same. Such an idea was not inconceivable.
But they were so hard to find these days. The ones who had not been killed had gone into hiding, fleeing like himself into the wilderness or keeping secret their true natures amid the normal residents of their communities. He looked again at the sign-WITCHES WILL BE EXECUTED
--then bade his horse turn around. He was getting no concrete feelings from up ahead, but the graveyard and
the sign were warning enough, and even without a definite reading he could tell that this was one town he did not want to visit.
He would return to the foothills and then travel south through them until he was far enough away from this nameless community to once again head west. He would trade his pelts elsewhere, in a bigger settlement, one where he would be less likely to be noticed.
Just in case, he cloaked himself in a protective spell, then pushed his horse into galloping back toward the hills.
Now
Muzak carols over hard-to-hear speakers. Decorations that were nothing more than products sold inside the stores they adorned. A skinny Hispanic Santa Claus kids could meet only if their parents paid to have their picture taken with him.
Miles stood unmoving in the center of the jostling crowd. Christmas seemed cheap and depressingly pointless to him this year, its practitioners yuppified and smugly materialistic. Ordinarily, he rejoiced in the trappings of the season, but all of the joy had gone out of it for him. It reminded him of Halloween, a grassroots celebration that had been turned into a buying contest by the newly affluent.
He was at the mall to purchase presents, but he realized that he didn't really have any presents to buy. A few small tokens for people at the office, gifts for his sister and her family. That was it. He had no wife, no girlfriend, no significant other, and though he usually celebrated the holiday with his dad, there was a distinct possibility that his father might not even be here come Christmas day.
Happy holidays.
Miles sat down heavily on a bench in front of Sears, feeling as if a great weight had been placed upon his shoulders. He understood now why people buried themselves in their work. It kept them from having to deal with the depressing realities of their lives.
Claire had never been one to look back, to dwell on past
mistakes. She had told him once that life was a ride and all you could do was hold on, face forward, and see it out to the end. It was too painful looking at where you'd been or where you were. The best thing to do was hang on and enjoy the next curve, the next hill the next drop the next any thing. He found himself wondering if she still adhered to that philosophy. Did that mean that she never thought about him, never had any memories, good or bad, of their marriage, of the time they'd spent together?
The thought depressed the hell out of him.
Feeling empty, feeling numb, he stared blankly into the crowd of holiday shoppers. The people he saw were almost indistinguishable in their happiness, and he envied them.
He leaned back on the bench against the brick wall of
Sears, looking at the rush of people. Gradually, one face began to differentiate itself from the rest, a wrinkled old lady's visage that drew his attention because her gaze remained fully, unwaveringly focused on him.
Miles blinked, caught off guard.
The woman broke from the rest of the crowd, heading straight over to his bench.
He shivered involuntarily, a slight chill passing through him as his eyes met hers. There was something wrong here.
As a private investigator, he dealt in facts. He didn't believe in intuition or ESP or anything he couldn't see, hear, or record. But the apprehension he felt was not the result of conscious thought or decision. It was visceral and inst inc The old lady stood before him, dressed in clothes that did not match. 'Bob!' she said, grinning broadly.
The effect was unnerving. That huge smile seemed in congruous on the small wrinkled face. It reminded him of something in his childhood, something he could not re member but that he knew had frightened him, and again a chill passed through his body.
'Bob!'
He forced himself to look at the old lady. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You have me confused with someone else.' 'Bob Huerdeen!'
The haft prickled on the back of his neck. This was too weird.
'Who are you?' he asked.
'It's me, Bob! You know me!'
'I don't know you and I'm not Bob.' He took a deep breath, decided to admit it. 'I'm Bob's son, Miles.'
She leaned forward conspiratorily, pressing her ancient face almost against his. He smelled medicine and mouthwash. 'She's going after the dam builders, too, Bob. Not just us.' She backed away, nodding to herself, still grinning though the edges of the smile were starting to fade.
The old lady was crazy. Either senile or schizo. She had obviously known his father at some point, and she had enough brain cells left to be able to spot the family resemblance, but other than that, she was off the deep end.
He stood, hoping he'd be able to make excuses and just walk away, but prepared to confront her if necessary. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I have to go.'
She reached out, grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, 'It's not just us, Bob! It's the dam builders, too!'
'I know,' he said politely. 'But I really do have to go.' 'Don't let her catch you, Bob! Don't let her catch you!' 'I won't,' he promised, pulling away.
He thought she'd pursue him, badgering him all the way about her crazy concerns, but she let him go, remained standing in front of the Sears bench, and he hurried toward the mall exit, more rattled by the old lady than he wanted to admit.
Darkness.
Low whispers. a..
Miles held his breath, ' awakened because he'd drunk too much tonight and desperately had to take a leak. Ordinarily, he slept straight through until morning. He'd even slept through two major earthquakes.
But tonight his bladder had woken him up, and he had heard the sound of breathy, hushed voices in the otherwise silent house.
Again, low whispers. '
He still felt a little light-headed--the effects of the alcohol had not entirely worn off--and at first he thought he'd imagined the sounds.
But when he sat up and concentrated and could still hear them, he started to think that he was not alone.
He could not make out what was being said, but he thought he heard his father's name in the whispers, and for some reason that made him think of the old lady in the mall.
He got quickly out of bed, turned on the light, threw open his bedroom door.
Silence.
He stood there for a moment listening, unmoving. Whatever had been there was now gone, and he waited another minute or two before deciding that he'd been right the first time and had imagined the sounds. God knows, he'd drunk enough last night to induce hallucinations. That and the stress would make anyone start heating voices.
He walked down the hall to the bathroom His father was coming home tomorrow.. today. Audra had prepared the bedroom for him, had helped install the new bed and other medical amenities, and she'd be meeting them both at the hospital, coming home with them to help his dad get settled in. Bob was better. He'd definitely improved
