If she gave Terry what he wanted, he’d help her.

  He hated John Lee too much to pass up the opportunity.

  That night at her appointment, Dr. Urdiales said, “Why?”

  She blinked and focused on his attentive, polite expression. He was wearing a well-tailored cream-colored shirt and a blue and green impressionistic tie with the rich gleam of silk. His office had a gentle scent of pine today, in honor of the approaching holidays. The reception area—still meat-locker cold—had discreet, nondenominational decorations. Carolyn was wearing a festive red sweater with green trim.

  Outside, snow fell, thick as cotton balls. Snow ought to make noise, she thought. The silence of it was frightening.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Dr. Urdiales steepled his well-manicured fingers together and rested his chin on top of them. They’d abandoned his desk and sat now in a cozy conversational area, just two people talking, friends, only of course he was getting paid. He was good at it, though. From time to time, when he smiled or made some offhand comment, it felt like she really knew him, trusted him. If she wasn’t careful, she might actually learn to need him. “Why do I want to prove Pearl Jordan is a murderer? Because she shouldn’t get away with breaking the law.”

  “When you drive, Abby, do you exceed the speed limit?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, watching him cautiously. “Everybody does.”

  “And do you feel a compelling need to expose that abuse of the law?”

  “This is murder, it’s not a traffic violation! It was cold-blooded murder!”

  “And you’re sure that what you remember is correct, absolutely correct. There is no doubt in your mind.”

  She took too long to say “No,” and knew he’d put his finger on it. “I need proof.”

  “What sort of proof?”

  “A body—what else do you prove a murder with?” She looked down at her clasped hands. “I told you, I want to be hypnotized so I can remember everything.”

  After a second or two of silence he said, “All right.”

  She was startled enough to look up and meet his eyes, and then couldn’t look away. He had a quiet, pensive expression. Concerned.

  “First you must make me a promise, Abby. You must promise that you will not speak to John Lee, his mother, or Terry until you see me again.”

  “That’s a week away.”

  He continued to watch her. “Do you feel a need to act sooner than that?”

  She nodded.

  “I will ask Carolyn to make you an appointment early next week. Is that acceptable?”

  She nodded again and swallowed a suffocating mouthful of fear. In the far corner of the office, the grandfather clock chimed the half hour, the end of their session, but Dr. Urdiales did not move to show her out.

  “You will call me if you feel you need to talk?”

  “Yes.” She raised her chin, met his eyes directly, and said, “I’d feel better if I thought you believed a word I said.”

  “I do believe you. I believe in your distress and your conviction. As for the rest, I will keep an open mind and give you the opportunity to explore the possibilities. Is that acceptable to you?” When she nodded, he sat back and said, apparently offhandedly, “It seems to me that your friend Benny would be supportive of you. It’s odd that you’re so intent on shutting her out.”

  “I have my reasons.” She reached down to grab her purse. “Time’s up.”

  Smiling faintly, he said, “I believe that was my line. All right. Please check with Carolyn about an appointment before next Friday.”

  Carolyn consulted a leather-bound appointment calendar and marked Abby in for Tuesday at four-thirty. There were no appointments after her.

  “That’s unusual,” Carolyn remarked as she wrote out an appointment reminder card for Abby to keep. “Tuesday night’s his evening with his family. He doesn’t usually let anything keep him here after five.”

  “He has a family?” she asked, startled. “He doesn’t have any pictures of them in his office.”

  “No,” Carolyn agreed, and looked as if she regretted bringing it up. “He had a problem some years ago with a patient who—who became obsessive about the photographs of his wife and children. It turned out badly.”

  “For Dr. Urdiales?”

  “For the patient.”

  “What happened?” Abby asked.

  Carolyn shook her head; her tiny silver bell earrings tinkled. “See you Tuesday.” She pressed the appointment card into Abby’s hand and gave her a professional good-bye smile. “Happy holidays.”

  That night she had another symphony rehearsal, which she arrived for twenty minutes early. Harris seemed surprised to find her there, but he didn’t say anything; she noticed that everybody avoided eye contact with her as they took their seats, except for the concertmaster, who nodded to her briskly. Not quite a leper, then. More like somebody with an unpleasant social disease.

  The conductor, what’s-his-name, breezed onstage, took the podium, and pointed at the principal oboe, who complied with a straight, steady note. The strings joined in atonal waves that splintered into harmonics and arpeggios as soon as they’d gotten a vague notion of the tuning. Abby adjusted her reed and studied the conductor. He was most definitely not studying her.

  He signaled for silence and got another tuning note from the oboe. Abby joined the other woodwinds and brass in matching it, wiggling the joints of her clarinet in and out in microscopic increments to get the perfect match.

  When they were done, the conductor flipped pages in his score and said, “We’ll begin where we left off last time. Measure 198.”

  Jesus Christ, what a single-minded jerk. She braced herself, took a deep breath, and came in when he brought the baton down, heard the oboe join in a fraction of a second late, saw the unholy flash of glee in his eyes. He cut them off, put the baton down, looked at Abby for a moment, and then said, “I sincerely apologize. You are not incompetent.”

  She waited for the other shoe to drop. He turned his stare away from her and focused it on the oboe player. “You, however, are unforgivable.”

  The oboe player went chalk-white and sat back in her chair. Abby knew just how she felt but she couldn’t help but be grateful that it was somebody else’s turn. She slowly sat back in her chair until her back touched cold, comfortless plastic.

  After ten minutes the oboe player burst into tears. The conductor threw his hands up theatrically—look what I have to work with—and started them in measure 205.

  They stopped often to give the strings remedial practice time. She fell into a kind of musical trance, counting measures, listening to strings, counting measures. Harris’s elbow in her ribs caught her by surprise, and when she glared at him, he grinned and nodded toward the conductor.

  The conductor was concentrating hard on the strings. She frowned and shrugged. Harris sighed and pointed carefully past the conductor, out into the auditorium.

  John Lee was sitting alone in the middle of the empty seats, barely a shadow in the dim wash of light from the stage. She forgot all about counting measures, wished she was close enough to see his eyes, his smile. God, she’d missed him. Her whole body ached with relief from tension she hadn’t even known was there.

  Harris elbowed her again, warning her of an approaching entrance. She picked up the thread of the music and played the melody as if her heart were breaking, soft and sad and passionate. The conductor’s eyes flashed toward her, a bare second of surprise, a grudging touch of acceptance, and then he found a viola player to savage.

  The concertmaster suggested a break. The conductor checked his watch and shrugged. Abby stood up and shaded her eyes to look for John Lee.

  He let was gone. Her lips parted in disbelief, and she grabbed Harris’s shoulder as he got up to edge his way out.

  “Where is he?” she demanded. Harris lifted his hands helplessly. “Damn.”

  She pushed past chatting flute players and into the long concrete hallway that led back toward the dressing rooms and bathrooms. Empty, though there’d be a crowd following her. She passed the dressing room where she’d warmed up that afternoon of her concert—God, it seemed so long ago now—and paused. The door was closed. She reached out and flattened her palm on the wood, pushed tentatively. It creaked open.

  John Lee was sitting on the makeup counter, long legs dangling, looking down at his plain battered cowboy boots. He didn’t look up as she came in but she felt the shifting of his attention.

  “Guess I’m not as strong as I thought I was,” he said. “I had to see you, Abby. How’re you doing?”

  She dragged a dented folding chair over and sat down, not too close, not too far. Her legs felt weak. She thought she might have a fever.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Did you finish the stained-glass window?”

  He had a fresh cut on the back of his hand and a bump the size of a quarter. He rubbed at the spot idly.

  “Maybe.” He cleared his throat and looked up at her; his eyes were heartbreaking. “I’d like your opinion on it. How about I take you out for a bite and show you what I’ve got done?”

  “John—”

  “Please.”

  She’d promised Dr. Urdiales, hadn’t she? But then she’d already broken that promise, just by sitting so close to him, exchanging those few words. And she couldn’t hurt him, not again. Not now.

  “We should be done in another hour and a half,” she said. “Can you wait?”

  He nodded, looking down again. She stood up and walked to where he sat, waiting.

  She stepped in between his legs and wasn’t quite sure who moved faster, him or her, only that their lips met with bruising force, starving, and the taste of him made her heart dissolve. He didn’t let her go even when she pulled back for air, his eyes enormous and lazy with pleasure, his mouth close enough to brush hers.

  “How long’s your break?” he whispered. His breath stroked her cheek a second before his lips did. She leaned into him and felt his hips tighten against hers.

  “Not that long,” she remembered to say. His tongue traced a hot, wet line over the tender ridge of her ear. “Oh, my God.”

  His hands retreated from her back and came around to slide warm over her breasts. His thumbs traced the firming buds of her nipples and before she could think to protest he’d opened two buttons on her shirt and his hands were on her skin, hot and firm, and then his lips, hot and soft.

  “John …” She pulled herself out of the haze and tugged at his hair, gently. “John, I have to go back. I have to.”

  He let go of her and she backed away, feeling for the support of another counter behind her. Her breasts tingled as if sunburned and her hands shook when she tried to button her shirt. John Lee stepped in and helped her. His fingers traced the V of her exposed neck when he was done, and he bent to kiss her once more, a slow slide of lips and tongue.

  “Hour and a half,” she said breathlessly. “I swear.”

  She wondered if it showed in her face when she hurried back to her chair, wondered if Harris smelled it on her; when he looked over at her she snapped “What?” and got a longer look in return.

  “I was going to ask if you wanted to go for a drink after this. Bernie and Jen are going.” Bernie was a trumpet player, Jen a French horn player. “Jeez, don’t bite my head off or anything. Did you find that guy?”

  “Yes.” She turned away from him and rustled music busily. She played five or six difficult measures, backed up and played them again. Harris opened his music and played them with her, adding a subtly muscular strength to the tone. They continued to play, diverging into harmony where the parts led them, for the remaining minute or so before everyone else got settled.

  As the conductor stepped on the podium, Harris said, with a sly smile, “Wait’ll I tell the ladies at school about that hickey on your neck.”

  * * *

  They had dinner, drove to John Lee’s house, made love in the wrought-iron bed, and lay quietly, body to body, sealed with sweat and kisses. Later, in the two o’clock stillness, John Lee took her out to the workshop, turned on the lights, and showed her the window.

  The sun was still there, a glowing blaze of orange, but he’d added rays falling from it onto the face of the woman who knelt on green grass and held up her arms to the warmth. Her eyes were closed, her mouth smiling. She had brown hair that fell back from her face in simple waves, tinted red where the sun touched it.

  It was utterly breathtaking.

  He looked at the window, not at her, as he asked, “What do you think?”

  “Oh, my God, what can I say? It’s magnificent. It’s … The beauty he’d created made her ache inside, made her aware of the black cancer of fear and hated she’d brought into his life. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, and then she couldn’t stop it, the tears kept coming like a flood, pouring out of a wound she hadn’t even felt. She sank down on the floor, cradled by soft sawdust, and John Lee sat down with her, holding her close. When she got her breath under control again she whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what I’m doing to you.”

  And for what she was going to do to him.

  Rallentando: December 20, 1994

  Somewhat surprisingly, Carolyn the Wonder Receptionist was not at her desk when Abby arrived for her appointment. Instead, a woman in her early sixties was sitting in Abby’s usual arm chair perch, hands neatly folded in her lap. She looked thin and nervous, and her eyes had a glitter of panic.

  Abby returned the quick, furtive smile and got a magazine from the table. She took a seat on the other side of the room.

  “Are you new?” the woman asked. Abby looked up and shook her head. “Oh, I thought I knew all of Richard’s patients. I thought you were probably new. Well, I’m Evvy.”

  She looked familiar—not startlingly so, but enough that it made Abby feel uneasy looking at her.

  “Abby,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Well, that’s funny, isn’t it? Evvy and Abby. Our names are so much alike. Twinsies.” Evvy let out a brittle, annoying laugh. “Would you like some coffee? I can get you some coffee.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Abby went back to her magazine, hoping to use it as a magic shield of indifference, but Evvy kept talking.

  “Well, it is a little late in the day for coffee, that’s true. I think he has soft drinks in there, too. Would you like something else?”

  “No, nothing.” Abby glanced toward Dr. Urdiales’ closed door, wondered if she should knock, if Evvy was actually just an overinspired hostess or a psychotic killer.

  Maybe she should retire to the bathroom for a while.

  As she picked up her purse, the office door opened and Carolyn came out. She smiled at Abby, caught sight of Evvy, and the smile froze solid.

  “I’m here for my appointment,” Evvy said quickly. Carolyn went to her desk and consulted the leather-bound appointment book.

  “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake,” Carolyn said gently. “Your appointment isn’t until tomorrow, ma’am. You’ll need to come back then.”

  “But I came all this way!” Evvy protested. Abby got up, indecisive; Carolyn’s eyes flicked toward her.

  “You can go on in, Abby, the doctor is ready.”

  “Well, I’ll just wait!” Evvy said, and crossed her arms. Carolyn faced her squarely, plainly ready to do battle.

  Abby escaped into the inner sanctum and let the door swing shut.

  Dr. Urdiales was sitting behind his desk, making some notes. She took her accustomed chair at his welcoming gesture; he tilted his leather chair back with a creak, crossed his arms, and said, “Trouble outside?”

  “Someone named Evvy who’s got the wrong day.”

  “Ah.” Did she imagine it, or did his face go just a shade paler? “Carolyn will straighten it all out, I’m sure. Are you ready?”

  She took a deep breath and said, “Yes, I think I am.”

  “We can have a regular session, if you have something you’d rather talk about.”

  “No,” she said flatly. “I want to be hypnotized.”

  “Then we’ll follow certain ground rules. I reserve the right to end the session at any time, is that understood? And I will only take you as deep as I feel you are ready to go. Agreed?”

  She nodded and filled her lungs with a deep breath. He hadn’t changed scents this week—the pine was still there, and the smooth bite of his cologne. It reminded her of John Lee’s smell, his touch. It reminded her, with unexpected pain, what Christmas was going to be like without him.

  “When do we start?” she asked. Dr. Urdiales came out from behind his desk, dragged a chair close to hers, and put a small spindly-legged occasional table between them. On its smooth cherrywood top, he set what looked like a compact disc with hologram triangles on its surface. He gave it a flick of his fingers, and the disc shimmered into rainbow lights as it spun.

  “Now,” he said. “Watch the disk, Abby.”

  Rainbows. The dark closing in around her, hungry.

  “Listen to my voice.”

  She tried to tell him to stop.

  * * *

  Somebody was saying a name she didn’t recognize, so she ignored it and watched the wind sweep sheets of red dust toward the horizon. She shaded her eyes with one hand and stared out while behind her the noise went on and on, a terrible barking sound. She absently told it to hush. The wind’s hot hand trailed over her cheek and blew her hair free of its pins.

  A pickup truck appeared on the horizon, trailing dust like a comet.

  “He’s coming,” she said. “He’s coming back.”

  “Who is it?” She didn’t recognize the voice of the questioner but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the heat and the dust and the truck coming over the horizon toward her.

  “Him.” There was only one him. “He’s coming.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  She smiled. “Real good.”

  The pickup squealed to a stop in the dusty yard. She stood where she was and watched as he got out of the truck. Custer was wearing his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, black trousers, a black jacket, a plain white shirt only a little yellowed around the collar. He’d even put on a tie.