Above my father's church there was a place he used to go. It was a small stone cottage, so old that no one remembers who built it-what kind of people they were, or even if we descended from them. It was just there, had always been there. The church was the same. We kept it up, put in a stone walkway and built some trellises around the graveyard behind it, but none of us knew how long it stood there-not even my father. I asked him, but he only knew the history back as far as it had been recorded in writing.

"That was more than 150 years, and he believed from the words recorded in those early times that the church was old when they were written. We will probably never know, and I don't think it's important. The last time I saw that church was his funeral."

"Tell me," Kat said. She'd caught the hesitation in his voice, and he bit back the sharp reply that threatened. He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want to think about that place, or that day.

"It was a very long time ago," he began slowly, "but I remember it as if it happened yesterday."

Abraham had not thought of that old church, or of his father, in longer than he'd been willing to admit to himself, let alone to another. His father's funeral was a memory of darkness and mourning. He remembered sitting between his mother and his Uncle Keith on the bench in the church. They'd brought in the preacher from Friendly, California, Reverend Forbes; a skinny, stick of a man with wavy hair and wild eyes. He'd glared at them from the front of the church as if they'd all been caught masturbating in a closet, not like a man of G.o.d who was troubled over the loss of a fallen comrade. Abraham had spent every Sunday of his life in that small stone church, and the sensations Reverend Forbes brought with him had felt as alien and impossible as the loss of his father.

That preacher stared them into silence and began to speak. He began while they were still coming in the doors. He had his Bible in his hand, like he was afraid that if he let it touch the old stone pulpit of Abraham's father's church, it would be contaminated. He shook it at them. He fanned the air with it, and he gripped it white-knuckle tight in the dying light of the later afternoon sun, but he did not let it touch the stone. He did not touch the stone. If he could have floated above the floor, Abraham was sure he would have done so.

Reverend Forbes did not talk about Jonathan Carlson at all. He railed against sinners everywhere, the tone of his voice showing clearly that he felt that everything beyond his own church in Friendly became steadily more evil, and that Satan's blood dripped down the sides of the mountain, infecting all of those below with his darkness.

There were reasons for his words, of course. Some of the meaning had been clear to Abraham, even then. The stone chapel was not the only church close by, and though there was no one preaching at that other, there was no longer anyone preaching at this one either. No one that belonged.

Both houses of worship lay empty, waiting for G.o.d, or someone, to fill the pulpits and draw the people. Between those times they would live beyond the sight of G.o.d, unless of course they wanted to find their way further up the mountain to Friendly every Sunday. Reverend Forbes mentioned that too. He'd been very concerned for their souls.

It was obvious early in the ceremony that he had not known Reverend Jonathan Carlson, and equally obvious he did not count this as a spiritual loss. He intimated that G.o.d had begun to cleanse the mountain. He spoke of shadows hovering beyond the sight of civilized men, waiting to sweep in and blot out the light of the Lord's love. He talked for what seemed hours, though in retrospect, Abraham knew his mother and the others gathered would not have stood for that, even if he did frighten them. It had probably lasted no more than an hour.

The words had poured around Abraham in a meaningless jumble. He'd sat huddled up against his mother, who sat numb and motionless, staring through the preacher and the back wall of the church as if gazing into the pits of h.e.l.l. Abraham was used to his mother being close and far away at the same time. He was used to her mumbling words he couldn't understand, or starting from her seat and crying out when nothing had happened. He was used to the stares of his neighbors, and the quiet disapproval of his family.

Jonathan Carlson had been loved and respected, but Sarah Carlson had never been welcome on the mountain. She was not one of them; her beliefs were not their beliefs. More than once Abraham had heard it whispered that she belonged more with that other church-that other preacher. The one who'd led the congregation at the white church. They said she dragged Jonathan Carlson into the shadows, and now, with his body not even in its grave, their enmity bubbled to the surface.

When the spew of fire and brimstone finally burned itself out, they trickled outside. Reverend Forbes, looking exceedingly uncomfortable in the bright sunshine, hovered in the back corner of the small graveyard. They had brought Jonathan Carlson's body around slowly, his box built of the same rough-hewn wood they used in the church-taken from the mountain, and returned to it-as was their way.

Reverend Forbes said nothing, but his mood darkened. His brow knotted with furrows of disdain and his lip quivered with the desire to scream at them all. Abraham saw it in the man's eyes, and the shaking palsied grip he kept on his Bible, which he brought no closer to the vines or flowers of the graveyard than he had to the stone of the church itself. Something in the moment kept him quiet. Maybe it was the grim, solemn faces of the men who carried the casket. Maybe it was the dark, shawled and hooded silence of the women, or the whisper of the wind mocking them from the tree branches and filling in words where all of them disdained speech.

Reverend Forbes didn't belong. He knew it, they knew it, and whoever's idea it had been to invite him into their church, and their lives, regretted it. He couldn't wait to remove himself from the graveyard. He was ready to rush back to his own congregation with tales of the barbarians in the hills, the ancient evils that permeated their stone church, and the pa.s.sing into darkness of all that was not born of his own mind.

Abraham had heard stories when he'd grown older. They were a different sort up in Friendly, California. They had ceremonies and beliefs that were born of different blood. Not younger or less deeply rooted, but very different. There were very few on the mountain with contact or kin in Friendly. Many of their number had filtered down toward San Valencez, or further over the mountains into Nevada, or Arizona, but in those hills and mountains the roads separating one folk from another might as well have been on different planets.

They laid his father in the grave gently, lowering him one slow inch at a time by ropes knotted firmly into eyelets at each corner of the crude coffin. As they worked, they sang in very low tones, more a rumble of sound than a hymn. If they fell silent, there were echoes of their voices in the deep thunder of falling stones, or the soft brush of wind through trees. They sang in the tongue of the mountain, and it was over this that Reverend Forbes spoke the final words Abraham remembered.

"Ashes to ashes, dust..."

That p.r.o.nouncement had been all Abraham could stand. Without a word he'd bolted from the graveyard, smashing one knee on the iron gate in pa.s.sing. He cried out, and for a moment the Reverend Forbes had been silenced.

Abraham hadn't seen what came next, but he knew the ritual. He knew the exquisitely slow process of returning the dead to the earth. He knew the words that would be spoken, both those that Reverend Forbes would use, and those that the family would speak. He knew what would be sprinkled into the dirt, and what would be buried with the dead.

None of it made it any more real. He had seen the box, but he could not equate it with his father. He heard the words and the moaning, keening song echo in his mind, but none of it was familiar. None of it rang true. None of it would make the slightest difference in the long run, because it could not bring back his father.

Abe grew silent as the memory faded. There was more, but he couldn't force the memories into words that would make sense. Somehow, while he spoke, Kat had found a way to slip up under his arm and lay her head on his shoulder. She'd listened quietly, not interrupting, or even moving, as far as he remembered.

"What happened to the church?" she asked after a long, shared silence. "I mean, when your father died, who took over?"

"No one, as far as I know," Abe shrugged. "There were a few elders, but none of them was an educated man, and they all had families and responsibilities. Somehow, when one keeper pa.s.sed on, there had always been another ready to take over. It wasn't a ministry in the same sense as you'd find here."

He drifted off again, just for a second. In his mind he saw the old church as he'd last seen it. He saw the stems of dried, forgotten flowers, and he knew that his mother had been there often, to the church, and to his father's grave. No one else went there. They all remembered-there was no way they could forget-but after Jonathan Carlson's death, and the flight of his son into the world beyond the mountain, they had hardened their minds and their hearts.

Some went up to Reverend Forbes's church, as he'd told them was proper. Others found their moments of worship on their own, gathered in barns and parlors, or even took the long drive down to the Catholic Ma.s.s at San Marcos by the Sea, though the journey meant being up hours before the break of dawn and being half way down the mountain. The old ways were not the ways of Reverend Forbes or of the churches in the valley and on the coast, and they would not die easily. Still, without the central focus and leadership Abe's father had provided, it was difficult to imagine how things could have been preserved as they were before.

At first Abraham and his mother cleaned the stone church. She had gone twice a day, dusting and sweeping, and he had weeded the path, patched leaks, and kept the grounds clear. All but the graveyard. Abraham hadn't set foot in there since the funeral, and this lent a further solemnity to the memory.

He had never had a proper moment to pay respect to the man who'd helped to give him life, and who had taught him so much about what he could do with his hands, and his mind. Nothing on Earth could have pried Jonathan Carlson off his mountain, but he'd known of other places, and other times, and he'd shared that knowledge with his son.

"I wouldn't be here now," he concluded, "if he hadn't given me the dreams, and for that I thanked him by running away, abandoning my mother, and never even visiting his grave."

There was a sudden bitter edge to his voice that he fought to soften, and failed. The dreams and reminiscing had opened floodgates of emotion he'd worked years to sh.o.r.e up, and he had no defense against it.

"But," Katrina's voice cut the deepening silence, "what does it all have to do with what's happening now? I mean, why the letter? Who is 'back?' Who was that on the phone, and these dreams...?"

Abraham hugged her and leaned his head sideways to rest on hers.

"I wish I knew," he said at last.

"Will you go back?" she asked softly. "At least to see your mother?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I want to see her. I'd even like to see the mountain, and maybe visit my father's grave, but I don't want to be sucked back into that place-or that life."

"You still didn't say who 'he' is," she chided, poking him in the ribs. "The note said 'he's back,' and I know it can't mean your father. There are still things you aren't telling me."

Abe nodded slowly. "I'll tell you-probably soon, now that it's all coming out in the open, but not tonight. It's a long story. In fact, if the 'he' of the note is who I sense that it is it isn't any more possible than if it were my father she spoke of. That man is dead, as well-though maybe a part of him lingers on. Some things should never be left unfinished."

"What did you leave unfinished?" she asked, her voice taking on a note of exasperation. "Abe what are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry," he replied, and hugged her tightly. "I'm thinking and talking at the same time. I didn't leave anything unfinished. My father did. He didn't finish 'The Cleansing'."

Kat started to poke him again and ask him to explain, but at that moment, the phone rang.

SEVEN.

Sarah climbed slowly up the ancient path. It had been several years since she'd made the climb, and it was obvious from the condition of the path that no others had been up it recently. The undergrowth to either side had encroached so that, had she waited another season, it might have been difficult to find where the trail had run.

There had been a time when Sarah had climbed to the old stone church daily, sometimes more often than that, if something needed fetching. Now the ache in her back and the scratches of the weeds and brambles lining the path made her wonder if she could accomplish it even once. She leaned on an oak staff she kept for such journeys, and she depended on it for support more than she would have liked. She was painfully aware of the solitude of the path, and the dangers of the forest. Not that she feared wild animals, or the men of the mountain. She had lived with those perils since the day Jonathan brought her home. It was that other. She felt him in every step. He seeped up through the dirt and gra.s.s beneath her feet, wrapped around her ankles in the caress of long gra.s.s and vibrated in the breath of the wind. She still didn't know for certain who it was this time. The sh.e.l.l did not matter as much as the essence, and that she recognized well enough. The day was hot. Wherever the sun had regular access to the earth, it had dried to dust. The surfaces of rocks gave off a hazy, surreal wave that warped her vision of what lay beyond them. Sweat rolled down her forehead, matted the graying ends of her hair, and plastered the cotton of her dress to her back. She gripped the walking stick tightly and plowed ahead. She wanted to make it to the church before noon so there would be plenty of time to get back down the mountain before sunset.

There were ways to protect yourself, but they were less effective with the sun down behind the horizon and shadows dancing around your feet. All the rules changed when you were in the enemy's front yard. That's what the forest had become. Every branch, every twig of it would bend to his will if he called to them, and though she had a much more powerful support to lean on, there was no sense in being foolish.

Jonathan had been foolish. Jonathan had trusted too much in the inherent good nature of a race that was not known for its inherent good nature. Sarah had told him again and again that he could not expect others to react to life in the same manner that he himself reacted. In all the years of her life she had never met another man like him-though Abraham had shown promise of becoming something very similar.

Jonathan's faith had been his strength, but in the end it had proved his weakness as well. It was wise, Sarah knew, to be careful whom and what one placed their faith in-whether it was church, friends, or kin.

The trail seemed longer and steeper than she remembered. Still, despite the heat and the extra exertion, it wasn't long before she came in sight of the old church. It wasn't like that other, with its gleaming white walls and peaked roof. Jonathan's church was low-slung and built by hand.

It had no high walls, or baptismal pool. There were no fine oak pews; the stone benches were cold and uncomfortable from early fall through the spring, despite the fireplaces centering the walls on either side. Rough-hewn wood framed the windows and the door. Most of the gla.s.s was still intact. The door hung open, but the hinges, though rusty, still held its weight, and it swung easily.

Sarah stood in front of that door for a long time, staring. She watched the wind catch it, swing it wider, and then crash it back into the frame, only to have it swing open again at the insistent call of gravity.

She walked slowly around the left side of the building. The untended gra.s.s grew up and over the stones that had been laid in place of a sidewalk. Those stones, she knew, had fallen from the mountain-Jonathan would have said, "Given freely, and returned." They had been rolled into place, one by one, using no tool but an old spade for digging the holes, and occasionally a wheelbarrow so old that the wheel had been solid rubber and nothing but faith prevented the rusted bed from breaking loose of the frame.

Sarah had stood by and watched as Abraham steadied that precarious conveyance more than once, wondering if the rocks it carried were going to crash down on his foot, or break his leg. Jonathan had always mumbled something about faith at those moments and trundled on.

The rocks had spared Abe's feet, and the path was paved with the very bones of the mountain. From the first time Sarah had walked across them, they'd emanated a sense of permanence that was hard to explain. Like the church itself. It had been built and maintained by hand for over a century. Every bit of it, with the exception of the gla.s.s, had come from the mountain, and Sarah knew that if Jonathan, or those who'd come before, could have found a way to grind the gla.s.s for their own windows, they would have done so cheerfully.

She followed the stones around to the back of the church and stopped just short of the rear wall to steady herself. The sun was high in the sky, and what there were of shadows were short and impotent in the mid-day brilliance. Despite this, a shiver snaked up her spine. She took a deep breath, rounded the corner, and followed the walk leading away from the rear of the building. A moment later, she pa.s.sed beneath a wrought iron arbor snarled with vines and flowers and humming with the rhythmic pulsing life of hundreds of bees.

The graveyard was as she remembered it. Sarah hadn't seen it since the day of Jonathan's funeral, except to tend it once or twice. The disuse and overgrowth couldn't distance this day from the one so long ago. The flowers had been carried in that first time, instead of growing up through cracks in the stone and dangling on vines from the fence. Instead of a cotton dress, Sarah, like everyone in attendance, had worn black.

Sarah wasn't sure where the congregation had gotten their clothes. She'd never seen most of them in anything but overhauls or jeans, but they'd come in that day, heads bowed, starched and pressed into strange, surreal cubist versions of themselves, all the lines too harsh, all the angles and shades drained of their softness and their shades of gray.

Sarah walked down the center of the small lot, ignoring the stones buried in the earth to either side of her. They bore the names of generations of men who'd built and tended the church. Their stones, like those of the walk, came from the mountain. She stopped near the rear and turned.

Nature had not done half-bad as a gardener. The earth surrounding Jonathan's grave was fairly clear of vines and leaves. The stone was easily visible, a jagged point of rock sticking up from the earth at an angle, as if pointing the way to Heaven. In the face of it were carved the words "The Reverend Jonathan Carlson. 1932-1992. G.o.d called him home."

The script was crude, but legible, and it had borne the brunt of sun and storm. Sarah was startled by dampness on her cheek and the sudden hot rush of tears that followed. She had visited this place now and then in the year or so following Jonathan's death. Then, as time wore on, and the elders let the church fall into disrepair, open to the weather and the animals, she slowly cut down her visits, first to once a week, then once a month, and now? Now it had been a least a year since she'd trekked up the mountain to pay respect to the only man she'd ever loved.

She remembered clearly standing next to that same grave and watching Abraham tear out through the arbor beneath the vines as if the devil himself followed on his heels. She had wanted to follow him and comfort him, but there was no comfort for the boy that day, and she had duties of her own. Jonathan would not bury himself, though considering the selfless way he lived his life it would not much have surprised Sarah if he had.

And Reverend Forbes, from over in Friendly; what a mistake it had been to invite him into their group. What should have been a day of thanksgiving and a send off for her husband to meet his G.o.d had become a surreal blend of painful images she couldn't wipe from her memory. Sarah hoped fervently that Jonathan had been beyond watching what transpired in the world he'd left behind by the time Reverend Forbes began the final rant that had ushered the casket into the mountain's embrace.

A sudden gust of wind caught her hair and lifted it from her shoulders. Leaves swirled around her feet, and she glanced up at the sky in shock. Moments before it had been warm, the sun bright and lighting the land with its golden rays. Now dark clouds scudded across a darkening horizon and she saw that another storm was rolling in.

Dismayed, she turned toward the gates of the cemetery and the church beyond. It was no place to weather a storm. The shutters on the windows needed repair, and the door wouldn't stay closed. She could get a fire going in one of the old fireplaces, but that would provide only minor solace in the face of a mountain thunderstorm.

It wasn't natural, that much was obvious to her. The day had been beautiful and golden, and she had not sat in the graveyard very long. The mountain was known for its "mood swings" of weather, but there was an ominous, brooding presence in this wind, a biting chill that was out of season and somehow very personal.

She shouldn't have come here alone. She shouldn't have left the protections of her home without being certain that she could return to them. She had consulted with no one before making her way up the mountain. It was a mistake that Jonathan would have warned her about, had he been present.

The front door of the old church slammed shut with a screech of rusted hinges and an explosion of sound that nearly stopped her heart. Birds erupted from the two chimneys and nearby trees, startled into sudden flight by the sound. They wheeled off up the mountain in search of shelter. Sarah followed their progress with her gaze, and she knew what she had to do. There was only one place she could go where she might be safe. She'd never make it down the mountain before the storm hit, but if she went up...

She hurried from the small graveyard and gasped as the wind whipped a spray of dust and leaves into her face. She shielded her eyes with one hand, turned away from the church and the path back down the mountain and followed the trail leading up the mountain. It wasn't too far, she knew, but it had been a very long time since anyone had pa.s.sed that way. The path was there, but overgrown and narrow, and it was impossible to move quickly.

The trees themselves seemed bent, leaning inward to block the way with new growth of slender, whip-like bows and green clinging leaves. The sun was all but gone, and the dark shadows of the storm crept just beyond her sight, darting from tree trunk to tree trunk and circling her feet when she glanced away.

Sarah's breath grew ragged. She fought her way through increasingly thick vines. One of the ropy tendrils gripped her ankle and she lurched forward, tried to catch herself on a tree trunk, and missed. One moment she was placing her palm against the tree, and the next, it was a shadow-and she was falling.

The fall seemed to take forever. Sarah saw the path approach at a skewed angle as the world turned on its side. The wind howled along the ground and sent a flurry of dust and debris across her vision. Within that maelstrom she saw forms move and reform. Her knee struck the ground hard and she cried out at the sharp pain. She rolled at the last second, caught shrubbery to one side of the trail with her hip and managed not to come down straight on anything that might snap.

The impact jarred her from her fog, and she struggled to all fours and gazed wildly up the trail. She still had a ways to go. The trail disappeared into what seemed to be an impenetrable maze of thorns and brambles. Leaves and small branches blew in gusts and whirling clouds that obscured what little there was to see of the path, and the darkness had grown complete. Slashing rain knifed through the overhanging branches and stung her neck and eyes, matting her hair to her skin, and the ground where her clutching fingers dug in for purchase ran with water and mud so that she sank in to her knuckles.

Sarah tried to rise. She pressed into the earth, felt it give some, and then hold. Her knees were damp through the material of her skirt, but the ground beneath her was firm. There was a tickling sensation along her chest, but she ignored it, thinking it was a rivulet of rain running down the neck of her dress. Sarah lifted one foot, planted it, and pressed herself up with a lurch she meant to bring her upright and send her stumbling up the path.

Something clamped around her neck, and as she pushed up from the trail, it held her down, suspended about two feet off the ground. She got to her knees, bent double and panicked, but whatever had her would not release its grip, and the pressure at the back of her neck threatened to send her sprawling once more. Her hands clutched at the air beneath her face and she found it. Her necklace, the equal armed cross, was caught on something. It had held her down, and the sound that erupted from her throat was near-hysterical laughter and relief. She leaned closer to the ground, feeling along the length of the chain toward the pendant to find whatever had caught it and set it free.

Except that she could not. There was something wound around it, a string, or a cord-a vine. Sarah whipped her head to the side to get the dripping locks of hair out of her eyes. She gripped the thing and tugged, but it wouldn't come free of the earth, and thorns tore into the soft flesh of her palms. She cried out again, and then bit back the sound. She didn't know who or what might be out there to hear her. Under her breath, Sarah began to pray. She worked at the necklace, then at the vine, sawing at the green ropy loop with the links of the chain, but making no progress.

She murmured her thanks to each of the archangels in turn through the shuddering sobs and the shaking, shivering spasms that the icy rain drove through her in waves. She spoke the ancient words carefully, and she worked the chain back and forth, fighting the urge to jerk back and away, to break free at all costs and flee back down the mountain to whatever fate awaited, as long as she could be off that wet, cold ground and free of the throbbing, biting pain at the back of her neck.

She spoke the final name and in that instant, a small light broke through the pines overhead. She saw the trail. Huge drops of rain splashed in the rushing torrent of water rolling down the trail. She saw the vine, snaking out from the trees at the side of the trail and wrapped round and round her chain, forming a coc.o.o.n of greenery around the equal armed cross. She saw other vines reach tentatively for her fingers, hoping to snare her as well.

And she remembered. Her mind cleared just long enough to remember that the chain was not whole. It had a clasp, and if she could get that loose, she could slide it free and put it back on. Then she would run and slide and scramble back to the old church, despite the cold and the wind and the rain, start a fire and huddle there until the sun and the daylight returned, or someone came looking for her.

She released the vine, and the light disappeared. Fumbling at the chain, she found the clasp behind her neck and in moments she had it free. She gave a soft grunt of satisfaction and started to pull back, reaching for the pendant as she did so.

Her wrists were grabbed roughly from behind and held there, over her head, as the chain and pendant dropped to the mud beneath her and washed slowly down the hill. The darkness dissipated slightly, but instead of the golden light of moments past, it was the deep yellow-green of thunderstorms, and the rain caught glistening droplets of that light and flung them to the ground all around her in sparkling circles.

She cried out as the grip on her wrists tightened. She was lifted to her knees in the mud. Water ran down her face and dripped from the grey strands of her hair. Her body ached with the strain, and she blinked through the rain, trying to make out what was happening, to see, or to hear, who or what had her. Beneath her, the pendant glinted in the odd light, caught for a moment on a branch, and then washed off down the trail, the chain sliding behind it like a tail.

And he was there. She didn't know at what point Silas Greene stepped in front of her, because her attention had been focused on the pendant. When she glanced up he stood before her, his face a dark, smiling mask of triumph and something she could not quite make out rising up and away from him. The shadows of overhead branches had detached themselves from the trees and come to light above his head as if he'd sprung branches of his own.

"Like antlers," she breathed. And she remembered. A huge shudder rippled through her frame, and her breath caught in her throat. "You," she choked on the word, but managed to spit it free.

"Yes," he agreed. "And one other you may recall, though it has been many years. I think you'll remember her, Sarah. I know she remembers you-you and that fool husband of yours. It's really too bad the boy isn't here-it would make such a party."

Sarah struggled. She fought at whatever held her wrists, but all her effort won her was a tightening of the bonds and more searing agony in her wrists, and then in her shoulders.

"What do you want?" she asked, knowing the answer but fighting for time. "What do you want from me?"

"I want nothing," he said with a quick shrug. "But I am not the only one involved here, am I Sarah? You may remember that my companion can grow-hungry."

There was an odd sloshing sound, and the pressure on Sarah's wrists and shoulders increased. She was lifted slowly, and the strain made it too painful to struggle. She cried out at the new pain, but Greene stood calmly watching her, as if she were no more to him than the leaves blowing about his feet. Sarah's vision blurred as the pain drove her toward darkness. As she faded she saw Silas Greene silhouetted against a huge horned shadow figure, at least three times his height, wrapping around him and moving with him like a shroud.

The light dimmed, and by the time Sarah's legs dangled helplessly in the air, and the rope-like roots that bound her began dragging her toward the trees, the shadows were complete.

Halfway down the trail toward the old stone church, the chain of Sarah's pendant had caught on a stone. Water ran down and around it, splashing over the squared arms and the intricate, deeply carved design. Greene stopped as he pa.s.sed it, glanced down, and watched for a moment as dirt and stones gathered around the glittering object, hiding it from the dim light. When it was no longer visible, he stepped on top of the grit and ground in the heel of his foot. Then, without a glance over his shoulder, he started down the mountain.

EIGHT.

The second phone call was the same as the first. When Abraham lifted the receiver and held it to his ear, no one spoke.

"Who is this?" he asked, his voice sharper than he'd intended. He didn't want to alarm Kat any more than he already had, but the dream, and the confession afterward, had drained him.

He thought there was the sound of breathing at the other end of the line. He thought, maybe, that he heard traffic, trucks pa.s.sing on a highway, but he couldn't be sure. Then he heard the distinct click of the line disconnecting, followed by the dial tone.

Abe stared at the phone for a moment, frowned, and hung up. When he turned, Kat was staring at him.

"Well?" she asked.