participated.

At this point she felt she was straying into rhetoric a little further than she wished, and pulled back, toning down her protestations, and especially those she found herself imputing to Roger. She reminded herself to stick to the five-point reporter's rule: who, what, where, when, and why. That was how these articles would work best: as straightforward factual reports.

Then her phone had rung. It was Sam.

“I'm afraid I've got some terrible news. Drew and Barry have been killed in a car accident. It happened this morning, about eight-thirty. Apparently they were heading out on the Schuykill and their car went out of control and hit a bridge. They were both killed instantly.”

She felt strangely paralyzed by his words, more precisely by the effort to hold back the flood of questions and implications that lay behind them, and by her reaction to them, which threatened to overwhelm her.

“Joanna? Are you there?”

“Yes, I'm here,” she murmured. “Oh, God.”

“I'm sorry. It's a terrible shock.”

“Do you know where they were going?” she asked.

“I didn't ask. I just got this call from a secretary in Barry's office. She's working through his diary, informing everybody.”

“Can you give me her number?”

“Sure, wait a second…I don't know if she can tell you any more than I can…” He found the number and gave it to her. “Why do you want to know where they were going?”

“I'm not sure. I'll tell you later.”

She put down the phone and covered her face with her hands. After a few moments she sensed a presence and looked up. Taylor Freestone was standing in the door of her office looking down at her, concerned.

“Something wrong?”

She nodded, conscious of a stinging wetness in her eyes. “Two of our group, Barry and Drew, were just killed in a car crash.”

“Oh, my God…!” He took a step in, closed the door behind him. “I'm sorry, truly sorry.” He paused, then added, as though the real significance of what she had just said had only just occurred to him, “Does that mean you'll have to stop the experiment?”

She thought for a moment she was going to throw something at him, but her voice came out flat and resigned. “I don't know. It's too soon to think about that. If you'll excuse me, Taylor, I have to make some calls.”

“Of course. This is awful. Just awful.”

He went out. She took a deep breath, reached for the box of tissues in one of her drawers and wiped her eyes and nose, then picked up the phone.

31

They all met just after six at Sam's apartment. There had been an unspoken agreement to avoid the lab, and in spite of a cold wind that had brought in a driving rain from the Atlantic, everyone preferred to make the trip to Riverside Drive. Sam offered drinks or coffee, but nobody wanted anything. Without further preamble he said, “Joanna's found out a couple of things that she thinks you should hear.”

She was sitting on the window seat where they'd huddled together on the first night they'd made love. Gazing out into the darkness over the Hudson, Sam had wondered aloud whether he might conceivably persuade Roger Fullerton to be part of the experiment they were planning. It was only a few months ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. Now Roger Fullerton sat in an armchair opposite her, looking drawn and tired and probably wishing, she imagined, that he'd never heard of any of them. Sam leaned against the arm of the sofa on which Ward and Pete sat.

“I talked to the police patrol who were first on the scene,” she began, looking down at the scribbled notes in her hand. “They have no explanation of what caused the accident. Barry was at the wheel and had an unblemished driving record. Blood tests for drugs and alcohol were negative. An autopsy revealed no underlying medical condition such as heart attack or stroke. The roads were dry and visibility good. There was no skid and apparently no tire blowout. The car was new and the model has no history of mechanical failure. No other vehicle was involved, but three people witnessed the accident and they all tell the same story. The car was traveling at between fifty and sixty miles an hour, and for no apparent reason it swung across two lanes, onto the hard shoulder, and slammed straight into the concrete support of an access bridge. One suggestion is suicide, because the car seemed to take such a direct aim.”

She paused, put away her notes, and went on speaking, but without looking at any of them directly. They, too, avoided making eye contact with her.

“I don't think the suicide theory holds up for several reasons. For one thing I just don't believe it. For another, I found out that Drew and Barry were on their way to see a priest when it happened. His name is Father Caplan. He was Drew's parish priest in Queens before he was moved out to some tiny parish near Ardmore three years ago. Drew had gotten very close to him when their child died. I spoke with him on the phone and he said that Drew had called him early that morning, around seven, and asked if she and Barry could come out and see him. She said it was urgent. He got the impression that they were both very frightened about something, but she wouldn't tell him what it was on the phone.”

She stopped, and now her gaze swept briefly over the four men in the room with her. “That's all I've got.”

Sam pushed himself up from the arm of the sofa. He paced a few steps, then cleared his throat and said, “Anybody have anything to say?”

Roger stroked his mustache and looked down at the floor. Pete sat with his hands between his knees. Ward Riley sat with legs crossed and arms folded, his gaze searching the ceiling.

“I suppose the question in front of us,” Ward said eventually, breaking a silence that was becoming charged with awkwardness, “is whether we feel we should do something or not?”

“Such as?” Sam asked.

“Should we at least say something-to Drew and Barry's family? The police? Or this priest even? About what's been happening in the group?”

Once again nobody spoke. Then Sam said, “We can't be sure that what happened in the group was what they were going to see this Father Caplan about.”

Roger gave a grunt of bleak amusement.” Why don't we just assume it was?”

“All right,” Sam said after a moment, “let's assume that we all know why they were going to see the priest. There's nothing we can say or do that would change the situation, or throw any light on it-at least not what most people would call light.”

“Can I say something?” Pete's voice was tight and trembled slightly, his chin still thrust down on his chest. “There's something I can't get out of my mind. I have to say it.” He glanced up briefly. “I'm sorry, Sam.”

“Say anything you like, Pete. That's what we're here for.”

“A few years ago I met a woman, it wasn't a relationship or anything, just somebody I knew. She claimed she'd been a witch when she was younger, but wasn't anymore. She said never underestimate the power of witchcraft. They can kill you just as easily as look at you. No one ever suspects, because it always seems like an accident. You fall down the stairs. Or your horse bolts. Or your car just goes off the road for no reason. What they do is make you see things that aren't there. You follow a road that looks normal, but it takes you over a cliff, or into a wall. Whatever. That's how they do it.”

He fell silent, hunched like a child in defiance of the chastisement he knew was coming. Sam walked behind the sofa and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It's okay, Pete. We all feel the same way.”

“Do you?” Joanna didn't know that she was going to ask the question until it came from her lips almost as an accusation.

Sam looked at her in mild surprise but without resentment. “I think there'd be something wrong with any of

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