"Yes, except for cuts and scratches and probably a case of tapeworm from fleabites, but tapes are easy to get rid of. Why? Does something look wrong to you?"

"Her tongue, dear. It has black splotches."

Natalie smiled. "That's because she has some Chow blood."

"Chow? They have black on their tongues?"

"Yes indeed."

"My goodness, I'm learning things already. You seem quite capable, Natalie."

"Well, we haven't been discussing any complex animal ailments. I feel I still have a lot to learn."

"As opposed to Dr. Cavanaugh, who's about your age and thinks he knows it all."

"Is she complaining about that young whippersnapper of a vet again?" Andrew asked, coming to stand by Ruth and handing her a mug of coffee.

"I take it he isn't too popular."

"I think his problem is that small animal care is just a sideline with him," Andrew informed her seriously. "He's more interested in cows and horses."

"And his office hours are very limited," Ruth added sadly. "You're just out of luck if there's an emergency. It's awful."

Natalie smothered a grin. Any minute they would burst into doleful tears about the lack of good vets in Port Ariel. Andrew was campaigning for her return and had drawn Ruth in on the scheme, too.

"I'd better be off to the drugstore," she said casually. "I'm sure Blaine will be fine in the house until I come back. Can't leave her out on the lawn unchained. She might wander off." She herded the dog into the living room, picked up the prescription her father had left on an end table, and dashed out the front door before Andrew could object to a new, large housedog.

Shadows. Circling. Undulating. She looked up. Vultures. Huge wings. Cold, merciless eyes. Lower. Lower. Down to feast on the delicate face.

Natalie's heart slammed against her ribs. She sucked in air with such a vengeance, pain stabbed her chest. A weight hit the bed and a shard of fear touched her heart. Then a warm, wet tongue licked her nose.

"Oh, Blaine!" she breathed, clutching the dog. "I had such an awful dream. Did I frighten you?"

The dog nuzzled her neck. She smelled of shampoo. She was also heavy but Natalie didn't mind the weight pressing against her body. It felt warm and reassuring, a sign of thriving life.

Life. She was alive. Blaine was alive. Tamara was dead. Murdered.

Suddenly Natalie began to hyperventilate. She gently pushed the dog away, trying not to alarm her, and got up. She paced the room, her long nightgown wrapping annoyingly around her legs. Stripping off the nightgown, Natalie noticed how damp it was. Perspiration glistened on her abdomen and dripped from beneath her breasts. She ran her hands through her wet hair.

A panic attack. She'd been having them ever since she was six and her mother left. They'd lessened over the years, but today had been enough of a shock to throw anyone, and this was a bad one. Still, it was only a simple panic attack. She would just ride it out.

Ten minutes later her heart still pounded and sweat still poured. Blaine followed in helpless distress as Natalie paced the room, breathing raggedly. Natalie was touched by how quickly the dog seemed to have bonded to her and her company was a comfort, but Natalie was still unnerved by her condition. Often when she had the attacks, she could calm herself by playing the guitar and singing. That wasn't an option tonight. She would wake her father and he'd make a scene. He'd harangue about Kenny. He'd lecture about her diet, tell her to eat meat. He might even take her to the emergency room at the hospital. How embarrassing. Rushed to the hospital for a panic attack. People would think she was as flaky as her mother.

No, she had to handle this on her own. It was bad enough that she'd run home to Daddy after coming face to face with Kenny's infidelity. Now to completely fall apart in front of him would be too much.

She put on her robe and went to the kitchen. A glass of milk? No, it sounded nauseating. Tea? No, tea was a stimulant. Orange juice? Natalie drank a small glass of juice, which hit her stomach like a rock.

A walk. A few times when she'd had panic attacks, walks had been the answer. Walking along the shoreline in front of the house would do the trick. She glanced at the kitchen clock. 11:45. No matter. She needed long strides and deep breaths of fresh air.

She went back to the bedroom and slipped on jeans, a tee shirt, Reeboks, and a windbreaker. Then she glanced at the clock again. 11:52. No matter? Yes, it mattered. Although she planned to stay within sight of the house, just last night Tamara had been murdered not too far away.

Natalie took her suitcase from the closet and unlocked it. Fishing in the side pocket, she withdrew a.38 blue-steel Beretta. Twenty-one-point-eight ounces. Strange she should remember the exact weight. She had not wanted it, but Kenny insisted on buying a gun for her after a string of rapes in Columbus last year. A pocket rocket, he'd called it. She hadn't intentionally brought it along. She'd just always kept it tucked out of sight in the suitcase.

When she'd first begun lessons, her right hand had held the gun stiffly, reluctantly. Then, to her surprise and her instructor's, she'd discovered she had a knack. She was an excellent shot, even though she wasn't actually sure she could shoot someone. "You could in a case of self-defense," Kenny had assured her. "That is, if you'd ever keep the thing handy. What will you do if someone breaks in? Tell them to wait a minute until you unlock your suitcase and get your gun?"

Well, she had it now. She snapped in the eight-shot magazine and stuffed the gun in her pocket. Then she grabbed a flashlight from her nightstand drawer and attached Blaine 's leash. "Ready for a night stroll with your new mistress?" she asked. The dog pulled toward the door. "Off we go, then, into the wild blue yonder."

No, the wild black yonder, she thought as she and Blaine strolled down toward the lake. Not a bright night. Not a warm night. A breeze blew off the water. Natalie had brought a large barrette and she pulled back her long hair and caught it in the clip. Cool air touched her warm neck like a caress.

Like when Kenny had dipped his fingers in a cold vodka tonic and stroked her neck as she lay sunbathing on his balcony just two weeks ago. Tears stung her eyes. No, she would not think of that lovely, sensuous afternoon. Or of another afternoon a week later when a big-breasted redhead flailed around in desperate search of a sheet with a naked Kenny beside her.

"Stop it!" she said aloud. Blaine looked up at her. "I wasn't talking to you," she soothed. She stroked the dog's head. "Such a good girl."

Fog rolled in from the lake, coiling around her denim clad legs. Minute by minute the fog wafted higher, first to her calves, then to her knees. Slowly the outside lights at the house became dimmer as she strolled in one direction, then turned and went in the other, covering only about fifty yards in either direction.

How many times had she walked this stretch of shoreline with Lily in the old days? Hundreds. And what had they talked of on those cool, secret, night-softened jaunts away from the prying eyes and ears of parents? Boyfriends, of course. Lily always had plenty. Natalie had only one, a gawky boy with acne who was president of the chess club and the math club. He was nice in a stuttering, awkward, perpetually embarrassed way, and she felt sorry for him because she was sure he would never amount to anything. Recently she heard he'd become a top executive with Microsoft.

She stopped as she realized that in her reverie, she'd walked farther than she'd intended. She'd completely lost sight of the house. "Time to go home," she said to the dog. But Blaine wasn't listening. The dog tensed, her hackles rising, then suddenly tugged at the leash so hard Natalie lost her grip. " Blaine!" she called as the dog bolted down the beach. " Blaine!" she yelled again, although the dog hadn't had time to learn her new name. She disappeared into the fog, barking.