The Summer Man

Chapter SEVEN





After a few minutes silently pondering the lingering remnants of the murder site—crushed vegetation, a mound of dying bouquets left by the miscellaneous bereaved, a profusion of shoe and boot prints—police chief Stan Vincent slowly continued along Kehoe Park’s main trail. Sun filtered down through the high treetops, which hissed and roared with the wind off the bay; down on the thickly wooded trail, it was barely breezy, the air warm, the sound of the thrashing trees high above strangely muffled. It was a nice day, good for the picnic, which was as big and well behaved, as usual. Annie and Trent were watching things, though most of the rest of his deputies were there as picnickers; if there was a problem, it’d be contained. He’d put in an appearance already, gladhanded some of the summer people, and done his best to avoid the worst of the gossipmongers, but Dan Turner and the rest of the council would have a giant shit if he didn’t show up again before dinner.

They need to feel safe, Dan had told him, trying to be encouraging and coming off like the fat, whiny, sanctimonious little prick that he was. They need to be reassured that Port Isley is a haven, and that the man responsible for their safety is on the job.

On the job. Vincent snorted, stepping lightly over a dip in the trail. Like those soft, manicured metrosexuals and their latte-slurping wives would give a f*ck for whatever Deputy Dipshit had to say. They treated him like the hired help—unless there was trouble, of course, a parking violation or a noise complaint or, God forbid, a break-in. Then it was yessir, nosir, thank you Officer…

Vincent didn’t really mind the hypocrisy, most of the time. He was the chief of police in a tourist town; part of his job was to make the summer people feel comfortable so they’d come back, spend more money. But after what Ed Billings had done to the Meyer girl, and then his wife…all anyone wanted to know since Monday morning was how the sheriff had handled it. And how far away were the staters, and could deputies come quickly in an emergency, and just what was the jurisdiction breakdown, anyway?

Why the f*ck do I bother, they think I’m so incompetent? Vincent continued to walk slowly, determined to keep a lid on his temper. He’d listened to their stupid, insulting questions for almost three hours this morning before he’d managed to get away. He could understand it, of course—the tourists didn’t know his background, didn’t know that he wasn’t some hick elected official with a badge who’d run on a smile and a solid handshake. With his experience—military background, degree in criminology, even most of a year of advanced special tactics training—he could be working anywhere. When he’d been looking for work after the thing in Denver, he’d chosen Port Isley because he’d been invited in at the top, because he’d been allowed to pick his own people, organize things the way he wanted them. Yeah, Ashley had pushed for it, too. She’d fallen in love with the little town on their first vacation there, a good three years before Lily had come along, her birth forcing the need, in Ashley’s mind, to move someplace “good” for kids—but the final decision had been his. For the most part, he wasn’t sorry for the change, either; he was damned good at his job. And the first big case to come through since Walter Allen beat a fellow bar drunk to death three years back, and what did everyone want to know? Where were the county guys. What did the county guys say. Or the winner, from that hatchet-faced lesbian couple renting out the white Victorian for the season, “You’ve turned all the evidence over to the authorities, of course.”

Vincent took in a deep breath, blew it out. If he didn’t hate Wes Dean so goddamn much, Sheriff Western Dean of the big-boy county office, it might not be so bad—

A noise, a rattle of bushes, and Vincent saw something move ahead, a branch to the main trail some twenty yards away—a young man was stepping through the light screen of bushes there, tall, thin, dark hair, tan corduroy jacket. He was wearing expensive new hiking boots, the kind that weren’t really made for hiking—and considering how pale he was, he only could have been hiking at night, anyway. He didn’t notice the cop, was about to step across the main trail to the small branch he’d been walking. He wasn’t a local. Vincent knew about every face in town.

“Good afternoon,” he called out, and the young man stopped, not looking at him, his gaze still focused on the path. For the briefest of instants, Vincent had an impression that the guy meant to run—and then it passed, and the man turned toward him, unsmiling.

Something about the way he was standing, maybe, tightness in the jaw…Vincent wasn’t sure, but he dismissed the impression as he walked closer. The guy—mid to late twenties, probably—had a straight-arrow look, the face of a well-to-do grad student. Not the running type.

The younger man stayed put, made no move to meet Vincent as he neared.

“Chief,” the stranger said, his tone as neutral as his expression. “Vincent, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Vincent nodded. He stopped in front of the man, put on his best PR smile, reached out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure…?”

The man hesitated a beat, then stretched out his own and shook briefly. “David Mallon,” he said. “I’m here for the summer.”

“Oh, yeah? Where are you staying?”

“Rental,” Mallon said. “On Eleanor Street.”

Eleanor was only a block and a half long, an extension of Devlin; the short street ran along the east side of Kehoe Park. For a half second, Vincent thought about mentioning the tragedy that had occurred in the park Sunday night, asking if Mallon had been bothered by the hoo-ha afterward, but quickly dismissed the thought. No point in reminding anyone of what had happened. Goddamn media had done enough of that. The last crew had split town just this morning, after a disgustingly exploitive “and now the little town bravely faces its future” piece.

“Nice day for a walk,” Vincent said, still smiling, observing the summer man carefully. Vincent was privately quite proud of his readings on new people, on feeling like he knew something about them at first impression. If nothing else, people’s feelings about cops usually came out right away, on their faces or in their body language, the big smile and hearty handshake of the pro-police folks, the sneery petulance or bravado of youth, the tension of a guilty conscience—but he got nothing off Mallon. Zip.

“It is,” Mallon agreed. He didn’t add anything, didn’t ramble nervously or talk to fill space. Just waited.

“You know, there’s a big picnic over at the fairgrounds today,” Vincent said. “Kind of a welcoming party for our summer guests, food, music, some nice people. It goes on until late, if you feel like heading over.”

Mallon nodded. “Perhaps I will. Thank you.”

A man of few words, apparently. Vincent saw no reason to keep him, and he obviously didn’t want to make conversation.

“Well—nice meeting you,” Vincent said. “Welcome to Port Isley. And you might want to think about sticking to the main trails. Some of the smaller ones aren’t cleared.”

“I’ll be careful,” Mallon said, then smiled, ever so slightly. “I like the privacy.”

Vincent was about to offer his hand once more, but Mallon apparently felt excused. He nodded politely at Vincent and then went on his way, moving along down the smaller trail.

Vincent watched him walk for a few seconds, thinking that in spite of that old saw about how everyone had a story to tell, the only remarkable thing about some people was how entirely unremarkable they were, and then continued on his own walk. He’d have to head back soon; Ashley was planning to bring Lily to the picnic for an early supper, and he wanted to spend a little time with his family, counteract some of the bullshit he’d been shoveling all morning, would probably still be shoveling well after dark.

He sighed, turned back toward the west exit, where his just-washed-for-summer PIPD patrol unit was parked, and started walking.





The sun was bright and shining, like the faces of the children who ran and played among the smiling picnickers. Like their little shining souls. And bright voices. Or, their faces glowed from sun and shade and, and…

The children glowed like tiny suns, their voices radiating like heat…their faces like…brightness in the shade…

“Miranda?”

Miranda blinked, her sun-struck vision slowly dimming back to the day. She squinted, shaded her eyes, and saw Patricia Carter standing there, smiling tentatively. Patricia was a promising painter who’d come the artisan’s retreat for the summer two years ago. She’d married the following spring and hadn’t been back, which had vexed Miranda somewhat; she and James had subsidized Patricia’s room and board, and the girl hadn’t even managed to respond to last year’s invitation…although she had sent a lovely, hand-painted seasonal card to the retreat around the holidays, Miranda recalled, which counted for good manners, at least. She’d taken a day job as a bookkeeper or some such…paralegal? Something white-collarish.

“Patricia, how are you, dear? You look wonderful.” She stood, embraced the girl, then opened her arm to the other chairs. “Sit and tell me how you are.”

“Oh, I can only stay a minute,” Patricia said, her face set in an apologetic smile. “Mark’s over fending for himself at the concessions, and—”

“You don’t mind if I…?” Miranda sat down again as Patricia shook her head, mumbling her acquiescence. “I’ve been on my feet all day; you know how summers are. We’ve got seven new people in, just in the last week. We’re still getting settled.”

Patricia folded her arms across her chest, nodding, smiling. “Are Brenda and Steve here this year?”

Miranda felt her grin set slightly. Steve and Brenda DeLinn had been with the retreat every summer since…since she’d started the retreat, really. The second or third summer, anyway, and that meant ten years, at least. Miranda had considered them both her close friends. If they’d needed money, they could have come to her; they didn’t need to lie about being busy, they didn’t have to choose California over the retreat…

They were shallow and ungrateful people, she and James were in complete agreement. And not nearly so talented as they believed themselves to be. Thought they were the second coming of the Natzlers, for heaven’s sake.

“No,” Miranda said, as evenly as possible. “But what are you up to, dear? What’s lighting up your life right now, right this very moment?”

Patricia smiled widely. “Well…Mark and I are trying to get pregnant.”

“You are, how wonderful! I just love babies, love them. I have three nieces, you know, and all of them have children, and they’re just the sweetest things.”

“We’re really excited,” Patricia said. “Mark just got a new job. And we can afford for me to be a full-time artist for a while, so the timing is right. We’re just ready, you know?”

“That’s so lovely,” Miranda said. “You know who we do have this year—Darrin Everret, from Massachusetts. You know his work?”

“Ah, no, I don’t think—”

“He’s still quite young, but he’s going to make an impact, I can tell you. Drawings, mostly, pencil and charcoal. You—you and Mark, of course—you’ll have to come to the show at the end of the summer, to see his work. It’s extraordinary.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t believe I saw you there last summer.”

Patricia crossed her arms tighter. “We meant to come, but we had a minor emergency…”

She trailed off. Miranda smiled, waited.

“Mark’s mother spent some time in the hospital. She’s in Portland, so we had to be down there for a while,” Patricia said finally.

Miranda pressed one hand to her chest. “Darling, I’m so sorry. How dreadful.”

“Oh, it’s fine. She’s doing fine, now.”

“Well, thank heavens,” Miranda said. “And the two of you with a baby on the way. Hopefully soon. We never had children, you know. How lovely. I hope you’re keeping up with your work?”

Patricia nodded. “I am, actually. I’m not as prolific as I was when I was here, though.”

“It’s the community spirit,” Miranda said firmly. She and James spoke of it often, the productivity that was possible when so many artistic minds were creating, together. It was why they’d begun the retreat in the first place.

“Oh, I always meant to ask—did Monet ever come back?” Patricia asked.

The cats. Miranda frowned, trying to recall if Patricia had always been so tactless. “No, he never did.”

“Poor Manet,” Patricia said. “They were so cute together.”

“Manet was gone a week into the fall,” Miranda said. “We’ve stopped keeping cats at the retreat.” Just saying it aloud made her feel grim and unhappy. Monet and Manet had been the fourth and last pair of cats they’d had since opening their community. All of them had disappeared, some within a week or two of their arrival. The summer Patricia had been there, the mystery of the disappearing cats had been a frequently covered topic at mealtimes. The most often agreed upon explanation was that the cats had all been killed by the animals in the woods that bordered the retreat. The hills just outside town stretched into federally protected coastal oldgrowth habitat. There were owls and foxes and wolverines, even black bears a bit farther south. It was likely reasoning, but Miranda knew better.

“It’s just as well,” she added, and didn’t try to smile. “No reason to give those, those crazies anyone new to kill.”

“So you really think it was them?” Patricia asked.

Miranda nodded, feeling a flush of anger. “I’m certain.”

Crazies. Survivalists. They had their own compound less than a mile from the community, back in the woods. They had guns, and they ate dehydrated food and built bomb shelters and God only knew what else. When she and James had first opened their retreat, she’d made the terrible, horrid mistake of asking them to not shoot things on her property. Within a month, Francisco and Georgia were gone. She hadn’t known, of course…and even as late as the summer Patricia had been with the community, she’d only had suspicions. Last October, though, Miranda had run into the leader of the whackos and one of his sons at the market. She’d looked up from perusing the apples—James was off at Truman’s, fetching organic milk and cream cheese; the local store didn’t carry either—and there he’d been, Cole Jessup and one of his spawn. Both in dirty flannel and military boots caked with mud, both with the same faded blue eyes and leathery skin, though the son—Mitchell?—had better teeth than his father. The younger Jessup had been holding a handbasket filled with jars of peanut butter and had spotted her first from near one of the checkouts. He had nudged Cole—he had a cart stacked with cases of cheap beer, of course—and the two men had grinned through a mumbled exchange, staring at her.

As she’d gone back to picking over the apples, Mitchell Jessup had clearly said, “Meow.”

Terrible, terrible men. She’d complained to the police, of course, but they’d been unable to do anything beyond talk to Jessup, who’d flatly stated that if people didn’t want to lose their pets, they ought not let them roam…

“Well. I’m sure they’ll get what’s coming to them. Anyway, I’ve got to—”

“Karma,” Miranda nodded.

“It’s wonderful to see you, but I’ve really got to go rescue my husband,” Patricia said. “And you can count on us for the show this summer.”

“That’s wonderful, dear,” Miranda said, shading her eyes again as Patricia backed away. “We have our performance night coming up next month, mid-July—well, poetry, mostly, but I’m sure there will be some other—”

“We’ll check the paper,” Patricia called back, and hurried away, disappearing into a crowd of sundresses and shorts. Miranda saw a few of her colonists walking toward the stage area together and was about to shout them over when her husband spoke.

“Was that Patty?”

Miranda turned and saw that James had finally managed to make his way back to their designated spot. He held two paper plates, loaded with those little Spanish appetizers that Elson’s had put out this year, a giant plastic cup cradled against his side.

“Patricia, dear,” Miranda said. “And where have you been? I’m parched.”





The kids approached Bob during the Baptist church choir’s enthusiastic rendition of “Nearer My God To Thee,” fervently conducted by the high school music teacher. Bob was glad for the break. Enthusiastic, the singers were; talented, not so much. Besides which, Bob liked a good story, and the two teens looked like they had one to tell. The four pints he’d had since the picnic’s kickoff certainly helped kindle his interest, and the cagey suggestion from the fey young man that they go “somewhere private” added a touch of the dramatic. Thinking of what he’d heard earlier in the day, about the girl’s alleged psychic revelation, Bob had gladly accepted their invitation, preparing himself for either a sincere story of harassment or a wonderfully tall tale.

As he’d dared to hope, the story they started telling was a creatively exciting one. The young man introduced them both—they were Devon Shupe (pronounced “Shoo-pay”) and Amanda Young, respectively—and did most of the talking, explaining what had happened and what they believed was yet to happen. In short, the girl had foreseen Lisa Meyer’s death a week earlier and had experienced another vision since, of a rape that would occur that very night if nothing was done to stop it. An assault that would take place not far from where they were standing, sheltered from the crowd by the cinderblock restrooms. The girl seemed nervous. Understandably so, if she’d actually seen what she claimed.

It was their obvious sincerity that had Bob paying closer attention than he might have otherwise. By the time Devon had touched on all the high points, Bob’s initial smirk had taken backseat to a genuine curiosity.

“So,” Devon said, taking a deep breath. “We need help. We figure no way the cops’ll believe us, and it’s not like we’re going to, like—kidnap Brian Glover or something.”

He fell silent, glancing at Amanda, who was lighting a cigarette. She half smiled back at him, exhaling smoke as she spoke.

“That’s one we didn’t think of. Why don’t we just kill him? We could hide the body in Peter’s truck.”

Devon chuckled at the obvious sarcasm, and though Bob didn’t know who Peter was, he smiled politely, distantly, his mind ticking through their assertions. Out on the main concourse, the Baptist choir had gone into a rather chilling interpretation of “Down by the River.”

“Back up a minute,” he said, addressing Amanda directly. “You saw Billings bite her, is that right?”

“Yeah,” Amanda said. “He started choking her, and then he just leaned forward and…and bit. Her face.” The corners of her mouth turned down, her expression one of extreme distaste. “Pulled off a piece and chewed on it.”

Bob looked at Devon. “Did she say that? When she, ah, started shouting?”

Devon hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. She said Mr. Billings was killing Lisa Meyer, is all. She told me later, though.”

“That night?” Bob asked.

Both nodded. Bob kept his polite smile on, thinking it over. It hadn’t gone out in the Press, of course, but Annie Thomas had told him about the facial mutilation—had told him only this morning, a few hours earlier, that the ME had identified it as a bite. This supposition was solidly backed up by what they’d found in Billings’s stomach. It would get around, of course, the details always did in Port Isley, but he was fairly certain that that particular nugget of unpleasantness was still unknown to the general public. Which begged the question, how did Amanda Young know about it at all, let alone prior to the attack?

No way to check it, though. She told her friend, nobody else. She’d apparently told half the party that Billings killed the girl—and Lisa Meyer had actually been there at the time, alive and well, according to his sources—but had only told Devon about the bite to her face. Bob could check the story, talk to some of the partygoers that hadn’t already approached him…but that wasn’t proof of anything, even if he could count on a group of unknown teenagers at a beer-and-pot party to tell him the truth. Maybe Amanda knew about the affair between the teacher and student, knew that they were about to split up or something, and had decided to make the party a little more dramatic. Maybe Billings was sleeping with Amanda too and had told her his plans. Looking at the girl’s rather sweet young face, innocent in spite of the deliberately jaded air she assumed, he doubted it—but he’d been lied to before, and by people more innocent looking than her. Looks could be deceiving.

The thing about the bite, though…

“Assuming I were to believe you, what would you have me do about it?” Bob asked.

Devon looked awkwardly at the girl, then back to Bob. “You could tell the police,” he said. “They’d listen to you.”

Bob had to smile. “What makes you think that?”

“You’re—your opinion matters,” Devon said. “People would listen to someone with, um, credibility.”

Spoken like a true idealist. “What would I say?” Bob asked.

Again, the look exchange. “You could tell them the truth,” Devon said, and Bob could actually see a glimmer of that pitifully hopeful optimism fading, his young gaze going murky, confused. “You could check everything out, and then you’d have evidence, you could convince them to listen.”

Bob looked at Amanda, saw that she already understood. It was in her face, in her tight shoulders and defensive stance.

“No way he could do it by tonight, though,” she said. Took a quick drag off her cigarette. “And he can’t prove that we’re telling the truth.”

“If he talks to some of the people who were there—”

“That’s a bunch of kids talking,” she said, her tone flat. “Not evidence.”

“It’s not going to be dark for like four hours,” Devon insisted. “That’s plenty of time.”

Her voice was as heavily sarcastic as only a punk teenage girl’s could be. “Right. Plenty of time to convince f*cking Stan Vincent, Mr. Supercop, that seeing into the future is a valid means of crime prevention.”

Devon was starting to look angry. “So what, we drop it? You felt guilty about Lisa, and that’s before you knew this was real. How are you going to feel tomorrow morning?”

Bob watched with dawning amazement. The exchange was genuine, not an act put on for his benefit. They were both frustrated—the girl bitterly, angrily resigned, the boy desperate—and Bob believed them. Not that they weren’t entirely wrong about the rape—he was willing to bet on that—but that they weren’t lying about it. They believed what they were telling him.

He opened his mouth to suggest that they go over it again, ashamedly aware as he did so that he meant to look into the matter, to at least talk to a few people—and that was when the shouting started.

Unintelligible at first, loud and angry, coming from the main concourse, close by. The church choir had finished singing at some point—Bob had barely registered the relieved applause—and now the ambient noise of the assembled crowd fell away, making the shouts much clearer.

“…not gonna take no more a’ this shit!” A man shouting. “You can lock him the f*ck up and keep him!”

A lower voice, conciliatory in tone, pitched to carry. A woman’s voice. “Sir, I’ll ask you to step back—”

“The f*ck I will! Look at ’im! Kid’s seventeen years old! He’s—don’t you look at me like that, I’ll slap that look off your face, boy—”

“Sir, I said—sir!”

That was Annie Thomas. Bob hurried out from behind the restroom block, followed closely by the two teenagers. He was already putting together the conversation with the voices, realizing what was happening as the ugly scene unfolded in front of them, less than twenty feet away.

Nathan Glover, dressed in ratty jeans and a blue work shirt, was shouting at Annie Thomas and another officer, one not in uniform—Ian Henderson, Vincent’s right-hand guy. The two cops were standing close in front of a younger man, physically shielding him from the angry adult. The young man’s shirtfront was covered in vomit, and from the way he was standing—barely, to Bob’s trained eye—he was gloriously, toxically drunk.

Brian Glover, if I’m not mistaken.

“That’s him,” Devon breathed, confirming it.

Nate had apparently also had more than his fair share and seemed ready to take on the two cops to get to his son, though he wasn’t a big man—average build, bit of a gut. Ian Henderson had three inches and fifty pounds on him, easy. The gathered picnickers openly gawked at the drama, a few small children still clamoring for attention in the otherwise silent circle of watchers.

The elder Glover had his chest out, was pushing toward Henderson in a showy effort to intimidate, still yelling at his son. “You can stay in there, if I got anything to say about it! You should get use’ to the inside of a cell! Then wait’ll you get home, boy! You just wait!”

“F*ck you,” Brian slurred out loudly, and then Annie was pulling the staggering boy away as his father rushed Henderson, his expression just short of murderous. The deputy quickly and neatly stepped to one side, grabbed Nate’s arm, and brought it up behind him, which Nate didn’t realize until he was falling. Both men went down, Henderson on top. Margot Trent appeared out of the crowd, in uniform, and jumped in to help. With both officers on his back, Nate Glover spluttered uselessly into the dirt, flailing for about two seconds before he gave it up.

“OK OK OK OK,” he yelled, going limp, and Henderson bent down and started talking clearly, firmly into his ear as Trent pulled her cuffs from her belt.

Bob scanned the watching faces for reaction and saw frowns and open mouths, conversations slowly starting up. He looked back just in time to see Brian follow his father’s example, pitching heavily to the ground. Annie immediately crouched at his side, then stood a few seconds later with a carefully blank expression that said it all—Brian had passed out drunk and was down for the count. Bob didn’t see Mrs. Glover anywhere in the crowd, which suggested that further dramatics were unlikely, but there had been enough. A real episode of Cops, right in front of the best of the summer trade, who had already started to break up, their low voices tight with excitement and dismay. Dan Turner would crap himself.

Bob glanced at his two young storytellers, saw the twin looks of amazement, of surprise and confusion—and on Amanda’s face, a dawning flush of embarrassment or shame. She looked back at Bob, then dropped her gaze, her shoulders sagging.

“I saw it,” she said, turning to Devon again. “Swear to God, Devon.”

Her friend nodded, no doubt in his eyes. “I know. I know you did.”

The crowd was breaking apart, flowing into itself as its attention followed the departing cops, Nate and his son both unceremoniously dragged away. People were going back to their food and drink. Devon looked at Bob.

“It could still happen,” he said.

Bob arched one brow. “You see that kid?”

“He was just drunk,” Devon said, and though he tried to sound dismissive, he couldn’t quite pull it off.

“Son, that boy was a hundred and ten percent shit-faced,” Bob said. “If he can do anything but puke or sleep for the next ten hours, I’ll be dipped. You know that, right?”

“OK, yeah—but what if it’s supposed to happen next week, on the Fourth?” Devon persisted. “Or at the carnival in August?”

Bob looked back and forth between the two of them. The young man was still the epitome of earnest, but the girl wouldn’t look at him for more than a second at a time, her cheeks burning. Maybe because she’d been caught out. Still, Bob was gentle, deciding that the benefit of the doubt wouldn’t cost him anything. Maybe she was just embarrassed because she looked a fool.

“What if it’s next summer?” Bob said. “Or the one after? Or never? What if it was a bad dream after all?”

“It wasn’t, though, it was just like before,” Amanda insisted suddenly, her voice almost pleading. As though she wanted him to explain it to her.

“Maybe so,” Bob said. He kept his expression serious but friendly. He liked kids, mostly, had found in himself a sense of humor for the stumblings of the young, the attitude, the styles. Not all of them, of course—God knew there were some real shitheads in the mix—but as with every generation, the vast majority of the little buggers meant well, wanted simply to grow up and have good things in their lives, love and money and family. Perhaps these two had extra issues to deal with, he certainly couldn’t say, but he saw no reason to be elderly about it.

“When my older brother first went away to college, he had this roommate, name of Travis Thompson,” Bob said, finally deciding to give voice to the story that had been in his mind for most of the day. He hadn’t told it in a long time, and he hadn’t expected to tell it at all, certainly not to a couple of teenagers, but it was spilling out before he could think twice. All that beer, probably.

“Thompson killed himself over Christmas break,” he continued. “Not on purpose, mind you. He drank and drove, though, and he took his girlfriend and his own mother with him, driving them home from a New Year’s Eve party. All three of ’em burnt up in a big crash. The thing was, I was with my brother when it happened—Rich and I were having a few beers out in my dad’s garage to celebrate the New Year—and he…”

Bob hesitated, not sure how to explain…he’d only meant to tell them the anecdote to be kind, to let them know that just because they were wrong, that didn’t mean he thought they were crazy—but as he tried to do justice to the tale, he felt a shiver of that, that uncanniness he’d felt when it had happened, all those many years ago.

“Rich was telling me some story or other from school, and he went quiet. He set his beer down, and looked at his watch,” Bob said. “And he’d been a little tight, you know, but he suddenly looked stone cold, and a little green, too, and he said, just as clear as could be, ‘That dumb shit roomie of mine just crashed his car into a light pole off Route Two Nineteen.’”

Bob let the image go and returned his attention to his audience of two. “Knew about the mother and girlfriend, too, and had the time exactly right, though the accident happened in Colorado. A different time zone, for us. And he knew the name of the road, which he shouldn’t have. He never could explain it to his own satisfaction…but he once told me it was like he just knew it, like he’d read about it somewhere. Like it was fact.”

Amanda was nodding, her cheeks still red but her eyes bright with renewed interest. “Yeah, like that. I saw it first, though, but then it was just like—like knowledge.”

Bob continued, his voice mild. “He never saw anything like that again. Stuff like that happens, I think. Not often, probably, but I think it does. And maybe it happened to you.”

He fixed Amanda with what he hoped was a kind, paternal look. “But just because it happens sometimes, doesn’t mean it happens every time,” he said.

Devon started to protest, but Amanda, her clear gaze meeting Bob’s own squarely enough, stilled him with a wave.

“No, he’s right,” she said, talking to Devon but still looking at Bob. Her eyes were a lovely shade, dark and greenish, and he was struck by the intelligence there, reflected in the complexities of her emotion, at least what he could read. Embarrassment and resignation, self-doubt, relief. Although there were a lot of smart people in the world, Bob had generally found that stupid abounded, deliberate as often as not; as his own father had liked to say, some people, if they had a spare brain, it’d be lonely. It was refreshing to see someone with something going on under the hood.

“You said—” Devon started.

“I know,” Amanda cut him off.

“But if it was just like—”

“I know,” she said. “But he’s right about Brian. It’s not going to be tonight, anyway. And if I was wrong about that…”

The unspoken rest of the thought was enough for Devon, and for Bob.

“Listen, I’m sure everything’s going to be fine,” Bob said, finding a smile. “If you had a real, ah, an extrasensory experience before—and it sounds like maybe you did—it makes sense that you’d start looking for omens every which way. Sounds like you had a hell of a nightmare, and maybe the way you felt about it, like it was a premonition, maybe that was part of the dream.”

Amanda was nodding. She looked relieved most of all—which renewed Bob’s feeling that she’d been telling the truth. She wanted a sane, logical answer to what had happened to her; she wanted the world to make sense.

Don’t we all?

They thanked him very politely for his time, and he reassured them that it had been a pleasure; even told them that if anything else came up, to give him a call, though he doubted very much that he’d ever hear from either of them again. He watched them walk away together, pleased with himself for being of some use, still half thinking of his brother’s strange insight into the death of his college roommate. If it had been anyone but Rich, Bob might have thought it some kind of distasteful joke, but his brother didn’t have that kind of humor in him. Rich had died of a heart attack at the ungodly young age of fifty-nine, coming up on seven years past, but from childhood till his dying day, Richard Sayers had dismissed anything he couldn’t explain as utter hogwash, from God to women’s intuition. That night, though, he’d known something he shouldn’t have known, that he absolutely couldn’t have.

Weirder than fiction. Bob decided he’d done enough community work for the day, that it was time to go home and get to the serious drinking, maybe delve into his prized movie collection for an old man’s wild Saturday evening; something by Hitchcock, perhaps, to continue the day’s theme. He’d lost track of John Hanover somewhere along the way—last he’d seen, John had been chatting up Annie Thomas, though of course she was off arresting people now—but perhaps he’d give the good doctor a call later, invite him over to share a few whiskeys and a viewing of Rope…or maybe not. Like many an old bachelor—or so he assumed—Bob had grown quite fond of his own company. And much as he liked John, he also liked the idea of getting a little sloppy in front of an old movie tonight, dozing on the couch, and wearing something entirely unsociable. Drawers and socks, maybe.

He faced into the crowd, saw a half dozen people he’d rather not have to walk past—well-meaning friends and neighbors who would undoubtedly want to get his take on the to-do with Nate Glover and the local PD—and decided he’d wind around to his truck by way of the service road.

Annual Picnic a Success, he decided. Front page, probably. Bob shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered west, writing breakers in his thoughts.