartoonist, and that's what I wanted to do for a living,
believe it or not.  I'd planned to go to art school."

She couldn't picture it.  "But..."

"But after the accident, it was like that goal had never existed.  All
of a sudden I excelled in science and math.  And I loved it.  I went
from B's and C's to A-plus in one semester.  Aced all the standardized
tests.  I don't have to tell you how thrilled my parents were when I
announced I'd given up cartooning for a career in medicine."

"And your interest in art?"  she asked.

"It's like it never existed.  I can't draw worth a damn now.  Couldn't
care less about it."

"So you went to college..."  she prompted.

"I went to Columbia, premed.  Did real well academically.  But out of
the classroom I was a hell-raiser.  Got into a lot of stuff I don't
want to think about."  His face tightened.

She took a deep breath and said, "I know about Rick Anders."

His eyes snapped to her face.  She read surprise there, and sorrow.
"What did you do, Kit," he asked softly, "hire someone to dig up my
past?"

She swallowed and forced her chin up.  "Yes."  She watched the play of
emotion on his face as he absorbed this, and wanted nothings more at
that moment than to take him in her arms and soothe his pain.
"Noah--"

"I had no choice.  I hope you believe me, but that's up to you.  Rick
Anders was a dangerous man.  I had no choice," he repeated in a hoarse
whisper.

She reachl over to lay her hand on his arm.  "Can you tell me what
happened?"

He sighed harshly.  "I was involved with his ex-wife, Tiffany.  Well,
kind of.  It was only our second date, if you could call it that, when
it happened."

"She had a'little girl."

A gentle half smile transformed his features.  "Mandy.  She was one
sweet baby.  Just over a year old.  Just walking, toddling around Poor
kid deserved better than to live like that, on welfare in a city
housing project, with Tiffany ders for a mother."

That hit all too close to Kit's own upbringing.  "But you must've liked
Tiffany, if you were seeing her."

His smile twisted.  "It wasn't her mothering skills that impressed me
at the time.  She was a good-time party animal, made to order for a
horny twenty-year-old like me."  "Older woman?"

"A year younger, as a matter of fact.  I picked her up at an off-Campus
hangout.  That was before I found out about the abusive ex-husband who
was heavy into crack."  "But he found out about you," she guessed.

"He showed up, coked to the max, when I was at Tiffany's.  Took one
look at me and started bellowing and tearing up the place."

"But they weren't married anymore."



Noah shrugged.  '"Way he figured.  she belonged to him.

She and Mandy both."

"What did you do?"

"I tried to kick him out.  Not easy--this guy had a couple inches and
about forty pounds on me.  And it was all muscle.  But I was holding my
own till he grabbed this huge carving knife.  Sliced up my arm and my
shoulder when I tried to get it away from him.  Tiffany was just
standing there shrieking.  And I ... well, I was trying to hold back
the thing inside."

"The alien part of you," she said, using his own term.  "Yeah.  I
sensed somehow that that part of me knew what to do with this animal,
if I'd only let it, but I'd spent four years fighting to control the
thing.  The idea of deliberately letting it loose..."

Some'thing about his expression warned her.  "But you did, didn't
you?"

Noah's voice turned flat.  "Rick got hold of Mandy, Grabbed her out of
her crib."  His eyes were wintry, his hands fisted.  "He held that
knife to his little girl's throat and kept hollering about how he was
gonna kill both of them.  And I knew he'd do it, Kit.  Whether I stayed
or left."

She felt the burn of tears in her wide eyes.  "His own baby
daughter?"

"This guy was high on booze, coke and blind jealous rage.  He was
capable of anything.  Mandy was sobbing in terror and Tiffany just
started shrieking louder, saying all the wrong things.  So I let it
out," he said sun ply "The thing inside.  Mentally I just kind of
stepped back and let it swoop in and take over.  I don't remember
anything after that till it was all over.  I never do," he added
softly.

Kit sat mesmerized, trying to imagine the horror that had unfolded
while Noah had been deep within himself.

He continued, "I remember forcing my way back to consciousness, like at
the--" he shot her a cautious look

"--like at the cemetery.  I was standing there gripping the plastic
handle of that knife so hard, my hand was cramped up and I couldn't
drop it.  The knife was covered with blood.  It was all over my hand.
It had spurted onto my clothes--"

"Noah..."  she groaned, watching his eyes lose focus as the horror
replayed itself behind them.  She shared his pain, a physical ache that
burned her chest and radiated into her gut.

He blinked, the sound of her voice seeming to pull him back.  "Rick was
lying on his stomach, and the blood ... the blood was spreading around
him.  Spreading out on the floor as I watched.  And I didn't even know
where I'd stabbed him.  Turned out it was the chest."

Kit felt the tickle of a tear sliding down her cheek and she swiped it
away' impatiently.

"Tiffany was still screaming.  She was sitting in a corner, squeezing
Mandy, squeezing her so tight the poor kid was howling in pain.  "You
killed him!"  she yelled.  Over and over.  I'll never forget that
hoarse shrieking, or how she looked, bug-eyed and out of control.  And
I did something then that I'd never' done to a woman before.  Or
since.

I belted her across the face.  Once.  Hard.  With my open palm."

Just once?  Kit thought, admiring his restraint under the
circumstances.

"It did the trick.  She started sobbing softly and rocking Mandy
against her, and I walked to the phone and called 911."  Wearily he
scrubbed at his face, as if the telling had taken something out of him.
A' mirthless half smile arose.  "Then I concentrated on trying to let
go of that damn knife."

She scooted close to him.  Took his hand in both of hers and entwined
their fingers.  "Have you ever talked about this before?"

"Just to the authorities.  My folks.  And then to Chief Jordon after Jo
was killed.  It's not something I like to think about--much less talk
about."

"Not exactly church picnic chitchat," she said

Noah looked at her hands cradling his, then at her small smile, as if
amazed that she could stand the sight of him after his gruesome
recounting.  He squeezed her hands.  "No," he said softly, "not church
picnic material.  Very fmv people would understand, anyway.  Our image
of violent death is warped by TV and the movies.  The good guys off the
bad guys--bang bang bang!--and never have a problem living with
themselves afterward.  It's all cut-and-dried."  His grip on her hands
became almost painful.

Noah had obviously spent eleven years suffering self-recrimination over
what he'd been forced to do.  But if his version of events was
accurate, she couldn't help seeing him as mor of a hero than a
villain.

"Tiffany disappeared right afterward," she reminded him.

"Yeah."  His expression twisted in disgust.  "She'd been in a few
scrapes with the law herself.  Her knee-jerk reaction to something of
this magnitude was to bolt."

"And leave you in the lurch," Kit said, surprised by her own anger at
the pathetic woman.  "How did the grand jury determine self-defense
with no witness testimony?"

"Rick Anders was too damn ornery to die without additional drama.  Son
of a bitch lived just long enough to mouth off about how he planned to
go back and finish the job."  "I suppose that would do it."

NOah la); back on the quilt and stared up into the leaves of the maple
tree.  "That episode..."  He shook his head slowly.  "It put the fear
of God into me, I'll tell you.  I'd been playing with fire, trying to
control that bastard on my own."

That bastard?  "Rick?"

He looked at her, and smiled, tapping his head.  "No.

That bastard."

"Oh."

"If left to my own devices, I'd never have sought the company of
someone like Tiffany Anders in the first place.  It was all him."  He
tapped his head again.  "I'd never talked to anyone else about what was
happening inside me--I knew they'd think I was crazy--but after
Anders... Well, anyway, I had this friend, agraduate psych student
named Paul Kerrigan.  I confided in him."

"Is that when you found out you have multiple personality disorder?"

His eyebrows rose.  "Is that what you think?"  When she stumbled over a
response, he said, "Paul's heavy into psychic research.  The
paranormal."  Now her eyebrows shot up.  "Well, bellI figured whatever
was happening inside me was anything but normal.  That only left
para."

"I guess you've got a point there."  She stretched out next to him on
her side.  Leaned on an elbow and watched the play of dappled light on
his face and his wheat gold hair.

"Paul wasn't able to pin down the source of my problem-demonic
possession aside--so.  he concentrated on helping me develop methods to
control it."

"Such as..."

"TM, biofeedback, that sort of thing."

Now she knew where his interest in voodoo medicine originated.  "And it
worked?"

"Eventually.  It took months of hard work before I saw measurable
results, and years to refine the techniques."

"Sounds like you were pretty determined."

He turned to lock gazes with her, his own chilly.  "Kit, I killed a
man."

She drew in a shaky breath.  "A man who deserved it, Noah.  A man who
would've murdered two innocent people if you hadn't stopped him."

 Tenderly he reached up to play with a strand of her hair that floated
on the light breeze.  "I'm not Magnum, PI."  remember?  Justified or
not, takin ga life is still a hell of a thing to have to live with. And
who's to sy the next time would be for so noble a cause?  At that point
I'd had four years to get to know this thing inside me. Something told
me I couldn't count on it drawing the line at justifiable homicide." 
"So you learned to control the impulses," she said.  "By the time my
senior year ended, I'd managed to get the thing on a short leash, yeah.
Med school passed uneventfully, but I guess you already know that." 
He was referring to her investigation.  She nodded,.  "How did you end
up in Pratte?"  "After my residency, I took a few months off.  Left Max
with my FOR is and just hopped on my Harley and took to the open road."
She blinked.  "A motorcycle?  Do you still have it?"  "Gave it to
Bryan last year."  She'd seen Bryan on that hog when he wasn't driving
his pickup, but had no idea it had once belonged to Noah.  "Something
drew me to Pratte," he continued.  "Like a magnet. It was damn eerie. 
I knew the layout of the town before I ever got there.  Except for a
couple of buildin that had been added in recent years.  Those were a
surprise.  Then I drove straight to my house." "Ray's house."  "Right. 
There'd been another owner in the interim, but at that point it had
been standing empty for four years.  I recognized it right away.  Then
I saw the old sign for the doctor's office and knew I'd come home. 
When the real estate agent showed me around the place, I was
speechless."  "You knew the interior of the house, too." She caught on
quickly.  "Every corner, every piece of fuiture."

"And the wallpaper," she said, remembering Henry's words.

He smiled.  "The wallpaper, yeah.  So I snapped up the house that day.
Didn't even find out about Ray's past fill later; It's not the type of
thing real estate agents brag about.  But the townspeople cued me in
quick enough.  And that's when my recurring dream about Anita finally
fell into place."

Kit didn't like where this was heading.

He continued, "I can't walk through a room of that house without
remembering something that took place there.  Dinner parties. 
Arguments with Ruby.  Christmas mornings with Debbie.  Not to
mention--" he wagged his eyebrows obscenely "--doing the big nasty with
an incredible assortment of women.  Hell of a swordsman, Dr. 
Whittaker.  Dispensed his healing touch in every corner of that old
place, right down to the furnace rOOm.  Yesterday I gave a physical to
a local grandma, and I had this vivid recollection of ruthlessly
wheedling her out of her virginity decades ago on that very exam
table."

"So... it.  was Ray's memories you were tapping into all along?  Ever
since the accident?"

He sat up and leaned on a palm, staring down at her.  "You remember
when we talked about reincarnation, Kit?  I know you don't bel--"

"Noah."  She sat up herself then.  "You're a bright man, with years of
scientific training.  You can't really..."

Yes, he can, his expression told her.  She bit her lip on further
protest.  He'd convinced himself he was the reincarnation of Ray
Whittaker, and nothing she said was going to dissuade him.  All these
"memories" of Ray's life had to be the product of Noah's imagination...
or perhaps the combined imaginations of whatever multiple personalities
inhabited his mind.



she said, "So what you're telling me is, it was Ray Whittaker who
attacked me in the cemetery."

"I know it's a lot to swallow, but yes."

It struck her then, and she said quietly "He... he spoke with a New
England accent."  Noah's expression told her this was news to him.  She
gave herself a mental shake.  Don't start buying in to this nonsense,
she warned herself.  Get a grip.  Tryinga different tack, she said,
"From what I know about reincarnation, it's not supposed to be like a
separate personality overpowering your own."

"You're right, it's not.  Normally the synthesis of personalities, of
the previous and present beings, is seamless.  Undetectable.  As it
should be.  The only thing I can figure out is that when I died and was
brought back, the trauma triggered a schism in my personality.  Those
aspects attributable to my previous incarnation--Ray
Whittaker--some-how coalesced and split off."  His probing gaze
lingered on her face.  "You don't buy it," he said, without surprise or
rancor.

"But you do," she said carefully.  "That's enough for now."

A crooked smile.  "You're a born diplomat, Kathleen Roarke."

"!"m a born snoop.  Tell me something.  Why does your study look like
the only lived-in room in your house?  Aside from the kitchen and
bedroom."

"The visions--Ray's memories--are weakest in that room, so it's easy on
the psyche, so to speak.  I used to be Ruby's sewing room.  He never
went in there."  He gave a short haft laugh.  "Well, except for a
physical therapy session one afternoon with a buxom brunette named
Win-if red."

"According to the books I found there, you have a longstanding interest
in curare."

"When I realized who I was playing host to in my head, I researched
everything that had anything to do with him.  Including his weapon of
choice."

At the cemetery she'd asked Noah if he'd killed Jo, and he hadn't
answered.  She realized now he hadn't been able to.  Because he didn't
know.  Whenever his alternate personality took over, he zoned out.  On
the other hand, she'd bet her life that Noah wasn't the one who'd
searched her room and car.  Or hired Tan Man to follow her.  Logically
these incidents shifted guilt away from him, and she grasped at that
possibility like a lifeline.

As if reading her mind, he said, "I wish you'd reconsider and go back
to Chicago, Kit.  God knows it'll kill me to see you leave, but dam
reit you're in danger here."  He made her look him in the eye.  "I'm
not just talking about whoever it is that's trying to get their hands
on Jo's computer disk.  I'm talking about Ray.  He's stolen any future
we could've had.  As long as we're together, you can never he safe from
him."

"That's not true, Noah.  You can control him.  You did it last night."
Her face warmed at the memory of the other things he'd done last
night.

His expression was heartbreakingly sad.  He whispered, "It was a close
call, darling', and you know it.  Next time might be different.
Anything could tip the scales in his favor.  If I'm overtired.  If I'm
coming down with a cold--"

"No?"  She couldn't bear to acknowledge the truth in his words.  To
admit that the alien part of Noah--whatever its true nature--would
forever keep them apart.  Her chin trembled, and she hated herself for
her weakness.  "I know you wouldn't hurt me, Noah."

He roughly seized her shoulders, and she saw how painful it was for
him, too.  "For God's sake, Kit, I did hurt you!  It could happen
again.  It could be worse."  Abruptly he released her.  "I won't take
the chance.  That's final.  I refuse to put you at risk.  My God, I
can't even trust myself to sleep



in the same bed with you!  What kind of relationship would that be?"

She had no answer.  All she knew was that returning to Chicago at the
end of the summer and leaving Noah behind was going to tear her to
pieces.  '

His fingertips stroked her cheek.  "I'd give anything if it didn't have
to be this way, Kit.  Anything."

The indisputable sincerity of his words rocked her, and she lost the
battle to contain her grief.  He hauled her into his arms and kissed
her eyes as the tears flowed.  His voice was harsh as he whispered, "I
love you, Kit.  God help me, I always will."

Chapter Twelve

Noah stretched out on the quilt, pulling Kit down with him to lie
snuggled against his chest.  He kissed and stroked her until, at last,
a languid Peace replaced her anguish.  She felt the reassuring warm
solidness of him, the beat of his heart under his light chambray shirt.
She breathed deeply of the intoxicating male essence of the man,
lightly overlaid with the scent of soap.  Their arms and legs were
comfortably tangled, just as if they were sharinga bed.  All night. But
that, of course, could never be.

Because she knew he was fight.  They could never hoPe to enjoy a normal
relationship.  She'd had too graphic a taste of the dark part of him to
kid herself.  The terror of that night at the cemetery would always be
with her.  No matter what else they shared, a little part of her would
always be waiting for that thing to emerge.

He rolled them both so she was looking up at him leaning over her,
against the backdrop of a living green canopy of maple leaves.  "I
didn't protect you last night," he murmured, and it took a second to
realize he wasn't talking about his alter ego.

"Yeah, I thought about that.  After."

"I'm usually very careful," he said.  "Hell, I'm always very careful. I
guess I'd managed to convince myself we weren't going to make love,
that I was strong enough to resist He smiled wryly at his folly." 
"Last night kind of ... snuck up on me, For what it's worth, I know for
a fact you won't catch anything nasty from me."

"Same here."

"But as for birth control, well... I'd bet real money you're not on the
Pill."

He was right, but she asked, "Why?"

His expression was a funny mixture of tenderness and something else,
something that told her this was another one of those things Southern
gentlemen don't discuss with a lady.  "Well... you're awfully small,
claflin'.  I don't think you've been with anyone else in a long
while."

His knuckles brushed her cheek, which, ridiculously, was growing warm.
She nodded mutely in affirmation.  She could have told him, You're
awfully big, darling: She wasn't very experienced, but she knew that
much.

He added, "But even before last night, I figured you for a woman who
doesn't give herself easily.  It's not in your nature."

How could Noah know so much about her, when he was such a mystery
himself?

As casually as he'd packed up their picnic, he started to undo the tiny
mother-of-pearl buttons running down the front of her dress.

"Noah!"  She tried in vain to derail his busy fingers.  A chuckle
bubbled up her throat as she whipped her head around to peer into the
surrounding woods, though she knew they were alone.  "What are you
doing?"

"Just a simple wound check, darling'.  Your health is my primary
concern."  Her dress was now undone to her waist, and he showed no
signs of stopping.

"This is nowhere near my wound."  She started to redo the buttons at
the V neckline as he untied her sash belt.  He smoothly captured her
hands in one of his without skip pin ga beat.  "Noah, for God's sake,
we're in a public place!"  "Don't worry.  I never see anyone else
here."  "Rarely.  You said you rarely see anyone here."  "Did I?  I
meant 'never."  Of course, there was that group of backpacking nuns
that one time .... "He said this with a straight face as he worked his
way down the dress, and she went still, straining her ears for any hint
of human sounds.  The lilting strains of "Ave Maria," for example.  He
said, "Bryan's right about buttons, you know.  Sexy as hell."  He
grinned at her.  "I think it's the anticipation.  They take so
god-awful long to undo."  He reached the hem and the last button, which
he unfastened with a flourish.  The sides of her dress still met in the
middle.  She wad, technically speaking, as chastely covered as before.
Nevertheless, She shivered and her chest rose and fell faster.  He
released her hands and she let them drop to her sides, making no
attempt to button up.  The singing nuns would just have to deal with
it.  He leaned on a palm, looking her up and down, his hot gaze making
her wonder if he had X-ray vision.  "I've never seen all of you, you
know," he said, "Just tantalizing bits and pieces."  "What about last
night, when you put me to bed?"  "Too dark."  His fingertip trailed
down her neckline and slipped between the two halves of the dress.
Slowly, oh, so slowly, it slid downward over her pounding heart and the
front clasp of her bra, between her ribs to her abdomen, which quivered
at the teasing contact, "You're so soft," he murmured.  She squirmed
when his fingertip dipped into her navel and tickled it lightly.  In
fascination she watched his face, his rapt expression both serious and
playful, if that was possible.  His finger reached the top of her lace
string bikini and lightly



trailed along the edge.  She breathed a sigh of relief.  And regret.
This was where he'd stop.

His gaze locked with hers as his fingertip etched a fiery path straight
down over the lace trianglg and the feminine furrow beneath.  She
gasped, arching into the delicious pressure as he painstakingly traced
the shape of her sex.  Her thighs slammed together reflexively and she
bit her lip to keep from crying out in pleasure.  His heavy, warm pall
cupped her then and she groaned, feeling herself swell and pulsate
under his hand.  At the same moment he seized her mouth with his.

As she felt her arms encircle his neck, she forced herself to pull back
from his hungry kiss.  She shook her head.  To clear it and to make him
slow down.  "We ... we aren't ... we can't..."  Her tongue was thick,
her mind lust-stupid.  "We said we weren't gonna do this.  Didn't
we?"

"Tell me how to stop," he rasped, his eyes glittering like, smoked
green glass.  He took a deep breath.  "Kit.  Darlin'.  Don't expect me
to be able to keep my hands off you while you're still within grabbing
distance--hell, within the state of Vermont."  Some of the glitter fled
his eyes as sober reality intruded.  "You know I'll try my damnedest to
keep you safe--from Ray--but that's not something I can promise.  God
knows I want more than sex from you, but it's all we can have.  And in
a few weeks we won't even have that.  If that's not enough, or if
you're afraid, I'll understand.  I'll leave you alone."

"It's not enough," she whispered, her throat clogged With tears she
refused to liberate, "but I'm... I'm not afraid."  It was a-lie, she
was afraid, but her need for him--for whatever closeness they could
share, however fleeting--overrode her fear.

She reached up to stroke his cheek and the strong line of his jaw.  He
captured her fingertip between his lips and kissed it.  Then he began
to part her dress.  "I want to look at you."

He started at the neckline, slowly drawing the fabric apart to fall
limply at her sides, working his way down until it lay completely open.
His appreciative gaze swept over her before he leaned close to study
the elaborate bra clasp nestled between her breasts.  JUst as she
decided they were in for a good long fumble-and-cuss session, the lace
cups parted in a blur of nimble fingers and a practiced twist of the
wrist.  She narrowed her eyes speculatively.  He didn't learn that in
reed school Not in the classroom, anyway.

Wordlessly he lifted her shoulders and slipped off her dress and bra,
setting them aside.  Now she lay before him in only those ridiculous
little panties she was beginning to spise--identical to the ones from
the day he stitched her up, only these were lhvender.

His voice was an awed whisper.  "Darlin', you are so beautiful."  He
lightly stroked her hip, then hooked a finger under the satin-covered
cord that secured that useless scrap of lace.  "I do love these little
lacy things you ear, though I haven't figured out what purpose they
serve.  Except to drive me crazy."  He pulled them off.

She couldn't resist.  "Is this part of the wound check, Doctor?"

"I'm very thorough."

She watched him examine the half ounce of satin and lace that all but
disappeared in his big hands.  She asked, "You are gonna give those
back, aren't you?"

"I dunno.  Thinkin' of having 'era bronzed."  He twirled the panties,
then stretched them between his fingers and let them fly like a
slingshot.  They hooked on a low tree branch.  "Now.  Long as I got you
nekkid."  He peered closely at her thigh and gently touched the wound.
"Bet it itches like a son of a gun.  Lookin' good, though."

"Good?  It's ugly."



"Hey, that's my handiwork you're maligning.  Take my word for it.  When
this baby heals, you won't be able to tell where it was."  He pressed a
kiss to the scar.  She felt the healing caress of his firm lips there,
felt hs warm breath cud over her thighs, and between them.  He eased
down to lie next to her, his hands roaming in a leisurely perusal.  as
he kissed her forehead, her temple, her ear and throat.

His fingers stroked the side of her breast, following its shape, and
she moaned softly.  He bent his head and drew her soft nipple into his
hot, wet mouth.  It puckered instantly with an electric tingle that
sent an answering current deep between her legs.  Her breath caught and
her entire body tightened for one long, delirious moment.  Then he
settled against her and began suckling lazily.

Kit held him to her, stroking his hair ... absorbing his deep sadness
into herself, to mingle with her own.  She knew that instinctively he
sought the solace of her body--drawing on her innate ability, as a
woman, to comfort and nurture--and she freely gave him what he needed.
She caressed and soothed him, staring up into the shifting pattern of
green and azure, watching the sun wink in and out of view, her senses
filled with the aromas of growing things drifting on the warm breeze.
She'd be content to lie with him like this all day, if that's what he
wanted.

But contentment gradually gave way to a languorous yearning as his lips
and tongue tugged rhythmically on her sensitive flesh.  By the time he
turned his attention to the other breast, her breathing had become
rapid and shallow, her legs moving restlessly.  Her nipple stiff cued
between his teeth, spa.  rkinga deep-throated groan she was helpless to
suppress.  Noah shifted to lie more fully atop her, pressing the
insistent ridge of his erection against her leg.  He sucked with
increasing vigor, the scrape of his teeth shooting flaming arrows that
exploded deep and low.  His hands were just as demanding, molding her
soft flesh, pinching lightly.

She raised her fingers to touch the place where they were connected,
his lips firm and moist and ravenous.  Helplessly she writhed against
him.  Were those wanton cries coming from her?  Her entire body
strained upward, reaching mindlessly, and she felt her climax begin to
gather.

A bird screeched on a nearby limb and she panicked, suddenly cognizant
of their less-than-private surroundings, of her nudity and the
shameless spectacle she presented.  "Oh, God!"  She pushed him off her,
forcefully, and watched his initial bewilderment change to
comprehension as his eyes slowly raked her.  She was pan fng hard,
miserably aware of the scorching flush of arousal from her hairline to
the pebbled tips of her breasts.  She couldn't hide how close she was
to release.

His eyes blazed with ruthless determination.  "You won't hold back,
Kit.  I won't let you."  Before she could object, he grabbed her wrists
with both hands and pinned them near her shoulders, then lowered his
head to her breast once more.

He'd taken the decision away from her; she hod no choice but to ride
out the pleasure he was resolved to give her.  As her throat' arched
and her hips lifted, she felt his hard-muscled thigh push between her
legs, parting them, the coarse denim of his jeans unspeakably erotic as
it slid against her bare skin.  Within seconds he had her once more at
the brink.  All conscious thought fled as her body surged into his,
into the welcome pressure of his leg.

Then the fireball blossomed, consuming her, rippinga hoarse scream from
her throat.  For endless moments the world receded into pure, pulsating
sensation that lifted her and held her aloft.  Even after the inferno
subsided, aftershocks kept her rocking against him as her own throaty
whimpers filled her ears.

Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips, blinking drowsily.  Noah
swaddled her in his long arms, holding her



tight, gentling her with soft kisses and whispered words of love as
awareness gradually returned.  She felt drugged, boneless, and was
vaguely aware of him stretching one arm out toward his backpack and
fUmbling with one of the outer pouches.  She fought her post orgasmic
lethargy enough to turn her head and see him toss a small foil packet
onto the quilt beside them.

"Mmm ... yes..."  she murmured, pressing her lips to his throat.  The
sound of leather snapping as he hastily jerked his belt open.  The
zipper next.  "Uh-uh."  She grabbed his hands.  Shook her head.  "Oh,
no, you don't."

Noah gaped.  Eyes round, jaw slack.  "Oh, no, I don't?"  "I mean--" she
chuckled "--oh, yes, you do, but not like this."  He'd unfastened his
pants, but he hadn't touched his shirt or his sneakers.  "Not like
what?  Tell me!"

"Take off your clothes."

He relaxed slightly; she saw the hint of a smile.  "Isn't that supposed
to be my line?"

"I will not be the only one out here buck naked!"  "When Sister L.L.
Bean comes tromping through, you mean?"  Only the top two buttons of
his shirt were unfastened when he pulled it over his head and flung it
aside.  He stood and yanked off his sneakers without untying them.  No
socks.  No underwear, either.  He almost tripped getting out of his
jeans.

Noah stood staring down at her, his gaze hungry, clearly unembarrassed
by his nudity or his powerful state of arousal.  He was magnificent.
Kit found herself reaching up to him, silently beseeching.  He lowered
himself to the quilt, but when she picked up the foil packet, he took
it from her and set it aside again.  He kissed her fingertips, then
slid down her body.  She felt his fingers open her, his breath a hot
feather-stroke on her damp flesh.  His intimate kiss, the firm,
leisurely caress of his tongue, stole her breath.  She felt a long
finger probe deeply... felt the answering clutch of her inner
muscles... felt his low moan buzz into her and coax her hips off the
quilt.  "Noah."  She half raised herself to tug on his hair and dig her
nails into his shoulders.  "Noah!"  She needed to be joined with him
when the spark ignited once more.  And she was so close.  At last he
raised his head and grabbed the foil packet, tearing it open.  She
commandeered the task, sheathing the hot, hard length of him slowly,
feeling him twitch and throb under her fingers.  From deep in his chest
came a low growl as he pushed her back down, fitting himself to her.
She reveled in the size and weight of him... in that glorious moment
when he pressed into her and she felt her body open under the delicious
pressure.  He stared into her eyes and filled her completely in one
long, slow thrust.  They groaned in unison, and smiled at the perfect
harmony of it.  She pulled his head down and tasted herself on his
lips.  He set a gentle, unhurried cadence, in stark contrast to the
tumultuous joining of the night before.  Slowly they rocked into each
other, melding and retreating, every nuance of sensation keenly felt.
And still he kept his gaze on hers.  Their breathy sighs blended with
the burble of the stream and the whisper of the breeze stirring the
leaves.  When she held him tighter and tossed her head restlessly, Noah
raised her bottom and angled her hips, forcing himself deeper and more
fully against her, each thrust now stroking the tiny ultra sensitive
bud, the center of her pleasure.  Her cries came sharp and fast,
matching the increased tempo of his loving, till she shuddered with the
explosive power of her climax.  As her body quieted, she became aware
of Noah's hands gripping her hips, holding them still.  He bit his lip
on a soft half laugh and whispered, "Wait, darling'...shh, don't move."
She felt the throbbing fullness of him inside her and knew he was
struggling to make it last.  He kissed her, lightly at first, then
deeper, a lingering, cherishing kiss.  Keeping them joined, he rose to
his knees, pulling her up with him, her legs around his hips.  His
strong hands lifted and lowered her, controlling the rhythm.

She renewed the kiSS, tugging hungrily on his mouth, breathing in his
harsh exhalations and tangling her tongue with his.  Leaning forward,
she pressed him onto his back.  Raised her head to stare down into his
face, curtained by the spiraling tendrils of her hair.  His eyes were
dark and intense, passion clouded... the cords of his neck taut as a
bowstring .... With a slow smile she pulled his hands off her hips and
pressed them back onto the quilt near his shoulders, as he'd done to
her earlier.  Though he could have shaken off her hold at any time, he
only grinned playfully and teased, "Be gentle with me, Kathleen.!"

His playful smile turned smoldering as she moved over him, setting her
own pace--a pace he obediently matched until the demands of his body
overcame him.  Abruptly he yanked his hands away to seize her once more
and hurtle toward his own release, his hammering thrusts triggering her
fever anew.  When his body flexed hard, so did hers.  And when his
hoarse cry shattered the quiet of the forest, her own voice echoed
it.

"ARE YOU FALLING AS!-I:.F.P?"  Not that she wasn't happy just to sit
there staring at him--all of him.  For that matter, she was still
mother-naked herself.  She let the constantly changing pattern of
dappled light direct her gaze to every part of him in turn as he lay
stretched out on the quilt.

He snorted.  "What foolishness.  Never heard of a guy falling asleep
after sex."  His eyes were closed, his head pillowed on his laced
fingers.

She trailed her fingernails slowly down his chest, through the crisp
hair that gleamed like gold wool.  When she got to his abdomen, it
tightened in reflex and a chuckle escaped him.  He seized her hand and
opened his eyes at last.  "Witch."

"What's this?"  She indicated the little round scar she'd noticed
earlier.  ,

"Birthmark.  There's a bigger one on my back."  He flipped over and
there it was, also on the right side, but larger.

"Odd," she said, touching the puckered mark on his otherwise perfect
body.  "You were born with these?"

He hesitated before saying, "Kit, do you remember those old autopsy
reports I showed you?"

"Anita and Ray's?  Yeah."  She lightly rubbed his back.  It was
impossible to keep her hands off him.

He rested his chin on his folded arms.  "Do you remember the
description of Ray's bullet wound?"

Her hand went still, her eyes glued to the scar.  The report indicated
a small entry wound on the right side of the abdomen... and a larger
exit wound directly behind.  He'd bled.  to death.

Noah looked at her over his shoulder.  He said nothing, and she sensed
he was trying to read her reaction.

She licked her lips.  "I suppose the scars match up... ?"  "You read
the report.  You tell me."

The scars matched up.  Perfectly.  She'd pored over every detail of'
those damn reports, and asked Noah to clarify anything she didn't
understand.  Apparently satisfied by her unspoken answer, he turned
back around and dropped his chin again.



She asked, "Is this ... usual?  To have markings from a,

uh, previous..."  Jeez, listen to her.  "You know..."  "Incarnation."

"Yeah.  Incarnation."  She allowed her'fdngers to touch the odd mark on
his back.  Exit wound?

"Well, the literature includes plenty of cases where people are born
with marks that correspond to scars acquhcd duringapast life, but I
wouldn't say it's usual.  Other indicators of reincarnation are much
more common."

"Luke recurring dreams.  Or knowing the layout of a house you've never
seen before."  She didn't try to hide the skepticism that infected her
tone.

He was silent a moment, as if debating whether to continue.  "That's
right," he said tightly.

He could talk about "the literature" all he Wanted, but it didn't
change the fact that Noah was... she hated to acknowledge it...
unbalanced in some way.  Her armchair diagnosis was still multiple
personality disorder, of which she knew precious little.  It was way
past time he had professional help for whatever was going on inside
him.  Perhaps then--dare she hope?--he could even be cured and they
could be together.

Forever.

She chose her words carefully.  "Have you ever consulted an, um, expert
on this?  Aside from your friend who helped you with the TM and all."

"Oh, I'm still in touch with Paul.  He's a well-respected
psychotherapist now, in New York.  Does a lot of work with hypnosis."

"Is he till into the paranormal?"

"In a big way.  He's contributed some important research.  In between
helping people stop smoking, lose weight and improve their backswing,
He's the only person--aside from you--who knows about me.  And Ray." 
So he did talk to a shrink.  A like-minded crackpot who'd probably been
encouraging Noah's delusions all these years.  Still, if this Paul
Kerrigan was an honest-to-God psychotherapist, as Noah said, that had
to count for something.  She asked, "Has he done past-life hypnosis on
you?  You know, taken you back to Ray's life?"  His back tensed under
her hand.  "Paul's been trying to get me to undergo hypnotic regression
for ten years, but I won't let him.  The dreams are so god damn
realistic.  I can feel myself--me--doing this terrible thing to Anita.
The last thing I need is FOR relive it all in graphic detail.  I'd
rather stick to the newspaper reports."  Too bad.  Perhaps if he
allowed Paul to hypnotize him, he'd find out what his real problem was.
And overcome it.  He sat up and faced her.  His eyes closed briefly,
and when they opened again, she detected a hint of regret.  "When you
first arrived, in Pratte, and I couldn't dissuade you from staying, I
decided I had to stick close to you.  To keep tabs on what you turned
up.  And to make sure you didn't--" a muscle twitched in his jaw"
--find out too much."  "About you, you mean."  He nodded, and' she
looked away, unable to bear his scrutiny as she thought back to the day
she'd shown up in his office... and her pathetic gratitude when he'd
offered to help her.  He said, "It was an automatic reaCtion on my
part, Kit.  Call it an instinct for self-preservation.  But at the same
time, I realized I had to know the truth.  It was looking at your face
that did it.  Seeing your pain.  How much Jo meant to you.  That's when
I decided to let Paul have a crack at hyPnotizing me.  Not to go back
to Ray's life--never that--but to relive the day Jo died.  The part I
can't remember."  Grimly she met his eyes again.  Drew in a shaky
breath.  The part I can't remember.  "You want to find out if you
killed Jo," she said.  His expression was bleak.  "I ha veto know."



A weight settled in her chest.  And if he found out he was guilty? What
would he do?  What would she do?  "But Paul wasn't able to help you?" 
she asked.

"He hasn't had a chance 'yet.  Been'on sabbatical in Alaska since the
end of May.  Doesn't get back to New York till the end of August.  I've
left messages for him."

"Isn't there anyone else you can--"

"Trust me on this, Kit.  Paul knows my history as Well as

I do.  Knows about Ray and all of it.  The guy saved my sanity back at
Columbia after I killed Anders.  It's him or no

O1."

Fair enough.  "Noah..."  She laid her hand on his arm.

"I think you should let him take you back all the way.  To yourm" go
ahead, say it "--previous life.  I think it'll help you."

His sad, half-smiling eyes told her he appreciated her paying lip
service to his claims of reincarnation.  And that he was aware of her
ulterior motive.  "What you think is that I'll discover I was wrong
about Ray and that I really suffer from something much more plausible.
And treatable."

Tears stung her eyes.  She whispered, "Is it too much to ask you to
give it a try?"  For both their sakes.

"Darlin', believe me, if I thought there was the remotest chance you
could he fight, I'd do it in a heartbeat.  But the fact is, you're
wrong.  And'd liherately dredging up every repulsive tic tail of that
monster's life can only make my life more miserable.  And he's already
done a damn good job of that."

His words triggered a memory.  "Ray said ... he said there was
something he had to tell you," she reminded him, disturbed by how
easily she'd slipped into calling Noah's alter ego Ray.  "At the
cemetery.  He said you were a stubborn, strong-willed bastard and you
won't let him show you

"I'm not interested in anything my good buddy Ray wants to show me."

"Maybe you should let him, Noah.  Maybe this message... whatever he's
trying to tell you... well, maybe it's something you'd want to know
about."  And just maybe Noah's reticence was his way of avoiding the
truth: that his problems stemmed not from a long-dead murderer but from
some sort of mental disorder.

Tenderly he stroked her cheek.  "Give it up, Kit.  I'm not gonna open
myself up to him, put myself at his mercy.  "Cause thaffs what we're
talking about here.  And once he sinks his teeth in, who knows what
it'll take to make him let go?  How do I even know Paul can handle him?
He's dealt with a lot in his work, but something tells me Ray just may
be a match for him."

Arguing was useless.  "Did you sense him when we were..."  She glanced
at the quilt they sat on, indicating their lovemaking.

His gaze slid away from hers.  "Yeah, he wanted to come out and play.
That'll never change.  But I think I've figured out how to keep a leash
on him when we're together.  Like I said, I'm pretty sure I can keep
you safe."

"As opposed to being one hundred percent positive."

He sighed heavily.  "You can back off any time, Kit.  I won't press
you."

She knew her own eyes reflected the yearning she read in his.  As he'd
pointed out, there could be no forever for them, just a summer's worth
of bittersweet memories: If she'd allow it.  She snuggled into his lap
and felt his instant response, the hot, velvet-sheathed steel nudging
her bottom She heard his sharp indrawn breath.

"I like to live dangerously," she whispered, pulling his mouth down to
hers.

Chapter Thirteen

The short, balding man returned to the counter with Jo's cleaning
ticket.  "Can't find this.  When was it brought in?"  "Says right there
on the ticket.  June fourteenth."

The man sighed in annoyance.  "June fourteenth.  Lename check the
back."

Kit looked at her watch.  Quarter past ten, and she had a one-o'clock
flight to O'Hare.  Now she wished she hadn't put off this chore till
the end of August.  It took a few minutes for the man to return with
Jo's plastic-shrouded clothes.  She stared at the red linen blazer and
navy silk pants.

"Miss...?"

She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and looked at the man, who
was wagginga small, fat white envelope in front of her face.

"I said you left something in the pockets.  It's all in here."  She
accepted the envelope and the cleaning, and returned to the parking
lot.  An awning of pewter clouds had turned the day murky.  The skies
would open up before long.  Suitably depressing weather for the worst
day of her life, she thought.  The day she had to say goodbye to Noah.
She felt a painful squeezing in the vicinity of her heart.  Perversely,
the only thing that made their parting more bearable was the knowledge
that it was as hard for Noah as it was for her.  The last weeks of the
summer had been more bittersweet than she'd anticipated, their warm
closeness and abandoned loving tempered by the knowledge that this day
would come.

She'd gained enormous satisfaction from teaching the troubled fifth
graders at the Powell School, and Hannah had offered her a permanent
position.  But she'd turned her down.  Staying in Pratte wasn't an
option.  Not without Noah.  The emotional tightrope they'd walked all
summer was as draining as it was exhilarating.  He hadn't connected
with his buddy paul yet, and even when he did, there was no reason to
think things would ever change for them.  The thing that kept them
apart would always be there, inside him.  Noah would never be hers.

And as much as it hurt to acknowledge it, she also knew the mystery of
Jo's death would remain a mystery.  She figured the police must have
back-burnered the case by now, though Chief Jordon was still as
cloSemouthed as ever.  After two and a half months, any leads that
might once have existed would now be stone-cold.  Kit resigned herself
to the fact that she'd failed her friend.  There would be no rooting
out of the.  truth at this late date, no avenging her cold-blooded
murder.  Kit had to go home.  Get on with her life.  And without the
two people who meant more to her than anything.

She opened the rear car door and carefully hung Jo's clothes on the
hook over the window, while her rational mind wondered why she didn't
simply toss them into the trunk.  What would she even do with them? She
slid behind the wheel and examined the bulging envelope before
slippinga fingernail under the sealed flap.  She shook out the contents
Onto the passenger seat and pawed through them.  Sixty-seven cents in
change, plus three wadded-up dollar bills.  A shirt button with threads
hanging off it.  A movie stub.  Half a roll of mints.  A matchbook
from the Thackeray Inn.  A small key.  A scrunchy red satin hair tie.
Good old Jo.  Didn't she ever hear of carry inga purse?

Reverently Kit touched the three long, dark brown hairs that had caught
on the hair tie.  Her throat started to close when she realized this
was all that was left of Jo, the last lingering bit of her corporeal
existence, the rest of her having been reduced to ashes.  Perhaps Noah
was right about reincarnation, and Jo's spirit had already begun a new
adventure.  Kit's imagination conjured up a toddler pouring Cuervo over
her Froot Loops.

Shaking her head on a wry smile, she dropped the hair tie and picked up
the key to peer closely at the gold script embossed on its green
plastic head.  Valkyrie.  And under it, 49.  A moment for the
significance to sink in, then a heated curse as she banged her head
back against the headrest.  Another stop to make.  Jo must have had a
permanent locker at the damn health club.  Kit started the car and
checked her watch again.  She was being punished, she knew.  This is
what she got for leaving everything till the last minute.  She hadn't
even packed yet!

It took over half an hour to locate Valkyrie, in the next town.  After
explaining her mission to the pretty young mesomorph at the front desk,
she was directed to the locker area.

"Will her stuff still he there?"  Kit asked.

"Long as her membership fee was paid up," the woman assured her.

Inside the locker room, she blinked at the bright lights and mirrored
walls.  The mingled scents of stale sweat and designer hair spray hung
heavily in the air.  Kit nodded to Grace Drummond, Bettina David and a
couple of other well-heeled acquaintances.  An aerobics class must have
just let out.  She hoped no one would strike up a conversation; the
last thing she was in the mood for just now was idle chitchat.  She let
the fact that she was emptying Jo's locker speak for itself.  Curious
eyes burned a hole in her back as she located locker number 49 and
slipped the key into the lock.

The door swung open and she sighed, wondering if the receptionist would
be willing to scrounge up a shopping bag for her.  Leotards, leggings
and crop tops hung from the hooks, along with a sleek hot pink racing
swimsuit.  Towels, sneakers and athletic socks were crammed in the
bottom.  The familiar scent of Jo's perfume wafted from the workout
clothes.  Kit couldn't help smiling.  "God, I miss you, Jo," she
whispered under her breath.  The small shelf near the top of the long
locker was crammed with more gear: a shiny gold swim cap and goggles, a
clear plastic cosmetic bag bulging with makeup and hair accessories,
and an assortment of plastic bottles filled with shampoo, conditioner
and loft offs

Okay, maybe two shopping bags.  Kit rose on tiptoes to peek into the
back of the shelf.  A flash of silver caught her eye.  Jewelry?  She
reached in and when her hand connected with the object, her heart
slammed painfully to her ribs.  Her fingers tightened around the small
square as if it might evaporate at any moment.  In slow motion she drew
out her hand and stared at Jo's computer disk.

The label read, Poisoned Love.  Complete June 13.  Complete.  Jo had
finished her book.  Just before her death.  She stood staring at the
disk.  Kit had never stopped searching, and here it was all along, in
this pigsty of a locker.  She slammed the door closed and dropped the
key and disk into her purse.  And then noticed how unnaturally quiet
the locker room had become.  My, ladies, what big eyes you have.  She
spun around quickly and the room erupted into bustling activity and
conversation.

Bettina David was closest to her, stepping into a pair of beige raw
silk slacks, her dark, shower-damp hair secured in a braid.  "Bettina,
do you know Where I can locate a

 phone?"  Kit knew her voice was breathy with excitement, but it was
all she could do to get the words out.  Bettina smiled and pointed to a
corner of the locker room.  "Right.  over there."  She pulled' on a
sleevoless white silk tunic that contrasted beautifully with her sleek,
suntanned arms.  "Thanks."  Kit dug a quarter out of her purse on the
way to the phone.  Her nape prickled and she sensed Bettina's eyes on
her.  But when she tapped Noah's number into the phone's keypad and
glanced over her shoulder, she saw that the other woman had already
left.  Alice's sandpaper voice answered on the third ring, and Kit
asked to be put through to Noah immediately.  "It's an emergency."  She
waited two long minutes to hear his voice, harried but concerned.
"Kit... ?"  She'd never bothered him duringa busy workday, and he
wouldn't he expecting to hear from her until lunchtime, when he'd
planned to take her to the airport.  "Noah, I found the disk."  He
whispered, "My God.  Where?"  "In Jo's health club locker."  "Where are
you now?"  His voice was strained, clipped.  "I'm still here, at
Valk--" "Go straight to the police, Kit."  "Noah--" "I mean it," he
barked.  "Don't argue with me.  You're in danger, dammit!"  "Noah,
listen to me!  I have to read Jo's book."  She lowered her voice.  "I
have to find out what she dug up about Anita's murder.  Lend me your
computer, okay?"  She could scan the book and make a copy for herself
before handing the original over to the police chief.  Maybe she'd have
to take a later flight, but right now, that was the least of it.

"Once Chief Jordon gets his grubby mitts on this disk, I'll never get a
peek at it.  You know that."

"Kit."  His tone was softer now, cajoling.  "It'll take you a good half
hour to get here from Valkyrie, but the police statiOn's practically
around the corner from where you are.  Your safety's the only thing
that matters fight now.  Someone's been waiting all summer for you to
turn up that damn disk.  You've been followed-"

"I haven't seen the guyJn a few weeks."

An exasperated sigh.  "So he's gotten more careful.  Or they've gotten
a different guy."  A pause.  "Did anyone see you find the disk?"

Her hesitation was clearly answer enough.  She heard him curse, and
could almost' see his white, knuckled grip on his office phone.  She
tried to make light of it.  "I don't think I'm in danger from a bunch
of sweaty ladies in leotards."  She loved Noah all the more for his
protective impulses--overprotective, perhaps--but at the moment she was
too exhilarated by her discovery to humor him.

"Wait for me there, Kit.  I'll come for you.".

"That's ridiculous.  You've got a ton of patients, Noah."  His waiting
room was always full.  "I don't need a babysitter."

His voice rose again.  "I said wait there for me, dam-mitt"

"No.  I'm leaving now.  I'll see you soon."  She hung up.

NOAH STOPPED SHORT just over the threshold of his office.  A bearded
man in T-shirt and jeans sat behind his desk, pawing through the box of
cheap toys Noah kept on hand to reward his youngest patients.

Paul Kerrigan spared him a glance as he selected a tiny Troll doll with
fuzzy purple hair.  "If I don't cry, can I have one of these?"

"Where the hell did you come from?"



"Great to see you, too, Noah."  Paul stroked his short, dark beard.
"Check it out.  A whole summer with no razor.  What d'ya think?  Does
it add to my rugged appeal?"

"Paul."  Noah slumped into the opposite chair.  "I don't know why
you're here, but man, am I glad to see you."  Kit had called barely
five minutes ago, and he was frantic with worry.  He knew he wouldn't
relax till she walked in the door.

Paul leaned hack, frowning slightly, his gray eyes never leaving
Noah's.  "I got your tapes.  Sent my gear on to New York and came
straight here from Anchorage.  Something pretty heavy must're happened
for you to ask me to hypnotize you."

Noah propped his elbows on the desk and massaged his forehead.  He
looked up to find Paul still studying him.  "Yeah."  He sighed wearily.
"You might say that."  Where to start?

Alice knocked on the door as she opened it.  She scowled at the man
sitting in her boY's chair.  "That beard looks ridiculous, Paul.  Noah,
Marie MacIntyre's waiting in--"

"You'll have to cancel the rest of my appointments, Al ice.  Tell them
an emergency came up."  It wasn't a lie.

She shrugged and left.

Paul said, "Alice is still the same irrepressible flirt, I see."  When
Noah didn't smile, he added quietly, "I was sorry to hear about Jo."
They'd met a Couple of times during the past year.

"There's more."  Noah quickly filled him in on everything that had
happened that summer, from Noah's possible involvement in Jo's murder
to the events of that morning and his fears for Kit's safety.

Paul leaned forward and faced him across the desk.  "So you want me to
help you go back to the day Jo died.  To relive the part you can't
remember and find out if you killed her," he said matter-of-factly.

Noah drew in a deep breath.  "Yeah, but don't stop there."

Paul's eyes widened as Noah's meaning registered.  "I don't believe it.
Ten years of nagging has finally worn you down.  You're gonna let me
take you back to Ray's time."

"Don't applaud yourself.  It wasn't your nagging.  It's Kit. 
Somebody's been waiting all summer for her to find that damn disk, and
I'd bet my last dime they're watching her till she gets on the plane to
Chicago. The hell of it is, she was so excited about discovering Jo's
book, I know she's not thinking about the risks."

"What did Jo find out that would make someone go to those lengths to
suppress it?"

"If only I knew.  Whatever it was, she kept it to herself.  Spent
eleven months in Pratte quietly turning over rocks."  He smirked.  "And
pillows.  Who knows what she found out?  Maybe regressing to Ray's life
won't aCComplish anything but letting the bastard sink his claws in
even deeper, but I've gotta give it a try.  On the off chance I'll
learn something that'll help me protect Kit."  He contemplated the
unthinkable.  "If anything happened to her..."

The idea' of regressing past his own birth--of deliberately exposing
himself to the evil he'd spent his entire adult life avoiding--brought
on a cold sweat and made his stomach roil.  But he knew he had no
choice.  As scared as he was to confront, and possibly empower, the
malignant personality that shared his mind, those fears paled next to
his overwhelming need to keep Kit safe.

Paul smiled softly, incredulously.  "I never thought I'd see it.  You
really love this girl."

"More than you can imagine.  I just hope that when you're through
chewing the fat with Ray, you can coax him back where he belongs, that
he doesn't turn out to be too much for you to handle.  You've never
really gone head-to-head with this tenacious SOB."

Paul's response was a confident, steady gaze bordering on arrogance,
and a humorless half smile.  "He's never gone head-to-head with this
tenacious SOB."

"The thing is, we've got to do this fat."

Paul was instantly all business.  He glanced around the office.
"Where?"

"There's only one place I can really relax."

Moments later he was comfortably ensconced on the armchair in his
study.  Paul brought in a dining chair and turned it around to straddle
it facing him, his arms folded over the back.  Noah was well acquainted
with the proce/ dure, having been hypnotized by Paul many times in the
process of learning how to control Ray.  That very training now enabled
him to enter a state of intense relaxation even before Paul's soothing
voice began guiding him.  They went through the familiar litany of slow
counting while his limbs became progressively heavier.  Deeper and
deeper he spiraled, descending an imaginary staircase .... OLrrSIDE
VALKYRIE, the.  rain clouds had swollen, turning morning to dusk, while
the sharp tang of ozone heralded a thunderstorm.  Kit climbed into Jo's
Corolla and turned the key.  The car would stay in Pratte.  Noah had
promised to sell it for her and send the proceeds to Sal.

The instant she began pulling out of the parking space, she knew
something was wrong.  The car pulled to the left and made an ominous
noise in the vicinity of the front left tire.  She thump-thumped back
into the space and got out to take a look.  The tire was flat.  She
slumped against the car as the first fat raindrops pelted her.  Now
what?  She'd been driving this car all summer.  She already knew Jo
hadn't felt the need to carry around such mundane items as a spare tire
and jack.

She supposed she could leave the car here for Noah to take care of
later, but that still left the problem of how to get to pratte.  She'd
die before she called Noah back to come rescue her A silver Lexus
slowed to a stop behind the Corolla.  Kit watched the driver's window
roll down, and grinned with relief.  "Perfect timing.  Mind if I hitch
a ride?"

Noah opened his eyes on the count of three to see Paul rising from his
chair.  His last instruction before ending the session had been, "when
you open your eyes, you' ll member everything we discussed."

And, God help him, he did.

Paul said, "I'm coming with you."

"No!"  Noah was already on his way out the door.  "Stay here in case
she shows up or calls."  Sprinting down the hallway, he yelled over his
shoulder, "And get ahold of Chief Jordon!"

Chapter Fourteen

Noah snatched the telephone receiver away from the young woman at the
front desk of Valkyrie.  She gaped in shock.  "I'm looking for Kit
Roarke."  A puddle was forming under him on the lobby's plush green
carpeting.  He'd raced through the downpour and made it from Pratte in
eighteen minutes.  "Who?"  "She came here a little while ago to empty
Joanne Merino's locker."  The phone receiver squawked in his hand.
"Cindy?  Cindy, you there?"  "Listen, mister--" She lunged for the
phone, but he held it out of reach.  He said, "Her car's still in the
lot, Cindy."  With a slashed tire.  "Where is she?"  Cindy pointed
toward a double doorway, 'her carefully painted face twisted into an
ugly scowl.  Noah tossed her the receiver and barreled through the
doors.  A chorus of ear-piercing squeals and outraged cries of "Dr.
Stewart.t" con-fir reed that he was in the locker room.  He squinted at
the labyrinthine banks of lockers and floor-to-ceiling mirrors.  "God,"
he muttered, "this place is a god damn fun house."  He stalked the rows
of lockers calling Kit's name, heedless of the sputtering objections of
a score of females in various stages of undress.  Noah didn't know what
they were carrying on about.  Hell, he'd done Pap smears on most of
these women.

The hurried snap of bra straps and creak of panty girdles accompanied
his progress through the room.  At the end of an aisle Elizabeth
Murray.  leaned suggestively on her locker, her leathery, over tanned
flesh stuffed into a black lace push-up bra and matching garter belt.
Mutton dressed as lamb.  Though, to be fair, she'd been quite the hot
ticket several decades ago when Ray nailed her to his office wall after
splinting her broken toe.  "Hi, Liz," he said.  "Hi, Dr.  Stewart."

"Have you seen Kit Roarke around here?"

"She that friend of Joanne's from Chicago?  The one with the hair?"
Keeping her eyes glued to his, she reached into each bra cup in turn to
hoist herself a bit.

"That's right."

"She left.  I saw her get into a car when I was pulling in to the
parking lot."

"Whose car?"

She shrugged.  "It was a silver Lexus.  I didn' the who was driving."

Noah squeezed his eyes shut on a vicious curse.  He was too late.  He
knew who was behind the wheel of that silver Lexus.  Without a word he
made his way out of the locker room and the building, pausing next to
his Jeep.  He blinked into the rain.

Where would Henry have taken her?

He heard it before he saw it, the familiar rumble of a Harley.  H/s
Harley.  Or what used to be his.  The sleek, dark silhouette
materialized out of the gloom of driving rain, banking hard and
reckless on the turn into the parking lot, skating to an abrupt stop
next to Noah.

Bryan yanked off his black helmet, heedless of the downpour that had
already drenched his black leather jacket and



jeans.  "I stopped by your place right after you left.  Paul told me
what happened.  Did you find her?"

Noah wondered how much Bryan knew.  "No.  Henry got to her first.
Someone saw her getting in.lo his Lexus."

Bryan hurled an ugly oath, his face are ask of cold rage.  He pulled in
to the space next to Noah's Jeep and cut the engine, then swung off the
bike and hopped into the Jeep as Noah slid behind the wheel.  Within
seconds they were on the highway.

"Any idea where they are?"  the boy asked.

Noah shared straight ahead, determined not to give in to the wave of
bleak despair squeezing his heart.  "No."  His voice was tight and raw.
"He wouldn't take her to his home.  Not to..."  Not to kill her.  He
couldn't say it.

Bryan said, "The cops must've already checked his house.  And Paul got
Jotdon to issue an APB on the Lexus and his other cars.  For all the
good it'll do."  He pounded the dash savagely.  "It's my fault.  I knew
it was him all along.  I should've.  whacked the old has hard after
what he did to Jo.  If he touches Kit, he'll wish I had."

Bryan was wrong.  It wasn't his fault, it was Noah's.  If he hadn't
resisted hypnotic regression all those years, Henry would have been
stopped long ago, before he'd had a chance to kill Jo.  His fists
tightened on the steering wheel.  Before he'd had a chance to get his
hands on Kit.  She'd told him that in the cemetery Ray had called Noah
a stubborn, strong-willed bastard.  He'd been right, dammit, and that
stubbornness was about to get Kit killed.

It might already he too late.

No.  He stomped the accelerator, with no inkling of his destination.
All he knew was that he had to get there fast.  It wasn't too late.  It
couldn't he.

"SORRY."  KIT WIPED heavy wet strands of hair off her face and lifted
her bottom, clad in her red denim miniskirt, to check the car seat.
"I'm getting your upholstery wet."  Supple ivory-colored leather
upholstery at that.

Bettina shot her a conspiratorial glance from the driver's seat.
"Relax.  This is Henry's car, not mine."

"I really appreciate the lift, Bettina.  You can drop me off at
Noah's."

"Certainly.  I imagine you and your young man want as much time as
possible to say your goodbyes."

Bettina's casual reference to her impending separation from her "young
man" scraped Kit's already tattered nerves.  She hadn't realized the
Davids knew she was involved with Noah.  Due to the bizarre
circumstances and the impermanence of their relationship, they'd taken
care not to advertise it.  She could only assume it took very little to
fuel the inferno of small-town gossip.

Bettina smiled' apologetically.  "I hope you don't mind, but I couldn't
help noticing you opened up Joanhe's locker.

I hadn't realized her things were still in there."  "I didn't know it
myself until today."  "Why did you leave it all?"

"Well... there was too much to carry."  Kit 'cringed inwardly, knowing
she could offer no convincing reason for walking out of the health club
empty-handed.

Bettina let the subject drop, for which Kit was grateful.  She twisted
in her seat to drop her purse on the floor in back.  It landed next to
Bettina's sack-style shoulder bag.  The bag had fallen on its side and
something protruded from it, something small, shiny red with a silver
logo.  Something Kit recognized instantly.  She turned back in her
seat, idly wondering how many accessory gadgets Bettina's Swis army
knife sported.  It probably had cuticle scissors and an eyelash cur
let

She frowned.  It might even have a knife.

Scouring her memory, Kit tried to recall running over anything that
could have punctured a tire.  Wouldn't she



have noticed?.  She glanced at Bettina, the picture of serenity.

Noah's words echoed in her mind.  Did anyone see you find the disk?  Up
to this point, all she' been able to think about was getting to a
computer and reading her friend's book.

The book that got Jo killed.

Kit swallowed hard and averted her face to stare out the window and
collect her thoughts.  The rain hammered the glass, smearing the
bucolic landscape flying past.  During the course of her informal
investigation, she'd compiled a short list of suspects in Jo's murder,
a list she'd been unable to narrow down further.  That list included
Noah, of course, as well as Bryan and Henry.  If Henry was indeed
guilty, where did that leave his wife?

Kit jerked to attention as the car unexpectedly turned off the highway
onto a side road.  "I have to make a quick detour to pick something
up," Bettina said, smiling.  "I know you won't mind."

"HE'DTAKEHER into the woods," Bryan said, interrupting the rhythmic
slap of the wiper blades.

"That's what I figure.  Unless he..."  Noah hauled in a deep breath,
forcing himself to contemplate every possibility "Unless he took her to
a lake."

Bryan grunted in assent.  "That's fight.  Somewhere he could make her
disappear."

Any relief Noah felt from the discovery that he hadn't killed Jo was
eclipsed by the knowledge that Kit was now in the hands of the real
murderer.  During hypnosis Ray had shown Noah what had happened back in
June, at Grace's party.  While Jo had been attacked, Noah was ensconced
in the solarium, sipping Scotch and recovering from his exhausting
ordeal at the hospital.

When he was called to her side, Ray actually emerged to assist him in
saving her, later withdrawing to let Noah perform CPR, a skill he
didn't share.  Noah now saw the incident as a patchwork of cooperation
between himself and Pratte's former M.D. When Henry had reached for Jo,
of tensibly to assist in saving her, Ray had lunged to the fore and
decked the older man.  Jo's murderer.  There'd been no doubt in Ray's
mind.  It fit the MO.  Henry had established decades ago, when he'd
killed his first wife.  And that was perhaps the most star fling
revelation of all, the knowledge that Ray was innocent of Anita's
murder.  Noah had finally allowed him to reenact 'her final minutes,
right through to the end.  Under hypnosis he'd experienced Ray's horror
as the injection he administered to relieve Anita's breathing did just
the opposite.  Ray could only watch helplessly as respiratory paralysis
seized his patient and she succumbed to a hideous death.  He stared at
the syringe in his hand.  At the vial of clear liquid.  And he knew. 
He poked at the remains of a ham salad sandwich sitting on the kitchen
table.  Sniffed it.  Tasted it.  And detected a bit of mustard,.  to
which Anita was violently allergic.  Just enough had been added to
trigger severe anaphylaxis that might have been enough by itself to
kill her.  But Henry had taken no chances.  That's where the injection
came in.  Ray didn't know what kind of toxin his old buddy had chosen,
only that it looked enough like epinephrine to fool him.  Ray concluded
that Henry must have found out about his affair with Anita, an affair
he'd been on the verge of breaking off.  Ray had known for some time
that Henry intended to divorce his wife and marry his wealthy young
lover, Bet-tina Sheridan.  Apparently he'd altered his plans to a more
immediate and cost-effective solution.  And engineered a diabolical
revenge for the good pal who'd cuckolded him at the same time, by
making him a party to the murder.  As horrified as Ray was at that
moment of truth, as he stared at that vial he had to admire Henry's
ingenuity.

But he didn't have to sacrifice himself.  He picked up the phone and
called an ambulance, clai/hing Anita had succumbed to the asthma attack
and he'd been too late to save her.  It was simpler and safer than
revealing Henry's guilt; toxicology tests might show she was poisoned,
but Ray had no proof to connect Hemy with the crime.  He'd planned it
out too well, even arranging to be far away when his wife died, in
Montpelier on business.  No, Ray would have to take care of his old
friend himself.

After the funeral, Ray confronted Henry, who went berserk when Ray
mentioned his affair with Anita--as if he were learning it for the
first time.  He didn't even respond to the accusation of murder.  Henry
then went to ties with a wild tale that Ray had confessed to poisoning
her..  Anita was exhumed, toxicology tests performed and Ray was
arrested.  He protested his innocence, but no one gave any credence to
his claims that Henry had orchestrated the murder.  The minute he was
released on bail, Ray made his final fatal mistake.  He grabbed his
semiautomatic and paid his old pal a visit.  The ensuing struggle had
ended in Ray's death.

And for thirty-two years the world believed him guilty.  Noah couldn't
deny that Ray had been a heartless bastard.  Predatory and cruel, a
manipulating, unrepentant womanizer.

But he was no murderer.

And that's what Ray had been trying to do for so many years, Noah
reflected as he raced down the rain-slick high way.  To clear his name.
Prove his innocence.  That was the purpose of the recurring dream, all
Ray's attempts to force his way into Noah's consciousness.  It's what
he'd tried to tell Kit in the cemetery.  That he hadn't killed Anita.

Bryan's voice dragged him out of his grim musings.  "Henry would pick a
real secluded spot... somewhere not too many people know about."

"Damn/" Noah slammed on the brakes and skidded into the shoulder.
"That's it.  God, that's it," he breathed as he spun the Jeep around
and took off in the opposite direction.

Bryan braced himself against the rough turnaround and didn't ask where
they were heading.  All he said was, "I hope you're right,.mag."

"DID You KNOW your friend Joanne was sleeping with my husband?" Bettina
asked in a conversational tone.

Kit whipped her head around to stare at the other woman.  Bettina was
the picture of serenity as she negotiated the rain-battered back roads
they'd been following the past twenty minutes, keeping her speed down
for safety's sake.  Somethingabout their location seemed familiar.  Kit
licked her suddenly dry lips.  "Bettina, I really need to get to Noah

"I figured it out pretty fast, of course," Bettina continued, as if she
hadn't heard her.  "Men are so hopelessly delusional when it comes to
their affairs."  She chuckled, shaking her head.  "My Henry is, anyway.
Always thinking he can hide them.  From meg" Her tinkling laugh said
Oh, what a scamp that Henry is.  "He forgets, of course, that I was
once the 'other woman' myself!"

Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to slither out of the little
spaces-Kit had squeezed them into and rearrange themselves.  The
picture that began to emerge made the blood drain from her face.  She'd
assumed Bettina had been ignorant of her husband's affair with his
young reporter.  A foolish assumption on her part, for as she'd just
been reminded, Bettina had always known her husband wasn't the faithful
sort.



"Bettina, where are we going?"  Kit asked, an instant before the ear
turned onto a rutted dirt path that snaked into the woods.  Trusting
her instincts, she had her door open and one sandaled foot out of the
ear before he engine was off.  "Don't," Bettina said.

Glancing back, Kit found herself looking down the short stainless steel
barrel of a snub-nosed revolver.  One elegant French-manicured finger
was poised on the trigger; She froze and shifted her gaze to Bettina's
face.  In that moment she knew this woman had killed before... and had
no compunction about doing so again.  The car door was still open, her
right half soaked as rain battered the car.

"Reach into the back--slowly," Bettina said, "and pick up your
purse."

Kit obeyed, dizzy with shock and fear.

Bettina took the bag and set it on her lap.  Keeping her eyes on Kit,
she opened it and dug around with her free hand.  It took only a moment
for a smile of triumph to spread across her face.  "Well.  I'd
practically given up hope of ever locating this thing!"  She pulled out
the disk, tucked it under her seat and continued rummaging in the purse
for another few moments.  She withdrew a small can of pepper spray,
Kit's only weapon.

"Oh, really..."  Bettina scoffed.  "This is so very inadequate, dear.
An attractive young woman like you, wandering around in unfamiliar
locales, snooping into all manner of troublesome things..."  She
clucked in disapproval and placed the spray under her seat, then tossed
the purse into the back-seat.  "Now give me my bag."

Kit retrieved the other purse and handed it to her.  Bet-tina pulled a
pretty floral silk scarf out of it and tied Kit's wrists together
behind her back.  Tight.  She shooed her with an impatient gesture.
"Out."

They stepped out of the car and were instantly drenched.  Bettina
plucked at her white silk turkic and scowled.  "I would be wearing
something dry-clean able she muttered.

Peering into the surrounding forest, Kit realized the car was well
concealed from the road.  No one would just stumble upon them.

And then she knew where they were.

Bettina wagged the gun.  "Walk."

Kit preceded her as they.  slowly trudged through woods she'd been in
once before.  But everything had looked so much different o/ that
long-ago day when Noah brought her here for brunch alfresco.  Then it
had been clear and beautiful, an ideal day for a man and woman to
celebrate a new beginning.  This gloomy day, on the other hand, was
more suited to endings.

Bettina said, "q'his area is quite off the beaten track.  Henry showed
it to me.  He goes fishing somewhere around here."  '

As she slogged through puddles and wet vegetation, Kit said over her
shoulder, "You have the disk, Bettina.  Take it with my blessing.  I
don't know what's on it and I ion't want to know."

Bettina's laughter chilled her more than the rain, now dwindling to an
icy drizzle that plopped heavily through the trees.  "Well, I know
what's on that disk.  I read the hard copy before I destroyed it, along
with her computer and all the rest.  Naturally, I had to eliminate the
author, as well.

"And please don't insult my intelligence, dear.  I know very well you
wouldn't simply hand over your dead friend's opus and keep quiet about
it.  Good heavens, you've spent the entire summer looking for it.  As
have I. Ironic, isn't it?  Weeks of having you followed, and the silly
thing is sitting right there in Joanne's locker the whole time.  I must
have walked past it dozens of times.  I'm telling you, you could have
knocked me over with a feather."



"That book means nothing to me, I swear."  Kit stopped and hazarded a
look back.  The polished steel of Bettina's revolver glinted in the
meager light.  She felt utterly defenseless with her hands tied behind
hero "No one can con-neet you with Jo's murder.  But if you kill me,
they'll catch you.  Noah's expecting me.  Someone will have seen me get
into your car."

Bettina shrugged negligently.  "Keep moving."

Kit obeyed.

"You don't honestly think I'm worried about getting caught?"  Bettina
asked.  "It really is shameful how incompetent local law enforcement
is."  She sighed.  "Why, even your feebleminded friend Malcolm Ryder
could outthink an idiot like Tom Jordon.  Stop here."

She did, and a violent shudder racked her.  Whatever Bettina planned to
do to her, this was the spot.  Deep in the woods, where it could take
weeks to find her body.  She recognized the enormous boulder next to
them, erupting from the earth like a misshapen gray molar.  Keep her
talking, Kit thought.  Stall for time..  Fortunately, Bettina seemed to
consider her crime a stimulating source of conversation.  "Wasn't
Malcolm home when you broke into Jo's room?"  Kit asked.

Bettina nodded.  "He was in the shower.  I hated to leave her room so
rumpled, but there you have it.  I had to work fast."

Bettina's twisted priorities bespoke a mental sickness that Malcolm's
"feeblemindedness" couldn't approach, Kit thought.  No amount of
reasoning would sway this woman.  Something in that pretty head had
long ago snapped.

The rain had let up, but Kit was already soaked to the skin and
shivering with cold and unadulterated fear.  She asked, "How did you
find out about Jo's book?"

"I overheard her arguing with Grace Drummond about it, at the health
club.  I'd stuck fairly close to Joanne since her arrival.  I even
suggested she join Valkyrie.  I didn't trust the little slut, and with
good reason, as it turned out.  Not only did she intend to rehash that
unpleasant business about my husband's first wife, she actually seduced
him in her quest for information.  By the time I'd found out about it,
of course, the silly man had already played right into her hands."  She
sighed heavily.  "After that, it was a matter of exercising damage
control."

Damage control?  That'S how this woman refers to murder?

Betfina continued, "And later, when I found out from Etta that you were
looking for your friend's missing computer disk, I realized a copy of
the book still existed.  It wasn't in your room or car, but I knew that
if I kept an eye on you, eventually you'd lead me to it."

That must have' been the day Kit had discovered her room had been
searched, the day Bettina had visited Etta on the pretext of checking
out her roses.

Something dark winked in and out of view behind trees in the distance.
It took every iota of mental conntration for Kit to keep her eyes on
Bettina's face.  It could be a large dog.  Too dark for a deer.  Were
there bears in Vermont?  At this moment Kit would have gladly chosen a
grizzly over Bettina's little snub-nosed revolver.

Bettina reached into her shoulder bag and extracted a rigid eyeglass
case, which she opened to reveal a small hypodermic.  Something in
Kit's chest squeezed painfully, stealing her breath.  As chilled as she
was, she felt fresh sweat pop out on her palms, her upper lip, under
her arms.  Bet-tina removed the hypodermic and shoved the eyeglass case
back into her purse.  Had she been carrying that thing around all
summer, waiting for this moment?

Don't pass out, Kit commanded herself.  You've never fainted in your
life.  Don't start now.  That would make it too easy for the bitch.



Keep her talking.t

Kit's voice was hoarse.  "Henry wouldn't want you to do this."

"lu contraire, my husband and I ha a sort of tacit understanding about
these things.  No doubt he's noticed that one of his insulin syringes
is missing, but since lies not comfortable with this business--" she
indicated the gun and syringe "--I don't bother him with the details. I
just do what has to be done."  She smiled wryly.  "It's always up to
the wife to clean up the messes.  Don't let anyone tell you
different."

She could be discussing balancing the checkbook, Kit thought with a
shudder.  Tryinga different tack, she said,.  "You know, your actions
are... understandable in a way.  I mean, you were just protecting your
husband when you killed Jo."

Bettina's carefully plucked brows came together.  "Proteeting Henry...
?"

"Well, her book must've implicated him in Anita's murder."  At
Bettina's funny little smile, the jigsaw pieces squirmed into a tighter
fit.  Kit whispered, "You killed Anita, too."

"Of course I killed Anita.  Good grief, someone had to do something. If
I'd waited for Henry to divorce her, I'd probably still he waiting.
Never trust a man when he says' he'll leave his wife for you, dear."  A
breezy laugh accompanied this bit of sisterly advice.  "Somehow they
never do get around to it."

"You... but you were only..."

"Nineteen."  Bettina raised the hypodermic and tapped it, as if to
assure herself it had an adequate load.  "But I knew what I wanted. And
I was smart enough to do it cleanly and to tie up all the loose ends. 
It was different with your friend Joanne, of course--more of a hands-on
operation as it were--but fortunately, all went well.  The element of
surprise really does put one at an advantage."

An advantage she lacked with Kit.  And that's where the gun came
in--Bettina was using it simply to control her.  As for the instrument
of death, clearly she intended to stick to her weapon of choice:
curare.

Kit recalled the day she met Noah, and his reluctant recounting of Jo's
torturous last minutes.  In that instant she decided she wouldn't make
this easy for Bettina.  She wouldn't make it "clean."  If Kit was going
to die today, she swore it would be by a bullet in the back from that
little gun--with plenty of "loose ends" for her killer to worry about.
She wondered if a bullet removed from her corpse could be traced to
Bettina's gun.

"Where'd you get the curare?"  Kit asked.  "From Wescott?"

"The hospital?  Good heavens, dear, they keep substances like this
under lock and key!  Think of the mayhem if just anyone could get their
hands on it.  No, hack when I was in college, I worked in my father's
pharmaceutical company, Conti-Meeker.  It was shamefully easy to make
off with a vial of their curare derivative."

Her stomach roiling in fear, Kit nodded toward the syringe.  "This is
from the same vial you used with Anita?  It's thirty-two years old?"

"Yes, but don't get your hopes up.  Curare is an amazingly stable drug.
As your friend Joanne discovered."

Kit recalled the frantic messages Jo had left on her answering machine
the day she died.  I think it's this guy I'm seeing.  That took my
book.  Jo must have assumed Henry was doing some of Bettina's dirty
work, not realizing the murderess preferred to work solo.  Licking her
dry lips, Kit said, "Does Henry know you killed Anita?"

 "The man's not stupid.  When Ray tried to blame her murder on Henry,
he knew right away it had to be me.  Well, I didn't deny it.  Why
should I?"  "How did he react?"  The dark shape material once more,
nearer this time.  For the briefest moment.  Kit bored her gaze into
Bettina's face, knowing that if she let her eyes stray even for an
instant, the other woman would know something--someone, Kit hoped, was
behind her.  Bettina smiled.  "He was shocked, of course; the dear
thing.  But he settled down soon enough.  Think about it.  I'd killed
for him.  Do you have any idea what that des for a man's self-esteem?"
Self-esteem?  "What about J of?"  Kit aked, not attempting to hide her
bitterness.  "Did murdering her also enhance your husband's precious
self-esteem?"  Bettina's eyes narrowed.  Keeping the gun trained on
Kit, she dropped a shoulder, letting her purse slide onto the ground.
She took a step toward her, and Kit backed up struggling futilely with
the bindings on her wrists.  "Bettina!"  Kit's gaze snapped to the
source of the voice, the dark form now standing out in the open about
thirty yards away.  Bryan!  Startled, Bettina jerked toward him for a
split second, long enough for Kit to start running.  Instinct kicked in
to alter her course abruptly, some primitive brain f0id deciding it was
time to stop ziggingand start zagging.  A fiery pain sliced into her
thigh and the next instant she was eating mud.  Helplessly she looked
up to see Bettina facing her, sighting down the barrel of her revolver.
Where was Bryan?  A blur of movement from behind the boulder coalesced
into a large, solid force hurtling into Bettina from behind and
tackling her to the ground.  The gun discharged harmlessly just as Kit
recognized Noah.  He yanked the gun out of her grasp and tossed it
away, then seized her wrists be hind her back as he anxiously looked
toward Kit lyinga few yards away.

"Bryan!"  he hollered, but the boy was already sprinting toward him
from out of the trees.  Noah let Bryan take charge of a sputtering,
crimson-faced Bettina, lying prone in the mud.  None too gently Bryan
shoved a knee into the small of her back and whipped off his belt to
secure her wrists.

Noah raced to Kit's side and pushed her skirt up to take a quick look
at her wound, then gently turned her and untied her hands.  She felt
the slight trembling in his fingers, and knew how close she'd come to
losing her life.  Her leg burned like hell, her skirt blood soaked on
that side.

"You're gonna be okay, darling'," he said, his voice breathless. 
"Easy, now, this is gonna hurt."  He wrapped the scarf around her
thigh, directly over the bullet wound, and tied it tight.

She stiffened and gritted her teeth against a cry of pain.  In the next
instant she was in his arms, his embrace so tight she didn't know where
she stopped and Noah began.  His heart drummed against her breasts as
she shivered violently.

"Darlin'my Kit ... my sweet, sweet darling'."  HIS voice quavered.  "I
almost lost You."  He pressed hard, desperate kisses to her hair, her
eyes, her lips.  His warm hand closed over her wound.  "The bullet
missed the bone, thank God.  It exited cleanly."  Something close to a
chuckle escaped him.  "Undid all my beautiful needlework, ho ugh Would
you believe she hit the same damn spot?"

"I... I was trying to swerve... to make a harder target."  She buried
her face against his chest.

"That's probably what saved your life."

Bryan called, "What're we gonna do with her?"  indicating the woman he
held pinned to the ground.

Kit felt Noah flinch as if he'd been slapped, felt herself slide out of
his loosened embrace.  When he spoke, the thick Vermont accent made her
heart lurch.

"I'll take care of her."

Chapter Fifteen

Ray welcomed the surge of cold, raw fury that sang through his veins.
H/s veins?  He grinned.  Okay, borrowed veins.  Borrowed blood.
Borrowed flesh.  But the sweet, vengeful wrath was all Ray,"s.  He'd
waited a hellishly long time for this, he thought, advancing on Bettina
where his grandson held her down.

Bryan stared intently at him, and Ray knew the kid sensed a difference.
Kit screamed, "Noah!  Ray.t Don't.t" and the boy turned pale.

Ray pulled Bryan off the murderous bitch.  Grabbing the full syringe
lying in the dirt, he hauled her upright and slammed her back against
the boulder, holding her by her throat.  She was helpless, her hands
tied behind her back.  He brought his face close to hers and trailed
the tip of the needle down her cheek.  Her eyes were round, her pupils
constricted to tiny pinpoints.  "It's been a long time, Bettina.

Thirty-two years, to be precise."

"Noah... ?"  she croaked.

He gave her a mock pout.  "Aw, now, you hurt my feelings, sweetheart.
Don't tell me you've forgotten your old friend Ray."  He punctuated
this with a couple of tiny jabs of the needle.  "Maybe I should refresh
your memory."

Kit cried, "Ray, don't do this."  She struggled to sit up, her face
chalk white.



Bryan stood nearby, his stance tense, poised to spring.  Ray said,
"Stay out of it, son."

The stark terror on Bettina's face was beautiful to behold.  Her eyes
bulged as she gaped at him, an ugly flush mottling her face.  He said,
"Hey, remember all the good times we used to have?  Like that Halloween
I came across you and Henry bailing in the hunting lodge.  I put on a
Frankenstein mask and knocked on the window, remember?  Hell, I'll bet
they heard you scream in New Hampshire."  He tapped the needle on her
nose, with a good-natured chuckle.  "God, those were good times."

Her eyes bulged wider, if that was possible.  She whispered, "Ray..."
He heard Kit gasp.

"Now you're getting it," he said.  "I knew you would.  Smart girl like
you."  He pointedly studied the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth.
"But you're not a girl anymore, are you, Bettina?  No, you've gotten
downright haggard.  You used to be so pretty.  What happened?  Oh,
yeah!"  He grinned, gesticulating with the syringe.  God, was he
enjoying this.  "You got old!  Now, me, I never got a chance to get
old.  And you know why?"

"Grandpa!"

Ray shot his grandson a warning look.  "I said stay out of this,
Bryan."

"She's not worth it, man.  Send her to jail."

"Can't do that, son.  There's too much unfinished business here.  Isn't
that right, Bettina?"

She was trembling so hard that if he hadn't been holding her up with a
hand around her throat she'd have slid right down to the ground.  He
felt her swallow convulsively under his fingers, felt the frantic
flutter of her pulse.

She whispered hoarsely, "Ray... it... it was Henry .... " "Well, now,
that's what I thought, you know?  All that time I figured it was Henry
that did this to me.  But we heard something real interesting, Noah and
me, when we were slipping around this boulder a few minutes ago.  We
distinctly heard you shooting off your mouth about what you did to
Anita."  He tightened his hold on her throat, causing her face to
contort.  "It was real ugly the way she died, Bet-tina.  You know
that?"  He turned the hypodermic this way and that, staring at it.
"Horrible way to go.  No one should have to die like that.  Except
maybe a murderer."

He jabbed the needle into her upper arm, his finger poised on the
plunger.  She jerked at the impact and howled interior.

Kit scream et "Ray!  This is wrong."  Her voice was choked with tears.
"You're not that kind of man, Ray.  I know you're not."

"She's right," Bryan'said, his voice tight.  "You're not a murderer,
Granlpa.  I always knew you were innocent.  Always.  Mom and Grandma
Ruby, too."

Bettina was sobbing, her eyes squeezed shut.  Ray looked at his
grandson, at the strain on his young face.  And he saw something else.
Respect.  Love.  The boy had never known his grandfather, but
amazingly, he'd believed in him his whole life..

Bryan's eyes zeroed in on the needle piercing Bettina's arm.  "You're
not a killer, man, you're a healer.  That's what I'm gonna do.  Go to
med school.  Be a doctor.  I wanna be like you."

Ray snorted in derision.  "You don't want to be like me,

son ."

Bryan's'lopsided smile said he was under' no illusions about his
grandfather.  "I like it that you never took crap from anyone.  But you
never killed anyone, either.  Don't start now."

Ray glanced back at Bettina.  She stared pop-eyed at the needle
stabbing her ann.  He said to Bryan, "You're wrong, son.  I have killed
before.  Ask Noah."



Kit said, "That was different, Ray.  You saved a little girl and her
mother.  You did the right thing.  Let the law handle Bettina.  They'll
put her away for the rest of her life."

"What about the rest of my life!"  Ray.yelled.  "The life I never had!
I never got to see Debbie grow up.  Never got to grow old with Ruby.
This murdering scum deserves to die!"

"Yes," Kit said.  "She deserves to die.  But you don't deserve to
become the thing she is.  And that's what'll happen if you go through
with' this."

Ray looked at Bryan.  He was relaxed... confident his grandfather would
do the right thing.  He looked at the syringe.  Bettina's weapon.  He
stared into her terrified eyes.  "Rot in jail, bitch."  He yanked the
needle out of her arm and dropped it.  Her eyes rolled up in her head
and she slumped to the wet ground, senseless.

"Ray..."  Kit's voice was weak, shaky.  The scarf binding her wound was
soaked through with blood.  "I need Noah.  Let him come back.
Please..."

Ray was inexpressibly weary.  He'd lived a rough life and died a
rougher death.  And found no peace on the other side.

But it was finished now.  He'd done what he had to do.  The elation
he'd expected to feel was Strangely absent; instead there was only a
lonely, cheerless sense of closure.  But it was more than he deserved,
he reflected.  He had not been a good man.

"Grandpa."  Bryan hesitantly approached him, hand tended.  Ray knew
they'd never meet again; he'd commandeered Noah's mind and body for the
last tune.  He took the boy's hand and stared long and hard at him.  He
could be looking into a mirror.  The physical resemblance was
startling.  But that's as far as it went.  Behind the sheen of moisture
in his grandson's eyes was an undeniable strength of character. Perhaps
he'd be the man his grandfather never was.

am eta urJ'ora 24'3

Ray clasped Bryan's hand in both of his.  He cleared his throat, which
was suddenly tight.  "Make me proud, son."

Noah drew a deep breath, blinking.  Why was he clasping hands with
Bryan?  Why was the boy on the verge of tears?

He took in his surroundings in a flash, from Bettina groggily coming
around to Kit lying pale and shivering, watching him intently.

"Noah... ?"  she said.

"It's me, darling'."  He was by her side in an instant, stroking the
damp hair off her face and lifting her into his arms.  His lips,
brushed hers tenderly.  "From now on, it's just me and you."

Epilogue

"Why did I let you talk me into this, woman?"

Kit looked up from the wallpaper sample book she was perusing to smirk
at her husband's back.  Noah was perched on a stepladder, steaming
green floral wallpaper--Ray's wallpaper--off their living room walls
with a strange-looking contraption he'd rented for the purpose.

"Don't blame me," she said.  "I seem to recall a certain sexy young
M.D. waxing rhapsodic about how much fun we'd have redecorating this
old place by the sweat of our brows."  Of course, she was more inclined
to wax rhapsodic about what happened under those snug jeans as he
reached.  and bent and steamed and peeled.

He threw a sardonic grin over his shoulder.  "Is that 'sexy young M.D."
bit supposed to keep me going for three more walls?"

"I was hoping it would get you through the dining room and a couple of
bathrooms, too."

Holding her gaze, he descended the stepladder and turned off the
steaming machine, laying it aside.  The look in his eyes triggered an
itch that she knew from blissful experience he was more than capable of
scratching.  "You'll have to do better than that," he said, advancing
on her.

She held up the big wallpaper book as a shield, but that didn't stop
him from leaning over her and trapping her between his long arms braced
on the back of the solitary old threadbare sofa.  Everything
else--tables, chairs, carpet, lamps--had been hauled away pending
delivery of the modern new furnishings they'd selected.

Noah's mouth closed over hers voraciously, catching her off guard.  His
long, strong fingers tangled in her hair as his tongue slipped between
her lips, darting and receding in a ruthlessly erotic cadence.  The
itch blossomed and spread, all slick and throbbing, and a hot flush
swept over her face and throat.  Tearing herself away, she tossed the
wallpaper book aside, pulled him down next to her and curled into his
embrace.

She said, "I forgot to tell you.  Jason Daly called with the
publication date.  Next December."  Jason was Jo's literary agent.  In
September he'd directed a bidding war among prospective publishers
eager to obtain the rights to Jo's book, Poisoned Love.  The prominent
New York publishing house that won out had offered an extremely
generous advance, money that would enable Sal Merino to move into a
comfortable retirement community.

Noah said, "We have to wait a whole year till it's published?"

She shrugged.  "Apparently that's par for the course.  But by then
maybe the sentence will have been handed down and we can include an
afterword about Bettina getting life in prison ."  '

"Doesn't seem much doubt about that."

The trial hadn't yet taken place, but Betfina had been denied bail and
the case was clear-cut; it was unlikely her lawyers could successfully
plead insanity.  As for Henry, he'd been arrested as an accessory to
murder.-The length of his sentence would depend to a large extent on
the skill of his lawyers in distancing him from his wife's crimes.
Findingan unbiased jury pool was certain to be a challenge, as the case
had captured international attention during the past three



months since Bettina's arrest.  The world now knew Dr.  Ray Whittaker
had been unjustly branded a murderer.

The terrifying episode in the woods when Kit had nearly died at
Bettina's hand had been' Noah final glimpse of Ray.  He hadn't sensed
his presence at all s'nice the.  At long last, Ray's soul was at
peace... and harmlessly dormant deep in Noah's subconscious.  Noah
described it as a profound sense of emancipation.  For the first time
since his near-death experience at age sixteen, his spirit was carefree
and unencumbered.  The recurring dream had ceased, as well.

Ironically, by forcing himself to do what he'd avoided all those
years--undergoing hypnosis to deliberately tap into Ray's last
days--he'd freed himself of the hold the other man had on him.  In
order to rescue Kit, he'd laid himself open to his worst fears, to the
dark, malevolent thing inside, and had not only survived, but
triumphed..

Noah said, "Jo's book is pretty amazing.  The way she got into
Bettina's head.  Exposed her whole warped mind-set... her twisted
rationalizations... all the details of Anita's murder and what led up
to it."

"What's really amazing is that no one had managed to do it before her.
Like thirty-two years before."

"No one cared enough.  Or was dedicated enough.  Or detached enough.
Or..."  Noah sighed.  "I don't know.  I just wish to God she'd let us
in on what she was digging up, before it was too late."

Kit shivered, and Noah held her tighter.  In a sense, she'd achieved
her own liberation.  She'd discharged her final obligation to her
friend, by avenging her murder.  It wasn't enough; it hadn't assuaged
her grief or filled the chasm in her soul left by Jo's death.  But
something about it felt... complete.

With a lopsided smile, Kit said, "Could you imagine Jo doing that?
Sharing her work in progress with anyone?  Even you or me?"

He chuckled, shaking his head.  "What was I thinking?"  "So, tell me,
Dr.  Stewart..."  She twisted her body to hook her legs over his lap
and snuggle closer.  "How do the karma points stack up for you now?"

"Karma points ?"

"Way I figure it, you've racked up a few lifetimes' worth of good
deeds.  Wrapping up Ray's unfinished business."  Foiling the bad guys
and all that.  The reward comes in your next life, right?  You get to
be a ... megagazillionaire rock star or something."

"Finding my soul mate in this life is reward enough."  His warm hand
slid up her jean-clad leg, from ankle to waist.  She noticed his touch
was extra gentle on her thigh, though the bullet wound had healed
nicely.

"You mean we were meant to be together?"  she asked.  "Can there be any
doubt?"  His hand slowly caressed her hip, slid under her bottom.  "We
were probably... I don't know... Antony and Cleopatra."

"I'll go get the eyeliner and the asp."

"I like this asp," he said with a pointed squeeze.  When Kit's fingers
found the buttons of his flannel shirt and became very buSY he asked,
"Why do I get the feeling I'm not gonna finish stripping these walls
today?"

"First things first," she admonished.  "It's time for your wound
check."  She slipped her fingers inside his open shirt, to burrow
through the crisp golden hairs and tease a flat nipple.  He sucked in a
breath.

"Wound check?"  His smiling eyes darkened to a smoky green.

She moaned in affirmation, nuzzling his chest.  The scent of him was an
aphrodisiac.  "Your health is my primary concern."  '

Noah pressed a hand over hers through the shirt, his voice a low rumble
of frustration.  "Darlin', this is nowhere near where I hurt."

"Don't worry, I'll work my way around to the spot eventually.  I'm--"

"I know, I know," he groaned as her tongue joined the diagnostic
arsenal.  "You're very thorough."