He scooped half a dozen sheets of paper out of the trash one-handed. "These are not garbage. The writing staff can use the backs for notes."

She nodded although it was clear she had no idea what she was agreeing with.

"Carry on."

For her age, she moved remarkably quickly back up the stairs. CB followed considerably more slowly, the knees that ended his football career protesting painfully as they hauled his weight back up to the first floor. He flicked off the bas.e.m.e.nt lights, recrossed the production office, and paused at the door to the bull pen. No. He'd give the paper to the writers in the morning. They'd likely need it explained.

Back in his own office he tossed the papers on the desk.

Paused.

Picked up the top sheet. Thick, slightly rough. Drawing paper. Blank on both sides.

Wasteful. Perhaps it was time to have a word with . . .

Flicking on the desk lamp, he aimed the circle of light directly at the sheet of paper. Faint gray lines ghosted across the page. There. And then gone. Although under the caress of a fingertip, the imprint of a pattern remained. Something was definitely going on.

"It's no use." Henry sat back in his chair, allowing Tony to look away and break the contact between them. "There's definitely something blocking the memories."

"Shock?"

"Perhaps. I've seen shock block memories in the past and for all your experience with the . . . unusual, you've never had the corpse of a friend drop at your feet before."

Tony sighed. "She wasn't exactly a friend.""And you feel guilty about that now she's dead?"

"No. Maybe." He picked at the faded patch of denim on one thigh. "I don't know. Henry, what is it if it isn't shock?"

"I have no idea."

"Educated guess?"

Prince of Darkness safely tucked away, Henry smiled and stood, dragging his chair back to its usual place at the dining room table. "You must believe I had an interesting education, Tony."

"Well, yeah. Interesting experiences anyway."

"True enough. But, in this instance, none of them seem to apply."

Tony didn't entirely believe that, but since he had nothing to back up an accusation except that Henry was spending just a little too much time fiddling with the chair, he dropped his gaze to his watch before his face gave the whole thing away. The numbers took a moment to sink in, but when they did he stood. "Oh, c.r.a.p. It's almost 3:00. No wonder I'm feeling so punchy. I've got to get going."

"Why not stay here?"

"Why not?"

Henry ignored him. "There's an extra bed and a change of clothes and we're not a lot farther from Burnaby than your apartment. What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?"

"Uh . . . unit call's at 9:30."

"An early enough call given that it's nearly 3:00."

What he could see of Henry's expression showed nothing more than an almost neutral concern. They were long over and he'd ended it. They were friends. Friends had the keys to friends' apartments. Friends offered crash s.p.a.ce. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to stay."

"Good."

"Will you be . . ." Funny how a distance of eighteen months suddenly made what had once been a perfectly normal question sound like horror movie dialogue. "... going out to Hunt?"

"No." One hand rose to tug at the edge of the cream-colored sweater. "It's too late."

Suddenly the earlier indecision over which shirt to wear made sense. Tony felt his cheeks flush. Knew Henry was aware of the sudden rush of blood and that only made it worse. "You were on your way out."

"Yes."

"You were going to feed."

A graceful nod in acknowledgment. "I'll call her tomorrow and explain."

"I'm sorry ..."

"Weighing a new acquaintance against the needs of an old friend was no choice at all, Tony.""I'm not your responsibility."

One red-gold eyebrow rose. "I know."

"I feel bad about you not feeding."

"I can wait until tomorrow night."

You don't have to. He could feel the words waiting to be said and was fairly certain Henry could as well. And if not, he knew Henry could hear his pulse pounding. Trouble was, he couldn't think of a way to say them that wouldn't make him sound like a desperate heroine in a bad romance novel. Not that he read bad romance novels or anything. It was just something that he thought a desperate heroine would say because it had been eighteen months, for f.u.c.k's sake, and Henry saw him now as a person, an individual, and surely that meant they could-all right, he could-act like an adult and not fall back into need at the feel of teeth through skin.

The moment lengthened, stretched, and pa.s.sed.

Henry smiled. "Good night, Tony."

"Yeah ..."

"It's a great piece of music, Zev, pretty d.a.m.ned near perfect, but you know CB won't pay much for it."

"Not a problem. It's a local band; they're desperate for publicity, and I can get the rights for little more than a screen credit." The music director glanced up and smiled as Tony came across the office. By the time he reached Amy's desk, Zev's smile had slipped slightly. "Are you all right? You look . . . tired."

"Just didn't get much sleep last night. All I have to do is hang on until lunch, then I can catch some zees on the couch in Raymond Dark's office."

"Catch some zees?" Amy snorted. She slid the headphones off and pa.s.sed them back to Zev. "Do people actually say that?"

He shrugged. "Apparently."

Before Tony could get up enough energy to wave a finger at the two of them, the door to CB's office opened and Barb emerged looking pale.

"Your turn, babe," the company's financial officer muttered to Zev as she pa.s.sed the desk. "Word of warning, if you want him to spend money, he's in a mood. Play this wrong and you'll end up humming the score yourself."

Amy raised a hand as Barb disappeared into her office. "I can help. I used to play the kazoo!"

"Everyone used to play the kazoo."

"In a marching band?"

"Okay, that's different."

"Sero!"The three of them winced in unison.

"Our master's voice," Amy whispered dramatically. "Good luck. Vaya con dios."

"Tracht gut vet zain gut."

"What does that mean?"

"Think good and it will be good."

"SERO!".

"Yeah, you just keep thinkin, Butch. In this particular situation, I'd push the free in free band." Amy watched Zev until the door closed behind him then turned her attention to Tony. "He's right. You look like c.r.a.p. Hot date?"

He sighed. "Weight of the world. Wasn't your hair pink yesterday?"

"Fuchsia. And that was then. What do you want?"

"Tina sent me in to see if they ..." A nod toward the closed bull pen door. "... have spit out something like the final rewrite of next week's script."

"You're in luck." She lifted a file folder off the stack of a.s.sorted papers on the floor beside her desk and handed it over. "Hot off the press. I'd have sent it in with Veronica, but she's dropping a deposit for our next location shoot off at the city manager's office.

And then getting coffee."

"What's wrong with the pot in the kitchen?"

"The writers emptied it again. What do you mean, weight of the world'?"

"Things on my mind."

"Like?"

"I don't remember."

"You need more B vitamins."

"I need . . ." He stopped, ran a hand up through his hair, and exhaled explosively. "I need to get back on set."

Her eyes narrowed. "Before something happens."

"What?"

"That's the part you didn't say. Before something happens. What's going to happen?"

"Answer the phone."

"It's not . . ." The ring cut her off. "How did you . . . ?"

Tony shrugged, turned, and headed out of the office, the familiar "CB Productions"

sounding behind him. A no brainer on the phone ringing since it rang every thirty seconds eight to ten hours a day.

Before something happens.

He had no f.u.c.king idea what Amy was talking about. All that dye was obviously affecting higher brain functions.The red light went off as he pa.s.sed the women's washroom and the sound of flushing followed him out onto the sound-stage. The living room set for the whatever-the-h.e.l.l- they-decided-to-call-it estate looked incredible even though it was the same old furniture from Raymond Dark's living room, jazzed up with a couple of cushions, a blue- and-yellow sheet, and some duct tape. One of the electricians was already sound asleep on the couch. Had Peter called lunch? Tony checked his watch, the movement dumping papers out of the file and all over the floor.

"Son of a f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h."

It had just been that kind of a day. Nothing had gone right from the moment he'd woken up in Henry's condo. Between the whole d/font>j/font> vu of that and the forgotten toast problem with his memory, he hadn't been able to concentrate on anything. Fortunately, they were killing Catherine this morning and once Nikki's replacement had been safely delivered to the set, he didn't have a lot to do.

Dropping to his knees, he started gathering up the papers.

One of them had slid almost to the edge of the fake hardwood floor. He stretched out his hand and froze as a line of shadow crossed the piece of paper and was gone. His heart started beating again as he realized the sleeping electrician's boot had moved for a moment into the light. Boot shadow. That was all.

Given the variety of lights in play, the soundstage was filled with unexpected shadows.

Tony had no idea why the thought made him feel like running.

From the corner of one eye, he caught sight of another shadow moving past him, moving out toward the offices. He whirled around too fast for balance and nearly fell. The shadow was attached to a sound tech. Probably heading in to jiggle the toilet handle.

This is insane.

His fingers closed around the last piece of paper and he refused to turn as a second shadow slipped along the concrete heading for the door. A darker shadow. Its edges more defined.

Hurrying to catch up as the door whispered closed.

A quiet click as it latched.

There, and he hadn't looked.

Clutching the file, he stood, took half a dozen steps toward the set, and realized he'd only heard one set of footsteps go by. The sound tech.

The second shadow had been moving in total silence.

Something . . .