When the Bough Breaks.

by Mercedes Lackey And Holly Lisle.

CHAPTER ONE.

Maclyn, Knight of the High Court of Elfhame Outremer, leaned forward over the steering wheel of his cla.s.sic '57 Chevy and flicked on the radio. Q-103 FM was playing two-fer-Tuesdays and had just finished up a set by Fleetwood Mac. The DJ cut into the fadeout, chattering, "Coming up for all you April Fools-two-fers by Phil Collins, The Beatles, and Grim Reaper. But first . . . a Guns N' Roses two-fer. . . ." "Aw Gawd, not Guns N' Roses. If I want to listen to a garage band, I'll find a good one. . . ." The engine growled and downs.h.i.+fted as his convertible pulled out of the secluded dirt road into traffic. The driver of a late-model Ford Taurus glanced over at them and did a cla.s.sic double-take, jerking her head around to stare. Mac flashed a grin in her direction, and she waved before driving on. His elvensteed, currently taking the form of a Palomino-gold '57 Chevy convertible with cream trim, was a traffic stopper. Rh.e.l.len didn't cause quite the disruption to traffic he would have in his regular form, Mac reflected, but he was still impressive. And women loved him. With any luck, he would impress the socks off of Lianne McCormick. Mac pushed his troubles with the Seleighe Court out of his mind. There would be time to deal with Felouen and her demands. The present, as far as he was concerned, wasn't the time. "Okay, Rh.e.l.len, let's make some time," he told the car. "Tonight-we party!" The elvensteed growled affirmation and accelerated past two Fayetteville city policemen and one North Carolina Highway Patrol trooper, hitting seventy-five without causing so much as a chirp on their radar. With Rh.e.l.len in full charge, Mac made it to Lianne's apartment complex running seemingly just under Mach One. She, the current human lady of his interest, if not his dreams, was sitting on the deck of her apartment grading papers, a tiny frown of concentration on her face. He pulled up silently and vaulted out of the car in equal silence, which gave him a chance to admire her before she spotted him. She was slender, with short, soft chestnut hair, deep blue eyes and pale, flawless skin-she had the fragile, ethereal look frequently attributed to one of his own people. She had, too, the blazing energy of a human-she was, he thought, one of the delicate mayflies of the sentient world. Like all humans. Here today and gone tomorrow. He felt a moment of poignant loss and suppressed it. But today will be a lot of fun, anyway. He intentionally crunched some gravel on the walk to let her know he was there. She looked up, and her face lit with an amazingly sweet smile. "Hey!" she said. "Glad you made it. I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind. Or come to your senses or something." She grinned when she said that, but Mac felt the pain of old rejection masked in her voice. "Stand up a gorgeous gal like you?" he asked. "Not in this lifetime." She chuckled and arched an eyebrow. "Yeah, yeah-sure, sure. So are we going to go someplace, or am I going to spend the rest of the evening checking math tests?" He smirked. "You won't even remember what math tests are." "I could live with that." She shoved her papers inside the front door of her apartment and locked it. "Let's go." He showed her to the Chevy, and waited for her eyes to light up. Which they did, as predicted. "Wow!" she whispered, and ran her hand slowly along one gleaming fender. "What a beauty. I've never seen one this color-or in such perfect condition." Mac felt Rh.e.l.len's pleasure and grinned. "Custom job. I'm pretty proud of him." "I'll bet." A puzzled expression crossed her face. "Him?" she asked. "I've never heard anyone refer to a car as him before." "In this case, it's appropriate," Mac a.s.sured her. Lianne stood back and crossed her arms over her chest. She tipped her head to one side and studied the car. She went down on one knee and carefully examined the undercarriage. Finally she nodded. "You're right. Definitely a him." He'll love you for that, Mac thought. I think, lady, that you've just won yourself a friend. Rh.e.l.len preened under all the attention. "By the way," she said, as she climbed into the pa.s.senger's side, "you haven't forgotten the field trip tomorrow, have you? I hope you're ready for it; you're going to need all the help you can get." He laughed. "Forgotten, no. Worried? Also no. What's to worry about a herd of kids who're probably car-crazy to begin with? It'll be a snap." She didn't reply; just smiled, the kind of enigmatic smile found on the Mona Lisa. The smile that said-"I know something you don't know, but you're going to have to find out for yourself." The kind of smile his mother Dierdre would give him- For a moment, he was taken aback by it, enough for a nagging little worry to intrude. Then he dismissed it. What could this mere human know that he, with all his centuries, didn't? Ridiculous. He'd enthrall her little flock, dazzle her with his cleverness, and it would all be a pleasant day for everyone concerned. Right now, he would concern himself with tonight. Tomorrow was not worth even thinking about. . . .

Looks like the troops have arrived. "Hey, beautiful!" Mac shouted across the parking lot at Lianne as she jumped out of the first of the two bright yellow school buses to arrive at Fayetteville International Speedway. "What's a babe like you doing in a place like this? Sweetheart, where have you been all my life? Come, let me take you to the Casbah, where we will make beautiful music together. We will make lo-" She made a shus.h.i.+ng motion at Mac and blushed. "Like tigers," he finished. Neither the gesture nor the blush escaped the noisy herd of children who followed her out of the bus. "O-o-o-ooh!" yelled one boy. "Miss McCormick has a boyfriend!" "Miss McCormick has a boyfriend," someone else repeated. A chant started. "Miss McCormick has a boyfriend-Miss McCormick has a boyfriend . . . ." Maclyn regretted his impulsive teasing. He had obviously just made things difficult for her, and he suspected she didn't appreciate the attention she was getting. A teacher from one of the other buses, a good-looking woman in her mid-thirties, stared at him curiously, then walked over and whispered something to the beleaguered Lianne. Lianne nodded slowly, and the other woman raised an eyebrow. She gave Mac an appreciative once-over as she returned to her own flock of children. He was used to getting those calculating looks from women. Usually, he enjoyed them. This time, for some reason, he felt embarra.s.sed. Lianne got her cla.s.s lined up and led them across the pavement toward him. She sent him a killing glare as she and the rowdy fifth-graders advanced. "Lianne, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that they would do that," he said. "I'll bet." The kids behind her had taken up a whispered refrain of "Miss McCormick sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," and Lianne did not look mollified in the least by his apology. "The only way you wouldn't have known they would do that is if you'd never been a kid in the fifth grade before." And there, he thought, you have it. I haven't ever been in the fifth grade. So how was I supposed to know? It's not my fault your cla.s.s is a mob of little barbarians. I'm innocent-this time. Unfortunately, there is no way in the world that I could convince you of that without blowing my cover. He smiled at her, shrugged helplessly, and tried to look boyishly ingenuous. "What can I say?" he asked. And then, in a louder voice that carried to the last kid in the back of the last line, Mac introduced himself to the cla.s.s. "Hi. I'm Mac Lynn, and I drive race cars." :Och, and he drives the maidens wild, he does, too!: came an impish, entirely uninvited thread of Mindspeech. :You have only to ask him, and he'll tell ye so!: :Mother!: he snapped, trying to regain his aplomb. :So gallant, so regal, so handsome. And so modest he is-his hat sometimes even fits him these days! Why, he drives race cars, does he? Sure and what a fine man he must be!: :MOTHER!:. Despite Dierdre's teasing, it was a good opening line. The kids calmed down and studied him, checking, he suspected, to see if they recognized him from television. Mac didn't mind. It wasn't likely that they would, but the moment of their uncertainty would buy him their attention. He could take it from there. He drew on his years of racing experience, and with purely elvish fervor, translated his enthusiasm into terms that drew the sixty-plus fifth-graders in front of him wholeheartedly into the world he loved. "What do you watch on television?" Mac was answered by a barrage of t.i.tles-almost all of them cop shows or adventure cartoons. "See, now, on all of those shows, you get to watch car-chases, or the heroes drive hot cars. Think of Don Johnson without the Daytona, or Magnum without the red Ferrari-it just doesn't work, right? Hey, your folks drive cars, you see ads on TV, there are roads practically everywhere-people are in love with cars. Some of us love 'em so much we want to drive 'em for a living. Think any of you would like to do that?" A chorus of "Yeah!" and "Sure!" came back at him. They were in his pocket. It was time to get them moving-show them the sights. He asked them, "So . . . . do you want to go look at some race cars, or what?" They cheered. Nice kids, he thought. I'm glad I decided to do this.

Gruesome bunch of larvae, Mac thought. He'd spent the better part of two hours showing the kids garages and pits, the medevac helicopter, the infield and starter's tower, and introducing them to mechanics and crew chiefs and various race drivers. Including his mother. They'd enjoyed his mother, who just happened to be his crew chief. D.D. Reed (not as close to Dierdre as Mac Lynn was to Maclyn, but it would do) was ninety-five pounds of lightning and thunder, all wrapped up in one coveralled, pony-tailed, h.e.l.lcat package. She took no guff from anyone and handed out twice the grief he ever gave her. She also looked half his age. She gave him lip mental and audible, the mental over Lianne and his ego, the audible over everything else-much to the entertainment of the rest of the pit crews: his, and everyone else's within hearing. His crew knew the secret, of course, and thought it hilarious. Of the rest, there were a few more SERRA mages nearby that had a notion-and to those left, it was still funny to hear a "girl" giving hotshot Mac Lynn a hard time. Those who couldn't "hear" the telepathic comments were very nearly as amused as those who could. The kids-little s.a.d.i.s.ts-had loved it. He'd also spent the better part of two hours watching them stick chewing gum on walls and under ledges when they thought no one was looking, kick each other in the s.h.i.+ns, poke and prod each other and then stare off innocently into s.p.a.ce when someone screeched. When he'd joked that some cars were held together with bubble-gum, one kid actually, sincerely, offered him his. Freshly chewed. Mac couldn't believe it. He had no idea how many lug-nuts would be missing by day's end. He'd listened to their gross jokes. He'd answered their weird questions. He'd had more than enough. Finally, it was time to sit down on the small stands and watch the drivers speeding alone around the track in the time trials. Mac was ready for the break. As kids wiggled and squealed and squirmed and pa.s.sed notes and stuffed paper down each other's s.h.i.+rts, he knew a moment of sheer grat.i.tude that he had been spared the indignity of fifth grade. :They'd not have had you. You were worse than any of them.: He sighed. :Thank you, Mother.: His mother might have been right, he reflected. Nevertheless, he felt admiration for the guts of the teacher who had to put up with this sort of nonsense on a regular basis. He rolled his eyes and grinned over the kids' heads at Lianne. She raised her eyebrows in a mime of disbelief at her cla.s.s's behavior and grinned back. Cars roared around the track, and from their front-row seats in the pits, the smell of oil, gasoline, exhaust, and hot rubber numbed the nose while the howling of engines numbed the mind. The few fans in the stands screamed and cheered at their favorites, as if by sheer volume they could push the drivers to better times. The palpable electricity in the atmosphere always got to Mac-that excitement was what had originally pulled him out of the timeless magic of Underhill and into the very human world of auto racing. In between runs, the kids asked more questions. One stub-nosed kid with bright brown eyes waved his hand in the air at Mac and bounced up and down on his bleacher seat until Mac was sure it was going to have a permanent bow in it. "Yes?" he asked warily. He'd already had more than a taste of what fifth grade boys considered reasonable to ask. "I want to drive a race car when I get out of school, but Mom and Dad say I have to go to college. Did you have to go to college?" That question seemed pretty harmless. Lianne, however, gave Mac a warning look. Oh, yeah. College. That great baby-sitter of the post-adolescent ma.s.ses. Naturally Lianne is going to want me to be strongly in favor of it. Mac shrugged helplessly. "No. I didn't go to college, but I wish I had." It was an easy lie. With luck it would mollify Lianne. "A college education is a good idea. If nothing else, it will give you something to fall back on if racing doesn't work out." The look in her eyes when he said that, though, made him think he should have quit with a simple no. And just then, D.D. popped up. "Mac doesn't need college," she said, with a sly look and a toss of her blond ponytail that told him she was going to zing him again. "He doesn't even need a brain; he never uses the itty-bitty one he's got. He has the rest of us to think for him. We don't believe in overstressing anything that weak. Now me, I needed every mechanical engineering and physics course I could cram." The kid looked confused. "Why?" he asked. "You're just a mechanic." D.D. cast her bright green eyes up to the sky. "Gloriosky. Just a mechanic? Sweetie-pie, I not only have to know how every part in that car works, I have to know why. This is leading-edge technology here; what we've got on our cars your daddy won't be able to buy for ten, maybe twenty years. There's no manual for what we're doing; we're working real automotive magic out there." "I'll say," one of the crew called out. "And D.D.'s the great high wizard of Ah's. She can tell you what's wrong with an engine just by listening to it." "And you don't get that kind of expertise working on a dune buggy in your back yard-right, Mac?" she finished triumphantly, and vanished back behind a stack of tires. :There. Saved you again.: With the sinking feeling that he was getting deeply mired in something he was never going to escape from, he sought a graceful out. A flash of deep blue on the track caught his eye and promised sudden salvation. "Much as I hate to admit it, my crew chief's half right. Here's the other half. There's more to racing than driving fast-" he told them "-more even than winning races. Racing is a business. And it's a tough one. If you can't make that business pay off, you won't be racing." He waved over to the starting line. "Look at Number Fifty-eight, the car getting ready to start now. That's Keith Brightman. He's driving a '93 Lola Wombat right now. He owns it himself. He has an efficient crew and a talented mechanic, and he's a very good driver-but if he didn't know how to run a business, he wouldn't be able to race his own cars." D.D. appeared from somewhere else. "And if he didn't know his engineering, he wouldn't be able to trouble-shoot his vehicle while he's driving it. Half the time he tells his crew what's wrong, which is a heckuva help, let me tell you, and more than Tom Cruise here can do." She vanished again. Mac chose to ignore her. "Keith is a good example of somebody who is doing what he wants to do because he has the smarts and the guts, and because he isn't afraid to work hard. If you want to be a driver, use him as your example." "Does he have a college education?" the school-hater asked with a hopeful glance towards the deep-blue Wombat. "You bet," Mac said. He'd picked Keith as his s.h.i.+ning example of racetrack virtue for precisely that reason. It was going to pay off, too, he could tell. Lianne sent an appreciative glance in his direction. "College was where Keith learned about mechanical engineering, and probably learned how to run a business," he added. "And had fun doing it." "Brightman, K. Mech-E, Rose-Hulman Polytech, cla.s.s of 1987, c.u.m laude!" screeched a voice that was getting tiresomely familiar, from just behind Mac. The Wombat took off with a roar, and the questions stopped. The kids watched the car intently. Maclyn could tell they were impressed. h.e.l.l, he was impressed. More than it ever had before, the Wombat moved; Keith was putting on a real show. Mac could hear a difference in the engine, a rich, deep throb of power that grabbed deep in his gut and twisted; the rookie's mechanic had made an exotic modification somewhere. That d.a.m.ned Wombat was flying like it thought it was a fighter plane and had forgotten the ground. What has Brightman done to that engine? Wonderful stuff, Mac mused. Magic with gears and cylinders-and maybe something Mom can duplicate. I hope she's listening. :I am-what do you think I am, tone-deaf? I also happen to be Watching it. Teach your grandmam to suck eggs, why don't you.: Maclyn had to give the Wombat's crew credit. On a shoestring budget and what amounted to little more than native genius, they were putting themselves in a position to give the big boys a run for their money. Mac's ears followed the car even after it was out of sight. :He's taking seconds off of the best time we've had so far.: Mac commented to his crew chief. :I'm paying attention, Mac.: D.D. retorted. :Unless someone else comes up with a miracle, he's just gotten the pole.: The car did a flawless lap and dove into the final curve as if it owned it-and there was a sudden hollow, popping sound. It wasn't much of a noise really, but Mac's throat tightened, and his mouth went dry. The sudden hush of the crowd in the stand across from the pits was the first indication of the seriousness of the problem-then the car became visible from the right side of the pits, and Mac saw a tiny trail of smoke and sparks that streamed out from beneath the front wheels. D.D.'s voice was in his head, all humor gone. :Sweet Daana-Mac, a control arm just sheared! The lad's going to lose her any second-: For one timeless instant, the car continued as though nothing was wrong, and then it seemed to bunch itself like a wild animal crouching for the attack. It swerved wildly to the left, then fishtailed back to the right, and in the middle of its rightward spin, collided with the outside wall. It rebounded and launched itself into the air, bounding end over end like a skier doing stunts off a ramp. The Lola disintegrated just as it was designed to, but in the direction it was heading, it was going to hit the low retaining wall in front of the pits nose-first at around a hundred miles per hour. And it was going to do it a mere twenty yards from sixty-plus school kids. "No!" Mac heard someone bellow, and realized the voice was his own. G.o.ds and demons, he thought. Oh G.o.ds above-Keith isn't going to make it out of there, and we aren't going to make it out of here! A deep ba.s.s whump marked the car's impact. Bits of car ricocheted back towards the crowd, and others came over the retaining wall; flames spurted from the engine pinwheeling across the asphalt. Screaming fans saw impending disaster and panicked. They jumped off the sides of the stands and tumbled to the ground, packing and running like frightened cattle in a slaughterhouse pen. The roll-caged c.o.c.kpit skidded upside-down in the middle of the track, trailing sparks. It followed the flaming engine unit as though they were strung together, its trajectory matching the engine's-one of the worst possible scenarios Mac could imagine. They're built to come apart to save the driver, dammit! Mac thought in anguish, as he watched the c.o.c.kpit collide with the engine right in front of the stands. Fuel spurted from the ruptured fuel-cell, torn open lengthwise, next to the limp driver. The spreading puddle of fuel inched nearer the shooting flames. I can see the flames. G.o.ds, I can see the flames-alcohol fuel should burn almost invisibly-this is even worse than it looks. Keith's gotta be dead by now. Mac could only watch numbly. His puny magics were useless here. From the paddock, vehicles were gunning to intercept the wreck before it had even stopped moving. He heard a metallic whine, building in pitch, as the track medevac helicopter started its engines. Now the whole tank goes, he thought. We have to get the kids out of here- There was no way. Shrapnel would be filling the air in a second, and it would fall everywhere, even in the paddock. "Get them down beneath the seats," he shouted; he, Lianne, and the chaperons started pus.h.i.+ng kids down. He became aware of a tingling at the base of his skull. The hair on his arms was standing up-and he realized that he had first felt this sensation right after the car started to go out of control. His mind gave the sensation a name. Psi. TK. D.D., the Healer, the Empath, Mindspoke with quiet amazement. :No one has been hurt yet by the flying debris. The car hasn't exploded yet. It's coming from near you, Mac-but who's responsible? There isn't a SERRA Psi out here, and no elves but us, and none of the mages have the right spells. . . . : Somebody nearby was keeping the car from blowing. Mac Looked around him. One fragile-looking little girl sat, transfixed, watching the disaster. Motionless, silent, unblinking, she could have been a statue of a fifth grader, except for the breeze that blew her wispy blond hair around her face and caused her plaid skirt to ripple around the tops of her white kneesocks. And from her poured incredible power.

In the crowd across the track from the paddock, one woman ignored the people milling around her-seemed even to ignore the accident. She read the face of a meter whose needle was in the far right-hand side of the red zone; she wore a cool, satisfied smile. Then she locked long, perfectly manicured fingers around a voice-activated mini-recorder and whispered into it. "The accident went off flawlessly-shouldn't be enough left of the car to prove sabotage. Rumors were right-definitely telekinetic activity here. Localized it to the pits across from where I'm standing, but too many people around to get a definite fix. TK is preventing the explosion of the car, though-bet anything on that-think one of the racing people must be our target. This explains why the Fayetteville track has such a good record, maybe. I'll try to move in for a closer read." She stuffed the meter and the tape recorder, still on and ready, into her bag, and worked her way out of the crowd.

The fire crew sprayed foam on the blazing engine block and the spreading puddles of fuel; Heavy Rescue cut away bits of twisted metal. Mac stood transfixed, watching the kid who stared at the wreck. :Catch her before she leaves-I want to talk to her!: D.D. ordered. He agreed absently-then his attention was drawn to the racetrack, where one of the rescuers gave a triumphant shout. They pulled Keith Brightman out of the car-and he stood on his own. A number of things then happened at once. From their hiding place beside the stands, the crowd went wild. The rescuers and the young driver sprinted for the pits and the little cover they provided. Lianne noticed that one of her students was still in the path of potential danger, and Mac saw her pull the girl down behind the bleacher. And that was when the fuel cell blew. Shrapnel flew across the infield and into the pits. Mac winced at the sound of metal-on-metal as pieces of car went into the mesh that protected the stands. The crowd's cheers became terrified screams. :Dammit!: Mac thought as he huddled for cover behind a stack of tires. :The kid's got to be a line-of-sight TK. Lianne broke the contact when she moved the kid.: There was a pause. Then D.D. told him, :I can still feel the child, Mac. She's controlling the shrapnel. And no one's been badly hurt yet.: Mac looked through the huddle of scared fifth-graders for the girl. Sure enough, she was peeking over the bleachers, still intent on the wreck. The air cleared, and the crowd started climbing back into their seats. Several young soldiers on leave from Fort Bragg organized the mob of fans, then moved quickly through the crowd, looking for wounded. They escorted the three folks with small lacerations down to the infield medic. There were no other injuries. Down in the pit, Lianne McCormick and the other fifth-grade teachers efficiently rounded up their own crowd, herded them into a raggedy line, and marched them toward the exit. "Lianne!" Mac bellowed. "Wait a minute!" Lianne came back-the rest of the field trip contingent kept going. "We have to leave, Mac. This is the sort of thing parents have heart attacks over-we want to have the kids safely back to school before any footage shows up on a local newsbreak." "But I really wanted to talk to-" "Gotta go, Mac," Lianne interrupted. "See you soon?" He forced a smile. "As soon as possible." She hurried after her students. Mac's watched his little TK trooping away, way to the back of the line-when, as if she felt his stare, she turned and looked directly at him-and the look in her eyes became one of startled recognition. "Elf-" he read on her lips. "You're an elf-" He nodded, staring past her young face into her old, old eyes. :My name is Maclyn of Elfhame Outremer. My mother Dierdre Brighthair and I need to talk with you.: She didn't respond to his Mindspoken request. She did, however, start to walk toward him- And her face changed. Mac would have sworn that her eyes had been dark brown-but they weren't. They were light green. The appearance of age and wisdom, the look of recognition that had been in them, were gone. Instead, her face reflected pure terror. She wrapped her skinny arms around herself and stared at him in wide-eyed dismay. Then she fled. She disappeared into the crowd of kids, leaving Mac standing open-mouthed and bewildered. :Mother,: he noted, :That was, I believe, the strangest encounter I have ever had with a human being.: D.D. had witnessed the last part of the odd exchange, and for once she had no sharp comeback. She only nodded, and replied, :Something is very wrong there, Mac. I don't know what it is, but there is something seriously wrong with that child.:

CHAPTER TWO.

Although he was attuned to his crew well enough that he would have known if any of them were hurt, Mac checked on them anyway. Everyone was fine, though one of the boys had sustained b.l.o.o.d.y knees from a slide across cement. D.D. was on the ground beside him, hands full of gauze, with a roll of adhesive tape in her mouth. :If you don't hurry up, you're going to lose our TK:, D.D. said acidly, as he slouched against a tire-wall to watch her. What was the rush? He knew where the child was. She wasn't going to escape them. :She's in Lianne's cla.s.s. I'll find her later, it's no big deal.: He felt his mother's impatience at that a.s.sumption, and if she'd been acidic before, her reply could have etched gla.s.s. :I want to talk to her now, Maclyn. That makes it a "big deal.": The times Dierdre had taken that tone with him could be counted on both hands, with fingers left over. It instantly became a big deal for Mac. He hurried after the vanished fifth-graders, determined to hold up the buses long enough to borrow Lianne's TK student for a few minutes. Instead, he careened into a woman who'd been reaching to open the door Mac burst out of. She fell off her four-inch spike heels and landed on her rump on the cement. "Why don't you watch where you're going, idiot!" she snapped. She was gorgeous, in her early thirties, with porcelain-white skin and a flawless figure. She glared up a him through a tangle of waist-length red hair and snarled, "You could kill somebody that way." Real red hair, too, he thought, distracted. Not bottled. "I'm sorry," he said, and offered his hand. "I was trying to catch someone." The woman was fidgeting with something in her purse-some sort of little black box. Suddenly she looked up, and seemed to actually see him-and her glare melted. Eh? "She isn't too bright if she didn't let you catch her," the redhead drawled. She gave him a slow, sensuous smile and extended her hand, allowing him to help her up, taking her time about it, too. She was slow to let go of his hand, holding onto it while she tested her ankles to make sure they still worked. Mac suspected that the little wiggles were also so that she could make sure he took a good look at her legs-which, painted into brown leather jeans, were admittedly worth looking at. She flipped her hair-he found himself thinking of it as The Hair-out of her face, and giggled. "I suppose I'll survive." She looked up at him through her eyelashes. "You're one of the drivers, aren't you?" Mac was wearing his Nomex suit. It was a bright red one. He might have had "RACECAR DRIVER" carved on his chest, and been a little more obvious, but he doubted it. He sighed and nodded. Takes a real genius to figure that out, he thought. Lovely package, but I don't think there's anybody home inside the wrapper. He had lost interest in empty-headed humans a few hundred years before this one had been born. There was one advantage to the Folk; the rare cases with nothing between the ears but air tended to fall prey to Dreaming, which took them effectively out of circulation. "I'm glad you weren't hurt," he told her, doing his best to exude polite, distant sincerity. "I've got to run, though. I've got to catch a kid." She pouted. She actually pouted. "If you wanted any of the ones on those school buses, you're too late. They just pulled out." "d.a.m.n!" Mac muttered aloud, without thinking. She used his immobility as an excuse to come closer, and laid her hand on his arm. "What's wrong? They steal something?" "No," he said shortly. "h.e.l.l-probably . . ." He shook his head, then looked down at her hand as if he was unpleasantly surprised to find it there. She was observant enough to take the hint and removed it. I know where to find the girl. And D.D. knows I can't outrun a bus. She should be reasonable. "It doesn't matter, really," he told the woman. "Sorry I ran over you." "You're the best-looking thing to run over me all week." She flirted with her eyes shamelessly and giggled again, though she didn't make a second attempt to touch him. The giggle grated on Mac's nerves. It sounded false-and anything that false made Mac very wary. It felt like-bait. And bait meant a trap. And a trap meant that there was a lot more under The Hair than she was letting on. "I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing," he said, taking a cautious step backwards. "Oh, you don't need to leave. I was lookin' for you anyway . . . Mr. Lynn." She looked at him with those big blue eyes, and leaned towards him, exuding a sweet s.e.xuality. That's bait, all right. Wonder how many poor fools took it? He took another step backwards; she was oblivious to his sensitive nerves. "I . . . write-free-lance, y'know. And I just had to interview someone who knew about racing after that accident. It was just like magic the way n.o.body got hurt, don't you think? I mean, that looked like a terrible accident." What is she getting at? What's she after? "It looked worse than it was," he murmured, looking for a way to get past her without knocking her over again. She ignored his remark as if she hadn't heard it. "And the way the driver walked out of there-I've never seen anything more unbelievable in my life. And all that metal flying everywhere, and not hitting anyone-well, I simply have to know how often a thing like that happens. You'd have to have nerves of steel to have a job like yours and run the risks you do every day. And I just knew you were the person to help me, Mr. Lynn. I mean, I've always been a big fan of yours." "I'm sure you have." Big fan of mine, eh? So why have I never seen you at the track before? And why didn't you recognize me? And what were you looking for in here, if it wasn't me? She finally paused long enough to take a breath. "So will you let me interview you? I can't promise national publication, but I'll do my best. And the publicity would be wonderful for you, I'm sure." She was lying, and he knew it. It wasn't just her tone, or his shrilling nerves. He'd seen her eyes flickering to the name tag on his suit just before she called him Mr. Lynn; he'd caught the awkward pause in her speech when she told him what she did. And he didn't believe for one minute the Sweet-Southern-Honey Vapor-Brained-Belle routine she was laying on him. She was no more from the Deep South than he was. That accent was as a.s.sumed as the one Dierdre used among mortals. The odds that she was a writer were slim-the odds she was a free lance were even slimmer. She was working for someone. And that look in her eyes-no, she wasn't anywhere near as dumb as she was playing. But now Mac was . . . curious. :Curious? Curious, are you! Is that what you're calling it now? Were you curious with Lianne last night, hmm? An' would ye be carin' what was between this one's ears if ye had her between the sheets, then?: His mother Sent him a wicked laugh. :I think not. Och, my laddie! He's a curious one for sure. Always mighty curious with the ladies.: :Mother, you will die young if you keep that up.: :Too late for that, child. Besides, I'm only trying to teach you something-the next trap might be baited so attractively that you forget it's a trap.: But then his mother's tone became serious. :I saw you couldn't catch the child. Another time for that, then. If you really want to know about this little fis.h.i.+e, though, reel her in. I'll have a look at her.: :Right.: And suddenly Mac was all warmth and admiration. "Call me Mac," he told the redhead, and held out his hand. "Come on back and I'll introduce you round." She shook his hand and turned up the wattage on her smile. "And you can call me . . . Jewelene. Jewelene Carter." :Yeah, sure,: D.D. snickered. :And you can call me Dolly Parton.: * * *

Gawd, what a day. Lianne unplugged the hot-air popper and carried her b.u.t.tered popcorn into the living room. She sprawled on the couch and stared out the sliding gla.s.s door at the dappled sunlight on the gra.s.s of the apartment quad. I ought to go outside and sit in the sun on the deck and grade papers and listen to the birds, she thought guiltily. It's a gorgeous April day, and they're singing like mad, and love is in the air, and tomorrow it might be too cold or too wet to sit outside. I need to unwind. Fresh air will do me good. I'll regret it if I waste this weather. Plat.i.tudes exhausted, she sighed, but she didn't move. She was too wrung out to move. She couldn't concentrate on grading papers. She couldn't concentrate on averaging out grades. She was still mentally at the racetrack, with Mac shouting for everyone to take cover, a car about to blow up in their faces, fire, smoke, people screaming-and Amanda Kendrick sitting up on the bleacher staring at the disaster and trying to commit suicide. The entire business ground one more time through the seemingly endless loop it had worn in her memory. It had been close. Amanda was no more than behind the bleachers when the motor blew-and there had been hot metal flying everywhere. Except where there were people, Lianne mused. But that was luck. Amanda isn't stupid-not really. She had to know she was in danger. So why did she just sit there like a-what? It was a bizarre accident. Everything had been stacked against them. It was a wonder somebody wasn't dead. She'd heard later that only three people had been injured, and those had been fixable with a st.i.tch or two. It seemed impossible. There had been no dead kids whose parents had to be phoned, no trips to the emergency room in the back of a wailing ambulance holding some b.l.o.o.d.y little hand, no six-o'clock news rehashes with plenty of gory film. There could have been. In fact, she didn't see how any of those nightmares had been avoided. Lianne decided she was about ready to believe in miracles. So, really, it had ended very well. I'll never go on a field trip again, though. Anybody who takes fifth-graders on one of those things should automatically get a prescription for Valium from the Board of Education. Lianne sighed again and snuggled further into the plush cus.h.i.+oning of the couch. Her mind flicked back to Amanda Kendrick. Something is wrong with this picture, kiddo. Amanda wasn't frozen in shock at the sight of the accident. She was watching-fascinated-eating it up. She was furious when I pulled her down from her seat. And after the explosion, she was watching again. Lianne munched popcorn and pondered. It wasn't the first time she'd caught Amanda doing something odd, only it was the first time it had been anything so ghoulish. She needed to talk to Amanda's family. Again. Her nose automatically wrinkled at the thought. The Kendricks were one of Fayetteville's good families. Daddy was a corporate lawyer, Mama was Va.s.sar, Junior League, Arts Council-and raised champion Arabian horses. They were both Old Money, and both times Lianne had talked with them, she walked away from the conference feeling undereducated, poorly dressed, that her hair was messy, her makeup was smudged, and she had runs in her hose. That's not being fair to them, though. They're also concerned, attentive, and determined that their kids won't get a hothouse view of the world from education in Fayetteville's exclusive-and sheltered-private school. They want both of their girls to get a real-world education. The Kendricks were always frustrated and somewhat at a loss when they discussed Amanda. Lianne could understand that. Amanda's IQ and achievement tests said she ought to be the hottest thing in school since the handheld calculator-and her grades were erratic, to put it kindly. She was slipping through the cracks of the educational system in spite of her family's concern, in spite of her teachers' attention-in spite of everything. As she thought about the family, something finally clicked. Mama was actually Step-Mama, wasn't she? Doing yeoman work, as far as Lianne could tell-but not even Super-Step-Mom could work miracles if Amanda was getting twisted ideas from somewhere else. Lianne wondered if the problem might stem from the real mother or the step-father. It would be worth discussing with the Kendricks at their next conference. She decided she would set that up in the morning. Better yet-I have the number here somewhere. Why don't I call now? Then I'll be able to work. The phone rang only twice. "Kendricks'." The voice was female, cultured, and clipped. Ah, joy, Lianne thought. None other than Amanda's step-mother. "Yes, Mrs. Kendrick. This is Amanda's homeroom teacher, Lianne McCormick. I've called to see if I could set up an appointment to meet with you and Amanda's father." "Again, Miss McCormick? I'm beginning to wonder where the problems are. Andrew and I have visited with you more this year than we have with all of Amanda's other teachers put together. I think there is something significant about that." Great. Obviously the a.s.sumption now was that Amanda's problems were her teacher's fault. Lianne took a deep breath, prayed for patience, and sternly stepped on the nasty little thought whispering that they might be right. "I regret having to call you. However, I'm noticing some odd behavior from Amanda, and I'd like to discuss it with you." "I'm not sure I have the time to get away," the voice on the other end of the line said. "There's been some trouble with the horses, and we don't like to leave the stable unwatched." Lianne saw an opening to get a closer look at Amanda's home life. She leapt at it. "I do understand that you've both been in a great many times this year, and I appreciate the difficulty that causes you. I'd be happy to come out to your home after school and talk with you. In fact, I think that might rea.s.sure Amanda that I do care about her progress." There was a long pause. "Well, that's kind of you, Miss McCormick-" Lianne heard an evasion coming and headed it off. "I don't mind. In fact, why don't I stop by tomorrow-say, six o'clock?" There was another pause. "I do have plans tomorrow-I've scheduled an afternoon with the trainer to look at my two-year-olds-we're getting ready for some of the national shows." Then, perhaps realizing that she'd just put her horses' show status in front of her child's welfare, she immediately added, "But the day after tomorrow, I'm free, and I'll see if Andrew can wrap up with his clients in time to be home by six. Does that sound suitable?" Lianne smiled. "That will be fine, Mrs. Kendrick. I'll see you at six on Friday." She hung up the phone and pressed her back against the wall. Feels like I just won the first round of the International Chess Champions.h.i.+p.

The room was enormous, beautifully decorated, absolutely immaculate-a sweet, perfect, peach-and-white little girl's bedroom as envisioned by a top designer. Stranger was unimpressed. Stranger knew the cost of the perfect bedroom. Downstairs the battle raged, and soon it would be time to pay the price. G.o.ds, they're fightin' again. That bodes no good for her. Stranger bit the bottom lip, tried to figure out a strategy that one of the others would be able to carry out. Strategy was what Stranger was best at; even before-hundreds of years before-Stranger had been able to plan, to devise-to win. But a winning strategy required a willing army. The three-year-old, even if she could be lured out of hiding, would be no help-but if the three twelve-year-olds could be introduced to each other and enlisted, Stranger might be able to work something out. Stranger thought the elf would help-if the others could be made to go to him. They wouldn't trust anybody, but then, they didn't believe in elves. Maybe they would trust someone they thought didn't exist. Her name wasn't really Stranger. It was Cethlenn. But she was a newcomer, and at first, the others refused to acknowledge her existence. Then she'd done them some favors. They'd reacted by giving her a name. To them she was Stranger. It was her badge of honor, and she wore it proudly. Stranger's eyes watched twelve-year-old hands form numbers on the paper, carefully shaping out a long division problem. Stranger didn't know a thing about long division, and didn't care. The math could wait. Someone else would come along later and do it. Stranger was more interested in the fighting downstairs. The Father was raising b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, the Step-Mother was cold and hateful. The Father's voice carried clearly up the long, curving stairwell and through the carved wood door. "You don't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing with her. That's the reason her teacher keeps calling, wanting conferences!" "She's yours-not mine. I didn't marry you so I could be caretaker for that psychotic little rodent, Andrew. You deal with her." The Step-Mother didn't like Amanda, but that was nothing new. "She needs discipline from you, too, Merryl!" The Father's voice dropped an octave. A bad sign. The Step-Mother sneered; she had wealth enough on her own that the Father couldn't cow her. "I'm sure she gets more than enough discipline just from you-and I have Sharon to look after. I can handle normal children." "Sharon is getting big enough that she could stand a bit of discipline. You coddle her too much." The Father's voice turned threatening. Stranger had heard that tone of voice before. The Step-Mother's voice could have frozen boiling water-and was just as threatening. "You keep your hands off of Sharon. I won't have you turning her into another Amanda." "Worthless, useless, frigid b.i.t.c.h! If you were any kind of a woman, we wouldn't be having this problem with Amanda!" the Father yelled, losing control, thus losing the argument. The Father wouldn't like that. The kitchen door slammed. Then Stranger heard the tread of heavy footsteps on the stairs. "Amanda," the Father's voice shouted from the other side of the door, "Your pony is standing in filth. Get down to the barn and clean out his stable. Now." Stranger tried to hang on, tried to control what happened next, but the others were panicked. They pushed to get in. Stranger tried to tell them what to do, but they wouldn't listen. They were too scared. They hid in the closet, wrapping their arms around themselves, and ignored Stranger. "No, no," they whispered. "No, Daddy, no." The little voices crying inside Stranger's head made the hair stand up on the skinny little-girl arms. Stranger s.h.i.+vered and screamed at the others to listen, to run, to get away-to find the elf. She was so preoccupied with trying to rouse them that she ignored the real enemy standing outside the door. But finally, when the Father got tired of yelling outside the door and came in to get Amanda, Stranger went away instead.

"Mel, I've got a winner on this end." Melvin Tanbridge rocked back in the soft glove-leather chair and watched the sun set over the ocean through the tinted gla.s.s wall in his office. "Secure line?" he asked. "Scrambled," the other voice affirmed. "Then tell me more, baby." "Our target, I'm almost certain, is a racecar driver named Mac Lynn. I had too big a crowd to eliminate all the noise, but he's the best possibility. I got a chance to talk to him later, and even latent, he flicked the needle on the meter. I don't think he's too bright-all glands and no brains-but he has plenty of talent. And, my Gawd, Mel, the film I have of this accident-you'll have to see to believe. There's no chance that this one's just a fluke. Besides, the readings on your little monitor were all red-zone. I'm FedEx'ing the film, some taped notes, and an 'interview' I got with the driver to you-it will be on your desk tomorrow." "Fine." Mel tapped one manicured nail on the ebony desktop and smiled. "n.o.body said we needed a nuclear physicist anyway. If he's stupid, he'll be easier to control. So-get a little background on him so we know what we're dealing with-then bring him in." His agent chuckled. "On it already. I'm running a couple of goons that I brought with me today on the off chance I'd get lucky-maybe I'll be able to FedEx him to you tomorrow." Mel laughed. "Sounds good. Who are you running?" "Stevens and Peterkin." The voice sounded pleased. Mel nodded and s.h.i.+fted the phone to his other ear. He picked up a pencil, started writing on a yellow legal pad. "They'll do. At least for pulling in a dumb jock." "I'm going to need an alibi, and my clearance." "First make sure he's the one. I don't want to have to feed any more mistakes to the sharks." Mel made another note under the first on his paper. "You set for money?" "For the time being. If things get expensive, I'll let you know. But the cost of living here is nothing compared to California." Mel's attention drifted from the phone to the scene outside his window. A girl in a wetsuit rode her board in on the crest of a breaker. "Mel? You still there?" He dragged his attention back. "Yeah. I'm here. Report in tomorrow, let me know what happens." He hung up the phone, and pulled a dull black box identical to the one the woman at the racetrack had from the top drawer of his desk. He aimed it at the girl on the surfboard and depressed the switch. The needle on the meter didn't twitch. He shrugged and put the box back in his drawer.

Mac sat on a folding chair beside the Victor III while D.D. and her current human boyfriend, a twenty-six-year-old engineer-turned-biker, tinkered on it. They lay underneath the car, only visible from the knees down. An occasional thunk issued from under the car, but the three were otherwise, to all appearances, companionably silent. The human boyfriend-Redmond something-or-other-was concentrating on the car. And probably, Mac thought, sneaking an occasional grope of D.D. None of it interrupted D.D.'s inaudible conversation, but then she had a lot of-skill. Mac wondered if the boyfriend knew how old she was. . . . Probably. D.D. didn't believe in keeping that kind of secret from someone she let into her bed. Chances were he was one of the changelings from another Elfhame. Maybe Fairgrove, birthplace of the Victor III; they grew a lot of mechanics down there. :Your little fish is no fish at all,: D.D. remarked. No surprise there. :I knew that. But what is she up to?: :My impression, laddiebuck, is that she's out a-hunting-and with you her quarry. Nathless, you needna think 'tis your handsome body she's l.u.s.ting for. Nor your mind, though I doubt that occurred even to you. I'd say from the smell of her, 'tis magic she's hunting.: He tightened his jaw; that was unwelcome news. :Dangerous?: Mac heard an audible snort from under the Victor. :Not to such as you and me. Merely amusing. But to another human, now-aye, there's danger there. And I'm not for certain that she knows her target. There was, after all, the child today. Not a s.h.i.+eld on her, and projecting like a woman full-grown. Sure, I'd wager you were nothing but a convenient bit of misdirection.: :So much for my masculine charms, hey, Mother?: The snort this time was derisive. :I always thought you sold yourself too dear.: D.D. rolled out from under the car and stared intently into her son's eyes. "Go make yourself useful somewhere," she told him out loud, and added in Mindspeech, :Lead your little not-fish a merry swim. No doubt she's waiting for you. Be sure she thinks you're her quarry for true. While she's chasing you-who are old enough surely to take care of yourself-you'll be keeping her away from that child-who cannot protect herself.: :A good point.: The woman had looked expensive, from the clothing to the perfume. Someone was paying her well, if she was a hunter. A child would have no chance against her. :And no forgettin' now!: she reminded him. :About that child; you may deceive the woman all you like, but we need to find her.: * * *

He headed through the parking lot with the late afternoon sun baking his back and the glare of reflection angling inconveniently into his eyes from the few cars that were left there. And as D.D. had antic.i.p.ated, the woman was waiting, Hair and all. Mac suppressed a smile. The self-named "Jewelene" lurked in the shadows of a closed concession stand near where Rh.e.l.len was parked. He couldn't actually see her-but her antic.i.p.ation was palpable. She wasn't going to be a problem- A tingle at the base of his neck slowed him down. No, she wasn't going to be a problem. The two men who were sneaking up on him from slightly behind and to either side could have been, however, if he hadn't been expecting something. How to play it? A vision of the Three Stooges, chased by villains, succeeding by sheer inept.i.tude, came to him from his last hotel room cable-TV binge. He smiled slyly. Rh.e.l.len, old friend, you and I are going to have some fun. His step became jaunty. He whistled a cheery rendition of "Laddies, There's Trouble, Oh, Trouble A-Comin'." The tune was one he and Rh.e.l.len had used as a signal when tavern-hopping back in his days as a colonial rakeh.e.l.l. It had always been useful for a.s.suring a backup or, if need be, a quick getaway. He took in the slight change in att.i.tude in the elvensteed, and felt his partner signal that he was ready. Mac grinned and, without warning, bolted for the concession stand. "Jewelene!" he yelled. "Hey, baby! You waited around for me! Fabulous-and, gorgeous, it's your lucky day. I've got the whole afternoon free." The two gorillas who'd been casually working their way through the parking lot, following him, changed direction. "Jewelene" looked wildly for some place to hide, and realized there wasn't one. She looked straight at him, made an "Oh-what-a-surprise!" face, and smiled. He caught her lightly by one wrist. "Mr. Lynn," she said, and forced a bright smile, "I didn't expect to run into you again." He leaned against the concession stand and gave her his best come-hither look. "Baby," he purred, "we both know that's not true. Why else would you be waiting around by my car after everyone else has gone home? And it's Mac-remember?" "Right-Mac." He slid an arm around her waist and moved her towards Rh.e.l.len. "You don't have to pretend with me. The first time I saw you, I knew we were meant for each other. And I could tell that you knew it, too." He gave her a quick little one-armed hug that threw her off balance. She fell against him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the panicked glance she threw at her two goons. "Uh, Mac . . ." She tugged ineffectually at his arm, then gave up. "I'm glad to see you. Really. But I was waiting to talk to some of the other drivers-for my interviews. I think I can sell this story to Playboy, but I need more, ah, input." "Honey-Jewelene-why didn't you say so? None of the drivers are here right now," Mac lied fluently. "But I can take you to a bar where most of us hang out. I'm sure we can round up some other drivers for you to interview. And the atmosphere of our hangout will be great for your story. And I can give you any kind of 'input' you want." He tugged her toward the Chevy. "Well, hey, that's-ah, really nice of you. Go ahead, and I'll follow you in my car." Mac laughed. "I'm a professional driver, babe. You couldn't keep up with me if you wanted to." Her goons were finally in position behind Rh.e.l.len, crouched down against his rear fender. "Jewelene" relaxed. "Okay then, Mac. Thanks. Very much." Mac had a hard time keeping himself from laughing aloud. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and pulled her into an extended kiss. "Wonderful. And after you get your interviews, we'll go home and interview each other." She smiled back, and he noted a vindictive gleam in her eye. "Yes," she agreed. "We'll do that." He escorted her to the pa.s.senger side of the car and opened the door for her. She climbed in, completely confident. He walked around the front of the car, and noted the movement of one of the men around to Rh.e.l.len's driver's side. The other, of course, would be sneaking around behind him. He patted the hood. Everybody ought to have an elvensteed, he thought- Rh.e.l.len radiated satisfaction and chuckled in agreement. :Ready?: he asked the elvensteed. He waited long enough to catch Rh.e.l.len's a.s.sent, and then made the single step forward that changed him from target to missile. As he rounded the front of the car, both men lunged for him. The driver's door swung open and flung the first one back, and Rh.e.l.len edged forward just enough to knock the second one down. Mac slipped into the seat to find "Jewelene" trying with all her strength to open her door and get back out. He grinned. His door closed, the car started itself up, and "Jewelene's" head jerked around. "The weirdest things have been happening around here lately," he told her, as he drove Rh.e.l.len away from the two bewildered goons, who were scrambling for their own car. She stared at him, wild-eyed and open-mouthed. "I've found out it never pays to let your guard down." He laughed. "So, beautiful, are you ready to get your interviews?" She was staring behind them at the dwindling parking lot. Mac glanced into the rearview mirror; there, two hairy guys in jeans, t-s.h.i.+rts, and ball caps were jumping into an incongruously clean, expensive navy-blue sedan. They came tearing out of the parking lot like they'd been bitten by denizens of the Unseleighe Court. She nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, let's go." "Okay, Rh.e.l.len," Mac drawled. "You heard the lady. Let's go." Rh.e.l.len accelerated to his top speed. They launched into Raeford Road's six-lane roller derby, shouldering aside a steroidal poser-mobile and causing the owner of a brand-new Mercedes to jam on brakes to keep from marring its expensive paint job. Mac rested his hands lightly on the steering wheel but let the car do the actual work. "Jewelene" yelled, "Jesus, slow down!" and started fumbling around the seat and the doorframe. "What are you doing?" Mac asked. "Looking for the seatbelts. Slow down! Where are the d.a.m.ned seatbelts?" "Honey, this is a mint-condition fifty-seven Chev-ro-let," he drawled. "There ain't no seatbelts. They were an option back then." Rh.e.l.len dodged a Porsche, weaved on two wheels past a semi, darted into a hole exactly two inches longer than he was, then bolted in front of a cop car and accelerated. Mac casually took one hand off the wheel and flicked on the radio. "Come on, baby, come on! You've just got to release me-" Wilson Phillips sang cheerfully. His pa.s.senger was white beneath the painted blush, and looked as if she agreed wholeheartedly with the trio. "Jesus G.o.d! Mac, slow down or let me out of here!" He chuckled, exuding machismo. "Relax, baby. I'm a professional. I do this all the time." She turned to him, pupils wide with real fear. "Not with me in the car!" He gave her his best impression of a man whose masculinity has been called into question. "Look, baby, if you don't like my driving, you can walk." She grabbed his arm and shook it. "Dammit, that's what I already said! Let me walk!" Rh.e.l.len whipped out of traffic into a Kwik Stop parking lot and hit the brakes so hard he almost stood on his grille. "Jewelene" was flung against the dash, then back into her seat. The contents of her purse erupted into the interior of the car and bounced everywhere. Mac hid his delight. Under the auspices of throwing things back into the bag to get her out of his car, he managed to pocket her driver's license and also got a look at some very esoteric toys she was carrying. Voice-activated tape recorder, stun gun, bra.s.s knuckles, Mace, thumbcuffs, little packet of fake ID's . . . all sorts of neat stuff-plus the mysterious little black box. Interesting. I'd love to get a look in her closet sometime. Then he shoved her toward her door-which opened smoothly. He sneered at her. "Have a nice walk. It's too bad about your att.i.tude, baby. You would have had a terrific time-but it's your loss." He slammed the door on her heels. "Have a nice day, b.i.t.c.h," he called after her. "Arrogant pig!" she screeched. Or at least, that was part of what she screeched. The rest was incoherent, and probably not Webster's English. She spun away as he laughed at her, then flounced toward the road. Several G.I.'s leaned out of the windows of a pa.s.sing car and yelled. She shot them the bird, and they retorted with a jeering obscenity. Another car full of G.I.'s right behind them slowed and tried to offer her a ride. He saw her take out her can of Mace. The driver of the car shrugged and grinned, and he and his friends drove on. Her goons would probably find her soon enough. And if they didn't, Mac figured she would enjoy her little hike in the nice April weather. Especially in this neighborhood, and with sunset coming on-and looking the way she did. That wouldn't be the last offer of "temporary employment" she'd get before she found a cab. This was a G.I. town, and G.I.'s have two things on their mind when they get off base. . . . And "Jewelene" was certainly dressed for the part. Between The Hair and the Spandex, she'd be lucky if the cops didn't pick her up and run her in just on general principles. Mac looked at the driver's license he'd stolen. "Rh.e.l.len," he told the elvensteed, "I think Ms. Belinda Ciucci of Berkeley, California, is going to love Fayetteville-what'cha think?" The '57 Chevy rumbled a deep chuckle of affirmation and cruised on.

CHAPTER THREE.

Thank heavens it's only an hour till lunch. Lianne eyed her students with weariness that bordered on desperation. And I'll have several minutes of blessed silence while we do the spelling test. Of course, I could have a lot more silence if I just shot them. Nice idea. I like it a lot. The three-minute pencil-sharpening break was over. It was time to get everyone back in order. "Sit down in your seats, facing forward. Be quiet, get out your pencil, get out your paper. Use your pencil to write on the paper-write the following things. Your name-yes, Keith, when I say your name, I do mean the name your parents gave you, not any name you think is really cool today. The date. Today's date. It's on the board. Look at the board. Copy the date. Get it right. Your life depends on it." Lianne tapped the blackboard with a piece of chalk for emphasis and counted mentally to ten. The fifth grade Mafia had apparently declared that today was Silly Day-every simple ch.o.r.e required detailed instructions. Even usually well-behaved kids like Latisha McKoy and Marilee Blackewell were misbehaving. The first time she told the cla.s.s to sit down, almost all of them sat on the floor. It was a bad moment-for the continued existence of the kids, as well as for her. She hadn't done anything to them-yet-that would lose her this job. Her guardian angels were probably taking bets on how much longer that could last, though. "Fold the paper neatly in half, longwise. Write the numbers one through twenty-five, down the left side of the paper-Arabic numerals, William, not Roman numerals-no, Snyder, you may not go to the bathroom during a test-I don't care if your big brother did tell you it's your Const.i.tutional right. He lied. Write the numbers twenty-six through fifty down the fold in the center of the paper." Because we have learned never to say the words "center fold"-in any context-in a room that holds fifth-grade boys, haven't we, Lianne? "Jennifer, Latisha, you do not talk at any time during a test. Not even if you dropped your pencil, Jennifer-getting it back does not require conversation. Maurice, close the book!" Ten minutes of orders. Now, finally, she could give the test. "Number one-concentration. CON-cen-TRA-tion. School work requires concentration." Not murdering you little monsters requires CON-cen-TRA-tion. Lianne felt her teeth grinding and tried to relax her jaw before she splintered something. Crowns were expensive, and they didn't come under the heading of "injuries in the line of duty." She studied her charges. Twenty-six heads bent over their papers. Twenty-six hands wrote out creative versions of the spelling words, some that would bear no relations.h.i.+p to any word ever written in the English language. The Death Row Five snuck surrept.i.tious glances in her direction to see if it was safe yet to use their microscopically handwritten cheat sheets. If they spent half the time studying that they did in cheating, they'd be straight-A students. Beth Hambly sat primly in the front row, carefully guarding her (surely perfect) answers from the prying eyes of less perfect cla.s.smates. William Ginser, foiled in his plan to number his paper with Roman numerals, was misspelling his words in some ornate style that bore a striking resemblance to German Blackletter. If he'd just put that kind of energy into learning to spell the d.a.m.n words in the first place-She sighed. Then he wouldn't be William. Amanda Kendrick, sitting in the back corner of the cla.s.sroom, stared out the window. "Eight. Contradiction. CON-tra-DIC-tion. If you say something that means the opposite of what I have said, that is a contradiction." Amanda didn't move. Lianne had noticed, on and off during the morning, that Amanda was quieter than usual-but usual was awfully quiet. Now, though, she looked closer. The total absence of expression on Amanda's face made Lianne s.h.i.+ver. Is she breathing? Yes, she is-a little. Good G.o.d, she looks dead. She is breathing-but she sure as h.e.l.l isn't here. And I don't think I'd want to be wherever she is right now. She hasn't done a single spelling word-no, screw the spelling test. I don't want to call her down in front of the rest of the cla.s.s. Not right now. She doesn't look like she feels too well. Lianne cruised through the words on the test, making up sentences on autopilot. She couldn't stop looking at Amanda. The dead look is in her eyes. They're glazed-could she be having some sort of a seizure? Maybe I need to call a doctor. But she doesn't look physically sick. And the few times I've called on her, I have been able to get an answer out of her-she just drifts away right afterward. Lianne bit her lip. We're going to take a break after this test, and I'm going to talk to her. "Thirty-nine-" Decision made, her attention snapped back to the rest of the cla.s.s. Her loss of vigilance had not pa.s.sed unnoticed. "Snyder, Maurice-I'll take those papers, gentlemen, and you may sit out the rest of the test. You've just earned yourselves F's. Anybody else like to try? No? Thirty-nine. Interception. In-ter-CEP-tion. What you have just seen, folks, was the interception of two cheat sheets." The rest of the test went without incident. Lianne got everyone started reading Thomas Rockwell's How to Eat Fried Worms, a book she had fought long and hard to get on the fifth grade required reading list. It proved to her students that reading really was fun-she'd converted more book-haters with that-plus A Light in the Attic, and the Alvin Fernald books-than with anything else she used. They wallowed in the gross-out joys and Machiavellian pl