"How long have you been doing this?"

She shrugged.

"Oh, hon," I said, walking into the room. "It's a con job, don't you see that? Listen to her. She's making guesses so fast that no one notices when she's wrong. The questions are so open-did you hear that last one? She said she has a message from someone who had a brother die in the past few years. What's the chance that nobody in the audience has recently lost a brother?"

"You don't get it."

"Only a necromancer can contact the afterworld, Savannah."

"I bet we could do it if we tried." She turned to look at me. "Haven't you ever thought of it? Contacting your mother?"

"Necromancy doesn't work like that. You can't just dial up the dead."

I walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone. Lucas Cortez's visit had one positive outcome, in that it reminded me about my Cabal questions, which reminded me that Robert hadn't returned my call.

It wasn't like Robert not to call back, so when I made the rounds again-phoning his house, phoning his office, checking my E-mail-and got no response, I began to worry. It was now nearly four, so I phoned Adam's work again, though I doubted the campus bar would be open at open in the afternoon. Silly me. Of course it was.

When I spoke to one of the servers, I learned that Adam was away for the week. At some conference, she said. Which sparked a memory flash and a big, mental "duh!" I returned to my computer and checked my recent E-mail, finding one from two weeks ago in which Adam mentioned going with his parents to a conference on the role of glossolalia in the Charismatic movement. Not that Adam gave a damn about Charismatics or glossolalia (A.K.A. "speaking in tongues"), but the conference was being held in Maui, which had more than its share of attractions for a twenty-four-year-old guy. The dates of the conference: June 12 to 18. Today was June 16.

I thought about tracking them down in Maui. Neither Robert nor Adam carried a cell phone-Robert didn't believe in them and Adam's service had been disconnected after he'd failed to pay yet another whopping bill. To contact them, I'd need to phone the conference in Hawaii and leave a message. The more I thought about this, the more foolish I felt. Robert would be home in two days. I'd hate to sound like I was panicking. This wasn't critical information, only background. It could wait.

Lucas Cortez's visit had, in fact, prompted me to remember two things I needed to do. Besides contacting Robert, I needed to line up a lawyer. Though I hadn't heard back from the police, and doubted I would, I really should have a lawyer's name at hand, in case the need arose.

I called the Boston lawyer who handled my business legal matters. Though she did only commercial work, she should be able to provide me with the names of other lawyers who could handle either a custody or criminal case. Since it was Saturday, there was no one in the office, so I left a detailed message, asking if she could call me Monday with a recommendation.

Then I headed to the kitchen, grabbed a cookbook, and looked for something interesting to make for dinner. As I pored over the possibilities, Savannah walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and poured some milk. The cupboard creaked open. A bag rustled.

"No cookies this late," I said. "Dinner's in thirty minutes."

"Thirty minutes? I can't wait-" She stopped. "Uh, Paige?"

"Hmmm?" I glanced up from my book to see her peering out the kitchen door, through to the living room window.

"Are there supposed to be people camped out on our front lawn?"

I leaned over to look through to the window, then slammed the cookbook closed and strode to the front door.

I THREW OPEN THE DOOR AND MARCHED ONTO THE PORCH. A camcorder lens swung to greet me.

"What's going on?" I asked.

The man with the camcorder stepped back to frame me in his viewfinder. No, not a man. A boy, maybe seventeen, eighteen. Beside him stood another young man of the same age, swilling Gatorade. Both were dressed in unrelieved black, everything oversized, from the baggy T-shirts to the backward ball caps to the combat boots to the pants that threatened to slide to their shoes at any moment.

On the opposite side of the lawn, as far as they could get from the young cinematic auteurs, stood two middle-aged women in schoolmarm dresses, ugly prints made into unflattering frocks that covered everything from mid-calf to mid-neck. Despite the warm June day, both wore cardigans that had been through the wash a few too many times. When I turned to look at the women, two middle-aged men appeared from a nearby minivan, both wearing dark gray suits, as ill-fitting and worn as the women's dresses. They approached the women and flanked them, as if to provide backup.

"I asked: what's going on?" I said. "Get that camera-what are you doing?"

"There she is," one of the women whispered loudly to her companions. "The poor girl."

"Look," I said. "It's no big deal. I appreciate your support, but-"

I stopped, realizing they weren't looking at me. I turned to see Savannah in the doorway.

"It's okay, sweetie," one man called. "We won't hurt you. We're here to help."

"Help?" she said, between cookie bites. "Help with what?"

"Saving your immortal soul."

"Huh?"

"You needn't be afraid," the second woman said. "It's not too late. God knows you're innocent, that you've been led into sin against your will."

Savannah rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Get a life."

I shoved Savannah back into the house, slammed the door and held it shut.

"Look," I said. "Not to deny you folks your right to free speech, but you can't-"

"We heard about the Black Mass," the boy without the camera said. "Can we see it?"

"There's nothing to see. It's gone. It was a very sick prank, that's all."

"Did you really kill a couple of cats? Skinned them and cut them all up?"

"Someone killed three cats," I said. "And I hope they find the person responsible."

"What about the baby?" his camera-wielding friend asked.

"B-baby?"

"Yeah, I heard they found some parts they couldn't identify and they think it's this baby missing from Boston-"

"No!" I said, my voice sharp against the silence of the street. "They found cats. Nothing else. If you want more information, I'd suggest you contact the East Falls or state police, because I have nothing further to add. Better yet, how about I call them myself? Charge you with trespassing? That's what this is, you know."

"We must do as conscience dictates," the second man said in a deep, orator's voice. "We represent the Church of Christ's Blessed Salvation and we have committed ourselves to fighting evil in every form."

"Really?" I said. "Then you must have the wrong address. There's no evil here. Try down the street. I'm sure you can find something worth denouncing."

"We've found it," one of the women said. "The Black Mass. A perversion of the most sacred rite of Christianity. We know what this means. Others will know. They will come. They will join us."

"Oh? Gee, and I'm fresh out of coffee and doughnuts. I hate to be a bad hostess. If they don't mind tea, I'll put on the kettle. I make a really wicked brew."

The boy dropped the camcorder. For a second, I thought it was the tea comment. Then, as he stumbled forward, I glanced up to see Savannah peering through the front curtains. She grinned at me, then lifted her hand and the boy jerked backward, falling to the grass.

"That's not funny," I said, glaring at the teen as he struggled to get up. "I won't stand here and be mocked with pratfalls. If you have something to say to me, contact my lawyer."