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said.

  "Take my car," she said. "Drop me off at the mill, then take it."

  Rita was a little rough around the edges but she was a good kid. I dropped her off and I took her car.

  By the time I reached Dunnborne it was nearly ten o'clock in the morning and the little town was bustling. I wasn't exactly sure where to go or who to ask. There was only one person I knew, so I went to the Press and asked for Clem Broden. He was wearing an apron which had probably been white at one time; now it was streaked with ink.

  "Hello young fella, back agin I see, good thing cuz there's somethin' y'oughta know." He hooked his thumb toward the window and I looked out but there was just the street, nothing else. "Connie," he said in a whisper. I looked out the window again and my heart started to heave in my chest.

  "Connie Fenton? Where?"

  "Shhh, come on in, we'll talk." He led me to a dark and littered room in the back and pushed a chair in my direction, then he pulled out his pipe and began sucking it, dry. "Yes, Miss Fenton is here, lives at the edge of town, a deserted boarding house, wasn't about to say nothin' to nobody but then she tells me about you and I figure -"

  "About me?" My heart was sticking into my throat and I gagged.

  Clem looked worried. "You the red-headed buck, swims at the pond?"

  "Yes, yes. That's me."

  "That's I," he says, and grins. "Well, she tells me about you, says she has nowhere to turn, even some priest is after her." Clem looks into his pipe, shakes it a little, then starts sucking it again. "Says you're a nice kid, work at the mill in Haversville, computer operator she says." I felt embarrassed at having lost my job, but said nothing and Clem continues. "So when I tell her you was here, same red head and freckles, askin' questions, she gets excited, says she's goin' to look you up, ask you to help, cuz she needs a friend or two."

  "Two!" I blurted it out. "Rita and me."

  Clem looked around, didn't see Rita and grunted.

  "Rita had to work today - at the mill - computer operator." As soon as I said it I felt like an asshole. Could he tell just by looking at me that Rita had swiped my job?

  "Can I see Connie? Where does she live? Does she work in town? Could you -"

  "Whoa there young fella." He walked to the window and pointed up the street with his thumb. "End of the road, old grey brick house, green shutters, bloody awful purple picket fence out front." He grinned as though that was funny.

  I left immediately, then felt guilty for not having thanked him. When I looked back he was standing at the window, all smiles.

  Dunnborne is an intersection that calls itself a town. A few hundred yards from the intersection you're back out among the corn fields again. Right on the edge of town stands this big grey house amid a dozen chestnut trees, at the end of a long dirt driveway lined with a purple picket fence. I stopped for a minute and looked at every window, expecting to see her face peering at me through curtains. The house seemed empty. I walked up to the porch and knocked on the door. I waited for some time, but no one answered, so I walked to the back and found a window without curtains. I cupped my hands to my brow and peered through. I couldn't believe what I saw.

  There was a light burning on the floor, in the middle of the room, and two tall dark figures were standing there with the light between them. They didn't move. Then a third figure came into the light, dressed in a robe, walking to the light and raising his arms and swaying back and forth. It seemed like some bloody cult ritual. Then the light went out and all I could see were shadows and they were coming to the window! I turned and ran.

  When I got to the Press building I thought of talking to Clem Broden, but didn't. What would I say? Some weird guys are living in the old house. Instead, I slipped into a burger joint next to Clem's and ordered a plate of fries.

  Did Connie really live in that house? Who were the three guys I saw? Was Connie in any danger? Somehow my plans to find the bastard who murdered Connie seemed of little importance. According to the Haversville police files, it was Leah Farrel who had been murdered. According to Clem, Connie was still alive. Then why was I still carrying out some kind of bloody investigation? Stupid! I should go home and forget about it. Who gives a shit anyway?

  Ian Woolner

  I wasn't sure of anything anymore. We had identified the body as that of Leah Farrel. We also knew that Connie Fenton had been threatened; same letters on pink stationary, same handwriting, same phrases: sister of the devil. Then, before we had a chance to put a tail on Fenton, she vanishes. Her old man knows nothing, her brothers haven't been seen for weeks. I had placed the entire police force, such as it is in a small town like Haversville, on the case.

  Then we get a call from Pollicciano. Fenton had been to see him. The priest is worried, so the next day I go to see him. It was Tuesday, September 22.

  "And do you know where we might find the Fenton girl?"

  We were sitting in a small room in back of the church. Father Pollicciano was dressed casually in a heavy wool sweater and slacks and looked relaxed in a big red leather chair.

  "No, inspector. She has apparently moved out of town. At least none of my congregation has seen her for some time."

  "And you say that Miss Fenton was convinced that someone was after her?"

  "Yes, she said she had been receiving threatening letters, that someone had killed Miss Farrel and the same person was after her." He paused for a moment then leaned forward and said, in a whisper as though somebody was listening: "You mean you knew all along that the body at Miller's Creek wasn't that of Miss Fenton?"

  I found myself whispering. "At first we thought is was the Fenton girl, then the coroner identified the body as that of Leah Farrel." I looked around. "Is there some reason we're whispering?"

  Pollicciano laughed. "No, not at all." He leaned back, crossed his legs and pulled a package of cigarettes from beneath his sweater. "Why did you keep that a secret?" he said. "It wasn't in the papers." He knocked out a cigarette, looked around for a match, then tossed the pack on the table.

  "We didn't want to give the killer too much information." I said. "If Fenton was really in danger, then it would be best if the killer thought she was dead." The priest was still looking around for a match. I offered my lighter and he grinned sheepishly.

  "Bad habit," he muttered, lighting his cigarette. "I preach the good life yet do not practice it. Mrs. Walker keeps reminding me. She's my housekeeper." He looked about as though he expected Mrs. Walker to walk in and catch him smoking, took a deep drag, held it for seconds, then blew out a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. "But then I've never felt that smoking was necessarily associated with a bad life, have you?" He put my lighter on the table.

  "I don't smoke," I said. He seemed surprised. I reached over and retrieved the lighter. "The lighter is for ... lighting a barbecue." I got up to leave. "Father, I would appreciate it if you would tell no one about Miss Fenton's visit yesterday."

  Father Pollicciano nodded, leaned out of his chair, looked around for a place to put his cigarette then pushed it into the soil of a pink potted plant.

  "Fertilizer," he whispered.

  When I got back to the station, Chuck was waiting for me.

  "The Chev parked at the mill last night is registered in the name of Rita Bullas. The kid works at the mill, a computer nut. She's no dummy. Whoever accessed our files last night was no dummy either. Must have been the Bullas kid."

  Chuck was a bright lad who wanted my job.

  "Then put a tail on her," I says. "I want to know everywhere she goes, everything she does."

  "We already have. And Cleaver?" Chuck smiles like I had forgotten about Terry Cleaver, and he was there to remind me.

  "Him too," I says, not even looking at Chuck.

  By the time lunch rolls around I figured I should drive out to see Fenton's dad, again. He must be hiding something. She would have been in touch. And her brothers, where the hell were they? While I was in Gobles I could also drop by the Press a
nd talk to Clemence Broden. He's one smart fellow.

  I left a note saying where I'd be for the rest of the day.

  Terry Cleaver

  I was half-way back to Haversville when I knew I had to go back. If Connie really lived in that old house and if there was something going on there, I couldn't just leave as though I hadn't seen anything.

  I pulled off the road, turned around and headed back to Gobles. Shit. It had started to rain and I could see it was going to get worse. By the time I pulled into town it was all thunder and lightning.

  The old grey house seemed bigger this time, and darker, but there weren't any lights in the windows. I waited for maybe ten minutes, parked on the street across from the driveway. Then I got out and ran to the porch. I got soaked but what the hell, it was only water. That's what my Pa used to say. It's only water.

  I stood there like an asshole and I wasn't sure I had done the right thing in coming back. The rain stopped for a minute and it was dark, so I went around the back and peeked into that window again. Nothing. There was a big crash of thunder and I ran again to the front porch just as the rain started up. I knocked on the door. I'd find Connie Fenton, no matter what.

  After a minute or two the curtain was drawn aside and I could see a face in the dark hallway, then the door opened a little and a face appeared in the crack. It was her, Connie Fenton! She was as beautiful as I remembered. I