The Summer Man

Chapter FIFTEEN





To add insult to injury, after their tasteless, despicable prank, leaving the cat tails on the grounds of the retreat, Cole Jessup’s compound of drunken crazies had detonated fireworks until three in the morning. By the time they stopped, Miranda was too angry to sleep. She finally dozed off around four and woke up just after seven, unrested and too angry to lie still. James was snoring gently as she slipped on a tracksuit in the faint, early light from their bedroom window and went downstairs to make coffee…but when she reached the kitchen, she paused only long enough to put her shoes on, then went outside.

Tom Corwin, the community’s unofficial handyman, had removed the cats’ tails after the police had come; he’d buried them near the herb garden. Miranda’s mouth twisted in a small, bitter smile; the police, weren’t they just the most helpful organization? They’d sent some part-time officer she’d never met before who’d arrived a full three hours after she’d called. The officer had seen the tails and had listened to everything and taken some notes and promised to get back to them, and Miranda could see in the young man’s bland sincerity that nothing would be done. The crazies would deny everything, and the police would drop the matter, perhaps advise her to consider a civil case, and her sweet kitties would still have been murdered and hacked up by one of those crazies.

Her stomach knotted. Most of the tails had been nothing but bone and desiccated skin, a few sad tufts of fur. For years, someone had been keeping them, God only knew why, or why this psycho had suddenly decided to…to taunt her with them. How could anyone be so malicious, and for no reason at all? Had she ever done anything to deserve such cruelty?

The woods were peaceful, alive with small creatures and morning birds rustling through the brush. Miranda walked slowly, holding herself against the chill. She walked without paying particular attention to direction, thinking about Darrin Everret’s proposals for settling the score. They’d all talked about it the night before, at the retreat’s picnic, over several shared bottles of wine. The most popular idea was to sneak over to the compound late one night and paint everything bubblegum pink—the front gate, the trees, any of the buildings they could get to without waking everyone up. It was a funny idea, but even drunk and in shock over her kitties, Miranda couldn’t bring herself to advocate the plan. Besides the fact that playing such a prank was beneath their dignity, there was also the issue of retribution—Jessup and his people would know who did it, and if they weren’t above killing cats, God only knew what they might do to take their revenge…

Besides which, it’s not enough, she thought, stepping over a fallen tree. Not nearly enough. She’d thought about slipping poison into their food or water and writing a note to make it look like some kind of cult suicide. She’d imagined those hard, lined faces, soft with bloat in the summer heat, the woods silent and peaceful as the crime scene people shook their heads, as the reporters referenced Heaven’s Gate and the People’s Temple. She’d thought about blocking their doors and setting a fire; even if they managed to escape, they’d have nowhere to live and might move away. And if they didn’t get out, if the flames consumed them all…well, things like that happened sometimes, didn’t they? People died.

As gratifying as the dark dreams had been at one in the morning, they really had been harmless; there were children at the compound. She would never harm a child, even a child destined to grow up as damaged and dull as its parents. Still, she felt that circumstances demanded she do something, and if the police wouldn’t help her, what choices did she have?

She’d reached the line of stakes that divided her land from that of Jessup’s—hadn’t she been headed there all along?—and stopped at the first of the wilted orange ribbons, folding her arms tightly, feeling how tired she was. Tired and unable to sleep, because of this man and his repulsive brood. She imagined that there was a palpable difference in the atmosphere between her territory and his, the woods on her side of the line natural and inviting and filled with light; stepping past the boundary stakes as she did now, without really thinking about it, the morning stillness became the watchful silence of a dark and slinking predator, tensing for attack.

She didn’t continue on, only stood in Jessup’s woods and let herself feel how strongly she’d come to hate him—and as if the gods had been waiting for her to confirm her heart’s truth before guiding her further, she heard the crunch of underbrush from Jessup’s side, heavy steps approaching. She started to back up, feeling a flush of panic at being caught out trespassing…but then stopped and waited. She wanted a confrontation, she realized, had wanted one for a long time, although she hadn’t known it until right this very second. That she was a woman alone on crazy people’s land didn’t occur to her, or not as more than a passing thought. They had trespassed on her land at will, since the very day she and James had purchased it and begun planning their society of artists and artisans. Why should she cower, why should she back away?

Cole Jessup himself appeared a moment later, dressed in dark-green fatigues with a matching canvas cap and carrying a rifle. She recognized him from his broad shoulders and the choppy salt-and-pepper hair jutting out from beneath the cap. She saw him before he saw her, and planted her feet more firmly, her rage making her strong and solid, an oak before his blustering wind.

Jessup’s blank face turned in her direction, and he stopped walking, blinking in surprise. Only for a beat, though—and then he raised his weapon and trained it on her. She wasn’t surprised or frightened—only angry, angrier than she’d felt in as long as she could remember. Her body shook with it.

“Get off my land,” he said, his low voice threaded with venom.

“Or what?” she asked, and somehow, she was smiling, a grin that felt carved into her face. “You going to shoot me, Mr. Jessup? Kill me, for doing something you do whenever you feel like it?”

“Get off my land,” he repeated. The gun didn’t waver.

“And how would you explain it to the police?” Miranda asked. “You going to say you were afraid for your life? Afraid of a woman?”

She took a step toward him as she spoke, seeing him through a veil of red that pulsed before her eyes. “You going to cut me up, like you did my kitties?”

“I don’t know nothing about your cats, you crazy hippie bitch,” Jessup muttered, but the way his gaze darted away from hers told her that he was lying. “You’re trespassing. Get the f*ck off my land, now.”

She took another step away from her side. “Know nothing,” she sneered. “‘Don’t know nothing.’ You think I’m afraid of you, you ignorant bastard, ’cause you’re the big man with the gun? Because that doesn’t mean—”

The rifle thundered, the sound deafening, and Miranda fell backward with a scream, her arms wheeling for balance. She hit the ground, a sharp stick ripping the seat of her pants, punching into the back of her thigh, and for just a second she thought the abrupt pain she felt was from a bullet, that he’d actually shot her. Shocked, her ears ringing, she looked up into Jessup’s cold, grinning face.

“You should be afraid,” he said, his words barely audible through the clamor in her ears. “You come on my property again, I’ll kill you. That goes for all your faggot friends, too, and any more f*cking cats you send over here to shit on my land.”

His lips curled, his expression one of disgust. “F*cking faggot tree-huggers.” He spat. “Coming out here, acting like your shit don’t stink. Thinking you’re better ’an us. My family’s owned this land for three generations. You don’t tell me anything, I tell you.”

He was furious and insane; she could see that in his eyes. She didn’t move, barely breathed, and hated him more than ever, for what he’d done, for who he was.

Jessup held her gaze a beat longer, then turned and walked quickly away, his stride stiff and angry. She couldn’t hear the twigs breaking beneath his boots, but as the deafness subsided, she could hear her own ragged breathing and the pounding of her heart.





Eric and Amanda and Devon were smoking on the front porch when the old truck pulled up in front of Devon’s house, parking at the curb. An oldster got out, saw them, and started walking toward them, his hand raised in a gesture of greeting.

“Who’s that?” Eric asked.

“The reporter,” Amanda said. She stubbed out her smoke and stood up. Devon immediately followed suit, and Eric did the same, trying to recall what she’d said about the reporter. The guy hadn’t believed her story, he remembered that much.

Eric stepped in front of Devon, taking his place at Amanda’s side—noting Devon’s thwarted expression with some satisfaction.

The oldster approached with a smile, but he didn’t look happy. His face was watchful behind that slight curve of his lips, and when he stopped in front of them, Eric could see that he was impatient, tense.

“Devon, Amanda,” he said, nodding, turning his gaze toward Eric. “I’m Bob Sayers,” he said, and stuck out his hand. Eric shook with him.

“This is Eric Hess,” Amanda said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

“Did something happen?” Devon asked.

Sayers nodded. “Yeah,” he said simply.

“Was it Brian? At the fairgrounds?” Devon asked.

The reporter let out a deep breath, like he’d been holding it. He nodded. “I talked to the police when I heard about the attack. Local woman named Karen Haley. She owns Big Blue, the Victorian over on Exeter. Three boys raped her behind the fairground bathrooms last night, just after dark.”

He looked at Amanda, his gaze unsettled. “Like you said.”

“Oh my God,” Devon said. “No f*cking way.”

“What did you tell the cops?” Amanda asked. Her voice shook a little, and Eric slipped his arm around her, pulling her close. She leaned against him.

“That I’d heard some kids talking, saying that Brian Glover and a couple of his friends were planning something,” Sayers said. “I don’t think Stan Vincent would have believed anything else. He was…he didn’t seem himself.”

Devon turned to look at Amanda, his eyes wide. “This—what you saw, this means—what you saw about me, that’s going to come true, too, isn’t it?”

“Oh, f*ck,” Amanda said, and stepped away from Eric, closer to Devon. Eric had to fight an urge to pull her back, his body almost aching from the sudden absence of her. She slid her arm across Devon’s back, and Eric felt a burn of jealousy, the intensity of it totally unexpected.

“I think we should talk,” Sayers said, looking at Devon and Amanda. “Can I take you out to breakfast? Or lunch, I guess. My treat. All of you,” he added, glancing at Eric.

“Yeah, OK,” Amanda said, still holding Devon’s hand. “You’re coming?” She looked at Eric.

“Sure,” he said, and shrugged for effect.

Amanda took his hand again, walking them to the reporter’s beat-up truck.





The waitress at the Hilltop Inn seated them in a corner booth and poured them all coffee. The restaurant was nonsmoking, which sucked, but at least they had privacy; breakfast was pretty much over, and the lunch rush hadn’t started yet. Only townies ate at Hilltop; the summer people went to Café Fresco, where they could get free-range egg-white omelets and organic espresso. Hilltop’s décor was generic pancake-house bland and the air conditioner was set too high, but the food was cheap and plentiful.

“So,” Bob said, as soon as their server disappeared. “Tell me what’s been going on since the picnic.”

He was looking at Devon, who’d done all the talking when they’d first met, but he only stared back at the reporter, his eyes kind of unfocused. He looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.

Amanda had already decided on the ride over not to hold anything back, even the shit she wasn’t sure about. She’d probably come off like a psycho, but if she could keep anyone else from being hurt or killed, it’d be worth it.

“A bunch of stuff,” she said, and Bob turned his attention to her. “So far, it’s been like three different, uh, categories, I guess. I mean, there are things I see when I’m dreaming, and stuff I see when I’m awake…and then I’ve been feeling some other things. About people. That part seems to kind of tie everything together.”

“How do you mean?”

She frowned, not sure how to explain. “I didn’t feel anything at first—I mean, with the Lisa Meyer thing, I saw what happened, but I didn’t feel like Lisa or Mr. Billings. And I didn’t feel like I was getting raped, thank God. But that’s all changing. When I see people in my dreams, now, it’s like I am them, for just a couple of seconds. It’s like, superempathy, I guess. Seeing their future is…” she searched for the word, “…incidental, if that makes any sense. Same when I’m awake.”

Bob had pulled a pen and a small notebook out of his coat. “Give me some specifics.”

“Well, I’m going to bite it,” Devon said. His tone was light, casual, but he wasn’t smiling. From the twitch in his jaw, Amanda realized that he was extremely angry. “Beat up and dropped in the bay. How’s that for specific?”

“Why are you so pissed?” Amanda asked.

Devon’s expression was one of disbelief. “Are you f*cking kidding me? How about, I don’t want to die, is that a reason?”

The reporter looked back and forth between them, then settled on Amanda. “You saw this?”

“Yeah. Like a week ago. That was also when I started feeling things about people. Or when I first noticed it, I guess.”

“Did you feel me being dead?” Devon snapped.

Eric was trying to hold her hand, and she shook him off, aggravated and deeply stressed. “Jesus, Devon, it’s not my f*cking fault!”

“I know, I know,” he said, staring down into his coffee cup. “I’m just really freaked, OK?” He added a mumbled, “Sorry.”

Amanda nodded, wishing she could smoke. She was exhausted and wired and f*cking homeless. “We’ll figure something out,” she said, although the phrase didn’t really have any meaning; she just had to say something.

“You saw this while you were awake?” Bob asked.

“Yeah. I was…I was high, actually. And we were with some people, hanging out, and I started knowing things about them, which was not good. So I took off. When Devon followed me, I saw him…I saw him like that.”

He jotted something in his notebook, which was weird, like she was suddenly important…which she was, she supposed, if her new “gift” was permanent. How f*ckin’ surreal.

“So, what did you, ah, sense about these other people?”

She recounted the details as she remembered them, what she’d felt about Greg and Carrie, then all the random shit she’d dreamed. Except for the stuff about Greg Taner doing Cam doggie-style; that was just too embarrassing to say out loud to a senior citizen. Same with how she’d felt having sex with Eric, how she’d kind of gotten into his head. She couldn’t imagine how that kind of information would be useful, anyway. He wrote down Greg’s name, most interested in the part about him enlisting in the military. Presumably because it was something he could actually check on.

“Oh! And the Lawn King, he’s going to try to kill himself,” Amanda said. “He wants to, anyway.”

“Lawn King?”

“That mean old guy, lives in the house on Eleanor. The one with the manicured lawn? Dick, ah…”

“Dick Calvin,” Bob said, frowning. “You’re sure about that?”

Amanda shook her head. “I’m not sure of anything. I’m seeing all this f*cked-up shit. And my mother kicked me out last night because her numbf*ck boyfriend tried to get into my pants, and he spun this fat lie about it, and she sided with him.”

“I can talk to your mother,” Eric said, practically the first thing he’d said all day. “Tell her what I saw, if you think that’ll help.”

Jesus, what a terrible idea. “If she doesn’t believe me, no way she’s going to care what you think,” Amanda said.

“I can be pretty convincing,” Eric said. “I mean, I heard you scream.”

“No,” she said. “Seriously.”

“Do you think I should leave town?” Devon asked. “That’ll keep it from happening, right?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe.”

Devon nodded eagerly. “If I’m not here, I can’t exactly drown in the bay, can I?”

“Do you think these futures are set, or do you sense that they can be changed?” Bob asked.

“I don’t know,” Amanda said, too loud, feeling like her head was going to cave in. Everyone wanted an answer, or needed to be reassured, or wanted to know the nature of this thing that had totally come out of nowhere. “What the f*ck do I know?”

Bob set his pen down and took a sip of coffee. Devon looked miserably introspective. Eric tried to hold her hand again, and she let him, feeling somehow both grateful and annoyed by the gesture. The waitress came back, and they all fumbled through the menus, ordering little. Amanda wasn’t hungry at all, but her stomach ached from too much caffeine and not enough food.

When the server had gone again, Bob looked at her with a speculative expression. “Have you tried to make it happen? One of these flashes?”

“Like, on purpose?” Amanda scoffed. “I’ve pretty much been hoping it’ll never happen again.”

“Understandably,” Bob said. “But considering it seems to be getting more…severe, maybe having some sort of control would help.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Amanda said. “I think it just happens.”

“You should try it,” Devon said. “I mean, maybe you can figure out how to stop it, if you know how it works. And you could try to see—you could see if anything has changed.”

“How should I—I mean, what should I do? I’m not going to smoke any more pot, no way. Last time was…” She thought about the dim, musty dark of the middle school basement, the feelings gathering around her like nightmares. “It was too much.”

“If marijuana does it, maybe if you just try to relax, that’ll be enough,” Bob said. “Take some deep breaths, close your eyes…don’t focus on anything in particular. See what comes to you.”

“Right now?” Amanda asked, looking around the mostly empty restaurant. There was a middle-aged couple in a booth on the far wall, and a single, haunted-looking young man at the counter near the front, staring at a cup of coffee, but they were otherwise alone.

“Sure, why not?” Devon said. His voice held an edge of desperation.

Amanda let go of Eric’s hand and nodded. “OK,” she said. “Just—don’t all stare at me, OK?”

She closed her eyes and started to breathe slowly and evenly. She could smell coffee and a greasy sausage smell. She could smell smoke in her clothes. A sound like a knife or fork, scraping a plate, somewhere behind her.

This is stupid, she thought, and then, They’re totally staring at me. She took a deeper breath, shifted in her seat, trying not to think about being a freak with no home. A moment passed, and her self-consciousness grew into embarrassment, like she was trying to do a magic trick and wasn’t pulling it off…Devon was getting impatient; he wanted to hear that he wasn’t going to die, that she saw him alive and well and—waiting in the park, seeing him duck out from the shadows, a hot fumbling in the dark and telling him that he had to leave town and hoping that Mitch would at least act like he cared

—he won’t, he doesn’t want to admit that he likes it best blow jobs he ever had—

She opened her eyes, staring at Devon. “Mitch?”

Devon’s eyes widened. “What?” he asked, his voice small, breathless.

“What did you see?” Bob asked.

“Mitchell Jessup?” she said, and Devon sat back in his chair, shaking his head slightly. If she’d needed further confirmation—and she didn’t, she understood exactly what was happening—she would have seen it in Devon’s shifting gaze, the nervous lick of lips. Mitchell Jessup was one of Cole Jessup’s f*cked-up sons. He lived out in the woods with the other gun nuts. Amanda was not a little shocked; all the Jessups and their survivalist pals were notoriously homophobic. And sexist, and racist, and usually not very clean.

Gah. She’d felt how it was, from her very brief contact with Devon’s thoughts—sweating and salty and coupled with a kind of brutal, sexual degradation, for both of them.

“Is that who’s going to…to hurt Devon?” Bob asked.

“Not unless his dick is bigger than most,” Amanda said, and Devon had the good grace to look embarrassed, at least. Bob finally caught on and dropped his gaze. He took another sip of coffee, then cleared his throat.

Eric chuckled.

“So, you can feel things when you try,” Bob said. “That’s good; that could really help.”

“Help what?” Amanda asked. She was finding it hard to even look in Devon’s direction. “How is knowing people’s personal shit going to help anything?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Bob said. “But maybe you’ll get feelings from places, too, or we could go somewhere there are a lot of people gathered. You might see something else we could use…”

He trailed off, fixing her with a steady gaze. She saw the red lines in his eyes and knew he was a drinker, and that he was about to tell her the truth. The awareness made her feel almost giddy, like she was flying in a dream.

“What it comes down to is, I feel guilty as hell that you came to me when you saw someone getting raped, and I talked you out of taking action,” Bob said. “I thought I was doing a good thing, and I was wrong.”

“You didn’t know it was going to happen,” Amanda said.

“That’s true, but I still wish I’d done different.” He sighed. “There’s a lot of insanity going around Port Isley these days, and I have a feeling that things are going to get worse before they get any better. Maybe I’m wrong—I hope I am—but if I’m not, and if you see something else, something we can prevent…” He held up his hands, a why-not gesture.

Amanda nodded. It wasn’t really a plan, but it was something she could do, besides resigning herself to the random trauma of her life. “So we should just, like, wander around, trying to see things?”

“Don’t include me,” Devon said. “I’m out of here today.”

Amanda turned to him, feeling unpleasantly startled by his statement, like she’d just heard a loud, ugly noise. “Where are you going?”

“I have a cousin in Portland. She’s been inviting me to come stay with her for a while now. You know, Claire? She can help me get set up.”

“What about Seattle?” Amanda asked. “I mean, we were going to go in October, anyway. You could go early, find us a place…”

“It’s too close,” Devon said. “Look, we can worry about that later. We’re talking about my life here.”

Mine, too. Amanda thought of all the times they’d talked about their apartment together, about how they’d always have wine in the cupboard and cheese in the fridge, parties on Friday nights and a window box of flowers and a kitten they were going to call Snookie, whatever the sex. She thought of all the times when her mother was screaming-puking drunk, when imagining her new life in a real city was all that kept her from falling apart. He was right, of course; it made sense for him to leave, but it still hurt to have her small dream so utterly abandoned.

“Maybe I could go with you,” she said.

“Maybe,” Devon said, his expression saying otherwise. “I mean, I should go right away, since you didn’t see when I’m—when it happens.” He flashed a nervous, insincere smile. “It could happen tonight, right? But you could come down later, once everything’s cool with my cousin. Like in a few weeks. A month or so.”

Amanda couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

Bob’s expression was quite serious. “I think you should stay,” he said, looking at her. “It might mean someone’s life. I have a friend, he’s a psychologist, lives on the same street as Dick Calvin. I’ll talk to him, get him to go see Calvin; if he’s really suicidal, you may have just saved his life.”

Amanda nodded, thinking of what she’d just done, seeing how it was with Devon and his hot, empty sex with Mitchell Jessup…and felt a real stir of power for the first time. She was seeing things, she had made herself see things, and as totally f*cking out there and upsetting as her visions had mostly been, she was who was seeing them. Her, Amanda Lynn Young, with her stupid grind in stupid Port Isley, who’d never expected better than to get the f*ck out and get a job and have a life. Something was finally happening, to her and to the town, something she had a part in. Like, an important part. It was as if she’d fallen into some kids’ adventure story, only without the dragons or talking animals.

Just murder and rape and very bad dreams, she thought, and wondered what was going to happen next.





Ethan Adcox was initially kind of excited when the cops showed up at the Safeway and asked him to come down to the station. After all, it wasn’t like he was in trouble or anything. He did some super minor shit, stacked cases of beer behind the loading dock every now and then, occasionally swiped a few bucks from Pop’s wallet, but nothing worth getting the cops interested. Nothing they knew about, anyway. They’d walked right into the storeroom while he was talking to the new girl from the deli section, Trina—she was kinda fat but had a nice smile, and he hadn’t gotten laid in, like, months (fourteen of them, to be exact), and his complexion wasn’t so great lately that he could afford to be picky—and been all serious and grim and shit, saying they had some questions. He started to make some noise about losing his job, but they said they’d already talked to Mr. Addison and that it wouldn’t take too long, depending on what he had to say. Trina’s eyes had gone wide—she was local but homeschooled; her mom and dad were Jesus freaks—and his nervousness about marching back through the store with a police escort was counteracted somewhat by the understanding that she would totally put out for a bad boy such as himself, if for no other reason than to piss off her parents. All the other employees and shoppers had looked at him like maybe he was a serial killer, which was also cool. Half an hour of sitting alone in the tiny, windowless room at the police station, however, wondering what they wanted to talk to him about, that wasn’t so cool. He kept thinking about what Todd had been telling him a couple of days before, about what Brian wanted to do…that was just talk, though. Brian was always saying crazy shit. But if it wasn’t that, why did the cops want to talk to him?

Because someone saw me, he kept thinking, and as the minutes slipped past, the thought was getting harder and harder to dismiss. Five times in the last month, Ethan had taken late-night walks, walks that took him past open windows in his neighborhood…bedroom windows, at houses where some nice-looking women lived. He’d watched them sleep, thinking about how easy it would be to slip inside and touch them, or make them touch him, and he’d whacked off, thinking about it, and though he’d only picked houses that had bushes or something near the windows, and none of the women had woken up, maybe someone else had seen him. Someone out walking a dog or jogging or something. By the time the door opened and Chief Vincent walked in, Ethan’s initial excitement had completely fizzled, and he’d sworn to never, ever go for another late-night walk.

Everyone knew Stan Vincent, the town’s police chief; he gave talks at the high school every year about drunk driving and seemed like a decent guy—Ethan wasn’t pro pig or anything, but Vincent’s message was pretty much go ahead and get shit-faced, everyone does it, but getting behind the wheel when you’re plowed is just plain dangerous. He wasn’t all moralistic about it, he didn’t talk down to them, he was just, like, matter-of-fact. Which was kind of cool. Ethan’s friends all talked shit about Vincent, f*cking stick-in-the-ass supercop, but Ethan had never had any run-ins with the man personally and figured they were talking out their asses. Seemed to him, nobody got hassled by the man who didn’t deserve it.

Vincent moved to the other side of the crappy metal table and sat down, smiling slightly. It wasn’t an inspiring smile; there was a look in his eyes very much like the one Pop got when he’d been drinking and brooding, a combination that usually meant a couple of punches in the gut for Ethan. Ethan’s fear ratcheted up a notch.

“Thanks for coming in,” Vincent said, sitting back in his chair. He set a little notebook on the table. “You know why you’re here?” He was acting all relaxed and friendly, but his eyes said otherwise.

“No. Ah, sir,” he added.

Vincent grinned, a terrible grin because Ethan could see the disgust in it, like the chief was looking at a slug or a worm. “Mind if I ask what you were doing last night?” Vincent asked. “About, eight, nine o’clock?”

Ethan felt a giant wave of relief. His last visit to a window had been three days before, and way after midnight. “Me and my dad were at a barbecue, watching the fireworks,” Ethan said.

“Where?”

“Some guy he works with, John…” Ethan scrambled for the name. “Liston? Lipton? Something like that.”

Vincent nodded slowly. He picked up his notebook, fished a pen out of his pocket, and jotted a few words down. “If I check that out, I’d find people willing to say you were there?”

“Yes, sir, absolutely.” Ethan couldn’t have been more sincere. “From, like, six till after eleven. I remember, ’cause when we got home, it was almost midnight. I looked at the clock and everything.”

Vincent didn’t say anything for a minute, long enough for Ethan to wonder if the chief believed him. He remembered seeing in a movie somewhere that people being interviewed by the cops often kept talking, desperate to fill up the silence, and he told himself he wouldn’t do that, but as the seconds stretched, he found he couldn’t stop himself. “We could see the fireworks from their back porch. Port Angeles’s fireworks? And we watched the whole show. There were, like, fifteen, twenty people there.”

“And do you know where your buddy Brian Glover was last night?”

Ethan blinked. “Brian? What’d—why?”

Vincent didn’t answer. “You hang out with Brian fairly often, don’t you? Brian, Todd Clay, and Ryan…” he flipped a page in the notebook, “…Thompson, is that right?”

Oh, shit. “Not that much,” Ethan said, trying to sound casual, not sure if he was pulling it off. This was about Brian, and likely Todd and Ry, too. Holy shit. They did it.

Ethan and Todd had drunk some beers Thursday night, when Ethan had gotten off work. Brian was still grounded for getting shit-faced at the picnic, and Ryan had been off at some cousin’s wedding in Bellingham, so it had just been him and Todd, sitting in Ethan’s car outside Kehoe Park. Drinking and talking.

“So, you’re not friends?” Vincent asked.

“We hang out sometimes,” Ethan said. Supercop obviously knew that much. “But I been pretty busy with work and everything, lately.”

“You know where they were last night?” Vincent asked.

Brian says we should find ourselves some p-ssy, Todd had told him Thursday night after they’d each had a few, and Ethan had laughed and said something about how p-ssy was hard to come by, lately, and Todd had said that Brian had a plan. He says if we do it somewhere public, like on the Fourth or at the carnival, maybe, no one will hear anything.

“You’re talking about…about raping someone?” Ethan had asked, not laughing anymore.

Todd polished off his fourth beer and let out a tremendous belch. “Jesus, Ethan, it’s not like that. We’re just looking for a little fun, all right? Give some lucky lady the ride of her life.”

Ethan had forced a laugh, played it off cool, but he hadn’t thought it was cool, not at all.

Ethan’s first and only girlfriend, Bonnie, had been molested by her stepfather when she’d been, like, twelve. Not the same thing as rape, but in the same ballpark, and it had surely f*cked her up, big-time. Ethan had come away from their brief, tumultuous relationship with a clear understanding that molesters and rapists were the jagbags of the universe. When Todd had called him yesterday, to see if he wanted to go to the fairgrounds with them, Ethan had begged off, vaguely grateful that his dad had insisted he go to the stupid backyard barbecue. Not that he thought they were really going to do anything, but Ethan didn’t want to be around if they did. Todd was an OK guy most of the time, but Brian was kind of psycho and always looking for a chance to prove it. And Ryan was up for anything, anytime.

“No, sir,” Ethan said now, although he couldn’t meet Vincent’s eyes. “Like I said, I don’t see them so much anymore. ’Cause of my job, and everything.”

Vincent’s stare, when he finally looked up, was cold and scrutinizing. Shit, Ethan thought again. They’d done it, they’d grabbed some woman and attacked her. He wondered why they’d dragged his ass in, instead of Brian’s…then realized that he was the only one in the bunch who was eighteen. Brian and Todd and Ry would all have to have their parents involved.

“You know something,” Vincent said. He tapped the end of his pen on the notebook, still leaning back in his chair like he was chatting with an old friend, but his voice had gone dark, matching his gaze now. “You know something, and you’re going to tell me, or I will cut your f*cking balls off and feed them to you.”

Ethan stared, shocked. “What?”

“You heard me,” Vincent said. “I’d give you a chance to think it over, but to be honest, I’m not in the mood to wait. I’ve had a long f*cking day already, Ethan. I’m tired. So, out with it. Unless you think I’m kidding.”

Ethan swallowed, his mouth too dry, his brain numb like it had just jumped into the bay in December. He didn’t want to test Vincent’s threat, no way, but not ratting on his friends was so deeply ingrained it was practically a character trait. “I’m—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do,” Vincent said. “It’s all over your face. I understand you don’t want to tattle on your shithead buddies, but let me tell you—you break the law in my jurisdiction, and you will pay the price.”

Ethan tried again. “I wasn’t there, man, I don’t know what happened, swear to God—”

Vincent stood up abruptly and took a single, swift step around the table, his expression murderous, his hands clenched into fists. Ethan ducked away, almost falling out of his chair, but Vincent was faster. He punched Ethan in the side of the head, hard, smashing his ear. Ethan let out a scream as the chair tipped over. He threw his hands out to catch himself and watched as one of Vincent’s black boots came down on the fingers of his left hand, and then his fingers were screeching as loud as his ear.

This can’t be happening, he thought, and then that heavy boot drove into his stomach, and he curled himself into a ball, not thinking anything, just trying to breathe.

“You think I don’t know what you say about me?” Vincent asked, and kicked him again, a brand new explosion of pain to contend with. Ethan drew in a shuddering breath and puked, bile and energy drink and bright-orange bits of cheese puff pooling on the floor in front of him. The pain and the smell of his partially digested breakfast made him retch again, a terrible, painful lurch that brought up the rest of what was in his stomach. Vincent stood over him, his face hard, his shoulders high and tight.

“Your balls are next, Ethan,” Vincent said, and pulled a big folding knife out of his front pocket. He flipped out the blade, four inches of shining steel, and knelt next to Ethan, carefully avoiding the puddle of vomit. “Not my choice, you understand, but when you attacked me, I had to defend myself. You might bleed to death before we can get you to the hospital, but them’s the breaks, right?”

Ethan shook his head, tried to speak, and retched again. Long strings of viscous spittle hung from his lips and chin, sticking to the floor.

“Tired of you goddamn people,” Vincent muttered, grabbing the waistband of Ethan’s jeans. He pulled him closer, dragging Ethan’s head through the pool of puke. “You sit there with your mouth shut when all I’m asking is for you to do the right thing. You don’t care about the law, you don’t give a shit about this town, making me look bad, and all I do is run around cleaning up your selfish goddamn messes…and does anyone say thank you? No, you all think I’m some incompetent a*shole, that I can’t get the job done. But things are changing, you better goddamn believe it—”

“Todd told me,” Ethan gasped. “He told me that Brian said they were gonna get some p-ssy, them and Ryan. I didn’t have nothing to do with it, swear to Christ!”

Vincent hesitated, the knife still in hand, his other hand jammed into the front of Ethan’s jeans. Ethan actually felt the cop’s fingertips brush against his shriveled cock, and for just a second, Ethan thought he was going to keep going anyway, but the strange light in Vincent’s eyes seemed to fade slightly, and he sat back on his heels, carefully folding the knife back up before sticking it in his pocket.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Vincent said, and smiled at him. “Let’s get you cleaned up, son. You all right?”

Ethan didn’t answer, too busy thanking God for letting him keep his balls, crazy, Supercop’s gone totally f*cking nuts!

“You’re all right,” Vincent answered himself, pulling Ethan into a sitting position. “I’ll kill you if you tell anyone about this. You know that, right?”

Ethan nodded, wiping at the tears on his face. He had no doubt whatsoever. “Yeah,” he said, and Vincent clapped him on the back.

“I’m just trying to protect my town, you understand. There’s a greater good here to consider; it’s nothing personal. And no one would believe you, anyway.”

Ethan nodded again, holding his throbbing ear with one hand, his stomach with the other. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Good boy,” Vincent said, beaming at him like a proud father off some TV show. “Good boy.”





John had stayed at the hospital for several hours. He’d talked to Karen, who’d still been in shock, whose battered face had made him want to weep, and he’d talked to the doctor—besides the black eyes and swollen jaw, she had a cracked rib, a sprained wrist, and multiple contusions and abrasions on and inside her vagina and rectum—and he’d talked to Sarah, Karen’s sister, and held her as she’d cried. Then he’d gone home, slept poorly for a few hours…and found himself heading back to the hospital after a shower and a cup of coffee, feeling like he hadn’t done nearly enough. Feeling more involved, perhaps, than was safe…but what did that even mean, if he truly wanted to help? The open look of relief, of gratitude on Sarah’s face, when he stepped into Karen’s room, told him that he’d made the right decision.

Sarah said she had managed to catch a few hours’ sleep of her own, curled in a hospital chair; John urged her home, to change clothes and pack a bag for Karen, promising to keep vigil while she was gone. Stan Vincent had been back, Sarah said, at the crack of dawn, with a handful of photos he wanted Karen to look at, but Karen had been sleeping; the doctor had finally sedated her in the early morning hours. Sarah said that Vincent had actually suggested they wake Karen up to look at the pictures; she’d only been able to get rid of him by swearing that she’d call the very second Karen opened her eyes.

John assured her he’d fend off any overzealous policemen, and they’d talked for a few minutes about what she needed to do; she’d already decided to send Karen’s guests away and cancel those scheduled to arrive for the next few weeks, and she wanted to get it done as soon as possible. John supported the decision, which seemed to make her feel better about it. She discussed the matter frankly with him, treating him as if they were old friends…which again affirmed for him that he wasn’t intruding on a private tragedy, that he was actually being helpful. Not that his motives were entirely altruistic; it was the first day of his weekend, and he didn’t want to sit home alone, drifting on Ativan, waiting for work to start up again and save him from himself and his thoughts of Annie.

Karen didn’t wake while her sister was away, her bruised face at rest against the stiff, white hospital pillow, and John spent that time thinking about last night’s conversation with Bob. About the town going crazy. About the girl who’d foretold the attack, Amanda Young. According to Bob, she’d also known about Ed Billings’s murder and suicide spree. It surprised him a little that Bob was so quick to credit that kind of thing, mass madness, psychic ability…although he had to admit, he’d been a bit unnerved last night when Bob had related details he shouldn’t have known about the rape—that it had happened at the fairgrounds, that the attackers had been teenagers. John suspected that the girl was plying for attention and had worked out some elaborate prank to get it. As for the rest of Port Isley…coincidence. Tragedy inviting tragedy. He watched Karen sleep and assured himself that the rest of the summer would be uneventful. Surely the town had exceeded its seasonal lunacy quota.

When Sarah returned, she brought coffee and sandwiches. They talked in low voices as Sarah set out the makeshift picnic on the counter beneath the window, plus napkins and paper plates she pulled from a grocery bag. She’d already talked to Karen’s current guests and left messages for the people she couldn’t reach directly.

“What about Tommy?” John asked. “When’s he coming back?”

“Day after tomorrow, Tuesday,” Sarah said, handing him a sandwich on a paper plate. “It’s roast beef, is that OK?”

“Yes, thank you.” He was absurdly touched that she’d bothered to stop and pack food for him. He set the plate down, not particularly hungry. Outside, the sun was shining brightly, glinting off metal in the parking lot, but the hospital’s air conditioners fed cold, antiseptic air into the room from next to his seat, making the view seem unreal. “Are you…will you tell him what happened?”

Sarah sat across from him, her chair close enough to the industrially padded loveseat he’d taken that their knees almost touched. “Actually, I was hoping you might have some advice,” she said. “About what to say, I mean. I don’t want to traumatize him, but I don’t feel comfortable lying to him, either…” She put her own plate aside and put her hands in her lap, her fingers restless. “We have a pretty good relationship, but he’s been through so much in the last couple of years…Jack and I splitting, moving out of Seattle…” She smiled a little. “He’s doing so well, though. And he’s so smart.”

“It sounds like you already know what to do,” John said. “I don’t think you need to go into details or anything. Tell him that Karen got hurt, and she’s very sad about it, but that she’ll get better.”

“She will, won’t she?” Sarah asked. Her eyes were worried.

“Absolutely,” John said, sincerely. She’d never be the same, though. And while she might succeed in getting past the event, the brutality of the rape, the violation of self…

She will be haunted, John thought. Doomed to remember. Would she experience a loop of images, repeating? How long would it be before she could close her eyes and not see their faces, looming over her in the dark, not imagine their stupid, pawing hands on her body? Her experience of herself as a sexual being had been redefined by force, perhaps irreparably damaged.

Someone should kill those f*cking kids, he thought, the hate burning in his gut, suddenly, startlingly clear and savage and all-encompassing. Hurt them, beat them, rip them apart and bury them in pieces—

“John? Are you OK?”

He focused on Sarah, saw her concern, and slowly shook his head, still burning inside. He didn’t trust himself to speak. The depth of the feeling frightened him, badly, because he wasn’t like that, he didn’t think like that.

Annie’s murder, Karen getting raped, he told himself. Projection, guilt, stress. Perfectly normal…and it felt normal, as if the intense desire to kill was a natural part of him, one he had somehow never noticed before, and that was wrong, too, all wrong. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Panic attack! His mind screamed helpfully. Panic attack!

Sarah leaned forward and touched his arm. Her fingers were warm. Her eyes were beautiful, direct, and deep blue. “Hey,” she said.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on inhaling, exhaling, on the touch of her hand. He made a conscious effort to relax. To not think of Karen or the boys who’d raped her, or to think of when, exactly, Rick had driven a meat knife into Annie’s soft, flat stomach, or to berate himself for having those thoughts; he was letting those thoughts go, he was letting go; he inhaled, exhaled, more deeply now…and felt a steadying gratitude to the woman sitting with him. She seemed to understand what he needed and kept her peace, sliding her hand down to hold his. Their fingers interlocked. After the briefest of hesitations she moved from her chair to sit next to him, put her other arm across his shoulder, rested her head against him.

Long seconds ticked past. Her breathing was slow and even, and she smelled sweet and mild, like vanilla, her shampoo, perhaps, and he imagined that she had closed her eyes too, was…was resting with him, sharing what limited physical comfort was appropriate between two relative strangers. He knew he should let go of her hand, should smile and say something appreciative; that the time had come to acknowledge their moment together as shared grief, to set it aside and perhaps talk about what steps were next. They weren’t friends, after all; they barely knew each other. She had called for help because her sister had been a client of his, because he’d been a resource she could utilize to help Karen. But there was no awkwardness in their half embrace, no indecision or tension in the gentle pressure of her body; they were here, they were together, and he wanted to keep touching her, keep accepting her, her gift to him. She pressed closer, and her breathing seemed to thicken. His senses were filled with her, the bad thoughts far away, and he wished they could be closer still, that she would climb into his lap and look into his eyes while he—

John let go of her hand, making himself smile at her as he pulled himself back.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and sat back slightly. She was flushed, her eyes slightly dilated. She looked almost frightened. “I’m…sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“That’s OK,” he said. “Really. I feel like I should apologize. I’m not usually so…” He stared at her, not sure how to finish his sentence, either. What were they apologizing for?

For not being ourselves. For acting like teenagers on a hormone high.

Sarah laughed, a small sound, and said what he’d been thinking. “I have not been myself, lately.”

“Right there with you,” John said, which felt like the understatement of his life. In about three minutes, his emotional pendulum had swung from wholeheartedly wanting to kill, to actually take life, to wanting to…

He didn’t dodge the thought, determined to face whatever was happening to him. He’d wanted to go to bed with her. As much as he’d ever wanted anything. And it seemed so natural, so reasonable that they should sleep together, comfort each other with their bodies, as if getting to know one another first was an unnecessary prerequisite.

Just like with Annie.

“Maybe I should start seeing you, professionally,” Sarah said, drawing him away from the thought. “Seriously. I’ve been feeling so…so different since I came here. It hasn’t been bad, but it’s just not me.”

“I could refer you to someone,” John said, his voice distant to his ears. He was already too involved personally to consider treating her. Why? What’s happening? “It might be helpful to have someone to talk to, while you’re taking care of Karen’s affairs, supporting her emotionally,” he added, the encouragement reflexive. “That’s a lot to deal with.”

Sarah hadn’t really met his eyes since they’d moved apart, but she did now. Hers were summer-sky blue, the rich afternoon clarity of a late day in July. “I couldn’t talk to you?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She turned her head and looked at Karen, sleeping. “That’s too bad,” she said, her voice soft. “I feel comfortable talking to you. And I can’t tell you what it means to me, that you’re here. To me and Karen.”

“We can still talk,” John said. “I’d like that. I only meant I’m not taking on any new clients right now.”

“I understand,” she said. Her disappointment was obvious, and it actually pained him to see it. Before he could think, he was talking. Telling her the truth.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said. “A friend of mine was killed, recently, a woman, and I keep thinking about it…everything is so muddled, and I’ve been able to keep a professional distance from my clients, I’ve been working, but you…just now, I was so angry about what’s happened to Karen, enraged, actually, and then I thought—when you touched me, I felt—”

He shook his head, willing himself to shut up. He wished he could explain, that he understood enough about his state of mind to be able to explain.

Sarah studied him a moment, her gaze direct. “You wanted more, didn’t you? With me. Wanted to…wanted to be closer.”

He didn’t try to deny it. “I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath and looked down and away. “I felt the same way. That’s what I was talking about, about feeling different. What just happened, between us—I’ve never felt like that—that fast, I mean—with anyone. Not since high school, anyway.”

“It’s the situation,” John said, affirming it as much for himself as for her, really working to believe it. “The trauma—people react in ways they wouldn’t, normally.”

“It’s not just this, though,” she said. “This is just the latest thing, you know?”

John nodded slowly, thinking about Annie. He was about to ask what else she’d experienced, but she was looking at Karen again. Her eyes welled with tears. “Sometimes I’m so goddamn selfish.”

“It’s not selfish to keep having a life, even when something terrible happens,” John said, jumping at the chance to be back in the role of therapist. He groped for it like a drowning man, grasping for salvation. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

She wiped at her eyes and nodded. “Right, OK.”

What’s wrong with me? Why was he spouting therapy? Why wasn’t he able to be in the moment without stopping to analyze it? Why was he like this? He was confused, a little scared, even…but he wasn’t here to make things worse. He was sure of that much.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. It would undoubtedly be best if he left, made his excuses and got out before he suffered another flash of insanity. “Maybe later, I can come back…”

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Sarah asked, her expression stricken. “Don’t leave. I mean, if you really have to, if you have somewhere to be, I understand…but I’d really—”

She interrupted herself with a sharp, unhappy laugh. “Listen to me. I do want you to stay, but I’m—it’s fine, whatever you want to do. Really.”

Her obvious distress moved him. He wanted to touch her again, to hold her and tell her he would stay as long as she needed him…which he knew was crazy, he knew it, and yet the intensity of the feeling was only slightly diminished by the realization. And he had to actively fight the urge to reach out and touch her again.

People aren’t acting themselves lately, have you noticed? Bob’s words. How had he dismissed them so easily?

He forced another smile and picked up his plate. Karen, I’m here for Karen. He’d repress the hell out of everything else until he could get home, get a chance to work through whatever was happening to him.

Maybe to everyone, he thought, and didn’t care for that thought, not at all.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a while,” he said, and she smiled warmly, and he wanted her, still. And he thought that he’d better be very, very careful.