dawn. Everybody felt they knew you, everybody was your friend. Most of the time that suited her fine, since she genuinely liked people, but as her mother used to tell her, every family has its black sheep. Sometimes it seemed that every one of them tended to gravitate to her at one point or another in their lives.
The man who’d paused by the cafe railing to speak to Zoe this evening reminded her of a fox. He had lean, pointy features, dark eyes, the corners of his lips constantly lifted in a sly smile, hair as red as her own, if not as long. Unlike her, he had a dark complexion, as though swimming somewhere back in the gene pool of his forebears was an Italian, an Arab, or a Native American. His selfassurance radiated a touch too shrill for Zoe’s taste, but he seemed basically harmless. Just your average single male yuppie on the prowl, heading out for an evening in clubland—she could almost hear the Full Force—produced dance number kick up as a soundtrack to the moment. Move your body all night long.
He was welldressed, as all Lotharios should be, casual, but with flair; she doubted there was a single item in his wardrobe worth under two hundred dollars. Maybe the socks.
“I think I’d remember if we’d met before,” she said.
He ignored the wryness in her voice and took what she’d said as a compliment.
“Most people do,” he agreed.
“Lucky them.”
It was one of those rare, supernaturally perfect November evenings, warm with a light breeze, wedged in between a week of subzero temperatures with similar weather to follow. All up and down Lee Street, from one end of the Market to the other, the restaurants and cafes had opened their patios for one last outdoor fling.
“No, no,” the man said, finally picking up on her lack of interest. “it’s not like what you’re thinking.”
Zoe tapped a long finger lightly against the page of the opened book that lay on her table beside a glass of red wine.
“I’m kind of busy,” she said. “Maybe some other time.”
He leaned closer to read the running head at the top of the book’s lefthand page:
“That’s by 0. B. Hardison, isn’t it?” he asked. “Didn’t he also write
Zoe gave a reluctant nod and upgraded her opinion of him. Fine. So he was a wellread single male yuppie on the prowl, but she still wasn’t interested.
“Technology,” he said, “is a perfect example of evolution, don’t you think? Take the camera. If you compare present models to the best they had just thirty years ago, you can see—”
“Look,” Zoe said. “This is all very interesting, and I don’t mean to sound rude, but why don’t you go hit on someone else? If I’d wanted company, I would’ve gone out with a friend.”
He shook his head. “No, no. I told you, I’m not trying to pick you up.” He put out his hand. “My name’s Gordon Wolfe.”
He gave her his name with the simple assurance inherent in his voice that it was impossible that she wouldn’t recognize it.
Zoe ignored the hand. As an attractive woman living on her own in a city the size of Newford, she’d long ago acquired a highly developed sense of radar, a kind of mental dahdum, dahdum straight out
Gordon Wolfe had done nothing yet, but the warning bell was sounding faintly in her mind.
“Then what do you want?” she asked.
He lifted his hand and ran it through his hair, the movement so casual it was as though he’d never been rebuffed. “I’m just trying to figure out why I feel like I should know you.”
So they were back to that again.
“The world’s full of mysteries,” Zoe told him. “I guess that’s just going to be another one.”
She turned back to her book, but he didn’t leave the railing. Looking up, she tried to catch the eye of the waiter, to let him know that she was being bothered, but naturally neither he nor the two waitresses were anywhere in sight. The patio held only the usual bohemian mix of Lower Crowsea’s inhabitants and hangerson—a wellstirred stew of actors, poets, artists, musicians and those who aspired, through their clothing or attitude, to be counted in that number. Sometimes it was all just a little too trendy.
She turned back to her unwelcome visitor who still stood on the other side of the cafe’s railing.
“It’s nothing personal,” she began. “I just don’t—”
“You shouldn’t mock me,” he said, cutting in. “I’m the bringer of small deaths.” His dark eyes flashed. “Remember me the next time you die a little.”
Then he turned and walked away, losing himself in among the crowd of pedestrians that filled the sidewalk on either side of Lee Street.
Zoe sighed. Why were they always drawn to her? The weird and the wacky. Why not the wonderful for a change? When was the last time a nice normal guy had tried to chat her up?
It wasn’t as though she looked particularly exotic: skin a little too pale, perhaps, due to the same genes that had given her her shoulderlength red hair and green eyes, but certainly not the extreme vampiric pallor affected by so many fans of the various British Gothic bands that jostled for position on the album charts of college radio and independent record stores; clothing less thriftshop than most of those with whom she shared the patio this evening: anklehigh black laceup boots, dark stockings, a black dress that was somewhat tight and a little short, a faded jean jacket that was a couple of sizes too big.
Just your basic semihip working girl, relaxing over a glass of wine and a book before she had to head over to the studio. So where were all the nice semihip guys for her to meet?
She took a sip of her wine and went back to her book, but found herself unable to concentrate on what she was reading. Gordon Wolfe’s parting shot kept intruding on the words that filled the page before her.
She couldn’t suppress the small shiver that slithered up her spine. Congratulations, she thought to her nowabsent irritant. You’ve succeeded in screwing up my evening anyway.
Paying her bill, she decided to go home and walk Rupert, then head in to work early. An electronic score with lots of deep, low bass notes echoed in her head as she went home, Tangerine Dream crossed with Bmovie horror themes. She kept thinking Wolfe was lurking about, following her home, although whenever she turned, there was no one there. She hated this mild anxiety he’d bestowed upon her like some spiteful parting gift.
Her relief at finally getting home to where Rupert waited for her far outweighed the dog’s slobbery enthusiasm at the thought of going out for their evening ramble earlier than usual. Zoe took a long roundabout way to the station, letting Rupert’s ingenuous affection work its magic. With the big galoot at her side, it was easy to put the bad taste of her encounter with Wolfe to rest.
An old Lovin’ Spoonful song provided backdrop to the walk, bouncing and cheerful. It wasn’t summer yet, but it was warmer than usual and Newford had always been a hot town.
The phone call came in during the fourth hour of her show, “Nightnoise.” As usual, the music was an eclectic mix. An Italian aria by Kiri Te Kanawa was segueing into a cut by the New Age Celtic group from which the show had gotten its name, with Steve Earle’s “The Hard Way” cued up next, when the yellow light on the studio’s phone began to blink with an incoming call.
“Nightnoise,” she said into the receiver. “Zoe B. here.”
“Are we on the air?”
It was a man’s voice—an unfamiliar voice, warm and friendly with just the vaguest undercurrent of tension.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We don’t take callins after three.” From one to three A.M. she took onair calls for requests, commentaries, sometimes just to chat; during that time period she also conducted interviews, if she had any slated. Experience had proven that the real fruitcakes didn’t come out of the woodwork until the show was into its fourth hour, creeping up on dawn.
“That’s all right,” her caller said. “It’s you I wanted to talk to.”
Zoe cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear and checked the studio clock. As the instrumental she was playing ended, she brought up the beginning of the Steve Earle cut and began to cue up her next choice, Concrete Blonde’s cover of a Leonard Cohen song from the
