The little director rubbed his face. "Right. Missing. Until we heard the news this morning that he was found dead. Murdered."

"Did Brian have many friends?"

"Funny you should ask...I was just trying to think who his close friends were. I was thinking of doing some sort of memorial for him. Something either before or after our opening show this weekend..."

"And?"

"And I couldn't think of anyone who had been close to him."

"Is that common for an actor?" I asked.

"Actually, no. We don't get many loners in this business. Extroverts, yes."

I skipped the questions of whether or not Brian had any enemies. Whoever had done this to him was doing the same thing to many people. I doubted a personal vendetta had anything to do with his death. I asked, "Had there been any other strange occurrences in this theater?"

"Strange, how?"

"Has anyone reported seeing anything...odd or unusual?"

"Not that I can think of. But a theater is a pretty odd place anyway."

"How long have you worked here?"

He looked again at the stage. I could see that a few people were waiting for him. "Five years. Worked my way up as a lighting guy out of college."

"Good for you. Who owns the theater?"

He pointed to a man sitting on a foldout chair on stage. The only man, apparently, not doing anything. "Robert Mason."

"The actor?"

"The one-time actor. His soap opera days are over. This is where he spends most of his time."

"May I have your name?" I asked.

"Tad Biggs."

I nodded and somehow kept a straight face. I said, "May I ask what's in your back room?"

"Back room?"

"Yes, the storage room at the far end of the hallway."

He blinked. Twice. No, three times. "How do you know about the storage room?"

"I'm a heck of an investigator."

"That room is strictly off limits."

"Why?"

This time he didn't blink. This time, he just stared at me. "Because Robert Mason says it is. Look, I gotta go. We have a show to put on. I hope you guys catch the sick son of a b.i.t.c.h who did this to Brian."

I nodded and watched him hurry off. Then I flicked my eyes over to where Robert Mason was sitting in the foldout chair on stage-and gasped when I saw him staring back at me.

He was still as handsome as ever. Older, granted, but one h.e.l.l of a handsome man. He stared at me some more, then looked away.

I shivered, and exited stage left.

Chapter Thirteen.

I was watching them from the parking lot.

Not exactly the best seat in town, granted, but it would have to do. Lately, I seemed to be almost completely intolerant to the sun. Brief sojourns were excruciating, even when I was fully clothed and lathered.

And so, while my son played soccer, I sat alone in my van, huddled in the center of my seat, thankful for the surrounding tinted gla.s.s. Of course, from where I sat, I couldn't see the entire playing field, but beggars can't be choosers.

It was a crisp late winter day, warm for this time of year, perfect for anyone who wasn't me. Before me were some bleachers filled with moms and dads and relatives and friends. The mothers all seem to know each other and they laughed and pointed and cupped their hands and shouted encouragement. They shared stories and drinks and sandwiches and chips.

I sat alone and watched them and tried not to feel sorry for myself. Easier said than done.

From where I sat, I couldn't tell who was winning, so I just watched Anthony as he ran up and down the field, disappearing and reappearing from around poles and bleachers and hedges.

From what I could tell, he had real talent, but what did I know? These days, he almost always scored a goal-sometimes even two or three. He seemed to have the strongest leg-kicking leg, that is-and a real nose for the action; at least, he was always right in the thick of things. Mostly I cringed and winced when I watched him, praying he would be careful. My overprotectiveness wasn't a surprise, especially when you consider what I went through seven months ago.

Presently, the action was coming toward my end of the field, and I sat forward in my seat. Anthony was leading the charge, elbowing his way through a crowd of kids who clearly didn't seem as athletic. And now Anthony was mostly free, pursued by opponents on either side. Amazingly, Anthony pulled away from them. Not only running faster than them, but running faster while kicking a soccer ball.

Then he reared back and kicked a laser shot into the far corner of the net, blowing it past the outmatched goalie.

Anthony's teammates high-fived him. Parents stood and cheered. I shouted and stamped my feet in the minivan. No one heard me cheer, of course. Especially not Anthony.

Still, I cheered alone from inside the minivan, rocking it all the way down to its axles. And when I was done cheering, done clapping, I buried my face in my hands and tried to forget just what a freak I was.

After the game, as parents and grandparents hugged their excited and dirty kids, I saw Anthony coming toward me. Alone, and perhaps dirtiest of all. One of the other mothers saw him and asked him something. He pointed to me sitting in the minivan. She nodded and smiled and waved to me. I waved back. She then gave Anthony a big hug and congratulated him, no doubt on playing a great game. By my count, Anthony had scored three goals. She gave him another hug and set him free.

That should be me hugging him, I thought. That should be me walking him off the field.

There was blood along his knees and elbows. The kid had taken a beating scoring those three goals. But he didn't limp; in fact, he didn't seem fazed by the injuries at all.

Tough kid.

He flashed me a gap-toothed smile, and my heart swelled with all kinds of love. Now he was running toward me, his cleats clickity-clacking over the asphalt. He looked like an athlete. A natural athlete. His movements fluid and easy, covering the ground effortlessly, cutting through cars and people with precision. On a dime. By the time he reached the minivan he was sprinting. He skidded to a halt and yanked open the door.

"Mom!" he shouted. "I scored three goals today!"

"Incredible!"

He jumped in and lunged across the console and gave me a big hug. The strength in his arms was real. He nearly tore me out of my seat. "Did you see them?"

"Some of them," I said. Two, in fact. Both scored on this side of the field. "So when did you get so darn good?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Lucky, I guess."

But something suddenly occurred to me. Anthony hadn't been very good just a year ago. In fact, I distinctly recall him coming back to the van crying, wanting to quit his team. Now he was coming back to the van as the hero of the game.

And not just a hero, but clearly the best athlete on the field.

I was about to say that luck had nothing to do with it when I looked down at his legs. The cuts I had seen just a minute earlier were...gone. Only dried blood remained. And only a little bit of dried blood.

I think my heart might have stopped.

"Anthony, how do you feel?"

"Great! We won!"

"Yes, I know, but do you feel...sunburned at all?"

"Sunburned?" Distracted, he waved to a friend pa.s.sing by the van.

"Yes, sunburned or sick?"

"I feel good, Mom. I promise. Stop worrying about me."

I bit my lip and somehow managed to hide my concern. "Are you hungry, baby?"

"Duh. Of course I'm hungry."

"Of course. What do you want?"

"Duh, hamburgers!"

"Of course," I said, backing the minivan up. "Duh."

Chapter Fourteen.

You there, Fang?

I'm always here for you, Moon Dance.

Except when you're not.

Hey, a man's gotta work. What's on your mind, sweet cheeks?

Sweet cheeks?

Oops, did I write that out loud?

You did.

My bad. So what's on your mind, sugar b.u.t.t?

Oh brother. I grinned, shook my head, then quickly turned somber. There's something going on with my son.

Is everything okay?!

Yes. I mean, I don't know.

He's not sick again, is he?

No. In fact, quite the opposite.

I told him about the healing in Anthony's leg, and my son's seemingly increased athletic ability. There was a long pause before Fang wrote back.

Maybe you are mistaken, Moon Dance. Is it possible that his blood had already dried?

I shook my head, aware that I was alone in my living room and no one could see me shaking my head.

No. I saw the fresh wounds. My eyes happen to be very, very good.

I projected the image I had in my mind. My own memory, in fact.

A moment later, Fang wrote: We used to call those strawberries. Probably got them sliding over the gra.s.s and maybe on some dirt.

Right, I wrote. And even if it had been dried blood, where was the wound?

There was no wound?

None.

Just dried blood?

Yes.

There was another long pause, followed by And the dried blood was recent?

Of course. It wasn't there when I dropped him off.