Mrs. Semevikov had gone on her way, and Ken was heading back into his house with an armful of roses, but there was a thin, high-pitched whining sound coming from nearby. Something is in pain, Erwin thought, which fact curiously comforted him, to know that he was not the only soul suffering right now. He went in search of the sufferer, and didn't have to look far. It was the rose bushes that were giving off the whine; a sound he assumed only the dead could hear.

It was a poor compensation. Tears, or rather the memory of tears, fell from his remembered eyes, and he quietly swore an oath that even if he had to do a deal with the Devil to possess the means, he would somehow revenge himself on the beast that had taken his life. Nor would it be quick. He'd make the bastard suffer so loudly the grief of a million roses could not drown out his screams.

The Friday of Festival Weekend was always a slack day at the doctor's.

Early next week there'd be a waiting room full of folks who'd put off a visit because they had too much to do, their fingers turned septic, their constipation chronic. But today only those in extreme discomfort, or so lonely a trip to see Dr. Powell was a treat, came in.

None of the patients made any mention of recent events to Phoebe, though she didn't doubt that every man, woman, and child in Everville was by now steeped in the scandal. Even Dr. Powell kept his remarks to a minimum. He was sorry to hear about Morton's death, he said, and would perfectly understand if she needed to take a few days off. She thanked him, and asked if she might perhaps leave around two, so she could drive over to Silverton and meet the funeral director. The answer, of course, was yes.

In fact, that wasn't the only meeting she had planned. She needed more urgently than ever the guidance of a legal mind; someone who could give her a clear picture of just how bad a position she was in. She would try to see Erwin this afternoon she'd decided, rather than wait until Monday. A lot could happen in seventy-two hours, as the turmoil of the last twenty-four proved. Better that she knew the bad news and planned accordingly.

iv The fish was good. Tesia took her leisurely time eating, and listened while she ate, tuning in to conversations going on at five tables in her vicinity. It was a trick she'd first learned as a screenwriter (quickly finding that ordinary conversation was littered with remarks no producer would believe) and had gone on to hone it during her travels, when it had allowed her to keep track of the way the world was going without benefit of media or social skills.

today, much to her surprise, she found that three of the five conversations were about the same thing: the life and crimes of a local woman called Phoebe, who was apparently implicated in the bizarre demise of her husband.

While she was listening to one of the tables debating the morals of adultery, a parched-looking fellow, whom she took to be the manager of the place, came through with hamburgers for the debaters, and on his way back to the counter gathered up her dishes and casually asked if she'd enjoyed the fish. She said she had. Then, hoping to squeeze a little more information from him said: "I was wondering... do you happen to know a guy called Fletcher?"

The man, his name tag read Bosley, thought for a moment. "Fletcher... Fletcher... " he said.

While he mused, Raul said, Tesla?

"In a minute," she thought to Raul.

But there's something-Raul went on.

He got no further before Bosley said, "I don't believe I know of any Fletcher. Does he live in town?"

"No. He's a visitor."

"We're swamped with visitors," Bosley replied.

Clearly this wasn't going to prove a fruitful line of inquiry. But while she had the man in front of her she decided to quiz him about something else.

"Phoebe," she said. Bosley lost his smile. "Do you know

?"

"She came in now and again," Bosley conceded.

"What's she like?" By the expression on his face, Bosley was caught between the requirements of civility and his desire to ignore Tesla's question entirely. "Everybody's talking about her."

"Then I hope her story serves as a lesson," Bosley replied, chilly now.

"The Lord sees her sin and judges her."

"Has she been accused of something?"

"In the Lord's eyes-"

"Forget the fucking Lord's eyes," Tesla said, irritated by the guy's cant. "I want to know what she's like."

Bosley set the dishes back on the table and quietly said, "I think you'd better leave."

"What for?" "You're not welcome to break bread with us," he replied.

"Why the hell not?"

"Your language."

"What about it?" Tesla said.

The F word, Raul prompted.

She repeated it aloud, to test the thesis. "Fuck?" she said, "you don't like me sayingfuck?"

Bosley flinched as though the syllables were stings. "Get out," he said.

"All I said was fuck," Tesla replied sweetly. "What's wrong withfuck?" Bosley had taken hurts enough. "I want you out of here," he said, the volume of his voice rising. "Your foul tongue isn't welcome."

"I can't stay for the peach cobbler?" Tcsia said. "Out!" Bosley yelled. The gossiping patrons had fallen silent now. All eyes were turned in the direction of Tesla's table. "Take your abominations elsewhere. They're not welcome here."

Tesia lounged in her chair. "Fuck isn't an abomination," she said.

"Fuck's just a word, it's just a useful little word. Come on, Bosley, admit it. There are times when onlyfuck will do."

"I want you out of here."

"You see. I want you the fuck out of here would sound so much more forceful."

There were giggles from here and there, and a few nervous coughs. "What do you say to your wife on a Saturday night? You want to fornicate, honcy? No, you say I want a fuck." "Out!" Bosley yelled. There were others coming to his aid now, among them a cook from the kitchen who looked like he might have seen the light in San Quentin. Tesla got to her feet.

"Okay, I'm going," she said. She gave the cook a dazzling grin. "Great fish," she said, and sauntered to the door. "Of course we shouldn't forget the most important use of fuck," she said as she went. "The exclamation. As in oh fuck, or what a fuck up." She'd reached the door, and halted there to look back at Bosley. "Or the ever-useful fuck you," she said, and, offering him a little smile, took her leave.

She was standing on the corner, wondering where she might next go in search of Fletcher, when Raul whispered, Did you hear what I said in there?

"I was just defending my constitutional rights," Tesla replied.

Before that, Raul murmured.

"What?" she said.

I don't know what, he replied. I just felt some presence or other "You sound nervous," Tesia replied, glancing around. The intersection was busier than ever. It was an unlikely place to he haunted, she thought, at least right now. At midnight, perhaps, it'd be a different story.

"Didn't they bury suicides at crossroads?" she said to Raul. There was no reply. "Raul?"

Listen.

"What am I-?"

Just listen, will you?

There was plenty to hear. horns honking, tires squealing, folks laughing and chattering, music from an open window, shouting through an open door.

Not that, Raul said.

"What then?"

Somebody's whispering.

She listened again, trying to filter out the din of people d vehicles. Close your eyes, Rau I said, it's easier in the dark.

She did so. The din continued, but she felt a little more remote from it.

There, Raul murmured.

He was right. Somewhere between the traffic and the chatter, a tiny voice was trying to be heard. No, it seemed to be saying. And something about ketchup. Tesla concentrated, trying to tune her mind's ear into the voice, the way she'd tuned in to the conversations in the Diner. No, it said again, no about, no about "Know about," Tesla murmured. "It knows about something."