"Well, it sort of is. Doctors have their Hippocratic Oath, palm readers don't tell people about their auras. It kind of...crosses a boundary, I guess you could say. It's the mark of a jaded fortune teller." She eyed the check again, moaned, then offered it back to him.

"You're kidding me!"

"No. I wouldn't feel right about it. Take the check back."

Fanshawe chuckled, amazed. You sure don't see this everyday. He was impressed, yes, but also...

Very disappointed.

"You really walk it like you talk it, Lett. Thanks for your time. And keep the check." He turned and began to head down the sidewalk.

"Hey!" she called out.

He turned to see her fuming.

She pointed a finger right at him. "You asked, so don't blame me! It's black!" and then she ran across the street, check in hand, to the bank.

(II).

Black, he thought.

Black aura. Black heart.

Go thither, if thou dost have the heart, to the bridle- A heart so black as to be stygian, sir, a black blacker, too, than the very abyss...

Fanshawe's reaction to Let.i.tia's parting words was nothing like what he'd expect. He felt neutral about it, not confused, not scared or foreboded. A psychic just told me I have a black heart-that's not much of an endors.e.m.e.nt, is it? The color black brought negative connotations: corruption, dishonesty, greed...

Evil.

He scoffed as he moved leisurely down the sun-lit sidewalk, then he laughed aloud to himself. I'm not any of those things, and I'm certainly not EVIL. However, as he thought more on it, the more irresistibly he found himself reflecting back on the entire meeting. She'd mentioned something revelatory, hadn't she?

There'd certainly been revelations in her parlor.

The Gazing Ball was also called a bridle, something akin to a magic circle. It evolved from the times of the Druids, a very occult bunch. Last night he'd found a second and more secure diary of Wraxall's, while today he'd seen a corroborating diary: Callister Rood's. Rood himself had committed suicide, by hanging, while Fanshawe had seen the man's image hanging by the neck last night. And Wraxall probably hadn't been executed after all. He'd been butchered by Rood, his own apprentice.

Now, all that he'd learned began to swirl about consciousness, and when his elbow brushed his jacket pocket, he felt the tubular bulk of the looking-gla.s.s. The gla.s.s worked last night-I KNOW it did...

And if that were the case, everything else was real too, not superst.i.tious invention.

It was real.

The acknowledgment of that brought the drone back to his head. I'm NOT crazy, so that can only mean...

But how could this be?

"Well, 'ow'd your session go at the palmist's, sir?" greeted the enthused, elderly voice.

Fanshawe had been too wound up over his thoughts to even see that he'd just pa.s.sed Mrs. Anstruther's information kiosk. It took a moment for him to snap out of the daze.

"Ah, Mrs. Anstruther-yes, it was very entertaining. I appreciate your suggestion."

The high sunlight filled the creases in her face so sharply with shadow-lines she looked like a grinning sketch. "Cheery news on your horizon, I hope, sir."

Well, I'm told my riches will increase a thousandfold and I've got a black heart... "I think you could say that, yes."

"And what might your estimation be of Ms. Let.i.tia Rhodes? Hope ya don't got the notion I steered you improper."

The tiny drone remained in his head even as he engaged in the talk, as though his current concerns were being intruded upon. "Not at all. She seems very genuine, maybe even a bit too genuine, if you know what I mean."

The old woman laughed. "Aye, but I do, sir. Just like I said to ya!"

Fanshawe's mood darkened; he lowered his voice. "Yes, but I felt awful at one point. I saw the picture of her baby on the wall and made the mistake of asking about it."

Mrs. Anstruther's eyes turned instantly regretful. "Oh, dear me, yes! What a 'orrible, 'orrible thing to happen, I must say. The poor little tot, he caught hisself a fever so's Miss Let.i.tia, she rush him to the hospital but"-she crossed herself-"he die in her arms 'fore she got him there, not two months ago it was. Certain I am, though, sir, certain as I'm certain the day's long, the Lord'll bless 'is little soul. The tot was buried in the town churchyard, sir, and the entire town show up to show their respects," and then she crossed herself again. "We all pitch in some to pay for the tot's embalming and coffin and all, on account Miss Let.i.tia 'erself were sufferin' from empty pockets at the time."

Died from a fever... The added information only made Fanshawe feel worse. My G.o.d, what a terrible thing to happen... "I can't imagine what a blow it must've been to Let.i.tia."

"I don't imagine none of us can. A dreadful thing like that? And not no one there to help her through it."

"Yeah, she told me the child's father abandoned her," Fanshawe recalled. He didn't want to be rude, but he couldn't wait to leave and be back with his own thoughts.

"Ah, but did she tell ya any more about that scoundrel of a chiseler who walk off on her?"

"No, nothing else-"

"Well there's more to that story, there is, a good bit more."

She's probably working me again, but- His irritation at being here collapsed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, I ain't one to leave a gentleman twistin' in the wind, so's to speak"-but just then her own attention was highjacked. A smiling middle-aged couple approached the kiosk; the look on their faces said they had several questions for the elderly woman. "Pardon me a jot while I tend to these folks' needs, and I'll tell you all about it, sir."

"Okay. I'll go grab a coffee and come back when you're done. Can I get you a cup?"

"What I fancy most is a cop'a tea, sir, if you please-the Earl Grey type, what they's got-and I'm much obliged to ya, sir, much obliged."

Fanshawe parted for the coffee shop. When he'd arrived he realized he'd walked right by the Travelodge and felt no temptation whatsoever to steal a glance at the windows or the pool. This perked up his mood. While he waited for his order at the cafe, he thought to check his cellphone and saw that he'd turned it off. Oh, a message, he realized, then listened to the voice mail.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Fanshawe," the pa.s.sionless voice sounded. "This is Dr. Tilton. I thought I'd give you a call to see how everything is progressing since we last talked, and am hoping that you've set into motion what I suggested. I'd very much like to hear from you, so please call back at your convenience." Fanshawe's thumb hovered over the dial-back b.u.t.ton, but then he hesitated. This was a call he didn't really want to make; he was too intrigued by other considerations. And what would I tell her anyway?

Hi, doctor. I'm pretty much convinced that I'm NOT actually hallucinating. What do I mean by that? Well, see, that looking-gla.s.s I stole WORKS...

He still had to think about that determination, he knew, but didn't want to bother with talking to her now. And when he thought to call in to his main office, his phone rang.

"Artie, I was just thinking about you," he said.

"Good things, I hope. I wanted to get back to you so you wouldn't think we're sluffing."

"I would never think that."

"We got ahold of Eldred Karswell's secretary, danced around some issues, and got her to tell us about your guy. The, uh, warlock he was writing about was named-"

"Jacob Wraxall," Fanshawe said. "I already got that, Artie."

"You make me feel useless," his manager griped. "And that's all she would say except for bibliographic c.r.a.p. Nothing else about the warlock."

Fanshawe appreciated Artie's humorous emphasis. "I got the scoop already, but thanks just the same."

"Well here's some scoop you probably haven't gotten yet. About five minutes ago the Prosser Fuel Corp stock split, and it skyrocketed just like you said. Congrats. You just made a couple million."

Fanshawe's eyes roved about the shops and pa.s.sersby on the street, not particularly interested in what Artie had just said. "That's cool, Artie, but-"

"Cool?" Artie sounded shocked or angry. "I just told you you bagged a couple mil on the side, and all you say is cool?"

Something in the back of his mind itched at him, and it was just that second that he knew what it was. That picture of Let.i.tia Rhodes' baby made him feel terrible. "The split's great, Artie, but I'm kind of distracted at the moment. Write down this name and address."

"Ready."

"Let.i.tia Rhodes, 13 Back Street, Haver-Towne..."

"Got it. Why?"

"I want you to contact the county tax office here and pay off any outstanding property-tax debt. And while you're at it, pay off the next, say, five years, in advance. Use one of the ancillary accounts."

"Ooooo.......kay," came the response. "Let me guess. A hospice? Someone who runs an animal shelter?"

"No-"

"Oh, wait! Some chick you're hot for?"

Fanshawe's eyes glimpsed Abbie across the street; she was watering plants at the entrance. She smiled and he waved. Oh, man. I better get my a.s.s in gear and ask her out again... "Actually I have met someone, Artie-"

"Eureka! Finally getting over the divorce s.h.i.t!"

"No, no, it's someone else, not Let.i.tia Rhodes. I just...feel bad for her, so pay off her prop tax like I told you."

Artie seemed resigned over the line. "Always the good Samaritan, okay. I'll get on it." A confused pause. "But...who is she, this Rhodes woman, I mean?"

Fanshawe was about to tell him to mind his own business, but then he smiled. He'll love this. "She's a palm reader, Artie. A fortune teller."

The next silence seemed to unroll. "Great, first a warlock, now a fortune teller. Just another day at Fanshawe Enterprises."

"You know what she told me?"

"Uhhhh-"

"My wealth will increase a thousandfold," and then Fanshawe laughed.

"That's a good one, boss. So you're going to be the world's first trillionaire?"

"Thanks, Artie"-he kept laughing-"I'll talk to you soon." He hung up.

That'll give him something to talk about at the office. But, next, he considered his impulsive order: paying off the taxes of a woman he didn't really know. Fanshawe had thrown lots of money at charity situations but...not like this. He simply felt awful for the woman-Baby died, the father booked, can't make a living anymore because of the economy, and she was about to lose her house for defaulting on taxes. But now that he'd done this, he felt much better. I helped someone in need-and his next thought amused him. Who says I've got a black heart?

He looked back to where Abbie had been but she was no longer there. He couldn't wait to see her- Mrs. Anstruther wriggled her fingers at him. The tourist couple was gone. He brought her tea to the kiosk.

"Thank you, sir, oh, that's perfect, it is," she said, sipping from the to-go cup.

"Now-what were you saying?"

The woman's stiff hair moved when her brows rose. "Oh, yes, sir, 'bout Miss Rhodes and that man she were with what made her in a mother's way."

"Yes, you were saying that he left Let.i.tia when he found out she was pregnant."

She nodded in a way that seemed cunning. "And that ain't all he done neither, sir. See, when he left her he also stole a fair rooker of ackers from her."

"He stole...what?"

"Quite a considerable sum of money, sir, what that she save up from her palmist's business-oh, yes, sir. Several thousand dollars it was."

"Jesus..."

"A bloke like that, sir? What it is we call a bloke like that in England is a man who hain't worth a brown trout," and then she smiled as if amused.

Ain't worth a s.h.i.t, Fanshawe translated. "I hope at least that the police got him for the theft."

She ruefully shook her head. "'Fraid not, sir, oh, no. See, what this bloke done after he took the money is he broke out a winder from the outside, so's ta make it look like a burglary, sir. The constables couldn't charge him with no theft on account there was insufficient evidence."

"d.a.m.n," Fanshawe muttered. "Well I hope the b.a.s.t.a.r.d at least paid some child support before the baby died."

"No, sir, I'm sorry to say he did not. 'Tis the way things work out sometimes, sir. The folks who wouldn't 'urt a fly are the ones who get roughed up."

"Unfortunately-"

"But it hain't the end'a my story, sir," she went on, at once enthused. "As I were just relatin' to ya, the day after that scoundrel found out what that Miss Rhodes was havin' a baby, he left her. But 'ere's what else, sir."

Fanshawe tapped his foot. By now he was quite used to people deliberately keeping him in suspense. "Any day now, Mrs. Anstruther."

She grinned. "The day after that poor li'l baby die...he die."

"What, the child's biological father?"

"The same, sir."

Fanshawe felt a satisfaction at this news. "Pardon me if I sound callous, ma'am, and pardon my language, but when s.h.i.tty people die, I don't call it unfortunate, I call it justice."

The old woman laughed. "Oh, sir, I'm so 'appy to hear you say it 'cos your feelin's are the very mirror to what all of us thought. But tell me what your mind tells ya of this: that man? It weren't a accident what killed him, it were a ma.s.sive 'art attack which since he were only in 'is thirties, we all found quite odd, we did, quite odd." Then she paused to look at him, with that same cunning cast to her face.

"Odd, sure, but it happens," Fanshawe said.