The note card says it's French Egyptian Revival with panels of papier-mâché palmette detailing and festooned with poly-chromed strapwork.

In the mirror, she twists the gold tube until a pink lipstick grows out.

And behind her, I say, what if I'm not just my job?

Maybe I'm not just some two-dimensional predator taking advantage of an interesting situation.

For whatever reason, Nash comes to mind.

I say, maybe I noticed the book in the first place because I used to have a copy. Maybe I used to have a wife and a daughter. What if I read the damn poem to my own family one night with the intention of putting them to sleep? Hypothetically speaking, of course, what if I killed them? I say. Is that the kind of credentials she's looking for?

She stretches her lips up and down and touches the lipstick to the pink lipstick already there.

I limp a step closer, asking, does that make me wounded enough in her book?

Her shoulders squared straight across, she rolls her lips together. They come apart slow, stuck together for the last moment. God forbid anybody should ever suffer more than Helen Hoover Boyle.

And I say, maybe I've lost every bit as much as her. And she twists her lipstick down. She snaps her lipstick in her purse and turns to face me.

Standing there, glittering and still, she says, "Hypothetically speaking?"

And I pull my face into a smile and say, of course. With her open hand against the armoire, she gouges an arrow pointing right, and she starts walking, but slow, dragging her hand along the wall of cupboards and dressers, everything waxed and polished, ruining everything she touches.

Leading me on, she says, "Do you ever wonder where that poem originated?"

Africa, I say, staying right behind her.

"But the book it came from," she says. Walking, past gun cabinets and press cupboards and farthingale chairs, she says, "Witches call their collection of spells their Book of Shadows."

Poems and Rhymes from Around the World

was published twenty years ago, I tell her. I did some calling around. The book had a pressrun of five hundred copies. The publisher, KinderHaus Press, has since gone bankrupt, and the press plates and reprint rights belong to someone who bought them from the original author's estate. The author died of no apparent cause about three years ago. If that makes the book public domain, I don't know. I couldn't find out who now owns the rights.

And Helen Hoover Boyle stops dragging her diamond, midway across the face of a wide, beveled mirror, and says, "I own the rights. And I know where you're going with this. I bought the rights three years ago. Book dealers have managed to find about three hundred of those original five hundred books, and I've burned every one."

She says, "But that's not what's important."

I agree. What's important is finding the last few books, and containing this disaster. Doing damage control. What's important is learning a way to forget it ourselves. Maybe that's what Mona Sabbat and her group can teach us.

"Please," Helen says, "you're not still planning to go to her witch party?" She says, "What did you find out about the original author of the book?"

His name was Basil Frankie, and there was nothing original about him. He found out-of-print, public domain stories and combined them to create anthologies. Old medieval sonnets, bawdy limericks, nursery rhymes. Some of it he ripped out of old books he found. Some of it he lifted off the Internet. He wasn't very choosy. Anything he could get for free he'd lump into a book.

"But the source of this particular poem?" she says.

I don't know. It's probably some old book still packed in a box in the basement of a house somewhere.

"Not Frankie's house," says Helen Hoover Boyle. "I bought the whole estate. The kitchen trash was still under his sink, his underwear still folded in his dresser drawers, everything. It wasn't there."

And I have to ask, did she also kill him?

"Hypothetically speaking," she says, "if I had just killed my husband, after killing my son, wouldn't I be a little angry that some plagiarizing, lazy, irresponsible, greedy fool had planted the bomb that would destroy everyone I loved?"

Just like she hypothetically killed the Stuarts.

She says, "My point is that original Book of Shadows is still out there somewhere."

I agree. And we need to find it and destroy it.

And Helen Hoover Boyle smiles her pink smile. She says, "You must be kidding." She says, "Having the power of life and death isn't enough. You must wonder what other poems are in that book."

Hitting me as fast as a hiccup, me resting my weight on my good foot, just staring at her, I say no.

She says, "Maybe you can live forever."

And I say no.

And she says, "Maybe you can make anyone love you."

No.

And she says, "Maybe you can turn straw into gold."

And I say no and turn on my heel.

"Maybe you could bring about world peace," she says.

And I say no and start off between the walls of armoires and bookcases. Between the barricades of curio cabinets and headboards, I head down another canyon of furniture.

Behind me, she calls, "Maybe you could turn sand into bread."

And I keep limping along.

And she calls, "Where are you going? This is the way out."

At an Irish pine vitrine with a broken pediment tympanum, I turn right. At a Chippendale bureau cabinet japanned in black lacquer, I turn left.

Her voice behind everything says, "Maybe you could cure the sick. Maybe you could heal the crippled."

At a Belgian sideboard with a cornice of egg and dart molding, I turn right then left at an Edwardian standing specimen case with a Bohemian art-glass mural.

And the voice coming after me says, "Maybe you could clean the environment and turn the world into a paradise."

An arrow gouged in a piecrust occasional table points one way so I go the other.

And the voice says, maybe you could generate unlimited clean energy.

Maybe you could travel through time to prevent tragedy. To learn. To meet people.

Maybe you could give people rich full happy lives.

Maybe limping around a noisy apartment for the rest of your life isn't enough.

On a folding screen of blackwork embroidery, an arrow points one way, and I turn the other.

My pager goes off again, and it's Nash.

And the voice says, if you can kill someone, maybe you can bring them back.

Maybe this is my second chance.

The voice says, maybe you don't go to hell for the things you do. Maybe you go to hell for the things you don't do. The things you don't finish.

My pager goes off again, and it says the message is important.

And I keep on limping along.

Chapter 16

Nash isn't standing at the bar. He's sitting alone at a little table in the back, in the dark except for a little candle on the table, and I tell him, hey, I got his ten thousand calls on my pager. I ask, what's so important?

On the table is a newspaper, folded, with the headline saying:

Seven Dead in Mystery Plague

The subhead says:

Esteemed Local Editor and Public Leader Believed to Be First Victim

Whom they mean, I have to read. It's Duncan, and it turns out his first name was Leslie. It's anybody's guess where they got the esteemed part. And the leader part.

So much for the journalist and the news being mutually exclusive.

Nash taps the newspaper with his finger and says, "You see this?"

And I tell him I've been out of the office all afternoon. And damn it. I forgot to file my next installment on crib death. Reading the front page, I see myself quoted. Duncan was more than just my editor, I'm saying, more than just my mentor. Leslie Duncan was like a father to me. Damn Oliphant and his sweaty hands.