"Guardian angels?" Alice asked.

Ian nodded. "Yes, and they can come for a little while to deliver a message or protect a loved one, or they can be present for a longer period of time," he said.

"This is actually research a university is paying for?" Allen asked. "Don't they have better things to do with their money?"

"Well, the funding is coming from a fairly wealthy benefactor who is interested in this particular subject," Ian said. "And so, really, we're not taking money from other projects."

"Allen, that was rude," Alice said. "Ian was Mike's friend."

"I don't remember Mike talking about an Ian," Allen said. "How do we know he isn't here poking around about Mike."

"Well, why don't you ask me some questions only someone who knew Mike would know," Ian suggested.

"What was Mike's favorite ice cream?" Allen asked.

"Vanilla," Mike replied quickly.

"Vanilla," Ian replied. "Although, really, one would think he would have been more expansive in his tastes."

"I like vanilla," Mike said.

"That's right," Alice said. "He loved vanilla."

"What was Mike's favorite baseball team?" Allen asked.

"Does he want the one I told him was my favorite or my actual favorite?" Mike asked.

"Would you be wanting the one he told you was his favorite, or the one he truly favored?" Ian asked.

"Is this a trick answer?" Allen asked.

Ian shook his head.

"I really liked the Milwaukee Brewers," Mike admitted. "But my dad loved the Cubs, so I cheered along with him."

"Well, he told me once he was a Brewers fan, unless he was home with you, and then he was a Cubs fan."

"d.a.m.n, I remember finding that Brewer's t-shirt in his room," Allen said. "And he told me a friend had left it."

"I have a question," Alice asked. "Why didn't he ever get married?"

"Because I didn't meet Mary O'Reilly until after I was dead," he answered automatically and then turned to Ian, panic on his face. "And if you ever tell her I said that, I'll haunt you for the rest of your life."

Ian smiled. "Because he could never find anyone who could live up to his mother."

Alice smiled. "Well, that was nice."

"So, what are you investigating now?" Allen asked.

Ian breathed a silent sigh of relief, it seemed he pa.s.sed inspection. "Actually, I'm working with the Freeport Police Department on the Emil Forrest case," he said.

"What?" Allen asked. "That case is twenty years old. Why would you be working on that case?"

"Because some new evidence has come forward showing that Emil could not have committed the crime," he explained.

"What?" Allen exclaimed. "That's absurd. It was an open and shut case."

"Tell him about Ronny," Mike said.

"There was another boy," Ian explained calmly, "a boy from Chicago who was missing from Lake Le-Aqua-Na a year before the other deaths. He was another victim of the killer. But Emil was out of town at the time of his disappearance. There's no way he could have done it."

Allen shook his head. "No, I don't believe this," he said. "I think you and your investigation has tried to create something to get a little publicity and I can tell you, I don't appreciate it."

"I can a.s.sure you..."

"You can't a.s.sure me of anything, young man," he said. "I want you out of my house. I want you out of my town. And I want you to drop this whole idea of reopening this case."

Ian stood up and nodded politely. "I apologize for upsetting you."

"Upsetting me?" Allen yelled. "Emil Forrest murdered those boys! End of story! Now get the h.e.l.l out of my house."

"Allen, what are you..." Alice began.

"No, Alice, you don't understand," Allen said. "This man could ruin our lives with his meddling. If you were ever a friend of Mike's you will drop this case and leave the area."

The door slammed in Ian's face and he hurried down the stairs and to his car. He turned on the car and waited for Mike to appear. He didn't have to wait long.

"Mike, I'm sorry...," Ian began.

"Ian, I'm sorry...," Mike said.

They both stopped and looked at each other and started laughing.

"What the h.e.l.l happened back there?" Mike asked.

"I have no idea," Ian said. "But I really touched a sore spot with your father."

Mike looked back at the house for a moment and then he turned to Ian. "I'm going to stay here for a while," he said. "I just want to be sure they are both okay."

"That's a good idea," Ian said. "I'll meet you back at Mary's."

Mike started to fade away, and then reappeared. "Oh, about what I said about Mary..."

Ian shook his head. "All of this excitement, I can't really remember what went on in there at all," he said. "And I have a feeling it's permanent amnesia."

Mike smiled. "Thanks, Ian."

He faded away and Ian put the car into reverse and pulled out of the Richards' farmyard.

Chapter Forty-two.

Mike came back into the kitchen in time to see his father pull on his ch.o.r.e coat. "I've got to go out to the barn and check on the calves," he said.

"But, Allen, dinner is almost ready," Alice said.

"Sorry, you go ahead without me," he replied. "I don't have much of an appet.i.te anyway."

He slipped on his tall rubber boots that he kept next to the door and grabbed the flashlight and walked into the dark night, across the farmyard to the barn.

Mike followed his dad into the barn and was surprised to watch him walk past the calves that were mooing in their stalls. He walked beyond the milk house, with its stainless steel stalls and state-of-the-art milking equipment, and into the grain house.

The grain house had always been Mike's least favorite place to go. No matter how hard you tried, there was always grain spilled on the ground and that would attract farm mice. Mike could handle a lot of things, but scampering mice sent a shiver down his spine. But mice or not, Mike followed his father.

In the corner of the grain house was a small room that used to be an office. The old oak door was covered in grain dust and the hinges were dark brown with rust. The window was covered with a yellow paper that was half-peeled away. Allen grabbed hold of the doork.n.o.b, turned it and pushed against the door with his hip. The door didn't budge. Allen hit it again, using the force of his entire body and the door gave way, slowly opening under the pressure.

A dozen mice scattered in different directions and Mike very nearly squealed, but his attention was immediately diverted when he saw his dad reach into his pocket and pull out his keys.

Why in the world would he carry around a key for something in an old office that hadn't been open since Mike could remember?

Allen lifted his flashlight up and hung it on a hook in the wall. Next to the hook was an old metal locker. It looked like it had been salvaged from a school hallway. Allen flipped through the keys on his ring and finally came to a small copper-colored key. He inserted it into the lock and twisted. Then he lifted the latch on the locker door and pulled the door open.

Mike saw his father reach inside and pull something out, but his father's shadow fell over the item at first. Then his father turned and Mike's breath caught. Then he felt sick to his stomach.

In his own father's hands was the stainless steel fishing rod that Mike had always coveted. The bright red reel was still on top of the black spincast handle. And Mike knew if he looked closely he would also see two initials scratched at the end of the handle in the shiny stainless steel. T.B. Timmy Beck. This was Timmy's fishing pole. The one he had with him on that summer's morning twenty years ago. The one that was never found.

The one the murderer must have kept.

Chapter Forty-three.

"I tell you, it was like it dropped from the skies," Stanley explained, as he hung his coat up in Mary's closet. "One minute it's as quiet as you'd like, the next, some poor cat sounds like it's being tortured."

"Oh, Stanley, that sounds just awful," Rosie said, moving into the living room to find a chair. "I don't understand how people can be so cruel to animals. Bradley, the police should be doing something about this."

Bradley, aware of Mary's side of the story, took a moment to respond. "You're right, Rosie," he agreed. "There ought to be a law against that kind of thing."

Mary sent him a warning glance.

He grinned back at her. "Disturbing the peace, noise pollution, unlawful use of a torture device..." he continued.

"Funny, Bradley Alden, very funny," Mary replied.

Stanley walked across the room, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Strangest thing, though," he said.

"What?" Rosie asked.

"Could have sworn the cat was singing Eye of the Tiger," he replied, shaking his head and then he looked over at Mary and winked.

Mary took the pot holder she was holding and whipped it across the room at him. "That was not funny, Stanley Wagner," she said.

He ducked and it missed him, then he sat next to Rosie and laughed. "I had to do it," he said. "And then, when there was complete silence from you afterwards...I *bout had a spasm laughing so hard."

"You mean there wasn't a cat?" Rosie asked.

Stanley laughed harder, tears rolling down his cheeks, "No," he wheezed, "just Mary."

"But Mary doesn't sound like a cat," Rosie said.

Bradley covered his laughter with a series of suspicious coughs.

"Oh, don't think I don't know what you're doing, Alden," Mary said. "Rosie, I think you and I should go out for dinner and let these men fend for themselves."

Rosie turned and looked at Stanley and then over at Bradley. "Um, Mary, did you decide which song you were going to sing at my wedding?" she asked innocently.

Stanley sat straight up and stopped laughing. "What?" he asked.

"Why Stanley, I'm sure we discussed this," she said. "Mary is going to sing at our wedding."

Mary nodded, biting back a grin. "Yes, I've been practicing for weeks," she added.

"But, but, but..." Stanley stuttered.

"I thought about the perfect song for both of you," Mary continued. "So, I've been practicing You Light Up My Life."

She picked up a wooden spoon and, holding it in front of her mouth, began to sing, as off tune and screechy as possible, "You light up my life. You give me hope to carry on. You light up my days and fill my nights, with song."

"So, what do you think?" she asked.

"We're eloping," Stanley muttered softly.

Rosie clapped her hands together. "Why Mary, it's perfect," she said. "I insist you do an encore performance at the reception."

Stanley dropped his head into his hands. "Okay, okay, uncle," he cried, "I'm sorry Mary, I'll never criticize your singing again. I'm sorry I made fun of you. Please, forgive me."