Foreword

1 November 1926

It is with a heavy heart that I take pen in hand to write these words. I have suppressed the facts of this matter for over twenty years, though they tell of perhaps the greatest adventure of my life-an adventure some will surely dismiss as mere fiction. I only wish it had been.

Herein, at last, I shall set down my first encounter with those terrible powers that lurk beyond the borders of natural science. I was lucky to survive; others were not so fortunate.

Only now is it safe to break my long silence, since I have just received news that one of the greatest showmen in the world and a dear friend of mine has passed on.

I could not reveal the truth whilst he lived, because I feared it would damage his reputation and possibly curtail his livelihood. I refer, of course, to the great magician Houdini. Now he is past harm and in a place where all is peace and forgiveness. One way or another, I am sure we shall be in communication again soon. One of the deepest regrets of my life is that we had not spoken for nearly two years when he died.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Bignell House, Bignell Wood
Hampshire

Chapter I
Mischief at the Palace

I shall never forget the time I first laid eyes on Harry Houdini. I had no way of knowing this meeting was to change the course of my life. It was in the Autumn of 1903. The Great War and my great losses in it were still over a decade away. I had spent the better part of the season in constant attendance on my wife Louise during the final stages of her illness. We had a nurse, but for reasons of my own I insisted upon taking responsibility for her care.

The slow, inexorable advance of the consumption that wasted her body had been excruciating to watch. Her life was not ending with dignity. Rather, it dragged on in whimpers of pain and the humiliations of the sick room. I could only hope that the clergy were right and a better world awaited those who were forced to suffer so in this one. Some days I would have given much for proof it was true. Unfortunately, I had given up all hopes that such proof would ever appear.

With nothing to do but await the inevitable end, I felt like a trapped animal in my own house. I snapped at Nurse and was brusque even with my son Kingsley. He was eleven and already a forthright, manly lad. Now, however, I could scarcely brook the silent misery in his eyes.

I had not set foot outside of the house for many weeks when I received a letter from my publisher. He needed to meet with me in London to finalize the details of an American lecture tour scheduled for the following year. The joy I felt at finding a reason to escape soon faded. It was replaced by guilt over my eagerness to abandon my dear invalid. I had drafted a refusal when my wife, in one of her rare lucid moments, insisted I go.

"The change will do you good." She smiled weakly. "One of us needs to remain strong."

Reluctantly, I agreed to a short trip and determined to take Kingsley along. He too needed a respite from the pall that hung over our home.

London was a tonic for both of us. We had reached an unspoken agreement for one day to put aside the grief that had worn us down so. After finishing my business, I gave us both a treat. Houdini was performing in London. I had long been fascinated by the idea of a man who could escape anything. So I took my son to see him at the Palace Theatre. Once an opera house, of late the Palace had been given over to variety entertainments. As we left our hotel, we spied one of the brand-new motor taxis.

"Oh, may we hire it, father? May we?" Kingsley jumped up and down in his excitement.

I motioned the driver over and we climbed aboard. Once we were settled on the leather bench seat, the driver pulled into the stream of horse-drawn carriages, wagons, and cabs. I was surprised at how high off the ground we sat. We rode like a rajah on his elephant and surveyed the rush of traffic below us. Despite the vehicle's constant vibration, its instantaneous acceleration and quicksilver maneuverability fascinated me. Our driver dexterously wended his way between the less agile conveyances around us. Horses shied at our approach or showed their suspicion by pinning their ears back against their heads.

"Get off the road with that thing," one driver called angrily to us.

Pedestrians looked up in alarm or curiosity as we passed them. From our vantage point the crowd on either side of the roadway seemed like a swirling flock of raucous fowl. Stiff corsets forced the ladies' figures into swanlike S-curves. Broad-brimmed hats, mounded with feathers, enhanced the resemblance. The sober blacks of their escorts' dinner jackets and stiff shirt fronts rendered the women even more flamboyant by contrast. The chatter and laughter mingled with the clop of horses' hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels.

"It's rather wonderful isn't it, father?" Kingsley confided.

I nodded to him and resolved to own one of these machines soon.

As we continued, our vehicle's gentle shuddering relaxed me. My mind began to drift. For the first time in many weeks, my thoughts wandered back to the days before my wife's illness. My youthful adventures as a young doctor aboard ships sailing to far-flung corners of the Empire seemed far behind me. I now devoted myself to my historical novels. I played cricket with James Barrie's team of writers, boxed, and golfed when time permitted. Still, something was missing from my life.

It had been ten years since I'd published the Final Problem in the dear old Strand Magazine. The outrage and mourning following this "death" of my creation Sherlock Holmes had shocked me-and, I confess, given some gratification. Angry letters had flooded my publisher. Crowds of people wore black armbands for weeks. Only the death of Queen Victoria seven years later equaled the tumult. Now, save for the occasional appeal from Greenhough Smith, editor at the Strand, I thought that was all history. I was about to find out just how wrong I was.

When we arrived at Cambridge Circus, its dozens electric street lights, newly installed, dazzled us. Blinking, we picked our way through the crowds that surged around us.

"Keep hold of my hand," I warned Kingsley. He seemed happy to do as I bid.

On the ground there was an absolute crush of couples in their finery. We pushed on through scents of lavender and tea rose. I felt a pang at the thought of enjoying myself whilst my poor Louise endured her final agonies. But the joy on Kingsley's face convinced me I was doing right.

His eyes went wide at his first glimpse of the theatre. It was a magnificent structure in the Spanish style with rows of tall, arched windows and a spire at each domed corner.

The more desirable seats were all sold out so we had to content ourselves with sixpence seats towards the rear. To compensate, I rented us each a pair of opera glasses for a close-up view of the show. As we started down the lushly carpeted stairway, I felt an elbow in the ribs. I turned to see a labourer in his coarse wools push past me with a grunt. He swaggered to his seat with his sweetheart in a shawl and clogs. A whiff of unwashed bodies and cheap perfume trailed in their wake.

I hastened Kingsley past the copper-coloured marble pillars to our seats. From this vantage point I observed the people around us. Houdini evidently attracted an eclectic following. Well-to-do young wives in their pastel silks and satins jostled and were jostled by their poorer sisters in dark chintzes or lustrings. Gentlemen in silk hats threaded through knots of working men in cloth caps and open shirt-fronts.

Once the show began, we endured the juggler, the strong man, the singers, and the tableau vivant while we awaited the main attraction. At last the great magician strode onto the stage in full evening dress. The applause rolled in waves across the vast auditorium. I examined him through my opera glasses. His face was broad, with a high forehead and a thatch of dark, unruly hair. A humorous mouth softened his expression somewhat, but the strong jaw, firm lips, and furrowed brow all bespoke determination.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced, as he took his place in front of the red velvet curtain, "tonight you will see things that defy explanation."

He was as good as his word. He plunged into tricks with cards and coins. At one point he swallowed six needles and a length of thread. When he spat them back up, all six were threaded on the strand. He looked as delighted as a child after each successful sleight-of-hand. His enthusiasm was contagious. The crowd chuckled and enjoyed themselves fully.

He began the second part of his act by stepping to the front of the stage and lifting his arms for quiet. Only when the crowd were absolutely silent, did he speak. "I will prove to you that nothing made by man can ever hold me."

He proceeded to astonish us all with a series of escapes. In full view of the audience he struggled from the coils of a length of rope, using only his fingers, teeth and incredible flexibility. A representative of Scotland Yard locked him in a pair of handcuffs-the same ones that had restrained the bludgeoner Edgar Edwards on his way to the gallows. In moments they clattered to the floor. Houdini triumphantly flung up his bare wrists for all to see.

Next, he was bound hand and foot, tied in a bag and deposited in a chained trunk. His assistant, a short woman in tan tights, stepped behind a curtain on stage. In the blink of an eye she vanished and Houdini stood in her stead. The trunk was unchained. When Houdini cut open the bag, his assistant's head of curly brown hair popped up through the slit.

At last came the part I had awaited eagerly. Whilst his assistant rolled a curtained cabinet on from the wings, Houdini strutted to centre stage. He announced, "I will pay ten pounds to anyone who can shackle me so that I can not escape."

The crowd waited in expectant silence. This challenge was his trademark. He offered it at every show.

"Come on," the magician exhorted. "Anybody think he's up to it?"

A burly man stood up in front of us. A pair of manacles dangled from each hand.
"You won't get out o' these," he shouted.

Houdini invited him up on stage with an enthusiastic gesture. Here is a confederate, planted in the audience, I thought. As the man made his way to the stage, I revised my opinion. He was an uncouth sort, obviously the worse for drink. I caught a glimpse of the manacles as he staggered down the aisle. They hung heavily in his hands and clanked ominously with each step. I speculated on where he might have got them. His peculiar, rolling gait was suggestive. With this fellow, Houdini might well have met his match.

The man climbed onto the stage. "C'mere," he bellowed.

The fellow grabbed one of the magician's hands roughly. Houdini, however, shook his head and said to the audience, "I will examine the apparatus first."

The man growled something, but Houdini insisted. First he looked the manacles over. Then he shook each one in turn, listening carefully.

"The locks have been fudged," he announced. "But with a little extra time I can do it."

"Ain't nothing wrong with those locks," the surly giant beside him insisted.

Houdini lifted one of the irons head-high and spoke quietly for several seconds. None of us could hear what he said, but the man's face grew red.

Finally the magician closed his eyes, took a breath and proclaimed, "Houdini is ready."
The man spun Houdini around, yanked his arms behind him and drove him to his knees. We all heard them thud loudly on boards of the stage. Several in the audience groaned in sympathy.

"This is not a challenge to break my bones," the magician protested.

I saw the ruffian grin as he manacled Houdini's hands behind him. He padlocked the magician's ankles together. Finally he scooped off the floor the handcuffs Houdini had recently escaped from, and bound the magician's wrists to his ankles. Thus effectively hog-tied with bonds of steel, Houdini could barely kneel upright. His assistant opened the door of the curtained cabinet and rolled it up to surround the bound man. Before she could close the door, the ruffian on stage pushed his way inside the cabinet. We heard a loud thud and one side of the enclosure bulged. The challenger stumbled out of the door and the cabinet rolled backwards.

Houdini lay on his side, still fettered by the manacles. I examined him through my glasses. His face had grown flushed. The angle at which he had fallen and the constriction of his bonds evidently hampered his respiration. Obviously the hooligan beside him had knocked him over. Kingsley looked up, concerned.

"Shouldn't someone help, him father?" he asked.

"It's all part of the act," I reassured him, but privately I didn't like how shallow Houdini's breathing had become.

The magician's assistant rushed over to help, but the challenger forestalled her. "This is a test, not a Banyan Party," he laughed. "Get on with it." He then placed himself between the magician and his assistant, who seemed little more than a girl. She flung up her arms as she expostulated with the lout on stage. When he merely laughed at her, she hurried into the wings. I sat forward on my seat. Would no one help the man?

Mutterings of disapproval began to roll across the auditorium. I examined Houdini through my glasses once more. He gasped and perspired-the man was in real distress. But he struggled valiantly to right himself. Eventually he got himself up on one elbow when the challenger stepped in front of him. The ruffian bent down and whispered something to Houdini. The magician looked up, surprised. Then the cad once more kicked Houdini's arms out from under him. He hit the boards with a groan. Cries of "Foul!" and "Play fair!" vied with raucous laughs of approval from the lower sort in attendance.

I could stand it no longer. I rose from my seat, dashed up the aisle and leaped upon the stage. I made for Houdini. The brute forestalled me, fists clenched. I had no desire to engage in a public brawl, but Houdini needed help, and quickly. Then a strategy presented itself. I turned towards the audience.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," I began, "My name is Arthur Conan Doyle." The room fell silent. Houdini's assistant stood on the sidelines. She wore a worried look.

"Prove it!" one man challenged.

"Hush, let him speak," a woman called.

I ignored these sallies and continued. "Since we are lucky enough to live in a free society, let's put this to a vote. Do we allow a ruffian to mistreat a guest in our country?"

A rumble of discussion rolled across the audience. The first man bellowed again, "Why should we listen to you?"

In the heat of the moment some people, I regret to say, echoed his sentiments with their jeers. Many in the audience looked uncertain. How could I verify my identity? I glanced down at Houdini. Perspiration dotted his face as he struggled to right himself.

The large man on the stage approached until he loomed over me. "This here's none o' your bloody business."

He swung a haymaker at my jaw, but I tucked my chin. His blow slipped off my hunched shoulder. I spun and used his own momentum to push him off balance. He staggered halfway across the stage. A gasp ran through the spectators. When the man regained his balance he shook his head, and stalked back over to me, murder in his eye.

I had a burst of inspiration. I spoke loudly, so that everyone could hear. "Behave yourself, Mr. Wilcox. You're in enough trouble with the authorities."

He stopped up short and his jaw dropped. "The Jaunty don't scare me none." He turned to the audience. "He's talking crazy."

People shifted in their seats. Their mutterings sounded like low thunder. I saw more than one hostile glance directed towards me.

"You have the walk of a seaman," I said loudly. "The anchor tattoo on your arm and your use of naval slang confirm my diagnosis. My nose tells me you have been to a public house for several drinks, but not to a hotel for a bath. You are recently off a ship or you would have freshened up and lost your shipboard-waddle. You have enough money to attend a show at the Palace and to buy a brand-new suit, but not the level of diction one usually associates with these acquisitions. Your accent betrays you as having been born in the Portsmouth area.

"This morning," I addressed the audience, "the Times ran an appeal from the police for information of the whereabouts of a Robert Wilcox, from Portsmouth. He had been manacled in the brig of his ship, the Saxon Warrior, for stealing money from his mates' lockers. He somehow escaped and jumped ship. The SW stamped upon the manacles you used confirms my theory."

"It ain't true," the lout beside me insisted.

Chuckles and shouts of derision issued from the crowd. "It's bleeding Sherlock Holmes!" a large man down front ejaculated. I gave an inward sigh of relief. Fortunately, I could play at being Holmes when necessary. Still, there was an unruly element to contend with.

"Conan Doyle," one person called, "When are you bringing Holmes back?"

Calls of "What'd you kill him for?" and "Bring him back," drifted up through the lime lights. These scattered outbursts soon resolved themselves into one unified chant. "We want Holmes," they called over and over again. The sound rolled across the auditorium and echoed back at me from the walls. Many of the faces looked decidedly unhappy with me. Peering into the audience, I could barely make out Kingsley's small form, squirming uneasily in his seat. Some of the crowd left their seats and advanced on the stage. They looked angry.

I glanced at Houdini behind me. His face had grown pale and his hands were slowly turning blue from the constriction of the manacles. I saw only one way out of this dilemma for both of us.

I raised my hands. The crowd grew silent. "You shall be the first to know," I called. "I have begun the first of a series entitled The Return of Sherlock Holmes for publication in the Christmas issue of the Strand."

For a moment all was silent, then there was such a wild cheering as I expected to hear only on Judgment Day. Men threw their hats in the air; ladies fanned their faces with handkerchiefs.

I took advantage of the ease in tension to bend down and lift Houdini upright. He gave a sigh of relief and winked at me. I turned away from him to confront Mr. Wilcox, but the stage was empty except for Houdini's assistant. The man had made good his escape.

I turned back to the crowd and was surprised to see cheering break out again. At first I thought they were applauding me for helping Houdini. Then I realized that all the men who waved wildly and the women who applauded were looking past me. I turned round to see Houdini standing triumphant behind me. He held aloft all three sets of manacles, still locked shut in his left hand. In the midst of the applause, he shook my hand vigorously and patted my back. "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," he announced, urging the audience to an even greater ovation. "A true gentleman."

Somewhat embarrassed, I retired to my seat.

Kingsley's face was glowing. His eyes glistened and his lower lip trembled. "Well done, father," he said. I gave him a quick hug. The cheering continued long after Houdini had bowed and the curtain had fallen.

Eventually the enthusiasm wore itself out and we made our slow way towards the exits. People kept stopping to shake my hand and express their admiration. At the door I returned our opera glasses to the vendor. As Kingsley and I turned to leave, I felt a hand on my arm. To my surprise it was Houdini's petite assistant who clutched at me. I noticed she a wedding band on her third finger. She also wore a small silver crucifix on a chain around her neck.

"Please, sir," she said. "Harry would like to thank you."

She led us behind the stage to the dressing rooms that ran along the left side of the building. Houdini occupied a large suite on the ground floor, as befitted the headliner. We found the master magician collapsed in a chair and applying salve to his raw wrists.

As soon as he saw us he leaped to his feet and once more grabbed my hand in both of his. He had a firm grip, despite the ointment on his hands. "Great to meet you!" he exclaimed. I was startled to see how much shorter he was than my own six feet four inches. His head came to just my shoulders, yet he had absolutely dominated the stage. His smile suffused the man of mystery with a boyish charm.

He turned to his wife, for so I surmised the woman beside us to be.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said contritely. "I tried to charm that guy, but I just couldn't get him to come into the wings."

Houdini gave her a little hug. "You did your best," he said. Turning to me, he said proudly, "That's my Bess. She'd 'of fixed him good. Isn't she something?"

Naturally, I assented, but he must have read puzzlement on my face for he looked back at his wife and said, "Show him how we handle weisenheimers,"

Bess Houdini blushed, looking even more like a little girl.

"Go on," Houdini insisted, "show him."

Shamefacedly, she reached around behind her and produced something small and dark-about the size of a child's sock. It was a leather-wrapped cosh; what, I believe, the Americans call a "blackjack."

"Only because he kicked my Harry," she said in a small voice. The blackjack disappeared once again into the secret pocket behind her back.

"What'd I tell ya?" Houdini crowed. "Quite a gal, huh?"

"I had no idea life on the stage could be so rough," I said.

Houdini shrugged. "That's show biz."

I was struck by the difference between his language on stage and off. During a performance he spoke in a cultured, obviously trained voice. Offstage his vocabulary was casual in the extreme and he spoke English with the American nasality I have come to recognize with such affection. I also noted the shifted vowels of some regional accent. Clearly for the public arena he had worked hard to eradicate all traces of his origins. "Houdini thanks you," he said and yet again grasped my hand. "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You really saved my bacon!" He continued to pump my hand. I began to feel uncomfortable with his effusion.

"That was great. For once, Houdini didn't mind being upstaged." Despite my embarrassment, I couldn't help noting his peculiar habit of referring to himself in the third person. Finally he released me. "How'd you ever figure out all that stuff about that guy on the stage?"

I shrugged. "In my younger days I toured as a ship's doctor-once on a whaler, once to West Africa. When one has spent time around sailors, these things come naturally."

"Naturally, huh?" He eyed me intently. "Not for everybody."

He finally noticed Kingsley holding back in the doorway. "Is this is your boy? Come in, come in, sonny. Did you like the act?"

"Ever so much, sir," Kingsley replied. "We've been to magic shows in Portsmouth, but they were nothing like this."

The magician lifted his head high and tossed it, like a proud race horse. "Yeah," he agreed enthusiastically, "there's only one Houdini. Wanna see more?"

"Oh, yes." Then Kingsley's eyes shifted to me. "That is, if it's quite convenient."

Houdini threw his head back and laughed uproariously. "You have raised a little gentleman, Sir Arthur."

I smiled down at him. "Please call me Conan Doyle-all my friends do."

"We're going to be friends then?" he asked.

"I should enjoy that."

"Great, me too. Now, on with the show."

He must have entertained us for a good half an hour with slights of hand and carnival tricks. But the highlight from Kingsley's point of view was when the master magician taught him how to eat fire.

"Always hold your head back, like this," he instructed, dipping a lit match into his gaping mouth and retracting it. "See? The flame rises out of your mouth instead of burning it. Breathe out gently, keep the heat moving away from you. Then close your lips hard. That puts out the flame."

Kingsley was thrilled and under Houdini's instruction soon became proficient.

"Now you gotta let me take you to dinner," Houdini said.

Kingsley's eyes positively glowed at the thought. But much as I hated to, I had to refuse.

"Why?" The man looked heartbroken. "Have I bored you?"

"Not at all," I hastened to assure him. "If anything, it is we who have overstayed our welcome. No, I must get back to my rooms tonight."

"Why is that?"

"Because I have promised several hundred people to resurrect that damned Holmes in time for the Christmas edition of the Strand and I need every second if I am to make their deadline."

Houdini chuckled. "You may hate me, but millions will thank me this December, I bet." He shrugged. "Okay, I'll let you go. But you gotta come back tomorrow evening. We can make a night of it."

"Well …" I really did not want to impose. Besides, I'm not the sort who makes friends on the spur of the moment.

Houdini eyed me speculatively. "I'll let you in on something. That sailor-somebody hired him to louse up my act."

Here was a surprising development. Then I recalled that the man had whispered to Houdini just before he kicked his arms out from under him. "What did he say to you on stage?"

"He told me, 'This'll teach you to interfere with Mr. Maximillian Cairo.' " Houdini bristled at the memory.

"Well, well…" I said. These were deep waters, indeed. The name Cairo was infamous. It summoned up images of explorer, dabbler in the occult, and writer of notorious verse.

"A friend of mine," Houdini went on, "has got herself mixed up with Cairo. I promised to help her out. If you got the stomach for it, I can promise you some excitement tomorrow." An idea occurred to him. "Maybe you'll get an idea for that story you gotta write."

I did not like this turn of events. "Consider," I said, "how readily the thug revealed Cairo's involvement. Doesn't it seem as if Cairo might be deliberately baiting you?"

Houdini shrugged. "So what? He'll get more than he bargained for, I bet."

"Are you aware," I asked, "that he has been called the most debauched man in London?"

Houdini shrugged.

"It is considered risky to cross his path," I added.

"I'm not worried," Houdini insisted. "All those fakers spread rumours like that." He craned his neck to look up at me. "Meet me here after my show tomorrow night, if you feel in the mood for an adventure."

1
Little Danny Manning munched on the last of his Cheerios, reached out, and let go of his spoon. It hovered in the air precisely over the center of his cereal bowl and then began to rotate. The spoon and the bowl rose, glided across the kitchen, slowed, descended and made a gentle landing in the kitchen sink.

His mother, Kate, put one hand on her hip and asked as lightly as she could, "What was that supposed to be?"
"A helicopter," Danny squealed, his bright smile filled with delight.

"Honey," Kate said, "when I asked you to put your bowl in the sink, I meant for you to walk it over there. We've talked about this a thousand times, love. You shouldn't abuse your abilities like that."

Blue eyes sparkling through long lashes, the four-year-old explained, "But it's no fun that way, Mom."
"Of course it isn't," Kate murmured.

She could easily have added, I give up, but held her tongue as always. In her heart, she knew Danny's feelings would be hurt by the remark and, the truth was, she'd never do such a cruel thing. Danny needed her patience, love and guidance more with each passing day.

Kate sighed, took one last look around the tiny sun-dappled kitchen and scooped Danny out of his chair. "Come on, buddy. We have to hurry."

She took his hand in hers, grabbed her purse from the countertop and headed for the garage. Their destination was the University at Middleton Research Center where Danny's remarkable powers were observed and cataloged. They'd followed this routine every weekday for the past three years, but Kate was having serious doubts, and wondered again if it was wise to continue.

In the beginning, she had agreed that Danny's extraordinary talents needed to be tested and explored. She'd thought it was in Danny's best interest to understand his abilities in order for him to become comfortable with them. Now, Kate also knew Danny needed to learn restraint. He needed guidelines regarding when and why he should put his startling works on display. Her son was highly telekinetic and slightly telepathic.

To her dismay, Doctor Ethan Hawthorn, Danny's guru and head of the Research Center, lent little credence to Kate's pleas for cooperation. Worse, by ignoring her concerns, Hawthorn was undermining Kate's authority as a parent.

She'd actually begun to wonder whether Doctor Hawthorn was using deliberate permissiveness as a ploy to garner Danny's favor, which then cast Kate in the roll of boring nag.

She could hardly blame little Danny for being confused. He loved going to the center where, in a safe, controlled environment, he was encouraged to make all kinds of wonderful and fun things happen. Of late, he was having a hard time understanding why Kate continually asked him to refrain from such activity while they were in the car or at home. No matter how many ways she tried to explain, Danny was simply too young and too innocent to know the difference between using his abilities within the protections of the lab and playing with them free-form-style in the dangerous outside world.

Kate's experiences with the consequence of Danny's flights of fancy had often been harrowing. The child was capable of making anything fly, alone or in concert; toys, canned goods, even furniture. Unfortunately, all it took for disaster to strike was an inattentive moment. Upon distraction, the objects he was manipulating would suddenly plummet, or worse, zoom off in unpredictable directions. Luckily, Danny had so far avoided injury due to falling debris. As his mother, Kate had learned to duck, dodge and dive for cover with all the grace and precision of a professional athlete.

The drive to the research center took five minutes. Kate wove her way through the maze of parking lots that dotted the heavily wooded university campus resolved to find a way to make Doctor Hawthorn understand the hazards she and Danny faced when they were on their own.

She eased her SUV into a parking space, opened the side passenger door and engaged Danny in an expected and welcomed game of tickle. When she gingerly plucked him from his car seat, he asked, "Are you mad at Doctor Hawthorn, Mom?"

Kate stifled another sigh as she realized that Danny had picked up her stormy thoughts. "No baby, I'm not mad at him. I just need to speak with him for a few minutes. Okay?"

The brightness of Danny's angelic face faded slightly and his large blue eyes pinched with what Kate sensed was further confusion.

"I like Doctor Hawthorn," he said with affection.

Kate ruffled his curly blond hair and smiled in spite of her misgivings. "I know you do, sweetie."

She tried to block what she was thinking from Danny's mind as she walked him through several security checkpoints, gave a slight nod to Mr. Adams, the daytime guard, then continued through the futuristic polished-chrome hallways of the research facility.

Wide glass doors opened with a pneumatic whisper, and Kate watched with trepidation as Danny excitedly ran ahead to greet his valued playmates. Each was a graduate student in neurology or psychiatry. All of these research ssistants treated Danny with kindness, a few with fondness, but Kate suppressed a shudder; from their perspective, Danny was nothing more than a prized lab rat. The incongruity of her son's life hit her with almost physical force.

Kate straightened her spine, shook her head and walked with determination to a huge, U-shaped central desk. Its various color video monitors and blinking numeric and graphic displays had always reminded Kate of a starship control console. She felt like a troublesome alien, as she asked, "Is Doctor Hawthorn available?"

The attending technician, Annie, was a tall, spectacularly beautiful redhead who made a lie of the term computer nerd. Alarm flashed in her green eyes. "Is there something wrong with Danny?"

Kate was tempted to say there might be very soon if she couldn't convince Hawthorn to take her concerns seriously, but held back. Instead, she shook her head rather more ambiguously than a moment ago and answered, "No. Danny's fine. I'd simply like to speak to Dr. Hawthorn this morning rather than waiting for my briefing this afternoon."

My briefing. Kate almost choked on the words and found herself blinking back tears. Couldn't Hawthorn refer to their daily meetings as progress reports or activity updates, any term even slightly more personal than briefings? For God's sake, they talked each day about her son, not a scientific experiment.

Kate felt Annie's eyes boring into her own and knew that this emotional display would go into her daily report. Danny wasn't the only person the researchers monitored. With an act of will based on a mother's protective instincts, Kate took a deep breath and said as forcefully as her small voice would allow, "Please page him for me, now."

With a withering look of annoyance, Annie answered, "Wait here."

Doctor Ethan Hawthorn was in the Imaging Center checking modifications made to a state of the art MRI unit. It would capture Danny Manning's brain activity during a newly formatted experiment scheduled for that morning. The doctor had known for some time that the child could manipulate objects in another room and from a distance if familiarized with the items and the space. During this test, Danny would watch a video display of the other room. He'd choose among new objects and decide for himself which to move and how. Under stimulus, the results of the boy's MRI films were always akin to spectacular fireworks. Hawthorn could barely contain his anticipation as he speculated over which parts of Danny's brain might show activity today.

He heard someone call his name, and realized from the raised tone, it probably wasn't the first time. Sorely irritated at the interruption, but disinclined to admit that, he asked evenly, "Yes?"

Annie's voice oozed reverence and admiration as she answered, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Doctor. It's Mrs. Manning again. She insists on speaking to you."

Hawthorn muttered, "That insufferable woman," then normalized his voice and replied, "She must have forgotten that we're running a test this morning. Oh well, tell her I'll be with her as soon as I finish this checklist." He waved a clipboard laden with a thick stack of notations. "It may take twenty minutes or so. Please apologize to her for the delay."

When Annie backed out of the door, he perched on the edge of the retractable MRI table and tossed the checklist aside. He had finished going over it fifteen minutes before.

Silently cursing, he stared off into the glassed-in control room wondering what new and thoroughly inane prattle he might have to endure from the Manning woman today. She had always been a pest, her very presence at the center akin to dealing with a three-year-old during a very long car trip. When? What? Why? How? The dolt's questions were as endless as they were banal. She had no conception of the astounding significance of his research or the importance of her son's unique abilities.

However, he asked himself, what else could one expect from a near midget who had wasted a perfectly acceptable IQ on a simple Master's degree in statistics and applied math? When he'd first met her, she was working as an actuary, a number cruncher, for a major insurance company. Although lucrative, the job was just as tedious as the woman.

He yearned for the day when the vexatious young mother would, at long last, be exposed as unfit to raise a gifted child. With the nitwit finally excised from his research facility, and from Danny's life, Hawthorn was sure it would be easier to remedy his second problem; reversing the court ordered privacy agreement, which shrouded all of Danny Manning's records in secrecy.

Hawthorn shook his head at such idiocy. His research was gathering dust in a vault when it should be heralded worldwide as the largest leap ever made in neuroscience.

2
Kate braced herself as she watched Dr. Hawthorn round the long central corridor. His long strides and confident manner shook her resolve. A very tall man, rail-thin, with classically handsome features and wavy, silver-gray hair, he comported himself with an assurance that screamed of a blue-blood heritage. To make matters worse, he possessed a Ph.D. in both neurology and psychiatry. Kate was tempted to make up an innocuous excuse for her request and retreat.

No, Kate resolved, she couldn't do that. As lousy as she was at confrontation, and as much as she detested it, she knew it was a necessary part of life. She did wish, however, that she was taller than five feet one inch and weighed a whole lot more than a hundred and five pounds. Huge, long-lashed, blue eyes and a pixie-like nose and mouth further diminished her physical presence. Her mop of curly blond hair didn't help. It framed her face in unruly ringlets, continually asserting a mind of its own, rendering her efforts at control moot.

Her tiny voice had never been an asset in these sorts of situations either, but she took a deep breath and, without preamble, came to the point. "Doctor Hawthorn, I'm concerned about Danny's safety. He-"

Hawthorn appeared startled. "Oh, dear, he hasn't been manipulating traffic signals again, has he?"

"No, he hasn't," Kate replied, "but that's only because everyone here, including you, has explained that traffic lights have four sides and change sequentially to keep everyone safe.And that happens to be an excellent example of what can be accomplished if we present information to Danny in a cohesive manner. Sadly, there's been no such follow up regarding his other self-directed activities. Danny is playing with his abilities outside the lab, as any four-year-old would! He doesn't realize the inherent danger in these amusements and I need your assistance to make him stop."

"Mrs. Manning," Hawthorn replied casually, "I've made this offer on several occasions and it still stands. If the responsibility for Danny's care is proving to be too much for you, then he can be moved into the lab on a permanent basis. His rooms are ready and a professional care staff can be in place on a moment's notice."

The anger Kate felt was so huge her ears rung. No matter what she tried to discuss with Hawthorn, his response always came back to the same issue: control of Danny. Hawthorn wanted it and Kate wasn't about to give it away. Her son needed some semblance of normalcy in his life and he would never get that living inside this lab. She was on the verge of exploding, but couldn't afford to have a loss of control entered into her psychological profile. Too many missteps in that direction and Hawthorn and his team could win temporary custody of Danny by default. She couldn't let that happen. With so much at stake, it took little effort to stuff her anger into a place so deep even she couldn't set it free.

Composed and cool, she said, "Yes, you've been explicit about that offer in the past and I'll decline once again, but this time, I'm declining for another reason. I came here to gain your cooperation in teaching Danny practical ways to protect himself and others from harm. Since you refuse to give that issue any weight at all, I'll have no choice but to take the matter up with Danny's pediatrician and his court appointed advocate. Then we'll see what Judge Fallon has to say." The judge was Kate's trump card; she ruled from her bench with an iron gavel and Hawthorn was scared to death of her.

Hawthorn put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. "Now, Mrs. Manning, there's no need to go to all that bother. I was merely worried about your well-being. The physical and mental strain of raising such a gifted child must be-"

"Your worries are unfounded," Kate said emphatically. "Mine aren't."

"Of course, of course," Hawthorn conceded. "I'll speak to Danny today - this morning in fact. Will that be satisfactory?"

Kate tried to smile, but was quite sure what crawled across her face was a grimace. "Thank you, Doctor."
Having won one battle, she was tempted to go for broke and ask to observe Danny's testing this morning, but the court had already ruled against her in that regard. The judge had deemed Kate's presence a needless distraction detrimental to true and uncontaminated test results - a possible waste of precious time and research dollars.

Deciding that it was best to quit while she was ahead, Kate simply turned and left the research facility.
In the car, her hands began to shake and, if she didn't keep moving, tears wouldn't be far behind. Unwilling to give in to weakness, she started the car and headed for the city of Port Hayes, three miles east of Middleton.
Megan Barr had invited her to brunch. The fact that Megan was Danny's pediatrician, Kate thought bitterly, was an indication of how isolated and narrowly focused her life had become. Nevertheless, Megan was a true friend, her only friend, and Kate needed a sympathetic ear.

Ethan Hawthorn entered the room commonly referred to as the Event Lab, where Danny Manning was engaged in one of his favorite pastimes, levitating a Grad student. The room and everything in it was heavily padded, including Peter Montgomery, Hawthorn's research assistant. Clad in goalie togs borrowed from the university hockey team, Peter was currently carrying on a light-hearted conversation with Danny, while hovering cross-legged a foot off the floor.

Approaching Danny was a delicate matter at times like these. The doctor rounded the pair so he would come into Danny's line of vision gradually. To do otherwise would likely send his hapless assistant into a sudden crash-landing with the floor. Not that he cared about accident or injury, competent help was simply hard to find.
As soon as Hawthorn saw Danny's eyes flick in his direction, he waved a greeting and called out, "Good morning, son."

"Morning," the boy responded cheerfully.

Montgomery remained suspended throughout the exchange and Hawthorn did a slow burn. Danny didn't need to learn restraint, his idiot mother needed to learn how best to approach the boy when his mind was occupied. Hawthorn pictured her yapping in disapproval and burned a bit more. Stupid woman!

Hawthorn was careful to keep his thoughts brief and light so Danny couldn't catch them. He suggested softly, "Danny, would you lower Peter to the floor please?"

"Going down, now," Danny informed Montgomery.

Inch by inch, a slow, safe descent occurred.

Peter got to his feet, bent over Danny and chucked him lightly under the chin. "Thanks, pal. That was fun."
"Want to go up again?" The child's offer exuded playful enthusiasm.

Montgomery glanced at Hawthorn, but the doctor gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. With that prompt, Peter answered, "Another time, huh?"

Hawthorn walked to Danny and hunkered down. "We're going to have some special fun today. Video games!"

"Hooray! I like those." Danny stood, parked himself on the doctor's knee and put his arms around his neck.

Hawthorn wanted to recoil. If any other child had done that, he would have abandoned the rug rat as quickly as possible. For Danny, though, the object of his aspirations, the doctor banished his discomfort and forced a friendly smile. "Your mother told me that you're playing with your abilities at home." He hesitated, but then decided it wouldn't hurt to undermine the harpy as much as possible, and added with unmistakable doubt, "Is that true?"

Danny's eyes clouded with guilt as he admitted, "Sometimes it's hard not to."

Hawthorn's grin widened, "Oh, you don't have to explain that to me, son. I understand completely. Don't I always?"

Danny's face brightened. "Yes, sir!"

The doctor was pleased with this positive reaction. He thought for a second then replied, "Good boy. Now, repeat the rules for me."

Obediently Danny recited, "Don't put anything over my head, don't lift myself up and don't do anything while Mommy is driving the car."

Hawthorn beamed. "Very good, son!" He had taught Danny those rules to keep him from harming himself. The ideas his mother had just proposed were in opposition to Hawthorn's purposes. With a pat on the head, he sent Danny off to play so he could think in private.

He kept hoping for a very public display of Danny's special talents, one the rabid electronic and print media would seize and shake until, in a matter of convenient transference, Kate Manning's teeth rattled. He had been extremely disappointed when the overly protective twit had stopped taking Danny to the grocery stores. The temptations there were great, the distractions many. Danny's mishaps had been mounting nicely. Carefully arranged displays tumbled regularly. Those stacked geometrically were particularly vulnerable, quite showy and very noisy when disturbed. Sadly, his mother had run out of credible explanations and now shopped alone.
Regardless, Hawthorn believed it was only a matter of time before the Manning's secret would be out in the open, preferably splashed all over the newspapers. The momentous story, Hawthorn thought wistfully, would gain international attention.

Hawthorn let go of his momentary disappointment and continued to hope Danny would cause some other spectacular incident. And wouldn't it be convenient if a quick-thinking witness had a video camera running at the time? He shook his head and sighed longingly. Soon, some day soon.

Satisfied that he'd 'spoken to' the boy as promised, he turned his thoughts to the day's experiment.

 

chapter four
Time was, being a regular guy was a good thing. That's a lesson he learned from his dad. With mediocrity came a sense of sameness, of stability and safety. Things that guys strived for and women sought. It was a funny world then, when you could brag about nothingness and others would envy it. Maybe it wasn't the times after all. Maybe it was him. Maybe lack of ambition wasn't really peace of mind. Maybe it was just laziness. He didn't know anymore. Didn't really matter anyway, but he thought of it just the same, the solace in knowing that should all else fail, at least he could still be a regular guy.

These days, there wasn't much noble about plastic dishes and a beat-up old car.

This and more crowded his brain right before he squeezed off the first and only shot that he hoped would kill Danny Ray dead as a bug in the drive.

Candace was afraid to stay downstairs alone, she wanted to stick close. He knew it was a mistake to let her in the bedroom with him; before, she'd gotten smeared with blood, and this time he'd brought only one fresh change of clothes. He meant to push her out the door right before he got down to it, but she slid quietly inside behind him. Yelling at her or getting pushy would have just woke Danny Ray up. At first, he could hardly tell she was there, except for when her breathing got heavy.

It was black in the bedroom; it was nothing all around him. In the time it took his eyes to adjust to the dark, he just stood stock still, his back pressed against the wall and his ears pricked up for the sounds of the two of them breathing.

He was scared to death that Danny Ray would wake up. That he'd hear something, one of those nighttime sounds that wake you out of even the deepest sleep.

Maybe that was what he really wanted anyway

No but hell he didn't know what he wanted anymore. Only now that he was finally poised on the edge of success, it was natural to wonder if there maybe weren't some other way that'd been overlooked. But Danny Ray lay there, primed and prone and ready to take it like a man.

Things were working on them two, on him and Danny Ray, things that she had told the both of them were in that room on this night, bringing the three of them all together in the most frightening, final way. The stories, all the firsts that Danny Ray had hoarded for himself. Stupid things, like the first time she ever ate guacamole. (She didn't like it.) Bigger things too, like the first poem she ever wrote, addressed to Danny Ray.

My arms are open
but my fingers they bleed
come to me my love
to be wrapped up in need

He heard her soft whisper just before the shot rang out-a chant, a prayer, whatever. A curse would have fit nicely. He didn't know what it was, himself, not being Catholic and all, and it sounded Catholic-like, but he knew she wasn't reciting the Lord's Prayer or anything like that. That would have been too easy, and if there was one thing that Candace wasn't, it was easy.

She might have been telling him to be careful, probably was telling him to get it right. After all, he'd brought only one bullet. That said a lot. Mostly he liked the way it just said Fuck You. But when he saw the flash of powder and saw Danny Ray do that twitching thing, he wasn't thinking Fuck You. Pleasediepleasediepleasedie, was all he could put together.

Course Danny Ray didn't die. Not right away, like he should have. First the antenna, and now this. Some people have no luck.

It had gone smoothly the first time, with Bobby Lee and the baseball bat. It was messy, but it was fast. And he supposed it was just taken for granted that he'd be just as adept the second time.

Danny Ray was lying on his side, the whole right side of his face buried in the pillows but the left just as inviting as it could be. Easy target, like them cans of Bud. He stepped up closer and pointed the barrel right at Danny's temple. And what if he got it wrong?

Do-over.
Not this time.
Get out of there, stupid fuck.

Danny Ray didn't move. Some folks don't have no sense, not to come in out of the rain, not to do nothin'. He thought of the time he was eight and a neighbor boy got his head run over by the S&P. They were all hanging out down by the tracks and this one smart kid said he could tell if a train was coming by laying his head on the tracks and listening for the vibrations.


He was right every time. It was a neat trick, except one day when the band of his wristwatch caught on a rusty old nail in the tie, and he couldn't get out of the way fast enough. All the other boys ran away, hid behind the cardboard shacks and empty oil drums. He stood there though, watched the whole thing. Couldn't have been standing more than ten feet away. Ruined his cowboy shirt, the red one with silver piping and real chrome-plated snaps. She washed it nearly a million times but it never did no good. He never wore it again.
It was like that now, Danny Ray laying there, sleeping in the path of this bullet, sleeping on the tracks like a stupid fuck.

Wake up!

There was lots of time to change his mind. To wake Danny up, get out of there before things really got out of hand. But she was there too, somewhere in the darkness with him. She was behind him, so he couldn't see her, but he could feel her. Smell her too and it was more than enough of a reminder why he was there in the first place.

She might even hate him. At first.

There was the slide in his pocket and he thought about how fucking hot it was in that room right then, just like it would have been at the beach where that guy took that photo. Only it was a studio where she posed naked and it probably wasn't hot at all. Not like this. Nothing was ever hot like this.

Could she hate me for such a thing?

He wiped the sweat from his face and cocked the gun, easing the hammer back and thinking to himself well now things are surely set in motion.

I got the dog. I did do that.

As bad luck would have it, Danny Ray rolled over just before the hammer struck. Must've been having a bad dream or something; Danny ended up on his back, and since it was too late to stop it now, the bullet had to just go and find its own path.

It hit him high in the forehead, way up by his hairline, and came out through the top of his head, lodging itself in the wall behind the bed.

Goddamnmotherfuckingsonofabitch

All that build-up and for what? Hardly seemed to wake the bastard.

Candace screamed. Then she turned on the ceilling light.

Things were not going well.

There was a mess like they'd never seen anywhere. Behind Danny Ray's head and covering a section of wall maybe four foot long and three foot high was an explosion of the deepest, wettest shade of red he'd ever seen. There was hair too and pieces of skin and instantly it made him want to puke but Candace couldn't get past the sight of that head upon that pillow.

Danny Ray's eyes were wide open, his mouth too, and his hand came up to his forehead. It must've been a rude shock to feel the blood and the hole there. He was speechless.

It was clear from the look on Danny Ray's face that he'd totally forgotten about the figure modeling.
Pain like that was hard to imagine.

"...Sweet Mother, I place this cause in your hands..."

He hoped she was praying for the poor fuck to die fast.

Made a fine mess of everything.

He couldn't remember how'd they executed that man last summer. He remembered seeing them on the news, strangers that come from far away as the West Coast, lining the road up to the pen, some standing, some sitting in little beach chairs with their sleeping bags and thermoses of coffee. It was only five a.m. and already they were there in hordes, shouting at the newsmen and holding up signs that said, "He'd rather die than switch."

Candace could not take her eyes off of Danny Ray. He recognized her right off-she hadn't changed that much after all-and he tried to speak her name but blood was the only thing that would come out.
She screamed again and it was bad.

They'd been in the house only five minutes, and he had already fucked up beyond belief. It was a bad scene, good intentions aside.

The road to hell has surely never been paved with anything like this before.

Chapter 1
Two white, protruding fangs peeked out over Nolan's lower lip while a tiny red dribble of dried blood trailed down his chin. His skin was the color of flesh that has lain for many years at the bottom of a grave. His clothes were jet-black and rippling. "It's not bad," he said, and frowned down into a styrofoam cup. "Still a little weak, though."

The ghoul grunted and poured a thick, brown liquid into the bowl. "Try it now."

Nolan dipped his cup into the bowl and sipped delicately, then nodded. "Perfect," he said, and smacked his lips.

"Good." The ghoul took a greenish-looking hand out of a bag and placed it into the bowl, where it floated. "You like?" he asked.

The vampire smiled. "Definitely."

The ghoul smiled back. The ghoul's name was Redding. Redding was almost six and a half feet tall and cadaverously thin, which went along perfectly with his gray skin and decaying features. The vampire looked at him and despite himself, almost shuddered.

"Help me with these, will you?" Redding asked.

Gingerly, Nolan reached into the bag, retrieved more body parts and scattered them strategically around the room. "How about the head?" Redding asked. "Hang it from the chandelier?"

The vampire considered the suggestion, then nodded. "I'll do it," he said. He stood on a chair and attached the head with a piece of twine so that it hung suspended in mid-air a foot below the ceiling. The head's eyes drooped slightly open. They seemed to stare at him accusingly.

"Beautiful," Redding said, "just beautiful."

The vampire examined the head, reached out a clawed hand and fluffed up the red, matted hair. His fangs protruded as a slow smile spread across his face.

Both of them took a moment to admire their work: neatly laid-out platters of hors d'oeuvres, cold cuts and smoked salmon, loaves of bread and soft rolls already sliced, green salad, macaroni salad and potato salad and a pot of baked beans bubbling over a portable heating coil, pretzels, bottles of wine and soda and beer, assorted cakes and pies and sweet pastries and a small cooler set up in the corner of the room with gallons of ice cream inside, and of course the piece de resistance, the enormous bowl of rum-laden punch in the center of the table, with a green plastic hand floating on top.

"Beautiful," Redding said again.

The vampire nodded and looked at his watch. "They'll be arriving in less than an hour. Help me set up the VCR."

"You got Nightmare on Elm Street?"

"Yup. And Fright Night and the original Dracula with Bela Lugosi."

"You dog," Redding said.

The vampire shrugged modestly and switched off the light as they left the room.

"I love Halloween," Redding said.

"Trick or treat," the vampire said, and giggled.

Within an hour, the guests began to arrive. Nolan met them at the door, shook the men's hands and pretended to bite the women on the neck. Most of the women responded with mock shrieks. One, a tiny witch with straggly orange hair and a crooked plastic nose, merely yawned. Her name was Carrie Owens.

"So young and so blasé," Nolan said.

Carrie Owens yawned again. "I was on call last night."

The vampire smiled sympathetically. "Go on in and sit down," he said. He waved a hand at the door to the outer office, where Redding had set up bowls of pretzels, potato chips and dip on a corner table between two couches. Fright Night was playing on the T.V.

Carrie went in and flopped herself on the couch. She felt numb. The night before, a fifteen year old had blown off three fingers with a cherry bomb…not exactly appropriate to the season but there you were, and after the kid was worked up and sent to surgery, a five year old who had swallowed her mother's asthma medication had arrived in the ER, seizing. After that had come a routine stab wound followed by an old geezer brought in by ambulance complaining of chest pain, who promptly arrested. They had worked on the old guy for over two hours. Every time they got a rhythm going, he would wake up for a few seconds and start screaming. Then his heart would fibrillate again, his eyes would roll back and he would go limp as the blood flow to his brain began to fall. In between shocks they pumped on his chest. He was finally stabilized on amiodarone, lidocaine, pronestyl and bretylium drips and sent off to C.C.U. but it had not been a pleasant night for the patient or for Carrie.

On the T.V., somebody was being stabbed in the chest with a wooden stake. Carrie winced.

A man in a pirate's hat flopped down on the couch beside her, a Heineken bottle in one hand and a half-empty glass in the other. His name was David Chao, one of the private surgeons. "Hey, there," he said. "How you doing?"

She yawned again. "I'm tired."

"Rough night?"

"It sucked."

Chao nodded sympathetically. "You here with anybody?"

"I was supposed to meet Angie West but she got stuck in the ER"

Chao cocked his head to the side and gave her a speculative look. "Where's Frank Merola these days?" he asked.

"I don't really know," Carrie said. "And I don't really care."

"Ah … "

Carrie shrugged. On the T.V. screen, an enormous bat was blasted into gouts of ugly-looking smoke by a beam of sunlight. On the other side of Chao, a mummy and a pint-sized Darth Vader flopped down onto the couch, munching pretzels. A devil with a long red tail and an alien in a silver spacesuit came in and leaned against the wall. The little room was getting crowded. A woman dressed in a Tinkerbell costume opened up a window.

"Attention, everybody … "

Nolan stood in the doorway, his cape spread wide, his fangs bared. "Dinner is served."

Carrie rose with an audible groan as the party trooped out and into the next room.

"Very nice," Chao said.

"Yuck," Carrie replied. She was staring at the head hanging from the ceiling. "A little too realistic, if you ask me."
Redding went over to the punchbowl and started to fill the glasses with a metal ladle. People grabbed plates and Redding handed out the punch as the line went by.

Carrie sipped. The punch tasted … strange. She peered into her glass. Floating on the surface was a gray and pink glob, with tiny white strands floating all around it. "God … " she whispered. She looked at all the animated, happy people, talking, eating their food, sipping their wine or beer or punch. One or two, however, were staring uncertainly into their glasses. She walked over to the bowl. Submerged beneath the surface was a human hand.
Redding looked at her with concern. "Something the matter?" he asked.

Carrie plucked a serving spoon from the table, dipped it into the bowl and brought out the hand. It fell off the spoon and dropped to the table, pink and gray and silent, the fingers curled into a shrunken claw. Carrie's stomach did a flip-flop. Redding grinned, looked at the hand and started to say something. He stopped. An uncertain frown crossed his face. Gingerly, he reached out a finger and touched the soft, yielding flesh. It made a squishing sound.

"That looks real," Carrie said in a clipped voice.

 

Old Teachers Don't Die - They Just Lose Their Class

"Don't you just love that?" Roxie asked as she hung the colorful new poster over her cluttered desk.

I smiled. Roxie had a way of bringing fun into her classroom. Straightening her over-sized glasses, she ran her hands through her curly brown hair causing her turkey earrings to swing in wide arcs.

Both veteran teachers at James Whitcomb Riley Middle School, we have been friends and co-conspirators for years. I glanced around her science room and marveled at the collection of dinosaurs and other scientific icons. Suddenly, a jungle bird squawked and I jumped, half-expecting the back of my leg to be pecked by some exotic feathered creature.

"What was that?" I asked, my eyes darting around the classroom.

Roxie laughed. "Oh, Margo, I forgot to show you my new screen saver." At that, she abruptly swiveled her computer screen around, and I leaned forward to observe her latest eccentricity. Her screen had become a jungle scene, complete with swaying trees and monkeys swinging playfully on grapevines.

"Cool!" I said without thinking. After all, I did teach seventh graders and their language escaped my lips periodically.

"Keep watching," Roxie urged, nose to her colorful monitor.

I watched and soon an elephant lumbered across the screen. "I love it!" I said quickly.

"Keep watching." Roxie persisted.

A moment later, a giraffe poked its long neck out from behind a tall tree, smiled, and chewed leaves contentedly. Intrigued, I stared at the screen, wondering what would happen next, when a bright-colored parrot suddenly flew across the screen, perched precariously on a tree limb, and squawked. As I continued to watch, fascinated by Roxie's latest quirk, the whole scene started over again.

"That's it!" she said proudly, spinning around to face me.

"Wow! Where did you find that?" I've always known that I'm easily impressed.

"I have my sources," she answered mysteriously.

Roxie and I have established ourselves as "amateur sleuths" by doing some unofficial detective work, and we regarded those adventures as peak experiences in our otherwise ordinary lives. Two years ago, when one of our students died mysteriously, we took on the role of middle-aged Nancy Drews and brought a killer to justice. Last year, we delved into the past and investigated the unsolved murder of a local teacher.

So far, this school year had been very mundane. Fall had moved into Riley County, bringing cool weather and treetop fire. Most of the leaves had fallen and days were crisp and clear with skies like the wings of a giant bluebird. Fall break had come and gone, making way for the bleak days of November. The annual school carnival, our main fundraiser and social event of the year, was successful and uneventful-unlike the carnival two years ago when I had nearly been killed.

My name is Margo Brown and I am a language arts teacher. I enjoy my job and am usually content with this chapter of my life. I live with Dew, my husband and best friend, who teaches biology in a nearby school district, in a rustic country home in the middle of our wooded acreage. Our children, Leigh and Will, are away at college, awarding us new dimensions of tranquility and freedom. We travel more, eat out more, and have grown closer to each other since we've become two again. It's interesting how couples start out as a twosome- and then revert back to that when the kids leave home. After school each day, Dew and I walk down our country road with our collie, Sasha, and compare notes on the day.

Back at her computer, Roxie exclaimed, "See what I found yesterday?" She then proceeded to show me the latest information she had derived from her most recent passion: genealogy. As I watched, she printed out a sheet of names and dates she had just downloaded from the Internet library. "I'm tracing my family tree-finding my roots."

"Roots? Are you going to Africa?" I teased.

She ignored me. "I'm serious, Margo."

It didn't matter what kick Roxie was on; she always threw herself completely into it. Last year she developed an enormous interest in witches and ghosts, seances, and paranormal activities. During the summer she learned to scuba dive and almost talked her husband, Denzil, into moving to Florida. Her plan was to live near their daughter, Liberty, and work with her in the field of marine biology. But after checking with the teacher retirement office in Indianapolis, and discovering the penalties of early retirement, she decided to teach for a few more years. I was secretly glad that she'd be staying on-she added such interest to our faculty, with her wild costumes and zany remarks. Her current passion was ancestors.com, and this fall she began tediously tracing her family tree. I must admit I was curious to see what collective chromosomes had produced my colleague, Roxie Rayburn.

"Hope you don't find any sociopaths or serial killers," I commented with a grin as I peered over her shoulder.

"Ha!" she replied glibly. "Show me a family that doesn't have a few weirdos in it. Most families are like trail mix."