Sorcerer, she thought. Demon.

She'd be a fool to let herself fall under his spell again ... but she could not seem to stop herself.

She'd followed him onto the train, not as a reporter but as a woman. She could admit that to herself now. She'd been so angry at him because he'd disappointed her.

She'd already been half in love with him.

She very much feared her fall was now complete.

She awoke the next morning to find him gone, along with his luggage. Frantic, she dressed in as much haste as she could manage and hurried down to the lobby. He was just turning away from the Western Union window when she caught up with him.

"My train leaves in an hour." His face was the enigmatic mask she was coming to hate. Even that sardonic eyebrow would have been an improvement.

"Did you intend to say good-bye this time?" She tried to sound curious rather than hurt but wasn't sure she succeeded.

"Yes. I'd have come back upstairs to tell you the suite is paid for through the next two nights, if you need it."

She gaped at him. "Liar!"

"No. No more lies. I mean to tell you everything ... but not just yet."

"When?"

"When I return."

"Where from?"

"I can't tell you that." When she started to protest, he pressed one finger to her lips. "I swear, Diana, I will come back to you. Go home to Manhattan and wait for me."

She gazed at him, shaken by the terrifying knowledge that she'd fallen in love with a man who was going to break her heart.

"Take care of that ankle," he added. "You should avoid walking far for at least another day." With that, he left her standing by the hotel's Western Union office, fists clenched at her sides and tears p.r.i.c.king her eyelids.

The same telegrapher who had been on duty the previous evening was there again this morning. "Doesn't look like messages for Manhattan will get through anytime soon," she offered when she recognized Diana. "The whole city's at a standstill. Mountains of snow."

Just then a loud rattling demanded the young woman's attention. While she dealt with the steady clatter of incoming messages in Morse Code, Diana stared at the contents of her tiny office, welcoming any distraction. A line wire entered through the wall, connecting a telegraph pole outside to the telegrapher's key, which sat on a table next to a cut-off switch, a steel-pen-and-ink-bottle ensemble, and a supply of message blanks. On the wall between the operator and the half door that kept customers at a distance, were a series of hooks upon which message papers were filed after they'd been sent. The top one was close enough to read.

As the words leapt into focus, Diana's heart began to beat faster. This had to be the telegram Damon Bathory had just sent. She leaned closer, squinting to see the address. Belatedly, reading the destination, she was able to identify the trace of regional accent she'd heard, time and again, in his voice, confirming her conviction that he'd sent it. Not Buffalo. She hadn't expected it would be.

The message, which said only that he was on his way home, was unsigned. That didn't trouble her. What did was the fact that it was addressed to a woman. Mrs. Abraham Northcote.

If Bathory was a pseudonym, as Diana had suspected all along, then his real name could well be Northcote. Abraham Northcote?

If he'd lied about his name and his address, he might also have lied about having a wife. In fact, he probably had. Evan had found it easy enough to deny her existence any time some nubile and star-struck farm girl had wanted to throw herself at him.

What a fool she was! Return to New York and wait? Oh, yes, and he'd take her to the circus, too! She'd had the right idea in the first place -- forget all about this strange, charismatic man who wrote horror stories. She should go back to that plan.

But in her heart, she knew it was already too late. If what she now suspected -- that he was married -- was true, then he deserved to have his real ident.i.ty exposed just for deceiving her.

She drew in a deep breath, then another.

No matter what the truth was, she could not hope to put him out of her mind or her heart until she knew the whole story. Not for the newspaper, but for herself, she had to continue her pursuit of Damon Bathory.

"Good news, miss," the telegrapher said, interrupting Diana's thoughts. "My prediction was wrong. I can send to New York City now. Three dollars for ten words."

Diana seized a message blank, then paused, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. She needed authorization to relay telegrams through a press operator. Foxe would also have to send her a voucher for a cash disburs.e.m.e.nt. She intended to repay every cent "Damon Bathory" had spent on her.

It took more than ten words, and Diana was very glad of Jerusha's generosity when she paid for them. She used a little more of her friend's money to buy a carpetbag in which to pack her few possessions. She was tempted to throw away the things Bathory had bought for her, but she could not spare any of her clothes. The cameo brooch she buried deep. It hurt too much to remember how hopeful she'd felt when he'd pinned it to her gown.

When she consulted a train schedule, Diana learned that the earliest connection she could get would bring her to her destination at 5:45 in the morning. Better to wait a bit, she decided. Go later and arrive at a reasonable hour. But when she went back to the suite, intending to nap until it was time to depart, she found that memories of the previous night would not let her rest.

She paced.

And fretted.

And did not sleep.

When it was finally late enough to leave the hotel, she felt as if she'd been through a wringer. Jaw set, temper simmering, she limped up to the station master's window at the railroad depot.

"Where to, ma'am?" the agent asked.

"Bangor," she told him, reciting the city named in the telegram to Mrs. Abraham Northcote. "Bangor, Maine."

Chapter Eleven.

Another telegram awaited Ben in Boston. He swore when he read it. The crisis was over. Aaron was no longer missing. There had been no need to rush home, no need to leave Diana so soon.

Better this way, he tried to tell himself. He would go back to New York for her when everything had been resolved. He needed to settle a few things before he could be completely honest with her.

First among his problems was Aaron, who had taken a very long time to get home. According to this latest telegram, he'd told their mother he hadn't been caught in the storm. But neither had he been able to recall much of what had happened to him since he'd left Manhattan a week ago. He'd remembered arriving in Stamford and then, much later, in Boston.

Could he have returned to New York in the interim?

Ben did not like the direction of his thoughts. Surely it was a coincidence that Aaron had been in Philadelphia when that woman had been killed. And even if he hadn't left New York after all, or had gotten off the train, or had returned from the first stop, he'd have had no reason to hurt Diana.

But Ben remembered his brother's concern in the park that they do something about being followed. By the time they'd met in the coffee shop and Ben had put Aaron on the train for home, Aaron had been acting as if he'd forgotten all about Diana. But with Aaron, one never knew.

This is crazy, Ben thought, not without irony. Aaron was no killer. And he certainly could not carry out a series of pre-mediated crimes. Besides, Aaron had never been to San Francisco, where that other woman had been murdered.

Bone-weary, he sc.r.a.ped a hand across his face and took a seat on a straight-backed wooden bench to wait for his train. Briefly, he considered finding a hotel and getting some sleep before he continued on to Bangor. There was no rush now, but neither was there any reason to delay going home.

The moment he rested his elbow on the iron arm rest, new doubts a.s.sailed him. His brother had seemed in perfect command of himself when they'd parted company. Ben had let his guard down. Aaron was smart enough to get himself home on his own, but he was also clever enough -- devious enough -- to have made new plans, especially if he'd believed he had a good reason to.

He'd had a strong reaction to Diana Spaulding. Ben wondered if she affected everyone that way. In spite of his concern about his brother's whereabouts he had himself been unable to get her out of his mind on the train journey from New Haven to Boston. If Aaron had been similarly obsessed, and beset by an irrational dislike of the woman, could he have felt driven to slip back into New York and attack her?

Ben rubbed his pounding temples. Aaron could have been the man in the alley last Sat.u.r.day night, but he could not have been on the train with them. He could not have been responsible for Diana's fall.

Had there been something sinister about Diana's near-fatal accident? He'd almost broached the subject with her before he left New Haven, almost asked if she thought someone might have struck her from behind. Or given her a push. But he hadn't wanted to spoil their time together.

On the surface, such an attack seemed unlikely, but he wished he hadn't been half asleep at the time. He hadn't even seen Diana leave the parlor car, let alone anyone following her. He hadn't known she was in danger until Jerusha screamed for help. If there had been two attacks on her, Ben could only take consolation from the fact that Diana would soon be safely back in New York. Everyone else on the train -- including him -- was headed somewhere else.

When his thoughts circled back to Aaron again, Ben stood and began to pace. The sooner he got home, the better. He had a few pointed questions to ask his brother. What happened next would depend upon Aaron's answers.

Diana arrived in Bangor, a city of some 17,000 souls, in late morning on the special Sunday "paper train." She was stiff and sore after sitting up all the way from New Haven. All the minor injuries she'd sustained over the last week throbbed in unison.

At the depot, a conveyance waited to pick up pa.s.sengers for the Windsor Hotel. Since it sounded a respectable sort of place and the driver looked clean, she hobbled over and allowed him to a.s.sist her into a seat. Her meager baggage was hoisted into the back, landing with an audible thud. Diana scarcely noticed. She was too tired, and her ankle felt as if it had swollen to the size of a ripe melon.

After a few minutes, when it appeared that she was to be his only pa.s.senger, the driver mounted the box and clicked his tongue at the pair of bays in the traces. They set off through a goodly city Diana was in no shape to appreciate, although she did notice a few of the same signs of spring she'd seen in Manhattan before the blizzard. There was still some snow on the streets, but wheels had all but replaced runners on most of the horse-drawn vehicles and she caught sight of a robin on one brown and muddy lawn.

The driver noticed the direction of her gaze. "Bangor Tigers'll be back soon," he said enigmatically.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's the true sign of the season. The first woodsmen come back to the city after the winter in the wilds. Best not to go out unescorted at night for the next few weeks, and stay away from Exchange Street and Peppermint Row. Those fellas are no great respecters of womankind, if you know what I mean."

Bemused, Diana thanked him for the warning.

The Windsor was a presentable place, bigger than she'd antic.i.p.ated but relatively inexpensive at $1.50 a night. Grateful for small favors, Diana checked in, spending Jerusha's last fifteen cents to tip the porter. This ensured that he'd bring up kindling and a hodful of coal and light a fire for her. A few hours later, warm at last, Diana fell into an exhausted sleep that lasted well into the next day.

Much restored, although she was still limping a bit, she made her way to the Bangor office of the Western Union Telegraph Company. A scene of chaos and disarray met her. The clicking out of dots and dashes sounded like the buzz of angry bees.

"Moving," a harried-looking fellow told her. "We'll be in our new digs downstairs a week from today."

In the meantime, confusion reigned. Diana was obliged to wait while the young man consulted his supervisor, who in turn sought the guidance of the manager. Diana had plenty of time to fret.

If Foxe had not responded to the telegram she'd sent from New Haven, she would be in dire straits. She couldn't even afford to eat unless he wired money, having exhausted the funds Jerusha had lent her with this impetuous journey to Maine.

Diana knew of only one person who lived in Bangor and she could scarcely seek out the mysterious Mrs. Northcote and throw herself on her mercy, especially if it turned out that Damon Bathory was Mr. Northcote. She needed time to discover more about the situation here before she approached anyone.

To her immense relief, several communications from Horatio Foxe had arrived. He'd sent a voucher for a sizeable sum, which she collected on the spot. Further, he'd authorized her to send future dispatches through the press operator.

She waited to read the personal message he'd sent until she'd fortified herself with a substantial meal. The telegram was congratulatory. He approved of her decision to follow Damon Bathory and applauded her continued quest to discover his secrets, but he added an unexpected bit of information to the end of the communication.

Diana reread the brief words. Their meaning did not change. Foxe had learned more about Belinda MacKay and Lenora Cosgrove. He'd established another link between the two women, besides the fact that each had been stabbed to death in an alley in the theatrical district of her respective city.

The luncheon Diana had just consumed threatened to rebel. Her hands had turned to ice, to match the chill running down her spine.

Belinda MacKay had written a theatrical gossip column under the name Dolly Dare. Lenora Cosgrove, anonymously, had been a theater critic. Both women had attended one of Damon Bathory's lectures and then complained in print of the excessive violence and gore in his tales of terror.

"Is something wrong, miss?" the waiter asked.

"No. No, of course not." She hastily tucked the telegrams away and paid her bill.

Once outside in the cool, crisp air, her mind cleared. This news did not change anything. Not yet. It did, however, make the next task on her agenda all the more urgent to accomplish.

Horatio Foxe thought she'd come here in pursuit of a story. Now he expected her to find evidence that Bathory was guilty of murder. Diana's real purpose had been to find out if he'd lied to her. That was still her goal. She'd decide what to do about determining guilt or innocence once she found proof of his real ident.i.ty.

After asking the way, she went to the offices of Bangor's morning paper, the Daily Whig and Courier. She had meant all along to discover as much as she could about the Northcote family before she approached any one of them. It had even occurred to her that she might have made a terrible mistake and jumped to an entirely erroneous conclusion. It was possible Mrs. Abraham Northcote had no connection to Damon Bathory at all, or was a housekeeper or a neighbor.

Looking for any mention of the name Northcote in back issues of the Whig and Courier, Diana soon found a reference to Mrs. Abraham. The woman to whom the telegram had been sent appeared to be a pillar of local society. She'd been an honored partic.i.p.ant in festivities the previous Labor Day.

Working backwards, Diana found Mrs. Northcote's name on guest lists for various teas and charity events. Not until she'd encountered a half dozen references, however, did one mention that Mrs. Abraham Northcote was a widow.

My mother has a cat she dotes upon.

Damon Bathory's casual remark took on new importance as Diana continued searching the newspaper archives. Determined to proceed in a logical, professional manner, she worked her way through several years' worth of old newspapers. Not once did she find the surname Bathory, but there were other mentions of Northcotes. One Aaron Northcote appeared to be an artist. Benjamin Northcote was a physician.

"Finding what you want, miss?" A newspaper employee peered anxiously at her over the tops of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

Diana hesitated, reluctant to reveal too much to a stranger. On the other hand, direct questions generally produced answers. "Do you know the Northcote family?"

A cautious nod answered her. He poked the gla.s.ses teetering near the tip of his long narrow nose back into place a half second before they could tumble to the hard plank floor.

"I only ask because I want to be sure I have the right family. Mrs. Abraham Northcote is, I gather, the matriarch?"

The clerk's suspicions seemed to ease a little. "That's right. She and her two unmarried sons live up in that big house on the west side of the city. The one with the gargoyles on the fence."

That seemed to fit!

"One of the sons just got back from a trip, I believe."

"Both of them were gone a spell, one longer than the other."

A hail from the front of the building, where a customer waited to place an ad, prevented Diana from asking anything else, but what he'd already said appeared to confirm the conclusion she'd come to as she'd skimmed through an account of a showing at a gallery maintained by the Bangor Art a.s.sociation.

"Damon Bathory" had visited an art gallery in Manhattan, a gallery that displayed a landscape by one "A. N."

Aaron Northcote?

She had found the artwork disturbing -- in the same way Bathory's stories were unsettling.

Was it possible she'd been wrong about "Damon Bathory" being a physician? Perhaps he had simply observed one at close hand. Dislocated shoulders and turned ankles were both common injuries. An artist and writer with a doctor for a brother might know enough to feel confident treating either. The more Diana thought about it, the more logical it seemed to her that a painter might also be a writer and that he'd choose to publish his stories under a pseudonym in order to keep the two careers separate.

Satisfied she'd done enough background research, Diana collected copies of the Thursday, Friday, Sat.u.r.day, and Monday editions of Bangor newspapers to take back to her hotel room. After supper, she read every word of the Whig and Courier and the evening Daily Commercial. She no longer searched for mentions of the Northcotes. Now she was after accounts of the storm in New York City.

She'd left home just before the entire island of Manhattan had been brought to a standstill by the blizzard. Hundreds of people were dead, and the chaos was unimaginable. Seeking news of friends, rea.s.surance that no one she knew had died, Diana read every item she could find on the storm.

It was hard to believe that only a week earlier there had been the promise of an early spring in the air, especially when she read an account of a man lost in the snow in Union Square during the height of the blizzard. Diana tried to envision it. No lights. Drifts so deep he was stuck in one for twenty minutes. She could only shake her head in amazement.

Another story, reprinted from Friday's New York World, reported that some cab drivers were charging as much as fifty dollars to drive pa.s.sengers through streets clogged with drifting snow. The World had apparently organized snowshoe brigades to go out and gather news. That paper also reported that an ice bridge had formed across the East River, making it possible for people to walk from Manhattan to the opposite sh.o.r.e.