quiet and intimate as though he were lying next to me. “I wanted to make sure you were

okay.”

It took me a second to get control of my voice. Then I said, “Me? I’m not the one who

got nailed jaywalking. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I should be out of here tomorrow. Just bumps and bruises. Next time I’ll look

both ways.”

Me too, I thought. Inexplicably there was something about the size of a baseball lodged

in my throat, making it impossible to speak.

Into my silence, he said awkwardly, “I hope Chan didn’t – I told him to try not to scare

the shit out of you.”

“He was…uh…very diplomatic.” Again I couldn’t seem to think of what to say to him.

It was Jake’s turn to fall silent. Then he said with a curious gentleness, “Are you okay,

Adrien? You don’t sound okay.”

My heart started thudding in a kind of fight or flight reaction. “I’m fine,” I said tersely.

“Still half asleep maybe.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. I heard the TV blasting away in the background.

“Right. Well, I’ll let you go. They’re trying to close the switchboard down anyway. I’ll talk to

you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I said and hung up.

* * * * *

Once again nobody showed from the temp agency. I tried not to take it personally. The

agency offered to send back Lester Naess, who had apparently been kind enough to give me a

thumbs-up.

Ungrateful bastard that I was, I declined.

What would I do if Angus didn’t return? I hated to think. Even without the holiday

rush and the longer hours, I couldn’t handle it all myself. Besides, my editor at Lunatic

Fringe Publishing was tactfully hinting that I had a manuscript due in a couple of weeks.

Why had I been so hasty in sending Angus away?

Not that Angus was the perfect employee, but I was used to him, he was used to me.

Better the devil you know, as the saying goes. Today especially, I felt I needed the company

as much as the help.

A regular client brought in a bag of paperbacks, and I found a couple of Gabe Savant’s

early efforts. Back when he wrote pulp fiction, he had gone by the nom de plume of G.O.

Savage. I glanced through a dog-eared copy of So Lovely, So Dead. Pretty much what you

would expect. I recalled Bob Friedlander talking about how Savant’s career had gone

nowhere while he was writing deathless prose for the entertainment and edification of

literary critics, but this was your standard-issue formula fiction. Maybe Friedlander had

never read Savant’s early stuff.

Not that it mattered. I re-priced the books to reflect Savant’s current popularity and

shelved them.

There were no new developments in the Eaton Canyon murder, but that didn’t keep

the local newspaper from rehashing and speculating on past events. There was an earnest

interview with a prominent psychiatrist who explained why the young are often attracted to

magic and the occult, for those readers so lacking in imagination they couldn’t see the

obvious for themselves.

“The idea of being able to empower yourself through magic is appealing to the insecure

adolescent,” quoth the shrink.

Appealing to all kinds of people, I thought.

There was an interview with a local religious figure. His angle was that interest and

examination of the occult lured the young away from Jesus and the path of righteousness.

“These organizations make a point of accepting behavior considered sinful in the

Judeo-Christian tradition. For example, homosexuality is condoned by Wicca.”

I wondered what the other examples were. It seemed likely to me that the people who

condemned Wicca and the study of the occult for religious reasons might be as likely to

condemn the study and practice of Islam or Buddhism or Catholicism or Mormonism on the

same basis.

I gathered from Guy that the same bias existed in occult circles: Wicca versus

Traditional Witchcraft, for example. Which started me thinking. If this coven of ex-students

was upset with Angus for practicing the Black Arts, then why had they turned around and

decorated my entrance with the most instantly recognizable symbol of Satanic worship?

What kind of a warning was that?

Maybe it wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was a welcome home sign in anticipation of

Angus’s return.

Maybe it was a welcome home sign in anticipation of someone else’s return. Someone

or something?

I thought about the card the Dragonwyck ladies had given me. Was it worth calling the

mysterious number? According to Guy, my troubles were over. Well, my problems on the

spiritual plane.

There was still the problem of finding good help in the material world.

* * * * *

“Did you talk to Jake about the house?” Lisa asked, when she guilted me into meeting

her for lunch later that afternoon at Cafe Santorini.

“Not really.” Not at all, as a matter of fact. Certain things could be taken for granted in

this world.

“The pool would be awfully good for you, darling. You always loved swimming. The

doctors –”

“I know!” I said sharply. She looked hurt. I softened my tone, “Lisa, I don’t think it’s

practical. It’s too far from the shop, to start with.” I glanced over my shoulder. I had that

funny feeling you get when you’re being watched. No one seemed to be paying us any

attention. I turned back to Lisa. Her eyes were burning Siamese cat blue, which occurred

whenever the bookstore came up as a stumbling block to one of her plans.

“At least think about it,” she urged.

Shoving more pita-wrapped grilled chicken and hummus into my mouth to prevent

myself from saying what was on my mind, I stared down from the brick rooftop balcony.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her bowed head as she drew invisible circles in

the linen tablecloth with one perfect fingernail lacquered in the palest possible pink.

Uh-oh, I thought, watching her. What now?

“Adrien,” she mused aloud, “it’s important that you and Bill get to know each other. It’s

important to me that you like each other. I want us to be a real family.”

I gulped the lump of pita and chicken. “Okay.”

“I was thinking that perhaps if you two were to spend time together – alone –”

Oh, God. What was she thinking? A baseball game? Or worse: a fishing trip for the