1.

On Monday, Veronica left the bank early.

She returned to the mall, and again parked by Sears. Out in the mall proper, she had no trouble smiling at the owner's of kiosks and the survey-takers.

The moment she strolled into Ralph's Scott spotted her and came out from behind the register. "Hey, Mrs. Lieber!"

"h.e.l.lo," she said. "I'm sorry, but I've come to return the clothes."

"Why?" asked Scott, bending over to look in the bags. "They messed up?"

"Not at all. I just made a mistake. You could sell p.o.r.n to a puritan."

Scott seemed suddenly amused by her comment. He leaned in, winked. "I sold you clothes you couldn't afford.

Veronica hesitated, strangely irritated at him. A boy thought she couldn't afford these things? She stared at his silver hair, his small waist, his broad shoulders, his stupid grin. "I'll bet you could sell credit cards to rich people."

Scott raised his eyebrows. "But I have a good job."

"You'd double whatever you make here."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Am I hired?" he asked, fidgeting with his name tag.

Veronica bit her lip, slowly nodded, and Scott slid off his tag, tossed it inside the store's entrance. Near the back, the manager jerked forward, calling his name. "We better hurry-Herb loves me. He'll fight to keep me," he said, taking her by the hand.

She giggled. "Slow down," she cried.

"Chill, we're almost out." Scott kicked a door open and they were in an echoing corridor, then he kicked open another door and the day appeared before them, humid and blue. "See?" he said, whispering in her ear. "I'm guessing the bank's closed-so where to?" he asked, jangling his pocketful of keys.

"We could . . . stop by my place. I think I've got an application somewhere."

The smile at the corners of the boy's mouth faded. His eyes danced with the light of a sky that, thirty miles east, married the Atlantic seamlessly at the horizon. "I'll bet you do," he said, suddenly grim as fire.

2.

Robert Lieber retired to his office following his four o'clock cla.s.s. He had papers to grade, but was exhausted. He flicked off the light and dropped his head on the desk. For half an hour sleep hovered but never fell. Finally, he dragged himself up, attempted to stand, but an agonizing pain doubled him over. His forehead smacked the desktop and he cried out. When the dizziness pa.s.sed, he vomited into the waste bucket.

With blurry eyes, he made for home. Although a terrific pain formed in his hip when he got out of the car, he made it to the front door. Doubled over, he pushed it open.

Upstairs, voices rang out.

Robert froze. The pain dulled and he strained his ears, making out more than one voice. Neither was speaking. His heart beat in thick, heavy strokes, as if it were moving congealed blood. He consciously tried to slow it, to keep it steady, and took two small steps toward the banister, grabbed the railing and made his way up the stairs, thinking strangely not of whatever might be going on up there, but of rising, sifting through the atmosphere like smoke. As he neared the top the sounds intensified but did not gain coherence. Only a cacophony of slaps and stifled yells rang out. As he stepped onto the floor, he bowed his head. It was Veronica and she was yelling. She'd been yelling all the time. He longed to feel anger, but it wouldn't come. What he was about to walk in on made sense-his wife was a puzzle he had no interest in putting together.

He pushed on the door and it moaned open. The covers thrashed. "h.e.l.lo," he said, and the sheet was suspended in mid-air a moment before draping over the now inert lovers. A head covered in silver hair emerged. His wife peered over the boy, whom he didn't recognize yet, but knew.

"Ah s.h.i.t," said Veronica, smacking her forehead.

The kid leapt from the bed, tore his pants from the floor and jumped into the first leg. That's when Robert found a name for the face. "Donaldson? Scott Donaldson?"

"I'm so sorry, Professor Lieber, so, so . . ." the boy gibbered as he looped his belt, missing more loops than he found. He clasped it, tore his shirt from the lampshade, started for the doorway. Robert turned, let him pa.s.s, then looked at Veronica. She'd let the sheets drop; her body was luminous with perspiration. I'm bored, he thought. I've caught her, it makes sense, and I'm bored.

"s.h.i.t," she repeated.

They stared for what seemed on one hand forever, and on the other a heartbeat. When he opened his mouth, he didn't know what he was about to say. "s.h.i.t? Yeah, get your s.h.i.t."

She stared a moment longer, as if judging his sincerity.

"Jenn's staying," he told her. "She's staying."

She paused, blinking, then climbed from the bed to dress. Strangely, her nakedness stirred him; her skin filled him with desire and when she knelt on the carpet to remove her suitcase from under the bed, he nearly approached her. He grabbed hold of the door frame instead.

Veronica tossed the open suitcase on the bed, then turned to him, punched her hands on her hips. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s bounced. "Do you mind?"

"Am I already a ghost to you?" he whispered, and when they looked into each other's eyes Robert found himself hoping she'd answer. She said nothing.

When she'd made it downstairs, she set the suitcases in the foyer, staring back into the den. Robert stood, and again they appraised one another. He felt there were many things he should ask, much he might say, but so little of it actually needed voicing. He found himself more hurt by her choice not to fight over their daughter than by finding her in bed with one of his students. After all, it had long ceased being their bed, while Jenn would always be their creation, the prize of their bitter union. But Veronica seemed so ready to part with her; she hadn't even asked to say goodbye. Perhaps she thought she'd be back in a day or two, thought they might reconcile.

She looked at him coolly, nodding her head. Then she walked out of his life.

Chapter Thirteen: Orphaned.

1.

William Pennerey sat in the thinly-upholstered causeuse positioned in the center of his locked office. His head rested on the oak column in its middle, and he blankly stared at his and his wife's fuzzy likenesses on the daguerreotype hanging over his mahogany desk. He supposed the process would continue to improve; perhaps someday they would replace portraits. Then he thought of his wife, who lay in her room recovering from the attack, and slowly closed his eyes. Flashes of the fallen, writhing girl, of the woman's exploded face, of the black-red circle that had bloomed a violent rose in the center of the father's back filled the darkness behind his eyes. Durham even screwed up the courage to do that last one, he thought. If you could call standing over a hog-tied man and pointing a revolver at his back courage. If that were true, however, what did you call standing there doing nothing?

Thank G.o.d Susan Greer had stormed down Main Street when she had to collect the girl. Thank G.o.d she'd shrieked, told the men to go home and pray that G.o.d wouldn't end their lives in their sleep, and thank G.o.d she'd smacked the preacher straight across his face and had asked him what G.o.d, exactly, he listened to. (Durham had stood there speechless, the print of her hand showing on his cheek.) Thank G.o.d Susan Greer had done something.

2.

Deacon Thomas Fryer had a bad back. When he walked he stooped forward, his thin legs propelling him at an awkward angle like a bird. Even his head pecked as he walked, an affectation noted and laughed at all over Tempest, but one Thomas himself had never noticed. Perhaps this was because anytime he was not seated was a time of agony.

Tonight, Thomas was upset. He'd been informed to prepare the river for baptism, and to wash the robes-but for whom? He'd heard about the unfortunate incident by the inn-and also the grumblings of several who'd been present, men who'd told him it never should have come to two dead bodies-and he'd heard that only a girl had survived it. Could it be that Durham wanted her dragged out to the river the day after he'd had her parents killed?

Deacon Fryer, stood forward and in great pain, pecked his head and mumbled to himself as he came upon the water. "Isn't right," he whispered.

3.

She'd smacked the preacher? Montague Greer, fifteen, only son of Susan and Joseph, couldn't believe it. He was stationed in his room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and not believing it. His parents were in their own room-he could hear the low moan of agitated whispering-and the girl was in the drawing room. If she'd spoken since this morning, he hadn't heard it.

Montague didn't think there had ever been an incident quite like this in Tempest, and their mother was knee deep in it. Father was furious. He'd struck her when she'd returned with the girl. But then he'd begun weeping, and this more than anything else was what filled Montague with terror. It wasn't like waiting for Father to cut a switch, wasn't like Mother screaming at him for some foolishness he'd gotten into: this was stark, naked terror.

The boy turned over on his side, slowed his breathing, and tried to make words out of the whispers coming from his parent's room.

Night had long since fallen, but Montague couldn't sleep. He'd lain there for hours, but couldn't seem to drift off.

Today had been terrible. His mother had stood for what she believed in, but their standing in Tempest might never be the same. His father ran the finances of nearly everyone here, including the church's, but Montague wasn't certain that would continue. He supposed it all depended on how many were sympathetic with Mother's stand, and how many wouldn't bow to the tremendous pressure Durham could exert on the community. Furthermore, what if the preacher declared his mother mentally ill? Durham was a firm believer in phrenology and other modern sciences, and besides his position as the caretaker of Tempest's souls, he'd long ago appointed himself overseer of the town's mental hygiene. He thought back to a year ago, when Durham had suspected Arthur Frank's wife of being both a witch and a mental deviant. After a secret trial by ordeal, she'd been found innocent, but at a tremendous cost: upon her return home, all could see that her right ear was missing, her nose wasn't right, and there were whispers of pale scars mapping her body in horrid rivers. And as far as Montague could tell, her mental state had worsened since the trial. He'd often wondered whether or not her trial had more to do with the time she'd stood up during meeting and told the preacher that it was improper to keep the church's finances a secret.

The idea of his mother undergoing such an affair brought him to tears. He rolled over, sat up, wiped his eyes, and set his feet on the floor. He glanced at the door, thought of the girl, of her laying by herself next to the window, hearing the low sounds of the town coming to rest. How alone she must feel.

Montague stood and the floor moaned. He didn't know how far he could get before his mother awoke, she being such a notoriously light sleeper, but he suddenly felt a compulsion to see the girl. He supported half his body's weight on his bed, not letting go until he could reach the doork.n.o.b. When he grabbed it, he strained his ears to listen for his father's heavy breathing, his mother's snoring, but could make out neither. He lifted up on the door as he turned it, pulled it toward him slowly, cautious to keep the hinge from crying out. Finally, he heard the sounds of his parents slumber, smiled, and took a step into the hallway.

The guest room was on the right, his parents directly before him. He pushed on the door. Somehow he kept quiet, and in seconds had entered. Strips of light fell through the window. The girl lay on her back. Silvery hair cascaded over her pillow as if only her head was above water. Then she blinked and he jumped, the wood moaning. He whispered a curse, but heard nothing. His mother wasn't screaming and his father's footsteps weren't thudding ever closer. Everything was still night-silent. So he neared her, and every step revealed another angle of her. She was stunning. Even in the dark.

His stomach felt like liquid, his hands tingled.

He sat on the edge of her bed. "h.e.l.lo," he whispered, and he felt stupid. She didn't move. He decided to try again. "My name's Montague."

She didn't speak.

Montague sat there staring at her, thinking that here was the most lovely creature he'd ever seen, and then she moved. Her hand swept out from her thighs, was motionless a second, and then it touched his hand. He nearly gasped. His entire body tingled. He felt warm all over.

Chapter Fourteen: The Test.

1.

Two weeks pa.s.sed.

The hospital released Mike Randall. He dropped out of Carmichael and returned home to convalesce. He sought out neither Mary nor Grady.

The students present in the lunchroom that day didn't talk. Either they hadn't seen much during the melee, or they simply didn't care. The word on campus was that Mike had reaped karmic back pay. Regardless, the dean asked Grady to transfer after the semester, and she agreed. f.u.c.k the f.u.c.king f.u.c.kers, she said.

Meanwhile, Mary hadn't felt well for a week. She returned to her room after her afternoon cla.s.ses. Bent over her books, she stumbled past the door, tossed the books on the bed, then crossed the room and sat next to her friend.

Grady moaned, coughed, turned over. Like wings, her eyelids fluttered. "Mare?"

"I need to hit the books."

"Oh . . . sure," said Grady, yawning.

At her desk now, Mary struck the keyboard. The screen saver snapped off and a ghostly light broke over the room. She slid the mouse about, clicking violently at random things.

"What's wrong?" asked Grady.

"I'm . . .uh, I'm . . ."

Grady sat up. "Spit it out."

"I'm late."

After a quick trip to Wal-Mart, Grady drove them back. She kept a hand on Mary's bobbing knee. "Everything'll be cool, Mare. I've missed before.

Mary stared at her with wide eyes.

"Couple of times. I was working out too hard. Hormones."

"It would be . . . you know."

"Mike's? Or Scott's?"