“You can let him go,” she said.

  “Sure?” When she nodded, John Lee let the dog go. Carlton climbed into her lap and licked her face, pausing to stare at her mournfully now and then. She scratched his neck and he sprawled possessively over her lap, head propped on her thigh.

  “Sweet boy,” she said, and kissed the top of his head. His big chocolate eyes rolled up to watch her. “You didn’t mean it, did you? Don’t scare me like that.”

  She felt John Lee’s arm settle around her back.

  “Good advice,” he said, and kissed the back of her neck. “Don’t you scare me again like you did today, lady. Don’t you do that. Listen—I think you ought to see somebody professional about this thing.”

  “No,” she said. Flat and calm.

  “Abby—”

  “I said no, I mean it. I told you how I feel about doctors.” She shrugged off his arm and turned to face him.

  It was obvious from the look in his eyes he didn’t want to fight, but he didn’t back off. “I don’t give a good goddamn, how you feel about it, you almost hurt my mother. You’re looking to hurt yourself, too, sooner or later, and I’m not about to stand by and watch that happen. Now, maybe he can help you, he can’t, but either way, honey, you’re going to go, swear that.”

  She felt anger rise like filth bubbling from a ruptured sewer, a black wave that made her look him directly in the eye and say, “Make me.”

  He hesitated. She saw the doubt in his face, the pain, and then he shook his head and stood up.

  Carlton growled softly, then trailed into a whine. He pulled away from Abby’s patting hand and trotted limping down the hallway, head down, tail still.

  “It ain’t a fight, Abby,” John Lee said. “And you won’t win. You want to be crazy and stupid, you go ahead, but I’m not going to be there to pick up the pieces.”

  He turned away. As she watched the door close, she called out, “I’ll talk to you later!”

  He didn’t answer.

  Solo: December 13, 1994

  Dr. Richard Urdiales had a big-city look to his offices. Abby sat quietly, hands folded, in a comfortable wing chair and listened to the soothing tick of the large grandfather clock in the corner. The other chairs were all empty, though they felt full, somehow, full of watchers. The receptionist—the wood nameplate on the desk said her name was Carolyn—was being very careful not to stare. She’d probably had a lot of practice at ignoring patients. Considering the thick expensive money-green carpet, the original artwork on the walls, Dr. Urdiales would have to have a large client load. A loaded client load.

  Abby fidgeted, not for the first time, with the thought of getting up and leaving. Carolyn looked up at her and gave her a friendly, professional smile.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked. She had a professional voice, as well. Smooth and too cultured to have come out of local Midland society. She was a smallish woman but well-dressed, with a pleasantly round face and glossy black hair that fell smoothly back from her face and just reached her shoulders. “We have hot tea with honey and lemon, or coffee, or soft drinks.”

  Hot tea reminded her of Miklos. Abby shook her head and looked over at the magazines fanned on the shiny coffee table. Vanity Fair. Cosmopolitan. Ladies Home Journal. She pulled a new, glossy issue of People from the arrangement and tried to concentrate on the lives and disasters of movie stars.

  The room had a faint, pleasant scent of cinnamon and the more seductive tint of Carolyn’s perfume. It was cool, but not unpleasantly so. Abby shivered anyway, just on general principle, and wished devoutly that she hadn’t promised John Lee this, wished she could think of something, anything to pull her away.

  Carolyn’s telephone hummed musically for attention. She murmured a greeting into it, made responsive noises, and wrote something on a pad on her desk. She replaced the receiver in the cradle and continued making notes. Without looking up she said, “Abby?”

  Maybe somebody had called with a reprieve. Abby clutched her magazine so hard it crinkled. “Yes?”

  “You can go in now. Right through that door.” Carolyn pointed with her gold pen toward the entrance. Abby swallowed, nodded, and put her magazine back in its proper place in the arrangement before standing up. Her feet didn’t want to move but they did, shuffling through the expensive, springy carpet. Her hand went out to turn the doorknob. The door squeaked just slightly as it swung open, and a blast of warmer air washed over her. More cinnamon, stronger this time, and the biting, fresh smell of men’s cologne.

  On the other side of the money-green carpet, Dr. Urdiales stood with his back to her, watering a large green English ivy. He set the silver water pitcher aside and turned toward her. His smile was the first thing she noticed—wide, unforced, full of even white teeth. His skin was the golden brown most people paid tanning salons to achieve, and his age showed in fine tight lines around his eyes and feathery gray in his dark hair.

  “Miss Rhodes?” At her nod, he made a vague, circular gesture toward the area around his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  She took the chair closest to the desk, a pale blue wing chair identical to the one in the reception area. There were three other chairs available—a straight-backed wooden one at a safe middle distance, an iron-and-velvet creation that looked more like art than comfort, and a leather one that had a vaguely masculine air.

  “Was it a test?” She looked directly at Urdiales as he came around the desk. He paused a second, then took his seat.

  “What?”

  “Which chair I took?”

  His smile this time was more cautious. He sat back and tilted his head to one side.

  “Should I call you Miss Rhodes or Abby?”

  “Abby’s fine.” She shifted in her seat and focused on his desk rather than the too-bright shine of his eyes. There were only three items on the shiny, spotless wood: a blank yellow legal pad, a silver pen and pencil set, and a thick square block of turquoise that might have been a paperweight, if there had been any papers to weight down. The silky wood grain rippled like a pond in the gray afternoon light.

  “Abby it is. Abby, I find it useful sometimes to videotape sessions for later reference. Would that be acceptable to you?”

  She shrugged, eyes fixed on the turquoise. He opened a drawer and took out a remote control and pointed it at the wall to his left. A VCR started up with a muted, soothing hum. She glanced around for the camera but didn’t see one.

  “Now, you understand that this is simply a preliminary interview. We will not necessarily have a full session today—I think it is much more important to become familiar with one another first.” At her nod, he said, “Tell me something about yourself, Abby.”

  There was no point in asking what, she knew that immediately. “I’m a musician, I live here in Midland, I teach private lessons through the high school.”

  “Were you born here?”

  “No, I … my family lives in Dallas. I went to school in Lubbock, then in Cincinnati. I moved here for my job.”

  “Anything else you think is important for me to know?”

  “No—I—no.” She fidgeted uncomfortably away from his stare and focused on the turquoise paperweight.

  “I understand you’ve been feeling some extreme anxiety. Could you tell me how that started?”

  The turquoise gleamed too bright for the real world. She looked away, to the dark cherrywood walls. He had a raw of framed diplomas, all with official-looking seals and signatures. One was from the University of Southern California, another from the University of Texas.

  “Can you hypnotize me?” she asked. In the silence she heard his chair creak as it adjusted.

  “I have a number of techniques available, but I only use them when I feel they are warranted.” Dr. Urdiales had lost his smile completely now, and without it his face looked older and more severe. He laid both hands on the desktop in front of him and toyed with the silver pen. “Why do you suppose you need that particular kind of treatment?”

  She realized that she was still holding her purse balanced in her lap, wondered what he thought about that. She picked it up and dumped it on the floor without looking where it landed.

  “Because I think I had a previous life, somebody murdered me, and my murderer is still alive and using my old name.”

  After the first widening of his eyes—so small she could barely see it—his face took on a carefully noncommittal expression she imagined they taught in psychology school. He put the pen down crosswise on the pad and folded his hands together. A wedding ring winked gold in the pale sunshine.

  “How did this previous life come to you?”

  “Slowly. It started—it started when I met John Lee—John Lee Jordan. He’s my—he’s a friend.” The word boyfriend seemed ludicrous at her age.

  Urdiales noticed her hesitation, of course. “It’s not necessary to be polite here, Abby. You can say exactly what you mean.”

  “I mean—I mean that I’m sleeping with him.”

  “How do you feel about him?”

  “I just said I’m sleeping with him,” she snapped. He gave her a sad smile.

  “Many people have sex with people they care nothing at all about, or whom they actually despise. How do you feel about John Lee?”

  She looked down at her clasped hands. It was getting chilly in the office—but even as she thought it, a heater clicked on and blew warmth over the back of her neck.

  “I think I’m in love with him,” she said. It ached at the back of her throat like unshed tears. “But that’s impossible, the way things are.”

  “And how are things?”

  Here, in the quiet womb of Urdiales’ office, there was no sense of time except the regular breaths she took. She felt some of the tension ease out of her back, as if the chair had absorbed it. “Terrible.” And she told him, told him all of it, the visions, the memories, the visit to John Lee’s mother. Her own violent impulses. At the end of it he was sitting quite still, watching her with those warm intelligent eyes but quite expressionless.

  After a few seconds of silence she asked, “Am I crazy?”

  He gave her that smile again and said, “Clearly, you are distressed by what you’re experiencing, and that distress is changing your life—a real problem, a real effect. There is nothing crazy in that.”

  “I want to be hypnotized,” she asked. “Wouldn’t that help? I might remember more about Pearl Jordan. I might find something that could help me.”

  He cocked his head. “Help you what, Abby?”

  “Help me prove that woman murdered Pearl Jordan.”

  “Is that so important, after all these years? You tell me she is an old woman. Is it so important that you destroy her last few years of life?”

  Coldness rose up from her stomach like bile; it settled behind her eyes and took control of her mouth, and she said, “Yes. An eye for an eye, that’s the Bible’s way. I believe in that. She killed, and she’s got to be punished for it no matter how long it takes, how many years. She did more than kill, she stole. She stole my life.”

  “Am I speaking to Pearl Jordan?” he asked politely.

  “Pearl Jordan is dead.”

  “Is she? I noticed your accent changed, Abby. And your language. This would seem to me more than a series of dreams and memories.” He reached for his pen and made a note on the legal pad. “I’d like you to come back to see me. Is Thursday at four p.m. acceptable to you?”

  “What about the hypnosis?” she asked.

  He met her eyes. “I must warn you that I place little credence in theories of past lives. I will not reject the possibility out of hand, but neither do I accept it as the only possible explanation.” He smiled and rose to his feet. “I suppose the answer to your question is, we’ll see. I hope that is sufficient.”

  She stood up, too, remembered her purse, and bent to retrieve it. When she straightened, Dr. Urdiales had come around the desk and passed her on the way to the door.

  “Carolyn will make the appointment with you.”

  “How does the billing work?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Caulfield gave me to understand that she would be billed for your sessions. Is that not correct?”

  “No. I should pay you.”

  Dr. Urdiales faced her and said, “Can you?” Heat climbed into her face. “I believe it is important for you to work out your problem, Abby. We can work out an alternative billing arrangement later. Is that acceptable?”

  They paused together at the door, and he extended a hand to her. It felt startlingly warm, the skin soft and well cared for. A second’s pressure and he let her go. The door swept open ahead of her.

  “Carolyn will give you the private voicemail number as well as my beeper number. If you feel you need to talk to me, use those numbers aggressively.”

  She passed through into the chilly confines of Carolyn’s domain, then looked back. He was still watching her.

  “Dr. Urdiales?” she asked. “Any words of advice?”

  “Stay away from her.”

  There was no question who he meant.

  Hernandez Transmission finally released her car, for a ransom of three hundred sixty-two dollars. She wrote the check with her fingers crossed and handed over her drivers’ license when the underfed mechanic wanted to see it. He wrote down every number he could find on the card—license number, identification number, birth date. She was surprised he didn’t write down her driving restrictions code, too. When he was satisfied he handed back the license and gave her the car keys.

  “Where is it?” she asked. He shrugged and gestured vaguely to the north. She picked her way around piles of gritty used cans and grimy boxes to the door in that direction. Outside, ice-cold wind greeted her and combed her hair back from her face with chilly fingers.

  Her car, a 1984 sun-faded Toyota, waited patiently in a row of equally aged and faded cars. She got in, breathed dust and mold, and started it up. The car roared like a new lion. The employees of Hernandez were lousy housekeepers but great mechanics.

  She drove home with a feeling of contentment that surprised her—Urdiales had calmed her, a little, and having a working car took a lot of pressure off, too. At least she had the illusion of being able to run away from her problems. In celebration, she swung by the grocery store and picked up peanut butter and jelly, bread, milk, and other vital essentials of life.

  Carlton greeted her at the door, happy and panting. All was right with the world.

  As she opened the refrigerator to put the milk away, the phone rang. She finished what she was doing, deliberately lazy, and let the answering machine pick it up.

  “Abby, if you’re there, pick up, it’s Harris. Abby!”

  There was an orchestra tuning up in the background. She frowned and grabbed the phone off the kitchen wall.

  “I’m here.” Yes, if was an orchestra, all right, the screech of violins tuning clearly evident. A trumpet blared, too close to the phone. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m where you’re supposed to be,”

  She whirled to stare at the calendar taped to the refrigerator. On December 13, she’d neatly written REHEARSAL CIV AUD 6 P.

  “Oh, Christ,” she breathed. “Ten minutes.”

  “He’s already here, you’d better move your ass.”

  “Tell them I’m in the bathroom. Jesus!” She hung up and darted for the bedroom, grabbed her instruments and counted quickly to ten to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She ran to the door, paused, ran back to the bedroom for the music she’d left lying on the dresser. Carlton barked, enjoying the excitement, and she had just enough time to pat his head before she slammed the door and locked it in the same motion.

  No cops, which was damned lucky; her newly revived car roared all the way to the Civic Auditorim. When she slammed to a stop in the parking lot the clock read 6:07. She choked and grabbed everything in one untidy armload and fled inside, to the darkness.

  Too late. The tuning had taken on an air of purpose, the pure unwavering tone of the oboe, strings falling in to echo. She took the quick way backstage and assembled all three instruments in the darkness behind the curtains, quick, efficient twists of her wrists. The clarinets were seated in the center of the orchestra; she’d have to make it past at least five chairs and stands to get to her spot. Luckily, the conductor Was turned away, talking to a stage manager. She took a deep breath and hurried, dodging violin bows. As she dropped into her chair next to Harris the conductor turned and gave them all a blank, unfocused stare, It quickly narrowed to drill into her alone.

  Abby pretended not to notice and concentrated on adjusting the reed on her B-flat, holding her breath to keep from panting from fear. I have always been here, she thought. I’m not late. I’m never late.

  “You, where have you been?” the conductor demanded. She couldn’t remember his name, Jonathan something, but she remembered the affected British accent, the shrill, stressed voice. He claimed to have directed the London Symphony Orchestra, which left the obvious question of why the hell he was taking jobs in Midland, Texas. She continued adjusting her reed and, after a second, looked shocked and touched her chest. Who, me?

  “Sir?” she asked.

  He tightened his thin lips and lifted his chin. “I do not tolerate lateness. I can always find another clarinetist. They are quite literally a dime a dozen. Are we clear?”

  “Clear,” she said. He stared a moment longer, then dismissed her and turned to deliver a hiding to a late-coming second violinist. “God, I forgot what an asshole he was.” The last was said under her breath, directed to Harris, who’d sat very still and quiet through the exchange. He leaned forward and flashed her a grin.

  “Yeah, he’s a charmer. I hear he’s wearing out his welcome with the Symphony Guild faster than old Harry Pine.”

  Harry, a hard-drinking, foul-mouthed old bastard, had lasted for four concerts before mysteriously vanishing from town. Gossip had it that he’d been caught with his pants down with the wife of a local politician, but nobody knew for sure, and pictures hadn’t circulated. Abby would have asked for details, but Crusty Butt was tapping the stand for attention.