"What did you say, dear?" Maisie had just come in with some fluffy scrambled eggs and a little bran muffin. "Next year, everything'll be perfect, you'll see."

"Let's not even think about next year," Maisie said. "Let's just take things as they come, shall we?"

"Keep 'em coming.

"You want to talk about it?"

Larry shook his head. "None of it makes much sense," he said.

Will passed another bottle down the bar. "I had a guy in here day before yesterday, really spooked me," he said.

"Like how?"

"It was just after Morton Cobb died. He was saying how it was better that he'd been killed that way, 'cause it was a better story."

"A better story?"

"Yeah. An' I was a-what the fuck did he call me?-a disseminator, I think that was it, yeah, a disseminator, and people liked to hear really brutal stories... " He lost his way in the midst of his recollections, and threw up his hands. "I don't know, he just seemed like a sick sonofabitch. He had this voice-it was kinda like a hypnotist or something."

The notion rang a bell. "What did he look like?" Larry asked.

"'Bout sixty, maybe. Had a heard."

"Broad guy? Wearing black?"

"That's him," Will said. "You know him?"

"He was there this afternoon," Larry said, quickly. "I think he was the one who fucked everything up."

"Somebody should talk to Jed about him."

"Jed@' Larry growled, "he's no damn good to anyone." He chugged on his beer. "I'm going to talk to some of the band. they were really pissed with what happened this afternoon."

"Be careful, Larry," Will advised. "You don't want Jed on your back for taking the law into your own hands."

Larry leaned over the bar until he was almost nose to nose with Will. "I don't give a shit," he slurred. "Something's going' on in this city, Hamrick, and Jed's not got a handle on it."

"And you have?"

Larry dug in his pocket and tossed three tens over the counter. "I will have soon enough," he said, pushing off from the bar and heading for the door. "I'll give you a call, tell you when we're ready for action."

Elsewhere in town, a fair appearance of normality had been reestablished. In the town hall the first partners for the Waltz-a-thon were already wanning up. At the library annex, which had only been completed two months ago, Jerry Totland, a local author who'd made a nice reputation for himself penning mysteries set in Portland, was reading from his newest opus. In the little Italian restaurant on Blasemont Street there was a line of twenty customers waiting to taste the glories of Neapolitan cuisine.

There were mutterings, of course; rumors and gossip about what had brought the parade to a halt that afternoon, but by and large they simply added a little piquancy to the evening's exchanges. There was little genuine unease, more a mild amusement, especially among the visitors, that the event had gone so hopelessly awry. It would be a story to dine out on, wouldn't it, when they got back home? How Everville had overstepped itself and fallen flat on its ambitious face?

After the horrors of the afternoon, Erwin had not known what to do with himself. He had lost, in one fell swoop, all the friends he'd had, as surely as if they'd been massacred at the dinner table.

He had no real comprehension of what had happened at the crossroads, nor did he really want to know. Death had shown him some strange sights in the last few days, and he'd quickly learned to take them in his stride, but this was beyond him. He wandered the streets like a lost dog for a couple of hours, looking for some place to sit and listen to a conversation that did not remind him of his fear. But everywhere he looked for solace, he found people talking in whispers about the things that discomfited him.

Few of these exchanges were overtly concerned with the events of the afternoon, but all of them had been inspired by it, he was certain. Why else were people confessing their sins to their loved ones tonight, asking for forgiveness or understanding? they had smelled their mortality today, and it had made them maudlin. He passed from one place to another, looking for solace and, finding none, he returned at dusk to only place he was certain to get some peace and quiet: cemetery.

There he wandered among the tombs as the sun set, idly perusing the epitaphs, and turning over events that had brought him to this sorry state. What had he done to deserve it? Wanted a little fame for himself? Since when had that been a capital crime? Dug too deep into secrets that should have been left to lie? That was no sin, either; not that he knew of. He'd simply had a patch of bad luck.

He took a seat, at last, on a tombstone close to the tree where he'd first met Nordhoff and the rest. His gaze fell on the stone in front of him, and he read aloud to himself the inscription there.

What Thomas doubted, I believe: Thatfrom Death's hand there is reprieve; That I, laid here, will one day rise, And smell the wind and meet the skies. My hope is tender though, and must Be keptfrom harm by those that dust Has blinded. So I pray: deliver me from Thefaithless kin of Doubting Tom.

The simplicity and the vulnerability of the words moved him deeply. As he reached the end of the poem his voice thickened and tears came, copious tears, pouring down.

He buried his face in his hands and rocked back and forth, unable to stop weeping. What was the use of living in hope of life after death if all it amounted to was this absurd, empty round? It was unendurable!

"Is the poem so bad?" said a voice somewhere above him.

He looked over his shoulder. The tree was in its last lushness before autumn, its branches thick with leaves, but he caught a glimpse of somebody moving up there.

"Show yourself," he said.

"I prefer not to," came the reply. "I learned a long time ago that there's safety in trees."

"Don't kid yourself," Erwin said.

"What's the problem?"

"I want to be back in the world."

"Oh that," said the man in the tree. "It cannot he had, so don't break your heart wanting it." There was a shaking of the canopy, as the man adjusted his position. "They've gone, haven't they?" he said. "Who?"

"The fools who used to gather here. Nordhoff and Dolan"-he practically spat the word Dolan out-"and the rest. I came down the mountain to finish my business with them, but I don't see them and I don't smell them-"

"No?"

"No. All I see is you. Where did they go?"

"It's difficult to explain," Erwin said. "Do your best."

He did. Described all that he'd seen and felt at the crossto ads, though his lawyerly vocabulary was barely adequate. It was the unburdening he'd sought, and it felt good.

"So they were whisked away, huh?"

"That's what it looked like," Erwin said. "It was bound to happen," the occupant of the tree said. "There was a bloody business started here, and it had to be finished sooner or later."

"I know what you're talking about," Erwin said. "I read a confession-"

"Whose?"

"His name was McPherson."

The man loosed a guttural growl that made Erwin shudder. "Don't speak that name!" he said.

"Why not?"

"Just don't!" the man roared. "Anyway, it's not his atroc ities I was referring to. There was another slaughter up on Harmon's Heights, before it ever had a name. And I've waited a long time to see its consequences."

"Who are you?" Erwin said. "Why are you hiding up there?"

"I think you've seen enough strangeness for one day," the man replied.

"Without laying eyes on me."

"I can deal with it," Erwin replied. "Show yourself."

There was silence from the tree for a few moments. Then the man said,

"As you wish," and the foliage sighed as he clambered down into view. He wasn't so strange. Scarred, certainly, and somewhat bestial, but he resembled a man.