The freak.

Weird how a quality that most kids barely notice when you're younger can be the one thing that defines you in high school. Defines you as a loser, of course.

Back in grade school, kids thought it was cool when he could guess which number Miss Meyers was thinking of. In fourth grade Jennifer Caruso gasped in delight when he told her she'd get the lead in the school play a week before auditions even started. What used to be considered a gift was now a bad stripe, the weirdo factor that turned him from a kid with a talent to a psycho.

Someone should have warned him that it would all blow up in his face, that people would get rattled when they learned about his visions, that they'd stare at him in the grocery store, cross the street when they saw him coming, call him a psycho psychic and a r.e.t.a.r.d.

Like maybe his mother should have had the sense to tell him to crank it down a notch. But she'd always encouraged him to talk about the dreams and images that gripped his mind. When he was little, she'd told him he was seeing "angels" when people appeared in visions. She told him the reason he could read thoughts and see things other people weren't privy to was because he was special.

She should have warned him that "special kids" were the rejects in high school.

She should have told him it wasn't normal to know that your second grade teacher was thinking about the feverishly hot forehead of her son when she left for school that morning. His mother should have pointed out that other kids don't have visions of the shiny green bike they're getting for Christmas, other kids can't smell a snowstorm coming, and they definitely don't have dreams that spell out future events for them months in advance.

Not that he could have stopped the visions from coming, like flashes of light popping from cameras in the dark of a rock concert. Nothing could shut down the flow of his inner sight.

But he could have kept it to himself.

And he had stopped talking about it at school. When kids asked, he told them he couldn't do it anymore, couldn't read their thoughts or see movie reels from the future.

He'd lied.

And he was still pigeon-holed as the kid who could see too much.

The freak.

Out in the hall her footsteps touched the stairs again. The door creaked, but he didn't move from his spot on the bed as his mother paused in the doorway.

"McPherson?" he guessed.

"Yep. He gave you another day's suspension because you ditched."

"Good. I hate school."

"Jon, is it really that bad?"

Instead of answering, he turned his gaze away from her to stare at the wall, where a fading photo of Michael Jordan was partially covered by the mystic, masked eyes of Val Kilmer as Batman, a poster he'd gotten free at the movie theater. The dark, swirling world of the super-hero appealed to him. Something about the fact that Bruce Wayne could put on a mask and become someone else, a great out when you've got your mother and your princ.i.p.al and half the kids at school on your case.

"Jon?" his mother sat on a corner of the bed and put a hand on his calf. "Something's bothering you," she said, jostling him.

"Just leave me alone, okay?"

"Maybe I can help." When he didn't answer, she added, "Look, I can't fix things with Todd Neider, but I'm not afraid to give Don McPherson a piece of my mind. If you're being treated unfairly at school...well, I can push the vice princ.i.p.al..."

"Neider is the least of my worries, and McPherson is fair."

"So...it is is something else." something else."

Seeing the genuine concern in her eyes, he turned away. It would be worse to tell her; he hated to scare her. But shouldn't she be warned? It seemed so wrong not to say anything, to sit back silently and watch as the dark danger loomed ahead, a shadow rising over their lives.

He should warn her.

But what could he say? That shadows loomed in their future? That some faceless, nameless evil was on its way to them, chasing him?

"I wish you would talk to me," she said.

"Mom, you can't help. Don't you get it? I lied when I told you that I'd grown out of it. The truth is, it's worse than ever, but it's changed. If someone touches me, I can read their thoughts, things I don't want to know. I get these flashes of what's going to happen to them tomorrow, or next week. And when I go to bed, oh, c.r.a.p..." He pressed his palms to his face, wishing he could hide there. "I'm afraid to fall asleep, afraid to have one of the dreams." G.o.d, he hated admitting that he was afraid...hated it. He was too old to be afraid. it. He was too old to be afraid.

"About what? What are the nightmares about?" she asked.

"There's the nightmare where I'm being chased through a city. Scarier than it sounds. And then the one where a dark figure keeps whispering that he's my father."

Her hands tightened on his ankle. "Sounds very Luke Skywalker. Have you ever thought that maybe they're just normal nightmares. Not that they aren't scary, but-"

His sharp gaze cut off her thoughts. "It's not normal, okay. We both know it. Just 'cuz you don't want to believe it, don't want to think that I'm different different, doesn't change things. And I'm not 'special,' I'm a freak. And the things I see at night, in my dreams, they scare the sh-c.r.a.p out of me." He stared at his mother as if he could will her to believe him. "What I see at night. It's coming closer and, I think, I swear, Mom, there's someone evil involved. A guy...chasing me."

"Who?" Her eyes were dark with worry as she leaned over him.

He held back the truth, knowing she'd freak if he used the word killer killer. "I can't see his face, but I feel his presence. I can feel him getting closer, his breath on my back. He's coming after me, Mom." He sat up, his heart beating so hard he felt the pulse pound in his ears. "He's on his way, and he's trouble, Mom. Big trouble."

She shook her head, not so much disbelieving him but wanting to ward off the evil. "You're going to be okay, Jon," she said, folding him into her arms. "You know you're safe here."

Once he'd felt safe in his mother's arms, but not anymore. She couldn't protect him from getting slammed by a kid like Todd Neider, and no one, not even his mother, could save him from his nightmares.

"Why do you think I'm having nightmares about my father now?" he asked.

"You're growing up, probably wondering about him."

"You never talk about him." Probably because of the way he died, Jon thought. The accident sounded awful, but sometimes his mom acted as if the world had stopped spinning the day Dad and Erin died.

As usual, his mom veered off the topic of Dad. "You're going to be fine," she said. "Just give things some time."

Leaning into her shoulder, he noted the shadows in the corner of his room, at bay for the moment, but still threatening to rise into inky blackness. His mother meant well, but she couldn't protect him from the future.

From the darkness nipping at his heels.

From the voices whispering of his father.

From the person chasing him through the dark city streets.

His pursuer.

His killer.

Chapter 2.

"You new here?" the bartender asked as he mopped up a spill and refilled Daegan's gla.s.s when it was only half empty. The Plug Nickel Saloon was doing a banner after-work business. A small crowd was huddled near the television set watching the World Series, others were scattered at tables, talking, joking, and drinking. Cigarette smoke hung heavy despite the fans whirring overhead.

"Yep," Daegan said, deciding to reveal as little about himself as possible.

"Lookin' for work?"

"Nah. I rented the old McIntyre place."

"That sc.r.a.p of sagebrush?"

Daegan's grin was slow. "Yep."

The barkeep chuckled. "Well, I'll be. Gonna do some ranchin'?"

"Hope so," Daegan drawled, "if I can fix the fence line to keep the cattle in. Wouldn't want 'em wanderin' down the road or into the neighbor's place."

The bartender stopped the fluid motion of his towel on the counter, and his face, big and pockmarked from a bout with acne, creased. "You met your neighbors yet?"

Daegan shook his head and lifted a shoulder as if it didn't matter much even though he was trying to learn as much about Kate Summers as possible. He'd sift through fact and fiction later.

"Well, there's a widow livin' to the south of you."

"She alone?" Daegan asked, as if the conversation bored him though his fingers tightened over his mug.

"Nope. Lives there with her boy." Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the barkeep added, "She's a looker, that one. Young-probably thirty, maybe thirty-five, good shape and smart. Teaches over at Western Cascade, that's a local two-year college in Bend. Keeps to herself a lot, but then I can't blame her."

"Why?" Daegan asked, though instinctively the muscles at the base of his neck tightened.

"Well...it's her boy...he's..." The bartender sighed loudly and his eyebrows slammed together. Leaning closer to Daegan, he said, "Well, the kid's an odd duck if ya know what I mean. No other way to describe him. He never has really fit in and there are stories about him."

"Yeah?" Daegan displayed only mild interest, though he was hungry for any sc.r.a.p of information about the woman and her son.

"She's got her hands full with that one."

"Hey, Ben, how about a refill?" a burly lumberjack ex-football type at the far stool demanded. Unshaven, with sprinkles of sawdust in the hair that was visible beneath his hunting hat, he motioned to his gla.s.s. "You talkin' about the Summers boy? G.o.dd.a.m.ned freak, if you ask me. A bonafide re r.e.t.a.r.d."

"Takes one to know one," another wiry man with leather-tough skin added. His laugh cackled through the saloon and an unlit cigarette jabbed in the corner of his mouth bobbed.

"Shut up, Spencer," the giant returned glumly, and Daegan, glancing in the mirror, caught a glimpse of Kate Summers walking out of the local dress shop.

"Thanks," he said, climbing off his stool and leaving more than enough cash to pay for his beer. So now for phase one, he thought grimly, and the thought settled deep in his craw. He'd never liked playing games and detested lying, but he was about to do both.

"It's now or never," he reminded himself, shouldering open the door and walking briskly to keep up with her pace. She strode along the dusty sidewalk as if she were a woman on a mission, her sun-streaked hair bouncing against the shoulders of a faded denim jacket decorated with silver studs. She was small, not more than five foot four inches, and she didn't look to the right or left. Her keys were clasped firmly in one hand, the strap of a large leather purse thrown over one shoulder.

She must've heard him because, as she paused to unlock the door of her station wagon, she tossed a look his way. Eyes the color of aged whiskey gave him a quick once-over. His gut clenched unexpectedly as she looked away and he climbed into the cab of his truck.

Yep, she was the same woman in the photograph. Her face had thinned in the past few years and there were a few tiny lines near the corners of her eyes. Her skin was more tanned, her hair streaked by the sun, and there was an air to her-the way she carried herself-that he hadn't expected. As if she were a woman to be reckoned with.

She opened the door and threw her purse on the pa.s.senger seat when he rolled down his window, then jabbed a finger in the direction of her right front fender. "Looks like you've got yourself a flat."

"What?" she said, but her face fell. Quickly she walked around the front end of her car and her lips tightened in disgust as she spied the deflated tire. "Oh, great. Just great!"

"Need help?" He slid out from his truck's cab.

"Oh, no, I couldn't-" Shaking her head, she turned to face him and again their eyes met. The breath caught in the back of his throat for a second at the depth of her gaze-intense and suspicious.

"I'm used to this," he said. He motioned to her trunk. "You got another tire?"

"Yes, but..." She eyed him with more than a glimmer of distrust. "I've changed a tire before."

"Just an offer."

"But I don't even know you-"

"Daegan O'Rourke," he said, managing a grin as he extended his hand. She clasped his palm briefly.

"I'm Kate Summers, and thanks, it's nice of you to offer, but if worst comes to worst, I can always run down to the service station and-"

"No need," he said and leaned a hip against the back fender. "I do this kind of thing for a living."

"You're a mechanic?" Again the tone of skepticism. She stood, hands on her hips, glaring murderously at the car. Black jeans, matching belt and boots, white blouse, and a scowl that was all business.

"No, I'm just a rancher-new around here. But I'm used to fixing broken-down equipment. Afraid it comes with the territory."

"Fine, Mr. O'Rourke-"

"Daegan," he cut in.

She hesitated a beat. "Daegan, then." Still wary, she used her key to open the trunk, shoved some books and paper bags aside, and pulled off the mat to uncover a dusty whitewall that looked underinflated as well.

"Wonderful," she mocked, blowing her bangs out of her eyes and checking her watch.

"It might hold," he said though it was all he could do to concentrate on the conversation when he had a hundred questions he'd rather ask her-a hundred questions about her and her son. Gritting his teeth, he hauled the jack and spare tire from the trunk. "Nothing worse than a car ha.s.sle."

"Look, you don't have to-"

"No problem." He flashed her a half-smile. "I'm not in any rush."

Nervously, she waited and he a.s.sembled the jack, secured the wheels, loosened the lug nuts with a wrench from his toolbox, and eventually raised the front quadrant of the car. Within ten minutes the Buick was resting on the soggy spare, the jack and flat tire were in the trunk, and Kate was groping for words.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said, squinting against the lowering sun. A dry wind blew down the dusty street, scattering a few leaves and papers and lifting her hair from her shoulders. A few people hurried past, casting only mildly interested glances in their direction.

"No thanks needed."

"But..." Shading her eyes, she stared at him as if memorizing the planes of his face. "These days a Good Samaritan is hard to find."

"Believe me, I'm not that good." At least that wasn't a lie. A pang of guilt twisted his gut as he slammed the lid of his toolbox closed and set the battered metal crate in the bed of his truck. "If it would make you feel any better, someday you can buy me a cup of coffee-or a beer. Whatever."