"What did Perkins ask you?"

"Specifically, he wanted to know if since none of the five died together in some sort of multiple accident, wouldn't I, as a psychiatrist, find that many deaths in so small a group an unusually high number? I told him I didn't have to look up anything to know that the number was out of the ball park. Of course it was."

Jean nodded. "He told me that according to his research, that kind of statistic is much more likely to happen in wartime, but he said there are examples of families or classmates or members of a team that seem to be jinxed. Mark, I don't think it's jinxed. I think it's eerie."

Jack Emerson had overheard. The smile he'd worn while listing their accomplishments vanished and was replaced by a look of irritated concern. "I asked that Perkins kid to stop showing that list around," he said.

Carter Stewart came into the alcove with Laura Wilcox in time to hear Emerson. "I can assure you, he's showing it around," he said shortly. "My suggestion to anyone who has not yet been pounced upon by that young man is to tell him you do not wish to see it. It worked for me."

Jean was standing to the side of the entry, and Laura did not spot her when she walked in. "OK if I join you?" she joked. "Or have I wandered into the men's club by mistake?"

Smiling, she moved from one man to the other, closely examining their tags, then kissing each one of them on the cheek. "Mark Fleischman, Gordon Amory, Robby Brent, Jack Emerson. And, of course, Carter, whom I used to know as Howie and who hasn't kissed me yet. You all look marvelous. You see, there's the difference. I was at my peak at sixteen, and after that it was all downhill. You four and Howie, I mean Carter, were just starting up the hill in those days."

Then she spotted Jean and rushed to embrace her.

It was the icebreaker they needed. Mark Fleischman could see the notable relaxation as polite expressions became amused smiles and the better wines they'd put aside for the honorees began to be sipped.

Laura's still a knockout, he thought. Thirty-eight or -nine like the rest of us, but could pass for thirty. The cocktail suit she was wearing was clearly pricey, very pricey. The television series she'd been on had been cancelled a couple of years ago. He wondered how much work she'd had since then. He knew she'd had a messy divorce, with claims and counterclaims; he'd read about it on Page Six of the New York Post. He smiled to himself as she kissed Gordie a second time. "You used to have a crush on me," she teased him.

Then it was his turn. "Mark Fleischman," she said breathlessly. "I swear you were jealous when I was dating Barry Diamond. Am I right?"

He smiled. "Yes, you're right, Laura. But that was a long time ago."

"I know, but I haven't forgotten." Her smile was radiant.

He had once read that the Duchess of Windsor had the capacity to make every man she spoke to feel like the only man in the room. He watched as she turned to another familiar face.

"I haven't forgotten either, Laura," he said quietly. "Never for one minute have I forgotten."

It amused him to note that at the cocktail party Laura was, as usual, the center of attention, even though she was the least deserving of all the honorees. On the television series that had been the one feather in her cap, she had played a shallow blonde who only cared about the person she saw reflected in the mirror. The ultimate in typecasting, he thought.

There was no denying that she still looked damn good, but she was enjoying that final bloom before the change begins to take place. Already there were fine lines around her eyes and mouth. He remembered that her mother had that same papery skin, the kind that ages fast and hard. If Laura lived another ten years, even plastic surgery could only do so much for her.

But of course, she wasn't going to live another ten years.

Sometimes, even for months at a time, The Owl retreated to a secret spot deep inside him. During those times he was almost able to believe that all the things The Owl had done had been a dream. Other times, though, like now, he could feel it living inside him. He could see The Owl's head, its dark eyes surrounded by pools of yellow. He could feel how its talons grasp the limb of a tree. He could feel the touch of its soft velvety plumage, causing him to shiver inwardly. He could feel the rush of air beneath its wings as it swooped down on its prey.

Seeing Laura had brought The Owl rushing from its perch. Why had he waited so long to come to her? The Owl demanded to know, but he was afraid to answer. Was it, he wondered, because when Laura and Jean were finally destroyed, The Owl's power over life and death would vanish with them? Laura should have been dead twenty years ago. But that mistake had liberated him.

That mistake, that accident of fate, had transformed him from the stuttering crybaby-"I ammm th-th-the oooooowwwwwlllll and I liwvwe in aaaa…"-into The Owl, the predator, powerful and unflinching.

Someone was studying his ID, a guy with glasses and thinning hair, dressed in a reasonably expensive dark gray suit. Then the man smiled and held out his hand. "Joel Nieman," he said.

Joel Nieman. Oh, sure, he had been Romeo in the senior play. He was the one Alison had written about in her column: "To everyone's surprise, Romeo, a.k.a. Joel Nieman, managed to remember most of his lines."

"Did you give up on acting?" The Owl asked, smiling back.

Nieman looked surprised. "You have a good memory. I thought the stage could do without me," he said.

"I remember the review Alison wrote about you."

Nieman laughed. "So do I. I was going to tell her she did me a favor. I took up accounting, and it was a better way to go. Terrible shame about her, isn't it?"

"Terrible," The Owl agreed.

"I read that initially there was some question of a possible homicide investigation, but the police now pretty much believe that she passed out as she hit the water."

"Then I think the police are stupid."

Joel Nieman's expression became curious. "You think Alison was murdered?"

The Owl realized suddenly that perhaps he looked and sounded too vehement. "From what I read, she made a lot of enemies along the way," he said carefully. "But who knows? The police are probably right. That's why they always say that no one should go swimming alone."

"Romeo, my Romeo," a voice squealed.

Marcy Rogers, who had been Juliet in the school play, was tapping Nieman's shoulder. He spun around.

Marcy still wore her chestnut hair in a mass of tangled curls, but now it was highlighted with random streaks of gold. She struck a theatrical pose. "And all the world shall be in love with night."

"I can't believe it. It's Juliet!" Joel Nieman exclaimed, beaming.

Marcy glanced at The Owl. "Oh, hi." She turned back to Nieman. "You've got to meet my real life Romeo. He's over at the bar."

Dismissal. Just the way he'd always experienced it at Stonecroft. Marcy hadn't even bothered to look at his ID. She simply wasn't interested in him.

The Owl looked around. Jean Sheridan and Laura Wilcox were standing next to each other on the buffet line. He studied Jean's profile. Unlike Laura, she was the kind of woman who got better looking as she aged. She looked decidedly different, although her features certainly hadn't changed. What had changed was her poise, her voice, the way she held herself. Oh, sure, her hair and clothes made a difference, but the change in her was more interior than outward. Growing up, she had to have been embarrassed by the way her parents carried on. A couple of times the cops had been exasperated enough to cuff them.

The Owl walked over to the buffet line and picked up a plate. He realized that he was beginning to understand his ambivalence toward