Tonight the bag contained the prize he'd captured the night before.

Carefully, respectfully, he lifted the carcass of Kimberley Conway's cat from the folds of the canvas. The animal's eyes were open, and it seemed to watch him as he laid it in the center of the pentagram.

From a rack above the kitchen counter, he took a filleting knife whose blade was worn thin from years of honing.

In the brilliant light of the flaring candles, Jake Cumberland set about his work.

In half an hour it was done.

He'd divided the entrails of the cat into four equal portions, and each of the portions had been seared by the flame of one of the first four candles.

The cat's hide, scraped free of every scrap of flesh, was held over the fifth candle. The flame consumed a patch of its fur as quickly as the acid had eaten through the velvet on which the candle stood.

The ritual complete, Jake packed away the entrails, and the hide and head, in his canvas bag and blew out the candles. As their light died away, the smoke in the room began to clear, taking with it the foul odor of the skunk oil.

The white powder of the boar's tusk vanished into the nap of the velvet, along with the rose's thorn and the porcupine's quill.

The hole eaten through the cloth by the acid disappeared, and as Jake lifted the velvet from the table, it fell once more into the folds from which he'd shaken it loose an hour ago.

As the distant toll of the church bell striking midnight sounded, Jake rebound the cloth with the purple ribbons and returned it to his mama's trunk. He placed the tray back on its supporting rails and closed the lid.

Just before leaving the house with the canvas bag, Jake Cumberland fed his two yellow dogs. They fell hungrily upon the skeleton of the cat, growling and snarling as they ripped the tendons apart and crushed the bones in their jaws.

The huge clock in the corner of the cavernous living room-an ornately carved piece that had a distinctly Germanic look to it-began tolling the hour as Ted was tearing the plastic seal loose from a fresh bottle of vodka.

The second one, or the third?

He couldn't quite remember, but decided it must be the second. If it was the third, he should have been sound asleep by now, and he wasn't.

He wasn't even close.

His fingers stopped working at the bottle's seal as he counted the hours the clock was striking.

…ten… eleven… twelve… thirteen.

Thirteen?

What the hell…? There wasn't any such thing as thirteen o'clock-everyone knew that.

As the seal broke, he gave the cap a twist, then lifted the bottle to his lips and took a healthy swig. The familiar warmth of alcohol flowed comfortingly down his throat and spread through his belly.

And Janet's words-the words that had been slamming at his head all evening-quieted for a few seconds.

She didn't mean it-couldn't mean it! Without him, what the hell would she do? Besides, he'd heard it all before. Wasn't she always whining that she couldn't stand it, that if he didn't stop drinking, she was gonna leave? But she never did-never would. She loved him.

Couldn't live without him.

But what the hell was going on with the clock? Come to think of it, how come it was running at all? He didn't remember winding it. 'Course, Janet or one of the kids could've done that. But he didn't remember hearing it chime before, either.

What the hell kind of clock only struck once, and then struck the wrong time?

Ted struggled off the sofa and lurched over to it, staring up at its etched brass plate. There were dials all over it-one that showed the time, and another that showed the seconds ticking by, and a big one with the moon on it. The clock was running, all right. He could see the pendulum moving. His gaze shifted to the dial that showed the seconds. There was something about it that appealed to him, the way it ticked a notch forward every time the pendulum swung.

It was… His mind groped for a word, then found exactly the right one.

Tidy. That's what it was.

Neat and tidy.

The way things should be.

Except that they weren't. Reaching out to steady himself against the bookcase built into the wall next to the clock, he peered around at the room. Even through the haze of alcohol, he could see the curling wallpaper and peeling paint, and the stains in the carpet. What the hell had Janet been doing all day? Couldn't anybody but himself do anything?

His eyes shifted back to the clock.

A couple of minutes past midnight.

Not thirteen o'clock at all.

Stupid. Stupid idea, thinking it could be thirteen o'clock. Musta just miscounted. Reaching up to the glass door that protected the face, he fumbled with it for a second, then managed to pull it open.

He pushed the minute hand forward until it pointed at the three.

But instead of striking the quarter hour, the clock once more began chiming the hours.

Once again, Ted counted.

Again the clock struck thirteen times.

Ted backed away from it, though his eyes remained fixed on its face, as if held there by some unseen force.

As he watched, the hands began to move, and once again the clock began to strike.

A trick! It had to be some kind of trick!

The hands couldn't be moving as fast as it looked like they were-it was impossible.

But as the minute hand came around to the nine, the clock once again tolled thirteen times.

Still unable to tear his eyes from the clock's face, Ted watched as the hand moved inexorably toward the twelve. Unconsciously, he held his breath as the clock began striking for the fifth time. As the deep chord reverberated through the house-once, twice, then thrice-Ted realized that something else was wrong.

The clock still read midnight.

But the minute hand had made a complete revolution! He knew it had! He'd watched it!

– five, six, seven times the clock struck.

Broken. That was it-the thing was just broken!

– ten, eleven, twelve-

Ted waited, his breath still trapped in his lungs, as the note faded away and silence descended. Finally, when he could hear it no more, he slowly exhaled. Turning away, he raised the bottle once more to his lips.

And once more the clock began to strike.

The bottle dropped from his hand. "Janet?" His wife's name slipped unbidden from his mouth. Then he whispered it again: "Janet, help me."

The last tolling of the clock died away. Before it could start again, Ted snatched up the bottle-half of the contents had already drained out onto the carpet-and stumbled out of the living room, pulling the doors closed behind him.

He moved across the huge foyer and into the dining room, pushing its doors tightly closed.

Safe.

Even if the clock started to strike again-

Even before the thought was fully formed he heard it again. But not muffled-not like it was coming from another room at all.

He whirled around.

And there was the clock! Standing against the opposite wall, between the two windows that looked out toward the wilderness behind the carriage house. Ted's heart raced as he told himself it wasn't possible, that the clock was still in the living room, that there wasn't any clock in this room, at least not one like this.

Its tolling grew louder, echoing through the room. Once again Ted dropped the bottle and clamped his hands over his ears, but the striking of the clock grew ever louder-so loud that with every chord it felt as if spikes were being driven into his ears.

Crazy!

He was going crazy!

Fumbling with the latch on the heavy dining room doors, he finally threw them open again, and fled back into the huge entry hall. But the sound followed him, and he realized his mistake-now he was hearing both clocks.

"Janet?" he called out again, instinctively invoking the name of the one person he'd always been able to rely on. "Janet, where are you?"